The Skull and the Nightingale

by Michael Irwin

  “They would know me as a visitor?”

  Pike gestured again, this time toward the crowded room in front of me.

  “Faces brown from the weather. Yours is white. You’re taller than most here and you walk upright, not like a seaman or a snatch. You have your teeth still. Your clothes are plain, but they don’t look used. There’s no hiding the fact, sir: you’re a gentleman.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “No, sir, not in Wapping.”

  Amused, if nettled, to learn that my attempts at disguise had been so unconvincing, I glanced at the man’s face—battered, watchful, independent.

  “Mr. Pike, you are an unusual fellow.”

  He considered my words. “In gentlemanly society that may be the case. You would find plenty like me in the army or at sea.”

  “How came it that you met Mr. Crocker?”

  “I was working in a tavern. Mr. Crocker happened to be visiting when I had to put a stop to a little disturbance. We had a conversation, and he took me into his employment.”

  I took a risk: “Might I inquire, Mr. Pike—and by all means refuse to answer if you think me impertinent—in what capacity did he employ you?”

  “There’s no name for what I do. I’m part bodyguard, part practical assistant.”

  “Do you enjoy the work?”

  “Mr. Crocker pays me well and treats me well. And I like to have a foot in a different world. I was interested to see the gentlemanly side of life.”

  Intrigued by the hint of derision, I asked, “What other sides of life have you seen?”

  “A number,” said Pike equably. “I’ve worked with cattle; I was two years in the army and four on board ship. I was a thief for a time, and a successful one.”

  He drank more beer, then leaned forward to address me with a new directness.

  “Here we sit, Mr. Fenwick, chatting on easy terms in the company of sailors, robbers, and receivers. Most of Mr. Crocker’s friends would find this surprising.”

  “I have a taste for fresh experiences.”

  “I could guess as much, sir.” He paused, as though deciding whether to say more. “To me you stood out among Mr. Crocker’s acquaintances for two reasons. One was that you liked him, and didn’t seek his company for the joke of it.”

  I met his gaze, nodding to show that I shared the misgivings he had hinted.

  “And the other?”

  “At your own level you’re an adventurer, as I am myself.”

  “Then is that a compliment, Mr. Pike?”

  “It’s as you take it, sir.”

  His tone being studiously neutral, I was left to react. I could have laughed off the imputation or rebuked it as an impertinence. In the event I did neither.

  “Compliment or not, Mr. Pike, I think your opinion may be just.”

  Unexpectedly he offered an interpretation of what he had said:

  “The times are changing, in wars and in politics. But most men live in the past—live as they were reared. Only a few move with the changes. Mr. Crocker does, and so do you.”

  “And you yourself?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve had no choice.”

  I raised my glass, and in this dirty riverside tavern we drank a wordless toast in beer. We talked a little longer before my new friend, if such I may consider him, went about his business and I returned to Westminster by way of the Tower, Thames Street, and the Strand.

  At the Ogdens’ house I was informed by a servant that Mr. Ogden was away. Affecting disappointment, I asked her to tell her mistress that Mr. Fenwick had called with a possible commission for her husband. Since he was absent, could she spare me a few moments so that I could pass on my message? My godfather’s key duly opened the lock: in three minutes I was received by Sarah in a bright drawing room.

  I knew that the first step toward making a good impression would be to avoid making a bad one. Accordingly I spoke with detached courtesy, as though taking part in a play. My task was the simpler in that I knew Sarah’s responses in advance. I had seen her husband’s work (I reminded her) in Mr. Crocker’s house and mentioned it to my godfather, who had shown great interest—hence the proposition I had been asked to pass on. Would Mr. Ogden be here tomorrow? Away for a week? In Amsterdam? So her mother-in-law was Dutch? How interesting. Given the circumstances, might I leave the written inquiry with her, since I had nothing to add to it myself, being no more than an intermediary?

