by G. P. Taylor
‘Must take a lot of learning to come to that, Mister Sarapuk. Those are higher things, higher than a man like me should think about.’ Cadmus tried to look interested.
‘Well, we all get sick, whether in body, mind or spirit. One day everyone will need a doctor and surgery is the art of the future. I intend, when the time is right, to open a small hospital – if I can find those sufficiently interested in making money.’ As he spoke he looked Cadmus in the eyes. ‘I have made so many mistakes in my life, been cheated out of so much, but this time things will be different. For a hundred pounds a man could make an investment that would be paid back many times over but, like corpses, men like that are hard to find.’ Sarapuk slowly tapped a finger on the table as if beating out the rhythm of a secret concerto.
‘I may know someone who could help you in both counts, Mister Sarapuk,’ Cadmus replied, his interest awakened. ‘The hundred pounds, what is the guarantee of its return?’
‘All I can say is that for the right man there are always golden opportunities.’ Sarapuk raised one eyebrow and smiled.
‘There must be something driving you to do this, Mister Sarapuk. Caring for people, opening a hospital, these are high ideals.’ Cadmus turned and leant towards him. ‘For me, I strive to do the best for my wife and child. I know a good bargain when I see one and as long as the Lamian family are hearty and well fed then I am a happy man. But you, what spurs you on?’
Sarapuk looked around the room again. He checked the door and listened carefully. The room glowed red with the light from the fire, and candles burnt brightly around the walls. The tiny window at the rear of the kitchen struggled to suck in any light from the street. There was no night and no day visible. It was a timeless place with thick solid walls that had stood against rebellions, colliers’ riots and the plague. Even the Great Fire had only charred its walls. Sarapuk thought carefully before he spoke, drawing in a long and measured breath.
‘My dear friend, I have travelled the world in search of its secrets. From Egypt to Persia I have dug the ruins of many cities. My search has been relentless, but that for which I labour is not to be found in the world, only in the deep recesses of the body. My search is for the place of the soul.’ With a strong grip, Sarapuk clasped hold of Lamian’s arm, pulling him towards him. ‘I know that I will be the one who finds it, and when I do I will be able to capture a human spirit at the time of death and prove to the world that we are immortal. Think of it, Cadmus, think of it. What would people give to see a soul, the eternal essence captured in a glass jar and on view for two shillings? I would be a rich man. We could be rich men!’ Sarapuk gave out a shrill, excited laugh.
‘You think this is possible, that you could do it?’ Cadmus asked, drawn into the excitement.
‘It is like a jigsaw puzzle, for with every year I have found another piece. Now it is nearly complete.’ Sarapuk stopped and looked nervously around the room. ‘We can’t tell anyone of this, it has to be kept secret. The authorities may frown on my research and I cannot be so choosy as to say where my volunteers come from.’
‘These volunteers, are they … dead?’ Cadmus asked hesitantly.
‘So far, yes,’ Sarapuk said quietly. ‘There will come a time when I may need one or two who are, as you may say … leaving one world for the next.’ He again drew in a long and loud breath. ‘I would prefer them to be fresh. Some that I have bought have hung for too long and have been somewhat damaged.’
Cadmus mused. ‘I may be able to help you. I have a friend, John Swift, who is the gaoler at Newgate. For a small fee he could be able to provide you with what you need. Have breakfast with the guests as my treat, and let me think this matter through. It is a most unusual business agreement and I would want our partnership to be kept a considerable secret. I wouldn’t want people thinking that Lamian was having thoughts above his place in life.’
Sarapuk stood up, grabbing Cadmus by the hand and shaking it furiously. ‘These are important times, the age of science and truth. We could bring a new way of looking at the world. In one year you could be the talk of London society, have your own supper box in Vauxhall Gardens, a carriage or river barge, and that daughter of yours would make someone a beautiful wife.’
The hallway had filled with the guests awaiting their food and jostling with Brigand for a place near to the fire. Agetta pushed through them and unlocked the door to the large dining room that formed almost the whole western end of the house. There was a cold chill in the room; a young fire struggled to blaze the damp coal into heat. It gave off a thick brown smoke that fought to climb the wide chimney and into the October sun.
