‘Things are what they are,’ Grace Toussaint had often told Dixon. ‘Never join anything. Don’t ask no questions. The world will still be here when you have left it behind. Those trees, these fields, will still be trees and fields.’ And later, as a student, he had seen a version of that thought expressed by savant Pascal in his revered Pensées. ‘All of man’s difficulties are caused by one single thing. His inability to be at ease in a room.’ And it wasn’t necessarily that Dixon disagreed, but what could be done with a thought like that? Could you look at a world where tongues were torn out, where human beings were branded like longhorns, stamped with the names of the savages who had bought them, and say it had nothing to do with you? The clothes on his back, the fine boots on his feet, the very volumes of philosophy in which equality was anatomised – all these had been bought with the proceeds of subjugation, the trust fund established by his slave-trading ancestors. ‘Clean money now,’ his grandfather would assert. But there was no clean money in a dirty world.
Even now he was in hock to dirty money. Journalism paid little, almost always late. His life in London had been expensive and profitless, and had been possible only because of his grandfather’s subsidising it. He had hoped for the ‘scoop’ that might give him his freedom, the story nobody else could tell; but in six long years it had never materialised. All that had come was further dependence. The plump registered envelopes with the Louisiana postmark. The wads of greasy dollars he had done nothing to earn. The letters from his grandfather so brimming with sympathy for the difficult life of the young man of letters. You have a talent, Grantley. You cannot hide your gift. Whatever else you do, you must keep writing. Never be discouraged. Do what you have to do. It is not a matter of the ends justifying the means: but of the creation of new means and new ends. The loathsome defensiveness haunting their lines. The furious guilt of duplicitous compromise. Now there was a way to escape it all.
Other thoughts were boiling like a poison in his mind and he wondered if this might be a good time to mention them. It would be more convenient in some ways to say nothing at all; to stand here in companionable stillness with another of your species and ask yourself what the other might be thinking, if anything, and into which category of stargazing he might be placed. But already Grantley Dixon knew the answer to that. All murderers must be unbelievers, no matter their denomination.
‘Do you know – your face seems very familiar, Mr Mulvey.’
Mulvey cocked his head in wonder, like a dog hearing an intruder, then gave a few small nods and brushed the ash from his lapel. ‘No doubt you’re afterseen me walkin about the ship, sir. I do dander around the ship the odd time at night. Thinkin me thoughts, like.’
‘No doubt. But you know, it’s the damnedest thing – the first time I noticed you, the night we left Liverpool, I thought I recognised you even then. I actually noted you down in my diary.’
‘I can’t comprehend how you’d reckon to that, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met before.’
‘It does seem a little odd, doesn’t it?’
‘They do-say every man has a double, sir. Maybe he does.’ He chuckled, as though the thought amused him. ‘Maybe me own is beyond in America, sir. Your own home place, sir. I might even meet him myself over there, God witling. And shake his hand. Do you think so, sir?’
‘Oh he isn’t in America. I think he’s in London.’
‘London, sir? Do you tell me? Isn’t that the livin wonder?’ He took a long drag on the dampened smoke, like a man who was about to be marched to the gallows and wanted to finish it before having to go. ‘But then again when you think –’ a longer drag and a deeper exhalation – ‘there’s queerer conundrums do go on in the world than are dreamed of in philosophy. As Shakespeare has it.’
‘Ever been there?’
‘Where’s that agin, sir?’
‘London. Whitechapel. Around the East End.’
A flake of tobacco had stuck to his tongue. It took him a while to pluck it loose. ‘No, sir, I wasn’t, I’m sorry to say. Woulden suppose I ever will be now. Belfast’s as far as I ever rambled from home.’
‘You’re sure?’
He laughed with unexpected lightness and gazed dreamily out at the darkness. ‘I’d say London’s one town a man’d remember been in, sir. I believe it’s a grand place entirely, so I’ve been told.’ He turned and looked directly into Dixon’s eyes. ‘They do-say it’s full of opportunity, sir. Isn’t that right? They do-say a feller might have himself all manner of sport in London.’
‘It’s just that for a man who’s never been to London, I can’t help but notice that you talk as if you had been.’
‘Beggin your indulgence, sir, but I don’t get your meanin.’
‘You see, for example – the way you just said the word “feller”. Most curious pronunciation for an Irishman, don’t you think? “Fellow” or “fella” is what you might expect.’
‘I coulden rightly say what Your Honour would expect, sir.’
‘And at dinner tonight you used a certain word which I couldn’t help noticing. “Costermonger”, I think it was. A London word for a street trader, isn’t that right?’
‘I don’t recollect myself ever spakin that word in the whole of me life, sir. Perhaps Your Honour heard me wrong, like. Or misunderstood me accent.’
‘Ah, but you did, Mr Mulvey. Let me help your memory. You don’t mind?’
‘If I minded, I’d not insult Your Honour by sayin I minded.’
Dixon took out his notebook and quietly read a few lines. ‘Tonight we dined with Mulvey from Connemara; whose speech patterns in particular I found most interesting, being peppered with colloquialisms clearly picked up in London. Among them: “Coster”. “Costermonger”. “Chum” for a friend.’
