Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘’Ere, wot’s your game?’ she asked indignantly.

But I was no longer interested in a piece of cheap cunny. That tap on the shoulder had brought me to my senses.

I saw him reach into his pocket, and in another second the cosh was in his hand. The girl, screaming obscenities, scrambled up from the pavement and started to kick at him. As he turned to push her away, I drew out my pistol and pointed it straight into the ugly face of Josiah Pluckrose.

We stood thus, eyeball to eyeball, until he gave me an evil smile, calmly replaced the cosh in his pocket, and walked off, whistling.

My encounter with Pluckrose stung me into action, and I soon devised a plan, which, I hoped, would deprive Daunt of his formidable protector.

A man like Pluckrose, I reasoned, would have made many enemies. As I turned over this likelihood in my mind, I remembered something that Lewis Pettingale had said in passing, during our conversation in Gray’s-Inn, concerning Isaac Gabb, the youngest member of the Newmarket gang to have been despatched by Pluckrose, known then as Mr Verdant.

According to Pettingale, Gabb the Younger’s brother had kept a public-house in Rotherhithe; a moment’s consultation of the Directory on my return to Temple-street quickly identified the establishment and its location. Knowing from my own experience the general disposition of the population of Rotherhithe, and knowing also from Pettingale that Gabb Senior had expressed a clear desire to return the favour to his brother’s killer, if only he could find him, it seemed most probable that this gentleman might not be averse to knowing Mr Verdant’s real name and present whereabouts.

So far, so good. But where was Pluckrose now residing? He had surely moved from Weymouth-street, where he had been living when he married poor Agnes Baker. I consulted the current issue of the Directory and, to my amazement, found him listed therein. Confirmation that Mr J. Pluckrose was the present occupier of Number 42, Weymouth-street, was soon provided by the scullery maid from Number 40; Mr Pluckrose, it seemed, had not vacated the house after the death of his wife but had brazenly remained there, in defiance of his neighbours’ disapproval, ever since.

Armed with this salient fact, I set off for Rotherhithe.

Mr Abraham Gabb was a short, lean-shanked, gimlet-eyed gentleman, possessing the vicious aspect of a terrier perpetually on the look-out for something to sink his teeth into and shake until its back-bone cracked. The public-house in Rotherhithe of which he was lord and master was, like himself, small, dirty, and vicious by reputation. Mine host regarded me warily as I approached the bar; but I was used to such places, and to men such as Mr Gabb, and had only to look him in the eye, slap down some coins, and say but a few choice words before I had his complete attention.

As he digested the information that I put before him, his terrier eyes began to glint – no doubt in eager anticipation of renewing his acquaintance with the gentleman who had undoubtedly cut short his brother’s life. My plan succeeded more easily than I could have anticipated. As he had only ever known Pluckrose by his soubriquet of ‘Mr Verdant’, it had hitherto been impossible for Gabb to hunt down his brother’s killer. Knowing now where he lived, and under what name, the landlord was in a position to mete out the vengeance that he had long contemplated. Throwing back my brandy, I expressed myself heartily gratified that I had been able to perform this trifling service to him.

But Mr Gabb was wary, and said nothing by way of reply; then, calling over two ugly-looking, bull-backed bruisers who had been leaning together, deep in conversation, at the other end of the bar, he left me alone, and the three of them engaged in a huddled conference. At length, after much whistling and pursing of lips, the landlord, nodding knowingly to his two compatriots, turned back towards me.

‘You’re sure Verdant is there?’ Mr Gabb, still wary, fixed me with his eye while he stroked his dirty chin as an aid to comprehension.

‘As sure as I’m standing here.’

‘And wot’s your int’rest in the matter?’ he growled suspiciously.

‘Hygiene!’ I declaimed. ‘It is a passion of mine. Filth – physical and moral – appals me. I am an eager promoter of clean water, clean thoughts, and the proper disposal of waste. The streets are awash with filth of every description. I simply wish to enlist you and your comrades in my crusade, by encouraging you to make a start on the permanent removal of filth from Number 42, Weymouth-street, at your earliest convenience.’

‘You’re mad,’ said Mr Abraham Gabb, ‘stark mad.’

Thursday, 30th November 1854

Cold, clinging fog. There was nothing to see from my window but the dim dark forms of wet roofs and smoking chimneys, and nothing to hear but the muffled sound of people and carriages passing unseen up and down the street, the wheezing cough of the law stationer who lived on the floor below, and the doleful sound of distant bells tolling out the interminable hours. Despite my earlier resolve to strike at Daunt before he struck at me, I found myself sunk again in indolence. The weeks were passing, and still I had done nothing. And this was the reason.

On the 24th of November, The Times had announced the engagement of the distinguished poet, Mr Phoebus Rainsford Daunt, and Miss Emily Carteret, daughter of the late Mr Paul Carteret. Every day since then I had sat for hours on end, staring at the printed words, and in particular at the conclusion of the announcement: ‘The wedding will take place at St Michael and All Angels, Evenwood, on the 1st of January next. Miss Carteret will be given away by her noble relative, Lord Tansor.’ I had even fallen asleep at the table and woken to find my cheek pressed against the black print.

But today had been different. The announcement from The Times had been consigned to the flames, along with my irresolution. At one o’clock, I walked out in order to accomplish various errands, ending my expedition with an early dinner at the Wellington, *where I was not known.

‘Will you take some beef, sir?’ the waiter asked. ‘Certainly,’ I replied.

He picked up a heavy, ivory-handled carving-knife, which he first brought to a nice edge with a sharpening steel, before cutting away at the joint most dexterously. It was a joy to behold the succulent slices of flesh falling onto the platter. When he had laid down his knife and brought the steaming plate to my table, I asked him whether he would be good enough to fetch me some brandy-and-water. By the time he returned, I had gone; and so had his knife.

I made my way home via Weymouth-street, where, to my delight, I encountered great excitement. A large crowd had gathered outside Number 42, and a police van was drawn up in front of the house.

‘What is going forward?’ I enquired of a post-man, bag on shoulder, who was standing on the pavement, humming softly to himself as he observed the scene.

‘Murder,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Occupier beaten to death and thrown from first-floor window.’ At which he resumed his tuneless humming.

Silently approbating Mr Abraham Gabb and his associates for their admirable promptitude and efficiency, I went on my way, rejoicing that the terrible violence meted out by Josiah Pluckrose to poor undeserving Agnes Baker, and to the equally undeserving Paul Carteret, had been turned back on the perpetrator. He had escaped a stretching because of me; but I had finally brought him to account.

So much for Pluckrose. Now – at last – for his master.

*[An avenger or punisher. Ed. ]

*[In Regent Street (corner of Hanover Street) and Clare Court, Drury Lane, respectively. Ed. ]