The Meaning of Night: A Confession

‘I have brought you a present,’ she said, handing me the book.

It was a copy of Gildon’s edition of Shakespeare’s poems.^*

‘My thoughts have been ever on love during my exile,’ she said, ‘and this little volume has been my constant solace. Now when we are apart, you may read it and be comforted too, knowing that my tears are on every page. I have underlined those passages that gave me especial comfort. Now tell me what you have been doing since we last met.’

And so we continued to talk until the light began to fade, and my dear girl said that she must call her maid to begin dressing for dinner.

‘I regret that I cannot invite you to join us,’ she said as we walked towards the door, ‘but you understand that I am Lord Tansor’s guest now.’

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘But when may I come again?’

‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Come tomorrow.’

As I was descending the stairs to the vestibule, I came upon Lizzie Brine. As she was with another servant, she made no attempt to speak to me but only gave a little bob, along with her companion, and went on her way. But when I reached the bottom of the stair-case and looked back, I saw her standing at the top, with a curious anxious look on her face that I found impossible to interpret.

I returned to the Duport Arms in Easton, though I remember nothing of the walk back, nor what I ate for dinner, nor how I occupied myself that evening.

The next afternoon, I returned to Evenwood as arranged, though this time, at my dear girl’s suggestion, I made my own way up to her apartments by a little winding stair-case, which was gained through a door leading off the path that ran from the Library Terrace round the base of Hamnet’s Tower. Once again we sat together in the window-seat, talking and laughing until a servant brought in candles.

‘Sir Hyde Teasedale and his simpering daughter are dining tonight,’ she sighed. ‘She is such a ninny, and her new husband is no better. I declare that I have no idea what I shall say to either of them. But, Lady Tansor being so singularly defective as a hostess, I seem to have been given the honour of entertaining her husband’s guests, and so I must away to do my Lord’s bidding. Oh Edward, if only I was not so beholden to Lord Tansor! It makes me so miserable to think that I must spend my life at his beck and call. And then what will happen to me when he dies? I was not born for this, but what can I do? Now that my father has gone, I have no one.’

She bowed her head as she said the words, and I felt my heart beat a little faster. Now is the time. Now. Tell her now.

‘My darling,’ I said, stroking her hair. ‘Put all your concerns aside. This is not your future.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I am your future, and you are mine.’

‘Edward, dearest, you are talking in riddles. Speak plainly, my love.’

‘Plainly? Very well. Here it is, as plain as I can make it. My name is not Edward Glapthorn. It is Edward Duport, and I am Lord Tansor’s son.’

^*[‘To know all things is not permitted’ (Horace, Odes, IV.iv). Ed.]

^*[The bookseller David Nutt, at 270 and 271 Strand. Ed.]

^*[A Collection of Poems, edited by Charles Gildon (1665–1724) and published by Bernard Lintot in a small octavo, one-volume edition in 1709 (it later appeared in two volumes). It contains Venus and Adonis, The Rape of Lucrece, The Passionate Pilgrim, and ‘Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Musick’, which are in fact the last six poems in the preceding work. Ed.]

41

Resurgam^*

She listened in silence as I told her my story. I spared her no detail. Everything was laid out before her: the conspiracy devised by Lady Tansor and my foster-mother, Simona Glyver; my upbringing as Edward Glyver at Sandchurch; my first meeting with Daunt at Eton, and his subsequent betrayal of me; the discovery of the truth concerning my birth in my foster-mother’s journals; and my continuing quest to find the final proof that would enable me to claim my rightful place as a member of the Duport family. I told her also of how I had first come to London as Edward Glapthorn, to seek information from Mr Tredgold on the arrangement made between Lady Tansor and my foster-mother, and how I had retained my assumed name after the Senior Partner had offered me employment. Finally, I spoke of Daunt’s criminal character, and of his association with Pluckrose and Pettingale. With each truth that I revealed, I felt cleansed, with a sensation of sweet relief that the burden of deceit had been lifted at last.

When I had finished, she walked to the window, and looked out across the darkling Park. I waited expectantly.

‘This is so hard for me to comprehend,’ she said at length, ‘though at least I now understand your interest in Mr Phoebus Daunt. Lord Tansor’s son – is it possible? Oh—’ She gave a little cry and placed her hand to her lips. ‘Cousins! We are cousins!’

Then she turned towards me.

‘Why did you not tell me before?’

‘Dearest Emily, don’t be angered. How I have wished – most desperately – to bring you into my confidence; but how could I do so until I could be sure that you felt for me as I feel for you, when so much was at stake? Now that I know beyond all doubt – by your letters, and by the sweet words that you have spoken to me, and by all the tender moments we have shared – that your love for me is as strong and as unbreakable as is mine for you, why of course the situation is entirely different. Where true love is, trust and frankness must follow. There can now be no more secrets between us. When we are married —’

‘Married?’ She seemed to sway a little, and I reached out to wrap her in my arms.

‘It is what you wish, is it not, my love?’

She nodded slowly. There were tears in her eyes.

‘Of course,’ she said, in a soft low voice. ‘It is what I wish above all things in the world. It is just that I have not allowed myself to hope that you might ask me.’ Then she raised her beautiful tear-stained eyes towards me. ‘But surely, my love, we can do nothing until you have proved your claim to be Lord Tansor’s son?’

‘No,’ I acknowledged, ‘you are right. But when that day comes – as come it must – you will be beholden to his Lordship no more, for you will have become the wife of Edward Duport, the future 26th Baron Tansor.’

‘Oh, Edward,’ she cried, ‘let it come soon!’ And then she began to weep tender tears – of joy at the prospect that I had presented to her, though mixed no doubt with natural apprehension.

‘You understand, of course, my love,’ I said, as I held her in my arms, ‘how imperative it is that the secrets that we now share must be kept safe – not a word of what I have told you must be spoken of, or hinted at, to anyone. And, for the time being, it will be best to keep my visits to you confidential. For if Daunt should discover that Edward Glapthorn is Edward Duport, then my life – and perhaps yours – will certainly be in peril.’

‘Danger? From Mr Daunt?’

‘Oh my love, yes, from Daunt. He is a far worse villain than you think.’

‘In what way?’

‘Do not make me tell you.’

‘What are you saying? Why do you not speak? Tell me, tell me!’

Her eyes were wild, and she seemed once again in the grip of that strange agitation of spirit that I had witnessed in the Temple of the Winds, walking round and round distractedly in a little circle in the middle of the room. I brought her back to the window-seat and took her hand.

‘I believe Daunt was responsible for the attack on your father.’

I had expected some powerful uprush of emotion in reaction to my words; but instead she fell gently towards me in a swoon. I caught her, and laid her down on the seat. She was as pale as death, and her hands made strange fluttering movements, as if under the intermittent influence of some galvanic current. I was on the point of calling for help when she opened her eyes.

By and by, her colour began to return and she was able to take a sip or two of wine, which gradually effected a revival of her faculties, though she remained deeply distressed by what I had told her, and by what I now revealed concerning the documents that her father had been carrying with him when he had been attacked, as well as the reason that Daunt had gone to such lengths to obtain them.

‘I do not say that Daunt intended to murder your father,’ I said. ‘Indeed, I believe he did not. But I am certain that he ordered the attack by Pluckrose to gain possession of the documents proving the existence of a legitimate heir.’

Then she asked me how I knew what had been in her father’s bag, and so I told her of the Deposition, at which she became greatly agitated.

‘But what if Mr Daunt should also obtain this document? How will you then hope to prosecute your case successfully?’

‘He will not find it,’ I said, with a confident smile.

Before coming to Evenwood, I had realized that Mr Carteret’s Deposition, together with the little black volumes containing the daily record of my foster-mother’s life, must now be removed to a place of absolute safety. My rooms in Temple-street were always securely locked; but locks can be picked; and Mrs Grainger’s possession of the only other key had given me further concern: suppose she should be followed, or set upon? And then there was Jukes, whom I already suspected of snooping through my private papers. And so I had determined, once I had made my confession to her, and had been forgiven for keeping so much from her, to ask my dearest girl to become the custodian of these most precious items.

‘But how can you be so sure that he won’t find them?’ she asked, her anxiety still plainly apparent.

I told her that I had given a copy of the Deposition to Mr Tredgold, and that I intended to place the original, as well as my mother’s journals, beyond Daunt’s reach.

‘But where, dearest?’ she cried, looking most pathetically apprehensive.

‘Here,’ I replied. ‘Here, with you.’

And then relief seemed to flood over her dear sweet face. ‘Yes, yes,’ she sighed. ‘Of course, you are right! Here is the last place in the world that he will think of looking! He would never have a reason to come into these apartments, nor can he know that you have taken me into your confidence. But I am still fearful for you, my love, so very fearful, until you can bring the documents from London.’

I took her hand and kissed it, assuring her that I would waste no time but would return to London in the morning to collect the Deposition and the journals, and bring them back to Evenwood.

‘Where shall we put them?’ I asked.

She thought for a moment, and then an idea struck her. ‘Here,’ she said, running over to a small oval portrait of Anthony Duport,^* younger brother of the 21st Baron, as a boy. Taking down the portrait she opened a small cupboard concealed in the panelling.

‘Will this do?’

I inspected the interior of the cupboard and pronounced it ideally suited.

‘Then that is settled,’ she said, closing the door and replacing the portrait.

We sat together in the window, holding hands, talking quietly, as close as two hearts can be. She called me her dearest love; I told her that she was my angel. Then we kissed our good-byes.

‘My sweet girl,’ I whispered. ‘Are you sure that you wish to become the custodian of these documents? Perhaps, after all, I should remove them to the bank. If Daunt should—’

She placed her forefinger against my lips to prevent me from saying any more.

‘Dearest Edward, you have asked me to do this for you, and I have said I will. Whatever you ask of me, now and in the future, I will do my best to carry out.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘You know that I shall soon, I hope, commit myself to honour and obey you, in sickness and in health, and so there is no harm in beginning now. It is such a little thing to ask of me, after all, and I would do anything – anything – for the man I love.’

She walked with me to the door, and we kissed for one last time.

‘Come back to me soon, my dearest love,’ she whispered. ‘I shall count the minutes till you return.’

I left, unseen, by the new way, down the little winding stair-case and out onto the path by Hamnet’s Tower.

At the South Gates of the Park, I stopped. The Dower House could just be glimpsed through the Plantation; lamps were burning in the drawing-room, and in one of the upstairs rooms. On a sudden impulse, I took the track round into the stable-yard. My luck was in; the door to the tack-room stood open, throwing a pale rectangle of light onto the cobbles.

‘Good-evening, Brine.’

He had been binding the head of a besom broom when I had entered, and looked round in surprise at the sound of my voice.

‘Mr Glapthorn, sir! I – we did not expect you.’

‘And you have not seen me,’ I said, closing the door behind me. ‘Have you the duplicate key I asked for?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He opened a drawer in an old dresser and handed the key to me.

‘I shall need some tools. Can you get me some? And a lantern.’

‘Tools? Why, yes, of course, sir.’ I told him what I required and he went into an adjoining room, returning in a few minutes with a bag of the necessary implements, and a bull’s-eye lamp.^*

‘Remember, Brine, I was not here. You understand?’ I handed over the usual consideration.

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

In a few moments, with the bag across my back, I was walking along the gravel bridle-way that skirts the Park wall and leads up to the Mausoleum. It was just at that melancholy time when the savour finally goes out of the day, and twilight begins to surrender to the onset of darkness. Somewhere ahead of me a fox barked, and a cold low wind troubled the trees that lined the path running up from the bridle-way to the clearing in front of the Mausoleum. My head had been full of my dearest girl; but as I approached the lonely building, my wildly joyous mood began to seep away as I contemplated the awful reality of what I had come here to do.

Sursum Corda. What else had Miss Eames intimated, in sending these words to Mr Carteret, than that what they were inscribed upon covered something of crucial significance? This was the instinctive conclusion that I had reached, and on which I was now about to act. But it was a fearful prospect: to break into my mother’s tomb, without the least idea of what I was looking for. I prayed that, whatever was hidden there, if it was hidden there, would be easily found within the loculus itself. But if it should be in the coffin! That might be a horror beyond even my ability to face.

I entered through the great double doors, using the key that Brine had provided, and went about my work.

It was past midnight when the slab that closed off my mother’s burial chamber finally yielded to my chisel. I had broken open the protective gates of the loculus easily enough, but it took nearly an hour to cut out the rectangular slate slab, and all my strength to support the weight of it and lay it on the floor. But at last it was done, and I turned to see, by the light of the lamp that I had brought from the tack-room, what lay within.

A plain coffin of dark oak, placed lengthways in the space, filled most of the cavity. Lifting the lantern a little higher revealed a simple brass plate, bearing the words ‘LAURA ROSE DUPORT’, affixed to the lid of the coffin. There was barely a foot between the lid and the vaulted roof of the little chamber, and only two or three inches between the coffin itself and the back wall of the loculus; on either side, however, there was a narrow gap, perhaps eight or nine inches wide. I kneeled down at the foot of the coffin, and reached forward into the darkness, but only cobwebs and fragments of mortar met my touch. Moving across to the other side, I reached in again.

At first I could feel nothing; but then my fingers closed round something soft and separable, almost like a lock of flattened-out hair. Quickly withdrawing my arm and reaching for the lamp, I peered in.

Protruding from the narrow space between the back wall of the chamber and the coffin was what I could now see was the edge of a fringed garment of some kind – a shawl perhaps. I extended my hand behind the rear of the coffin and began to pull, but immediately met some resistance. I pulled again, with the same result. Lying down on my side, I stretched into the space and round the edge of the coffin as far as I could. After a little more gentle tugging and grappling, I finally extracted my discovery from its resting-place, and set it down in the yellow light of the lamp to examine it, breathing out my relief that it had not been necessary to disturb the coffin.

It was indeed a fringed shawl – a Paisley shawl, which had been rolled up and wedged behind the coffin. It seemed of little interest at first, until I began to unroll it. Then it soon became apparent that there were other objects wrapped inside it. I laid the shawl out on the floor.

Within another wrapping of white linen, I was astonished to find an exquisitely embroidered christening robe, a pair of tiny silk shoes, and a small book bound in old red morocco. This last item was quickly identified: it was the first edition of Felltham’s Resolves, printed in duodecimo for Seile in about 1623.^* It bore the bookplate of William, 23rd Baron Tansor. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the copy that my mother had asked Mr Carteret to bring to her from the Library before her death in 1824. Dr Daunt’s failure to locate the copy listed by Burstall when compiling his catalogue was now explained. But who had put it here, and why?

