Charles Maddox 03 - A Treacherous Likeness

by Lynn Shepherd

  ‘She is the one who delights in provocation,’ interrupts Miss Godwin. ‘Those horrors of hers are pure invention, designed to absorb my Shelley’s every waking moment. They were out together again when I left. She is now claiming she cannot leave him because he is afraid to walk alone, lest Leeson should attack him in the street.’

  Which may explain, thinks Maddox, why Mary Godwin has chosen, after all this time, to brave the cold and the dark, and come here alone. And why she has started to use the word ‘my’ in reference to a man who does not appear at all constrained by such exclusivities.

  ‘Is this new fear of Mr Shelley’s the consequence of a further sighting, or some other incident subsequent to our last meeting?’

  ‘I wished to inform you immediately after it happened, but Shelley would not permit me.’

  Maddox frowns. He had asked the question thinking it rhetorical; now it seems he may be mistaken. He takes a seat opposite her. ‘Perhaps you might elaborate?’

  ‘It was October. The twelfth, I believe. We returned to Church Terrace that evening to find a letter had been delivered for Shelley. By hand, not by post. It was couched in veiled terms, but its import was only too clear – it was a threat upon his life. Upon all our lives.’

  ‘Do you have this letter?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. Shelley burned it at once – he said he feared it would distress me. I begged him to allow me to send it to you – I said you might be able to advise us, but he would not hear of it. He began to babble in the wildest and most unconnected way – talking one minute of his daughter Ianthe and the next of a cousin I do not believe he has seen for years. None of it made any sense. But he has always been subject to nervous attacks when confronted with the slightest distress or strain, and fearing a new recurrence, I withdrew.’

  ‘I see,’ says Maddox, all his old disquiet returning. ‘Pray continue.’

  ‘The morning following he seemed much quieter in his mind, and we determined to go – as we had planned – to see Mr Kean give his Prince of Denmark. It was not, I fear, a happy choice of play. Shelley became increasingly agitated, and insisted finally that we left at the end of the second act.’

  She shifts in her chair, her anxiety visible in her fretfulness. ‘Imagine our alarm, then, when we returned home to discover that a man had called in our absence. Shelley at once grew white in the face and cried out, “We must leave London! We must go at once – we cannot stay another night in this accursed hovel!” I am afraid Mrs Butcher was much offended by this and said we might go as soon as we liked, as far as she was concerned, and Claire having by then become completely hysterical and threatening to disturb the entire house, we elected to repair to a hotel for what remained of the night, and deliberate there what best to do.’

  ‘You had the money for such an expense?’

  She flushes. ‘It was Shelley’s idea. It was not my decision. We returned to Church Terrace the next morning. It was a – difficult day. We were all unsettled – all disturbed. Shelley began talking rather distractedly of a plan he had conceived to rescue his sisters from their school, and later he and Claire had a fearful quarrel.’

  Maddox observes that, as she places her glass carefully on the table beside her, her hands are shaking. ‘Was the letter signed?’

  ‘I do not think so.’

  ‘And has this man shown himself since?’

  She hesitates. ‘No—’

  ‘Or written again?’

  ‘Not that I am aware.’

  ‘I see.’

  He gets up and pokes the fire, watching the red-grey embers sift and sigh, then takes a log from the basket and throws it onto the glowing ashes. All the while the girl says nothing.

  ‘And so you are here,’ he says eventually, settling again in his seat. ‘Hoping I will tell you George Fraser has discovered something in Tremadoc that might solve this mystery.’

  Her eyes follow him as he takes a sheet of paper from the table, and scans it again (though that is hardly necessary, since he has a good part of it by heart).

  ‘So long after the event in question,’ he begins, ‘there was little hope of gaining the class of physical evidence I would normally seek at the scene of a crime. Or supposed crime, in this case. However, by dint of perseverance and a commendable resourcefulness Fraser was able to gain access to the house, and conduct an inspection of the downstairs rooms. He spoke also thereafter to a number of servants who had been in service at the time, as well as the owners of neighbouring properties. He was thus able to verify that there is still the mark of a bullet on the wainscot in the drawing room, which would seem to confirm that at least one shot was fired into the house from the outside. Likewise several of the maids gave corroboration that Mr Shelley appeared wet through and covered with mud when they saw him at midnight, and the grass in the garden had been trampled.’

