Mr. Timothy

by Louis Bayard

  Doubtless I could keep going, I could yammer us all the way to the doorstep, but she is no longer attending. Having already pushed several yards ahead of Colin and me, she is busy canvassing her new lodgings with a scrutiny that would amuse me if I weren’t somehow implicated in it. Observe her now: sampling the native aromas, studying the character of the lamplighter, assaying the sturdiness of Mrs. Sharpe’s grilles, even going so far as to inspect the contents of the alley. Who would have supposed that her previous journeys had left her with such very high standards?

  —Don’t know what she’s bein’ so snooty about, Colin mutters.—She’s gettin’ the place free, ain’t she?

  My response is swallowed up by the bells of St. James’s, tolling the half hour:—Ding dong ping dong. Ding dong ping dong.

  No matter what time of day I hear them, I am always brought up short by their cadence. One of the set has fallen out of its natural orbit and now produces a high, metallic tingling that weaves through the stentorian chimes and, in subversive fashion, undermines them.

  —Ding dong ping dong. Ding dong ping dong.

  This errant bell has been my daily, my hourly companion for the last six months. Why, then, should it have chosen this moment to create such an alien resonance in my ear? Under its spell, I feel my senses broadening in every direction, until the contents of this street become a vibration in my skin. Colin growling asides to the cobblestones. The mystical glow suffusing the head of the lamplighter. The agonised leers on the gargoyles over Mrs. Sharpe’s second-storey apartments.

  And something more: the flash of a black dress slipping down Regent Street and disappearing behind the brick edifice of the corner house.

  Miss Binny, unless I greatly mistake. Our old friend the missionary, still bent on heavenly errands.

  Some protective instinct jolts my attention straight back to Philomela. I clutch my umbrella, my lips part, I am on the brink of crying out—what? a warning? a joke at Miss Binny’s expense?—but I am stopped short by the quick-rising cold front emanating from the girl. From her eyes, I should say, which have fixed on mine a look that would freeze a warrior’s blood. Dread and anger and…and something else…a look that confirms and exceeds every awful opinion I have ever entertained about myself.

  And then the front shifts once again, and Philomela is gone.

  Hitching up her dress and running as fast as the wind, faster than I have yet seen her go, and jerking her arms in midflight, as though someone had fastened himself round her shoulders. Not a moment of hesitation, not a backwards look: she turns the corner and shoots down Babmaes, retracing the very trajectory in which I first witnessed her.

  Colin looks at me, incredulous.

  —What’s got into her, then?

  Without waiting for an answer, he takes off after her, calling as he goes:

  —Here! Filly!

  A blur of limbs, is our Colin, dizzying to contemplate. I do what I can to follow, but my own flight is delayed by an unexpected movement on my left flank: Mrs. Sharpe’s door swinging open with a gale of vehemence, to reveal the benign figure of George, stepping onto the landing with the air of a workingman on holiday. His collar is open, his sleeves rolled up; he looks to be girding himself for an afternoon’s entertainment. Which, by all appearances, is me.

  —Mercy’s sake, Mr. Timothy! Don’t you know your own lodging?

  It slows my step, that mock-jovial timbre. Even with my back to him, it drags at my ankles.

  —Off again so soon? Without a word?

  Waving him away with a flat hand, I hunch my shoulders and press on, but the voice follows me round the corner.

  —What shall I tell the missus, Mr. Timothy?

  Tell her what you bloody like. And the moment that thought escapes me—the moment he leaves my sight—George ceases to be an active concern, for I am met by a new obstruction: the stilled form of Colin. Such a shocking contrast to his normal restiveness that it is all I can do not to collide with him, and he himself is so strangely silent that he gives off an almost tangible aura of danger. Squinting over his shoulder, I make out at last the sight that has struck him dumb.

  Philomela in the arms of a man.

  The juxtaposition is too much at first. I’m tempted to look away, as though I have surprised a pair of lovers. But Philomela is not disposed to love, one can see that. Her fists are clenched, and her torso is writhing, and her feet scissor the air.

