‘It was lovely, Mr Townsend.’ Bella shifted her grip on her companion’s collar, the better to bring herself upright. ‘I do like a nice speaking voice. Say something else, my love.’
Gideon tugged his cuffs to his palms and gave a small cough of embarrassment. ‘I mustn’t detain you, madam, since the evening is so cold. I meant to trouble you only for the number of your house.’
‘The number of it?’
‘Yes, madam.’
Mr Townsend wheeled into proximity. ‘What for?’
‘Sir?’
‘The number. What do you want to know it for?’
‘Ah,’ said Gideon. ‘Of course. I am visiting my uncle, you see, who resides, I believe—’
‘Your uncle?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your own uncle, and you don’t know where he lives? Ain’t much hope of us knowing if you don’t.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Gideon. ‘I’m afraid I have not explained the case well. My studies keep me in Cambridge for much of the time, and I have not yet had the opportunity to visit my uncle at his present address. I am almost certain that this is the house, but I find that there is no number on the door. If you would be kind enough to give me yours, I shall be able to deduce my position.’
Bella beamed at him. ‘That was beautiful, that was. Just beautiful. Weren’t it, Mr Townsend?’
‘Like a lark,’ Mr Townsend replied. ‘What’s he saying, though?’
‘Mr Townsend!’ Bella pivoted gaily towards him and prodded at his belly. ‘Ain’t you supposed to be a wark of clurks? Hark at me! A clerk of works, I mean to say, with a bit of schooling about you. What’s the number of your uncle’s place, my pet?’
‘Number six, madam. It is a boarding house, I understand, where he has taken rooms.’
‘Well, that explains it,’ said Mr Townsend.
‘Forgive me, sir. What does it explain?’
‘Why there ain’t a number on the door. No point, with sixes. The screw comes loose, it tips over – next thing you know, it’s a nine. No good to anyone. You’d have been off by three.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gideon tried to keep the impatience from his voice. ‘I do see your point.’
‘And what if there was a six and a nine?’ Bella said, gurgling with amusement. ‘You do know what a six and a nine make, darling?’
Gideon bowed his head by a fraction. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, madam.’
Bella and Mr Townsend slumped for a moment in merriment. Gideon looked about him uneasily, taking advantage of their distraction to retreat by a pace.
‘Oh, the wickedness we must answer for,’ Bella said, composing herself a little. ‘Don’t pay no attention to us, my love. This is number four, so you ain’t missed your mark. Your uncle one of Mrs Coombe’s lodgers, then?’
‘I am very much obliged to you, madam. My uncle did not mention his landlady’s name, and I myself have yet to make her acquaintance. I had been knocking for some time when I saw you approach, but it appears she is not at home either.’
‘Oh, she’ll be at home, right enough, but you can knock till you turn blue for all the good it will do you. Deaf as a post, Mrs Coombe is, at least when it suits her. Here, he ain’t that copper, is he? Your uncle, I mean?’
‘Copper? No, madam. My uncle is a clergyman. Are you acquainted with the Reverend Doctor Herbert Neuilly?’
‘Old Nelly?’ She pressed the heel of her hand to one smeared eye, a fondness softening her expression. ‘It never is.’
‘What you talking about, old Nelly?’ Mr Townsend said.
‘It’s what we call him. Never could say his name the proper way, but he don’t mind. Nice old bird, your uncle is. Always about his good works. And soft in his ways, bless him. Not like some of them vicars.’
Gideon had never witnessed his uncle’s softness for himself, and received this account with a small jolt of resentment. ‘I am gratified to find that my guardian is so well thought of,’ he said. ‘I must confess, though, that I am rather at a loss. My uncle keeps irregular hours, I know, but he expects my visit. Indeed, he summoned me here on a matter of urgency. It did not occur to me that I might not find him at home.’
‘That’s the way with him, my pet. Has to make sure this one has a bed for the night and that one has tuppence for a bowl of soup. Even brings them home sometimes, if they’re in a bad way, though Mrs Coombe don’t thank him for it. What’s this matter of urgency, then? He’s all right, ain’t he? He ain’t poorly?’
