To block the smell that came from the prisoners and protect themselves from germs, the jurors held a little sponge soaked in vinegar to their nose or crushed a sprig of rue between their fingers. The judges and prosecutors, too, had bunches of vinegared herbs set before them.
Nathan had no idea what was going on around him.
The courts ain’t good for nothin’. Nothin’.
The boy’s words rang in his ears.
Nothin’. Nothin’.
A man dressed in a portentous wig and legal robes asked him his name.
“Nathan Cullen,” he replied, hoping his voice was not shaky.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the judge, gravely surveying them. “Nathan Cullen was indicted in the name of the Lord Mayor of the City of London for participation in a riot. However, a later request having been received from the Lord Mayor that the charges be dropped, he is hereby released. Call the next prisoner!”
Had he heard amiss?
Released?
Back at Newgate, he was told by a guard that discharged prisoners had to pay the governor a fee.
“Eighteen shillings and tenpence for a felony, but as yours was only a minor offence, four shillings less. Unfortunately.”
“But there was no offence,” Nathan rasped. “I’m innocent.”
“Innocent costs the same. If you can’t pay, it’s back inside with you.” And he dangled the key to the fetters before his eyes.
Nathan felt himself grow unsteady on his feet, until another guard said, “Oh, we can let that one go. Already got his fee. Generous patron paid it for him and left.”
He was rid of the iron fetters, but he was still unsteady. His first destination was the offices of the Public Journal. He would have liked a cup of hot tea or coffee, some unmouldy bread, but he could not eat out in his current state: his hair was as lousy as his clothing. And he hadn’t the energy or the will to walk back to Shoreditch to change in his attic room. Gin Lane was closer.
Past gutters choked with rubbish, he traced his way down narrow streets until he arrived at the newspaper’s address. The front office was deserted.
“Is anyone there?” he called, heading down to the printing room. This was empty too. Even the smell of ink had faded, replaced by a dry hint of dust.
He sat down hard on the staircase. Too weak to support himself even seated, he slumped over sideways, then tumbled down the stairs.
When he came to his senses, he was lying on the couch in the front office.
“You have been through quite an ordeal, I think, Mr. Cullen.”
The voice was not Harrington’s. It was someone Nathan had only met twice, but he remembered the man well.
“Mr. Evans,” he said. “Mr. Evans, wasn’t it? We met at Tyndale’s bookshop.”
“Just so. I am surprised you remember.”
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Harrington?”
“My social circle is a wide one.”
“Where is he? And everyone else?”
“The first thing for you is to make yourself presentable,” Evans said.
Nathan sat up, but found himself so dizzy that moving would be impossible.
“Wait here,” Evans said.
He soon returned with an assortment of food and beer, as well as one parcel that was larger.
Nathan bit into the white bread first, then gorged himself on the eel and mash that Evans had apparently bought at a stall outside. Each bottle of ale he drank in a single draught.
It was not until all the food was gone that he thanked the donor for it.
“Mr. Harrington’s private room and privy are upstairs,” said Evans. “Let us borrow them.”
“Without asking? Are you sure?”
“He will not mind.”
Nathan got to his feet and ascended the staircase.
There was no tub in the bathroom, only a large sink and mirror and a pot full of water. He did not recognize the face in the mirror as his own.
He stripped naked and washed himself from head to toe. Even after rinsing himself clean, he felt that a vague odour still rose from his pores.
On the shelf next to the sink he found a razor. A scarred leather strop hung from a hook beside it.
Nathan took the razor and ran it across the strop. Top to bottom, bottom to top.
He felt a turmoil of emotion inside him, but could not tell if it came from sadness or anger.
He touched the steel to his skin. Like a balm, its welcome chill sank into him. Here was a blade that, heated by the flames of humiliation, had taken shape under the hammer of hatred. He let it slide across his own skin instead of the strop, concentrating on the act.
The door opened without a knock and Evans came in, holding a parcel.
He put it on a stool, then took the razor from Nathan’s hand and, folding it, placed it by the sink.
“Put these on,” he said. “They are used, but they should be the right size.” But before he spoke, he ran one finger along the lower edge of Nathan’s shoulder-blade.
It made his skin crawl. In his mind’s eye, Evans blurred into the prisoner who had attacked him in the night.
“Your old clothes we shall dispose of,” Evans said. “They are full of fleas and lice. I have no wish to catch prison fever.”
Elaine had bought him used clothes too, Nathan recalled. There had been good reason to accept them then.
“Was it you who paid my fee when I was released?”
“It was.”
“Why do you treat me with such kindness?”
Now dressed, he slipped the razor into his pocket as he spoke.
“Who could simply look the other way while another man suffers?”
“Could it be… that Mr. Harrington asked you to care for me?”
Still keeping up his end of the conversation, Nathan put his hand in his pocket and wrapped it around the razor’s grip, his thumb on the knob. If he pulled it out, pressing lightly with his thumb as he did…
He imagined himself licking the blade. Lips sliced off in a moment. Like lightning, a sudden tear in the sky.