That it had been intended, with the other items, to convey some message or signification was clear. Though it had been in its hiding place for over thirty years, it was in remarkably good repair, the burial chamber being clean and dry. I examined the title-page: Resolves: Divine, Morall, Politicall. There was no inscription of any kind, and so I began slowly turning over the leaves one by one, to scrutinize each of the hundred numbered essays. I could detect nothing out of the ordinary – no annotations or marginalia, and nothing inserted between the leaves; but as I was closing the book, I observed that it did not shut quite flat. I then saw why: a sheet of paper had been carefully pasted over the original end-leaf. On closer examination, it was possible to make out that something had been interpolated between the false and the real end-leaf.

I took out my pocket-knife, and began to prise away the false leaf. It proved to have been only lightly fixed, and soon came away to reveal two folded pieces of thin paper.

It is true, indeed, that the desire accomplished is sweet to the soul.^† Behold, then, how my labours were rewarded at last. On the first piece of paper were the following words:To My Dearest Son, —I write this because I cannot bear to leave you without also leaving some brief record of the truth. When you see me again it will be as a stranger. I have given you up to the care of another, and have begged God that you will never know that it was not she who brought you into the world. And yet I am compelled by my conscience to write down these few words, though keeping what I have written safe by me until I am called to a better place. Perhaps this piece of paper will one day find its way into your hands, or be discovered by strangers centuries hence, when all these things will be forever beyond recall. Perhaps it will moulder with my bones, and you will live in ignorance of your true identity. I leave its fate to God, to whose tender mercies I also commit the fate of my sinful soul.You are fast asleep in a wicker basket belonging to Madame Bertrand, a lady who has been very kind to us here in Dinan. Today has been warm, but it is cool in the courtyard, and pleasant to hear the water splashing in the fountain.And so, my dear sweet little boy, though you are dreaming (of what I cannot imagine), and though you hardly know what it is to live and breathe and think, and though you could not understand me even if you were to open those great black eyes of yours and hear my voice, yet I still wish to say three things to you as if you were fully conscious and comprehending of my words.First, the person to whom you will owe your duty as a son is my oldest and dearest friend. I pray you will love her, and honour her; be always kind to her, never disparage her memory or hate her for the love she bore me; and remember that faith and friendship are never truly tried except in extremes. This was said by the author of a little book that has often brought me comfort in past weeks, and to which I know I shall often turn hereafter.^* I pray you may find such a friend as mine. I have had many blessings in my life; but truly, her friendship has been the greatest.Second, the name you now bear is not your own, but do not despise it. As Edward Glyver, you must find your own way through life, using the strengths and talents that God has given you, and nothing else; as Edward Duport, you would have ridden in great coaches and dined off golden platters, not through your own merit, but for no other reason than that you were the son of a man possessing great inherited wealth and power. Do not think such things bring happiness, or that contentment cannot be found in honest toil and simple pleasures. I used to think so, but I have seen my error. Fortune and plenty have made me shallow, a weightless bubble, a floating feather. I shudder now to think what I have been. But this is not what I wish for you – or what I now wish for myself. So be properly proud of your adopted name, make it prosper by your own efforts, and so make your own children properly proud of it.Third, do not hate me. Hate only what has driven me to do this thing. And do not think that I have denied you through indifference, or worse. I have denied you because I love you too much to see you corrupted, as your father has been corrupted by the blood that he holds so dear, crippled morally by that blind and terrible pride of race, from which, by this act, I have sought to protect you.Yet because I am conscious of my sin, in so depriving you of what you might have had, and my husband of the heir for which he yearns, I have placed everything in God’s hands. If it is His will to lead you to the truth, then I promise before I die to provide the means for you to reclaim your true name, if that is what you desire – though I pray to Him before Whom I must be judged that it is not what you will desire; and that you will have the strength to disown what you were born to.So sleep, my beautiful son. When you wake I shall be gone. You will never know me as your mother, but I shall always know you as my son.Ever your loving mother,L.R. DUPORTDinan, June 1820

The second sheet of paper contained only these words, in a shaky and irregular hand:To My Dearest Son, —I have kept my promise to you, and have given you the key to unlock your true identity. If God in His wisdom and mercy should lead you to them, use them, or destroy them, as your heart dictates.I wept when I came to see you for the last time, playing at my feet, so strong and so handsome, as I knew you would be. But I shall never see you more, until that day when the earth gives up its dead, and we are reunited in eternity.The light is fading. This is all I can write. My heart is full.Your mother,L.R. DUPORT

At the bottom of the page, in another hand, was written the following:She died yesterday. The shawl that she was wearing when I closed her poor eyes encloses these letters to her lost son (the last words she ever wrote), the two mementoes of his birth, and also the little book which comforted her so greatly and which she wished he might one day have. She placed all her trust in God to bring these things forth from the darkness of the grave into the light of day once more, if it is His will to do so. This is my last service to her. May God rest her soul.J.E. 1824.

The hand, of course, was that of Julia Eames, who, before her own death, had written out the two words that had been inscribed on her friend’s burial place and had sent them to Mr Carteret as a hint or clue to the secret that she had kept so faithfully for so many years. How she had contrived to place the shawl and its contents in the loculus before it was sealed, I could not imagine; yet here they were. The Almighty, it seemed, with a little help from Miss Julia Eames, had made His will known.

I re-read the letters from my mother, holding them close to the lantern and poring over every word, especially the beginning of the second letter: ‘I have kept my promise to you, and have given you the keys to unlock your true identity.’ I thought at first it was a riddle that I would never solve; then I considered again the remark that I had ‘played at her feet’, and in an instant all became wondrously, deliriously clear.

A picture of Miss Lamb rushes into my mind: sad, thin Miss Lamb, running her long gloved fingers down my cheek as she watched me playing on the floor beside her, with the fleet of little wooden ships that Billick had made for me. Time passes, and another memory of her is called up: ‘A present from an old, old friend who loved you very much, but who will never see you again.’ And then a final, conclusive, recollection: a receipt for the construction of a small box made of rosewood by Mr James Beach, carpenter, Church-hill, Easton, found by Mr Carteret in my mother’s papers after her death. Two hundred golden sovereigns – in a rosewood box that still stands on my mantelpiece in Temple-street. But what else did it contain?

In a state of intense excitement, exhilarated beyond words by my discovery, and jubilant that I had solved the riddle left behind by Miss Eames, I replace the slab as best I can, to close the opening of the loculus, then stand for a moment contemplating the inscription. It is a curious sensation, to feel that my mother lies only a few feet from me, within that cold narrow space, encased in lead and wood; and yet she has spoken to me directly, in her own voice, through the letters I now hold in my hand. The tears course down my face, and I fall to my knees. What do I feel? Elation, certainly, at my triumph; but also anger, at the gross folly and selfishness of my mother’s actions; and love for her to whose care I was consigned. I think of the portrait of her Ladyship that hung above Mr Carteret’s desk, and recall her haunting, imperious beauty; and then I think of her friend, Simona Glyver, always bent over her work-table, writing her books, keeping her secrets. When I first discovered the truth about my birth, I resented her faithfulness to her reckless friend; but I was wrong to do so. I called her my mother once. What shall I call her now? She did not carry me in her womb; but she cared for me, scolded me when I was bad, protected me, comforted me, and loved me. Who was she, then, but my mother?

Yet I blessed Laura Tansor for submitting to her conscience; and I blessed Miss Eames for sending Mr Carteret the clue that had delivered me from the yoke of perpetual dissimulation. The keys to the kingdom were now in my possession, and I was free at last to face the world as Edward Duport, to marry my dearest girl, and to lay my enemy low at last.

^*[‘I shall rise again’. Ed.]

^*[The picture in question, of Anthony Charles Duport (1682–1709), by Sir Godfrey Kneller (1646–1723), is now in the National Portrait Gallery. Ed.]

^*[A lantern with a thick protuberant lens of blown glass on one side for concentrating the light. Ed.]

^*[The bookseller Henry Seile (fl. 1619–61). Ed.]

^†[Proverbs, 13: 19. Ed.]

^*[The quotation is from Felltham’s Resolves, xi (‘Of the Trial of Faith and Friendship’). Ed.]

42

Apparatus belli^*

As soon as I enter my sitting-room in Temple-street, I walk straight over to the mantel-piece, snatch up the rosewood box, and take it to my work-table.

It seems empty, but I am now certain that it is not. I shake it, and start to pick at it with my pocket-knife. A minute goes by, then two; but, as my hands now wander over every inch of its surface, pressing, pulling and probing, I know that it will eventually yield up its secret place.

And it does. I have wriggled the tiny key in the escutcheon this way and that a dozen times; but this time, when I disengage it slightly and start to turn it a little way from the vertical position, it seems to engage with something; and then a miracle happens. With a soft click, a little drawer slides out from below an inlaid band of paler wood an inch or so from the bottom of the box. The trick is so cunningly wrought that I wonder at the country skills of Mr James Beach.

The drawer is large enough to contain two folded documents, which I now remove and, trembling, lay out on my table.

The first is an affidavit, written in my mother’s hand, sworn and signed in the presence of a Rennes notary, and dated the 5th of June 1820. It states briefly, but categorically, that the child born in the house of Madame H. de Québriac, Hôtel de Québriac, Rue du Chapitre, in the city of Rennes, on the 9th day of March in the year 1820, was the lawfully begotten son of Julius Verney Duport, 25th Baron Tansor, of Evenwood, in the County of Northamptonshire, and his wife, Laura Rose; and that the said child, Edward Charles Duport, had been placed in the permanent care of Mrs Simona Glyver, wife of Captain Edward Glyver, late of the 11th Regiment of Light Dragoons, of Sandchurch in the County of Dorset, at the express wish of his mother, the said Laura Rose Duport, to be brought up as her own. Beside my mother’s signature – witnessed by Madame de Québriac and another person whose name I cannot make out – is a small wax seal bearing an impression of the Duport arms, taken perhaps from a signet ring. With the affidavit is a short statement signed by two witnesses to my baptism in the Church of St-Sauveur, on the 19th of March 1820.

Together with Mr Carteret’s Deposition and the letters removed from Lady Tansor’s tomb, and supported by the corroboration provided in my foster-mother’s journals, my hand is now full, and unbeatable. I spend the rest of the day, and most of the evening, copying out extracts of particular relevance to my case from the journals, which I paste into a note-book, along with copies of the other critical documents. Then, having written up my own journal for the day, I sit in my arm-chair and fall fast asleep.

When I awoke, cold and hungry, my first thought was that I must have dreamed the discovery that I had made in Lady Tansor’s tomb, and of forcing the rosewood box to give up its secret. But there, on my work-table, lay the two letters, and the signed affidavit, palpable and present to both sight and touch. They were golden arrows, tipped with truth, waiting to be shot into the villainous heart of Phoebus Daunt. After so long, I had been given the means to destroy my enemy, and take up my true station in life. A day would soon come when I would leave behind this present sorry life of confusion and duplicity for ever, and come into the golden place prepared for me by the Iron Master, with my dearest girl by my side.

My first task of the day was to write to Mr Tredgold, telling him how my conviction had been so triumphantly vindicated, and sending him for safekeeping the copies that I had made of the new documents. That done, I went forth to take a hearty breakfast.

On the following Monday morning I returned to Evenwood.

Once again, making sure I was unobserved, I climbed the flight of winding stairs up to my dearest girl’s apartments. In the corridor, as I emerged through the stair-case door, I encountered Lizzie Brine. Stepping back, I signalled for her to follow me.

‘Is there anything to tell, Lizzie?’ I asked.

‘I do not know, sir,’ she replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only this, sir. The day we met on the stair-case, when I was with Hannah Brown …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, sir, I couldn’t tell you to your face, but then I thought you must know anyway.’

‘Lizzie, this is unlike you,’ I said. ‘You’re sounding like your brother. For God’s sake, spit it out.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. Here it is, as best as I can manage. I’d seen you arrive in the Front Court from the window there, just opposite my mistress’s door. But a few moments before, just as I was coming up these very stairs, I’d seen a gentleman go into her room. I was on my way to the laundry, but I knew that you’d be coming up to my mistress’s sitting-room at any minute. And so I naturally supposed, when I saw you later, that you must have met the gentleman. That’s as clear as I can make it, sir.’

‘And yet I still do not understand,’ I said. ‘There was no gentleman present when I was admitted to Miss Carteret’s sitting-room. Are you sure of what you saw?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’

‘And did you see who it was? Did you recognize him?’

‘I only saw his coat-tails.’

I thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps it was Lord Tansor,’ I suggested.

‘Perhaps,’ said Lizzie, somewhat hesitantly.

‘No, it must have been his Lordship.’ I was now breezily confident that I had hit on the identity of the mysterious gentleman. ‘He had some brief business with Miss Carteret, no doubt – a few words only – and then left the apartment before I arrived. That must be it.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m sure you’re right.’

I sent her on her way, with a little bonus to keep her up to the mark, and knocked on my darling’s door.

She was sitting by one of the arched windows, busily engaged on a piece of embroidery work, when I entered the room. Only on hearing my greeting did she look up and remove her spectacles. ‘Have you brought them?’

I was a little taken aback by the peremptory tone of her question, for which she quickly apologized, saying that she had been racked with worry about my safety.

‘Did anyone see you come?’ she asked apprehensively, getting up to open the window, and look down to the the terrace below. ‘Are you sure no one saw you? Oh Edward, I have been so afraid!’

‘There, there, dearest. I am here now, safe and sound. And here are the papers.’ I opened my bag and took out her father’s Deposition, followed by half a dozen of my mother’s little black volumes, and laid them on the table. She put on her spectacles again, then sat down at the table to examine, with the most intense interest, the words of her poor late papa – the last that he ever wrote. I sat a little way off, watching her turn each page of the Deposition until she reached the end.

‘You are right,’ she said quietly. ‘He died because of what he knew.’ ‘And only one person stood to gain from depriving him of the source of his knowledge.’

She nodded, in mute acknowledgement that she understood to whom I had alluded, gathered the pages together with trembling hands, and then opened one of the little black volumes.

‘I cannot read this,’ she said, peering at the tiny writing, ‘but you are sure, are you, that Mrs Glyver’s words corroborate what my father discovered in Lady Tansor’s papers?’ ‘There is no doubt whatsoever,’ I answered.