  This was easily agreed. As I had hoped, the sealed missive from Lord Downs served as a safe-conduct, clearing me from suspicion. My readiness to hand it over no doubt also served to dispose of any fears of importunity on my part: my task done, I would soon depart.

  However, as we exchanged courtesies, a reference to Mr. Ogden’s work in his own home led Sarah to show me some of the rooms. To prolong the episode I expressed great interest in all I saw, although the truth was that I was uncertain as to my own reaction. The effects I had admired in Crocker’s house were here carried further. It seemed to me that the furnishings and decorative materials had all been selected as contributions to patternings of light and color. Glass was much in evidence, whether formed into windows or mirrors, or fragmented into sparkling prismatic chandeliers. In one or two places a large round lens had been built into a wall or partition, as a window affording a distorted view of the room beyond. There was an absence of gilding, carvings, brackets, pillars, busts, portraits, or effusive decorations of any kind. All was plain and transparent, save in two or three places where small lozenges of stained glass shone blue, green, or red. It seemed ironic that all this clarity should have been created by a man of a character so closed and windowless.

  As we walked from room to room I fancied that Sarah was watching my reactions with a quizzical eye. Her intelligence was not to be underestimated: I might well lose credit equally by being too critical or too emptily complimentary. I made some little show of looking about appraisingly from a variety of vantage points.

  “The effect is remarkable,” I hazarded. “It confirms the opinions I formed at Mr. Crocker’s house. Your husband has a strong, clear taste of an unusual kind.”

  “Do you approve it?”

  “I do indeed. But I fear it may be ahead of the times. When decoration and disguise are so much in fashion, there is a fear of such clarity. It sheds too candid a light on the paint, powder, and false hair that we see in fashionable gatherings.” I ventured a compliment: “But Mr. Ogden’s wife has nothing to fear in this respect.”

  “Nothing as yet,” said Sarah.

  She smiled, and I smiled in response, both of us at ease. We had achieved the mood I had hoped for, and I was eager to sustain it. Sarah herself assisted me:

  “Will you take tea, Mr. Fenwick?”

  “That would be most agreeable.”

  We returned to the drawing room, which glowed with honey-colored morning light. I was at pains to observe every formality of deportment as maidservants came and went. I could not dramatically advance my campaign on this visit, but an ill-judged gesture could undermine it. My immediate aims were merely to further ingratiate myself and to learn something of the Ogdens’ daily life. I spoke again as one making polite conversation:

  “Do you often entertain here?”

  “Very infrequently. Mr. Ogden is not fond of large gatherings.” She smiled again. “Perhaps it is as well: you know that I have had little experience of playing the hostess.”

  “But I suspect that you have the necessary skills, as by instinct.”

  “Your suggestion is kind, but I am not convinced.”

  I made a bolder move: “Some weeks ago I saw you and your husband at the theater.”

  “I saw you, too—in a box.”

  “It did not seem appropriate to bow.”

  “And why not, Mr. Fenwick?”

  I chose my words: “At your aunt’s house you
r last remarks seemed—dismissive.”

  The tea was brought in at that moment, and the interruption gave us both time to consider. When Sarah resumed it was with a new directness and informality:

  “I was delivering a prepared speech, like something in a novel. Who can live daily life at that level of formality? And who would want to?”

  She spoke as one offering a kind of apology. It seemed necessary to respond with similar directness.

  “I was ill at ease myself. I had come to visit an old friend and found a woman transformed.”

  “I was a woman transformed. A year previously I had been the Sarah Kinsey whom you knew. Suddenly a new path was laid open before me. I could take it or continue my gentle stroll to nowhere. In taking it, I knew that I had to learn new modes of behavior.”

  Here was an opportunity to seek information. I contrived a tone of casual politeness: “How did you chance to meet Mr. Ogden?”

  Sarah hesitated—then laughed and blushed simultaneously.

