The Somnambulist: A Novel

by Jonathan Barnes

  “They may not let you. They have strict rules here about that sort of thing.”

  “I’m sure Meyrick can make the necessary arrangements. He’s awfully good at organizing these things.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask — how did you and Owsley meet?”

  “He came to me, sought me out, to offer his services — said he’d been transformed by what I’d done. He’s — dare I say it? — an admirer of mine.” Barabbas glanced suspiciously at his guests. “Surely you’re not jealous?”

  “I wouldn’t trust a man like that.”

  “You trusted me,” Barabbas snapped. “Now what do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  A sneer stretched itself across his suety face. “I knew you’d come back.”

  “You spoke of a plot against the city, of a guiding hand behind the murders. You knew about the fire at the theatre.”

  “You want to ask me how I came to know such things?”

  “If it’s no trouble,” Moon said lightly.

  “Magic,” Barabbas replied, and laughed.

  Moon tried not to rise to the bait. “When was the last time you saw the albino?”

  Loathing clouded the prisoner’s face. “Not for an age. You still blame him?”

  “I blame him for your corruption, yes.”

  Barabbas sounded thoughtful, like a dictionary editor searching for the perfect, the Platonic, definition of a word. “I don’t think ‘corruption’ is right. He bored me by the end. But I had been introduced to a new world — one above morality, where all experience and sensation were mine for the taking. I drank deep, explored the outer reaches of transgression. The only truly sinful act left to me was murder. What I did in that room in Cleveland Street, Edward, it was the high-water mark of my existence — nothing before or since has measured up. It was the death of my old self, the birth of Barabbas.”

  “That’s history,” Moon insisted. “I came to talk about the future.”

  “You may have a future. I do not. Nonetheless I have some small compensation.”

  “What?”

  Barabbas whispered: “In the end I was glad it was you who caught me.”

  Moon sighed. “You were a worthy opponent. The last worthy opponent. Ever since, I’ve been beset by minnows. Unpersuasive confidence men, murderers who can’t shoot straight, would-be bank robbers who burrow into sewers.”

  Barabbas grinned. “I heard about him.”

  “I wish I could remember his name,” Moons said, allowing himself to become distracted. “I don’t suppose you…?”

  Barabbas gave a desultory inclination of his head. “You saw Mrs. Bagshaw?”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s a fraud,” Charlotte said sternly.

  “Ah, but then you would say that, as a loyal devotee of the Vigilance Committee. I’d expect nothing less. I must say, Edward, that you ignore the Madame’s warnings at your peril.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “It’s close now,” the killer said quietly. “Four days. The disappearances start soon.”

  “You know, don’t you?” Moon sounded as though he hadn’t quite believed it before. “You really know what’s going on?”

  Barabbas laughed. “Lean closer,” he said, and Moon scrambled across to where he lay. The fat man spoke quickly. “Naturally, I was approached. They needed someone like me. P’raps I should be flattered. They’ve great plans for us all, Edward. They’re engineers. They want to change the world.”

  He was interrupted by the ostentatious rattle of a key in the lock. The door swung open and Owsley appeared at the mouth of the cell. “Time’s up. Visiting hours are over.”

  “Visiting hours?” Barabbas protested.

  Owsley ignored his master and favored Moon with a glacial stare. “You have to go.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “Leave at once or I shall alert the prison authorities.”

  Quickly, Barabbas rummaged around in his stash of beauty for a few moments and pulled out a slim book. “You brought me a present,” he said, at which Owsley shot Moon a look of barely controlled fury. “I’d like you to take this in return.”

  Moon was surprised. “What is it?”

  “The Lyrical Ballads by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth.” He sounded like a provincial schoolmaster introducing the poetry of the last century to a class wary and suspicious of verse. “It’s been my most constant companion here. A beacon in this abyss. It opened my eyes, Edward. As I hope it will open yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Edward?” Barabbas tapped the book’s cover. “Ask him. Ask the poet.”

