Turning it over, Dr Judd sees a man from his recent past gazing back at him—skinny, unshaven features, a wild-eyed intensity. Something rises in his chest. “I know him.”
“We thought you might, sir.” “He came to my lecture. He spoke to me afterwards. He was… enthusiastic about my ideas.”
“And you’d never met him before?”
“No. No… However did you know that we’d met?”
“He was the one who filmed you, sir.” The policewoman speaks these words as if their meaning is self-evident.
“What do you mean ‘filmed me’?”
“He was the one who videoed you, sir. On his phone.”
“What?”
“He put you up on YouTube, sir.”
“I’m sorry. But I can’t quite seem to process this.”
Another glance of jaded scepticism is traded between the officers of the law.
“He filmed me,” Toby says carefully, struggling to understand, “and put the video on YouTube. Why? For goodness’ sake, why?”
“I imagine he wanted to try to spread the word, sir. But it’s found a… different audience. Your meltdown, sir. The video’s gone viral.”
Toby is aware that he is sounding pitifully like an echo. “Viral?” He understands the meaning of the term, of course, in this context but somehow he cannot help but slip back to its older, original sense. He considers infection and the spreading of disease.
“All around the world, sir. Everyone’s been clicking on it—on you, sir—over and over. That’s the way it is now, isn’t it? That’s the speed of fame in the twenty-first century. The speed of life, really.” The policewoman sucks in a breath. “You didn’t know?”
“No. No absolutely not. I mean… I remember now… He had his phone out before him, but I never…”
“Sergeant? Show the man, would you?”
The young man slides a slender black device from his pocket, taps at the screen and presents it to Toby with something approaching a flourish.
There, before him, is Toby’s lecture in miniature or, at least, its later, more emotive section. The show. He sees himself: red-faced and ranting, a comic lunatic, baggy-trousered and absurd. He peers, half-horrified, half-fascinated by this homunculus version of himself, this pixelated demagogue, this weird, demented gnome.
“Tens of thousands of hits, sir. You’re something of a celebrity. You remember the man with the dog, sir? ‘Fenton? Fenton!’ You’re at least as famous as him.”
On the screen, the tiny, warped reflection of Dr Tony Judd struts and yelps and bellows out his theories.
“Please,” says Toby, winded. “Please put it away now.”
The Detective Inspector nods. “Sergeant.”
“Terrifying,” Toby murmurs. “Quite terrifying.”
Angeyo snaps shut the device, silencing the ranting little man, and stows the thing away in his pocket again.
“This Russell Spicer. He shot all that?”
“Yes, sir. In fact, sir…”
“Yes?”
“As far as we can tell… it was near enough the last thing he did.”
“The… last… thing?”
No trace of emotion on the policeman’s face now. “Before his death, sir.”
A twist of nausea in Toby’s gut. Two useless, identical syllables: “Oh. Oh.”
“We’re sorry, sir.”
“We didn’t mean to shock you.”
“I’m… well, it is shocking. But, I suppose, it’s not like I knew the man. We can’t have spoken for more than a couple of minutes.”
“He was obviously an admirer of yours, sir. We understand he shared some of your conspiracy theories.”
“I don’t like that phrase. But my doubts, yes. Yes, he seemed to share some of my doubts.”
Angeyo, leaning forward, interested: “I’ve watched the video, sir. Couldn’t quite seem to follow your argument.”
“Hmph. How well do you know Cannonbridge’s works, Sergeant?”
“GCSE English, sir. I know the basics.”
“Hasn’t anything ever struck you as odd about them?”
“In what way, sir?”
“They’re too consistent. Don’t you think? Too neat. And, frankly, nowhere near good enough. As though they’ve been made up by one man over the course of a month and not over a lifetime.”
“Can’t say it’s ever occurred to me, sir.”
“Think about it, Sergeant. Read them again. Look at the details of his life.” Toby, intense, makes eye contact. “We are being lied to.”
