Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

It wanted ten minutes to the time that the train was due to arrive when, as I was walking into the first-class waiting-room, something that Dr Daunt had said on our walk back from the Library returned to me. He had been speaking of an early ambition of his son’s to follow a career in the law, in emulation of his closest friend at Cambridge. I had given no further thought to the Rector’s words; but now, standing in the waiting-room of the Town Station in Stamford, they returned with a strange force.

Now, I am a great believer in the instinctive powers – the ability to reach at truth without the aid of reason or deliberation. Mine are particularly acute; they have served me well, and I have learned to trust them whenever they have manifested their presence. You never know where they may lead you. Here was a case in point. I cannot say why, but I was instantly seized with the notion that I must find out the name of this companion of Daunt’s at the University. Acting on this impulse, therefore, I immediately changed my plans and, after consulting my Bradshaw, *resolved upon a diversion to Cambridge.

By now the train for Yarmouth, which I was to take as far as Ely, had arrived. I was on the point of picking up my bag, when one of the tap-room servants from the George came puffing up to me, and thrust a thick envelope, almost a small package, into my hand.

‘What is this?’

‘Beg pardon, sir, hall-porter says this has been directed to you.’

Ah, I thought. The proofs of Dr Daunt’s translation of Iamblichus. They had been forwarded to me, as arranged, by Professor Slake. I had quite forgotten about them. As it was necessary for me to board the train immediately, I had no time to reprimand the stupid red-faced fellow for the hotel’s failure to give me the package earlier; and so I brushed him aside without a word, stuffed the proofs into my greatcoat pocket, and managed to take my seat just as the station-master was blowing his whistle.

To my consternation, the carriage that I had chosen was crowded almost to capacity, and I spent a most uncomfortable two and a quarter hours wedged between a stout and exceedingly truculent lady, a basket containing a spaniel puppy set precariously on her knees, and a fidgeting boy of about thirteen (much interested in the puppy), with my bag lying between my feet on account of the racks being full.

I disembarked, to my great relief, in Ely, and managed to catch a connecting train to Cambridge with seconds to spare. Arriving at my destination at last, I took a cab into the town, and was set down before the gates of St Catharine’s College.

*[Literally, ‘under the rose’ – i.e. secretly, in secret. Ed. ]

†[A case or trunk adapted for the roof of a coach or carriage. Ed. ]

*[The Italian jeweller Fortunato Pio Castellani (1793–1865), who specialized in making pieces that emulated the work of the ancient Etruscan goldsmiths. Ed. ]

*[‘But he is dead. Dead!’ Ed. ]

†[‘Be calm, my angel! No one knows’. Ed. ]

*[‘It should not have happened…’

‘What did he say? …’

‘What could I do? … I could not tell him the truth …’

‘But what will he do? …’

‘He says that he will find him …’

‘My God, what was that?’ Ed. ]

*[One of the monthly Railway Guides published by George Bradshaw (1801–53), the first volume of which, in what were to become their familiar yellow wrappers, was published in December 1841. Ed. ]

28

Spectemur agendo *

In the year 1846, through the good offices of my former travelling companion, Mr Bryce Furnivall, of the British Museum, I had begun a correspondence with Dr Simeon Shakeshaft, a Fellow of St Catharine’s College, who was an authority on the literature of alchemy, in which I had developed a strong interest while studying at Heidelberg. We had continued to correspond, and Dr Shakeshaft had been instrumental in helping me assemble a small library of alchemical and hermetic texts. This gentleman, like the Rector of Evenwood, was a member of the Roxburghe Club, and I had recalled Dr Daunt mentioning that this mutual acquaintance had known his son during the latter’s time at King’s College. †Dr Shakeshaft had recently written to me, at my accommodation address, on the subject of Barrett’s Magus , ‡a curious compendium of occult lore which I had wished to acquire; and so, as we had not yet had occasion to meet face to face, I would have the satisfaction of killing two birds with one stone. Dr Shakeshaft’s set was at the far end of the charming three-sided, red-brick court that forms the principal feature of St Catharine’s. Having ascended a narrow stair-case to the first floor, I was welcomed most cordially into Dr Shakeshaft’s book-lined study. We talked for some time about a number of subjects of common interest, and my host brought out several superb items from his own collection of hermetic writings for my inspection. This was most pleasant, and it was a relief to expend mental energy on topics of such absorbing fascination after the difficult events of the past few days.

It was with some unwillingness, therefore, that I wrenched myself back to my purpose, and introduced the subject of Phoebus Daunt.

‘Did Mr Daunt have a wide circle of acquaintance in his College?’ I asked, as casually as I could.

Dr Shakeshaft pursed his lips in an effort to remember.

‘Hmm. I would not say wide. He was not popular amongst the sporting men, and, as I remember, most of his friends, such as they were, came from other Houses.’

‘Was there any particular friend or companion that you can recall?’ was my next question. This time the response was instantaneous.

‘Indeed there was. A Trinity man. They were very close, always going about together. I entertained them both myself – young Daunt’s father and I, you know, are old friends. But wait a moment.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, now I remember. There was some trouble.’

‘Trouble?’

‘Not involving Daunt. The other gentleman. Young Pettingale.’

I remembered the name from the accounts given to me by John and Lizzie Brine of the dinner given by Lord Tansor, following which Mr Carteret had accused his daughter of secretly encouraging the attentions of Phoebus Daunt. He had been Daunt’s guest on that occasion, and they had been driven to Evenwood by Josiah Pluckrose.

‘May I ask, if you are able to tell me, the nature of the trouble you speak of?’

‘Ah,’ replied Shakeshaft, ‘you’d best talk to Maunder.’

And so I did. Jacob Maunder, DD, of Trinity College, occupied a splendid ground-floor set in Great Court, with a fine view of Nevile’s Fountain. Tall and stooping, with a lazy curling smile and a sardonic eye, he had occupied the position of Senior Proctor in the University for a period that coincided with Phoebus Daunt’s time at King’s College. The duties of a Proctor are of a disciplinary nature, and consequently expose the holders of this office to the more sordid and unpleasant propensities of those in statu pupillari. * ‘When you perambulate the streets at night,’ as the Provost of King’s, Dr Okes, once memorably remarked to one of their number, ‘you rarely see the constellation Virgo.’ The post also required a stout heart, as the unfortunate Wale had famously discovered when he was pursued by a mob of undergraduates from the Senate House to the gates of his College. †

I could not imagine Jacob Maunder fleeing in the face of intimidation. He appeared to me fully to deserve his reputation, described to me in brief by Dr Shakeshaft, as a stern and unyielding upholder of University statute and procedure, and a less than merciful judge of the follies of youth. Did he, I asked, handing him a note of recommendation from Shakeshaft, recollect a gentleman by the name of Pettingale?