After opening one or two of the other volumes and cursorily examining their contents, she gathered them together and placed them, with the Deposition, in the concealed cupboard behind the portrait of Anthony Duport in his blue silk breeches.

‘There,’ she said with a smile, ‘all safe now.’

‘Not quite all,’ I said, reaching into the bag, and taking out the letters that I had removed from Lady Tansor’s tomb, together with the affidavit and the statement of the witnesses to my baptism.

‘What are these?’

‘These,’ I said, ‘are the means by which our futures will be assured: I as Lord Tansor’s son and heir, and you as my wife – mistress of Evenwood!’

She gave a little gasp.

‘I don’t understand—’

‘I have found it at last!’ I cried. ‘The final proof that I have been seeking, the proof that makes my case unanswerable.’

We sat down together at the table, and she read the letters, and then the affidavit.

‘But this is extraordinary!’ she exclaimed. ‘How did you come by these documents?’

Briefly I recounted how the clue sent by Miss Eames to her father had led me to believe that Lady Tansor’s tomb might contain something of critical importance to my case.

‘Oh, Edward, how terrible! But what will you do?’ she asked, her eyes bright with excitement.

‘I have sent copies to Mr Tredgold, and shall consult him as soon as possible on the proper course of action. It may be that he will make an approach to Lord Tansor on my behalf, but I am happy to take whatever advice he gives me on how to proceed. Only think, my dearest Emily, nothing now can stop me claiming what is rightfully mine. We can be married by Christmas!’

She gave me a look of surprise and took off her spectacles.

‘So soon?’

‘Dearest, don’t look so startled! Surely you must feel, as I do, that to delay any longer than necessary would be intolerable?’

‘Of course I do. You silly goose, Edward!’ she laughed, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. ‘I only meant that I had not dared to hope it would be so soon.’ Whereupon she picked up the papers from the table, and placed them with the others in the cupboard behind the portrait.

An hour passed as, blissfully oblivious to time, we laid our plans and fashioned our lovers’ dreams. Where would we live? Perhaps here in the great house, she said. But surely, I countered, his Lordship would wish to provide us with a country property of our own, as well as a house in town. We might travel. We might do anything we wished, for I was Lord Tansor’s only son and heir, who was lost but now was found. How could he deny me anything?

At four o’clock she said that I must go as she was dining with the Langhams.

‘And is Mr George Langham’s heart still broken?’ I asked mischievously.

She hesitated for a moment, as if puzzled by my question. Then she gave a little shake of her head.

‘Oh, that! No, no. He has made a full and complete recovery from his affliction, to the extent that he is now engaged to Miss Maria Berkeley, Sir John Berkeley’s youngest. Now go, before my maid comes to dress me. I don’t wish her to see you here.’

She was all smiles and playful kisses, and I stood for a moment entranced by her gaiety and beauty, until she began to usher me out of the room with many charming little expressions of mock displeasure at my refusal to go, interspersed with more snatched kisses.

At the door I wheeled round to make a sweeping stage bow, hat in hand.

‘I bid you good evening, dear sweet coz, the future Lady Tansor!’

‘Go, you fool!’

One last laughing kiss, and then she turned away, picked up her embroidery, and sat down, spectacles perched on the end of her beautiful nose, beneath the portrait of Anthony Duport in his blue silk breeches.

Back at the Duport Arms, I had just retired to my room after taking some supper when there was a knock at the door.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir.’

It was the sullen waiter whose acquaintance I had made during my first stay at the inn. To sullenness he had now added a perceptible degree of shiftiness.

‘Messenger, sir.’ Sniff.

‘A messenger? For me?’

‘Yessir. Downstairs in the parlour.’ Sniff. Sniff. I immediately made my way downstairs, where I found a thin young man dressed in the Duport livery.

‘From Miss Carteret, sir.’ He stretched out a grubby hand containing a folded piece of paper. The short note written thereon was in French, which I shall here translate:DEAREST – IN HASTE, —Lord T told me tonight that we are to leave for Ventnor^* tomorrow early. Date of return unknown. Her Ladyship has been unwell this past week, & his Lordship is concerned that the damp weather is making her condition worse – despite the hot-water pipes. Oh my dear love, I am distraught! What shall I do without you?Please do not worry about the papers. I promise you that the place is known only to you and me. I shall write when I can, and shall think of you every minute of every day. I kiss you. And so au revoir.Ever yr loving,

E.

This was a bitter blow, and I damned his Lordship most heartily for taking my darling away. A day without her was bad enough; not to know when she would be returning to Evenwood was an intolerable prospect. Dismayed by this unexpected turn of events, I returned to London in a deeply depressed and nervous state of mind. There I languished for three weeks, seeing hardly a soul. On my first morning back in Temple-street I wrote to Mr Tredgold, to request a further meeting; but two days later I received a note from his brother to say that my employer had contracted a slight fever and was not able to enter into any correspondence at present, though Dr Tredgold promised to place my letter before him at the earliest opportunity.

I begin to fret, and am kept awake night after night by vague fears. But what is there to be fearful of? The race is won, or nearly so. Why, then, do I feel so restless and abandoned?

Then my demons start to whisper and chatter, reminding me of what is always available, just beyond the confines of my room, to blot out my fears. For a time, I resist them; but then, one night, when the fog is so thick that I cannot see the roofs of the houses opposite, they finally get the better of me.

The fog, however, is no impediment; I would know my way blindfolded. The subdued throb of the great city surges all around, though nothing can be seen but dim human shapes, appearing out of the gloom and immediately disappearing into it, like shuffling phantoms, their faces illuminated momentarily by the smoky flare of the link-boys’ torches,^* or by the feeble light of gas-lamps in houses and shop windows. These living forms I can at least see, though briefly and indistinctly, and sometimes feel them as we bump into each other; I can only hear and sense, more than see, the home-going stream of carriages, carts, omnibuses and cabs, proceeding blindly, and with painful slowness, up and down the muddy thoroughfares.

It is past midnight when I stumble down the Strand, having been pursued by nightmares all the way from Bluegate-fields. The fog is beginning to lift a little, dispersed by a stiffening breeze off the river. I can now see the upper storeys of the buildings, and occasionally catch sight of eaves, smoking chimneys and ragged patches of ink-black sky through the shifting pall.

Almost before I realize it, I am in the Haymarket, and sway through a brilliantly lighted door. A young woman is sitting alone. She bestows an obliging smile on me.

‘Hello, dearie. Fancy something?’

A little conversation ensues; but as we rise to leave, we are approached by two more females, one of whom is instantly familiar to me.

‘Goodness me, if it ain’t Mr Glapthorn,’ she says pleasantly. ‘I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Miss Mabel.’

It is none other than Madame Mathilde, proprietress of the Abode of Beauty. I see a look pass between her and the girl, and immediately understand how things lie. ‘And you have added another string to your bow, Madame.’

‘Things became a little slow at the Abode after that unfortunate misunderstanding with Mrs Bonner-Childs.’

I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Oh, I don’t blame you, Mr Glapthorn. I like a man that does his duty no matter what. But there, these things are sent to try us, ain’t they? Besides, as you have guessed, I have another little concern now, in Gerrard-street – quite successful, too, tho’ I say so mesself. Miss Mabel is one of my protijays, along with her sister here. P’raps,’ she continues, looking suggestively from Mabel to her equally comely sister, Cissie by name, ‘we might discuss a discount on quantity?’

In for a penny … I think. And so I retire to Madame’s inconspicuous house in Gerrard-street, with Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie on each arm, and spend a most satisfying evening in their company, for which their employer is recompensed handsomely.

My demons temporarily satiated, I climb the stairs to my room at first light, my senses dulled, my head aching, and my conscience racked with guilt and self-loathing. I miss my dearest girl, so dreadfully. Without her, what hope is there for me?

Another week goes by. But then, one bright October morning, a note comes. It is from Lizzie Brine.SIR, —I thought you should know that my mistress returned from Ventnor three days ago.Hoping this finds you well,

L. BRINE

I sit for a full ten minutes, stunned. Three days! And no word sent! Think, think! She has been otherwise engaged. Lord Tansor has kept her constantly by his side. She has been attending her Ladyship night and day. There are a hundred most plausible reasons for her not writing to tell me that she is home. Perhaps, at this very moment, she is putting pen to paper.

Instantly, I resolve that I will surprise her. My Bradshaw lies on the table. The eleven-thirty departs in just under an hour. I have plenty of time.

At Evenwood, the leaves are falling. They flutter forlornly across paths and terraces, and scuttle about the courtyards, almost like living things, in the suddenly cold wind that scythes up from the river. In the kitchen garden, they accumulate in sodden heaps amongst tangles of decaying mint and drooping borage, and beneath the plum-trees at the north end of the orchard, they lie in thick, goldenblack swathes, soft underfoot, beneath which the grass is already turning a sickly yellow.

Rain begins to sweep in dark funereal sheets across the formal gardens and pleasure-grounds. When I had last seen them, the rose-beds at the end of the Long Walk had been ablaze with colour; now their early-summer glories have been cut down; and the bare earth of Lady Hester’s former Clock Garden – a pointless conceit, which she had planted up with purslane, crane’s bill, and other flowers that supposedly opened or closed at successive hours of the day – now seems a mute and terrible witness to human folly, and to what time will do to us all.

I push open the little white-painted door, and climb up the winding stairs to the first floor, to the apartments above the Library where my mother died, and where I hope to find my dearest girl. I have missed her so very dreadfully, and my heart is afire to see her again and to kiss her sweet face. I bound up the last few stairs, feeling my spirit surge with joy at the thought that we need never be parted again.

Her door is shut, the corridor deserted. I knock twice.

‘Enter!’

She is sitting by the fire, beneath the portrait of Master Anthony Duport, reading (as I soon discover) a volume of Mrs Browning’s poems.^* A travelling cloak lies on the sofa.

‘Emily, my dearest, what is the matter? Why have you not written?’

‘Edward!’ she exclaims, suddenly looking up with an expression of surprise. ‘I was not expecting you.’

Her face had taken on that terrible frozen look, which had struck me so forcibly when I had first seen her standing in the vestibule of the Dower House. She did not smile, and made no attempt to rise from her chair. There was no trace now, in either her demeanour or her voice, of the warmth and tender partiality that she had formerly shown me. In their place was a nervous coolness that instantly put me on my guard.

‘Do you know Mrs Browning’s Portuguese sonnets?’ she asked. The tone was flat and false, and I put my question again.

‘My love, tell me what is the matter? You have not written, and you said you would.’

She closed the book and gave a short impatient sigh.

‘You may as well know. I am leaving Evenwood this afternoon for London. I have a great deal to do. Phoebus and I are to be married.’

^*[‘The materials of war’. Ed.]

^*[A resort on south coast of the Isle of Wight known for its mild climate. Ed.]

^*[A link was a torch made of tow and pitch used for lighting people along the streets; thus link-boys – boys who provided this service. Ed.]

^*[As the subsequent reference to ‘Mrs Browning’s Portuguese sonnets’ (i.e. the ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’) makes clear, this is the edition of Poems published in two volumes by Chapman and Hall in November 1850. Ed.]

43

Dies irae^*

The world seemed to contract and then fall away, leaving me sundered from what had once been, and from what I had known and believed before.

I stood in that dreadful room rooted to the spot in disbelief, feeling hope and happiness drain out of me like blood from a severed vein. I must have closed my eyes momentarily, for I distinctly remember opening them again, and finding that Miss Carteret had got up from her chair, and was now standing by the sofa putting on her cloak. Perhaps she had been in jest – one of those little games that women sometimes like to play with those who adore them. Perhaps …

‘You cannot stay here, you know. You must leave immediately.’

Cold, cold! Hard and cold! Where was my dear girl, my sweet and loving Emily? Beautiful still – so wonderfully beautiful! But it was not her. This furious simulacrum was animated by a wholly different being, unrecognizable and dreadful.

‘Edward – Mr Glapthorn! Why do you not answer? Did you hear what I said?’

At last I found my tongue.

‘I heard, but I did not, and do not, understand.’

‘Then I shall tell you again. You must go now, or I shall call for assistance.’

Now her eyes were flashing fire, and her beautiful lips, those lips I had kissed so often, had pursed to a tight little pout. As she stood there, rigid and menacing, enveloped in her long black hooded cloak, she seemed like some sorceress of legend newly risen from the infernal depths; and for a moment I was afraid – yes, afraid. The change in her was so great, and so complete, that I could not conceive how it had come about. Like a photographic negative, what should have been light was now dark – dark as hell. Was she possessed? Had she gone suddenly mad? Perhaps it was I who should have called for assistance?

In a swirl of angry black, she headed for the door; and then it was as if I had woken suddenly from a dream. Sorceress? Humbug! This was plain villainy. I smelled it, and knew it for what it was.

Her hand was almost on the door-handle when I seized it and wrenched her towards me. We were face to face now, eye to eye, will to will.

‘Let me go, sir! You are hurting me!’ She struggled, but I had her fast.

‘A moment of your time, Miss Carteret.’

She saw the resolve in my eyes, and felt the superior strength of my grip; in a moment, she surrendered to the inevitable, and her resistance ceased.

‘Well, sir?’

‘Let us sit in our old seat in the window. It is such a pleasant place to talk.’ I held out a shepherding arm.

She threw off her cloak and walked over to the window-seat. Before joining her, I locked the door.

‘I see I am a prisoner,’ she said. ‘Are you going to kill me?’

‘You are pretty cool if I am,’ I replied, standing over her. She only gave a little shrug by way of reply, and looked out of the window at the rain-lashed gardens.

‘You mentioned a marriage,’ I continued. ‘To Mr Daunt. I don’t mind admitting that this comes as something of a surprise to me.’

‘Then you are a greater fool than we thought.’

I was determined to maintain an air of unconcerned bravado; but the truth was that I felt as helpless as a baby. Of course I had the advantage of physical strength; but what use was that? She had played me for a damned fool, right enough; and, once again, Phoebus Rainsford Daunt had taken what was rightfully mine. And then I suddenly found myself laughing uncontrollably, laughing so much that I had to wipe the tears away with my sleeve; laughing at my stupidity, my utter stupidity, for trusting her. If only I had taken Mr Tredgold’s advice!

She watched me for a while as I stumbled about the room, shaking with laughter like some maniac. Then she stood up, anger boiling up once more in her great black eyes.