  “Poet?” Moon snapped. “What poet?”

  Barabbas giggled, then pointed toward one of the names on the front of his book, chuckling to himself as if this were the punch line to a joke of which only he knew the beginning.

  “Coleridge?” Moon snapped. “Why should I be interested in Coleridge? The man’s been dead for sixty years.”

  This time Barabbas’s smile was positively demonic. “Oh, Edward,” he cooed. “You have so much to look forward to.”

  With that, he lurched toward Charlotte and planted a slobbering kiss on her cheek. She writhed away in disgust and the prisoner transferred his attentions to the conjuror, who did not pull away but allowed the captive to kiss him on that secret, intimate space behind the ear just between flesh and hair. The killer whispered something, and for a moment both men seemed unutterably distraught, their sorrow lacerating, acute, grief beyond words. Charlotte even found herself wondering whether they might not be about to fall into one another’s arms.

  It was Owsley, of course, who broke the spell. “You have to go,” he insisted. Later, Edward was to remark that the man had sounded almost scared.

  Barabbas wailed in anguish at their departure but the Moons filed out in sober silence.

  Once the door was safely locked behind them and the monster returned to the blackness of his cell, Owsley, sounding smug and not a little officious, said: “Thank you for your cooperation. I trust you shan’t be troubling us again.”

  Edward Moon began to complain but Owsley strode away, the plait of hair dangling limply at the rear of his egg-bald scalp flapping absurdly as he walked.

  Charlotte and her brother were relieved to leave Newgate behind them and start back toward the hotel. They walked for some time before either of them spoke.

  “He wasn’t how you expected?” the brother asked.

  “I knew he’d changed. I know what he did. I thought I’d see something evil. But I felt sorry for him. And you? Have you forgiven him?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Moon replied tonelessly.

  “You were friends.”

  “It’s not him I blame.”

  “He has to bear some responsibility.”

  No reply.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “Crass of me.”

  Still nothing.

  “Have you… have you tried appealing to his better nature? Called him by his old name?”

  “You heard what he said.”

  “Seems Skimpole’s washed his hands of him.”

  “Of course. He can’t be seen to be responsible for aberrations like that.”

  “Do you think he knows something?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “What was the significance of the book? Seemed a pretty rum sort of gift.”

  “I think he’s given us a clue. Where it will lead, I’m not sure.”

  “May I see?”

  Moon passed her the book and Charlotte flicked it open. “There’s an inscription,” she said. “ ‘To my dear Gillman, with profound gratitude and love.’ It’s signed ‘STC’.”

  “Good grief,” murmured Moon. “Must be his own copy. Worth a small fortune.”

  “What does that mean? Why’s he given it to you?”

  “If only Owsley hadn’t interrupted. I’m sure he wa
s about to tell us something significant. He said he was approached. Mentioned disappearances. ‘Ask the poet,’ he said… Why doesn’t any of this make sense?”

  “Edward,” Charlotte said ruefully, “if you can’t make sense of it, I’m not sure anyone can.”

  “I’m glad you’ve come back,” Moon said, then added tentatively: “Will you stay?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  Before he could reply they reached the hotel where an old friend stood waiting.

  “Mr. Moon!”

  The conjuror managed a polite smile. He gestured toward the uninvited guest. “Charlotte. This is Speight. A friend from the theatre. A former tenant, you might say.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  The tramp blinked and tried a bleary bow. “Pleasure’s all mine.” He took Charlotte’s hand, kissed it, and the lady, unlike in her encounter with the Fiend of Newgate, had the good graces not to flinch.

  She noticed a heavy wooden placard propped up raggedly beside him.

  SURELY I AM COMING SOON

  REVELATION 22:20

  “What brings you here?” Moon asked, as politely as he was able, discreetly reaching for his wallet.

  “I came to thank you,” Speight interrupted. “There’s not many men as would have tolerated me the way you did.”

  Moon looked surprised. “It was my pleasure.”

