by Hall, Ian
There was a noble and dignified air of command about Count Alteroni, as he uttered these words, which could not escape the notice of Richard Markham, even amidst the crushing and overwhelming circumstances that surrounded him.
The count took the candle from Markham's hand, and hastened to the aid of his daughter, who, half-dressed, was lying upon the cold marble of the hall. He hastened to raise her; and at that moment the countess appeared upon the stairs, followed by a lady's-maid bearing a lamp.
The count reassured her in respect to the safety of the house, consigned Isabella to her care, and then returned to the pantry, where his presence was awaited in silence.
"Have you any thing more to say?" demanded the count of the Resurrection Man.
"Nothing. Have not I said enough?"—and he glanced with fiendish triumph towards Markham.
"Now, sir," said the count, turning to Richard; "is the statement of this man easy to be refuted?"
"Alas! I am compelled to admit that, the victim of the most extraordinary circumstantial evidence ever known to fix guilt upon an innocent man, I was a prisoner in Newgate and the Compter; but——"
"Say no more! say no more! God forgive me, that I should have allowed such a man to become the friend of my wife and daughter!"
The count uttered these words in a tone of intense agony.
"Count Alteroni, allow me one word of explanation," said Richard. "Only cast your eyes over this paper, and you will be convinced of my innocence!"
Markham handed the document signed by Talbot, alias Pocock, to the count; but the nobleman tossed it indignantly on the floor.
"You have confessed that you have been an inmate of the felons' gaols: what explanation can you give that will wipe away so foul a stain? Depart—begone! defile not my house longer with your presence!"
Vainly did Markham endeavour to obtain a hearing. The count silenced him with an air of command and an imposing dignity of manner that struck him with awe. Never did the Italian nobleman appear more really noble than when he was thus performing that which he considered to be an imperious duty. His fine form was drawn up to its full height—his chest expanded—his cheeks were flushed—and his eyes flashed fire. Yes—even beneath his dark complexion was the rich Italian blood seen mantling his countenance.
"Go, sir—hasten your departure—stay not another minute here! A man accused of forgery—condemned to an infamous punishment,—a liberated felon—a freed convict in my family dwelling—— Holy God! I can scarcely restrain myself within the bounds of common patience when I think of the indignity that myself, my wife, and my innocent daughter have endured."
With these words the colonel pushed Markham rudely from the pantry, and ordered a servant to conduct him to the front door.
The blood of the young man boiled in his veins at this ignominious treatment;—and yet he dared not rebel against it!
The Resurrection Man took his departure at the same time by the garden at the back of the house.
As Markham turned down the shrubbery, a window on the third floor of the count's dwelling was thrown open; and the voices of Sir Cherry Bounce and the Honourable Captain Dapper were heard loading him with abuse.
Bowed down to the earth by the weight of the misfortune which had just fallen upon his head,—crushed by unjust and unfounded suspicions,—and sinking beneath a sense of shame and degradation, which all his innocence did not deprive of a single pang,—Markham dragged himself away from the house in which he had passed so many happy hours, and where he left behind him all that he held dear in this life.
He seated himself upon a mile-stone at a little distance from the count's mansion, to which he turned his eyes to take a last farewell of the place where Isabella resided.
Lights were moving about in several rooms;—perhaps she was ill?
Most assuredly she had heard the dread accusations which had issued from the lips of the Resurrection Man against her lover;—and she would haply believe them all?
So thought Richard. Human language cannot convey an adequate idea of the heart-rending misery which the poor oppressed young man endured as he sat by the road-side, and pondered upon all that had just occurred.
Shame upon shame—degradation upon degradation—mountain upon mountain rolled on his breast, as if he were a modern Titan, to crush him and keep him down—never more to rise;—this was now his fate!
At length, afraid of being left alone with his own thoughts, which seemed to urge him to end his earthly woes in the blood of a suicide, he rose from the cold stone, turned one last sorrowful and lingering glance towards the mansion in the distance, and then hurried along the road to Richmond as if he were pursued by bloodhounds.