‘You must let me go, sir,’ she said, ‘or it will be the worse for you. Unlock the door immediately!’

Ignoring her demand, I returned to where she was standing and threw her back into the window-seat. Her eyes began to dart round the room, as if she were looking for some means of escape, or perhaps for a weapon with which to attack me. If she had only smiled then, and confessed that it had all been a silly joke! I would have instantly folded her in my arms and forgiven her. But she did not smile. She sat bolt upright, breathing hard, her furious eyes wide open, larger than I had ever seen them before.

‘And may I enquire whether you love Mr Phoebus Daunt?’

‘Love him?’ She leaned her cheek against the glass, and a sudden calm came over her, almost as if she were in a trance.

‘I simply ask because you gave me the clear impression – as did your friend, Miss Buisson – that he was repellent to you.’

‘There is no word to describe what I feel for Phoebus. He is my sun, my moon, my stars. My life is his to command.’ Her breath had misted the pane, and she began slowly tracing out a letter, then another, and then a third and a fourth: P-H-O-E …

Stung now to real anger, I snatched her hand away and rubbed out the letters with my sleeve.

‘Why did you lie to me?’

Her reply was immediate.

‘Because you are nothing to me, compared to him; and because I needed to keep you fed with lies, until you delivered up to me the evidence of your true identity.’

She glanced towards the portrait of young Anthony Duport in his juvenile finery, hand on hip, a dark-blue sash across his chest. Her words were like a knife to the heart. In two strides, I was standing beneath the portrait. I took hold of it with one hand and attempted to open the cupboard it concealed with the other; but it was locked.

‘Would you like the key?’ She reached into her pocket. ‘I said I would keep everything safe.’ Smiling, she held out a little black key.

I saw her face, and knew then that all was lost; yet even in the agony of my despair, I took the key, inserted it in the lock of the cupboard, and the little panelled door swung open. Snatching up a candle from a nearby table, I peered inside. But I could see nothing. I stood closer and felt all around. The cupboard, of course, was empty.

‘You see,’ I heard her say. ‘All safe. No one will find your secrets now. No one.’

I did not have to ask where the papers were. He had them now. The keys that would have unlocked the gates of Paradise for me were now in my enemy’s hands.

And then I knew that I had been defeated; that every hope and dream I had cherished had been turned to dust and ashes.

What do you know? Nothing.

What have you achieved? Nothing.

Who are you? Nobody.

I was still standing with my back to her, staring into the empty cavity, when she spoke. Her voice had dropped to a rapt whisper.

‘I have loved him ever since I can remember. Even when I was a little girl, he was my prince, and I was his princess. We knew then that we would marry some day, and dreamed of living together in some great house, just like Evenwood. My father always disliked and distrusted Phoebus, even when we were children; but we quickly learned to feign indifference to each other in public, and grew more cunning in our ways as we grew older. No one suspected the truth; only once, at a dinner given in honour of Lord Tansor’s birthday, did we forget ourselves. It was such a little thing – not much more than a glance – but my father saw it. He was angry with me – angrier than I had ever seen him; but I persuaded him that he was wrong, and that Phoebus meant nothing to me. He believed me, of course. He always believed me. Everyone did.’

‘But Daunt killed your father!’ I cried. ‘How could you continue to love him?’

She had been looking fixedly once more through the misted pane of glass on which she had begun to write her lover’s name; but now she turned her face towards me, and I shivered to see the look of rage in her great dark eyes, and to hear the hard echo of an injury long borne in her voice.

‘I loved my father; but I also hated him, for hating Phoebus, and for allowing his unfounded prejudice of him to keep us apart. The loss of my sister was, I think, the cause. He wanted me always by him, to be his alone; and when my mother died, of course I became all in all to him. And so I remained ever dutiful, long after I had come of age; I submitted to his will, to please him, and to keep a promise made to my dear mother that I would not abandon him while he lived. He told me more than once that he would never again receive me as his daughter if I were to marry Phoebus, and that prospect I could not bear. But it was cruel to deny me so – to keep me from my heart’s desire, when he knew that I would continue to love and esteem him, and that I would never abandon him.’

‘But surely he did not deserve to die!’

‘No,’ she said, more softly. ‘He did not, and was not meant to. Pluckrose went too far, as usual. Phoebus was wrong to have brought him into it – he acknowledges it, and we have both suffered grievously for what Pluckrose did. Afterwards, when Pluckrose brought the letters to Phoebus and told him what he’d done, Phoebus was beside himself with fury. No. He should not have died. He should not have died.’

The repeated phrase trailed off into silence. Was she weeping? Really weeping? She was not lost, then, to all decent feeling. Some humanity remained.

‘You have said enough to show me how utterly I have been deceived.’ She did not look at me. Her head was now pressed against the window-pane, through which she was gazing vacantly out into the deepening gloom. ‘But this I must know: how did you first discover what Lady Tansor had done?’

‘Dear Edward!’ Oh, her voice! So tender, so inviting, so beguiling! The cold fury had melted quite away; in its place was a look of pitying compliance, as if she wished to show me her secret side, and so spare me further anguish and uncertainty. She held out her hand, long and white. I took it, and sat down beside her.

‘I did not mean you to love me, you know. But when it was clear that you did – well, it made things so much easier. I know Marie-Madeleine warned you—’

‘Miss Buisson! She knew?’

‘But of course. Marie-Madeleine and I had no secrets. We were the closest of friends. Sometimes I told her things that even Phoebus didn’t know about me. But, I suppose, by the time that she wrote to you, things had gone too far, hadn’t they? Poor sweet Edward!’ She leaned forward and began to brush my hair away from my forehead; in my mesmeric state, I seemed powerless to stop her.

‘And, you know, I found your attentions rather pleasant. It made Marie-Madeleine terribly cross.’ She gave a sly little laugh. ‘On more than one occasion she told me I shouldn’t encourage them – that it was unnecessarily cruel. But I found I couldn’t help myself; and as time went on, well, I began to think I might be falling in love with you – just a very little bit. It was bad of me, I know, and it shocked Marie-Madeleine even more when I told her. The little minx! I think she would have liked to have had you for herself! But you were asking me how we came to learn about Lady Tansor’s little escapade.

‘It happened purely by chance. My father had asked me to assist him in the translation of some letters in French. It was rare for my father to allow anyone into his work-room, except of course Lord Tansor, but on this occasion he made an exception. When I had finished the task, he requested me to take the papers up to the Muniments Room. As I was about to go back down, my eye was caught by an iron-bound chest. It bore a label identifying the contents as the private papers of Lord Tansor’s first wife. Now, I have always been fascinated by Laura Tansor. The most beautiful woman in England, they used to say. And so of course I could not help peeping into the chest. What do you think I pulled out first? A letter, dated the 16th of June 1820, to Lady Tansor in Paris, from a friend – identified only by the initial letter “S” – in the town of Dinan, in Brittany.’

Her look told me immediately that Fate had placed into her hands the very letter written by my foster-mother to her friend, and excerpted by Mr Carteret in his Deposition, in which it was clearly intimated that Lady Tansor had given birth to a child.

‘I did not have time to read the letter in its entirety,’ she continued, ‘for I heard my father’s step on the stairs; but I had read enough to know that it contained an extraordinary possibility. Naturally, I immediately told Phoebus of my little adventure. He tried, several times, to get up to the Muniments Room, but with little success; and this vexed him greatly. By now, you see, he knew that he was to be made Lord Tansor’s heir. If a child had been born legitimately to Lady Tansor – well, I do not need to tell you what Phoebus thought of that.’

And then she told me how she had kept watch on her father, by offering to assist him further in his work. In this way, she learned that Mr Carteret was planning to remove certain of Lady Tansor’s letters to the bank in Stamford, which he later retrieved in advance of his meeting with me at the George Hotel. Daunt then conceived the plan of using Pluckrose to waylay Mr Carteret on his return to Evenwood from Stamford and take the papers, under the guise of a robbery. A note was sent to the hotel, purporting to be from Lord Tansor and requesting her father to attend his Lordship at the great house. This ensured that he would take the most direct road into the Park from Easton, through the woods on the western side.

‘But’, I objected, ‘I was told, quite categorically that Daunt was away on Lord Tansor’s business when I came to meet your father.’

‘He was. But he returned a day early, unknown to his family, in order to be here when you arrived. Pluckrose had been watching you – indeed, he was on the same train from London that you took. We knew you had been sent by Mr Tredgold, you see. Phoebus knows everything.’

‘And did you know that I was Edward Glyver before I told you?’

She shook her head.

‘Not for certain, though we suspected as much.’

‘How?’

She stood up, walked over to a cabinet on the far wall, and took out a book.

‘This is yours, is it not?’

It was my copy of Donne’s Devotions, which I had been reading the night before Mr Carteret’s funeral.

‘It was given to Mrs Daunt by Luke Groves – the waiter at the Duport Arms in Easton. Groves thought it must be yours – it had fallen down behind the bed in your room – though it had another’s name inscribed in it. Of course, the name – Edward Glyver – was very familiar to Phoebus. Very familiar indeed. There might be a simple explanation – the book might have come to you quite coincidentally in a number of ways. But Phoebus distrusts coincidence. He says that there is a reason for everything. So our guard was up from that moment.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it seems that I have been very nicely skewered. I congratulate you both.’

‘I warned you, when we first met, not to underestimate Phoebus; and then I warned you again. But you would not listen. You thought you could outwit him; but you can’t. He knows all about you – everything. He is the cleverest man I know. No one will ever get the better of him.’ She gave me an arch smile. ‘Don’t you wonder that I’m not afraid of you?’

‘I will not harm you.’

‘No, I don’t believe you will. Because you love me still, don’t you?’ I did not answer. I had nothing left to say to her. She continued to speak, but I was barely listening. Somewhere, a half-formed thought was beginning to crawl out of the darkness into which my mind had been plunged. It grew stronger and more distinct, until at last it filled my mind to overflowing, and I could think of nothing else.

‘Edward! Edward!’

Slowly I focused my attention on her; but I felt nothing. Yet one question remained.

‘Why did you do this? Once my identity had been proved, I could have offered you everything Daunt could give you – and more.’

‘Dear Edward! Have you not been listening? I love him! I love him!’

I had no reply to make; for I, too, knew what it was to love. I would have gone to the flames for her, suffered any torment for her sweet sake. How, then, could I blame her, bitter though her betrayal was, for doing these things, when she did them for love?

In a daze, I reached for my hat. She said nothing, but watched closely as I picked up my volume of Donne and walked to the door. As I was unlocking it, my eye was caught by an open box of cigars on a nearby table. With cold satisfaction, I noted the maker’s name: Ramón Allones.

Opening the door, I walked out into the corridor.

I did not look back.

I remember little of the journey home, only tumbled impressions of stone towers and stars and waving trees, and the sound of water, and of walking up a long dark hill; and then of a cold journey to Peterborough, followed by lights and noise and interrupted dreams; of emerging at last into the roar and smoke of London, and of finally dragging myself up the stairs to my rooms.

I passed a fearful night contemplating the ruin of my great project. The gates of Paradise had been closed upon me, and would never be opened again. I had been played with infinite skill, until the hook had pierced my gullet; and now I must live out my life drained of all hope, tormented night and day by the loss of my true self, and of her – so beautiful, so treacherous! – whom I would love to my last breath. I have been betrayed, too, it seems, by the Iron Master. Another place has been prepared for me – not Evenwood, the dream-palace of my childhood fancies, but some modest dwelling amongst other modest dwellings, where I shall live and die, unnoticed and unremembered, in perpetual exile from the life that should have been mine.

But I shall not die unavenged.

^*[‘The day of wrath’. Ed.]

44

Dictum, factum^*

For a week after returning from Evenwood I confined myself to my rooms, eating little, and sleeping less.

A note came from Le Grice proposing supper, but I pleaded indisposition; another arrived from Bella, asking why I had not called at Blithe Lodge for so long, to which I replied that I had been out of town on urgent business for Mr Tredgold but would call the following week. When Mrs Grainger came to sweep my floor and clean the grate, I told her that I had no need of her, gave her ten shillings, and asked her to go home. I had no desire to see another human face, and no wish to do anything but reflect over and over again on my ruination, and the means by which it had been accomplished. After so much labour, to have lost everything so easily! The deceiver well and truly deceived! And then, whenever I closed my eyes, night or day, I experienced a recurring vision of her room at Evenwood just as it had been on the day of my betrayal, and of her face pressed against the window-pane, and the look she wore as she had traced the letters of his name on the glass. Where was she now? What was she doing? Was he with her – kissing her, whispering into her ear, making her sigh with delight? Were they congratulating themselves once again on their triumph? Thus I added my own exquisite torments to those I was already suffering.

On the seventh day, as I was sitting in my arm-chair, idly examining the rosewood box in which my mother had hidden the documents that would have undone the wrong she did to me, I looked about me and saw what I had come to.

Was this my kingdom? Were these my sole possessions? This narrow panelled chamber, with its faded Turkey rug laid over bare boards; this blackened grate, these grimy windows; this great work-table on which my mother wrote her life away, and on which I, too, had laboured so futilely; these little reminders of happier times – the clock from my mother’s bedroom, a watercolour of the house in Church Langton where she was born that used to hang in the hall at Sandchurch, a print of School Yard at Eton? Were these things my inheritance? Poor enough, to be sure, even with the addition of the few pounds that I had left at Coutts & Co., and my modest collection of books. But it did not signify. I had no heir; nor would I ever have one. I smiled to think that Mr Tredgold and I were united in our fates: both chained to the memory of a love lost for ever; both incapable of loving again.

I walked over and pulled back the piece of patched velvet curtain behind which my photographic equipment lay unused and gathering dust. Propped up on a shelf was a single view of Evenwood, the only exposure that I had not considered good enough to put into the album that I had made up for Lord Tansor back in the summer of 1850.

It had been taken within the walled area of the grounds enclosing the fish-pond, looking across the black water to the South Front of the house. The building lay in deep shadow, with only patches here and there of pale sunlit stone. I must have knocked the camera, for one of the great cupola-topped towers was out of focus; but though the execution had been flawed, the composition, and the mood it evoked, was striking. I took it down and gazed at it. But the longer I gazed, the more furious I became that I had been shut out for ever from this wonderful place, the home of my ancestors, by a worthless usurper. I was a Duport; he was a nonentity, an atom, a nullity. How could such a nothing presume to take that ancient name as his own? He could not. He would not.