‘No, nothing of that kind,’ Gideon replied. He was about to say more, but it occurred to him that he had no ready answer. All he could say with certainty was that his uncle had been uneasy in his mind. He feared for those in his care, and spoke in dark terms of others who wished him ill, but he had seemed reluctant, in his letter, to state the case plainly. He meant to unburden himself, Gideon had assumed, only when he and his nephew could converse at their ease, and yet he was not at home to receive him on his arrival.
‘It is kind of you to inquire,’ he said. ‘It is a small private matter, nothing more. All the same, it is peculiar that it should have slipped his mind.’
‘Well, that’s the way of it,’ said Mr Townsend, whose interest had now dissipated. ‘It’ll all come out in the wash, as the good book says. You coming, Bella?’
‘Look at that now,’ said Bella, paying no attention. ‘I said we’d have snow.’
Gideon turned up his collar, looking about him with quiet apprehension. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘There is nothing to be done, I suppose. I shall have to come back in the morning.’
‘Here.’ Bella lurched towards him and squeezed his forearm. ‘You all right, my pet? He’s forgotten, that’s all. He’s full of high notions, bless him, but he’s hardly fit to dress himself in the mornings. Ain’t got the sense of a day-old chick. You’ll see your old uncle in the morning, and all will be well with the world.’
‘Yes.’ Gideon said weakly. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’
‘You’ll be all right, won’t you? A proper lost soul, you look like. You got somewhere else you can go? I’d take you in myself, only I ain’t got but a bed and a bucket. You can hardly put your elbows out up there.’
‘You can put your knees out all right,’ said Mr Townsend, who had now grown surly. ‘If you ain’t forgotten how.’
Gideon straightened, collecting himself, and briefly lifted his hat. ‘You have been most kind, madam. And you, sir. I will make other arrangements and return in the morning, just as you say. It is no great matter. Now, it is indeed coming on to snow, and I must keep you no longer. I bid you both goodnight.’
With that he took his leave, turning once more towards Shaftesbury-avenue. He strode away briskly at first, and for a time he kept up an easy and purposeful appearance. But before long his weariness began to tell, and a despondency settled on him as he contemplated his circumstances. To begin with, there was the question of where he was to spend the night. His uncle made only the most frugal provision for his living expenses, and this unexpected excursion to London had been scarcely within his means. The purchase of his third-class ticket from Cambridge had left him all but penniless, and he doubted that he could pay for his board in the poorest kind of dosshouse.
It was a difficulty that he might have alluded to, had he and his uncle been on more familiar terms, but he had made no mention of it when replying to his letter, confining himself instead to decorous expressions of duty. He was most concerned, he had written, to learn of the reverend doctor’s difficulties, but delighted nonetheless to have his confidence in the matter. He would come by the earliest possible train, and it was his earnest hope that he might be of some small service.
That much had been truthful enough, but he had not been wholly candid. His eagerness to come had not sprung entirely from his sense of duty. He looked forward to seeing his uncle, naturally, but on reading the letter his thoughts had turned first to someone else. He was by no means certain that he would encounter her again –
indeed, he knew almost nothing of her present circumstances – but that had not hindered his imagination. He had thought of her first, and in the days since then he had thought of little else.
He might, he now reflected, have turned his mind to more practical matters. For all his great hopes, he had considered his course of action only to the point of presenting himself at his uncle’s door. Beyond that, he had formed no plan, and as he trudged onwards in the cold, he berated himself for his foolishness. In Cambridge, when the nights were mild, a fellow could shin up a wall in one of the quieter lanes and make a bed for himself in a well-tended boat shed or the camellia house of a Dean of Studies. But this was London, whose shrouded vastness was almost entirely strange to him, and in these unfamiliar streets he had no notion of where he might find shelter.