  And her suitor, rather than pressing her body to his, is wrenching her into submission, using one arm to lock her head in place and the other to drag her in the direction of a waiting carriage. It’s all too easy. He is short, yes, but strong as a warthog, densely muscled, and his black bowler hat is like a final flourish of muscle, and the only delicacy in the scene is the carriage itself: a forest-green brougham with salmon filigree, festooned with somebody’s coat of arms and shuttered down like a manor in winter, except for its door, panting open.

  I must run to her. And to my surprise, I find I already have. I am standing just behind Mr. Bowler…clapping him on the shoulder…using the one word that presents itself:

  —No.

  Even more surprising: my tone of voice. Can you hear it? Scrupulously polite. See here, my good man, d’you think you might…

  And when Mr. Bowler turns to face me, he appears to be responding in kind. Such a calm air about him, as though he were patiently sorting through all the damage he might inflict on me. The tremble of a smile appears on his clean-shaven face, and with Philomela still pinioned in the crook of his arm, he reaches into his pocket and extracts a knife.

  Knife is too elegant a word for it. There is no handle to it, only blade: a gleaming band of steel with two bevelled edges, stropped to a lapidary gleam. A blade such as a wood-carver might use, and when he presses it to my jugular, he has the dispassionate air of an artisan. Where to cut first?

  The cul-de-sac is empty—save for a coachman, sitting atop the waiting carriage and looking pointedly away—and the sun is falling, and everything has been reduced to that simple question: Where?

  And as if to complicate the inquiry, Mr. Bowler passes the blade between my neck and Philomela’s. Back and forth it goes, hanging as loosely in his hand as a paintbrush, and the thrumming sound it makes as it cuts the air is enough to root me in place. Only two tasks am I capable of performing: inching my left hand towards the girl and peering into Bowler’s mild hazel eyes for some sign of his intention.

  And then, against all odds, those eyes jolt upwards in their sockets, and the hat sinks like a counterweight, and the next thing I’m aware of is the sound of the blade clattering on the pavement. And after that, the hat, and then the hat’s owner following it to earth in a faint echo.

  And standing just above me: Colin, pale and unnaturally tall.

  Not on stilts, as I first imagine. He has perched himself on the axle of the carriage wheel, and grasped in his uplifted hand is my umbrella—the one I left behind in my haste—its handle now bent and shivered. And Colin’s face is frozen in wonder at the feat he has just performed.

  I pry the umbrella from his hand and cast it away.

  —Thank you, Colin. It wasn’t very expensive.

  He nods and looks down, abashed.

  Below us, the compliant form of Mr. Bowler awakens, rolls onto its back. The mild eyes blink at the sky. One hand reaches for the hat.

  —Run! yells Colin.

  I grab Philomela by the arm, but she won’t budge. She is staring into the cavity of the open carriage, from which a man’s head is now emerging. A long-faced, swarthy man in a silk hat, wearing on his index finger a very heavy Spanish ring of carved rose gold, with an inset emerald, large and square and perfect. I might never have noticed the finger were he not using it now to trace a line around his plump lips: a tutelary gesture, as though he were showing us how to smile.

  I whisper into Philomela’s ear:

  —Come away.

  Her limbs jerk back into life, and as we round the corner, she is run
ning as fast as I. Colin, not surprisingly, has bested us by several yards and is looking likely to add to his lead, but then stops suddenly and turns to face us.

  —I gots me an idea, he says.

  Without preface, he whips off his coat and cap, flings them to the ground, and grabs hold of Philomela’s cloak. For once, she is too frightened to resist, and it is only a matter of seconds before he has wrapped it round his smaller form. Then he commandeers—once again—her scarf.

  —Distraction, Mr. Timothy, you sees where I’m headin’? Now you two make for the park. Me, I’ll head straight back to Piccadilly.

  —Colin…

  —Christ, you think I can’t outrun them bastards? Get on with you, go!

