Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

With a sigh, I laid the letter on my work-table. I had nothing to say in reply, and there it would remain, unanswered. Even if I had still possessed the proof of my identity that had been taken from me, through the perfidy of Miss Carteret, I would have been unwilling to request Mr Tredgold to intercede with Lord Tansor on my behalf. I saw only too clearly that the risk of catastrophe for the firm, and of professional opprobrium and scandal for him, would have been too great; and I would not for the world, not even to regain everything I had lost, have asked him to betray the woman he loved. Now it was too late. The proof had been destroyed, and there was no help left. Feeling a sudden, crushing oppression of spirits, I retired to my bed.

I awoke suddenly, at a little before midnight. For two nights past, I had experienced that most fearful dream of mine, in which I find myself alone in the midst of a vast columned chamber in the depths of the earth, my flickering candle revealing nothing but Stygian darkness without end on every side; but then, as always, I realize – with suffocating terror – that I am not alone, as I had believed. Maddened with fear, I await each time the expected soft pressure on the shoulder, and the little stream of warm breath, caressing my cheek as it extinguishes the candle’s flame.

I could not face it a third time, and so I got up and tried to light the fire in my sitting-room, but it would not draw and soon puttered out. Wrapped in a blanket against the cold, I took up the third volume of the Bibliotheca Duportiana , and sat before the dreary blank mouth of the fireplace.

I had reached the letter ‘N’: Nabbes’s Microcosmus: A morall maske (1637); the works of Thomas Nashe; Pynson’s Natura Brevium of 1494; Fridericus Nausea’s Of all Blasing Starres in Generall , published in English by Woodcocke in 1577; Netter’s Sacramentalia (Paris, François Regnault, 1523). *I lingered for a moment over Dr Daunt’s description of this rare work of doctrinal theology – an exceptionally rare work; a most improbable work for a solicitor’s clerk, on eighty pounds a year, to possess.

At eight o’clock the next morning I was standing at the top of the stairs, listening. At last I heard it: the sound of Fordyce Jukes’s door closing behind him. Once at the bottom, I lingered for a moment or two, smelling the cold damp air coming in from the street. The door was locked, as I expected, but I had come prepared with a large selection of skeleton keys, acquired during the course of my work for Mr Tredgold, and soon gained entry.

The apartment was as I remembered it from my last uninvited visit: neat and comfortable, swept and polished, and containing an extraordinary number of fine and valuable objects. But only one of them interested me at that moment.

The lock of the cabinet presented no difficulty. I reached in and took out what I sought: Thomas Netter, Sacramentalia – folio, Paris, Regnault, 1523. It bore the same bookplate as that of the first edition of Felltham’s Resolves , secreted by Miss Eames in Lady Tansor’s burial chamber. There were a dozen or so other books of rare quality in the cabinet. They all carried the same plate. The books; the paintings and prints on the walls; the objets in the cabinets – all of the first quality, all portable, and all undoubtedly stolen from Evenwood. I carefully replaced the book, re-locked the cabinet, and then the stair-case door.

This, then, had been Daunt’s ‘new tack’, as revealed to me by Pettingale. Like the despicable ingrate that he was, he had removed these rare and exceedingly valuable items from his patron’s house, and had stowed them away here, in the rooms of his creature, Fordyce Jukes, until he should have need of them. How he came to employ Jukes in this way did not concern me; but it was now clear to me how my enemy had been apprised of all my movements. There would be no trail leading back to Daunt, that was sure. But Jukes – who had no doubt also been engaged to watch me – was a different matter.

Back in my room, I composed a short letter, in capital letters and using my left hand:DEAR LORD TANSOR, —I WISH TO BRING TO YOUR ATTENTION A MOST SERIOUS MATTER, CONCERNING A NUMBER OF VALUABLE ITEMS THAT I BELIEVE HAVE BEEN UNLAWFULLY REMOVED FROM YOUR COUNTRY RESIDENCE. THE ITEMS IN QUESTION, WHICH INCLUDE SEVERAL BOOKS OF GREAT RARITY, MAY BE FOUND, QUITE OPEN TO VIEW, IN THE ROOMS OF F. JUKES, SOLICITOR’S CLERK, I TEMPLE-STREET, WHITEFRIARS, GROUND FLOOR.I ASSURE YOU, MY LORD, THAT THIS INFORMATION IS PERFECTLY ACCURATE, AND THAT I HAVE NO OTHER MOTIVE IN SETTING IT BEFORE YOU THAN A SINCERE REGARD FOR YOUR POSITION AS THE PRESENT REPRESENTATIVE OF AN ANCIENT AND DISTINGUISHED FAMILY, AND AN EARNEST DESIRE TO SEE JUSTICE DONE.I AM, SIR, YOUR VERY OBEDIENT SERVANT,‘CHRYSAOR’ *

So much for Fordyce Jukes.

Windmill-street, dusk.

The drabs, all rouged up for business, were beginning to swarm out of the surrounding courts and into the streets. I lingered for a while in Ramsden’s coffee-house, and then sauntered along to the Three Spies. †A dirty little gonoph *tried to pick my pocket as I stood lighting my cigar, but I turned just in time and knocked him down, to the general amusement of all around.

Several of the drabs gave me the eye, but there was nothing that took my fancy. Then, as I was about to move off, a girl came out of the Three Spies, carrying an umbrella. She looked up at the sky, and was preparing to walk past me when I stopped her.

‘Excuse me. Why, of course! Mabel, is it not?’

She eyed me up and down.

‘And who, may I ask, wants to know?’

And then she smiled her recognition.

‘Mr Glapthorn, I think. How do you do?’ Delightfully, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. She smelled of soap and eau de Cologne.

I replied that I was all the better for seeing her and asked after her employer, the enterprising Madame Mathilde, and also her sister Cissie, for I had a sudden strong hankering to reacquaint myself with these most accommodating soeurs de joie.

Cissie was in Gerrard-street, I was informed, and so after some refreshment at the Opera Tavern, we repaired thither through the rain. Up the stairs we went, to find Miss Cissie warming her pretty toes by the fire.

‘Well, ladies,’ I said gaily, removing my hat and gloves, ‘here we are again.’

Afterwards, I walked down to Leicester-square. Minded to take some supper, I turned into Castle-street and entered Rouget’s, having briefly inspected the offerings in Mr Quaritch’s window en route. † I took my seat by the window, and ordered up supper – Julienne soup, some pâté d’Italie , bread, and a bottle of red wine. For an hour or more I sat in gloomy contemplation of my desolation; then I called for another bottle.

At half past eleven, the waiter opened the door to the street for me to pass through, holding out his hand to assist me as I mounted the step, but I pushed him away with a curse. For a moment or two I was unable to remember where I was. A crowd of bravoes came rolling down the street towards me, and looked me up and down, thinking perhaps that I was ripe for picking. But I was still able to eye them back, defiantly spitting out my cigar butt as I did so. They continued on their way.

‘Looking for business, sir?’

Damn it. I had nothing else to do, and Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie were already dim memories. She was young, not too dirty, and had a pretty smile.

‘Always looking for business, my dear.’

What was that? I turned as quickly as I could; but in my somewhat inebriated state, I lost my balance and fell against the girl. She tried to hold me up but I was too heavy, and we both ended up on the muddy pavement.