  “You are almost the only person I could tell. We met in the most embarrassing of circumstances. My aunt and I had fallen upon hard times. She felt obliged to sell a diamond ring she had inherited, but knew not how to do so. On her behalf, and quite timorously, as you may imagine, I made inquiries at a shop I had seen in Duke Street, and found myself talking to Mr. Ogden. He was very helpful to us.”

  “And from that time onward . . . ?”

  “From that time onward Mr. Ogden became an acquaintance, a friend—and then a persistent suitor.”

  I felt that I could be playful. “Did he woo you with diamonds?”

  “No,” said Sarah emphatically—but then laughed again, as though enjoying this freedom to be frank. “Not directly. But Mr. Ogden wished to be kind to me, and was wealthy enough to be very kind indeed.”

  We exchanged smiles and then sipped tea, both, I think, wondering where that last remark had taken us. I spoke again at random:

  “Have you a new circle of friends?”

  “Of acquaintances, rather. My closest friend is still Miss Martin, whom you will remember from our days in York. We regularly correspond.”

  “I find it hard to imagine your new life.”

  I made the remark without thought, but it produced a sudden silence. When Sarah did respond, she spoke seriously:

  “I cannot easily describe it. Mr. Ogden’s work takes up much of his time. When he is away I read, I write letters—I see my aunt almost daily . . .”

  “Do you pay no visits?”

  “Very few. Perhaps that situation will change with time.” She spoke as one closing a topic. “Let me ask in turn: how is the mysterious Mr. Gilbert?”

  “He remains mysterious. Perhaps my life is a little like your own in that I am well provided for, but waiting for something more to happen.”

  Feeling that I might have taken a step too far, I quickly changed course: “It is taking me some little time to find my bearings in London.”

  “Perhaps it seems tame after your continental adventures?”

  I was pleased, rather than otherwise, to note an edge of irony in Sarah’s words: we were conversing personally rather than formally. Before I could reply, she said: “What does your godfather expect of you?”

  “As yet he encourages me simply to report to him on the pleasures of the town.”

  “That does not sound an arduous task.” Sarah spoke drily, but suddenly laughed. “It is fantastical that you and I should be having such a conversation. Only a few years ago we were living modestly, or even meanly, in York.”

  “Fate has been kind to us.”

  “Fate in the form of money. We have been floated away to deep waters. Where shall we be heading next?”

  She laughed again, but a little nervously. For a second time she was blushing. I could see her with a double eye, at once as the settled wife of a prosperous merchant and as little more than an inexperienced girl from the north who had known in an affectionate way only two men, of whom I was one. And now my presence had brought the blood into her cheeks.

  To my surprise, even to my consternation, I was seized by a pang of lust that altered my body and made me shift in my seat. I had to have this woman, or rather both these women. At one mighty coupling I could revisit my lost childhood and take revenge on the squat tradesman who had usurped me. The impulse was so strong that I could have seized her there and then. I had just enough mastery of myself to accept that I had achieved enough for one day. Taking her words, fatuously enough, as a cue, I said: “At this moment, I fear, I must hoist sail for the Strand: I am to meet my friend Mr. Chalmers.”

  We parted with the normal courtesies, but the tone on both sides was of a warmth to imply expectation of another meeting. I went away in high spirits, not to visit the fictitious Mr. Chalmers but to return to Cathcart Street.

  If a single phrase could have expressed my feelings, it would have been a jubilant “She is vulnerable.” Ogden had provided her with money—but what else? It seemed that she had few friends or even acquaintances. To whom could she express herself, in whom could she confide? Only, it seemed, her aunt. In the half an hour, or less, that we had spent together she was already speaking to me almost as in former days, already skirting indiscretion. I needed only to proceed as I had begun and she would be mine.

  I invited Matt Cullen to dinner so that we could discuss the changing situation. As we devoured chicken pie I showed him the letter from Mr. Gilbert and described what had passed between me and Sarah.

