The Angel of Highgate

3 PISTOLS AT DAWN

Wimbledon Common slumbered beneath shifting panes of mist burnished silver by the rising sun. In the near distance, the windmill loomed, a four-armed giant poised to stride over the land, smashing all within reach. The trees were stark, skeletal beings the wind had twisted into tortured shapes. A flight of pigeons whirred overhead like a premonition, circling once, twice, three times before vanishing. In the fog-muffled air, fragments of human speech carried indistinctly, mixed incongruously with the clatter of silverware on china and, stranger still, the spit and hiss of meat sizzling in a pan.

Lord Geoffrey Thraxton, draped in a heavy wool blanket, lounged at a small folding table while Harold, his servant, clattered pans. At another table, the blue flames of alcohol burners lapped at two silver warming trays. Harold finished sautéing a pair of kidneys, spooned them onto a plate alongside a brace of poached quail’s eggs, and set the steaming plateful down in front of his master.

“Ah, breakfast at last,” Thraxton exclaimed as he cut into the deviled kidneys. He stabbed a steaming hot forkful and slid it cautiously past his lips. Juices filled his mouth as he chewed. He swallowed, then dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “Kidneys are first-rate this morning, Harold.”

“Thank you, milord.”

Thraxton looked around at Algernon. He had deliberately chosen to stand some distance away in order to keep the smell of frying meat from turning a stomach already queasy with the earliness of the hour and the deadly gravity of the occasion.

“Certain you won’t partake of some deviled kidneys, Algy?” Thraxton asked casually. “They really are quite sumptuous.”

Algernon shook his head quickly. “Geoffrey, this is madness. Dueling is against the law. You could be charged with murder.”

“Surely not if he kills me? That hardly seems just.”

They both looked up at the sound of retching. Augustus Skinner leaned against a tree for support as he heaved again. Even from this distance, the sound of vomit splattering against a tree trunk was clearly discernible.

Thraxton knifed into one of the poached quail’s eggs and runny yellow yolk squirted under his blade. As he forked a morsel into his mouth, yolk dribbled down his chin. He dabbed it away with the napkin, then swirled a mouthful of claret to wash the film of grease from his tongue. “Is this from my cellar, Harold?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Let me see.”

Harold interrupted his efforts with the sauté pan to pull a bottle from a straw hamper and present it, label-first, for his master’s perusal. Thraxton snatched the bottle from him, yanked the cork and sniffed at the open neck. Finding the bouquet very much to his liking, he sloshed himself another glassful.

“This really is a wonderful claret!” He held up the bottle and waved it at Algernon. “Certain you won’t indulge?”

Algernon did not answer, for he was looking at something to his left. Thraxton followed his gaze to three men in long frock coats and top hats who approached silently through the mist. The men were Skinner’s seconds. Two of the men he recognized: Sir Alfred Beecham and his idiot son Nigel. Thraxton knew and detested both of them. The third man, a tall, thin, gangly-limbed individual, dressed in a white top hat, hung back so that his features were never clearly discernible in the haze. From the black Gladstone bag that dangled from one hand, Thraxton guessed that the man was a physician Beecham had brought with him.

Thraxton continued to graze on his breakfast until father and son stood before him.

“Are you ready to go forward with this action, sir?” Sir Beecham asked in a grave tone.

Thraxton looked up at the older man while he continued to chew. When he had swallowed his mouthful, he wiped his lips on the napkin and took another swig of claret before answering. “Yes.” He threw a look in Skinner’s direction. “Are you sure your man is? I expect to be shot at, not spewed upon.”

The seconds turned and looked at Skinner, who was wiping vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I believe Mister Skinner is ready, sir.”

Thraxton tossed the napkin on the table and rose from his seat. “Very well, then. Let us get on. And just to be a good sport I insist your man have the first shot.”

Algernon’s face fell at the remark. “Not the first shot, Geoffrey. I implore you—!”

Thraxton clapped a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Be of good faith, Algy. Augustus Skinner has never hit his mark in print. I doubt he will do much better with a pistol.”

Sir Beecham scowled, turned on his heel and stalked off. Skinner, still leaning against a tree for support, looked up as his seconds approached.