And then, with my rage, came a determination to hazard one final throw of the dice. I would go to Evenwood once again, though it might be for the last time. I would present myself to Lord Tansor, telling him to his face the truth that had been kept from him for over thirty years. I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Eye to eye, man to man, surely he would now recognize me as his own?

I was seized by this new resolve, desperate though it might be, and instantly leaped to my feet to begin my preparations. Then I ran down the wooden stairs, boots clattering, past Fordyce Jukes’s door, and out into the world for the first time in a week.

It was a raw, dull day, and a flat and depressing sky hung over the city. I pushed through the morning crowds and was soon at the terminus, where I took my seat once more in the train that had so often carried me north, to Evenwood.

Once set down in the market-square at Easton by the Peterborough coach, I entered the Duport Arms to take some refreshment before commencing my walk to the great house. As I sat drinking my gin-and-water, served by my old friend, the sullen waiter Groves, who had been the unwitting means by which my identity had been confirmed to Mrs Daunt and her son, the thought struck me that Lord Tansor might not be in residence at Evenwood; that he might be in town, or away somewhere else; and then I grew angry at my impetuosity. To come all this way without establishing this one essential fact only demonstrated to me that I was not myself, and that I must take better care of matters in future. But then I saw that I must take whatever came; and so I drank back my gin, buttoned up my great-coat, and set off down the hill, under a creaking canopy of bare branches, towards Evenwood.

A thick drizzle began to come on. At first I paid no heed to it; but as I turned along the Odstock Road, towards the West Gates of the Park, I felt my trousers begin to cling to my legs and grow heavy as they soaked up the moisture in the air, and by the time I passed through the woods and into the open space of the Park itself, my hat and coat were dripping wet, my boots were muddied, and I was altogether a sorry sight.

The Library Terrace came suddenly into view. To my right was Hamnet’s Tower, with the windows of the Muniments Room looking out from the first floor. And there, above the Library, running the length of the terrace, were the windows of my mother’s former apartments, occupied now by my faithless love. Of course I could not help wondering whether she had returned from London and was there, looking out over the misty, soaking gardens towards the woods through which her father had passed on his last journey home. What would she think, if she saw my tall dishevelled figure striding through the murk? That I had come to kill her? Or her lover? But as I drew closer, scrutinizing each of the windows in turn, there was no sign of her beautiful pale face, and so I walked on.

I decided that there was no alternative but to present myself foursquare at the front door and ask to see Lord Tansor; and this is what I did. Luckily, the door was opened by my sometime informant, John Hooper, whose acquaintance I had made when photographing the house four years earlier.

‘Mr Glapthorn,’ he said. ‘Please come in, sir. Are you expected?’

‘No, Hooper, I am not. But I wish to speak with his Lordship on a matter of importance. Is he at home?’

‘He is in his study, sir, if you will follow me.’

He conducted me through a series of state rooms until we reached a pair of green-painted double doors. Hooper knocked softly.

‘Enter!’

The footman went in first, bowed, and said: ‘Mr Glapthorn, from Tredgolds, to see you, my Lord.’

The apartment was small and dark, but richly furnished. Lord Tansor sat behind a desk facing us. Through a wide sash window behind him, I glimpsed the main carriage-road that led out across the river to descend finally past the Dower House to the South Gates, the road that I had trodden so often in past months. A green-shaded lamp illuminated the documents on which his Lordship had been working. He laid down his pen and stared at me.

‘Glapthorn? The photographer?’ He glanced down at a sheet of paper. ‘I have no note here of an interview with anyone from Tredgolds today.’

‘No, my Lord,’ I replied. ‘I beg your pardon, most sincerely, for calling on you unannounced. But I do so on a matter of the greatest moment.’

‘That will be all, Hooper.’

The footman bowed and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

‘A matter of importance, you say? Has Tredgold sent you?’

‘No, my Lord. I come on my own account.’ His eyes narrowed.

‘What possible business can you and I have?’ His voice was hard, disdainful, and intimidating. But I had expected no less from the 25th Baron Tansor.

‘It concerns your late wife, my Lord.’

At this, Lord Tansor’s face grew dark, and he motioned me to a chair set before his desk.

‘You have my attention, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, leaning back and throwing out a most challenging stare. ‘But be brief.’

I took in a deep lungful of air and began my story: how I had discovered that Lady Tansor had kept the secret of his son’s birth from him, and how the boy had been brought up by another in ignorance of his true identity. I paused.

For a moment or two he said nothing. And then, with unmistakable menace: ‘You had better have proof for what you allege, Mr Glapthorn. It will go hard with you if you do not.’

‘I shall come to the proof shortly, my Lord. If I may continue?’ He nodded. ‘The boy, as I say, grew up not knowing that he was a Duport – that he was your heir. It was only after the death of the woman who brought him up, your late wife’s closest friend, that he discovered the truth. The boy was by then a man; and that man lives.’

Lord Tansor’s face had now grown pale and I saw that, beneath his iron self-control, he was in the grip of mounting emotion.

‘Lives?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘He is here before you, my Lord. I am your son. I am your heir, lawfully begotten.’

His shock at my words was now palpable; but he said nothing. Then he rose slowly from his chair, and turned towards the window behind him. He stood there, hands held stiffly behind his back, rigid, silent, looking out across the gravelled entrance court. Without turning to look at me, he uttered the single word: ‘Proof!’

My mouth was dry; my body all a-tremble. For of course I had no proof. The evidence – incontrovertible, incontestable – that I could have placed before him only a week before had been taken from me, and was now beyond recovery. All I had was circumstantial and unsubstantiated assertion. I saw my future hanging by the merest thread.

‘Proof!’ he barked, turning now towards me. ‘You claimed you had proof. Show it to me at once!’

‘My Lord …’ I hesitated, fatally, and he immediately saw my discomfort.

‘Well?’

‘Letters,’ I replied, ‘in her Ladyship’s own hand, and a signed affidavit, properly executed and witnessed, confirming my true parentage. These documents corroborated the daily record of events left behind in my foster-mother’s journals.’

‘And you have these things with you?’ he asked, though he could see that I had come empty-handed, without a bag or case of any sort. I had no choice now but to make my admission.

‘They are gone, my Lord.’

‘Gone? You have lost them?’

‘No, my Lord. They were stolen. From me, and from Mr Carteret.’

Anger began to suffuse his face. His mouth tightened.

‘What in God’s name has Carteret to do with this?’

Vainly, I attempted to explain how his secretary had come across the crucial letters hidden in the writing-box left to Miss Eames, and how they had been taken from him when he had been attacked. But even as I spoke, I knew that he would not believe what I was about to tell him.

‘And whom do you accuse of stealing these documents, from you and Carteret?’ The question hung in the air for a brief moment as he regarded me, grimly expectant.

‘I accuse Mr Phoebus Daunt.’

Seconds passed. One, two, three … Seconds? No, a lifetime of agony. Outside, the partial light of late afternoon was giving way to the encroaching darkness. The world seemed to turn with infinite slowness as I waited for Lord Tansor’s reply to my assertion. On his next words, I knew, all would be won, or lost. Then he spoke.

‘You are pretty cool, sir, for a damned liar. I’ll give you that. You want money, I suppose, and think this cock-and-bull story of yours is a way to do it.’

‘No, my Lord!’ I jumped up from my chair, and we faced each other, eye to eye, across the desk; but it was not how I had imagined it would be. He recognized no evidences of consanguinity; he felt no tug of that indissoluble golden thread that should unite parent and child across time and space. He did not know me as his son.

‘I’ll tell you what I think, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, pulling back his shoulders. ‘I think you are a rogue, sir. A common rogue. And an unemployed one, too, for you can expect to be dismissed from Tredgolds with immediate effect. I shall write to your principal this very evening. And then I shall bring charges against you, sir. What do you think of that? And I’m not sure I shan’t have you horsewhipped out of my house for your damned effrontery. You accuse Mr Daunt! Are you mad? A man of agreed distinction, who enjoys universal respect! And you brand him a thief and a murderer? You’ll pay for this slander, sir, most dearly. We’ll have every penny off you, sir. We’ll have the clothes off your back, sir. You’ll rue the day you tried to get the better of me!’

He turned and pulled angrily on the bell-rope that hung just behind his desk.

I made one last effort, though I knew it was too late.

‘My Lord, you must believe me. I am truly your son. I am the heir of your blood for which you have longed.’

‘You! My son! Look at you. You are not my son, sir. You are barely a gentleman by the state of your appearance. My only son died when he was seven years old. But I have an heir, thank God, who is every inch a gentleman; and though he does not have my blood, he is everything I could wish for in a son, and fit in all respects to assume the ancient name that I have the honour to bear.’

At that moment a knock came at the door, and Hooper reappeared.

‘Hooper, show this – gentleman – out. He is not to be admitted to this house again, under any circumstance.’

Look at me! Look at me! I cried inwardly. Do you not see her in me? Can you not see yourself? Is there nothing in these features to convince you that it is your own son, and not some adventuring impostor, who stands before you?

I tried to hold his gaze, willing him to see the truth. But his eyes were blank and cold. I picked up my hat, and turned away from him. As I reached the door, I gave a brief half-glance back. He was sitting at his desk again, and had taken up his pen.

^*[‘Said, and done’ (Terence, Heautontimorumenos). Ed.]

45

Vindex^*

I walked away from Evenwood for the last time, through the drizzle and the dark, stopping only once as I reached the Western Gates to look back at the many-towered palace that I had once dreamed would be mine.

The lamps on the Library Terrace had been lit – it was Lord Tansor’s inveterate habit to walk there every evening, whatever the weather, with his dog. Above, in my mother’s old apartments, a light gleamed. She was there – my dearest love was there! And then I felt such a weight of sadness descend upon my spirit, crushing every vestige of hope in me. I took one final, lingering look at the place that had brought me to such despair, and then turned my back on it for ever. I had been stripped of everything due to me by right of birth. But one thing remained in my full possession: the will to bring Phoebus Daunt to account. To this new end, I would now devote myself, to the last ounce of my strength.

I began the next day.

My first task was to observe his movements. To accomplish this, I dressed myself in moleskin trousers, a greasy black coat, a coarse unbuttoned shirt, and a cap and dirty muffler, all purchased from a Jew-clothesman in Holywell-street, and spent several uncomfortable hours every day, loitering in the vicinity of Mecklenburgh-square, and following my enemy when he emerged. His daily routine varied little. Usually he would leave the house at about one o’clock and, if the weather permitted, walk to the Athenaeum in Pall Mall; at three o’clock on the dot he would take a cab back to Mecklenburgh-square, emerging again between five and six to walk or take another cab somewhere for dinner – sometimes to the Divan Tavern in the Strand, or perhaps to Verrey’s or Jaquet’s.^* He usually dined alone, and never returned home later than ten o’clock. A light would burn in one of the upper rooms for several hours – some new dreary epic, I expected, was being given to the world. I never saw any visitors come to the house; and, to my infinite relief, there was no sign of Miss Carteret.

I continued to brave cold and hunger – and the indignity of seeming to belong to that vagabond class of Londoner who live and die in the streets of the metropolis – until, on the fifth day, towards six o’clock, just as I was about to give up and return to Temple-street, I saw my quarry leave his house and make his way westwards towards Gower-street. Pulling my hat down, I followed him.

I was close now – close enough to see his black beard and the shimmer on his silk hat as he passed under a lamp. He walked with a determinedly confident air, swinging his stick, his long coat trailing out behind him like a king’s train. It had been four years and more since I had seen him playing croquet with a tall dark-haired lady at Evenwood. Dear God! I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing, for the first time, that it had all been laid out before my very eyes on that hot June afternoon in 1850, and I had failed to see it: Phoebus Daunt and his beautiful croquet partner – my enemy and my dearest love. Seething inwardly, with my eye fixed on his retreating form, I continued shadowing him.

He swung south to Bedford-square, and thence down St Martin’s-lane until he came at last to Bertolini’s in St Martin’s-street, Leicester-square, which he entered. I took up my position just across the street. The two pocket-pistols made for me by M. Honoré of Liège, which have accompanied me on all my midnight rambles about the city, were in readiness. There was no moon that night, and sufficient fog to make escape certain.

Two hours later, he stepped out into the street again, with another fellow. They shook hands, and his companion walked off towards Pall Mall, while Daunt took his way northwards. In Broad-street, he turned into a narrow lane, lit by a single gas-lamp at the far end.

I was no more than six or seven feet behind him, but he had no idea I was there – my years as Mr Tredgold’s private agent had taught me how to pursue someone without their being at all aware of my presence, and I was confident that I remained invisible to him. The lane was deserted. I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the pistols. A few steps more. My shoes were wrapped in rags so that my steps made no sound. He stopped, just under the lamp, to light a cigar – a perfectly illuminated target. Hidden in a doorway, I raised the pistol and brought my aim to bear on the back of his head, just above the collar of his coat.

But nothing happened. My hand was shaking. Why could I not pull the trigger? I took aim again, but by now he had moved out of the yellow arc of light, and in a moment had disappeared into the darkness.

I remained standing in the doorway, gun in hand and still trembling, for several minutes.

I had done many things in my life of which, God knows, I was ashamed; but I had never yet killed a man. Yet I had imagined, foolishly, that it would be easy for me, I who had seen violence done in the course of my work, simply to raise my pistol and blow his brains out, relying on my hate and rage to carry me through. Was I so weak after all? Had my will been overruled by conscience? I had had him where I wanted him, my hated enemy; and something had held me back, though my thirst to be revenged on him remained as sharp as ever. Then I told myself that there is little in this world that may not be mastered with study and application; and murder is perhaps the least of challenges, if the injury be great enough, and the will sufficient. Conscience, if that is what had stayed my hand, must be stamped down.

I replaced the pistol in my pocket, and began to make my way back to Temple-street. I was badly shaken. I considered once more whether I was really capable of such a deed. Might not my courage fail me, as it had just done, when the moment came to strike the fatal blow? The mere act of mentally posing the question engendered another little thrill of doubt. Surely I would not flinch a second time? There – again: that momentary prick of apprehension.

Shocked to the core by my inability to do what I wished to do above all things, I stumbled off, arriving at last at the opium-master’s door in Bluegate-fields.

Oh God, what dreams came to me that night – dreams so terrible that I cannot bear to set them down! I ended by raving wildly for an hour or more, so that a doctor had to be called, to administer a strong sleeping draught. When I awoke, it seemed as if I had been laid on a soft bed. A cold salty breeze flowed over my face, and I could hear the cry of sea birds, and the sound of water lapping. Where was I? Surely I was in my old bed at Sandchurch again, with the little round window open to let in the morning air from the Channel? Slowly, I opened my eyes.