And not more fearful nor more appalling would those bloodhounds have been than the horrible and excruciating thoughts which haunted him upon his way, and of which he could not divest himself; so that at length a species of delirium seized upon him as he ran furiously onward, the mark of Cain appearing to burn like red-hot iron upon his brow, and a terrible voice thundering in his ear—"Freed Convict!"
I used Reggie to deliver the manuscript, not wishing to see George after the mess I’d just cleared up. I sought out my own Burke and Hare, read it again, and thought it far superior.
Then, as I donned my hat and ventured onto the steps to travel to the publishers, an envelope was thrust into my hand.
A Letter from Kitty
I held the envelope in my trembling fingers for a moment, then ran back inside.
Dearest Alexander
I hope this letter finds you well. I am on my way to my Uncle’s country seat for twelve weeks, and will not be home. I leave the address should you choose to write.
Yours
Kitty
Sir Arthur Willoughby
Horton House
Chessington
Surrey
I felt torn. In one respect, she had answered my letter, and even signed it ‘yours’, which to me meant a real lot. On the other hand, she was gone for three months.
Regardless, I grabbed my briefcase and set off again. I couldn’t help for smiling.
I’d just set off the steps when I heard a cough from below. Leaning over the railings I saw Reggie. He looked quite excited.
“Have you something to report?” I asked quietly.
He nodded. “It’s the two men,” he began, “They’ve gone from town.”
“Gone?” I asked. “Where?”
“South, over the bridge, I didn’t follow more, I can’t do south London on my own, there’s a different boss down there, I’d get done for sure.”
I did not press that area further. “Were they alone?”
“Yup,” Reggie nodded, looking positive. “They were in a big coach with a badge on the door.”
“Two foxes?”
“Aye, how did you know?”
I looked off down the road in contemplation. “Oh, just a guess,”
So Kitty had just told me that she would be gone for twelve weeks, then I got word that my partners had also left town. Coincidence? I think not, although visits outside of London would explain their protracted absences.
“Stay here,” I said, then dashed back inside, seeking Thackeray. “Did Uncle James state how long he would be gone this time?”
She nodded. “He always does.” She brushed flour from her apron. “Said he’d be back on Sunday night, late.”
I looked at her, this new untapped vein of information a new facet to my partners’ disappearances. “He always tells you?”
“Without fail.” She nodded, looking just slightly uncomfortable.
“In future, when he does so, could you pass the information on to me?” I asked, giving her my best smile.
“Of course, Master Alexander,”
At last I was starting to gain on my Uncle’s dealings, and keeping myself at a distance while I did so. But of course I could not rid my mind of the notion of Rymer and Prest spending the weekend in the same house as Kitty and the totally mysterious Lady Clara. I looke
d at the letter for the umpteenth time.
Sir Arthur Willoughby
Horton House
So did that mean Lady Vixen’s surname was Willoughby? On Monday night in my drunkenness I had misheard Varney for Willoughby? It certainly seemed possible, the two names were relatively alike, and Lady Vixen had been so kind at the auction when I found myself completely out of my depth.
Then it hit me, today was Friday, auction day.
I was on a coach in minutes, heading north. The blue sky was partly filled with scudding dark clouds, and at times thunder rolled across the rooftops, yet no rain fell. Under such a covering, we arrived at the auctioneers. To my eternal gratitude, the same gentleman was in the auction office as I entered. I gave an irritated sigh as an assistant barred my way.
“I seek Roger Naismith,” I said, indicating over the man’s shoulder.
“And who shall I say is calling?” he asked, as if I’d rang a bell or something.
“Alexander MacNeill,” and I waited dutifully as the message was passed across the room to Mister Naismith, who instantly waved me over.
“How can I help you?” he said getting to his feet and shaking my hand.
