The Skull and the Nightingale

by Michael Irwin

  My dear Richard,

  You had every right to be exasperated by Mrs. Ogden’s second change of mind. It exemplifies the feminine changeability which confused me as a younger man. I then assumed that what a woman said, she meant—only to be puzzled by subsequent amendments or contradictions. It was as though I should have been making allowance for a simultaneous language of glance and gesture which modified the spoken word. If that was indeed the case, I was doomed to bewilderment, being wholly deficient in this mode of communication. It is clear that you labor under no such disadvantage. This rebuff postpones the resolution you seek, but may at the same time add zest to it, as offering a resistance to be overcome.

  I have every confidence that, despite the setback you report, I shall soon be reading a further chapter in your pursuit of Mrs. Ogden. The contest has so engaged my attention that I have written to Lord Downs with a view to visiting Holbrook Hall while Mr. Ogden is at work there. I would be intrigued to form my own opinion of the rival for whom you have conceived so lively a distaste.

  Yours, &c.

  The sequel followed soon afterward:

  My dear Richard,

  A singular development, which will surprise you as it surprised me. I hear from Lord Downs that Ogden failed to arrive at Holbrook Hall on the appointed evening. His trunk was delivered, together with a note of apology, to the effect that in the course of his journey he had found himself obliged, for pressing reasons, to turn back to London. He expected, however, to be in Malvern within two or three days.

  Have you heard anything of this matter? Might there be a connection with Mrs. Ogden’s unexpected change of mind?

  Yours, &c.

  Anticipating some such letter, I was already resolved not to reply for several days. I would always be able to plead that I had used the time in fruitless inquiries. The very next morning, however, this expedient was cast into doubt. Matt Cullen burst in upon me and paced the floor in his excitement at what he had to tell.

  “I bring you strange news, Dick—exceedingly strange. I have this moment come from a chance encounter with my acquaintance Mr. Gow, who is employed, you will remember, by Mr. Ogden. He tells me that he was surprised to see Ogden in his office in Duke Street on the evening of the day he left for Malvern. That is to say on the very night that you were purposing to pleasure his wife. What say you to that?”

  In the circumstances I was commendably cool.

  “You surprise me—but less than you might think,” I said, and passed him Gilbert’s latest letter, which he eagerly read.

  “His questions are my questions,” said he, “and they must surely be yours also. Did Ogden come back because he had suspicions? Did his wife shut you out because she knew of his return?”

  I improvised as readily as I could have hoped:

  “The last question is easily answered: no. Why should she have written what she did when she might simply have said ‘Not tonight’? But Matt, Matt: Ogden’s return to London was an infernal coincidence. There might very well have been awkward consequences. Did your friend Mr. Gow speak to him?”

  “He said that he tried to, but that Ogden pushed past him without a word. Apparently Ogden would occasionally spend a night at the office after working late, and for that reason he was not unduly surprised to see him. He assumed that there had been a change of plan.”

  “Has he seen him since?”

  “Apparently not.”

  I made a show of ruminating on the situation.

  “After all I see little in the matter. Even if Ogden had suspicions, they must have come to nothing. By now he is presumably at work in Holbrook Hall.”

  “Unless he found his wife looking flushed and shifty.”

  We speculated about the mystery for another half hour, all to no purpose. I found it surprisingly easy to improvise possible explanations, serious or facetious. Ogden had been racked by sudden giddiness or failure of vision, and therefore hastened back to London to see his physician. He had realized that some optical equipment, vital to his mysterious trade, had been left behind. An angel had appeared to him in a dream and told him to postpone his visit. Amid this frivolity I did manage to suggest that, since I myself was clearly in no position to pursue the matter, Matt could do me a favor by maintaining contact with Mr. Gow in the hope of gleaning further information.