It was no bed. I was lying in the wet, clinging mud, still in my labourer’s clothes, close to the river’s edge, though how I had come there I still cannot say. Gradually, consciousness began to return, and with it a voice whispering to me, softly but distinctly. I moved on my oozy mattress, turning slowly round to see who was with me. But no one was there. I was entirely alone on a dismal stretch of shore beneath a line of towering dark buildings. But then the voice came again, more insistently this time, telling me what I must do.

I write this now in days of calm reflection; but I was mad then, made so by treachery, despair, and rage, and by the opium-master’s pipe of dreams. I lay, in my degradation, between the worlds of men and monsters; a strange putty-coloured sky, streaked and splashed with vivid red, above me; dark shingled slime beneath me; and the sound of whispering, like rushing water, in my ears.

‘I hear you,’ I heard myself say. ‘I will obey!’

Then I jumped up, shouting in some incoherent tongue, and began running round in the mud, like some demented Bacchic votary.^* But it was not wine that made me do this. It was blessed opium, opening a great black gate, behind which stood another, more terrible, god.

Some time later – whether minutes or hours, I do not know – I was once more in the world of men, though not of them. Down Dorset-street^* I tramped, covered in mud, and with a look in my eyes that made even the inhabitants of these infernal regions step aside as I approached. And still the voice whispered in my ear as I made my way westwards.

At last I climbed the stairs to my rooms, heart-sick and chilled to the bone from my sojourn on the shore. Throwing off my wet and filthy rags, I washed myself and put on clean clothes. Then I lay on my bed, breathing hard, looking up through the skylight at a single winking star that hung, like fragile hope itself, in the pale immensity of morning.

I would not fail in my next attempt to kill Phoebus Daunt. The voice had told me what I must do to make a trial of my resolve to become a murderer. Another man must die before I faced my enemy again; only then would I know for sure that my will was truly equal to the task. Practice makes perfect, I whispered to myself, over and over again. The god of necessary violence demands two sacrifices, so that the lesser deed may secure the success of the greater.

Monday, 23rd October 1854^†

I awoke shaking. For an hour I lay and listened to the wind, dreaming that I was in my bed at Sandchurch once again. There are shadows on the wall that I cannot explain. A woman with [tusks?]. A king wielding a great scimitar. A terrible claw-like hand that creeps over the counterpane.

I reach for my bottle of Dalby’s. This is the third time tonight.

* * *

At ten o’clock, Mrs Grainger knocked at the door. I sent her away again, telling her I was unwell. I will not go out today.

Tuesday, 24th October 1854

My bottle of Dalby’s is empty. I began to weep as I tried to shake the last few remaining drops into my wineglass.

It will be tonight.

I walked down to the river and across Southwark Bridge to take my luncheon in the Borough. The Catherine Wheel Inn was dark and crowded, and no one paid me any heed. I called for two slices of [beef?] from the platter, and then observed the waiter as he went about his task. The knife he used was pitted and discoloured, but it sliced through the red flesh with ease. It would do very well. Much better than a pistol.

And so to Messrs [Corbyn^*] in High Holborn. ‘A persistent headache, sir? Nothing more unpleasant. We recommend [Godfrey’s] Cordial. You prefer Dalby’s? Certainly, sir.’

* * *

Five o’clock by the Temple Church. On with my great-coat. Stow the knife securely. On with my gloves, a new pair, which I must take care not to spoil.

I stepped outside. A sharp night, with fog coming down.

St Paul’s rose monstrously into the murk. The [lantern] was invisible, and also the Golden Gallery, where I had stood with my dear girl a lifetime ago.

East down Cheapside and into Cornhill, the City churches ringing out six o’clock. I had been wandering for an hour. Him? Or him? The fellow loitering outside St Mary-le-Bow? The old gentleman coming out of Ned’s chop-house in Finch-lane? I was bewildered. So many black coats, so many black hats. So many lives. How could I choose?

At length, I found myself in Threadneedle-street, looking across to the entrance of the Bank of England.

Then I saw him, and my heart began to thump. He was [dressed] the same as all the others, but something seemed to distinguish him. He stood, looking about him. Would he cross the street? Perhaps he intended to take the omnibus that was now approaching. But then he pulled on his gloves and walked smartly off towards Poultry.

I kept him in sight as we walked westwards, back along Cheapside, past St Paul’s again, and down Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street and Temple Bar. Then he turned northwards a short way, up Wych-street and across to Maiden-lane, where he took some refreshment at a coffeehouse, and read the paper for half an hour. At a few minutes after seven o’clock, he left, stood for a few moments on the pavement in the [swirling] mist to adjust his muffler, and then continued on his way.

A little further we went, and then he turned into a narrow court that I had never noticed before. I stood at the entrance, taking in its high blank walls and deep shadows, and watching the solitary figure of my victim as he walked towards a short flight of steps leading down to the Strand. At the head of the steps was a fizzing gas-lamp that threw out a weak smudge of dirty yellow light into the foggy dark. Where was this? I looked up.

Cain-court, W.

He was nearing the steps at the far end of the court, but I quickly and silently caught up with him.

My hand was closed round the handle of the knife.

And so, at last, I bring my confession back to the point at which it started: the killing of Lucas Trendle, the red-haired stranger, on the 24th of October 1854. He died that night so that Phoebus Daunt might also die, as justice demanded; for without the death of guiltless Lucas Trendle, I might have failed in that greater aim. But now, by his sad death, committed swiftly and without compunction, I knew, beyond all doubt, that I was capable of this terrible extremity of action. The logic was that of the madhouse; but it did not seem so to me then. On the contrary, it made perfect sense to me, in my disordered state, to kill an innocent man in order to ensure the death of a guilty one. As I confess the deed now, for the second time, I am racked with remorse for what I did to poor Lucas Trendle; but I cannot, and will never, regret what it steeled me to do.

The events successive to that momentous night have already been laid before you: the shock that I felt when I learned my victim’s name; the blackmail note received by Bella; and then the invitation to Lucas Trendle’s funeral at Stoke Newington slipped under my door; my parting from Bella following our night in the Clarendon Hotel, when she rightly suspected me of withholding the truth about myself from her; my confrontation with Fordyce Jukes, whom I suspected of being the blackmailer; and, finally, those mysterious taps on the shoulder, outside the Diorama and at Stoke Newington, and the menacing figure who had followed Le Grice and me as we rowed up to Hungerford Bridge.

It is now the 13th of November 1854. The place: Le Grice’s rooms in Albany. The time: an hour after dawn.

Le Grice stood up and pulled back the curtains, allowing weak pearly light into the frowsty room. The night after our dinner at Mivart’s had passed away in talk, and by the time that the new day had broken forth, I had placed the true history of Edward Glyver before my dear old friend, sparing him only the despatching of Lucas Trendle, and my resolve to do the same to Phoebus Daunt. My task now was to discover the identity of the blackmailer, and then, when I have dealt with him, turn my full attention to Phoebus Rainsford Daunt.

My old friend looked at me with an expression of such concentrated seriousness that I began to regret that I had unburdened myself to him in this way.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I thought you were in trouble, and I was right. God knows, though, G, why you kept all this to yourself. I mean to say, old boy, you might have given a chap a chance to help you. But that’s all past now.’ He shook his head, as if some great thought had presented itself for his consideration. ‘Old Lord T, now. That was hard, G. Damned hard. Don’t know how I’d have taken that. Your own father.’ Another shake of his head; and then, with a brighter and more determined air, ‘Daunt, though – an entirely different matter. Things to be done there.’

He paused once more, apparently reflecting on a new possibility.

‘What I don’t understand is, why Daunt sent me that book to give to you. Wouldn’t Miss Carteret have told him where he could find you?’

‘I can only guess that he is playing some sort of game with me,’

I replied. ‘As a warning, perhaps, against trying to get back at him – to let me know that I am within his reach.’

Le Grice looked doubtful. And then he suddenly spun round, an excited glint in his eyes: ‘I say! The copies! You still have the copies, of the Deposition and what not, that you sent to old Tredgold.’

‘Gone,’ I said.

‘Gone?’

‘When I got back from Evenwood, after seeing Miss Carteret, there was a letter from Mr Tredgold. There’d been a burglary – his sister and brother had taken him to the Cathedral and the house was empty. It was Pluckrose, I suppose. Nothing of value taken, only papers and documents. They were no use anyway. All in my own hand, you see. I made another copy of Mr Carteret’s Deposition, but it won’t help now. I have nothing.’

Crestfallen, Le Grice threw himself back into his chair. But after a minute or two of silence, he slapped the arm.

‘Breakfast, I think. That’s the thing we need.’

So off we went to the London Tavern to take our fill of eggs, bacon, and oyster-toast, supplemented by liberal doses of coffee.

‘There’s no point beating around the bush, old boy,’ said Le Grice as we walked out into the street afterwards. ‘You’re sunk. And that’s all about it.’

‘It would seem so,’ I agreed gloomily.

‘And there’s still our friend on the river. The jolly boatman. What I think is, he might be an associate of Daunt’s, perhaps, keeping an eye on you. Now what’s to be done about him, I wonder?’

It is strange how a single word or phrase from another’s lips can sometimes throw light on a truth that we have been struggling unsuccessfully to uncover. Was there no end to my stupidity? An associate of Daunt’s? There was only one associate of his that I knew of, and that was Josiah Pluckrose. The line of reasoning that succeeded this thought was swift and, to my mind, conclusive. If Pluckrose was the man in the boat, then Pluckrose might also be the man who had tapped me on the shoulder on leaving Abney Cemetery after the funeral of Lucas Trendle, and outside the Diorama following my walk with Bella in the Regent’s Park. Miss Carteret, after all, had let slip that Pluckrose had followed me to Stamford. How long had I been marked? And then the leap. ‘An end is come, the end is come: it watcheth for thee; behold, it is come.’ I heard again in my head the admonitory verse from Ezekiel, to which I had been directed by a series of pin-pricked holes on the first blackmail note. Blackmail? No; a warning, from my enemy. Jukes, I now saw, had nothing to do with it. The notes were the work of Daunt.

‘What ails thee, knight-at-arms?’ I heard Le Grice say as he clapped me heartily on the back. ‘You look distinctly seedy, but then I’m not surprised. Mr Dark Horse indeed! But fret not. The pride of the Le Grices is by your side, come what may. No need to soldier on alone any more. There’s still some time before I join my regiment, and it’s yours, old boy, all yours. And then, perhaps you might go travelling till I return. What do you say?’

I took his hand and thanked him, from the bottom of my heart, though my mind was already far away, reflecting on the consequences of my belated realization.

‘What now?’ he asked, cheroot clamped between his teeth.

‘I’m to my bed,’ I said.

‘I’ll walk with you.’

I had unmasked my blackmailer, though it was not blackmail my enemy intended: of that I was now certain. I had nothing left to give him, and he could go to the authorities and denounce me in a moment for the murder of Lucas Trendle if he so wished. Was he merely demonstrating his power over me? I considered this question for some time, concluding at last that it would be in character for him to do so, like the spiteful little tug that he was; but I now began to perceive another, darker, danger looming behind this pleasant little prank, a danger Mr Tredgold had seen, but which I had formerly made light of. Daunt had set Pluckrose to watch me, and now he knew about Lucas Trendle. The note to Bella, and the invitation to my victim’s funeral, were simply diversions. But from what?

Then all became clear. He had taken everything from me, but he was not satisfied. Whilst I lived, I must of course be a constant threat to him; for he could not be certain that some other piece of evidence, conclusive to my claim to be Lord Tansor’s lawful heir, might not come to light, and so sink his prospects for ever. If I put myself in his place, then only one course of action presented itself. He must take my life, to make his triumph certain.

I had let matters drag on too long. Action was now needed, firm and decisive. I must now, at long last, strike the first – and final – blow against my enemy.

A letter arrived late the next afternoon from Mr Tredgold, imploring me to come to Canterbury as soon as I was able. But what could Mr Tredgold do for me? Without the evidence that had been taken from me, my claim to be Lord Tansor’s son could never be pursued. ‘Your continuing silence has given me great anxiety,’ he wrote.I do not well know what I can do to assist you, if you will not inform me of your present circumstances. You will understand, of course, that I am unable to take up your cause directly with Lord Tansor. There would be consequences – of the most serious character – if my part in the conspiracy carried out by his Lordship’s late wife were to become known. I care nothing now for myself, or for my reputation; but the standing of the firm – well, that is a very different case. Greater than even this consideration, however, is the solemn vow I took in the Temple Church, never to betray your mother. This vow I shall never willingly break. When the truth is known, as it may soon be, then of course I shall face whatever comes, for your sake. But I cannot and will not, of my own volition, reveal it to Lord Tansor. That responsibility is yours, dear Edward, and yours alone. But I wish to speak to you so very badly, about these matters, and when and how you intend to communicate with his Lordship, and how I may offer what help I can, within the limits of my ability. Come soon, my dear boy.On the back of the letter was a postscript:I have to thank you – as I am confident that you were responsible – for the copy of the ‘C—of V—’^* that arrived yesterday. The accompanying note from the bookseller announced that it had been obtained for me, after much searching, on the instructions of a valued customer of his, who wished to remain anonymous. I do not need to say how grateful I am that my cabinet now contains such a fine copy of this most interesting work, or how much I miss our regular bibliographic conversations. I have no one now with whom I can share my little enthusiasms; no one, indeed, to whom I can turn in the confident anticipation of delight in their company. But these are matters that belong to a former, and happier, time.

With a sigh, I laid the letter on my work-table. I had nothing to say in reply, and there it would remain, unanswered. Even if I had still possessed the proof of my identity that had been taken from me, through the perfidy of Miss Carteret, I would have been unwilling to request Mr Tredgold to intercede with Lord Tansor on my behalf. I saw only too clearly that the risk of catastrophe for the firm, and of professional opprobrium and scandal for him, would have been too great; and I would not for the world, not even to regain everything I had lost, have asked him to betray the woman he loved. Now it was too late. The proof had been destroyed, and there was no help left. Feeling a sudden, crushing oppression of spirits, I retired to my bed.

