Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

All through this brief scene my heart had been pounding as I strained to see how Daunt would be received by Miss Carteret; but when it quickly became obvious that there was not the slightest spark of intimacy between them, I began to breathe more easily – the more so when, as Daunt had turned to go, I had seen Mademoiselle Buisson lean towards Miss Carteret and whisper something in her ear. This had produced an involuntary little smile, which she immediately sought to hide by placing her hand over her mouth. From the rather mischievous look on Mademoiselle Buisson’s face, I made a guess that the remark had been in some way uncomplimentary to Daunt, and I was most satisfied to see how Miss Carteret had responded to her friend’s comment, even at such a time.

Now that my enemy had gone, I thought that I might after all present myself to Miss Carteret, as I had been invited to do. Then I considered that I was wet, and a little dishevelled, and that my bag was at the Duport Arms; but yet I was expected, and she would think it strange if I did not come. I dithered and dawdled for several minutes until, at last, I got the better of my misgivings. I was on the point of quitting my place of concealment when the front door opened. Lord and Lady Tansor appeared, followed by Miss Carteret and her friend, and Dr and Mrs Daunt. The party proceeded down the steps and into two waiting carriages, which then moved away through the Plantation and into the Park.

Feeling tired and dejected, and with no reason now to remain, I once more made my way back through the rain to Easton.

In the tap-room of the Duport Arms, my friend the sullen waiter was throwing fresh sawdust on the floor.

‘Has Mr Green left?’ I asked.

‘Two hours since,’ he said, without looking up from his work.

‘Are there any more guests tonight?’

‘None.’

The Peterborough coach was about to arrive, and so, dispensing with another solitary dinner, I sent the man upstairs for my bags whilst I fortified myself with a gin-and-water and a cigar. In ten minutes I had boarded the coach and was just settling myself inside, thankful that I was the sole occupant, when John Brine’s face, red from exertion, appeared at the window.

‘Mr Glapthorn, sir, I am glad to have caught you. Lizzie said I should tell you.’ He paused for breath, and I heard the driver ask him whether he intended to get in.

‘One minute, driver,’ I shouted. Then, to Brine: ‘Tell me what?’

‘Miss Carteret and her friend are to leave for London next week. Lizzie said you’d wish to know.’

‘And where will Miss Carteret be staying?’

‘At the house of her aunt, Mrs Manners, in Wilton-crescent. Lizzie is to attend her.’

‘Good work, Brine. Tell Lizzie to send word of Miss Carteret’s movements to the address I gave you.’ I leaned my head towards him and lowered my voice. ‘I have reason to think that Miss Carteret may be in some danger, as a result of the attack on her father, and wish to keep a close eye on her, for her own protection.’

He gave a nod, as if to signify his complete comprehension of the matter, and I handed him a shilling so that he could refresh himself before returning to Evenwood. As the coach moved off, I drew the tattered silk curtain against the rain, and closed my eyes.

*[‘Not all of me will die’: Horace, Odes , III.xxx. 6. Ed. ]

† [Anthropometamorphosis: Man Transform’d; or, The Artificiall Changeling (1650), a history of bodily adornments and mutilations, by the physician John Bulwer (fl. 1648–54). Ed. ]

*[This was probably the edition of Devotions published in octavo by William Pickering in 1840, which also included (as well as the reproduced frontispiece mentioned by Glyver and the famous ‘Deaths Duell’ sermon, preached before King Charles I, February 1631) Izaak Walton’s Life of Donne. Ed.]

†A repeating pocket watch. Ed. ]

*[Hired men carrying plumes of black feathers. Ed. ]

*[From the Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary, performed in March 1695. The music was performed again at Purcell’s own funeral in November 1695. Ed. ]

†[John 11: 25–6. From the Order for the Burial of the Dead in the Book of Common Prayer. Ed.]

*[From Donne’s last sermon, the aforementioned ‘Deaths Duell’ (see p. 372). Ed. ]

33

Periculum in mora *

‘Do you remember’ the last time we went to the Cremorne Gardens,’ †I asked Le Grice.

It was now past three o’clock, and the fire had died quite down. I had been recounting the events subsequent to the violent death of Mr Paul Carteret.

Le Grice looked up and thought for a moment.

‘Cremorne?’ he said at last. ‘Of course. We took the threepenny steamer. When would it have been?’

‘November last year,’ I said. ‘A few days after I’d returned from Mr Carteret’s funeral. We played bowls.’

‘We did, and then we watched the Naval Fête. Yes, and I recall a little set-to as we were leaving. But what has this to do with anything?’

‘Well, I shall tell you,’ I said, ‘while you throw another log on the fire and refill my glass.’

The night of Wednesday, the 9th of November 1853, remained clear in my mind. We had amused ourselves most satisfactorily for an hour or two. As eleven o’clock approached, and the lamp-lit arbours began to fill up with carmined whores and their tipsy swells, I had been game to continue our jollities elsewhere; but, unusually, Le Grice had expressed a strong wish to be in his bed. And so, at a few minutes before twelve, we had made our way out of the Gardens.

By the pay-box, at the King’s-road entrance, we had come upon an altercation. A group of four or five women – whores every one, as I quickly judged – and a couple of fancy roughs were disputing in a rather bellicose fashion with a small man sporting a prominent pair of mutton-chop whiskers. As we approached nearer, one of the roughs grabbed the man by the collar and threw him to the ground. By the light of the large illuminated star above the pay-box, I immediately recognized the anxious face of Mr Geoffrey Martlemass, fiancé of Dorrie Grainger.

Our arrival had heated up the proceedings somewhat, but the roughs were quickly persuaded, by a brief demonstration of our combined force and determination, to leg it, while the whores swayed away into the darkness, shouting and jeering as they went.

‘It’s Mr Glapthorn, isn’t it?’ asked the little man, as I helped him to his feet. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence!’

Much against the advice of his inamorata, the philanthropic Mr Martlemass had been on a mission that night to bring the light of Christ to the whores of Cremorne – a task that would have taxed St Paul himself. He was rather crestfallen at his failure, but seemed manfully inclined to dust himself off and attempt the task again. It was only after a good deal of persuasion that he consented to let the uncaring objects of his crusade abide in darkness for a little while longer, and accepted our advice to return home.

‘We took a hansom,’ said Le Grice, ‘and you dropped me off in Piccadilly. What happened then?’

After Le Grice had been deposited safely at the Piccadilly entrance to Albany, Mr Martlemass and I continued our way eastwards. ‘The night has been a failure,’ he said, shaking his head mournfully, as we passed through Temple Bar, ‘but I am glad, at any rate, that our paths have crossed again. I wished to ask after your poor friend.’

I could not think to whom he was referring, whereupon, seeing my puzzlement, he enlarged upon his statement.