  “I’m going away now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m needed. The suits have come for me.”

  “You mean you’ve found a home? Someone who’ll take care of you?”

  Speight thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said, sounding surprised at his own answer. “S’pose I have.”

  “Well, it’s been good seeing you again…” Moon began and made for the entrance of the hotel.

  “I’ve come to give you this.” Speight reached for the board and thrust it toward him. “Here. It’s yours.”

  “What?” Moon asked, but it was too late. Speight had pushed the placard into his hands and walked away.

  “Thank you,” he shouted again. “Thank you!”

  Moon shook his head in bemusement. “What the devil will I do with this?”

  “I like your friends,” Charlotte said playfully as they walked inside. “They’re… unusual.”

  They went directly to Moon’s suite where Mrs. Grossmith was waiting for them, her gangly beau by her side.

  “There’s a visitor here to see you,” she said. “He’s been waiting for almost an hour.”

  “I’ve just seen him,” Moon said briskly. “Mr. Speight, yes?”

  Mrs. Grossmith sniffed. “I wouldn’t let that one in if he tried. No, this is quite another class of gentleman. The inspector.”

  Moon turned to his sister. “What were you saying about my friends?” he asked, and, as if on cue, Merryweather barreled into the room, accompanied by peals of laughter, the kind one usually hears only upon feeding pennies into seaside mannequins. The Somnambulist strolled beside him; both men had half-empty glasses of milk in their hands.

  “Well, well,” the inspector said, once the handshakes and introductions were over, “this is an improvement on your old lodgings and no mistake.”

  “I loathe it,” Moon said evenly.

  “What’s that sign you’re carrying? Looks familiar.”

  “I doubt it’s important.” Moon propped the placard up beside the door. “So, is this purely a social call?”

  “No such luck,” the inspector said ruefully. “You remember the Honeyman case?”

  “Of course.”

  “Seems I owe you an apology. You were right, Mr. Moon, and I was wrong. It’s not quite as finished as I’d thought.”

  Moon was suddenly alert. “What’s happened?”

  “The boy’s mother…”

  “Tell me.”

  Merryweather cleared his throat. “It’s Mrs. Honeyman,” he said. “She’s disappeared.”

  Chapter 13

  Mrs. Grossmith bent over the kitchen sink and busied herself with the final dishes of the day, soapsuds swilling greasily about her wrists. With uncharacteristic stealth, Arthur Barge crept in behind her and nestled himself snugly against her amply proportioned frame. Silently he stroked her sagging cheeks, smoothed away a stray strand of iron-gray hair and entwined his wrinkled hands with hers. She said nothing but he could feel her beneath him, trembling and pulsating with secret pleasure. Awkward, graceless, out of practice from years of bachelorhood, he tried to maneuver his mouth around to meet hers. Grossmith made a perfunctory effort to shoo him away, muttering something about the washing-up, but soon allowed herself to be silenced by his ardor, his lips, his plunging, delving tongue.

  Hesitant at first, wary, but growing in confidence and vigor, they came blissfully together. Locked in an embrace, they kissed long and hard, resembling two antediluvian lizards mating for the final time on the blasted plains of primeval Africa.

  This at least was the colorful image which sprang unbidden to the mind of Charlotte Moon as she stood and watched them from the doorway. She cleared her throat as noisily as she could and, like characters in a farce, the couple sprang apart. Bashful and flustered, Mrs. Grossmith’s cheeks flamed a hectic shade of red, but Barge just stood there dumbly, a smirk flickering across his face, like a schoolboy whose embarrassment is mostly feigned, a child perversely proud to be discovered in the midst of impropriety.

  “Mrs. Grossmith,” Charlotte said icily. “So sorry to interrupt.”

  “Forgive me, miss.” The housekeeper smoothed down her skirt and fumbled an awkward curtsey. “I thought you’d gone out, with your brother and the policeman.”

  Charlotte ignored the question. “Why are you washing dishes? Surely that’s up to the hotel staff?”