  ‘You see?’ she cries. ‘There was an attack – it was no illusion—’

  ‘However,’ interrupts Maddox, raising his hand, ‘the selfsame witnesses also testified that the window in the room where the second incursion took place was broken from the inside out, rather than the other way about, which does not tally with what Mr Shelley says of the man firing on him from behind the glass. Moreover, certain discreet enquiries among Robert Leeson’s household suggest that he had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Plans were afoot, certainly, to drive Shelley from the district, but Leeson and his confederates had not had the time to organize such a concerted raid. Hence his insistence thereafter that the whole episode was a hoax got up by Shelley to excuse his abrupt departure. I should say, also, that Fraser could find no evidence there had been talk at the time of a man in the neighbourhood sustaining a gunshot wound – to the shoulder or otherwise. In so small a place, such an untoward injury to a local man would surely have attracted notice, not to mention gossip.’

  She is avoiding his gaze now, biting her lip.

  ‘My conclusion then, Miss Godwin,’ continues Maddox, ‘remains much as it was when first we spoke. There was undoubtedly one incident of some violence that night. But it was motivated not by antipathy to Mr Shelley’s political beliefs, nor resentment at his interference in local matters, but by an intense and long-standing desire for personal revenge. What can have occasioned this, only he can tell. And thus far, it seems, he either cannot, or will not.’

  There is a silence. The new log slides forwards in the grate in a crackle of sparks.

  ‘You spoke of only one attack,’ she says softly.

  ‘So I did. Because I do not believe there was another. I believe, in fact, that the second episode that night was some species of hallucination. The isolated location, the darkness, the days of mounting apprehension, the fear and excitement brought on by the first incident – all of these combined, in my opinion, to make Mr Shelley abnormally susceptible to the delusions of an inflamed imagination. My theory – though I cannot substantiate it – is that it was his own self he saw, reflected in the window, and that he broke the glass himself in rushing upon it. I believe, likewise, that the shot he described piercing his nightshirt occurred during the first assault, and not the second as he asserted when he described it to me. One of the servants thought the shirt was already torn when she saw him in the garden.’

  ‘But despite what you say – despite your theory – is it not still possible that it is Leeson who sends this man to torment us?’

  Maddox puts the tips of his fingers together. ‘There is no incontrovertible proof against it, no—’

  ‘Why, then—’

  ‘—but there is one fact which is incontrovertible, and which argues too strongly against Leeson’s involvement for a woman of your intelligence to continue to believe it.’

  Her chin lifts. ‘And that is?’

  ‘That an almost identical incident took place in Cumberland more than a year before – before Shelley had ever set foot in Tremadoc and Leeson had even heard his name.’

  She starts forward, her eyes wide. ‘I do not believe
it – he would have told me. It is false.’

  ‘It is not false, Miss Godwin. I have heard it from Mr Shelley’s own lips. And that fact is itself both instructive and troubling. The former because of what it tells me of that young man’s mind; the latter because he has not spoken of it to you.’

  She gets to her feet and begins to walk about the room, all the while avoiding his eyes.

  ‘I am old enough, Miss Godwin, to have a daughter your age, and I hope you will indulge me if I give you counsel now which might seem to usurp a father’s place.’

  She throws a furious look in his direction, but he is not deterred.

  ‘I am concerned for your safety, Miss Godwin, yours and your child’s. I have been so ever since I saw you at Pancras all those weeks ago. I beg you, leave this man and return to your parental abode as soon as you are able. I do not know what Mr Shelley has done to warrant such a persecution, but everything I have learned in all the years I have practised this profession tells me that it is of a nature – an enormity – such as to place both you and your unborn babe in the most urgent danger. No man practises such a pursuit for so long a period and with so unflinching a tenacity without there being a terrible and compelling reason at the heart of it. From what I have seen of him, I doubt very much that Mr Shelley is in the slightest degree competent to protect you from this nameless persecutor, but even if he is – even if his constant restless movement from place to place does indeed contrive to keep you always one pace ahead of the retribution that stalks him – what can he do to shield you from himself ? Did you not say he is prey to violent nervous attacks? Have you not seen him walk in his sleep, and not know afterwards where he is, or what he has done? Did his own father not threaten to confine him to a madhouse?’

