The House on Vesper Sands

by Paraic O?Donnell

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  So it was that Gideon’s education had proceeded in those first years, and so it was that he had been kept from want and warned away from unsuitable distractions. When he had left Ashfell for Cambridge, he had exchanged its melancholy yards and creaking gutters for handsome quads and untouched swards, for lanes where blossom spilled from every wall and the cobbles seemed always to be lit by careless laughter. His own existence, however, had hardly changed. In place of the dean at Ashfell, his uncle’s communications came to him by way of a firm of solicitors in the Newmarket-road, with hardly a word of them altered from Michaelmas Term to Easter, whatever small inquiries he might make.

  ‘When might my uncle be less occupied, so that I might visit him and convey my gratitude in person?’

  ‘We have been given no instruction in that regard.’

  ‘Does he speak well of me? Does he say that I am bound to distinguish myself just as he has?’

  ‘We have been given no instruction in that regard.’

  ‘What is to become of me, when I leave this place? What am I to do in the world?’

  ‘We have been given no instruction in that regard.’

  It was not until Gideon’s second year at Cambridge that he and his guardian had entered at last into correspondence, and even that was of an intermittent and peculiar kind. Neuilly insisted that it be conducted by way of his solicitors, a cumbersome practice that delayed his letters by weeks or months, by which time he was apt to have moved to new lodgings. For this reason, the reverend doctor explained, it would be fruitless to give out his present address, and Gideon was therefore obliged to send his replies by the same circuitous route.

  It was a tedious and discouraging business, but Gideon refused to be deterred. Though his uncle’s letters were often terse and elliptical, Gideon filled his own with dutiful reports of his progress, and with deferential but increasingly pointed expressions of his hopes for the future. He ventured to wonder, too, if he might not one day convey his respects in person, and as he grew bolder in these entreaties it appeared at last to dawn on Neuilly that his nephew could not be kept at bay forever. Finally, as May Week approached and Gideon had again resigned himself to a Long Vacation spent in dismal solitude, his uncle had relented.

  ‘The reverend doctor will be pleased to receive you in the summer.’

  In the summer, that was all. Weeks had passed before a date in August was fixed, and even then he was told nothing more. He was to present himself at Liverpool-street Station, at which point further arrangements would be made. After his visit – and his first encounter with Miss Tatton – Neuilly had retreated once more into silence and isolation. There had been nothing, not a word, until his unexpected letter. Gideon drew it out as he approached the doorway. Even now, having glimpsed at first hand the dangers Neuilly alluded to, it seemed an almost miraculous intervention.

  His uncle had written to him, unprompted and in his own hand, had elevated him, at a stroke, from banished ward to trusted confidant. And he had done something else, Gideon realised, that was quite without precedent and, it had now proved, marvellously provident. He had volunteered his present address. Gideon repeated it inwardly, as he had done for much of the journey from Cambridge. There was some small comfort in it, even if the circumstances now seemed utterly changed.

  Number six, Frith-street.

  Number six, Frith-street.

  Number six, Frith-street, Soho-square, London.

  V

  Gideon’s knocking, this time, was answered almost at once. He had turned away, expecting to be made to wait, and had begun deliberating over the manner in which he might introduce himself when he heard behind him the brisk rattling of a lock. Coming about and righting his posture, he was confronted by a tall and amply built gentleman who fixed Gideon with a keen and interrogatory look and thrust his forefinger with startling force against the centre of his chest.

  ‘What time,’ he demanded, ‘do you call this?’

  Gideon looked from his sternum to the face of his inquisitor. The inspector – there could be no doubt, he felt, that this was the policeman he had been told about – was neatly attired and freshly shaven. His splendidly dark hair had been treated with some rich oil, and was combed back with strict uniformity from his forehead. His strong jaw and pronounced features gave a marked sternness to his appearance, and from beneath his dark brows he fixed Gideon with a look of singular intensity.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but—’

  ‘Greenwich Mean Time, boy. That is what we observe, as a rule. Are you familiar with Greenwich Mean Time? Did you think it was some class of miracle that enables the stationmaster at St Pancras to predict the arrival of the eight twenty-one from Ramsgate?’

