“I invited you here for two reasons. One was to hear more about Ogden’s disappearance. It sounded to me a strange affair—and still does. The other was to consider future possibilities.”
This was more promising. I tried to sound conciliatory: “As to Mr. Ogden, sir, I do not think I have anything left to say. I know little more than I have read in the newspapers.”
“But that ‘little more’—it seemed to include some knowledge of the criminal underworld?”
I was inwardly cursing again: “A very little knowledge. Acquired at second hand.”
“You mentioned an individual who was familiar with Knott’s Market.”
There was no time for invention: “That was Francis Pike, Mr. Crocker’s man.”
Thanks to that damned swelling, I could barely pronounce the name Francis. My godfather coughed hoarsely once more, but then smiled.
“This is a queer business,” he said in a cracked voice. “We both have our difficulties in speaking.”
He dabbed the handkerchief to his watering eyes. “Did that swollen tongue discommode you in the London salons?”
“No, sir. The damage was done on the journey to Fork Hill.”
“Of course, of course.” He shook his head as though irritated with himself, and succumbed to a shuddering sigh. “I have been anxious to talk with you, Richard, but our conversation comes too soon. This illness clouds my thinking. I am not myself. It is unspeakably vexing. I find I am speaking thoughtlessly.”
“Let me leave you to rest, sir,” I said, rising.
Mr. Gilbert raised a hand but lowered it again, too weary to shape a gesture.
“You are kind,” he said. “A day or two more, and perhaps we will try again. But perhaps”—he broke off, panting—“perhaps we both need a respite. It may be too soon to discuss new projects before this affair of the Ogdens has been fully digested.”
“I will be guided by your wishes, sir.”
Bowing, I turned away, but could see that he had settled back under his blanket even before I left the room.
I passed the rest of that day in the library, sometimes idly glancing at a book, sometimes staring out at the wet garden, but with my mind always occupied with what had passed between me and my godfather. My thoughts were as cheerless as the weather. Plainly Gilbert entertained doubts and suspicions concerning Ogden’s fate. How serious were they? How far would he pursue them? After all, he knew more about the affair—even if it was but a single word more—than had been reported in the London Chronicle. If he picked and picked away at the matter, might he uncover the truth of it?
I tried to reassure myself that he could not. I alone knew the full truth: as long as I kept my nerve and my counsel, I would be safe. There was Pike—and I cursed myself for having let slip his name—but he would remain silent and invisible, having his own skin to save. What had caused my godfather’s qualms? Two circumstances only: the mighty coincidence that Ogden should have died on the very night when I had planned an assignation with his wife, and the single, and obliterated, word domestic. As to the latter, I could, at need, suggest that Ogden had originally included it almost at random—for example because he had not wished to imply that he considered some other professional task more important than his appointment with Lord Downs. As to the former: well, coincidences were a matter of common experience. It occurred to me also that I could mention the hypotheses advanced at the Conversation Club. Fanciful though they were, either should seem a more persuasive possibility than that the urbane young man who quoted them was guilty of manslaughter.
With such arguments I gradually calmed myself, but it remained true that I had done a bad morning’s work. My hopes of reaching some new settlement with my godfather now seemed remote. I had been guilty of misjudgment, been too aggressive. Rather than challenge him, I should now further ingratiate myself, become a still closer confidant. When my godfather showed signs of recovery, I might attempt overtures of this sort; but I could not tell how long I might have to wait. The following morning I learned that he was once more confined to his room. I resolved to allow him three further days before leaving for London.
Meanwhile there was empty time to fill. The rain had ceased and the skies were clear. I thought of riding into the village to chat with Thorpe, but decided that I felt a little too vulnerable at present. Once more I lingered in the library, restless and discontented, running again and yet again through the whole sequence of thoughts that had troubled me the previous day, and getting no more satisfaction from them.
In the afternoon the sun began to shine quite brightly, drawing a faintly visible steam from the moist ground. I went out across the wet grass on my habitual walk to the edge of my godfather’s estate. Its aspect was quite changed. In the few days since I had arrived at Fork Hill, autumn had conclusively supplanted the last of the summer. The echoing birdcalls sounded melancholy now. There was a scent of vegetable decomposition in the air. When I reached the woods I perceived how the fallen leaves, flattened by rain, had formed a dank carpet, soon to become an earthlike substance. This was the season of decay and change. In my imagination I saw Ogden’s body, deep beneath foul water, resolving itself similarly into mud. Yet, after all, my mood was tranquil: such transformations were the way of the world. One day my own turn would come, but not yet, not yet . . .
As I walked on through the trees, musing in this vein, my foot slithered on a stone, almost throwing me over. Again I bit my swollen tongue, and again I swore. I sat down on a fallen trunk till the bitter pang should have passed.
It was exactly in that moment, as I was squatting on damp bark, with my face caught in a grimace, that a chance recollection, and then a chance connection, showed me, with the clarity of a lightning flash, the truth of my situation. In that single second I knew conclusively that I had been deceived, that my high hopes had been the merest delusion. The shock was so sudden, and so great, as to resemble a physical blow. I stood again and gasped for air. In a few seconds of further thought I had interpreted my past afresh and expunged my imagined future.