  She is staring at him wildly now. ‘I never told you that – how do you know such things?’ she cries, her voice hoarse.

  ‘I know,’ he says, going to her and gripping her by the shoulders, ‘because I have made it my business to find out. You know not the risk you run, Miss Godwin, you or Miss Clairmont. Believe me when I tell you there is no happy ending to this tale of love you believe yourself to be living. There is a lunacy in this man that renders him treacherous – to himself and to all about him. You may decide to take that risk – do not impose it upon your defenceless infant. Consult a doctor if you do not believe me – send for William Lawrence: he has made a study of such cases.’

  ‘How dare you?’ she exclaims, raising her hand to strike him, but he is too quick, and as he grasps her wrist and feels the pulse of blood beating hard in her veins, his face comes close to hers for a second time. Only now it is not pleading in her eyes, but fear. But is it fear of the man before her, or fear of something his words have awakened – something she has long known, and long suppressed?

  A moment later Maddox inclines his head and releases her hand. ‘I apologize if I have offended you. That was not my intention.’

  She snatches her arm away and marches to the door.

  ‘You may call upon me,’ he says softly, ‘at any hour of the day. Should you be in need.’

  She does not turn but her hand pauses on the handle, before she throws open the door and is gone.

  He knows it was a mistake to allow himself to be drawn in by this girl, but now he wonders if it is an even graver one to allow her to leave. He should have handled it better – at least asked her where they are lodging for he has no means to find her – find her or protect her. Because he doubts very much that she will come to him again. Not unless she is in the most terrible extremity.

  * * *

  Christmas comes and passes. January blurs into February, and Mary Godwin has – almost – gone from his mind in the welter of a murder trial. Maddox has worked many, on both sides of the accusation, but this is more demanding than most, not only because the crime took place in Lisbon, but because the accused cut his own throat thereafter and can now barely speak. After another night in the Newgate cells, slowly extracting what defence he may from a young man seemingly determined to die, Maddox returns early one Monday morning wanting only his breakfast and his bed. What he finds instead is Fraser waiting in the hallway, holding a card.

  ‘What is it?’ he says, somewhat tetchily, as he takes off his coat. ‘Have Phyllis draw my bath, would you?’

  ‘You may want to see this first, guv. Young fellow left it not half an hour ago. Waited a while getting more and more agitated, then said he’d go on ahead of you. He left about five minutes back.’

  Maddox frowns. ‘I think I saw him. Turning into the Strand. I thought it odd to see one of his character abroad at such an hour. Thickset, heavy-featured, perhaps twenty-five?’

  ‘And sweating, despite the cold. Seemed to have a lot on his mind.’

  Fraser hands Maddox the card. On the face: Thomas Jefferson Hogg, Middle Temple. It is a name, of course, that cannot possibly mean anything to Maddox. Though indeed a lawyer by profession, if rather a mediocre one, we remember Hogg now as Shelley’s friend and biographer, though in March 1815 the latter is a long way in the future. The former role, however, is both current, and – as Maddox will soon discover – complicated.

  ‘Did he wish to consult me on a legal matter?’ asks Maddox. ‘Because, if so, I am afraid the hour is far too early for any sort of profitable discussion.’

  ‘No, guv,’ says Fraser. ‘Look on the back.’

  It has been written in haste, and – it appears – at Maddox’s own desk, and with his pen:

  Mary – Miss Godwin – begs that you will come.

  Her need is desperate – I beseech you, do not delay.

  T. J. H.

  13 Arabella Road, Pimlico

  ‘Mary, indeed,’ says Maddox, coldly. ‘It seems our young lawyer is on distinctly intimate terms with that rather irregular household.’