‘It must be a fierce burden for you, sir, writin everthin down.’
‘Habit of my profession, I suppose you could call it. I find I forget things if I don’t write them down.’
‘An honourable profession it is, too, sir: the writin profession. They do-say the pen is mightier than the sword.’
‘They do say that. I’m not certain it’s true.’
‘Tis a great blessin you’re afterbeen given, sir, all the same, sir. I wisht I had it meself. There’s many as wanted it but it’s given to few.’
‘What blessing is that?’
‘The gift you have for puttin a thing in English, sir. The tongue of the poets and Our Lord himself in the scriptures.’
‘I think you’ll find the Lord in question actually spoke Aramaic.’
‘To Your Honour, sir, maybe. To myself, he spoke English.’
‘Or perhaps he spoke cockney. Like the costermongers do.’
The Ghost laughed abruptly and shook his head. ‘I must of heard one of the sailorboys usin the word, sir. I could no more tell Your Honour what it means to save me life.’
‘Oh, your life hardly needs saving, Mr Mulvey. Not yet, at any rate.’
He blew very wearily and gave a brief frown of bafflement. ‘I’d be reline on yourself to explain that one to me, sir. You’ve a riddlish way of talkin betimes.’
‘When I first came to London, there was a case in the newspapers. It interested me a lot, I don’t know why. Case of a petty thief in Newgate Prison who murdered a guard and then escaped. You probably remember it. “Hall” was his name. Known as the Monster of Newgate.’
‘I don’t think I ever heard tell of the case you mention.’
‘No. You wouldn’t have. You were in Belfast at the time.’
‘That’s right, sir, I was. The sweet town on the Lagan.’
‘You don’t remember hearing about the case but you remember where you were when you didn’t hear about it.’
Mulvey looked at him coldly. ‘I spent a lot of time in Belfast.’
‘And I spent a lot of time in London.’
‘More luck to you, sir. Now I’ll bid you good-night.’
‘I was contributing to a newspaper in London at the time. The Morn
ing Chronicle. Liberal paper. Well I set myself the task of learning more about the famous Mr Hall. Went to the prison and studied the records. Talked to a few of the old lags in the dens up that end of town. Then down to the East End and rummaged around for a few weeks. Ran into a conversational gentleman by the name of McKnight. Scots gentleman. Something of a drunkard. Well, he says he used to work a dodge around Lambeth with an Irishman named either Murphy or Malvey. From Connemara, apparently. Place near Ardnagreevagh. Strangely enough, he went by the name of Hall.’
‘That must of been the right fascination to you, sir.’
‘Yes. He got seven years in Newgate – this Murphy or Malvey. Did I mention that already?’
‘There’s a good many Irish in that place, I’d say, sir. Poor Pat has it hard enough over in England.’
‘Not many were admitted on the same day as the Monster. The nineteenth of August, 1837. On the very same charges. Maybe even the same face.’
Dixon flipped open his reporter’s notebook and took out a dog-eared cutting. The holed newsprint was yellowed like a scrap of old lace, folded and creased too many times. Gently he opened it, so it wouldn’t blow away. A black border. Twenty-point type. The charcoal, monstrous glare of Frederick Hall: Murderer.
‘As you say,’ said Grantley Dixon. ‘Every man has his double.’
Mulvey blinked slowly but there was no visible sign that he was troubled. He never moved his hands from their resting point on the railing. They were small and white, like those of a girl. It was difficult to picture them doing what they had done. ‘What do you want?’ he muttered very quietly.
‘That might depend on what you want yourself.’
‘You would not like to hear what I want at this moment. It would give you a nightmare you might not forget.’
‘Perhaps we should tell the Captain there’s an assassin on his ship.’
‘Scuttle along to him, so. More luck if you do.’
‘You think I wouldn’t?’
‘I think a cringing whore like yourself would do anything in the world. And there’s all manner of things we could go telling the Captain. And other people, too, if you want them told.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Mulvey, I don’t get your meaning.’
He gave a brief, derisory snicker. ‘If one ship sinks, Buck, all ships can sink. I hope your Countess can swim as well as she rocks the boat.’
‘They don’t hang you for adultery, Mr Mulvey. They do for murder.’
‘Then get him if you’ve the guts. You know where I am.’ His eyes were gleaming with hatred as he grinned. ‘Run along, little boy. Before you get what’s coming.’
‘I mean you no harm.’
‘Get to Hell, you bitch’s melt. And suck my arse on your way. I’ve wiped better than you off the sole of my boot.’
‘I know about the guard. What you suffered at his hands.’
‘And you think what you’re doing now is different.’
‘I have no weapon.’
‘Only your pen.’
‘It doesn’t do quite the same damage as a rock smashing a face. But you can debate it with the judge at your trial if you like.’
Mulvey spat at his feet. Dixon went to walk away. The snap came after him, cold as a blade:
‘I’m after asking you already. What do you want?’
He came slowly back to his quarry and stood beside him.
‘I’m a reporter, Mr Mulvey. What I want is the story.’
The killer said nothing. His hands were in his pockets.