A long table stretched the length of the room with wooden chairs clustered around it. Four large candlesticks lit the table; they had been burning for some time, the yellow tallow giving off the smell of pig fat. The candles provided a crescent of light over the top of the table, while underneath was the dark void and the stone floor. Agetta pushed open the heavy door as a scurry of long-tails fled to the far corner to escape through the crack under the floorboards.
She was pushed into the room by a tide of people. It was a gathering of the bedraggled, the lost, and those in descent from a higher rank to the gutter. Among them were street performers, ranters, and a man who claimed he carried the marks of the crucifixion and showed them to the public for sixpence a time. The lodging house was cheap. Shared beds, a slop bucket underneath and a farthing hang for those without the tuppence to lie down. The hangers would rest weary bones by kneeling against a long rope that stretched from wall to wall. They would suspend themselves against it, to be kept from the cold floor, and like so many hung birds would be gently rocked to an uncomfortable and broken sleep.
Breakfast was hurried. Slabs of hot meat, small round bread loaves and clay gin pots were carried from the kitchen. A clamour of eager hands snatched hungrily at the food, grabbing a penny-worth of hot meat wrapped in bread and washing it down with a mug of cheap gin.
Agetta waited at table, making sure that everyone was fed and that no one took more than their share. Mister Manpurdi wrapped his hands in two red cloths to cover the bright white bandages that concealed the bleeding marks of the stigmata. She looked at him closely. He would never allow anyone to see the marks without being paid. Watching him eat, she could see that he was in genuine pain: he held his hands in an uncomfortable pose as he tried to lift the piece of bread to his mouth. Agetta broke open a small, gritty bread loaf, snatched a piece of meat from the plate and placed it inside. She handed it to Manpurdi and smiled. He nodded, giving a small bow of appreciation.
Agetta had no need of religion. How could a loving God keep her in such poverty? She had no need or desire to see the marks on Manpurdi’s hands. They meant nothing to her, they were not as interesting as the dromedary she had seen outside Gough’s menagerie all the way from the deserts of Arabia, snatched from the ruins of Babylon. To her, Mister Manpurdi was like all the monster-mongers that stayed with them. There had been the boy with the skin of a beetle, a woman with three arms and a girl with ears so large that they called her the human elephant. She had seen them all. They had been bought and sold in that very room and then displayed in private collections and fairs and in Vauxhall Gardens.
Agetta knew that some of these strange creatures were of human creation. She had once watched a man insert duck quills into his face and claim he was half eagle. Another had filed his teeth to resemble the fangs of a wolf and dyed his skin with tea.
Mister Manpurdi was different; he was gentle and kind and made little of himself. All he had were the bleeding scars that would never heal – and the story of how they had come upon him one night in a vision that he had begged would go away.
Dagda Sarapuk walked slowly into the room and sat at the end of the table. He looked at Agetta and smiled as he helped himself to the breakfast. He leant towards Manpurdi and passed a comment that she couldn’t hear.
Agetta noticed her father leave the kitchen and take a tray of food upstairs. He look
ed at her in a way that told her to get back to work. ‘We have a guest, a special guest. A poet. He arrived last night. Doesn’t want to be disturbed. He is staying in his room. Only I can take his food. Understand?’
With that Cadmus turned and trudged up the stairs to the top of the house. Agetta followed at a distance, intrigued by her father’s actions, listening to his footsteps. When he got to the top flight he stopped and looked down the staircase, put the tray on a small table and then took out a key from his pocket. Agetta hid behind the wall at the turn of the stairs. She could hear the key being placed into the lock and quickly turned. The door creaked open. She held her breath so she could listen to everything.
‘Do you eat food?’ her father said clearly. ‘It’s bread and meat. I brought you water, somehow I didn’t think the likes of you would drink gin.’ There was no reply. Agetta began to breathe again as quietly as she could, listening out for any clue as to who was in the attic room. There then came the sound of chains being dragged across the wooden floor.