  ‘An acquaintance of Shelley’s at Oxford – or, at least, that’s what he said to me,’ finishes Fraser, quickly, seeing Maddox raise an eyebrow at the missing ‘Mr’. ‘Will you go, sir?’

  ‘I am afraid I will be unpopular with the coachman, but yes, I will go. I will change my clothes and be ready to leave in ten minutes. Wait for me outside.’

  The journey takes little more than a quarter of an hour so early in the morning. The streets are for the most part deserted, and Maddox looks out of the window, ostensibly watching to see if they overtake their early visitor. But if he is honest with himself he is more concerned to avoid his assistant’s shrewdly observing eye, uneasily aware that Fraser already knows rather too much about his entanglement with Mary Godwin, and no doubt guesses even more.

  Most of the houses in Arabella Road are still dark, but it is clear even in the half-dawn that the Shelley establishment has raised itself more than a notch since Church Terrace, and Maddox wonders for a moment how the poet came by the money, and how much of his future inheritance he has already borrowed away. Number thirteen, by contrast with the rest, glares with the light of trouble, or distress. But if Mary Godwin is anxious to see him the same appears not to apply to her step-sister, who eyes him with a closed and wary look as she opens the door.

  ‘I hope you may get some sense from her,’ Claire says at once, ‘for she will certainly not speak to us. Three hours has she sat there, in silence. She is driving Shelley half distracted – he has had to lie down.’

  There is something about her face – something nervous and yet at the same time excited, self-assured.

  ‘What in Heaven’s name is going on here?’ Maddox says quickly, pushing the girl aside and forcing his way through the hallway to the sitting room, Fraser at his heels.

  He will never, afterwards, be able to rid himself of that moment. The girl sitting facing him on a stiff wooden chair in the centre of the floor. Her head bowed, her eyes dry. And in her lap, a swaddle of blankets. The size and shape of a newborn child.

  The child does not move, but he knows instinctively that this is not the warm stillness of slumber. It is no baby she cradles, but a corpse.


  There is something terribly wrong, Maddox knows that at once. The death of infants – especially those born before their time, as this must have been – is so commonplace as to be mundane. But there is nothing mundane here.

  ‘When was she brought to bed?’ he says quickly, turning to Claire.

  Claire scowls. She seems impatient, even irritated, which in the circumstances is unaccountable. Or accountable only unsettlingly. ‘Two weeks ago. At our last lodgings. We thought the baby would not live – the doctor said we should not hope – but it seemed to rally, only then Shelley became unwell.’

  ‘Shelley? What has this to do with Shelley?’

  ‘He began to have the most terrible seizures – spasms in his side that left him shrieking in agony. There was nothing for it but to move here.’

  ‘Move? With an infant only a few days old and not expected to live?’

  Claire looks up at him, unabashed. ‘Shelley did not like the other place. He said it was horrid – that it played upon his nerves.’

  Maddox takes a deep breath, endeavouring to keep his anger in check. He has never, in all his years first as Bow Street Runner and now as thief-taker, lost his temper with a client. It has been his hallmark, and a good part of his success, so the fact that he seems on the point of doing so now both infuriates and alarms him. ‘Has a doctor been called?’

  ‘No,’ the girl snaps. ‘I wished to, but she would not permit me – she sent Hogg to find you.’

  Mary Godwin is now rocking backwards and forwards, her child cradled against her breast. More concerned now than ever, Maddox goes quickly to her and crouches before her chair. ‘May I see?’ he says softly. She seems reluctant at first, gripping the child even tighter, but he coaxes her gently and she eventually folds back the blanket covering the baby’s face. The infant is tiny – some weeks premature to Maddox’s untrained eye. There are pale blue shadows under her eyes, and flecks of dry foam speckling her lips.

  ‘She seemed so much better yesterday,’ whispers Mary. ‘I thought – I dared hope – that all might yet be well. She opened her eyes at the sound of my voice – she smiled. I am sure she knew me.’