It was a mystery to him how he could speak so calmly, even with a faint smile. Swinging the razor, ripping at whatever was within reach—that was what he really felt like doing. He was wearing only the thinnest coat of normality.
“Harrington heard that you were caught up in the disturbance and thrown into prison. He was concerned about you. And so, well, I pulled some strings to have the mayor drop the charges and free you.”
“You have the ear of the Lord Mayor?”
“You might say that.”
Nathan’s gratitude was leavened with a secret disappointment. He had been allowing himself to imagine that Elaine was the one who had arranged for him to be freed. Of course, it was better for her not even to know that he had been in gaol, even though he was innocent. He must make sure that she never found out.
“Yes, those clothes suit you well,” Evans said. “You look quite the poet.”
“Have you read my contributions to the Public Journal? They are not representative.”
Nathan used the pen-name “N. Pym” in the paper, taking care to keep his real name private. When the world was introduced to the poet Nathan Cullen, he did not want them to make the connection to the provocative articles published there.
“I had an idea you would come here once you were freed.”
“When will Mr. Harrington be back? The other two are also absent, I see.”
“Harrington, yes… ,” said Evans. “Shall we visit him tomorrow? He will not return here for some time.”
Was he in hiding, in fear of arrest?
“I read the verse you left with Tyndale. And the ancient poem you discovered also. Let us discuss the matter downstairs.”
They went down to the office, where Evans
took a sheaf of papers from a shelf and placed it on the table.
“Ah!” Nathan smiled. It was his Elegy, just where he had left it.
“You copied this poem, I think. It seems to be of considerable antiquity. Where is the book from which you transcribed it?”
“I wrote it myself. It is not yet finished; circumstances prevented that.”
“You wrote this?” Evans shook his head in disbelief. His mood appeared to take a slight turn for the worse. “You say you did not copy it from another source?”
“I did not. It is my own work.”
Evans fell silent for a few moments, thinking. Then he changed the subject.
“According to what you told Tyndale, the parchment poem you left with him was part of an old collection your father was given by his parish church.”
“Yes. I found it in our attic after his death.”
“Only that one poem? Nothing else?”
“As far as I know, that was the only one.” Nathan felt a twinge of acquisitiveness. “If I were to search again more carefully, I might find others.”
“I hope you do so.”
“Mr. Tyndale seemed to suspect it of being a forgery.”
“Yes, one can be deceived by items of this nature if they are not appraised very carefully. To my eye, however, that was an authentic work from the pen of a fifteenth-century churchman. I cannot believe that someone of a later age could have mastered the language of that time so fluently. The parchment was also old.”
“You are perceptive.”
“There was one page missing, of course?” A hint of teasing amusement was in his voice. “You take precautions, I gather.”
“It seemed advisable, though I did think it might be rude not to trust Mr. Tyndale entirely.”
“Will you show me the missing page? The poem was magnificent, but its overall design was difficult to make out with that part removed.”
“I left it at my lodgings.”
“Which are where?”
“A room in Shoreditch. However, from tomorrow, I mean to take up my habit of writing at Matthew’s coffee-house again.”
“Matthew’s—the one that faces the small square with the fountain? I know it, although I have never patronized it. Very well: tomorrow, at around noon I shall come for you at Matthew’s. Let us eat at a tavern nearby, and you can show me the page you removed. After that, we shall call on Harrington together. He is to be found near the Royal Exchange.”
Nathan’s return came as a great shock to Mrs. Barrett. “We thought you’d done a runner,” she said. “Where have you been?”
Nathan began to ascend to the attic. She hurried after him.
The straw mattress raised above the floor was gone.
Mrs. Barrett tried to cover fluster with irritation. “We don’t want any burglars in here, so I took care of this for you. I did take out your rent, mind.”
Nathan shook the contents of the small leather bag onto his palm. Two guineas, three shillings, sixpence, and three farthings. “Even minus the rent, there should be more than this,” he said.
She had probably filched the lot, not expecting him to return, then quickly refilled the purse with whatever change she could scrape together when he had reappeared at her door.
Without wasting any words, Nathan produced the razor from his pocket and pressed the handle. The bright blade snapped out.
Mrs. Barrett bolted down the stairs almost as fast as if she had tripped and fallen, but he caught her from behind and put the blade to her throat.
“That’s all we have in the house just now,” she said. “I’ll make up the rest later.”
It was fortunate that her husband was out, drunkard though he was. Taking on both of them at once would have been too much for Nathan in his weakened state, even armed.
He made no reply, but neither did he move the blade from her throat. Finally Mrs. Barrett pointed at a pot on the shelf. Pulling her against him, he moved towards the shelf. She turned the pot upside down, and three guineas tumbled out.
On an impulse, Nathan grabbed her hair at the nape of her neck and with the razor cut it off, then let her fall forward onto the floor.
Pausing only to snatch up the money from the pot and run upstairs to throw his few belongings into his bag, he left the house.