‘Can you take these from me?’ said a weak voice that she had never heard before. From her hiding-place she could not decide if the voice was that of a man or woman. It was light, fragile and pure. ‘I have neither the power nor the will to escape.’
There was a long silence before her father replied. ‘I was told by Mister Gough that you would be gone before I knew it. Never take the chains off or he’ll fly away.’
‘Where shall I fly to? There are bars on the window and the door is locked. Am I to crawl under the door or sneak through a rat hole?’ the voice replied.
‘You are a strange creature and one who now belongs to me. I gave a good price for you and you may come in very useful. Only moments ago a scientist was saying that he could make good use of someone like you. But then, even he might be surprised as to what you are.’
Cadmus walked across the wooden floor. Agetta heard his every movement as he placed the tray on a table. ‘I’ll leave this here, take of it what you will. You could do to put on a few pounds. Scrawny chap, don’t look too healthy. It was your teeth that sold you to me; they would look very fine transplanted in the mouth of a gentleman.’ Cadmus laughed.
‘So what is my fate? Will I be here for ever?’ the voice asked.
‘You will be here until I decide otherwise. You are a mighty fine creature and to reveal you to the world will be my making. What makes you special is that you really are an –’
The front door was flung open as a commotion filled the hallway. Brigand began to bark as the breakfasters spilled from the dining room and into the street. Cadmus Lamian rushed from the attic and Agetta slipped from the stairway to her room. In the street below, a condemned man sat silently in a rocking cart, dragged through the mire of Fleet Street to the gallows at Tyburn. The metal bracing of the large carriage wheels spat out the mud like a fop trap. The man’s eyes were drawn to the top of the lodging house. There in the pinnacle of the eaves he glimpsed fleetingly a face pressed against the dirty glass of the attic window. In that small moment the heart of the condemned man was doubly broken. He saw a sadness on the face at the window that showed more grief than his own, and in some strange way he knew he had a gentler fate than the man into whose eyes he now stared.
4: Inigo Alley
In Bloomsbury Square a dark, solitary figure leant against an old elm tree as its dry October leaves fell to the ground like a shower of golden coins. He coughed and spluttered as he pulled up the collar of his coat against the chill wind that blew the leaves across the grass. Grazing amongst the elms, several fat sheep kept a wary distance from the stranger, who drew on a long clay pipe, the burning embers lighting his face.
The clock of St George struck the quarter hour from its high marble tower that dominated the crowded streets. Rumour had convinced many that at midnight the sky-quake would come again. Boy vendors shouted the story as they charged through the streets with bundles of the London Chronicle, proclaiming the disaster and urging the world to stay calm. Outside the Bull and Mouth a crowd gathered to drink gin and wait for the earth to have yet another shivering fit, shaking the houses like the night before and turning the sky to complete blackness. Over the Thames a bright new moon hung against the rich purple sky, while the fire-ships of Holborn walked the streets, lifting their long hooped skirts and white shawls, stopping every gentleman in the hope of enticement.
Blake and Bonham had spent the evening in deep conversation by the open window of the fourth-floor observation room. They had dined on roast pigeons and mackerel, picking the meat from the bones and leaving the crusted skin on the side of their plates. Together they waited for the sky to clear. The strong breeze scattered the cloud, opening the heavens for all to see.
Blake fumbled with the long brass telescope, trying to set the lens so that they could view the comet. In Wormwood he placed his future and his reputation. For the first time he feared that he had deceived himself, that it had been a mistake, a smudge on the lens, a reflection from some distant light. As it drew closer to midnight, he searched the horizon more frantically for the rising of the comet.
Bonham waited patiently, wanting his friend to calm down. He watched Blake set the lens and the height of the telescope, and then moments later go through the whole procedure again.
‘It’ll be there, Sabian. Your eyes did not deceive you. Trust yourself, as soon as it is midnight the star will rise and you will see it again,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring.
‘We will wait,’ Blake replied, walking away from the telescope and opening a large cupboard on the far side of the room. ‘I have something to show you, and now is the time.’