“Augustus,” Sir Beecham said. “He has given you the first shot. All you must do is stand and face him, then discharge your pistol into the air. He will likewise be obliged to follow suit. You both will have shown courage… the honor of both men shall then be satisfied.”

But Augustus Skinner was quaking with a mixture of fear and anger. “Thraxton has no honor! He is an impudent cur!”

Sir Beecham grimaced and hardened his words. “Look, sir, Parliament outlawed dueling twenty years ago. If you kill Lord Thraxton, you will be tried and found guilty of murder. If you wound him grievously and do not kill him, he will likely drag you through the courts until you expend your last penny. Remember, no matter how black his character or soiled his reputation, he is a Peer of the Realm. As challenger, you will be seen as the aggressor. The course of action I suggest will resolve this dispute here and now, on the field of honor.”

Skinner did not look at Sir Beecham, but kept his gaze on Thraxton, who was warming up by doing some deep knee bends then springing upright.

“What say you, Augustus? Discharge your pistol into the air and an hour from now we will all be back in London, warming ourselves in front of the fire with a splendid yarn to tell over brandy and cigars.”

Augustus Skinner turned eyes on Sir Beecham that were bloodshot and pouchy from lack of sleep. His lips compressed tightly as though his mouth held a hot stone he wished to spit out. His only answer was a resolute shake of his head.

Sir Beecham’s shoulders slumped. He looked back at the coaches and the black hearse that had been ordered to transport the loser of the duel. He removed his top hat and waved at the driver to prepare the hearse.

One man would walk away from the duel. The other would be carried.

The pistols had been primed and loaded. The ground had been chosen. The distance had been measured off. Now Thraxton and Skinner faced each other across a scant twenty paces of open field. The pale white disk of the sun floated above the trees, a glaucous eye peering blindly through thickening fog.

The men’s seconds stood together, well clear of the line of fire. Despite the chill of the morning both duelists had removed their coats and stood in shirt sleeves so as to be less encumbered. Algernon held Thraxton’s coat draped across one arm, still warm from his body. He prayed that its owner would still be warm when it was slipped back upon his shoulders in just a few minutes. Thraxton and Skinner faced one another, their breath pluming in the air. It struck Algernon as odd to think that the breath of one of these men was about to be stopped forever. The birdsong, which had been clamorous since dawn, ceased abruptly. Even the scant breeze dropped. Ears strained for a sound and caught nothing as a preternatural silence fell over the proceedings.

“Are you gentlemen ready?” Sir Beecham’s voice resounded in the silence.

“Yes!” Thraxton called out, nodding assent.

“Mister Skinner. Are you ready, sir?”

Skinner threw a terrified look at his seconds. His shoulders heaved as he sucked in and let out several deep breaths before he gave a quick nod.

Beecham looked at Algernon, who let out a sigh and nodded his assent.

“Lord Thraxton,” Sir Beecham called out. “Prepare to receive Mister Skinner’s fire.”

It was an accepted practice in dueling for the party receiving fire to turn his body sideways, so as to present a smaller target. Thraxton, however, faced his opponent square on, the pistol held relaxed at his side.

“Damn you, Geoffrey,” Algernon muttered under his breath. “Don’t give him an easy target. Turn, man, turn!”

Thraxton remained as immovable as a statue.

“Old Skinner’s trembling like a leaf,” Harold whispered to Algernon. “Lord Thraxton’s steady as a rock.”

“Of course,” Algernon replied. “He’s in love with the idea of a romantic death.”

Skinner needed both trembling hands to draw back the firing pin. He raised the quivering pistol, fighting to steady his shaking hand.

As Thraxton watched the slow elevation of Skinner’s pistol, all senses seemed to expand beyond the constraints of his body. He heard the desolate cawing of a crow, the soughing of the breeze through the bare limbs of the birch trees. The white frost on the grass was beginning to melt, and beads of dew sparkled in the slanting rays of early sunlight. He felt the soft steady beating of his heart, the shifting weight of flesh and muscle on bone, the ponderous mass of the pistol in his hand. When he looked back at Skinner, the black bore of the pistol’s muzzle was centered on his face. Thraxton took a deep breath, felt the cold air stretch his lungs, and let it out.