  ‘Sir, forgive me, but—’ Gideon was by no means practised in deception, and had been in a state of considerable anxiety even before the door was opened. He began to wonder now if he should not abandon his plan entirely, since there could be no subterfuge devised by man, surely, that might withstand this policeman’s scrutiny for long.

  ‘Ah, but perhaps I have it wrong. Perhaps you don’t observe Greenwich Mean Time. Perhaps you are an Irishman, and you set your watch by Dublin Mean Time to remind you of home. Or are you a homesick Frenchman, lately returned from Ceylon, who forgot to adjust his watch when he sauntered down the gangplank? Is that it? Is that it?’

  To lend emphasis to this last bit of rhetoric, the inspector again thrust his finger against Gideon’s chest, which stirred him at last to give a more spirited reply.

  ‘I arrived, sir, from no further afield than Cambridge, where I assure you the general fashion is for Greenwich Mean Time, and my train came into Liverpool-street, not St Pancras. That is to say—’ Gideon realised his mistake with a surge of consternation. ‘That is to say that I have arrived just now from the King’s Crossroad, that being my usual place of employment, but I had recently returned from Cambridge. Just yesterday, in fact.’

  The inspector withdrew his finger by a fraction, but remained otherwise entirely still. His countenance, though still fearsome, wore a look of candid amazement, as if Gideon had claimed to have been deposited upon the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral by a phalanx of seraphs.

  ‘Cambridge?’ he said. ‘Liverpool-street? What earthly business had you in Cambridge? Does the writ of G Division run in that place now? What blackguard sent you out into the countryside when I had expressly asked that you be assigned to me? Was it Pendleston?’

  ‘Well, sir—’ Gideon was by now seized by outright panic. He had not had the presence of mind, he now realised, even to ask the drunken sergeant for his name. The inspector would surely ask for it at any moment, if only to confirm his suspicions.

  ‘Was it Inspector Fenwick? Eh? Was it on his orders? That anaemic little quisby has had his knives out for me ever since I flushed him out of a knocking-shop at half past three on Christmas morning. That is the stripe of that man. With a wife at home in Camberwell, and a youngster who had been promised a rocking-horse. That is the nature of that specimen. That is what you are up against with the Divisions, day in, day out. You cannot tell which ignoramus will receive your request, and you have no notion what class of a creature he will send you when he does.’

  Gideon brightened at this. If the inspector had been given no name, the immediate danger might have passed. ‘It was not Inspector Fenwick, sir.’

  ‘No?’ The inspector lowered his face towards Gideon’s. ‘You are quite sure?’

  ‘I am quite sure, sir.’ Gideon was sure of nothing, but felt that he must make up a good deal of ground. ‘On that point, at least, you may put your mind at rest. And I do see now how my recent arrival from Cambridge might have struck you as irregular. I introduced the matter very badly indeed, and it is no wonder that you became suspicious. I assure you, though, that I was sent to Cambridge on irreproachable authority, and I will be delighted to give you a full report – you will not think me rude, sir, if I take a step back so as to give yo
u more room – yes, to give you a full report of my business there, duly filed and correct in all particulars and what have you, but I have detained us for long enough. We must be about our – well, that is to say, once you have taken your breakfast, and I should be happy to step in and keep you company, since in my eagerness to—’

  The inspector struck Gideon with scarcely credible force, causing him to reel backwards into Frith-street, his hand clamped against the livid heat that engulfed his right ear and the neighbouring part of his jaw.

  ‘Shut your trap, like a good man.’ The inspector shook his head in vexation. ‘There is a torrent of nonsense to be confronted with at this hour. It is either insolence or drunkenness, and I have no patience for either.’