  “Where is the difficulty?” he asked. “Your desires and opportunities are in equilibrium. You copulate and describe doing so. Then, as a reward, you inherit an estate.”

  “You are a gross animal, Cullen, and cannot see the indelicacy of prostituting one’s deepest feelings.”

  “Pooh,” said he. “You are making difficulties where none exist. Here”—he drew a line on the table with his finger—“is your planned ravishment of Mrs. Ogden. There”—he drew another line a few inches away—“is the account you send to your godfather. Bar a few names and places, the tale you tell him can be a complete fiction.”

  “But the old glutton will expect regular reports for his money.”

  “Then make the story last. Slice it thin. Feed it to him in ounces.”

  He took a large forkful of chicken pie, grinning at the contrast.

  “Do you think he will be content with an invalid’s diet?”

  “You must use your skill as a cook: give him sauce to go with the meat.”

  “What kind of sauce?”

  “Several kinds. He will relish physical detail. The lady will blush, her hand will touch yours, her bosom will heave. There can be weeks of such morsels before you reach beneath her skirts.”

  “That is well, if crudely, said. You saw that Gilbert mentioned Clarissa?”

  “Just so,” cried Matt. “There is your model. If Lovelace extracts a blush from his captive virgin he writes a twenty-page letter. Follow his example.”

  “I could do something of that sort. But my difficulty goes deeper.”

  “What difficulty?”

  “The following contradiction.” I drank some wine to help me pin down the paradox: “Mr. Gilbert wishes to taste, vicariously, the fleshly pleasures he has missed—but in order to be reassured that they would have disappointed him. Does he see himself as inferior, because he was deficient in animal desires, or superior, because he rose above them?”

  Matt frowned. “From what you have told me, I would say both.”

  “Exactly. You have it. There lies the difficulty.”

  “I see a difficulty for Gilbert; but why for you?”

  “If I fail to do the deed, he may think I have no more potency than himself.”

  “So you must succeed.”

  “If I do, he may think me a slave to appetite—a lecher with no philosophy in h
im.”

  Matt groaned. “Life is full of contradictions. Your course is clear. Enjoy the woman but tell your godfather you did not. Take Mrs. Ogden and take the money.”

  My dear Godfather,

  I had expected to be describing my visit to Mrs. Ogden. However, I have postponed that meeting for a day since I wish to be at my liveliest when I see her, and this morning finds me depleted following the energetic encounter with Miss Brindley that will provide the main topic for this letter.

  As you acknowledge, the case of Sarah Ogden is quite unlike that of Mrs. Hurlock. She is young, innocent, newly married, and of considerable intelligence—there is a mind to be seduced. Hence the need for patience and contrivance. I must hint at pleasures which (as I believe) the squat Ogden cannot provide her. At the same time I must discern possible causes of irritation, in hope of making infidelity seem a justified reprisal. Seeds of resentment and desire must be planted in the lady’s mind, to grow as stealthily as fingernails.

  A further consideration is that she and I, acquainted since childhood, have many shared recollections and associations which I will hope to invoke. I should be able to render her more susceptible by reaching back as Mr. Ogden cannot.

  I must again admit, perhaps ignobly, to a deep distaste for her husband’s person and personality. Shackled to this sluggish dog, Sarah is condemned to diminution. Her wit will droop, her curiosity subside. It seems a duty to take anticipatory revenge.

  These observations perhaps bear upon some of the musings in your recent letter. It may well be that, for Mrs. Hurlock, brute appetite is closely adjacent to “pastoral” pretension. Surely, however, our impulses are often less simple. The rutting of animals cannot involve anticipation, reflection, or memory, yet such awareness enhances human desires. When lust is combined with liking, jealousy, anger, curiosity, it becomes something greater. Am I not close, here, to your own views concerning the possibility of Passions working in conjunction? In some human couplings, I hope, the pleasure is more than merely physical: several kinds of gratification are simultaneously achieved, the effect being akin to a chord in music.