  “Mr. Moon is my responsibility. I like to look after him the best I can.”

  Charlotte passed her a folded slip of paper. “Will you make sure my brother gets this?”

  “You’re leaving us?” The housekeeper didn’t sound especially disappointed at the prospect. “Can’t you stay an hour or so? Mr. Moon will be back soon and I’m sure he’d like to say goodbye himself.”

  “It’s best I go now.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Quite.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Mrs. Grossmith paused uncertainly. “In all the years I have been in his employ, he has never once mentioned you. I don’t mean to pry but—”

  “You want to know why?”

  “Suppose I do.”

  “My brother and I have an unusual relationship. If we spend too long together, things have a habit of happening around us. The kind of things one would prefer not to happen, if you understand me.”

  “No, dear. Frankly, I don’t.”

  “Believe me, it’s for the best we stay apart.” Charlotte turned toward the door. “Goodbye, Mrs. Grossmith. Mr. Barge.”

  Arthur gave a gawky wave of farewell and Charlotte stalked from the room.

  “Strange little girl, isn’t she?”

  “Can’t say as I noticed,” Barge said. “I was looking at the other lady in the room. The one that has my heart.” He reached out to touch her but Grossmith brushed him firmly aside.

  “Later,” she said, stowing Charlotte’s message discreetly in the sleeve of her pinafore. “There’s plenty more pots need scrubbing before bedtime.”

  Mr. Honeyman was almost exactly as Moon remembered him — a stubborn, gray-skinned man, permanently harassed. He seemed rather bolder on this occasion, due perhaps to the absence of the gorgon who passed as his wife.

  Moon and Merryweather had barely been ushered in before the man started to complain: “I believe I insisted on seeing an official investigator,” he barked, glaring at Moon.

  Merryweather did his best to placate him. “I can vouch for his trustworthiness, sir. He’s helped me out on more occasions than I care to remember and I don’t mind admitting there’s a goodly number of villains behind bars today who’
d still be out and fancy free if it weren’t for his assistance.”

  “Is that so?” Honeyman snapped sarcastically. “I haven’t allowed you into my home, Inspector, so you can stand here and eulogize this amateur. Besides, my understanding is that since that deplorable incident in Clapham, Mr. Moon is no longer considered quite as infallible as he once was.”

  “My apologies,” the inspector said gently and changed the subject. “I’ve no wish to hurry you, sir, but could you tell us a little more about the circumstances of your wife’s disappearance? Try to remember as much as you can. Anything might prove important. What may seem an insignificant detail to you, sir, could be a vital clue to the trained eye of a policeman.”

  “I woke early in the morning,” the man said stiffly, “at around six, as is my habit. Often walk the grounds, you understand. Admire my fish. And she’d gone. It was as simple as that. Taken a suitcase with her and just upped stumps. None of the servants saw her go.”

  “You think she chose to leave?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “The suitcase would seem to rule out abduction. Don’t you think so, Mr. Moon?”

  The conjuror yawned, bored by the predictable plod of police procedure.

  “Mr. Honeyman,” Merryweather persisted, “do you have any idea where your wife might have gone?”

  “None. Her whole life was here. I’m worried she might have done something… unnecessary.”

  “You’ll forgive me,” Moon said acerbically, “but when I last met your wife she hardly struck me as the kind of woman predisposed to self-harm. Neither did she appear noticeably bereaved. She behaved more as if she was profoundly relieved at being rid of some irritating encumbrance.”

  Honeyman turned to the inspector. “This is intolerable. Am I expected to stand in my own home and allow myself to be insulted by this rank amateur?”

  “Believe me,” Moon pressed on, “your wife was not in mourning.”

  “Can you tell us, sir,” Merryweather said, his voice almost comical in its excessive deference, “had your wife been behaving strangely at all before she vanished? Had she done anything unusual or out of character?”

  “She been particularly involved in her church work of late. She’s a great philanthropist, you see. Most devout.”