I delayed my arrival at the Seven Stars until after ten o’clock. The chamber in which Crocker’s friends were assembled was noisy and hot, the air heavy with the vapors of punch and the smoke of candles. So much I could have anticipated. Yet somehow the disposition and mood of the gathering were unfamiliar. There was not the sense, as in the past, that Crocker was the central and presiding figure; indeed at first I did not so much as notice him. My own business was to be seen and to appear to be my habitual self. Fortunately for these purposes most of the guests were standing rather than sitting. I moved briskly about the throng, initiating exchanges here and there, but avoiding longer conversation. Among those I spoke to were Latimer and Talbot. Neither Pike nor Horn appeared to be present. Crocker was seated in a far corner, engaged, as it seemed, in serious conversation. Catching sight of me, he motioned me to approach. I pushed my way across and seated myself close to him so that we could hear each other amid the chatter and laughter.
“I am glad to see you here,” said Crocker without warmth.
“I am delighted to be here.” Then, trying to find a tone of easy banter: “So your resolution has not changed: you are still minded to withdraw from the world?”
“I am,” said Crocker, still unsmiling. “I own a large town house. I have somehow acquired a consort. And as a result I now find myself a little sickened by excess. I told you, I think, that my masquerade went further than I had intended. There were outcomes I had not foreseen.”
I tried to steer away from this dangerous ground: “Will you be offering more decorous entertainments in future?”
“Possibly,” said Crocker. He continued in a sharper voice: “You know that Kitty Brindley is now under the protection of Mr. Horn?”
“I do. The blame is all mine: I behaved badly at your masquerade. I had drunk too much to be sure how badly. But Nick is a good fellow in his way.”
Regretful as I was, my attempt to appear so sounded hollow to my own ears.
“On a topic perhaps related: have you read the strange reports concerning our acquaintance Mr. Ogden?”
Ready for some such a question, I responded with animation: “Most certainly. I have taken a particular interest in the matter, since it was my godfather who first spoke of him to Lord Downs.”
Crocker continued grave: “It is disturbing to hear of a man vanishing so close to his own house. Have you an opinion as to what may have happened?”
“I have not. As you yourself have said, Ogden was a strange fellow. Perhaps he was caught up in dangerous dealings we knew nothing of.”
“Perhaps . . .” After a pause, uncomfortable to me, Crocker added: “His wife was a childhood friend of yours, as I recall. Jane saw you with her at the masquerade. But there are questions one does not ask. Have you visited her?”
I tried, unconvincingly to myself, to offer an easy answer:
“Not as yet. I felt a delicacy about intruding—most particularly about seeming to offer condolences where perhaps none are needed.”
Crocker nodded absently, and seemed to dismiss the topic: “Ogden’s disappearance found an echo. A few nights ago Trinculo somehow made his escape.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“I had become attached to the creature. The poor wretch is either dead or scavenging a lonely life in the streets of London.”
He fell silent and looked gloomy.
“Will you sing tonight?” I asked, by way of diversion.
“No. I am not in the vein. But I should speak. Indeed I will speak now.”
He leaned forward, heaved himself upright, and clapped his hands. Quickly hushed into silence, the crowd drew back to leave their host the center of attention. He spoke out with his usual force:
“Gentlemen, I thank you for your presence here tonight, in response to my uninviting invitation. The valedictory tone should not be interpreted too solemnly. In truth I hope I will see many of you again—but in gatherings a little more formal. My way of life is to change: I have resolved to attempt respectability.”
From somewhere came a cry of “Shame!” followed by laughter, but Crocker resumed imperturbably.
“I was born thirty-five years ago today. If I live as long as my father—an achievement I hope to exceed—I shall have three or four more years of activity. It is my ambition to pass them a little more soberly—perhaps even a little more usefully.”
There was embarrassed silence. The great majority of those present, who had never heard their host speak in a serious vein, were at a loss as to how to respond. Crocker looked about with a magisterial air, but then lapsed into a laugh.
“However, these admirable changes, gentlemen, will not begin until tomorrow. Tomorrow I will become a serious man. For tonight I say to you, ‘Drink about and be merry!’ And to set the mood I will ask Mr. Fenwick to join me in song.”
In apparent relief the guests cheered heartily. Bewildered by the sudden change of heart, but willing enough, I stepped up alongside Crocker, and in a moment we were singing together as some months before:
“Come, friends, and bear me company:
I dare not go to bed.
I’ve drunk too little or drunk too much,
And my heart is heavy as lead.”
My tongue, still a little swollen, hurt as I sang. We performed well enough but, as it seemed to me, without zest, avoiding each other’s eyes. The assumed melancholy carried too much conviction. When the company joined the chorus, they somehow caught our mood by contagion, and performed rather as though singing a mournful hymn:
“In an hour, in a week, in a month, in a year,
Where shall we be? No man can say.
If we drink, if we fight, if we whore while we’re here,
Then sooner or later the devil’s to pay.
