Habit from his time in prison woke him early, but when he remembered that he could sleep as long as he wished, he stretched luxuriously and closed his eyes again.
He awoke refreshed. A large clock stood on the bedside table, and its hands stood at 3:27. The idea that he had slept into the afternoon startled him, but in fact the clock had simply stopped. There had been no one to wind it.
Even so, had he slept too late? Had Evans grown tired of waiting and gone home?
He hurried into the bathroom to make himself presentable, then swept up his writing implements and left the building. He was still unsteady on his feet and short of breath. The razor was in his pocket. It had become like an amulet, something to be carried at all times. The violent side that had been aroused in him made it indispensable.
Things continued that day just as they had before he was imprisoned, almost as if the spell in gaol had not happened at all. A bowl of hot frumenty at an open-air stall, and then Matthew’s.
He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. 11:43. He was on time.
He ordered a coffee and spread out his writing implements, but before taking up his pen he scanned the newspapers laid out at the coffee-house. Public events held no interest for him, but he hoped to find someone advertising for staff. If possible, he wanted work as a writer. If not, perhaps a legal office where he could put his education to use… . But nothing he saw appealed to him.
His razor-waving mood had subsided… or so it seemed to him. He was glad of it. He could not press a blade to anyone’s neck in his current state, no matter how incensed he might be. Not even if his purse were stolen, and with it all his meagre savings. He must keep his money on his person at all times: this was the lesson he had learnt from Mrs. Barrett’s actions. If his purse were taken by a pickpocket, things would be desperate. Every so often, he reached down unconsciously to make sure it was still there. His hand inevitably touched the razor as well.
The thought occurred to him again: he had been released just yesterday. The night before last, he had still been in that terrifying cell.
“Well, now,” said Evans, standing before Nathan’s table. “Are you feeling somewhat livelier? You seemed at death’s door yesterday. I see your colour has not yet returned.”
The waiter arrived to take his order, but Evans waved him away. “We are just leaving,” he said, then paid Nathan’s bill along with a sizable tip. “Come,” he told Nathan.
“We have not seen you in quite some time, sir,” said the waiter to Nathan, expression unpleasantly solicitous. The same man had spoken to him only moments earlier. Nathan was simply getting the crumbs of a hospitality aimed at Evans, who with his smart appearance and wig and light powder—his evident wealth, in other words—was clearly someone the waiter hoped would be a regular patron.
“Mr. Turner and Mr. Hart sometimes favour us with their presence,” the waiter said. “They have been quite worried about you.”
Did they know he had been in prison? Nathan froze at the thought, but the waiter’s next remark reassured him.
“They thought you were ill, or perhaps that you had left London. They asked if I knew anything, but of course I had no answer.” The man stared at him. “You look quite drawn, sir. I see it was illness after all.”
Nathan and Evans took a private room in a tavern. The feeling of Evans’s finger tracing the line of his shoulder-blade came to him again, ringing out a warning: Do not lower your guard.
“I am in thrall to you,” Evans told him. “Your Elegy—it is truly superb. I should like to be your backer.”
Was this a guardian angel sitting there?
Do not lower your guard, he reminded himself, letting his hand brush the razor in his pocket.
“What is it you offer specifically?” he asked, as businesslike as possible. “And what do you seek from me in return?”
“My hope is to help you fulfil your gifts.”
“Will it open the way to publication? Have you spoken to Mr. Tyndale?”
“It seems he has not read your work closely yet. I read it through first. The mediaeval poem and your own verse.”
“Will you recommend me to Mr. Tyndale?” Nathan pressed him quickly.
“First, the Elegy—you must finish it. I shall cover your expenses for the duration. I cannot offer luxury, but let me see… I shall give you ten pounds. Finish the poem before the money runs out. While you do that, I shall work on Tyndale, and see to it that he reads the poetry you left with him. If he reviews it properly, I am sure that he, too, will recognize the parchment poem as a genuine work of that period. A valuable discovery… . What is it?” He peered into Nathan’s face. “Is ten pounds insufficient, perhaps? How much time will you require to complete the work?”
“I am considering what manner of man you may be,” Nathan said. “Why should you want to support me like this?”
“But I told you already. I am moved by your talent. Every artist needs a patron. I shall enjoy the honour of having discovered and nurtured a prodigy. However”—he raised a finger as if in warning—“you must tell no one.”
“Of what?”
“Of any of this. The poem you found is precious. If a less savoury character were to get wind of it, he might inveigle you into parting with it. So, until Tyndale and I bring it before the public, do not speak of it to anyone. The same goes for your Elegy. Do you understand?”
As Evans pressed the point home, something menacing showed for a moment in his eyes. “You do not yet appreciate all the dangers to which London is home.”
But I do, thought Nathan. I spent perhaps a month or more in a prison that was a condensed edition of every danger London has to offer. Burglars, footpads, highwaymen, sharpers, murderers, rapists, blackmailers, whores, and assorted others, from boys who merely picked a coin up off the ground to those who were as innocent as myself—all jumbled together. However unwillingly, even a babe in arms would learn all manner of wickedness after a month in there.