The new understanding seemed to disconnect me from my surroundings. I looked about me, quite at a loss. It seemed that I had no reason to be where I was, or to be anywhere else—no reason to go forward or to go back. Mere instinct led me to plunge deeper into the wet woodland, my movements mechanical, my mind empty. I came confusedly to myself as I saw someone standing in front of me and heard a voice saying: “Mr. Fenwick, you look pale. Are you unwell?”
It was Mrs. Hurlock. Of course it was Mrs. Hurlock. This was where we had met before: she must have been looking for me.
I could think of nothing to say. Here we stood amid misty autumn woods, two pitiable creatures. She was looking at me, concerned. Something was expected of me, but my mind was empty. Without a word, without a thought, I seized this plump lady and threw her down upon the wet leaves. I was kissing her throat, laying bare her big breasts, throwing back her clothes, forcing apart her thighs. In a moment I was thrusting myself again and again into her body, as I would have done at that moment had she been a child, a grandmother, or a sheep. I think I must have shocked or hurt her, for she scratched my face as I spent with a long animal howl that reverberated among the dripping trees.
I do not recollect quite how it came about, but afterward I burst into tears, sobbing on and on like a child. My breeches, smeared with mud, were still unfastened and my wig had fallen off. Mrs. Hurlock, whose dress had been torn aside, held me to her naked bosom, kissing my face, stroking my hair, and murmuring endearments. She seemed to interpret my wild grief as relating to herself, a wordless outburst of impassioned feeling. Having despised and abused and deceived her, I could hardly begrudge her the mistake.
After some few minutes, when I had sniveled myself to silence, I pulled away with some incoherent mumblings and a last peck upon her cheek, and stumbled off toward Fork Hill House. As I entered, mud-stained and distracted,
I encountered the physician who was leaving. I cannot think what he made of my red eyes or the damp leaves clinging to my clothes. He told me, with professional decorum, that Mr. Gilbert was still seriously, though not dangerously, unwell, and should keep to his bed for several days.
The following morning I wrote my godfather a brief message of sympathy and farewell, and set out once more for London.
Chapter 27
The latter half of my return journey was obscured by autumn mist. In London, where these vapors were thickened with city smoke, the streets through which we clattered were so many dusky caverns. The circumstance was apt: I felt suffocated by uncertainty, unable to discern what the future might hold.
Arriving at Cathcart Street chilled and stiff, I found some comfort in the friendly greeting from Mrs. Deacon and more from the fire that had been lit in my parlor. I sat beside it sipping tea and wondering how to pass the days ahead. There was now no intrigue to pursue, nor had I any incentive to seek out odd sights. My single plan was to talk with Matt Cullen, find out from him whether there had been further news concerning Ogden, and discuss my changed situation.
Lingering discomfort from the journey caused me to retire early and to wake late. The house was as thickly muffled by mist as on the previous day. I sat by the fire once more, scarcely capable of thought—still less of useful action. There came relief of a sort when the maid brought a letter, newly delivered:
Dear Mr. Fenwick,
My aunt and I have decided to withdraw to York for a time. I am in need of respite, since I remain greatly distressed and confused by recent events. Mr. Gow and Mr. Semple have been empowered to take charge of all business and legal matters during my absence, and will keep me informed concerning them.
You will yet again think me inconsistent, but I have concluded that, after all, I would like to see you before I go, should that be possible. There are certain topics which I can discuss with you alone. We leave very shortly. If you are free to call today or tomorrow, I will be most grateful. You will find me at my aunt’s house.
Yours, &c.
Blank as I was feeling, I stirred myself and went that very afternoon—went on foot, wearing a low hat and a long kersey coat to hold off the wetness in the air. The gloom of the weather had subdued the life of the streets: I strode along unhindered. As I neared Mrs. Kinsey’s house I felt a renewed tingling of nervous recollection. I took a deep breath before knocking at the door.
It was Mrs. Kinsey whom I first encountered. As ever she greeted me warmly, but she looked weary, and to my discomfiture I saw a tear on her cheek. She brushed it aside and recovered herself, saying: “I know you will excuse me, Mr. Fenwick. I have a heavy heart. How sadly things fall out.”
“I hear you are to travel to York.”
“It was my suggestion. Sarah has been very sorely tried. We can stay with the Martins, very quietly, away from the questions and the gossip.”
“This has been a hard time for you both.”
“A very hard time. Poor Mr. Ogden. I used to laugh at him, but he was a generous man. He bought me this house.”
As she spoke I followed her glance and saw on the wall to one side of me a portrait of Ogden that I had not previously noticed. It was an unwelcome shock to confront again the heavy, inexpressive face of the man I had last seen lying dead in the mud. I looked away, but remained conscious of his gaze.
Mrs. Kinsey retired, with a few murmured words, when her niece entered. Dressed in black, finely erect, her face pale, Sarah could have been a tragic heroine.