“I was here last week, and bought a desk, well, almost,”
Naismith nodded, “Yes, you were with Lady Clara.”
I sighed in relief that he’d remembered me. That made my next question easier. “Yes, Lady Clara, I need to get payment to her for the desk, she left before I could do so. But alas I have no address. I could meet her tonight, here, but I expect to be out of town.”
By now he was waving me to stop. “No problem, Mister MacNeill, Sir Arthur has a townhouse in Poppin’s Lane.” I must have looked particularly clueless, as he continued, smiling. “Just off Fleet Street, sir, opposite The Old Bell. You should visit, sir, designed by Sir Christopher Wren.”
I looked at him dubiously. “Wren designed a pub? A mere tavern?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Right nice it is too.”
“Well, thank you, Mister Naismith, you’ve been most helpful. I’ll get my payment to Lady Willoughby right away.”
There, I had dropped the name, and he didn’t blink. No correction, no dispute. “You do that, sir. You come back and see us if you need anything else.”
“One last thing,” I turned away, then back again. “Does Lady Willoughby attend every Friday?”
Naismith nodded. “Most, sir. But she does attend less in summer; on account she’s out of town frequently then.”
And making the right noises, I made my exit.
Proud of my detective acumen, I got home to find Reggie at the kitchen table, a bowl of stew and potatoes rapidly disappearing into his face. “He needs his grub, Master Alexander.” Thackeray said with a matronly grin.
“I’ll take a plate too,” and I went upstairs to my office.
I tried to write more Burke and Hare, but my mind wouldn’t get off my Kitty summer problem, then I attempted to write a letter to her, but that ended up with five crumpled pieces of paper in the fireplace. I simply could not settle down.
Then it dawned, if everyone was away at the country, perhaps the house on Poppin’s Lane would be deserted. And of course, I had the perfect alibi in case anyone was still in residence; I had a seven guinea debt to settle.
I set off with Reggie at my side, knowing a second set of eyes might be to my advantage. With adrenaline pumping, and Reggie running alongside, I took a carriage to Fleet Street, then quickly moved off down Poppin’s Lane. It took little time to locate Lady Vixen’s door, there was only one like it in the whole narrow alley. Setting Reggie further down the lane, I rapped the knocker firmly, its sound echoing along the alley. To either side the windows lay in darkness. I waited for a moment, then knocked again, louder.
Nothing.
In truth, my heart was pounding, and at that instant I felt far closer to madness than sanity. I stood outside the empty building which hopefully contained the absolute proof of my theory, and I shook like a leaf. I felt so close to the truth, the house seemed to have ‘come inside’ written on every window. I paced back and forth for a moment, then somewhat rashly I chose a direct course of action.
In true Henry Bannerworth style, I decided I would gain entry to the house and find evidence myself. I walked back up the alley, quickly finding Reggie. “How easy would it be to get inside?”
He looked at me in complete horror. “Are you kiddin?”
I shook my head. “Deadly serious,”
He walked past the house, looking upwards into the darkness, then returned to me. “I reckon the top winda’s open a crack. You know, to let some fresh air in.”
“Can you get up there?” I asked, first looking up at the high façade, then furtively glancing from side to side. Not a soul passed by on Fleet Street, never mind here in the darkness of the alley.
Without an answer Reggie took up the front of the house like there were handles every two feet. I almost called him back, I mean, after all, I had not actually told him to get inside, I had just broached the possibility. At times I could not see what he had to hold onto, but he made the top window, and quickly slipped inside. I walked to the door again, knocking quieter, hoping that Reggie would get the idea that I needed the door unlocked from the inside, but to my surprise, he arrived at the street-level window, and opened it wide.
“The door!” I gasped.
“It’s locked.” He hissed back at me, “No key.” I had little option but to clamber over the windowsill. In my mind I expected the shrill pitch of a police whistle at any second.