It was not only the cold that he contended with. He was stiff and footsore, having spent the better part of the day travelling, and as he crossed what he believed to be Old Compton-street, he was reminded that he was also wretchedly hungry. His last meal – a tepid and gristly pie – had been taken in a railway station tea-room at eleven o’clock that morning, and it seemed that one could walk no more than twenty paces in Soho without passing a hostelry or eating-house of some description. Gideon kept clear of their windows and signboards when he could, but hawkers busied themselves among the crowds, competing with formidable energy for passing trade. One such fellow, wearing the costume of a circus ringmaster, propelled him forcibly to the doorway of his establishment, refusing to release him until he had recited the bill of fare in its entirety.
‘And when you’ve ate your Dover sole, sir, you might find the entertainment to your liking. Look at them girls in there and tell me you ain’t peckish. A nice mannerly specimen like yourself, sir, with a soapy look about him? Why, you may be sure of opening an oyster or two.’
Gideon freed himself and lurched away, turning blindly into Shaftesbury-avenue. He was resolved now to seek out whatever pitiful shelter was to be had in this place, even if he must find a carter’s yard and conceal himself under a heap of sacking. He looked about him for some quiet side street, but was drawn instead to a narrow alley that he might have overlooked but for its curiously ornate archway. A plaque was set into the stonework, whose inscription he paused to read.
ST ANNE’S CHURCH
SOUTH ENTRANCE
The alley was unlit and indifferently cobbled, obliging him to pick his way with some caution, but he came at length to a narrow yard beneath the hulking flank of a church. The light was hardly better here, but after a moment Gideon made out a modest porch. It was covered, if nothing else, and enclosed on three sides. Venturing inside, and finding it passably dry in places, he concluded that he was likely to do no better.
He had paid no attention to the doorway itself, and only as he lowered himself to huddle against it did he discover that the door was unlocked – that in fact it stood very slightly ajar. Warily, he rose again and peered through the crack. A moth fluttered from it, and for a moment he felt the obscure thrum of its wings against his cheek, but there were no other signs of life. With the utmost gentleness, he pushed the door a little way inwards. It was heavy and stiff, and in spite of his efforts it yielded with a good deal of noise.
Gideon clamped a hand to his mouth, but stood otherwise motionless. He listened intently, prepared to flee at the slightest sound.
But the silence seemed restored, and at length he persuaded himself that he had disturbed no one. He slipped inside. For fear of the noise, he did not close the door behind him, keeping still once more as he took his bearings. The church lay in darkness, but a great arched window was set into its apse, admitting a feeble suffusion of gaslight from the street beyond. It was enough to orient himself by, and to make out the bulk of the altar and the orderly ranks of the pews.
He crept forward, keeping close to the wall as he sought out some quiet recess in which to settle. He meant to conceal himself without delay, not wishing to squander his good fortune. But St Anne’s proved to be a parish church of the plainer kind, laid out to a simple plan. It offered no quiet side-chapels or colonnaded aisles. Indeed, there was hardly even a transept to speak of. Growing anxious, he shuffled towards a narrow door by the chancel, where the vestry might commonly be found.
A faint sound stilled him, just as he was about to try the handle. It was dry and ragged, like the scrape of a straw broom against stone. Gideon scurried at once behind a pew. He heard it again, when his breathing quietened, coming at unrushed intervals, like a slow measure followed by a rest. With that thought the recognition came to him, and he reproached himself for his dull wits. Breathing. It was the sound of someone breathing.
When he had mastered himself sufficiently, Gideon put his head out by a fraction. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere near the altar, though it was hard to be certain. An empty church was apt to produce strange echoes. It was regular yet unsettled, as when a person is at rest yet not quite at ease. Gideon cleared his throat gently.
‘Hello there,’ he called out. ‘I hope I did not alarm you. It is a bitter night, and I came in only to have some respite from the cold.’
No answer came. The breathing continued just as before, quiet and undisturbed.
Rising from behind his pew, Gideon ventured closer. ‘Hello there,’ he called again. ‘Have I the honour of addressing the rector of this parish? My name is Gideon Bliss, sir. I am the nephew of the Reverend Doctor Herbert Neuilly, with whom you are perhaps acquainted. I am a man of God myself, sir, at least in a small way. I will shortly return to Cambridge, preparatory to the taking of holy orders.’
