The Angel of Highgate

19 THE SURPRISE GUEST

It was just eleven o’clock the next morning when Thraxton’s blue brougham drew up outside the row of Georgian houses on Warwick Square where his friend Mister Algernon Hyde-Davies resided. In particularly lively spirits, Thraxton sprang from the carriage before it had come to a complete halt, dashed up the front steps and gave the brass knocker an over-ebullient thrashing. After an inexcusably long pause, the door was opened by Horace Claypole, a callow youth who served as Algernon’s butler, footman, and valet. Horace had been en route between the kitchen and parlor when Thraxton began knocking and he still balanced a large tray of petit fours in one hand.

“Hello, Horace,” Thraxton chirped good-naturedly and barged past the surprised and rather slow-witted Horace, stealing a petit four and cramming the entire confection into his mouth. He breezed toward the parlor doors before the servant had a chance to detain him.

“But, Lord Thraxton,” Horace blubbered, stumbling after. “Should I not announce, you?”

“Mmmn, no need,” Thraxton mumbled around a vanilla crème and flaky pastry. “I shall announshh myshelf.”

“B-but, s-sir!”

It was too late; Thraxton flung wide the double parlor doors and swept inside. “Algy,” he mumbled, spitting crumbs. “I have the besht newsh—” Thraxton froze in mid-chew, stunned to find that his friend was entertaining company and even more stunned to discover who that company was: Constance Pennethorne and her limpet-like escorts, Mister and Mrs. Wakefield. As Thraxton burst in upon them, the conversation shriveled and died mid-sentence and now all eyes turned upon the stunned lord and the flummoxed Horace, who cringed in the hallway behind him.

Tongue working frantically, Thraxton choked down the rest of the petit four. “Ah… you are entertaining. I didn’t realize. I beg your indulgence…” Thraxton’s eyes roved around the room. The Wakefields looked mildly surprised. But Constance Pennethorne and Algernon both wore the guilty expressions of conspirators caught plotting treason. For his part, Thraxton’s face reddened as he realized he had just committed yet another social blunder. “I, puh-please, I,” he stammered. “Forgive my intrusion. I… I should come back another time.” He bowed dramatically to all present and took a step backward, closing the doors after him, an act that made him look and feel like the mechanical bird in a cuckoo clock.

No one in the parlor spoke of Thraxton’s dramatic appearance and even more dramatic disappearance. Algernon had a cup of tea balanced on his knee, a marzipan in his hand that he was just about to take a bite out of when his friend had burst into the room. Forgetting the tea, he leaped to his feet dumping a full cup of Darjeeling onto the Persian rug. He looked down distractedly at the broken china and steaming puddle, then ran after Thraxton, the cake still clutched in his hand.

Algernon rushed down the hall to the front door, dodging around the slow-witted Horace, who was still lurking. But by the time he snatched the door open, Thraxton’s brougham was pulling away.

Blast, Algernon thought. Now I’ve done it!

When Doctor Garrette snatched open the office door in response to the indefatigable knocking, Death hovered on the threshold. Or, at least, Death’s ambassador: an undertaker in full regalia — black top hat and frock coat — a slender figure wrapped in black crepe and slathered with the lugubrious air that is a requisite of the trade.

The doctor had been relaxing in his closet and his mind had not yet fully surfaced from its chloroform stupor. He recognized the figure instantly, but his tongue lolled clumsily in his mouth.

“Doctor Garrette,” the undertaker said.

“Dear, dear me!” Suddenly, a round, fat face squeezed in beneath the undertaker’s arm: Mrs. Parker, the landlady. “An undertaker at your door, Doctor Garrette! I do hope nothing is amiss with your family?”

“Um, no, nothing of the kind,” Garrette said, dragging his voice from its hiding place in the shadows. Damn the woman!

“A patient, then?” Mrs. Parker wheedled. “An unfortunate outcome to one of your treatments? I understand, even the best of doctors can only do so much when it comes to matters of mortality—”

“It is nothing,” Garrette began, his voice choked with exasperation to be rid of the over-inquisitive nuisance. “A private matter. Good day, Mrs. Parker.” And with that he gripped the undertaker’s shoulder, yanked him inside, and slammed the door in his landlady’s face.

As soon as he had the undertaker to himself, Garrette rounded upon him. “I told you to never come here in person!”

The undertaker’s grim-faced countenance never wavered. “I sent a boy three times to your door. He knocks but receives no reply. Perhaps, on future occasions, I should send him round with a note—”

“No! No notes. Nothing written. I have expressly told you so!”

“Then how, pray tell, am I to communicate with you?”

As he struggled for an answer, Garrette threw a quick glance back at the door to the inner room. To his relief, it was shut. He had remembered to close the door behind him. But what if the children began to call? He must be rid of the undertaker as quickly as possible. When he looked back, Garrette was alarmed to see that the undertaker’s eyes had followed his gaze to the door of his cupboard and lingered upon it, clearly speculating as to what lay inside. His heart kicked in his chest. “What is it?” he snarled. “What have you come for?”

The undertaker dragged his gaze from the door and met Garrette’s beady eyes. “My fee. The duel for which I recommended your services as attending physician. We had an agreement.”

“Yes.”

“The gentleman was wounded but survived.”

“Yes.”

“Therefore, he is still your patient.”

“He is.”

“Three pounds was the sum we settled upon.”

It was a lie: two pounds was the actual sum, but Garrette was frantic to be rid of the man. He snatched his Gladstone bag from the desk and opened it. As he did so the bank notes he had taken from Augustus Skinner’s top drawer spilled onto the floor. Garrette swooped down and snatched them up, but the undertaker clearly saw the notes and could likely guess their denomination by their size.

“It appears your practice is very profitable at the moment,” the undertaker said. “Clearly the gentleman requires a great deal of doctoring. Yet it looked as if he received but a simple flesh wound.”

Silas Garrette’s hands trembled with rage as he jammed the bills back inside his black bag. He peeled off a single bill — five pounds, he had nothing smaller — and dangled the note for the undertaker.

“Take it and go.”

The undertaker plucked the bill from Garrette’s hand, folded it carefully, and slipped it into a pocket. The ghost of a smirk rippled across his features for an instant before his face resettled into the placid lake of mournful sobriety. “I shall trouble you no more, then.” And with that he turned to go. But as he palmed the doorknob, he paused and turned back to the doctor.

“Ah, there is some other business.”

“What?” Garrette snapped.

“A duel. Tomorrow morning at dawn. The usual place, Wimbledon Common. Once again the seconds have asked me to provide an attending doctor. Are you free… or shall I find another physician?”

Garrette’s hatred for the man was temporarily eclipsed by the greed that flared in his chest.

“No. Yes. That is, I shall be there.”

“Good. Then we must hope for a happy outcome. Perhaps one duelist will die and the other be grievously wounded, so that we may both profit equally.”

Silas Garrette said nothing as the office door opened and he watched the back of Death’s ambassador step through it. He banged the door shut after him and turned the key in the lock, securing the door. He detested the fact that he was reliant upon the undertaker. Involving another in his affairs always posed a risk, and yet he needed another source of income — and soon.

Augustus Skinner was clearly about to take a turn for the worse.