I awoke suddenly, at a little before midnight. For two nights past, I had experienced that most fearful dream of mine, in which I find myself alone in the midst of a vast columned chamber in the depths of the earth, my flickering candle revealing nothing but Stygian darkness without end on every side; but then, as always, I realize – with suffocating terror – that I am not alone, as I had believed. Maddened with fear, I await each time the expected soft pressure on the shoulder, and the little stream of warm breath, caressing my cheek as it extinguishes the candle’s flame.

I could not face it a third time, and so I got up and tried to light the fire in my sitting-room, but it would not draw and soon puttered out. Wrapped in a blanket against the cold, I took up the third volume of the Bibliotheca Duportiana, and sat before the dreary blank mouth of the fireplace.

I had reached the letter ‘N’: Nabbes’s Microcosmus: A morall maske (1637); the works of Thomas Nashe; Pynson’s Natura Brevium of 1494; Fridericus Nausea’s Of all Blasing Starres in Generall, published in English by Woodcocke in 1577; Netter’s Sacramentalia (Paris, François Regnault, 1523).^* I lingered for a moment over Dr Daunt’s description of this rare work of doctrinal theology – an exceptionally rare work; a most improbable work for a solicitor’s clerk, on eighty pounds a year, to possess.

At eight o’clock the next morning I was standing at the top of the stairs, listening. At last I heard it: the sound of Fordyce Jukes’s door closing behind him. Once at the bottom, I lingered for a moment or two, smelling the cold damp air coming in from the street. The door was locked, as I expected, but I had come prepared with a large selection of skeleton keys, acquired during the course of my work for Mr Tredgold, and soon gained entry.

The apartment was as I remembered it from my last uninvited visit: neat and comfortable, swept and polished, and containing an extraordinary number of fine and valuable objects. But only one of them interested me at that moment.

The lock of the cabinet presented no difficulty. I reached in and took out what I sought: Thomas Netter, Sacramentalia – folio, Paris, Regnault, 1523. It bore the same bookplate as that of the first edition of Felltham’s Resolves, secreted by Miss Eames in Lady Tansor’s burial chamber. There were a dozen or so other books of rare quality in the cabinet. They all carried the same plate. The books; the paintings and prints on the walls; the objets in the cabinets – all of the first quality, all portable, and all undoubtedly stolen from Evenwood. I carefully replaced the book, re-locked the cabinet, and then the stair-case door.

This, then, had been Daunt’s ‘new tack’, as revealed to me by Pettingale. Like the despicable ingrate that he was, he had removed these rare and exceedingly valuable items from his patron’s house, and had stowed them away here, in the rooms of his creature, Fordyce Jukes, until he should have need of them. How he came to employ Jukes in this way did not concern me; but it was now clear to me how my enemy had been apprised of all my movements. There would be no trail leading back to Daunt, that was sure. But Jukes – who had no doubt also been engaged to watch me – was a different matter.

Back in my room, I composed a short letter, in capital letters and using my left hand:DEAR LORD TANSOR, —I WISH TO BRING TO YOUR ATTENTION A MOST SERIOUS MATTER, CONCERNING A NUMBER OF VALUABLE ITEMS THAT I BELIEVE HAVE BEEN UNLAWFULLY REMOVED FROM YOUR COUNTRY RESIDENCE. THE ITEMS IN QUESTION, WHICH INCLUDE SEVERAL BOOKS OF GREAT RARITY, MAY BE FOUND, QUITE OPEN TO VIEW, IN THE ROOMS OF F. JUKES, SOLICITOR’S CLERK, I TEMPLE-STREET, WHITEFRIARS, GROUND FLOOR.I ASSURE YOU, MY LORD, THAT THIS INFORMATION IS PERFECTLY ACCURATE, AND THAT I HAVE NO OTHER MOTIVE IN SETTING IT BEFORE YOU THAN A SINCERE REGARD FOR YOUR POSITION AS THE PRESENT REPRESENTATIVE OF AN ANCIENT AND DISTINGUISHED FAMILY, AND AN EARNEST DESIRE TO SEE JUSTICE DONE.I AM, SIR, YOUR VERY OBEDIENT SERVANT,‘CHRYSAOR’^*

So much for Fordyce Jukes.

Windmill-street, dusk.

The drabs, all rouged up for business, were beginning to swarm out of the surrounding courts and into the streets. I lingered for a while in Ramsden’s coffee-house, and then sauntered along to the Three Spies.^† A dirty little gonoph^* tried to pick my pocket as I stood lighting my cigar, but I turned just in time and knocked him down, to the general amusement of all around.

Several of the drabs gave me the eye, but there was nothing that took my fancy. Then, as I was about to move off, a girl came out of the Three Spies, carrying an umbrella. She looked up at the sky, and was preparing to walk past me when I stopped her.

‘Excuse me. Why, of course! Mabel, is it not?’

She eyed me up and down.

‘And who, may I ask, wants to know?’

And then she smiled her recognition.

‘Mr Glapthorn, I think. How do you do?’ Delightfully, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. She smelled of soap and eau de Cologne.

I replied that I was all the better for seeing her and asked after her employer, the enterprising Madame Mathilde, and also her sister Cissie, for I had a sudden strong hankering to reacquaint myself with these most accommodating soeurs de joie.

Cissie was in Gerrard-street, I was informed, and so after some refreshment at the Opera Tavern, we repaired thither through the rain. Up the stairs we went, to find Miss Cissie warming her pretty toes by the fire.

‘Well, ladies,’ I said gaily, removing my hat and gloves, ‘here we are again.’

Afterwards, I walked down to Leicester-square. Minded to take some supper, I turned into Castle-street and entered Rouget’s, having briefly inspected the offerings in Mr Quaritch’s window en route.^† I took my seat by the window, and ordered up supper – Julienne soup, some pâté d’Italie, bread, and a bottle of red wine. For an hour or more I sat in gloomy contemplation of my desolation; then I called for another bottle.

At half past eleven, the waiter opened the door to the street for me to pass through, holding out his hand to assist me as I mounted the step, but I pushed him away with a curse. For a moment or two I was unable to remember where I was. A crowd of bravoes came rolling down the street towards me, and looked me up and down, thinking perhaps that I was ripe for picking. But I was still able to eye them back, defiantly spitting out my cigar butt as I did so. They continued on their way.

‘Looking for business, sir?’

Damn it. I had nothing else to do, and Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie were already dim memories. She was young, not too dirty, and had a pretty smile.

‘Always looking for business, my dear.’

What was that? I turned as quickly as I could; but in my somewhat inebriated state, I lost my balance and fell against the girl. She tried to hold me up but I was too heavy, and we both ended up on the muddy pavement.

‘’Ere, wot’s your game?’ she asked indignantly.

But I was no longer interested in a piece of cheap cunny. That tap on the shoulder had brought me to my senses.

I saw him reach into his pocket, and in another second the cosh was in his hand. The girl, screaming obscenities, scrambled up from the pavement and started to kick at him. As he turned to push her away, I drew out my pistol and pointed it straight into the ugly face of Josiah Pluckrose.

We stood thus, eyeball to eyeball, until he gave me an evil smile, calmly replaced the cosh in his pocket, and walked off, whistling.

My encounter with Pluckrose stung me into action, and I soon devised a plan, which, I hoped, would deprive Daunt of his formidable protector.

A man like Pluckrose, I reasoned, would have made many enemies. As I turned over this likelihood in my mind, I remembered something that Lewis Pettingale had said in passing, during our conversation in Gray’s-Inn, concerning Isaac Gabb, the youngest member of the Newmarket gang to have been despatched by Pluckrose, known then as Mr Verdant.

According to Pettingale, Gabb the Younger’s brother had kept a public-house in Rotherhithe; a moment’s consultation of the Directory on my return to Temple-street quickly identified the establishment and its location. Knowing from my own experience the general disposition of the population of Rotherhithe, and knowing also from Pettingale that Gabb Senior had expressed a clear desire to return the favour to his brother’s killer, if only he could find him, it seemed most probable that this gentleman might not be averse to knowing Mr Verdant’s real name and present whereabouts.

So far, so good. But where was Pluckrose now residing? He had surely moved from Weymouth-street, where he had been living when he married poor Agnes Baker. I consulted the current issue of the Directory and, to my amazement, found him listed therein. Confirmation that Mr J. Pluckrose was the present occupier of Number 42, Weymouth-street, was soon provided by the scullery maid from Number 40; Mr Pluckrose, it seemed, had not vacated the house after the death of his wife but had brazenly remained there, in defiance of his neighbours’ disapproval, ever since.

Armed with this salient fact, I set off for Rotherhithe.

Mr Abraham Gabb was a short, lean-shanked, gimlet-eyed gentleman, possessing the vicious aspect of a terrier perpetually on the look-out for something to sink his teeth into and shake until its back-bone cracked. The public-house in Rotherhithe of which he was lord and master was, like himself, small, dirty, and vicious by reputation. Mine host regarded me warily as I approached the bar; but I was used to such places, and to men such as Mr Gabb, and had only to look him in the eye, slap down some coins, and say but a few choice words before I had his complete attention.

As he digested the information that I put before him, his terrier eyes began to glint – no doubt in eager anticipation of renewing his acquaintance with the gentleman who had undoubtedly cut short his brother’s life. My plan succeeded more easily than I could have anticipated. As he had only ever known Pluckrose by his soubriquet of ‘Mr Verdant’, it had hitherto been impossible for Gabb to hunt down his brother’s killer. Knowing now where he lived, and under what name, the landlord was in a position to mete out the vengeance that he had long contemplated. Throwing back my brandy, I expressed myself heartily gratified that I had been able to perform this trifling service to him.

But Mr Gabb was wary, and said nothing by way of reply; then, calling over two ugly-looking, bull-backed bruisers who had been leaning together, deep in conversation, at the other end of the bar, he left me alone, and the three of them engaged in a huddled conference. At length, after much whistling and pursing of lips, the landlord, nodding knowingly to his two compatriots, turned back towards me.

‘You’re sure Verdant is there?’ Mr Gabb, still wary, fixed me with his eye while he stroked his dirty chin as an aid to comprehension.

‘As sure as I’m standing here.’

‘And wot’s your int’rest in the matter?’ he growled suspiciously.

‘Hygiene!’ I declaimed. ‘It is a passion of mine. Filth – physical and moral – appals me. I am an eager promoter of clean water, clean thoughts, and the proper disposal of waste. The streets are awash with filth of every description. I simply wish to enlist you and your comrades in my crusade, by encouraging you to make a start on the permanent removal of filth from Number 42, Weymouth-street, at your earliest convenience.’

‘You’re mad,’ said Mr Abraham Gabb, ‘stark mad.’

Thursday, 30th November 1854

Cold, clinging fog. There was nothing to see from my window but the dim dark forms of wet roofs and smoking chimneys, and nothing to hear but the muffled sound of people and carriages passing unseen up and down the street, the wheezing cough of the law stationer who lived on the floor below, and the doleful sound of distant bells tolling out the interminable hours. Despite my earlier resolve to strike at Daunt before he struck at me, I found myself sunk again in indolence. The weeks were passing, and still I had done nothing. And this was the reason.

On the 24th of November, The Times had announced the engagement of the distinguished poet, Mr Phoebus Rainsford Daunt, and Miss Emily Carteret, daughter of the late Mr Paul Carteret. Every day since then I had sat for hours on end, staring at the printed words, and in particular at the conclusion of the announcement: ‘The wedding will take place at St Michael and All Angels, Evenwood, on the 1st of January next. Miss Carteret will be given away by her noble relative, Lord Tansor.’ I had even fallen asleep at the table and woken to find my cheek pressed against the black print.

But today had been different. The announcement from The Times had been consigned to the flames, along with my irresolution. At one o’clock, I walked out in order to accomplish various errands, ending my expedition with an early dinner at the Wellington,^* where I was not known.

‘Will you take some beef, sir?’ the waiter asked. ‘Certainly,’ I replied.

He picked up a heavy, ivory-handled carving-knife, which he first brought to a nice edge with a sharpening steel, before cutting away at the joint most dexterously. It was a joy to behold the succulent slices of flesh falling onto the platter. When he had laid down his knife and brought the steaming plate to my table, I asked him whether he would be good enough to fetch me some brandy-and-water. By the time he returned, I had gone; and so had his knife.

I made my way home via Weymouth-street, where, to my delight, I encountered great excitement. A large crowd had gathered outside Number 42, and a police van was drawn up in front of the house.

‘What is going forward?’ I enquired of a post-man, bag on shoulder, who was standing on the pavement, humming softly to himself as he observed the scene.

‘Murder,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Occupier beaten to death and thrown from first-floor window.’ At which he resumed his tuneless humming.

Silently approbating Mr Abraham Gabb and his associates for their admirable promptitude and efficiency, I went on my way, rejoicing that the terrible violence meted out by Josiah Pluckrose to poor undeserving Agnes Baker, and to the equally undeserving Paul Carteret, had been turned back on the perpetrator. He had escaped a stretching because of me; but I had finally brought him to account.

So much for Pluckrose. Now – at last – for his master.

^*[An avenger or punisher. Ed.]

^*[In Regent Street (corner of Hanover Street) and Clare Court, Drury Lane, respectively. Ed.]

^*[i.e. a drunken devotee of the god of wine, Bacchus. Ed.]

^*[In Spitalfields, known as one of the worst streets in London for violence and poverty. Ed.]

[The following sections of the MS are composed of pasted-in strips of unlined paper. The writing on these strips is occasionally almost illegible. Conjectured readings are in square brackets. Ed.]

^*[Corbyn, Beaumont, Stacey & Messer, well-known chemists and druggists, situated at 300 High Holborn. Ed.]

^*[The Cabinet of Venus. See p. 192. Ed.]

^*[See note, pp. 65–6. Ed.]

^*[The sword of Justice wielded by Sir Artegal in Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Ed.]

^†[A public-house at 11 Windmill Street, Haymarket. Ed.]

^*[An inferior, usually juvenile, street thief and pickpocket. Ed.]

^†[The bookseller Bernard Quaritch, 16 Castle Street, Leicester Square. Ed.]

^*[At 160, Piccadilly. Ed.]

46

Consummatum est^*

Monday, 11th December 1854

I awoke with a start at a little after six, having dozed off in my chair an hour or so earlier. It was here at last. The day of reckoning. I had slept lightly, having taken only a small swig of Dalby’s before retiring early. Today, I would need all my wits about me.