‘Your life in London. Why you did what you did. How precisely you escaped. Where exactly you went. Your name needn’t be included, but everything else. Otherwise I go to the Captain this minute.’
‘That’s the price nowadays. A story for a life?’
‘If you put it that way.’
‘And when we get to New York?’
‘I last saw you in Belfast eighteen months ago. They were putting you into your grave at the time. You gave me the interview a week before you died.’
The Captain appeared on the upperdeck, strolling with the cook. They seemed to be laughing as they looked up at the sails. He turned and gave a cheerful salute through a frail wisp of mist. Beckoning now. Waving them over.
‘Your decision, Mr Mulvey. Either way I get a story.’
‘Not Belfast,’ he murmured, and he pulled his coat tighter. ‘I’m buried in Galway. Beside my brother.’
Portside Near the Stern
— 3.15 a.m. —
‘What kind of man am I?’
‘A sick one, Merridith. That is all.’
‘An evil one, you mean. Lower than an animal.’
The surgeon touched Lord Kingscourt’s arm with professional gentleness. ‘One cannot see evil under the microscope. What one sees has a name. Morbus Gallicus. It isn’t a plague, and it isn’t a punishment. It does what we ourselves do every day.’
‘What is that?’
‘Everything it must, in order to survive.’
The flag flapped loudly and furled around the mast. Nearby, two aged beadswomen of steerage were hallowing the blessed glimmer of Coffin Island lighthouse:
Ave maris Stella, Dei Mater alma;
atque semper Virgo, felix caeli porta.
‘What can I expect?’
‘We divide syphilis into four distinct stages. You’re nearing the end of the third stage now. The late latent phase, we call it.’
Merridith tossed his cigar butt over the rail. ‘And that means?’
‘The thing will have lodged in your tissue by now. Lymph glands too. There may be ocular involvement. Uveitis. Vasculitis. Papilloedema.’
‘You can give it me straight. No flannel required.’
The surgeon sighed and looked at his hands as though he resented them. ‘You will almost certainly lose your sight. It will happen quite quickly. It is happening now.’
‘Go on.’
‘After invasion it tends to colonise and multiply quickly. You’ll develop gummatous lesions – sores – all about your skin. Also on your bones and vital organs. We think it infects the outermost substance of the arterial coat. Basically eats it away.’
‘Eats it, you say?’
‘In a metaphorical manner of speaking.’
‘And then?’
‘Lord Kingscourt – you are upset. Naturally this is distressing. Really I –’
‘I want to know, Mangan. I am quite prepared.’
‘Well then – the nervous or cardiovascular systems are attacked. In the former case there can be quite severe personality changes. Perhaps even GPI.’
‘What is that?’
‘General paralysis of the insane.’
A memory of his childhood loomed up like a spectre. A madwoman in Galway city, screeching and tearing her clothes, displaying herself to passers-by. His nanny, Mary Duane’s mother, had tried to shield him from the sight; had hustled him away across the muddied street. An inebriation of terror. Jam on his hands.
‘There is no treatment?’
‘We can do a very little to relieve the symptoms with mercury. Certainly we need you not to deteriorate before reaching New York. You must rest completely for the next forty-eight hours.’
‘What is in New York?’
‘A private hospice for people suffering from your condition. I can arrange for you to be admitted as soon as we disembark.’
‘A pox-house I believe such places are called.’
‘No matter what they are called, the sisters there are kindly. There is also speculation in some of the literature – only speculation, mind – of hopeful developments with a new thing: potassium iodide. But it’s a little way down the road. And the results are extremely inconclusive.’
‘So nothing else may be done?’
‘If it was primary stage or even secondary, we might try to fight. And we shall, of course. But the chances aren’t good.’
‘How long do you reckon I have? At worst?’
‘Perhaps six months. It m
ight be a year.’
Solve vincula reis, profer lumen caecis,
mala nostra pelle, bona cuncta posce.
A cresting wave threw a handful of yellow spray over the railing. Dense streaks of foam were smacking the barrier. He dried his eyes quickly with the back of his sleeve.
‘I should like to thank you for your courage, Mangan. Can’t be an easy thing. Situation like this.’
‘I am very sorry, sir. I wish I could offer more hope.’
‘No, no. Rather feel I should shake you by the hand. Not the executioner’s sin that he has to do his duty.’
‘May I ask if you’ve ever had a problem of this nature before, sir?’
Lord Kingscourt said nothing. The doctor spoke quietly.
‘I’m an old man, Merridith. I’m difficult to shock.’
‘When I was younger I contracted g-gonorrhoea.’ The word hung in the air like a floating stone.
The surgeon nodded and looked out far beyond the rails, as though he was trying to make out something moving in the darkness. ‘You frequented certain places, I expect?’
‘Once or twice. Many years ago.’
‘Mm. Of course, of course.’
‘Once while at Oxford. Night out with some fellows. Another time in the navy. A third time in London.’
‘We used to think gonorrhoea and syphilis were types of the same disorder. Blood relations, if you will. Now we know they’re not. Professor Ricord discovered the difference a few years ago now. In ’37 I believe. Rather brilliant Frenchman.’
‘What about my wife?’
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