“I see you are in mourning,” I said awkwardly.
“I have been for several days—since I was assured that there could be no hope.”
We sat facing each other, and I waited for her to speak. A week or two earlier such a meeting would have filled me with trepidation. I had imagined being stricken with a guilt which would make it hard for me to speak—let alone to lie. But in my new frame of mind I felt detached almost to the point of indifference.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I did. Before leaving London, I wished to know what you could tell me about that—that fatal night.”
“There is little to tell.” I made a show of recollection: “It was a dark night—and cloudy. I reached Margaret Street about midnight, and saw the watch pass by. When they had gone I came to the house and found your note. I read it under a lamp nearby. Having no means of immediate reply, I made my way home. I recall that it began to rain.”
“You saw no one else?”
“No one.”
Perhaps my newfound unconcern helped me to speak with conviction. In my mind I saw the scenes I was describing more clearly than I had ever cared to remember the actuality. Sarah sat silent, taking in what she had heard. At last she said:
“It seems that there is nothing more for me to learn. I can hardly bear to think of that night, still less to talk about it, but it seems so strange that Mr. Ogden should have returned as he did unless—unless he had some suspicion of a plan known only to you and me.”
I asked the question that had long been in my mind: “What passed between you before he left for Malvern?”
“Almost nothing. But one moment I remember well. When about to go, he returned to the bedroom—I think to say good-bye—and saw me smiling into a mirror. He said, ‘You look happy,’ and turned away. Those were his last words to me.”
I was once more aware of Ogden’s face looking down at us.
“Was that why you wrote to me as you did?”
“Perhaps. Partly.”
“It was as well that you did so.”
“It was. Otherwise my plight would have been insupportable.”
Her sadness would have saddened me at any time. In the light of my new understanding it stirred in me a sense of utter dreariness and futility. I could think of nothing to say that seemed worth saying. It was left to Sarah to speak again, looking me in the eyes as she did so:
“You and I can be candid with one another—and with no one else. Our lives have been linked.”
“They have. What do you now feel concerning your husband?”
Sarah spoke in a low voice: “What I feel is guilt and pity, rather than grief. And therefore further guilt. I respected him and was grateful to him. But he was hard to love. Perhaps no one ever loved him. Then he was killed. That was a sad life.”
I bowed my head in sober assent, but my thoughts were drifting elsewhere. I had been reminded of my interview with Mrs. Quentin.
“What will you do in York?”
“I hardly know. Read and sleep and walk and think.”
“A quiet life.”
“A very quiet life. It is all I am fit for at present.”
She sat with clasped hands and lowered eyes. As I looked at her I could sense Ogden’s painted eyes staring at my profile. I wondered whether she would take the portrait with her to York or whether it would stay here presiding over an empty house.
Sarah rallied a little:
“But you will be in town still, merrymaking on your godfather’s behalf ?”
“I think not.”
“Why?”
“The link between us has been severed.”
Sarah looked up, surprised into attention.
“Can you tell me more?”
“Not at this time.”
“But what will you do?”
“I must seek employment of some kind.”
There was a further silence. We had each made a statement that led to a closed door. It remained only for us to exchange formal farewells. I glanced again at the woman I had widowed and saw that her cheeks were now faintly flushed. As when clasping Mrs.Hurlock a few days previously, I could have wept from pure desolation. Getting to my feet, I said: “I must take my leave. When do you leave for York?”
“On Monday next.”
“Will
you write to me?”
“Perhaps. I cannot promise.”
I kissed her cool fingers and left.
Matt Cullen called the following day. He entered with the large grin which meant that he had something entertaining to impart.
“I bring you news that will surprise you.”
“Will it please me?”
“Not necessarily. But it may amuse you. Miss Kitty Brindley is now Mrs. Horn. Not content with being her protector, Nick quietly married her last week. What do you say, Dick? Your face is a study.”
“I was fond of the girl. Nick is a mad young dog, but sentimental. They may both have made a lucky choice. Will she continue on the stage?”
“Most certainly. Nick will be luminous with reflected glory.”
“Perhaps that is better than none. Nick is the first of our band to tie the knot. Will you be asking for the hand of your servant girl?”
“That is not the part I covet. Besides, she saves the money I give her toward marriage with a young lobcock named Barnabas. We are adjuncts, Dick, you and I. We promote the nuptials of others.”
We both laughed, he the more heartily of the two. I broached a bottle of wine and asked if there had been further reports of any kind concerning Ogden. He told me there had not. He had it from Gow that two men had come forward claiming to have vital knowledge, but had proved to be chucklehead reward seekers who knew nothing at all. The affair was as good as closed.
In turn he asked about my visit to Fork Hill, and listened with his usual smiling attention as I spoke of my godfather’s illness and the frustration it had caused him.
“That does not surprise me,” said Matt. “There is a man who cannot bear to feel the clarity of his mind clouded by the weakness of his body.”
The Skull and the Nightingale Page 37