Cudden clears his throat, evidently a signal of some kind to her sergeant. “Well, thank you for your time, sir.”
Both officers get to their feet.
“Can I ask?” says Toby. “How did he die?”
The police exchange glances again.
“Found in a hotel room, sir. A Holiday Inn. Cut his own throat. Messy. No note.”
“I see.” Toby nods, more nauseous than ever. “Well, that’s very sad.”
Cudden, unsmiling: “Isn’t it?”
Toby swallows and murmurs, “Let me show you out.”
From the doorstep, Cudden strides towards the car, Angeyo hangs back, just long enough to lean in to speak to Toby the following words: “There were some… irregularities about the death, sir.”
“What are you saying?”
Sergeant Angeyo looks at him levelly for a moment. “I’m just saying be careful, sir.”
A shout. “Sergeant!”
Before Toby can respond, Angeyo nods once and strides off. The two police officers climb inside the car.
The engine starts and they drive away.
Toby watches, sick at heart and trembling. He is about to return to the sanctuary of his bedroom when he notices, from across the street, a sudden gleam of light, as of sunshine glinting on metal.
There is a car. A Saab. A dark, sleek, expensive machine. The slender silhouette of a man within. Toby squints against the sunlight but cannot make out the stranger’s features.
Again, a flash of light. Toby stares, his skin prickling, and in a moment of recklessness, considers running over to the vehicle, wrenching open the door and challenging the occupant to explain himself.
But then the car starts up and begins to pull away. Toby stares, still unable to make out the driver’s features. There is only a shadow behind the wheel.
The Saab disappears and the street is empty once more. Feeling very cold in spite of the warmth of the day, Toby, shivering, goes back inside, double locks the front door, pulls the chain across and goes to bed where he falls, eventually, into an uneasy sleep and dreams of shadows and dead men and impossible things.
1835
THE KITTIWAKE HOTEL BOSTON
IT IS AUTUMN in Massachusetts. Cornhill has a sombre aspect as if it is in mourning. Tall, grey buildings. Everywhere, brown leaves and mud. Fine, resentful rain.
Nobody lingers out of doors. It has begun to darken and folk are hurrying home, their heads bowed, their collars turned up against the asperity of the weather, the gas lamps, fitful and fickle, serving less to illuminate the sidewalk than to render more complete those shadows which lie beyond the limitations of the light. All is subtle, quiet, discreet. All is order here and sullen peace. It is a world arranged according to the principles of the ruler and the compass, a city of the new, far from the murk and corruption of London. Looking upon it today, one would be hard pressed to imagine that it was ever the birthplace of revolution or that it once provided the spark for war.
Yet, there is something also, amidst the scene to suggest that the violence of the place is hidden only barely, that the carapace of civilisation is thin and prone to cracking. The first sign of it is this: a young woman, moving swiftly down the street, glancing repeatedly behind her, her face set in an expression of barelystifled terror.
A pale creature—oh, so very pale; pale like china; pale like marble—her hair long and black, streaked prematurely with grey. Her clothes are ragged and to
o tight, her figure slim and attractive. There is a certain exoticism to her—there are tattoos beneath the fabric of her dress, inked sigils and signs of the most curious kind—and she possesses a savage sort of beauty, fraying at the edges. All but the most witless observer would surely be able, at the sight of her frantic, half-tripping gait, her drawn face, the look of anguish in her eyes, to discern that here is a lady who has indeed been most imperfectly used.
She looks behind her once more, this hunted girl, and one would, if one were of a mind to follow the direction of her gaze, discern her pursuers: two men, both stout and perspiring, both dressed in matching suits of bottle green. They might, in other circumstances, seem slightly comical but somehow here, in this place and at this time, they do not. There is something in the set of their jaws, you understand, something in the way in which they carry their bulk, with a lascivious sort of pride, which would make the smile drop at once from the face of even the most committed humorist.