Once inside with the window closed, I took a few moments to calm myself and allow my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. As I took note of the furniture, I could hardly believe I had gone this far, every move towards my act of burglary had been small, yet the crime in its entirety was a huge leap.
The room had a musty smell to it, and a lingering of some form of scent, incense perhaps.
The crime had already been committed, and yet I was inside, and I knew I should make best use of my brazenness. I cursed my unpreparedness for now in the darkness I needed both a lamp and the means of lighting it. From experience I deduced that the kitchen was the best place to get such. To my dismay, the kitchen window was smallest of all, and did not let much of any light into the room. I felt around in the dark, opening drawers, until I felt the familiar shaped box.
Once struck and an oil lamp lit, my job proved much easier. With Reggie keeping watch at the downstairs window, I searched an office, then the drawers of the dining room. Next I tried upstairs, but to my chagrin I found absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, not that I had any real idea what to expect. I thought of the Varney tale, but there were no coffins, no vampyre paraphernalia, nothing that would indicate the occupants were anything else than ordinary people. Upstairs were six bedrooms, and although I fancied I knew Kitty’s by the smell, I could find no letters, no bloody capes, no vampyre portraits, it all proved so frustrating; such a waste of time.
In the end, after perhaps an hour of searching, I exited the house by the same bottom window I had entered by. I insisted on Reggie locking it from inside, then climbing down from the top floor, leaving the house in exactly the same situation I had found it in.
I had put myself at considerable risk, broken the law, yet found nothing incriminating; it had proven a truly fruitless undertaking.
In frustration I sent Reggie home and took a cab to the auction, still in full swing at nine o’clock. But again, their story panned out, as Lady Willoughby was not in attendance, and I found myself at yet another dead end.
Back home, alone, I felt particularly guilty for invading the Willoughby’s home, and finding nothing from which to back any of my suspicions. Sleep did not come easy for my guilty mind, and I tossed and turned for many hours. I had apparently forced myself upon an innocent household, and felt full of remorse for my actions.
On Saturday I reverted to my habits as a means of ridding my mind of conspiracies and f
anciful notions. I visited Salisbury Square and purchased both Varney and Burke and Hare’s two new editions, again taking particular delight in seeing my own work in print. Back on Fleet Street, I walked east, and took a look at Naismith’s recommended tavern.
With a smaller façade than the Punch a few doors down, The Old Bell had a front window of a thousand stained glass segments, a convivial atmosphere, and indeed sat directly opposite the entrance to Poppin’s Lane. I cannot say its interior was on par with Saint Paul’s Cathedral, but its design seemed superior to most venues in Edinburgh’s High Street. I drank one solitary glass of ale as I took in the ambience, fearing a repeat of last Monday’s drunken fiasco.
That afternoon I took a stroll in Regent’s Park, and swiftly became bored. Even the mundane reading of Varney only set my mind thinking of Kitty and the family, Rymer and Prest, all having a wonderful time in the country. The thunder around me threatened rain, but despite the constant bellowing above my head the skies remained dry.
“And I’m stuck here,” I said as I neared the newspaper seller on the corner. I browsed the opposition’s publications, then settled on the newest Mysteries of London, and a new tale; The French Assassin.
I swear when I woke on Monday morning, I almost soared in enthusiasm when I head Uncle’s voice downstairs.
“Good morning, me lad!” he exclaimed as if he’d just awoke from the most rejuvenating sleep ever. “Two new chapters on your desk!”
“You’re in good spirits,” I ventured, although I could smell no alcohol on his breath. I so wanted to ask details of his weekend, but held my tongue. I needed no pressing from me to arouse his suspicions of my investigations.
As I read through the chapters for the second time, Thomas Prest arrived, also in good temper. They chatted in the office for some time, then both presented themselves at the door.
“Well?” Prest asked, his eyes bright and enthusiastic.
I recalled the rainless thunder of Saturday morning, and now its inclusion in the story, I pictured Kitty walking the overgrown gardens of Bannerworth House.