So sing through the night,
Sing while we may,
Till a new dawn reminds us to live for the day.”
The last line, though bellowed forth, sounded empty to me—and perhaps to others, for the applause that followed was flat, and there were no further offers to sing. Crocker turned away from me as we concluded, almost as though to snub me.
Discomfited and distressed by what had passed, I made halfhearted conversation with one or two more acquaintances and was then ready to take my leave. In courtesy I motioned a farewell to Crocker, who was at the center of a small group, and to my surprise he broke away and came heavily toward me.
“You will have thought me cursed gloomy tonight,” he said.
“You seemed a little subdued.”
“I have several causes for concern.” He paused. “The latest is that Francis Pike has quit my service. Perhaps you knew that?”
“I did not. When did he go? And why?”
“This very day. The cause was personal and private, he said. He had been happy to be employed by me, but he was compelled to go.”
“What does he intend to do?”
“He said nothing on that score either. I offered him a farewell gift in appreciation of his service, but he would not take it.”
I managed to talk on, mechanically: “You will miss him.”
“More than I can say. I had come to depend on him. Here is another mystery—but I must not cloud my mind with suspicions.”
We talked a little more, but in my agitation I scarcely took in what was said. When I made to leave, Crocker took my hand almost formally.
“I am sorry to see you go,” he said. “You were my best singing partner.”
His use of the past tense grieved me: it meant that I had lost the trust and the friendship of a man I admired. But my sadness was dwarfed by the alarm I felt at the news concerning Pike. His abrupt departure suggested fresh developments concerning Ogden.
The London Chronicle confirmed my fears the very next morning:
There is disturbing further news concerning Mr. Walter Ogde
n, whose strange disappearance we recently reported. It seems that a coat and a watch belonging to him have been found on sale at the disreputable Knott’s Market, in Wapping, often called the Thieves’ Market. How the articles came to be there is not yet clear. Mrs. Ogden has identified the coat as the one her husband was wearing on the morning of the day on which he was last seen. It is suspected that certain marks upon it may be bloodstains. There are now grave fears for Mr. Ogden’s safety.
It will be recalled that Mr. Ogden is a dealer in diamonds, with an office in Duke Street. He seems to have disappeared on the night of 4th September. Having that morning set out for Worcestershire, to see Lord Downs, he broke off his journey, for what he described, in a note sent on to Lord Downs, as “pressing reasons.” He returned to London, where he was seen in his office. His hat was later found in Margaret Street, close to his home, but other than that there had been no further trace of him until this latest discovery.
Mr. Ogden is thirty-eight years of age, a stout man of medium height. A reward of one hundred guineas will be paid, with no questions asked, to any member of the public who can give information that sheds light on this mystery. Application should be made to Mr. Gow, at Mr. Ogden’s Duke Street office.
I grew cold as I read the report. It surely meant that Pike’s plan had failed. Those asked to dispose of Ogden could now be traced—and no doubt would be when an informer claimed the reward. It must have been advance notice of this announcement that had led to Pike’s abrupt departure. For one hundred guineas someone would say how the body had been disposed of, and just when and where it had first been found. With Pike gone, I was left alone to face any questions that might arise. I had been in Margaret Street at that time. I had been trying to seduce Ogden’s wife. What would my godfather think when he learned this news? What would Matt Cullen make of it? Above all, what thoughts would be running through Sarah’s mind, now that it seemed certain that her husband was dead?
I read the Chronicle in my lodgings, around the middle of the morning, and at once decided to leave the house. Matt Cullen would certainly call to discuss the news, and I was not confident that I could seem easy and composed. I needed to find a quiet place where I could think over my situation.
I was so apprehensive that I left the house by the back door lest Matt should already be coming along Cathcart Street. Heading randomly northward out of town, I found myself on the road I had taken the day after Crocker’s masquerade. My feet led me to the quiet inn where I had lingered to eat a chop on that occasion. Now I had no appetite, but I chose to sit outside once more, with a pint of ale for company. It was a gray, windless day, the surrounding fields were quiet, and ahead of me, as before, London lay half hidden in its own foul smoke.
My thoughts were dark. Ogden’s bloodied coat would be seen as evidence of a probable murder. The huge promised reward would tempt informers. Pike himself had surely thought so or he would not have left Crocker’s service. His flight might now be seen to incriminate him. How likely was it that I myself would be drawn into the inquiry? Who knew of my interest in Mrs. Ogden? Crocker’s words returned to me: “Jane saw you with her at the masquerade.” I inferred that Kitty had seen us, too. How much might they have seen? How much might others have seen? I had been too drunk to know. Crocker’s coolness the previous night told me that he suspected something. If an informant did indeed testify, I would quickly be incriminated. The case, prima facie, was an easy one to make. At midnight I had been seeking access to the bed of Ogden’s wife: a short time later his dead body had been taken up a few hundred yards away by agents paid to dispose of it.
At this rate should I not emulate Pike and escape while I had the chance—going abroad with the money I had to hand? Such a course might be taken as an admission of guilt. But if I stayed, how likely was it that I could sustain a show of resolution and innocence under interrogation?