He knew it would be his last.

“Death,” he whispered to himself. “Here I am, Death. Are you ready for me?”

The pistol muzzle tremored as Skinner’s finger tightened on the trigger. There was the tiniest of clicks as the mechanism released and the hammer sprung down on the pan. The flint sparked. The powder lit with a flash of orange and a pffffftttt sound. A fraction of a second later the pistol fired with the solid percussive bang of a thunderclap.

Thraxton saw the flash and felt a hot finger trace the side of his scalp. For a moment he stood, not moving, looking at the white cloud of smoke behind which his opponent had vanished. He put a hand to his forehead, expecting to find a gaping wound. Nothing. His fingers traced along the side of his head. The top of his ear burned and when he brought his hand away, there was blood on it. The slightest of nicks. The pistol ball had passed within a gnat’s wing of his skull, leaving only singed hair and a tiny cut on one ear.

Finally, the tendrils of smoke rose, curled, dissipated, and Skinner, who had not yet lowered his discharged pistol, reappeared. When he saw his opponent still standing, unscathed, Skinner’s face contorted in a mask of terror and despair. The pistol, now just a spent and useless weight, dragged his arm down. He seemed to deflate. His knees wobbled, threatening to buckle.

Skinner’s seconds exchanged worried glances. After a reluctant pause, Sir Beecham cleared his throat and called out again.

“Mister Skinner. Prepare to receive Lord Thraxton’s fire.”

Thraxton drew back the hammer of his dueling pistol and settled into a comfortable stance. He raised the pistol high in the air, and then lowered it slowly and with great deliberation until Skinner’s face, the pistol’s fore sight and aft sight, coincided.

By now Skinner was shaking uncontrollably and sagging at the knees.

Thraxton held his aim for an interminably long time. A flight of pigeons circled over the field, wings creaking. Thraxton dropped his aim and waited for them to disappear. Then he resumed his stance and once again raised the pistol. To Algernon, it was clear that Thraxton was drawing this out, deliberately, agonizingly.

Both men’s seconds became aware of a sound. At first they threw puzzled glances at each other. But as it grew louder it became obvious that the sound was Skinner blubbering. Suddenly he cried out as his legs buckled and he dropped to his knees. Thraxton relaxed his aim and waited calmly as Skinner wobbled back to his feet. Then he licked a finger and rubbed at some imaginary lint on the pistol’s foresight, before dropping back into his stance. He lowered the pistol slowly, slowly, slowly, until Skinner was once more dead in his sights.

Seconds passed. Skinner was almost dancing he was shaking so hard. A stain of urine appeared in the crotch of his trousers and ran steaming down the inseam of his left leg into his boot. Then Skinner broke down, and with a moan, he turned and ran away toward the trees.

His seconds were outraged.

“Mister Skinner!” Sir Beecham called out. “Mister Skinner, you must stand your ground!”

But Skinner was running as fast as his rubbery legs would allow.

Thraxton had not dropped his aim, and kept Skinner’s fleeing back squarely in his sights. When he was almost at the trees, Thraxton lowered his aim slightly and squeezed the trigger. The pistol fired and kicked in his hand. Skinner grabbed his right buttock and went down screaming.

Harold let out a loud cackle and turned to Algernon. “In the arse! I knew he would. Lord Thraxton always shoots them in the arse!”

Skinner’s seconds ran across the field to where their man lay writhing in agony. Algernon stood watching them, a look of disgust on his face. For a moment he felt his own gorge rise and feared he would be sick. He turned his face away, sucked in a lungful of cold morning air, and the feeling subsided.

Thraxton strode quickly toward his waiting seconds, a whimsical smile on his face. He tossed the pistol to Harold, who caught it deftly, then snatched his coat from his friend’s arms and threw it about his shoulders. “Looks like you will have to put up with me for a while longer, Algy,” Thraxton japed as he dropped into his seat at the folding table and rubbed his hands together famishedly. “Now let’s see if I can finish my breakfast.”

Harold hurried away to his warming pans. Thraxton flashed a triumphant grin at Algernon.

