In my revived mood I was soon confident, after all, of surmounting such difficulties. Twenty minutes previously I had been half dead with despair: now I was fully alive again.
As on that same spot, not so many days previously, I ordered a chop and sat thinking, determined to be methodical. Cullen I would see that very evening, taking a high, boisterous line and hoping to laugh the whole story away. As for my godfather, I would need to write to him that day or the next, cool and meditative, but perhaps admitting to feeling somewhat shaken by the tragic coincidence of events.
Sarah would be less easy to deal with. Only by talking to her could I gauge her feelings and hope to influence them. But I could not yet visit her, so much was certain, having no idea how she would receive me, or even whether she would admit me. In any case she was no doubt compelled to spend much time with Mr. Gow, with lawyers, perhaps with John Fielding, the Bow Street magistrate. I should wait until these activities abated.
Whatever Sarah’s sentiments, I was the only individual in the world to whom she could now speak with full candor. Sooner or later it would be a relief to her to see me. In the meantime the London Chronicle report at least gave me an excuse to write her a letter—a sympathetic but circumspect letter—which might open up further opportunities for communication.
Back in Cathcart Street I learned that Cullen had indeed called in my absence. Here was the expected cue. As I strode toward his lodgings I tried, like an actor, to adapt myself in advance to the role I was to play. I had taken a glass or two of wine to elevate my spirits, and when I met Cullen I was pleased to find that he was similarly primed. He broached another bottle, and in no time we were reading the Chronicle story aloud in jocose vein. I had some lines of jest prepared, and was able to risk them sooner than I had thought possible. Might the missing man be buried in absentia, I wondered. What could be inscribed on his tombstone? Perhaps Here lies the jacket of Walter Ogden. Matt suggested that the watch should be placed in a jacket pocket, and wound up immediately before burial, so that it would tick for some time underground, like a clockwork heart.
“To my shame,” said I, affecting seriousness, “I can’t but be facetious about the poor devil. When I think otherwise I am seized with guilt. It might have come about that I was cuckolding Ogden at the very moment that he was being killed. No man should have to suffer that double outrage.”
“For the same reason,” said Cullen, “his wife must be grateful for her own change of heart.”
“Most certainly,” I concurred, and dragged us into the depths of imagining wife and husband simultaneously penetrated. Matt went further still, having them simultaneously exclamatory: “Too deep, cruel man—I cannot bear it!”
“Cullen,” said I, “we have become disgusting.”
The two of us were laughing helplessly, as only drunken friends can.
“You are now free,” cried Matt, “to resume your pursuit of the lady.”
“That is a gross observation,” said I. “I must let a decent interval elapse—perhaps a full week.”
“Your delicacy does you credit. And perhaps the grieving widow will put black sheets on the bed.”
I left him at midnight, pleased with my night’s work. For Matt the mystery of Ogden’s disappearance had been resolved into a shared joke. One potential questioner had been disarmed: there were two more to appease.
Chapter 25
My dear Godfather,
It may be that you have already seen the enclosed report from the London Chronicle. I waited a day or two before sending it in case it elicited further information from members of the public, but as yet there has been nothing. It seems now to have been accepted that Ogden fell victim to a robbery that went too far—perhaps because he resisted too boldly. The guilty man, or men, may yet be identified, but it appears unlikely. I am assured by one well acquainted with the ways of Knott’s Market that the proceeds of a robbery are never put on sale there until the former owner has been securely lodged at the bottom of the Thames. Nor, apparently, is any member of the riverside fraternity likely to come forward with evidence, no matter how large the reward. There is a strict understanding that the price of such betrayal must be death. So there, most unsatisfactorily, the story seems certain to conclude.
It could be argued that the identity of the assassins matters little. If they were caught they would surely prove to be commonplace thieves altogether unknown to the public until condemned and hanged. Ogden presumably fell prey to them as a matter of chance, rather as a man may be unluckily laid low by fire or flood or illness. Perhaps street banditry of this sort should be seen as a moral infection lurking among the poorer citizenry at large, claiming victims as randomly as smallpox or the stone.
Why did Ogden turn back? I can conceive of several possible explanations, but my surmises are unlikely to be wiser than your own. He was a secretive man driven by passions and ambitions that he did not choose to disclose, even to his wife. More extraordinary than that change of mind, perhaps, is the fact of his returning to his home so late at night, and falling among thieves so very close to it. I walked that street again a few days ago, and could hardly believe that there had been a fatal encounter in so sedate a district.
In the wake of this tragedy, as we must now call it, I find myself puzzled and perturbed by conflicting feelings. Although I will not pretend to any great grief at the death of a man whom (as you know) I heartily disliked, I cannot but pity him for his wretched and premature demise. I must confess to you my profound relief that, thanks to Sarah’s sudden change of heart—which caused me so much vexation—I was not in her bed, as I otherwise could have been, at the very time when her husband was losing his life in the next street.
She herself will surely have felt a similar relief. Her other emotions I scarcely dare guess at. Mingled with shock and confusion, there will perhaps, after all, be some traces of love.