  When I was alone again the anxious thoughts flocked like ravens. Cullen’s news had been far more disturbing than he could have known. My hope had been that when Ogden’s disappearance was eventually acknowledged—as it soon must be—he might be thought to have vanished anywhere in southeastern England. Now the search would be narrowed to known London territory. Perhaps others had seen Ogden or even spoken to him. Moreover, Sarah herself would surely associate his return—and in time perhaps even his subsequent fate—with our planned assignation. Greatly agitated, I found comfort only in Pike’s assertion that any possible search was doomed to lead nowhere. There was no evidence of crime. Suspicion would have nothing to feed on. Thus I reassured myself.

  As I dressed the following morning I recalled Pike’s advice that I should comport myself as normally as possible. It might prove awkward if someone later observed that I had been particularly elusive around the time of Ogden’s disappearance. This disagreeable thought gave rise to another: that I had been left solitary. With whom could I comfortably pass the time? On no account could I see Sarah. Kitty was lost to me. For related reasons I could not comfortably seek out Crocker or Horn. I was condemned to the loneliness of a criminal, and far from happy in that predicament.

  It was nonetheless essential to preserve appearances. The day being fine, if windy, I took a turn in the park, bowing to several acquaintances and pausing to make conversation with one or two others. All the time I kept a wary lookout for Sarah or her aunt, but there was no sign of them. Later I ate a chop at Keeble’s, where I contributed to the general talk easily enough.

  By the time I returned to my lodgings, it was already dark, but I was soon to be surprised by another visit from Matt Cullen.

  “More news,” he said, “direct from an agitated Mr. Gow, whom I have just left. Ogden’s hat has been handed in to his home. Apparently it was found in the mud in Margaret Street the morning after he was seen in his office.”

  “Can they be certain it was Ogden’s?”

  “Mrs. Ogden has apparently confirmed it, although expressing astonishment.”

  Here was a double blow. I was at once reminded that Ogden had indeed been hatless when he caught up with me outside Crocker’s courtyard. It would now be suspected that he had come to grief in or near Margaret Street. Moreover, Sarah had learned of her husband’s return and would have sudden cause for surmise and misgivings. I asked eager questions to hide my dismay.

  “When did all this come out?”

  “This very morning. Gow was sent for.”

  “And then he spoke of having seen Ogden?”

  “Of course.”

  “What does he make of it all?”

  “The poor devil is in dire confusion. He’s a retiring fellow who finds himself suddenly obliged to assume responsibilities. Acting on advice he is sending posthaste to Holbrook Hall to find out whether Ogden has yet arrived. I could have told him, of course, but only by involving you and Gilbert.”

  I summoned up some spirit: “You bring strange tidings, Master Cullen. There may have been dark deeds in Margaret Street.” I made a show of reflecting. “And I myself might have been nearby at the time.”

  “What time were you there?”

  “I can tell you exactly: at midnight.”

  “Did you linger after reading the lady’s message?”

  “Certainly not. It was a dismal night.”

  “You noticed nothing untoward?”

  “There was nothing to notice but darkness and rain.”

  We stood in silence for a moment till Cu
llen grinned. “This will all prove to be nothing—much ado about a hat.”

  “Meanwhile,” said I, “let us go and drink some wine.”

  And this we did. I had never felt less convivial, but it seemed necessary to put on a show of careless good cheer. I contrived a passable imitation, but it left me empty. The worst of it was that as we drank and chattered I had no space to think. Only when I returned home two hours later, with my head none too clear, could I attempt to review the changing situation.

  Sarah must now be in a state of bewilderment and suspense. On the very night of our planned assignation, and perhaps when I was still in the vicinity, her husband had been unaccountably lurking nearby. Then, as would soon emerge, he had vanished forever. She could not but look for meaning in this coincidence. Whatever she felt or suspected, however, she could surely say nothing. To implicate me would be to implicate herself. Yet there would surely be an inquiry of some kind, and it could come close to me: I might have to nerve myself to feel its breath on the back of my neck. But still my one reassurance remained a strong one: that Ogden’s body, already decomposing, would never be found.