  ‘Sir, I give you why—’ Gideon straightened, but found that the blow had impaired both his clarity of mind and his diction. ‘That is, I give you my word—’

  ‘Hark at him, the boozy whelp. Not even nine o’clock in the morning, and he presents himself to a superior officer addled with drink. Well, there’s an end to it. I got along well enough with no sergeant this fortnight and more, and I daresay I will battle on a week or two longer. Better no sergeant that some babbling ninny who staggers here from the King’s Cross-road full to his ears with piss and notions. Get along back to your station, there’s a good fellow. Tell them Inspector Cutter has no use for the enclosed imbecile and returns him unmarked, or nearly so. Tell them he will attend the scene at Half Moon-street on his own.’

  He was still considerably dazed and contended now with a buzzing sound in the ear that had been struck, but Gideon saw that he must seize what remained of his chance. He realised too that he must curb his more scholarly habits of speech if he was to allay the inspector’s doubts.

  ‘Inspector Cutter, sir.’ Gideon had laid out in his mind the components of a sentence, but saw at once that he must pack them into fewer and stouter boxes. ‘On my word of honour, sir, I have not had a drop to drink.’

  Inspector Cutter, who had retreated into the hallway of the house to fetch his overcoat, gave Gideon a sceptical look as he put it on. He turned away again, making no reply, and put his head inside the doorway. ‘I am away, Mrs Coombe,’ he called out. ‘There is no sign still of old Nelly, I believe, so you may wish to throw the bolt.’

  Old Nelly. It was his uncle, of course, that the inspector referred to, and his remark did nothing to put Gideon’s mind at rest. Cutter pulled the door to and descended to the street, setting off at a brisk pace in the direction of Shaftesbury-avenue. Gideon hurried after him.

  ‘Sir, if my mode – if the way I spoke was peculiar, it may be owing to my visit to Cambridge. I encountered a good deal of peculiar talk, sir, in the course of my duties there.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Inspector Cutter halted without warning before a stall, where he called for coffee and a cut of bread and butter, folding the latter item when it was presented to him into a package that he ingested in a single instalment, chewing with grave deliberation. Gideon looked on with fervent longing.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. Again, he worked at a reply in his mind until he was satisfied that he had filed it down to a satisfactory smoothness. ‘Talk of that kind is very much the custom there. It is not remarked on as being out of the common way.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Inspector Cutter resumed his progress, beating the crumbs from his coat as he walked. ‘Were you there a long time, then? That would be somewhat out of the common way, for a sergeant of the Metropolitan Police.’

  Gideon made haste to catch up. ‘Not an unduly long time, sir. In fact, I was able to conclude my business there rather sooner than I had anticipated. And I do hope—’

  Here Gideon was brought up short by the appearance in his path of an eel vendor’s barrow. They had turned again into Shaftesbury-avenue, and Inspector Cutter went before him at a remarkable clip. He seemed in no way impeded by the great press of traffic, sidestepping all obstacles with practised agility or, when that could not be accomplished, shouldering them aside without a backward glance.

  ‘And I do hope,’ Gideon continued, when at length he regained his place in Cutter’s wake, ‘that you will not count our earlier misunderstandings against me, and will allow me to assist you at the scene in Half Moon-street, which, if I may say so, I would regard as a singular—’

  ‘There he is again with his drunken blathering.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Gideon, now somewhat out of breath. ‘Or rather, no, sir. I assure you again that I have taken nothing to drink. I have not even breakfasted, sir, if the truth be known. But your point is well taken. I shall confine myself to—’

  As they approached the Lyric Theatre, Inspector Cutter veered without warning across the street, raising a commanding arm to a cabman who duly brought up his horse to let him pass. ‘What am I to call you?’ he barked over his shoulder.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I was given no name, when I sent for you. I trust you are equipped with one, or are you somewhat irregular in that respect also?’

  ‘Ah, of course, sir. That is, no, sir. I am Gideon Bliss, sir, and it is a great honour to—’

  ‘I have no use for your Christian name, man, if that is what it is. Gideon Bliss. There is a Hebrew ring to that. It is all the one to me, mind you. There is a goodly number of Hebrew fellows to be found in Bethnal Green and such places, and they are no great cause of disturbance.’