As if reading Nathan’s mind, Evans said, “You must not think that you know London just because you spent a while in Newgate.” He lowered his voice to a near-inaudible level, although they were the only two in the room. “The real schemer will fawn and then deceive. Perhaps you have made friends since arriving in London. Those friends might be good-natured people. You come to trust them, speak unguardedly to them about many things. Your friends, not with malice but through simple carelessness, repeat these things to others. Those others tell others yet, and in this way the news spreads. Who can guarantee that no ill-intentioned individual will be among those who hear it? What you possess is of great value.”
Of great value. Nathan had used the same words himself. To Edward and Nigel.
“Have you already spoken of this to someone?”
“Yes. Two friends. They are pupils of Professor Barton at the anatomy school. They board there, they said.”
“Students at the Robert Barton School of Anatomy?”
“Yes. They were the first friends I made in London. Their occupation is somewhat unsettling, but they are kind-hearted. I do not believe they will spread the news any further if I ask them to refrain from doing so.”
“No, were you to make such a request, they would only conclude that the matter was important. Say nothing from now on. Let them forget.”
He had shown Elaine the manuscript of his Elegy as well. But she had barely read it—had simply given it a glance and called it harder than French.
Elaine. Would he ever have another opportunity to see her?
He longed to meet her, to embrace her. No—he wanted the marks on his ankles to fade before they met. The leg irons had gouged into his flesh, at one point becoming pustulent, perhaps causing permanent scars. At night those scars revived the memory of the violation he had endured in gaol, bringing such shame he could have bitten off his tongue.
Their food was bro
ught in. Nathan gasped.
The broad pewter dish was piled high with boiled pigeon meat ringed by cabbage, carrots, and turnips. The whole was practically drowned in butter sauce.
And this for one person!
Smoke-stained London was not known for fresh produce. This was the sort of cuisine that made the French laugh and jest that the English must do their cooking in their stomachs. But it was the first such feast Nathan had enjoyed since coming to the city—perhaps the first, indeed, in all his life.
When the platter was empty, a cake followed for dessert. The delicate Swiss roll with whipped cream and melted chocolate filling was like the smile of an angel. Nathan’s wariness softened like the chocolate.
“Where is the page you removed from the poem?”
“Here.”
“‘Francis Lovells warriours fortune fel…’” Evans read a phrase aloud. “Lovell was an ally of Richard III, as I recall.”
“Yes. A warrior who fought and died for that cruel, rickety king at Bosworth.”
“Not so. Lovell raised his army in revolt against Henry VII only after Richard died in battle.”
“Oh, was it then?”
“‘A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse,’” recited Evans. From Shakespeare’s Richard III. “Furthermore, Lovell did not fight to the bitter end. When he realized his attempt to avenge Richard in battle would not succeed, he fled.”
“Is that so?”
“There is no shame in not knowing. Despite the fame of Richard III, few today recall the fate of his allies after his death. Of course, ‘Godes servant Thomas Howard’ was more knowledgeable, as a contemporary witness.”
“Are you a scholar?”
Evans laughed heartily, as if he had heard an outrageous joke. “I suppose I have some learning.”
“You do seem to enjoy reading.”
“Reading is a pleasant diversion, but I lack the sort of literary talent you enjoy. Now, let us away to call on Harrington.”
The Royal Exchange was one of London’s most famous sights. As usual, its courtyard was packed to overflowing with people.
There were 160 shops lined up facing the colonnade, selling goods both English and from farther afield: France, Spain, and Italy, of course, but items imported from the distant Orient were also on display. Refined porcelains and carpets, silk, perfumed oils, various accessories, and even glass eyes and ivory teeth were on sale. Separate stalls sold the cheaper daily necessities.
The crowd of customers was also of varied provenance. Mingling with the locals was the occasional Dutchman in a tasselled hat, a Spaniard in a short cape, or a merchant from the Levant. The inevitable pickpocket and bag-snatcher also worked the throng.
At first, Nathan wondered if they would indeed be able to find Harrington in this confusion. His concern proved unnecessary, however.
Harrington was high above the crowd, and very easy to see.
His hands and face poked through holes cut at the centre of two boards clapped together, and eggs or stones were being lobbed at him.
“You helped me,” said Nathan. “Can you not help Mr. Harrington also?”
“Out of the question,” Evans said. “He is the publisher of a notorious newspaper. He evaded capture during the riot, but some days later was arrested for inciting it and was sent to Newgate. You were not cellmates, obviously. He is still serving out his sentence. At his trial, he was sentenced to five days in the stocks at two hours a day. The rest of his time he spends in a cell. A rather lenient punishment, in fact. Many are left in the stocks for ten successive days until half-dead by stoning. Harrington is serving his last day as we speak.”
“Will he then go free?”
“No, he will be confined. For months, perhaps, or years. When he is released will depend on the mood of His Majesty.”