  In any case, nothing further could happen until a succession of horses had relayed from Malvern the news that Ogden had never arrived. There would be two or three more days of suspense through which I would have to perform the part of my usual self as persuasively as I could manage. Perhaps fortunately for me the weather proved poor, with gusty winds and a good deal of rain. It seemed reasonable that I should choose to stay within doors, and perhaps understandable, given the dark skies, that my manner should be a little subdued.

  My dealings with Mrs. Deacon, though civil enough, had yet to return to their former cordiality. Partly to occupy the time and partly as a small step toward regaining her confidence, I ventured on another game of chess with her daughter, Charlotte, in the parlor downstairs. To stiffen my sinews for the encounter I pretended to myself that here was a model of my present predicament: I would safely survive it if I could win this game. Perhaps as a consequence I captured more pieces, and held out somewhat longer than on previous occasions, but I was still comfortably defeated by this quiet child.

  As I was congratulating her afterward I found myself saying, on impulse: “Wait here a moment. I have something to give you as a reward for your prowess.”

  I went upstairs and fetched the bangle that had been intended for Kitty.

  “Please accept this gift,” I said. “It is too old for you now, but one day you can wear it. I value it because it belonged to my mother.”

  Charlotte, though tongue-tied, was blushingly grateful. Mrs. Deacon, who had been present throughout, sewing while we played, smiled warmly and said: “You are a generous man, Mr. Fenwick.”

  I returned to my rooms ashamed of myself. Why had I told that silly lie about my mother? Could I do nothing now that was not tainted by deviousness? I sat alone as the evening darkened, my spirits darkening with it.

  Chapter 24

  The story soon came to public attention. In the London Chronicle was a prominent item:

  Mr. Walter Ogden, a prosperous dealer in diamonds and ornamental glass, has disappeared in mysterious circumstances. It is feared that he may have come to harm. On the morning of 4th September, Mr. Ogden, who has an office in Duke Street, set out by stagecoach for Malvern, to fulfill a professional engagement at the home of Lord Downs. For reasons as yet unknown, it seems that he broke off his journey at Aylesbury and returned to London: he was seen entering his office that same night. Since then there has been no word from him; but his hat was picked up in Margaret Street, close to the house in which he lives. His affairs were in good order, and it appears that he had intended to resume his journey to Malvern. Mr. Ogden is thirty-eight years of age. He is of medium height and stocky build. A reward will be given, with no questions asked, to any member of the public producing information that might bear on this matter. Application should be made to Mr. Gow, at Mr. Ogden’s Duke Street office.

  I read the announcement repeatedly, trying to guess what dangers it might pose, but it did not take me far. I was sure that on that dark wet night there had been nobody to see Ogden chasing after me or the skirmish that ensued. Pike and I had hidden the body where no passerby, even had there been one, would have noticed it. What left me still in doubt and some fear was my ignorance of what came next. I could only guess that the corpse had been thrown into a covered cart of some sort to be taken away. The task would never have been attempted until the street was empty. When it came to the work to be done at the river, those concerned would know what they were about: after all, their own lives would be at risk. I clung to my hope that Pike was right, that there was no trail to follow.

  As I anticipated, Matt Cullen called that very morning, ready to show me the Chronicle if I had missed it. Apparently he had had no further chance to talk with Gow, but had paid a visit to Margaret Street and seen reward notices, worded very much like the newspaper reports, pasted up on posts and walls.

  “Surely they will come to nothing,” said I. “If the watch had seen anything suspicious, they would have reported it already. This is a prosperous district: who would be abroad so late at night?”

  “Other than yourself,” said Matt. “But you miss the point. The telltale phrase, as always in such cases, is ‘with no questions asked.’ There is the hope that one robber might inform upon another.”

  “Assuming that a robbery took place . . .”

  “What else could have happened?”

  “For example,” I said, forcing myself to improvise, “Ogden broke his journey to spend a night with his mistress, but died in her bed of an apoplexy.”

  “And the hat?”

  “It was blown away by the wind as Ogden trotted to his lady’s door.”