Towards the end of the street there is a building, tall and wide and made of grey stone, which has many windows and many entrances and exits. The name of the place may be read above the largest of its numerous doors, at which a man in a damsoncoloured uniform stands laconic guard and from which an elderly couple can be seen emerging, with brittle uncertainty, into the open air: THE KITTIWAKE HOTEL.
At the sight of this, the young woman seems to surge forwards. It seems probable that she dare not risk breaking into a run, into anything more, in fact, than the briskest of strides, but she is moving faster now than she has so far today, in all her long and perilous flight through the city.
Later she will ask herself why she felt so drawn to the Kittiwake, why it seemed to her to represent a refuge, and she will discover that she does not possess a satisfactory answer. Of course, the elements in her which remain superstitious, that still believe in destiny and fate and in the influence of the planets upon the human soul, will wonder whether the intersection between her own life and one of the residents of that celebrated lodge house might not represent a page in her history that had long been written and ordained. Another, perhaps more rational, even cynical, side to her will simply take it to be a rare stroke of good fortune in a life which has hitherto been ruled by malign coincidence.
At the time, however, she simply does not question the sudden urge to be inside that hotel. The front entrance is not for her, being altogether too public and too grand. The likelihood of being turned away there as an itinerant and waif is high so she skirts adroitly along the left-hand side of the building, down an alleyway along which the illusion that the façade creates—of affluence and discretion—is replaced by the facts of its underpinning: grime, hard work and altogether different classes of person than those who are, at polite intervals, disgorged by the great front door.
The girl looks behind her, half-hoping, although, in truth, she knows that she cannot, to have shaken off her rotund pursuers. But no. There they are: a pair of bulky shadows at the start of the path.
She sees ahead of her a well-lit entrance, a glow of warmth and labour, and so she presses on. Reaching the open door, she steps inside, the cold of the autumn evening at her back.
All at once she is confronted by the furnace industry of a busy kitchen, by flames and smells of cooking and the clatter of plates and cutlery, by two (three? four?) dozen people bent upon the task of satiating the hungers of all those who reside within the Kittiwake and who pay handsomely for that privilege. The room is filled with men but there are women here also—maids and scullery girls—and our heroine, when no-one seems to give her the slightest bit of notice or challenge her or ask her to explain her presence upon the premises, simply assumes that she has been mistaken for one of them. She pushes through the crowd, slips through the bustle of the kitchen and makes her way to the corridor beyond. She doubts that the large gentlemen in green will fare so well as her in that place—anonymity, ironically, perhaps, having never been their strongest suit—and wonders if she might not have bought herself some time.
After that: more good fortune. Had she not long since given up the practice of prayer she would certainly have murmured a catechism of gratitude to her neglectful deity. Instead, she simply acknowledges her own quick thinking and hurries on. Along the corridor she goes, bowing her head and adopting an air of subservience which was once, with considerable cruelty, instilled into her. She passes easily as a servant of some description, out of uniform or newly arrived and overwhelmed; the place is so big and the staff so numerous that few who are employed there are likely to know the face of every one of their peers. Besides, the young woman is lucky: she does not cross the paths of many of the staff and it is not long before, taking a steep flight of stairs which rise up at the end of the little labyrinth of corridors, she finds herself out of the servants’ quarters altogether and into the realm of the guests.
Up she climbs, floor after floor, passing bell-boys and men carrying food and flagons of wine, past women with laundry and uniformed children clutching messages and telegrams. Often, she looks behind her but she sees and hears nothing to suggest the continuance of the chase. Nevertheless, she climbs, like an animal in a forest fire seeking the sanctuary of the tree-tops.
She stops only when there are no more stairs to ascend, on the very highest floor of this monstrous old hotel, stepping out of a concealed door at the end of another long corridor, though one far more sumptuously furnished and laid out than that which she had navigated below. Here there is the unmistakable scent of money: thick, port-coloured carpet, walls hung with seascapes and hunting scenes, the musical tinkle of chandeliers overhead. Stealthily, she moves along the hallway, passing closed door after closed door, hoping, perhaps, to find some obscure berth in which she might lie low for an hour or so.