Here Gideon departed from strict truthfulness, since he was by no means certain of his vocation, but he intended only to put the stranger’s mind at rest. He crept on, straining to make him out in the gloom, and kept up his intermittent attempts at conversation.
‘Could I trouble you, sir, to raise an arm or give some other sign, so that I can come forward and make myself known? You may not have caught my name, I fear. I am Gideon Bliss, a reader in divinity at Selwyn College, Cambridge, where I hope to take my degree before casting my little boat onto the great waters of the – oh, my.’
Gideon halted, his arms slack at his sides. Before the altar, silent and unmoving, lay the figure of a young woman. He stood for a moment in bewilderment. His first thought was that she had crept in from the cold, just as he had, but she had made no effort to conceal herself, to say nothing of keeping warm. She lay on the cold stone flags before the altar itself, with no covering but her thin white shift, and in plain sight from those foremost pews. Perhaps she wished to be discovered, having taken shelter here after falling ill. Her breathing was laboured, certainly, yet her posture betrayed no obvious discomfort. Indeed, Gideon was struck by her peculiar stillness.
‘Miss?’ He approached her cautiously. ‘Forgive me, miss. I took you for a priest of the parish. We find each other in the same predicament, if I am not mistaken. I meant to pass the night here too, owing to a temporary difficulty in the arrangement of my lodgings. You will not take it amiss, I hope? I will settle down in some other part of the church, and make no sound if I can help it.’
Still she did not speak, or give any sign at all that she was aware of his presence. He listened again for her breathing, and was reassured by its faint persistence, but he was troubled nonetheless. How frail she was. How narrow her wrists appeared in the loose folds of her shift. He took another step towards her, raising his hands to show her that he meant no harm.
‘Miss?’
He saw her face, since the shadow of the altar no longer hid it. He saw her face, and for a moment his reason faltered. He put a hand out, as if to steady himself, and all that surrounded him seemed to recede.
It could not be. It could not be.
He had seen her first at St Magnus-the-Martyr by London Bridge, where his uncle had been given rooms on taking up a lecturing post. In the summer months, to ward off any rupturing of his tranquillity, it was
the reverend doctor’s custom to find some occupation for his nephew that would keep him away from London. Since June, therefore, Gideon had been consigned to a bleak parsonage in the fens, where he was to undertake a course of private study. In his letters, however, his meek petitioning had grown more insistent, and at last his uncle had consented to receive him for a week.
Gideon’s welcome was not especially warm. His living quarters were modest, Neuilly explained, and his work left him little time for entertaining. Gideon might make use of the library, which was ample, and was otherwise free to amuse himself within respectable bounds. In practice, it was Gideon’s purse that limited his amusements, since it did not occur to his guardian to grant him any allowance beyond the ordinary. On one occasion, when it had stayed wet for the whole of the afternoon, he paid a penny to be admitted to a saloon near Victoria Station, where feats of daring were to be performed by a troop of Cossacks. Gideon saw very little, however, being much jostled by other spectators, and he fled when a horse kicked over a brazier, setting fire to a painted backcloth and giving rise to a stampede. In the three days that followed, he did little more than walk the streets, wandering eastwards along the wharves as far as the Tower or westwards to St Paul’s Cathedral. By the fourth day of his visit, he had begun to think with fondness of Cambridge, and he resolved to lay out a pretext for returning that would give his uncle no offence.
At the supper table that evening, he waited an hour and a half for the reverend doctor to join him. His guardian’s habits were irregular, and it was by no means certain that he would return home at all, but he appeared in the end a little after nine o’clock, at which hour the housekeeper was on the point of retiring and would serve them no more than plates of cold pork and cheese. After she had withdrawn, Neuilly occupied himself for a time with an item of correspondence, seeming so thoroughly absorbed that Gideon began to wonder if his presence had been overlooked.
‘Well, nephew.’ Neuilly looked up at last. ‘You have found your lodgings satisfactory, I trust? You want for nothing?’
The House on Vesper Sands Page 3