Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

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 was 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.”

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.