Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

All this time, Miss Carteret sat with a quiet little smile on her face, turning now towards her noble relative, now towards her lover: a smile, not of crowing triumph at her lot, but more of wistful content, as though she had emerged from some great trouble into a haven of settled security. I had watched her all evening, drinking in every movement, every gesture; marvelling at her gaiety and assurance, and at her aching beauty. Never so beautiful as tonight! So lost was I in observing her that, for a moment, I did not notice that Daunt had risen from his place, and was saying something to Lord Tansor. Then he moved away, nodding greetings to several of the guests, shaking hands as he passed, and stopping occasionally to receive the congratulations of some well-wisher. He approached the door where I was standing, and I inclined my head dutifully as he passed.

‘Are you quite well, sir?’ I heard Cranshaw asking him. ‘You look rather pale.’

‘One of my headaches, I fear. I’m off to take a little air before the ladies leave.’

‘Very good, sir.’

With a thrill of anticipation, I seized my chance. As soon as Cranshaw had re-entered the dining-room, I slipped away, just in time to see Daunt’s figure disappearing through a door at the back of the vestibule. Heart beating, I descended the stairs, and found my way as quickly as I could to the room in which my suit was hanging. Servants were coming and going, and there was a great babble and noise. No one paid any attention to me. In a flash, I retrieved the knife, and made my way to a glazed door at the end of the passage, through which I could see a flight of steps leading up the side of a lighted conservatory. Gently, I opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air. Would he come out? Was this the moment?

It had stopped snowing, though a few fluffy flakes continued to flutter down from an impenetrably dark sky. I heard a door open just above me, and smelled cigar smoke on the air. He was here. My enemy was here.

A dark figure descended the steps from the conservatory. At the bottom he stopped and looked up; then he slowly crossed the border of light thrown out by the lamps at the top of the steps, and passed into the snowy darkness beyond. I waited until he was six or seven feet from the steps before I left the shadowed recess from where I had been observing him.

I was amazed to find that I was still completely calm, as if I were contemplating some scene of surpassing, soul-easing beauty. All fear of danger, all apprehension of discovery, all confusion of purpose, all doubt, had fallen away. I saw nothing before me but this single figure of flesh, blood, and bone. The world was suddenly silent, as if Great Leviathan himself were holding his breath.

Daunt’s footsteps were marked out in the pristine snow. One-two-three-four-five-six … I counted them as I carefully placed my own feet in each one. And then I called out to him.

‘Sir! Mr Daunt, sir!’

He turned.

‘What do you want?’

‘A message from Lord Tansor, sir.’

He walked back towards me – ten paces.

‘Well?’

We were almost face to face – and still he did not know me! There was not the faintest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Just a moment longer, dear Phoebus. Then you will know me.

My right hand slipped inside my jacket, and round the bone handle of the freshly sharpened knife that had last been used to carve beef at the Wellington. The smoke of his cigar curled upwards to the cold sky, the end glowing as he inhaled.

‘Don’t just stand there, you stupid fellow. Give me your message.’

‘My message? Why, here it is.’

It was done in a moment. The long pointed knife easily penetrated his evening suit, but I was not sure the wound was fatal. So I instantly withdrew the bloodied blade and then, as he staggered forward slightly, I readied myself for a second thrust, this time at his uncovered throat. He looked up at me, blinking rapidly. The cigar fell from his lips and lay smouldering on the ground.

Still upright, though swaying a little from side to side, he blinked at me again, this time in disbelief, and opened his mouth, as if to speak; but nothing came out. I took a step towards him; as I did so, his mouth opened again. This time, with a kind of breathless gurgle, he managed three words:

‘Who are you?’

‘Ernest Geddington, footman, at your service, sir.’

Coughing slightly, he was now leaning his head against my shoulder. I found it rather a touching gesture. We stood there for a moment, like lovers embracing. For the first time, I noticed that his thick black hair was brushed to conceal a little bald patch around the crown of his head.

Cradling my enemy in one arm, I raised the knife and struck the second blow.

‘Revenge has a long memory,’ I whispered, as he slipped slowly down into the snow.

He lay there, on a pillow of wine-red blood, his face as white as the shroud of cold snow into which his body had fallen. My breath met the bitter air, forming little spurting clouds; but my enemy breathed no more. I kneeled down, and looked into his face.

Snow flecked his beard. A little trickle of blood had drained from his mouth, staining his perfectly laundered shirt. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the over-arching sky.

Our great journey was at an end. But how had it ended? In victory, or defeat? And for whom? The two of us, Edward Glyver and Phoebus Daunt, friends once, had been brought to this moment by a power that neither of us could control, or understand. He would never now enjoy the things that were rightfully mine; but I, too, had been denied their possession. I had taken my revenge, and he had paid the price that I had set for the many injuries he had done to me; but I felt scant comfort, and not a trace of elation, only the dull sense of a duty done.

I reached into my pocket and took out a piece of paper, on which I had copied some lines from a poem in the volume that Daunt had given to Le Grice.The night has come upon me.

No more the breaking day, No more the noontide’s glare,

No more the evening’s ray,

Soft as lovers’ sighs.

For Death is the meaning of night;

The eternal shadow

Into which all lives must fall,

All hopes expire. *

They had struck me, on first reading them, as having – unusually for the author – some small merit, and I had carried them around with me ever since, as a kind of talisman. But I would need them no more. Placing the crumpled paper in his stiffening hands, I picked up the knife, and left him alone to face eternity.

In a large earthenware bowl, on a table outside the kitchen, were dozens of dirty knives and forks soaking in hot water. Casually, I dropped the carving knife into the bowl as I walked past, along with my blood-soaked gloves, and went back up the stairs to the vestibule.

‘Geddington!’

It was Mr Cranshaw, wearing an expression of deep disapproval.

‘Where are your gloves, man?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Cranshaw,’ I replied. ‘I’m afraid I dirtied them.’

‘Then go down and get some more. At once.’

He turned away; but then a servant, white-faced, suddenly appeared, hastening into the vestibule from the door that led out to the conservatory. He signalled to Mr Cranshaw, who went over to him. Whatever was said to him produced an expression of immediate shock in the butler. He said a few words to the servant, and then hurried into the dining-room.

Soon there was a sudden scraping of chairs, and an anxious hush descended on the guests, followed by a scream and the sound of shouting. Lord Tansor, walking quickly with unseeing eyes, appeared in the doorway with Cranshaw, followed by three or four gentlemen, including Lord Cotterstock’s son, who broke away and came towards me.