Blake took out a large silk-covered package and walked back to the centre of the room, where he placed the object on the table lens of the camera obscura. As he slowly unwrapped the parcel Bonham grew more excited.
‘This is the book, Isaac. Written so long ago that no one knows by what mind it was inspired,’ Blake said. ‘I never thought I would ever see the day when it would come to my house, but here it is and I must thank the stars for bringing it here.’
Bonham stared aghast at the book with its thick leather binding, its ancient gold writing and weathered paper. Blake turned the pages until he reached the sixth chapter of the sixth book and the final page. His finger darted to the writing emblazoned in the margin.
‘There, look. It is true!’ He read the words to Bonham. ‘“Wormwood, the bright star shall fall from the sky, and many will die from its bitterness.” It’s coming to us, Isaac, we are the first ones to see it and there is nothing that we can do to stop it.’ His eyes flamed with excitement verging on madness. ‘We have to tell the world, but I fear that if we do then a terror will take hold and we will have unrest like we have never seen before. And if it is not true then I will be seen as the biggest fool that has ever lived.’
‘Dammed if you do and dammed if you don’t,’ Bonham said urgently as he looked eagerly at the Nemorensis. ‘You have to tell someone, and who better than the Society? Do you know where the comet will land if it strikes the earth?’ Bonham leafed through the book trying to decode the strange letters and calculations embossed on every page.
‘As it hits the atmosphere of the first heaven it will disintegrate into thousands of pieces,’ Blake replied. ‘The earth will be bombarded, and from my calculations everything from Paris to London will be destroyed, the seas will be poisoned and the earth covered in darkness for a generation!’ He looked at Bonham, whose face was etched with shadow in the candlelight. ‘How can I tell that to the Society? They’re a bunch of over-fed intellectuals who like the sound of their own voices. To a man they’ll think I’m stupid.’ Blake paced the room nervously.
‘Not if we show them. We can bring Lord Flamberg here, let him see for himself, and the others will take his word. I can arrange it for tomorrow night. If we wait any longer then someone else might claim the comet for themselves. It has your name on it, Sabian, all your work and calculations have gone into thi
s moment, it cannot be wasted.’ Bonham took hold of Blake’s hand and shook it in a firm grip. ‘I congratulate you tonight; tomorrow the Society and then the world will see your genius. Who knows, perhaps the Nemorensis will change the world, and you are the one entrusted with bringing its knowledge to us.’
*
In the square below the dark stranger kept watch over the house with eyes that stared up at the open window. Carriages passed him by and a watchman stabbed his staff to the ground with every step he took. No one saw the dark shadow beneath the elm tree, or the glow of the smouldering clay pipe.
Agetta could hear Blake’s voice echoing down the spiral staircase. She opened the small back door that led into the alleyway at the rear of the square. To her left she could see the lights of Holborn casting eerie shapes on the walls of the houses. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. She looked for Brigand and called his name in the darkness. She was alone.
In an instant she decided to run to the street. Agetta picked up the front of her long skirt and gripped it against her apron, wrapping her shawl close to her. She dashed forwards, her feet clattering against the cobbles and slopping through the mud. Closer to the light she raced, knowing there would be safety among the mass of people who crowded the streets of Holborn.
Then, from the depths of her imagination came the hideous thought that she was being followed – that some dark creature was stalking not far behind, breathing down the back of her neck, whispering malice. A rising sense of panic made Agetta lose all strength; numbness gripped her face as imaginary hands took hold of her by the throat, squeezing out the breath. The hair stood on the back of her neck as she imagined icy fingers reaching out to her. She looked down to the ground to make sure she didn’t fall as her feet sped faster and faster. A frightened scream erupted in her throat.
Suddenly Agetta was stopped dead in her tracks and knocked to the ground. All around her was the noise of Holborn. She looked up, dazed from the blow. There standing over her was a man dressed from head to foot in the deepest black. His frock coat was finished with a fine gold thread that matched the thick buckles on his boots. He stared down at her and held out his hand.