Despite the immense relief that his friend had survived the duel, Algernon found little to smile about. “You had bested him, Geoffrey. Clearly you had. The honorable thing to do would have been to discharge your pistol in the air.”

“Oh come now,” Thraxton replied. He seized the bottle of claret and glugged out a gobletful. “The man has been a pain in my arse for years; it’s only fair I return the favor.”

“Be lucky if you haven’t crippled him.”

“I held my shot. Surely you saw that?” Thraxton waved his goblet toward where the seconds were struggling to lift his fallen opponent. “At that range I doubt the ball would have penetrated much further than half an inch. Especially in Mister Skinner’s fat arse.”

Harold placed a fresh plate of kidneys in front of Thraxton, who tucked into them hungrily.

“Strewth, I’m ravenous. Funny what a brush with death will do for the old appetite.” He noticed that Algernon was frowning down at him with obvious disapproval. “Stop scowling at me and grab a plate.”

Algernon was about to reply but was interrupted by the continued screams of Skinner who was being loaded into his coach by his two seconds and the coachman.

Thraxton chewed while he watched with vague interest. “Do wish the fellow would stop yowling like that. It’s rather spoiling my digestion.” He quaffed a mouthful of claret, wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, then tossed it down upon his plate. “Harold, pack the things up. We’re leaving.”

Thraxton jumped up from the table and pulled his arms into the sleeves of his coat. As he turned to walk back to the coaches he looked up and froze. The third of Augustus Skinner’s seconds, the man in the white top hat with the black Gladstone bag was standing close by, staring at him. Even this close, the swirling fog made it difficult to discern his features, but he was a tall, thin, hirsute man, with large mustachios that flowed into extravagant mutton-chop whiskers. Perched on the bridge of the hawk-like nose was a pair of rose-tinted pince-nez spectacles, which the diffuse light polished into glowing red discs. The glaring look he threw at Thraxton seethed with recrimination.

“What the deuce do you want?” Thraxton spat. “I gave your man the first shot, did I not?”

The doctor took his time to respond. “You show an abhorrent disrespect for death, sir.”

“If death requires me to fear it… then it shall be disappointed.”

The doctor’s lips compressed like the mouth of a purse whose strings have been cinched tight. “Death will not be mocked, nor sneered at. And there are many doors death can enter by… as you will learn to your cost.”

And with that the figure in the white top hat strode toward the waiting carriages and abruptly vanished in the fog.

Thraxton shuddered from a sudden chill. It was damp and penetratingly cold on the common.

There was something about the man… something eerily disturbing. Thraxton personally abhorred white top hats and found them the most gauche of fashions — they were invariably the choice of effete dandies, arrogant oiks and the kind of drunken swells one saw swanning about the periphery of dance floors at places such as the Cremorne Pleasure Gardens. What kind of doctor wore a white top hat?

At that moment, the mists unscrolled, the sun brightened and the world returned like a hazy mirage. Algernon and Thraxton’s servant stood waiting by the folding table.

“Harold!” Thraxton shouted, having made a sudden decision. “Pack everything up and take the brougham home. Mister Hyde-Davies and I will be traveling by different means.” Thraxton flashed a mischievous grin as he rejoined his friend. “What say you, Algy? I’ve never actually ridden in a hearse.”

As the hearse rattled onto the cobbled road that led back to London, Thraxton’s spirits were still soaring. He lay in the open coffin, his hands folded on his chest. Algernon crouched in the space beside the coffin, gazing out the large glass windows.

“God, I’ve never felt more alive,” Thraxton said. “I want to indulge all my senses. I want to squeeze the ripe fruit of life and suck the juices from it. We must celebrate, Algy!”

“Drinks at the Athenaeum?”

Thraxton raised his head and peered over the side of the coffin at his friend. “Oh dear me, I think we can do better than that. After all, I’m a man reborn, a full-grown child with every nerve jangling to be filled with sensation. We shall surrender the day to drunkenness, lechery and every form of wretched excess!”

Algernon looked out at a pastoral landscape the expanding sprawl of London had yet to devour: yellow barley fields, bushy hedgerows, cows grazing in lush stands of clover. For a moment he envied the beasts their lives of quiet rumination and sighed.

He knew it would be many hours before he saw his bed that night.