  ‘Oh, it is indeed a Christian name, sir, though it is true that it was a Hebrew one first. Gideon was a righteous man, sir, who destroyed the idols and heathen altars of the Israelites, and delivered them to their true God, though of course we know Him to be our God now.’

  They entered what Gideon took to be Piccadilly Circus, which was so densely crowded and obscured by vehicles as to appear all but impenetrable. Inspector Cutter, however, did not so much as break his stride, and Gideon struggled to keep him within sight and hearing.

  ‘Their true God, is it?’ Cutter called back. ‘I hear enough of that kind of talk from mad-eyed fellows with pamphlets. I have no more time for it than I have for drunkenness. I hope you do not go in for that carry-on, Bliss. You will not be called upon to destroy any idols in Bethnal Green.’

  ‘Goodness no, sir. That is to say, I am devout, sir, but very much in the ordinary way. I have no ambition to be a destroyer of anything, sir.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’ Inspector Cutter came abruptly to a halt, surprising both Gideon and the driver of an omnibus in whose direct path he now stood. He turned to Gideon, and subjected him to considerable scrutiny. ‘Well, then, Sergeant Bliss. I expect we shall see about you. But for goodness’ sake, man, you must learn to keep up.’

  VI

  The house in Half Moon-street was large and commandingly handsome. Gideon made a remark to this effect as they waited on its doorstep, but was immediately inclined to regret it. Since setting out from Frith-street, Inspector Cutter had encountered no obstacle, be it man, beast or human invention, that had impeded his progress in any measurable degree. Since ringing the bell, however – he had done so twice – he had been robbed of his forward momentum for well over a minute, and it was clear that the change of pace had not suited him. He cast a look of displeasure over his shoulder.

  ‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘we are in Mayfair. Maybe there’s a Mayfair up Cambridge way, where you seem to spend so much time, and maybe that Mayfair is a shanty town where a fellow can hardly turn around without tripping over an orphan or the carcass of a donkey.’

  ‘No, sir. I meant only that—’

  ‘In the second place, we are now at the scene of what may well prove to be a crime. Now, I am of a middling temperament, I believe, and in the general run of things I am inclined to give a sergeant a bit of leeway. But a crime scene is another matter. While we are about our business here, I will thank you to stop up your blowhole until directed otherwise.’

  Gideon looked down at his shoes, which had been in poor repair even on leaving Cambridge and were now caked to th
e uppers with filth. A great deal weighed on his mind still. He was by no means certain that his deception had any hope of succeeding, and the inspector seemed continually irritated by his shortcomings, but perhaps it was a dimly hopeful sign that he should be thought of as occupying the office of a sergeant at all. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, his eyes still downcast. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

  As he spoke, Gideon caught sight of a bright sliver of glass, lodged in a crevice a little way from the doorstep. It might easily have been overlooked – and must have been, indeed, for by the looks of it the footway before the house had recently been swept clean – but in the low winter sunlight a fine tracery was picked out on its surface. Stooping, he levered it carefully from its place, examining it as he rose.

  A few moments passed in silence. Inspector Cutter drew out his watch, issuing a concentrated snort of impatience as he returned it to his pocket. ‘It is a handsome enough house,’ he said at length. ‘It is the residence of Lord Strythe, if that puts your wonderment at ease.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gideon carefully. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Inspector Cutter drew back his head a little way so as to glare at the windows. He took out a leather-bound notebook and looked into it briefly before putting it away again. He rasped his knuckles against the underside of his chin.

  ‘You do not know who Lord Strythe is, Bliss.’

  ‘I must own that I do not, sir.’

  Cutter let out a long breath. ‘When we have the leisure, Bliss, you must draw me up a list of the things you do know. I will give you a stamp or a matchbox, and no doubt you will cover every bit of it. Then I will know what respite I am to have from giving you instruction morning, noon and night. Perhaps it will come out that you already know the price of a pound of sugar, and then I may take a day’s leave in good conscience.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Gideon turned the shard in the light, revealing an intricate pattern of incisions.

  ‘What have you there?’ Cutter said.