Tormented by indecision, I sat cursing, cursing, cursing the corrupt old villain who had manipulated me into this predicament. If I had to face trial, I thought, I would first throttle my godfather in revenge.
Finishing the ale, I sat back, closing my eyes to shut out the view, across open fields, of filthy London. I could see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing. Perhaps I drifted into a doze, but I do not think so. Rather I was in a kind of stupor. Whatever the case, I was roused by a movement of the bench on which I sat. I opened my eyes to find a shabbily clad figure sitting beside me—perhaps a workman of some sort. He had two glasses of ale, one of which he pushed in front of me. It was only as he turned to do so that I recognized him.
“I was waiting at the end of your street in hopes to talk to you,” said Pike, “and I saw you slip out of an alley. I took the liberty of following you at a distance.”
He spoke so calmly that, with an effort, I tried to speak calmly in return: “I’m told you have left Mr. Crocker’s service.”
“I had no choice. You’ll have seen today’s newspaper?”
“I did. What went amiss?”
“I came to tell you. The assistants I hired, handsomely paid, broke the rules in hope of an extra guinea. Before sinking Ogden, they took his coat and his watch.”
“Have they been found? Will they talk?”
“They’ll never be found, and no one will talk. There were two men did the job, and they’re both gone.”
“You mean they’re dead?”
Pike stared into the distance and raised his glass.
“Your good health, sir,” he said, and drank some ale. “The rules in such matters are strict, and they were broken. There’s no one to talk.” He drank again. “The truth may be that they’ve done you a favor. A coat with blood on it and a watch, for sale in Knott’s Market. Everyone knows what that means: a street robbery that met with resistance, and a body at the bottom of the river. That’s the end of the story—nothing more to be said.”
I drank some ale myself, to wet my dry mouth, as I took in what I had been told. A question came to me:
“But if that’s the case, you had nothing to fear?”
“Concerning Ogden, no. But when I had advance warning from Knott’s Market, I had to take strong action at once. I’ll have made enemies in Wapping. I had to move before they found me.”
We fell silent. I needed time to reflect on what Pike had told me, but I already felt that his reassurances made sense. After all I should be safe. Relieved, or half relieved, of fears for myself, I was suddenly free to look out, as through a window, at the strange landscape of Pike’s life.
“You leave me deeply in your debt, Mr. Pike. I must give you money.”
“No thank you, sir. I have all I need.”
“But thanks to me you have lost your employment.”
“That’s the turn fortune took. But I rarely stay long in one place.”
“Mr. Crocker treated you well.”
“He treated me very well. But he has a new life with Miss Page. He won’t be in need of my services.”
“Where will you go?”
“I’ve yet to decide, sir. Having no family, I go as I please.”
“Is it not a lonely life?”
Pike scratched his chin as he considered the question. “It suits me, sir, that’s all I can say. I don’t care to be too comfortable. Like that monkey. Mr. Crocker thought he was tame, but he was only half tame: he made off.”
He drank the rest of his ale and got to his feet.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll leave you now. It’s as well we’re not seen together.”
I stood and shook his hand.
“Thank you once more, Mr. Pike. I wish you well. Perhaps our paths will cross again.”
“That may be, sir—but not for some time.”
I watched his retreating form as he went back along the road toward Islington. He was a mystery to me, a man who could live wild and kill at need, yet who had been unaccountably kind to me.
There seemed to be something in his disposition that diminished both his pleasures and his pains. I envied his calmness. He would never have panicked and cowered as I had done.
The impression he had made upon me was so strong that it was some little time before I reverted to my own affairs. It seemed that my quarrel with Ogden had now proved the indirect cause of two further deaths. I should have felt appalled, but again I did not. These were men I knew nothing of, river rats who had paid the price of treachery. I trusted Pike’s account. The potential informers had been disposed of: the offered reward would never be claimed. Equally I trusted Pike’s capacity to disappear without trace. There was nowhere for potential inquirers to turn.
The obvious hypothesis would prevail—that Ogden had been the victim of an attempted robbery that had gone too far. The one circumstance left unexplained would be his abrupt decision, in mid-journey, to go back to London. If it could be assumed that he had returned for some professional reason, then it was natural enough that having visited his office, he should have been making his way home when he was set upon.
The narrative I was inferring seemed to me very persuasive—more plausible than the events that had actually occurred. Ogden’s business acquaintances and the readers of the London Chronicle would no doubt be content with some such explanation.
But, but, but—there were several potential skeptics, including Sarah, Crocker, Matt Cullen, and no doubt my godfather, who had reason to suspect, at least, that Ogden’s return was not professionally motivated. Matt I was least concerned with, for I felt sure that my earlier show of frankness had sufficiently convinced him. There might be awkward exchanges ahead with Gilbert, by letter or in person, but my more immediate concern was with Sarah, whose thoughts and emotions I could not guess.
The Skull and the Nightingale Page 34