Then, from behind her, she hears the thunderous approach of men upon the stairs. Two of them by their tread—heavy, implacable. For the first time in that long day, she hesitates. The sound of them is unmistakable—dogs closing in upon the kill.
Others might have screamed at the sound or have begun to weep but our girl gives only one sign of her true emotions; the blood drains from her face and she seems still paler than before, the most delicate of blooms in this place of wealth and pleasure.
The sound of boots upon the stairs grows louder still. Still, she hesitates. Is she exhausted? Defeated? Might she be ready, at long last, to submit?
Then, without warning, the door that is nearest to her opens (she catches a glimpse of the words that are stencilled upon it: THE CHRYSALIS SUITE) and a man steps abruptly into the light. He is a tall man, expensively dressed and impeccable in his demeanour, although there exists a certain harried aspect in his eyes.
He takes her arm. “You must come inside.” His voice is like coffee, like chocolate, like cream.
She does not resist but only allows herself to be drawn into the room. Once they are within, he pulls shut the door.
“Who are you?” she begins to ask but he enjoins her to silence by placing a finger to his lips.
From outside, she hears the frustrated tramp of boots upon the carpet, the hungry, bitter conversation of the men in green. For a long minute, they wait as the sound of her pursuers disappears once more. She thinks that she hears them begin to speed up again, doubtless believing themselves to have temporarily lost their spoor.
Only once the noise has disappeared entirely does the man who saved her speak.
“You asked me my name, madam. I am Matthew Cannonbridge. And you?”
Our heroine seems to hesitate, as if uncertain quite which name to give. “You can call me Maria. Maria Monk.”
“Come in,” Cannonbridge says, motioning her to walk further into the room—a place of rare, almost continental luxury with its carpet even thicker than that which had lain outside, its drawing room atmosphere, armchairs and reading tables and, at the far corner of Maria’s vision, a hint of a bedroom beyond.
“I should thank you.”
“You are most
welcome. I…” Cannonbridge hesitates, as if suspecting that the admission may not cast him in the best possible light. “I saw you. Outside. On the street. I saw you from my window here. And I saw that you were… pursued.”
Maria gazes up at the older man. “You were watching me?”
“Only because I was concerned. Yet somehow I knew that you would find me. You were being followed, were you not?”
“I was. Those men… they will not lightly be deterred.”
“There is murder in their eyes, I think.”
“If I do not give them what they wish of me, then… yes.”
For a moment the couple merely look at one another. Outside, the corridor is still. Nevertheless, Miss Monk remains anxious. “You do not mean to ask me why they were in pursuit of me?”
“I do not see that it is any of my business, madam. I perceive merely that you are in distress. It is my duty, if I can, to alleviate that.”
“You’re… you’re very kind. Yet you want nothing from me?”
Cannonbridge, perplexed: “Nothing, madam.”
“Then… then may I stay here awhile? I have no wish to bring trouble down upon you.”
Cannonbridge gives her a wintry smile. “Trouble, madam, has a habit of finding me.”
The young woman smiles, amused by his swagger. Then she seems to stumble slightly, taking two steps backwards, her balance suddenly unsteady.
“Forgive me, Miss Monk. You must be tired. Hungry.”
“I do… feel a little faint.”
All at once, as the trials of the past few days seem to crowd around her, as her body finally allows itself to accept all of the exertions that she has placed upon it, Maria finds herself beset by dizziness. “Sir?” she murmurs.
“Yes?”
“Your name… is half-familiar to me. You are… yes, you are a writer, are you not?”
Cannonbridge is about to reply, in as modest a set of terms as he can muster, when he sees that the young lady is about to fall into a swoon. Heedless of convention, he steps closer and, four seconds later, when she faints, he is able to catch her in his arms.
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