For me the intimidating reflection is that, as the events of the fatal evening took shape, our project and Ogden’s miserable fate were ultimately but a hairsbreadth apart. I could have stumbled into deep waters indeed.
I need hardly say that the proposed escapade with Sarah is now at an end. Keenly as I compassionate her predicament, I have made no attempt to contact her—although I may shortly venture to do so. You can conceive how difficult it will be for me to find appropriate terms in which to condole with this unfortunate widow. Still less have I any thought of renewing my advances over a coffin, in the spirit of Richard III.
I veer toward frivolity, for all that these are serious matters. In such painful circumstances jesting becomes a kind of defense, holding disagreeable realities at a safe distance. An intrigue that I was pursuing, as you know, with great fervor, has been abruptly and harshly closed off. I am left bewildered, wary, and temporarily becalmed. It will surely take me some little time to recover my spirits.
I remain, &c.
* * *
Dear Mrs. Ogden,
You will know just how difficult I find it to write this letter, and will understand, I think, why I have waited until now to venture an approach to you, even though you have been constantly in my thoughts.
When I saw in the London Chronicle the first account of Mr. Ogden’s disappearance, I was startled indeed, but also half incredulous, having good reason to think that there must be some mistake in the matter. When succeeding rumors darkened the picture further, I still thought it my best course to postpone writing to you as long as there was any uncertainty in the case. If I rightly interpret the latest reports, however, it seems that a tragic outcome to the story is now considered almost certain. I can no longer withhold an expression of sympathy and renewed friendship.
This would seem to have been not only a tragic but a doubly unaccountable happening. I cannot understand why Mr. Ogden should have so suddenly decided to return to London: perhaps you have information on that score which has not been made public. Then, if t
he report in the Chronicle is to be trusted, it seems that, with equal improbability, he was set upon near his own home, in placid Margaret Street. Certain circumstances brought me to the district a little earlier on that same night, and I saw no sign of anything untoward.
Having known you since our childhood, and known you well, I think I can guess at some of the particular misgivings and emotions that will have been haunting you during these difficult weeks. Given that state of mind, your dealings with inquiries and practical problems of all kinds must have been painful in the extreme. Hardly daring to imagine your situation from day to day, I can only hope that you were able to find appropriate advice and help. You will certainly have needed all your habitual strength and clarity of judgment.
In these difficult circumstances I urge you—though with a diffidence I am sure you will understand—to turn to me if you come to think that I can help you or relieve your situation in any way. It may be that at some point you will find it a comfort simply to talk with me as a friend. After all, we are old friends, and I have a particularly close knowledge of some aspects of your present sad situation.
I remain &c.
I spent far more time on the composition of these letters than their comparative brevity might suggest. Repeatedly I hesitated over hints to be dropped, issues to be skirted, doubts and questions that should be anticipated. These were crucial communications. My prospects would be far clearer, for better or for worse, when I received replies to them.
After this solitary day of dogged composition, I again made my way, for the sake of fresh air and a meal, to Keeble’s steak house. I had forgotten that this was one of the nights when the Conversation Club dined there. Being by now regarded as a friendly acquaintance, I was left free to join in their talk or to hold my peace as I chose. Their initial exchanges were of little interest to me, but I pricked up my ears as they drifted into a discussion concerning the disappearance of Mr. Ogden, a story now widely known from newspaper reports.
“Where was the watch?” cried one. “Here, it seems, was murder in the open street in a thriving neighborhood. If the watch provides no protection, which of us will be safe?”
“None of us,” said another. “I for one have had my purse taken.”
“I have had my wig snatched,” said a third.
To whip the top I spoke up for the first time that evening, describing how I myself had been the victim of an attempted robbery earlier in the year when returning from that very steak house. The company listened attentively and responded with interest. Someone said that assaults of this kind might be common enough in St. Giles, a notoriously dangerous area—but that it was a different matter when they took place in Margaret Street. Another observed that I had been able to defend myself because I was a well-made young fellow. What hope would there be for an older man? I hazarded a comment to the effect that Ogden, so near his own home, had been the victim of an unlucky chance.
The bony man who commonly dominated the club’s proceedings responded to this mild suggestion with unexpected vigor:
“Pardon me, young gentleman, but I think otherwise. I have lived my life in this town and believe I can claim to know something of its ways. I say there was more than chance at work in the attack on Mr. Ogden.”
This bold claim having secured respectful silence, the bony one proceeded, in weighty, deliberative style:
“Here we have a wealthy man, a diamond merchant, who does dealings abroad. On the day he disappears, he breaks off a journey to return to London. Why, unless to keep an appointment? Instead of going to his home, he is seen at his office. Why, if not to pick up some diamonds? And that very night he is done away with. There are sinister figures at work here. It is all too easy to lay the blame on some unknown ruffian. I smell an intended business transaction that ended in robbery and cost Mr. Ogden his life.”