He had had no intention of living in the Barretts’ attic any longer in any case. If Harrington was going to be away for some time, he could camp in the newspaper offices. That would save him rent.
With the razor still in his pocket, he made his way back to Gin Lane.
The days of two-shilling payments for his poetry were over.
At the deserted Public Journal, he sat on the stairs and gazed down at the slightly dusty printing press, considering his situation.
He spilled the contents of his purse into his hand and counted it, though knowing exactly what the sum would be: five guineas, three shillings, sixpence, and three farthings. How long could he feed himself on that?
Nathan, however, still hoped to make a name for himself as the discoverer of the mediaeval poem, followed by publication of his own poetry.
Crimson morocco binding with gilt dentelle border and gold leaf for the name on the spine: Nathan Cullen… .
The first copy would, of course, be presented to Miss Elaine Roughhead, personally signed by the author. A copy each for Nigel Hart and Edward Turner. One for Fr. Pelham and another for his mother. How surprised she would be!
If the other verse sold, his Elegy might sell also. That truly was a work fit to offer Elaine.
In dreams, the seventeen-year-old who sat on the staircase was a success.
But at present I am almost penniless.
His mother had seen no merit in the poet’s craft. If he had stayed on at the legal office to which his school had introduced him, after seven years as an apprentice he would have started earning something; not much, but enough to make a living on. Such had been his mother’s hopes for him. Without that extra push from the parish priest, he would still be doing that dull, unrewarding journey-work.
But London did not lack for dismal occupations, either.
Pure-finder, for example—collecting dogs’ waste to sell to tanners. A barrel of dung fetched eight or ten pence, or perhaps even a shilling if it was of good quality. But to spend the whole day bent double scooping it up… A horrible thought.
A tanner’s lot, if anything, was even worse. Their work began with hides bought from the slaughterhouse, still smelling of gore. These were steeped in lime-water until soft, then scraped clean of hair and flesh. The tanners then turned them inside out to remove the fat. The hide, still sticky and heavy, was steeped once more, this time in dogs’ waste dissolved in water—which explained the connection with pure-finders. The smell was appalling.
Nathan had visited the leather market in Weston Street once, during the time he spent as Elaine’s reader. Her books had sparked his interest in how leather was prepared for bindings. The finished product was magnificent, but its provenance, the work of turning hide into crimson leather, was a stew of blood and stench: he had watched the hide being treated with dung before it was soaked in tannin and finally dried over a fire. Residents of the city kept well away from leatherworkers. As Nathan had turned to leave, covering his nose and mouth, one of them had called out to him: “Want me to tan your hide, too, son?” And he had thought suddenly, What a wonderful idea—using my skin to bind a book after I die. Dyed deep red, adorned in gold leaf, it would be beautiful, even if its beauty derived from a foul process. Surely God would not object if the body in his coffin were missing a small portion of its skin.
With a sigh, Nathan returned to his current, penniless circumstances.
A mudlark, for example. That was what they called the people—mostly children or the elderly—who rummaged through the silt of the Thames at low tide for flot
sam to sell. Scraps of coal and iron, nails, bits of rope, bones. Buyers would pay one penny for fourteen pounds of coal chips. Or five pounds of iron. Or three pounds of bone. A mudlark could collect things all day and make only thruppence. This might be enough to escape starvation, but the unhealthy conditions meant that many of them fell ill. And with no money to see a doctor, illness might be fatal.
There had been a mudlark in Nathan’s cell in Newgate—a boy of seven or eight who had been caught sneaking onto a charcoal barge to steal from it. He swore that even prison was better than scavenging. His vocabulary had been very limited. Spending each day stirring through the mud of the Thames, hardly ever speaking to anyone else, he had little chance to enlarge it.
Such was God’s will.
But God would offer even that wretched child salvation in the end. If he were buried in a churchyard and prayed for by a priest, his soul would be received in Heaven.
Nathan had almost never questioned the teaching of priests. What traces of doubt he did feel he pretended not to notice.
He went up to Harrington’s room on the second floor.
The bed was simple, but better than a palliasse in an attic. And compared to his prison cell, it seemed fit for a king.
Edward and Nigel, too, had said that their work involved some terrible smells, he recalled, still thinking about the tanners.
Most people took a dim view of dissection: this they had told him too. Physicians enjoyed high social standing and the respect that came with it, but surgeons were considered distinctly inferior, and dissection was seen as something quite repulsive. “Even though it is the most important tool we have for understanding disease,” Nigel had grumbled while Edward smiled ruefully.
When I die… , he thought again. I would not mind Edward and Nigel making use of my body. If it is that important. Being cut into would be tolerable if it were by those two. As long as the leftovers were buried in a churchyard afterwards.
He thought again about his hide being tanned and used to bind books.
It sounded profane… .
But was it wrong? Why? Why should God disapprove of whatever use he made of his own skin? And yet he felt a trace of guilt. Why?
After kneeling in prayer on the floor, he lay down on Harrington’s bed. Freed from fear of being assaulted, he fell into a deep and restful slumber.
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 13