  Philomela has already tucked her long hair under Colin’s cap, and is looking at me with such an expectant air I haven’t the strength to protest. Colin draws the hood of her cloak over his head, gives us a quick salute, and then dashes in the direction of Regent Street. Some proprietary part of me wants to follow, but then Philomela lays hold of my arm—a surprisingly gentle touch, given the circumstances—and that’s all it requires to send us running down Jermyn Street. Or at least, Philomela is running, and I am doing my best approximation: flinging the good leg as far as it will go and then letting the right leg dance lightly on the sidewalk before pushing once more onto the left. Such is the adaptability of the human body, that the motion begins to feel natural, acquires even a pleasing rhythm, and as we turn the corner into Duke Street, I have forgotten why we are running, so absorbed am I in my art, and then out of the corner of my eye, I see a pair of bays emerging from Babmaes Street and a green carriage following close behind, and the vista before me dissolves, and I am back in my dream, the dream of Philomela in flight, except it’s the two of us now, chased by talons, dwarfed by blue shadow.

  Night is falling with an unreasonable haste. The winter solstice has sucked away the light, and the streets have emptied out as though in preparation for a plague.

  The girl glances at me over her shoulder.

  —Go on, Philomela. I’ll catch up to you.

  Her English must fail her, for she insists on measuring her steps to mine. Her nostrils flare, and her hair, no longer bound by the cap, streams behind her like a ministering cloud, and I think she is in her element now, secure in her body and all its evasive powers.

  We sprint past a livery stable, past corniced homes lit with twinkling candles—each home, perhaps, a refuge, but for how long? How long before Bowler and his master discover Colin’s ruse? And how long before they find us, pounding on someone’s door, begging to be let in?

  No, it’s crowds we want. Someplace that will swallow our scents.

  And then, through the gloaming, a small, freshly painted signpost appears: The Lion’s Paw. Grabbing Philomela by the elbow, I push through the heavy, tawny door, staggering a little before the wall of pipe smoke that greets us: the accumulated exhalations of perhaps two dozen men—professionals, mostly, sublunaries of the banking and mercantile worlds, conjoined with a few mangy journalists, their moustaches wilting beneath ale froth.

  How must we look, Philomela and I, tumbling through that door? Arriving from two different stations, as it were, both of us damp to the bone, swallowing roomfuls of air.

  It doesn’t matter. These are English gentlemen. They look away as soon as they see us.

  —Excuse me, sir.

  From behind the horseshoe-shaped, zinc-topped counter, a bald publican regards us with a cast eye.

  —Afraid we don’t serve females in the taproom, sir. Perhaps you’d care to step into the lounge.

  —Would you tell me, please, where we might find a constable?

  —Why, you need only wait a few minutes. It’s Hugh’s custom to stop in once he’s off duty.

  —Thank you.

  Cozy sort of place, the lounge. Under better circumstances, I might be more receptive to its charms: casks and cordial bottles and beer-pulls. A parson’s table on which sits a copy of the London Illustrated News, and by the hearth, a three-paneled screen, seared with soot. The Windsor chairs are wobbly but adequate, and the only sounds in the room are the fire’s sputtering and our own breathing.

  Reassured now, I collapse into one of the chairs and stare into the flames, and as my breathing subsides, a single question buzzes through my head:

  Why, Philomela?

  And upon closer inspection, the question turns out to be many questions.

  Why did you run in the first place, before you ever saw the green carriage? You had already suffered Miss Binny once today; seeing her again shouldn’t have put you out of countenance. And truth be told, you weren’t even attending to her, you were looking at me. And with such an expression! What have I ever done to deserve that, Philomela?

  And that man in the carriage, making that gesture with his finger—more intimate than anything a stranger would venture—what was it about him that stopped you in your tracks? You know him, don’t you?

  But perhaps I should be posing myself the same question. For the strangest thing of all, Philomela, is this: I know him, too.

  The face, at least, with its dark skin and heavy lips, its air of calculated youth. I know for a certainty I have seen that face. The only thing I don’t know is where.

  Ten minutes later, the potboy has brought a hot rum for me, hard cider for the girl. We blow away the steam from our half-pint pots, and as the boy pushes back through the half-door, I hear, above the din of the adjoining room, the publican’s voice rising clear:

  —Sorry, sir, didn’t quite catch that.