The fool concluded with a triumphant air that clearly impressed most of his audience: there were knowing nods all round. However, a thin gentleman with a yellow face intervened more knowingly still:
“Our friend here states his opinion, based on speculation. I can do a little better than that. I have talked with someone who once worked with this Ogden and could claim to know his tastes. It appears”—he lowered his voice—“that here was a man who preferred the company of men. For all that he was married, he was regularly seen at the Fountain, not two hundred yards from here, where such as he are known to foregather. To put the matter plainly, gentlemen, this Ogden was a backgammon player—a sodomite. He came back secretly to London for a night of pleasure with his own kind—but these companions did away with him for the sake of his money.”
Since no evidence was produced in support of this imaginative hypothesis, it provided no grounds for dispute. It had additional authority as implying familiarity with the workings of a sinister underworld. The bony man was eclipsed, and the sodomitical solution carried the day. Heads that had previously nodded were now shaken in moral deprecation. There was a feeling that, after all, the goatish Ogden had fared no worse than his sins deserved.
As I walked home I felt unexpectedly reassured by all this nonsense. It seemed to confirm that Ogden’s death was now securely accepted, explained and done with, digested by public discourse. The fanciful conjectures I had heard were like so many leaves beginning to cover his nonexistent grave.
Perhaps because warmed with wine, I was seized by a sudden sense of superiority. The members of the Conversation Club, complacently prattling, were pitiful bystanders, the idle chorus of a play. Fittingly enough, none of them had for a moment supposed that they were in the presence of a protagonist.
Dear Mr. Fenwick,
I do not know in what terms to reply to your letter. My predicament is so singular and so distressing that perhaps no appropriate terms exist. I inhabit a dark dream, the normal pleasures and processes of life having been all at once suspended. A month ago, although beset by certain problems, I could be confidently myself: I occupied a certain position; I had it in my power to choose my course. Who or what am I today? I scarcely know. Probably, as it has lately come to appear, a widow. What is my future life to be? I cannot see so much as a week ahead, but grope forward from one day to another, hearing scraps of news, answering questions, receiving advice, signing documents.
Of the circumstances leading to my husband’s death I know nothing, or almost nothing, that you do not. His doings on that day and night remain a mystery to me. I have reflected upon them again and yet again, but to no purpose. Why Mr. Ogden should have cut short his journey, and why he should have been walking the London streets so late, on that night of all nights, I cannot guess. Such surmises as have come to my mind have served only to confuse and unsettle me further. I do know that my husband was a determined, fearless man. If threatened by a robber, he would not lightly submit. It may be that this courage proved to be his undoing.
Fortunately for me, all his business responsibilities would seem to have been assumed very capably by his associate, Mr. Gow, a quiet gentleman who has risen to this difficult occasion with resourcefulness and calm. He has been assiduous in looking after my interests, shielding me from importunate inquirers, and keeping me informed. At his suggestion I have also sought advice from a lawyer, Mr. Semple. He took me to see John Fielding, the magistrate, who explained the probabilities of the case with kindness and wisdom. You may rest assured that I have not been without assistance and protection during this difficult time. But I have nevertheless been subdued to a timorous half-life, passing nearly all my days within doors, in the company of my aunt.
After all, and for reasons you will understand, I have not been able to talk to any of these kind helpers with complete freedom. Largely for those same reasons I feel that I cannot speak with you as yet. There may come a time, however—perhaps at no distant date—when I will find it a relief to do so. In that case I will write to you again.
I remain, &c.
* *
*
My dear Richard,
I have read your letter concerning the unfortunate Ogden with close attention, as also a number of newspaper reports. This is a strange tale indeed, much talked about even in these parts because of the incidental involvement of Lord Downs. (The gentleman is faintly gratified, I fancy, by the temporary notoriety.)
My responses to the gradually unfolding news have resembled your own in being curiously compounded. Only in the past few days has the essential truth seemed to emerge: that an honest citizen was murdered for his money in a London street. A pitiful fate. One cannot but feel at the very least a formal sympathy for this unfortunate man. Yet certain aspects of the matter remain puzzling. Here, at a distance of more than a hundred miles from the events, I have heard fanciful explanations concerning Ogden’s return to London and his subsequent fate.
You and I, of course, have a peculiar and oblique interest in the matter of which others can know nothing. It is surely the case, as you suggest, that if you had been seen in Margaret Street on the night concerned, some embarrassing questions might have arisen. The uncomfortable truth is that we were plotting to do this gentleman a major disservice at the very moment when fate intervened to inflict a far greater one. Having contributed to bringing about Ogden’s proposed visit to Malvern, I feel disagreeably close to the events of that unfortunate night. The partly exculpatory consideration, as far as I am concerned, is that if Mr. Ogden had completed his journey to Malvern, he would today be alive and well.
I confess to finding the story disturbing in another sense, which could be accounted trivial, but to me is not. You will be aware of my interest in the workings of cause and effect. I am positively ill at ease with the unpredictable and the accidental. In the case of Ogden, we began and developed a story only to lose control of it through what seems to have been sheer chance. The narrative turned in our hands and became another tale altogether.
The Skull and the Nightingale Page 35