Harrington was responsible for Nathan’s imprisonment, but, oddly, he bore no grudge against him. Was it because of the pathetic figure he cut up there?
A bell rang noon. A handful of guards removed the fetters from the stocks and bundled Harrington back into the wagon for transporting to the prison. Both of his ankles bore the marks of leg irons.
The sound of chains rang inside Nathan’s skull, and he sank to the ground.
When he revived, he was in a swaying carriage, leaning on Evans’s shoulder.
“As I suspected, you are still weak in both body and spirit,” the latter said. “Small wonder, after a spell in prison.”
Nathan was disappointed with himself, thinking he had recovered more of his old vigour.
“The stocks must have been too vivid a reminder. Have no fear: you shall never go back to prison. But neither can you return to the Public Journal, for you would be tormented by the memory of those stocks, of Newgate. You have borne experiences that could drive a man mad. I cannot leave you on your own. You must rest, as my guest at home.”
Chapter 5
“Just the arms. Very well. What about the legs?” asked Sir John.
“I threw them into the Thames,” Edward replied.
“Why?”
“Because the ankles were a physical record of his humiliation.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nathan was in Newgate for a time. Completely innocent, but… Deep marks remained on his ankles from the leg irons he wore there. They were cruel wounds in any case, and they reminded Nathan of his shame and loathing at having been in gaol. He even claimed that he wished he could cut out the scars and discard them. I had intended to wait for a chance to bury the legs with him in his grave, but it occurred to me that most probably he would not even want something on which the memory of prison was incised. If I disposed of them instead, in Heaven he would be free of these painful reminders… .”
“What were the circumstances of his imprisonment?”
“A month and a half ago—no, it was longer, I think—there was a riot, as you will recall. Nathan was caught up in the disturbance. It seems that the officers dispatched to the scene simply seized anyone within reach and threw them into prison.”
The magistrate nodded.
“Nathan was not even given an opportunity to plead his case. He spent more than a month within Newgate’s walls, forgotten, before he was finally released. Sir John, it seems that the conditions in Newgate are abominable. Were you aware of this? There must be reform.”
“No doubt. But our conversation has lost its course. You said the boy came to London from Sherbourne, I think. What was his address in Sherbourne?”
“I do not know.”
“When did you become acquainted with him?”
“I met him some three months ago, in the graveyard behind St. Paul’s.”
“The graveyard?”
“Sir John, I say this only because you know it already, but—we obtain cadavers for our anatomical research through illegal means.”
“Let us pass over that without comment on this occasion.”
“In exchange for the use we make of cadavers, Nigel and I sometimes lay flowers on their graves.”
“Nigel? Ah, the boy Abbott praised as a draughtsman.”
“Flowers on their grave?” interrupted Barton. “I am surprised to hear that, Edward. It is most unlike you.”
“It is my concession to Nigel’s sentimentally sensitive ways.”
“And?” urged the magistrate.
“Nathan asked us the way to Shoreditch. He seemed forlorn. Nigel drew him a map. I borrowed a book from him, and we arranged to meet the following day at Matthew’s, a coffee-house, so that I could return it. Nigel and I often visit Matthew’s after work. Nathan took a liking to it, too, and doing his writing there became an almost daily custom. Nigel and I go only two or three times a week, but we always found Nathan there when we arrived. When he saw us, his face would light up and he would urge us to sit with him.”
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“His writing, you say?”
“He was working on a poem. It was in the English of a bygone age—very difficult. He seemed to have hopes of publication. And he also wrote for a newspaper.”
“Which one?”
“That he did not say.”
“Did he have any connection with a particular publisher?”
“He told us that he planned to take some work he had already completed to one… . As I recall, it was a bookshop that also published its own titles.”
“What was the shop called?”
“I cannot remember. He had something else to leave with the proprietor, he said—something of great value.”
“And what was it?”
“A poem written by a churchman some centuries ago, as he claimed.”
“That could indeed be valuable. The right specimen might fetch thousands of pounds. A fortune.”
“That much?”
“Can you not remember the name of the shop? You have invented a device to detect arsenic, yet your memory fails you here?”
“When a topic interests me, I can recall every detail of it. Ancient poetry, however, is not such a topic.”
“Anne, call Abbott.”
When Dennis Abbott arrived, the magistrate spoke to him directly. “Go to Mr. Barton’s residence and bring Nigel Hart here.”
“Nigel had nothing to do with the matter,” Edward objected. “Pray leave him out of this. He is still distressed by Nathan’s death.”
Sir John fell silent, as if listening to Edward’s voice as it lingered in his ear. “Abbott, bring him here,” he said finally.
The magistrate then continued his questioning.
“You say Cullen asked you the way to Shoreditch. What was his business there?”
“He had arranged board and lodging in the neighbourhood.”
“With which household?”
“I do not remember.”
“Did you and Cullen become quite close?”
“He seemed to have no friends in London except Nigel and me.”
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 14