  “Perhaps she poisoned him for the money in his pockets,” said Cullen, pleased with this new fancy.

  “Or stabbed him with a kitchen knife,” I suggested. “In either case she would drag his body down to her cellar and will be safe from detection.”

  “Unless a neighbor heard his dying squeal,” concluded Matt with satisfaction.

  I laughed as best I could.

  That very afternoon I sent my godfather a copy of the report in the Chronicle. It would no doubt soon have come to his attention in any case, and I wished to show my readiness to correspond on the Ogden mystery.

  At about this time I was sent a printed invitation which distracted me from my preoccupation but then led me back to it:

  MR. THOMAS CROCKER is proposing to renounce,

  in great measure, his previous indulgence in tavern hospitality and mischief

  (although the pleasures of talk and song will not be forsworn).

  ACCORDINGLY he is to host a species of farewell entertainment

  which he hereby invites you to attend.

  It will be held, as tradition dictates, at the Seven Stars, in Coventry Street,

  as from eight o’clock on the night of Friday next.

  Crocker had written below, in his own hand: “I hope to see you there. It has been some little time since we talked.”

  I immediately resolved to attend. Crocker’s hint of reproach was justified: the length of time that had elapsed since I had contacted him might soon begin to seem a suspicious circumstance in its own right. It would be convenient to see him again in a convivial gathering with only limited opportunity for private conversation. There could be awkward questions about my abandonment of Kitty and possibly about my interest in Mrs. Ogden.

  Time had slowed to a crawl, and the period of suspense was the more oppressive to me in that I was denied my habitual distractions. When waking in the morning, I would wonder how to occupy myself. Two or three times I hid myself under greatcoat and hat and walked along the river or out into the country. But I had lost my taste for such expeditions, and nothing I saw could distract me for long. My efforts to avoid
thinking about the danger I was in had so constricted my mind that it was almost lifeless.

  Jaded by this nullity, I went out late one night, with a fast-beating heart, and made my way to Margaret Street. It was as calm and quiet as ever: I was no doubt the only person who had ever killed a man in that vicinity. Glancing about to be sure I was unseen, I walked directly past Mrs. Kinsey’s house, and even slipped stealthy fingers into the empty crevice where Sarah and I had hidden our messages. Would she be asleep at this moment, some few feet above my head, or would she have returned to her home? I thought of her with pity, but without desire. In a shadowy corner the other side of the street I could make out the archway where Ogden must have been lurking, frantic with jealousy, on the night of his death.

  The nocturnal placidity of these prosperous streets proved unexpectedly reassuring. It confirmed my sense that the skirmish with Ogden had been a freak of chance, scarcely to be credited. Now it was over, leaving no trace, surviving solely in my own memory. With each passing day the recollection would fade and dwindle. When I had erased it altogether—and I had always had a gift for forgetting—all that would remain would be a disappearance, a nothingness.

  The following morning, as a further gesture of unconcern, I paid a brief call on Mr. Ward. To my surprise he mentioned Ogden immediately, saying that my godfather had shown a particular interest in his story. He had written to Ward about the matter as soon as he learned of Ogden’s failure to arrive in Malvern. Having effected the introduction that had led to the planned visit to Malvern, he claimed to feel a certain responsibility for what had ensued. Following his instructions, Ward had sent him any newspaper reports that bore on the matter. I was relieved that I had done the same thing, and could not, therefore, be suspected of any failure of openness.

  The sight of Ward immersed in his day’s work, black-clad and sober as ever, seemed almost a rebuke. Here was a life slow and steady, all of a piece with that of Thorpe or Mrs. Deacon. Meanwhile I had become a creature of another kind, living at a different rate. I could be swept away at any time by helter-skelter intrigue or accident. I recalled the highwayman Jack Gardiner, who had looked me in the eye so familiarly on his way to the gallows. Perhaps he and I and Pike were three of a kind, foxes among sheep, hungry, free, and dangerous, compelled always to be on our guard against those who would hunt us down.