  And then an answering voice, equally distinct:

  —I said Deputy Inspector Rollins, from Scotland Yard.

  I’m on my feet in a flash, peering over the doorsill. Through the tendrils of smoke, I can just make out the gleaming dome of the publican, saying:

  —Off duty, too, eh? Why is it every officer who comes in my pub is off duty? Yes, it was a gentleman and a young miss, stopped in a little while back.

  The man he’s talking to is hidden from my sight, an obstreperous bagatelle player having blocked the view. All that filters back is his voice, low and pleasant and businesslike, kicking over the traces of old working-class vowels:

  —Just the pair I was looking for, the man says.

  And as if on command, the bagatelle player leans over to address his next ball, and the way to the bar is clear now, and I see, in perfect profile, the bulky pair of shoulders, the ring of solid neck…and the black bowler hat, clamped even more securely onto the head.

  And as I leap back towards the fire, I hear the publican remark:

  —Odd, they were asking for a constable.

  I grab Philomela by the arm, put a finger to my lips.

  —No, sir, they’re still here. I told ’em to wait till Hugh stopped in.

  I snatch up the Illustrated News and lower it into the fire.

  —Oh, I put ’em in the lounge. We don’t serve ladies in the taproom.

  The embers are dull. I have to shove the paper deeper into the fireplace, and still it won’t catch.

  —It’s just down and to the…never mind, I’ll take you there.

  At last. A flicker and then a flare, and the newspaper becomes a torch. I drop it, still flaming, next to the fire screen. I reach for Philomela’s hand, and we dance across the doorway, flattening ourselves against the wall on the other side.

  A second later, the publican pokes his bald head round the door frame. The nostrils twitch, and the head swivels towards the hearth, where even now the London Illustrated News is sending rivers of flame to the ceiling.

  —Awww! Gawd!

  Groaning, he flings himself at the miniature bonfire, stamping it down as fiercely as Rumpelstiltskin. Ashes coat his boots and trousers, and flaming shreds of paper fly into his face and hair; he claws them away, groans some more, stamps some more. Quite a little spectacle, all told, and we’re not the only witnesses. Mr. Bowler—Deputy Inspector Bowler—is watching, too, his
back turned to us, his head so close I could knock off his hat with a single blow.

  A second passes; another. I can feel Philomela drawing in her breath.

  And then Bowler takes a step towards the fire screen. And then another. And I realise, with a jolt of relief, that he thinks we’re on the other side.

  Pantherlike he approaches, treading on the balls of his feet, and just as his head peers round the screen, I grab Philomela, and the two of us go flying through the half-door. Bowler whips round, and then he is lost in a sea of bodies, for we have plunged into the heart of the Lion’s Paw populace, and our heads are lowered and our elbows are out, and we are hacking a path to the door.

  Recoiling heads, loud remonstrances. A dart whistles past my ear, a glass of ale splashes down the back of my coat. I slip under someone’s arm and barrel through someone else’s, knocking its owner against the bar.

  —Steady on, then!

  But I’m already clearing away the next obstruction. A shove here, a sidestep there, and now we’re almost at the door, I can see Philomela reaching for the handle…slowly, too slowly…I’m egging her on, I’m screaming in her ear—Turn!—and then, from nowhere, a new obstacle appears: a pale, bleary-eyed man in a torn jacket, swaying across our path, cutting off our escape.

  —Buy us a gin, chappie. They’ve cut us off.

  He folds me round in a clumsy embrace, moans in my ear like a mistress.

  —It’s criminal how they treat us here.

  I try to scrape him off, but he seems to grow new arms, and each one clutches more desperately than the last.

  —Just the one. I’ll go home then, I swear….

  From behind me comes a stentorian cry, the voice of officialdom:

  —Stop that man! He’s wanted by the police!

  The bleary-eyed man swings his head round.

  —No, I ain’t!

  His hands form a protective phalanx even as the rest of him goes limp, and when I shove him from behind, he flies even farther than I dared hope, right into the protesting arms of Deputy Inspector Bowler. Down they go, in a thrashing jumble, and as I wrench open the door, I see the man hanging on to Bowler’s legs like ballast.