Outside, the street was curiously silent, and the morning light seemed unnaturally bright for the time of year. Then I heard the sound of a shovel being scraped on the pavement. Jumping up, I rushed to the window to find that the usual vista of sooty roofs had been magically transformed by a thick covering of snow, whose purity, dazzling even under a dense slate sky, was quite at odds with the dirt and sin that lay beneath its fleecy embrace.

My mind was clear, now that the day was finally here, and I felt an eager surge of excitement at the imminent prospect of taking my long-delayed revenge on my enemy. The loss of Pluckrose must surely have unnerved him; and this advantage had been swiftly followed by the arrest of Fordyce Jukes, as related to me in a letter, received the day before, from Mr Tredgold. I had not told him of my betrayal, nor of how everything I had laboured so long to acquire had been lost beyond recall. In a few brief notes sent down to Canterbury, I had assured him that all was going along very well, and that Miss Carteret and I had been laying our plans. In the reply he had now sent to the last of these hastily composed communications, I detected an anxious impatience, which I much regretted; but I was determined, at all costs, to keep my employer in ignorance of the true situation, and of what I was about to do.

The letter did, however, contain the welcome news concerning Jukes.You may or may not be aware that, following information received from an anonymous source, Jukes has been found in possession of a large number of very precious objects, every one of which appears to have been stolen, over a period of time, from Evenwood. He claims that he merely stored these items under instruction from the person actually responsible for the thefts. And the person he names? None other than Mr Phoebus Daunt! Of course no one believes him. It is too ridiculous, and a dastardly slur on the reputation of a great literary man (so goes the general view). Jukes has certainly had opportunity to carry out the thefts during the time that he has been in my employ, having often accompanied me to Evenwood on business, and at other times he was sent there alone on various errands. I very much fear his protestations will count for little when his case comes on. Nothing, I think, can lessen Lord Tansor’s exalted estimation of Mr Phoebus Daunt. Jukes has of course been dismissed from the firm, and is presently awaiting trial. I shudder that such a person was in my trusted employ for so long, and the anonymous informant, whoever he may be, has my sincere gratitude for thus exposing him. As a result of the police investigation, it has now also emerged that Jukes may have been implicated in the defrauding of his previous employer, Pentecost & Vizard, in the year 1841. He is said to have facilitated a burglary, during which a number of the firm’s blank cheques were stolen, which, if true, makes me shudder that I placed my trust in him for so long.On another matter, what you certainly will not know is that I have decided, in consultation with my brother and sister, that I shall formally retire from the firm on the 31st of this month. Mr Donald Orr is to become Senior Partner (my sister’s views on this promotion are extremely severe), whilst I propose to take a little house in the country, play my violincello, and tend my collections, though I confess that they do not hold the fascination that once they did. Rebecca is to come and keep house for me – Harrigan has deserted her, and it now appears that they were never married. It is an arrangement that suits both parties very well. Leaving London is for the best, I think. The world is much changed, and really I wish to have as little to do with it as possible.

Dear, kind Mr Tredgold! How I wished I could turn back from the path on which my feet were now set! But it was too late. The past had been closed off; the future was dark; I had only my present unshakeable resolve, as minute succeeded minute, and the snow began to fall.

My first task was to remove my moustachios. When the operation was over, I stood for some moments regarding myself in the cracked mirror above my wash-stand. I was bemused. Who was this person? The boy who dreamed of sailing away to the Country of the Houyhnhnms? Or the young man who wished to become a great scholar? No: I saw clearly who I was, and what I had become. I saw, too, that I did not have, and would never have, the strength to turn aside from visiting retribution on my enemy, and so reclaim my former innocent self. I was damned, and I knew it.

The thought of who I had once been, before I discovered the truth about myself, suddenly conjured up a vivid memory of an event that I had almost forgotten until revived by some strange unconscious mechanism on this day of vengeance.

When I was eight, and in my second year at Tom Grexby’s little school, our small band of scholars, three in number by now, was augmented by the son of a corn-factor from Wareham, Rowland Beesley by name, who had been sent to Sandchurch to live temporarily in the care of his aunt. Beesley tried Tom’s patience sorely from the start, and it was not long before he took it into his head to cross me – which, even at that age, was a foolish thing to do.

After several preliminary skirmishes, in which I think it is fair to say I triumphed decisively, battle was joined in earnest on the day that I brought to school, for Tom’s perusal, my pride and joy – the first volume of the translation of M. Galland’s Les mille et une nuits, from which I used to read to my mother.^* I was late for school that morning and had run as fast I could go, down the hill to Tom’s cottage, with my treasure – wrapped in an old piece of dark-green plush that I had borrowed from Beth’s work-basket – tucked tightly under my arm. I arrived ten minutes past the time, panting, and hurriedly placed the book, still wrapped in its plush, on a little table by the front door.

Towards the end of the morning lesson, Beesley asked to be excused. He returned after a few minutes, took his place, and the lesson continued. When at last Tom said we could go off, I waited until the others had left and then, eager to show him my treasure, jumped up and ran out into the sitting-room.

The piece of green plush lay on the floor. Of the book there was no sign.

I let out a howl of rage, then rushed towards the door and out into the street. I knew for sure that Beesley had taken it, and I ran about screaming ‘Scheherazade! Scheherazade!’ like a mad thing, trying to see where he might have hidden my most precious possession; but there was no sign of either the book or the thief. And then I happened to glance into the old stone water-trough that stood just outside the King’s Head. There, floating on the dark-green water, was my book, its pages sodden and torn, the spine ripped off and floating separately, ruined past all remedy.

There was not a doubt who had been responsible for this outrage; and so the following Sunday, when Beesley and his aunt were in church, as I knew they would be, I made my way to the back garden of Miss Henniker’s house. It was a raw, wet November morning, and through one of the windows I could see a fire burning merrily. On the floor were scattered a number of playthings, amongst them a tin box, which I knew contained my foe’s much-prized army of toy soldiers. He had brought this box to school on his first day, and had set out the contents proudly on Tom’s parlour table: a whole encampment, carved and painted, comprising two or three dozen mounted and foot soldiers, together with tents, camp followers, cannon balls and cannon.

A little while after Miss Henniker and her nephew had left for church, I saw the maid unlock the terrace doors to shake out a duster. When she had finished her work, I crept to the terrace, and was soon inside the room.

It burned well, that little wooden army. I stood and watched the conflagration for a moment or two, warming myself by the flames that spat and darted on the hearth, and saying to myself the rhyme that my foster-mother used to sing to me, in which the appearance of Bonaparte was threatened if I did not go to sleep. I smiled to myself as the words now came back to me over the waste of years:And he’ll beat you, beat you, beat you,

And he’ll beat you all to pap.And he’ll eat you, eat you, eat you,

Every morsel, snap, snap, snap.

And now, like Rowland Beesley, another enemy must pay for taking what was mine.

I have called in a favour and have set someone to watch over the house in Mecklenburgh-square, day and night. Daunt is still there. No one has called. On Thursday, he went to a dinner at the London Tavern^* with a number of other literary men. Last night he stayed at home the whole evening. But I know for certain where he will be tonight.

Last Tuesday week, my spy-a certain William Blunt, of Crucifix-lane, Borough – brought word that Lord Tansor was to give a dinner in Park-lane. It is to be this very evening. The Prime Minister^† is to be amongst the guests. There is so much to celebrate! His Lordship has anew heir – he has now been named, in proper legal form, in the recently signed codicil to his Lordship’s will. This would be cause enough to kill the fatted calf; but to increase the general joy, the heir is to marry Miss Emily Carteret, his Lordship’s cousin once removed, who, following the tragic death of her father, will herself succeed to the Tansor title in the course of time. Such an exquisitely fortuitous match! And then, to cap it all, the heir has just published a new work – the thirteenth to be offered to a grateful public – and Lord Tansor has been appointed Her Majesty’s Special Envoy and Plenipotentiary to the Emperors of Brazil and Haiti and the Republics of New Granada and Venezuela. During his Lordship’s absence, the newly married couple are to take up residence at Evenwood, and Lord Tansor further proposes to place the management of his estates, and of his many business interests, in the capable hands of his heir, Mr Phoebus Daunt.

The establishment in his Lordship’s town-house was a relatively small one; and so, to ensure the smooth running of so large and splendid an occasion, it had been necessary for extra servants to be hired. Advertisements were placed, and Mrs Horatia Venables, proprietress of the Office for Domestic Servants, Great Coram-street, had been engaged by his Lordship’s agent, Captain Tallis, to secure and evaluate applicants for the evening. Amongst those who offered themselves in Great Coram-street for the available positions was a certain Ernest Geddington – a name I had used from time to time in my work.

‘I see you have lived as a footman under a butler for Lord Wilmersham,’^* said Mrs Venables, looking over her spectacles at Mr Geddington.

‘I had that honour,’ replied Mr Geddington.

‘And before that, you were a footman in the establishment of the Duke of Devonshire, at Chatsworth?’

‘I was.’

‘And you have a character from his Grace?’

‘One can easily be secured, if it is required.’

‘There is no need,’ replied Mrs Venables loftily. ‘Lord Wilmersham’s recommendation here will suffice, though I confess I have not had the pleasure of advising his Lordship before on the hiring of servants; but as this is only a temporary appointment, for one evening only, I am content to forgo the usual formalities. The standard today has been dreadfully low. You will present yourself at Lord Tansor’s residence in Park-lane on Monday morning, at ten o’clock sharp, asking for his Lordship’s butler, Mr James Cranshaw.’ She handed me a paper on which she had indicated my suitability for the position. ‘Livery will be provided. Please to remain here a little longer for your measurements to be taken.’

I did as I was told. Before I left Mrs Venables’s establishment, I learned that my principal task would be to attend the guests as they arrived and departed in their carriages, and to be on hand during the dinner to open doors and perform any other necessary duties.

It was now half past seven on the great day. I boiled my kettle to make some tea, then cut myself a slice of bread and sat at my work-table to take my breakfast. There was paper all around me. ‘Note on Dr A. Daunt: Feb. 1849’ – ‘Description of Millhead, taken from F. Walker, A Journey Through Lancashire, 1833’ – ‘Memorandum: Information supplied by J. Hooper and others, June 1850’ –‘Evenwood: Architectural and Historical Notes, Sept. 1851’ – ‘The Tansor Barony: Genealogical Notes, March 1852’ – ‘Notes on conversation with W. Le G. re: King’s Coll., June 1852’. Lists, questions, letters. My life, and his. Here, spread across my work-table. Truth and lies.

Le Grice left for the war last week, fortunately too late to take part in the bloody engagement at Inkerman,^* though the reports now coming back, telling of the terrible privations being suffered by our troops, have given me great concern for his immediate prospects. The night before he sailed, we had a farewell dinner at the Ship and Turtle, during which he urged me once again to leave England until he returned.

‘It’ll be better, old chap,’ he said.

Like me, he had concluded that our friend on the river had been Pluckrose. Yet although I had confided in him concerning the punitive action taken by Mr Abraham Gabb and company, Le Grice had come to the same conclusion as I: that, even without the assistance of Pluckrose, Daunt still posed a threat to my safety. But I had not wished to admit the fact, given Le Grice’s impending departure for the East; and so I had given him a false assurance that he need not concern himself on that score.

‘I am certain that Daunt will do no harm to me. What possible reason can he have? He is to be married soon, and I am nothing to him any more. I can never forgive him, of course, but I intend to forget him.’

‘And Miss Carteret?’

‘You mean, of course, the future Mrs Phoebus Duport. I have forgotten her too.’

Le Grice’s face darkened.

‘Forget Daunt? Forget Miss Carteret? You may as well say that you intend to forget your name.’

‘But I have forgotten my name,’ I replied. ‘I have no idea who I am.’

‘Damn you, G,’ he growled. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. You know as well as I do that the danger from Daunt is real, Pluckrose or no Pluckrose. For the sake of our friendship, I urge you to go travelling. Give it all up. Go away – the longer the better. If I were Daunt, I’d want you dead for what you knew about me. Even though you can’t prove what you know, things might still be made jolly awkward for him if you had a mind to do so.’

‘But I don’t,’ I said quietly. ‘Really, I don’t. There’s nothing to fear; so now, drink up, and here’s to the next time you and I sit down together over grilled fowl and gin-punch.’ Of course he saw through my feeble pretence. But had he also seen what burned in my eyes, which nothing could disguise or assuage?

We parted on the pavement. A handshake, a brief ‘Good-night!’, and he was gone.

Now, on the morning of the 11th of December, I sat for a while at my table, wondering where Le Grice was now, and what he was doing. ‘May the gods keep you safe, you old bonehead,’ I whispered. Then, feeling like a boy again, I threw on my great-coat and muffler, and went out into the snow – my heart as light as a child’s – to look upon Great Leviathan in his winter clothes.

London was going about its usual business, despite the beautiful inconvenience of the weather. The ice-carts were out, loaded with glistening frozen fragments from ponds and streams, instead of produce from the green-market; and the omnibuses were being pulled through the rutted accumulations of dirtied snow in the roadways by extra horses. People walked along, heads down, through the biting cold, with mufflers – for those who had them – wound tight over their mouths. Hats and coats and capes were flecked and dabbed with white, and every public-house carried notices advertising the provision within of hot spiced ale or similar warming potations. It was not a day to be without coat or shoes, though there were many – hundreds, thousands – who must do so; and the misery that is ever present in the metropolis was made more wretched still by the stinging cold. And yet the wondrous sight – of roofs and towers, spires and monuments, streets and squares, painted over by snow that had been shaped and scooped by the bitter east wind – elated me as I walked down Long Acre, with the smell of baked apples and roasted chestnuts in my nose.

I was still hungry after my frugal breakfast, and the pleasant sight of a coffee-house tempted me in to take a second meal. Afterwards, I sauntered back through snow-laden streets and courts to the Strand. It was not long before I became aware that I was being followed.

In Maiden-lane, I paused by the stage-entrance to the Adelphi Theatre to light up a cigar. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw my pursuer stop a few paces behind, and quickly look into the window of a butcher’s shop. I threw down the cigar, and walked calmly towards the hooded figure.

‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Buisson.’

‘Mon Dieu, how extraordinary!’ she exclaimed. ‘To meet you here! My, my!’

I smiled and offered her my arm. ‘You seem to have been out in the snow for a considerable time,’ I said, looking down at the soaking hem of her skirt.

‘Perhaps I have,’ she smiled. ‘I have been looking for someone.’

‘And have you found them?’

‘Why yes, Mr—Glapthorn. I think perhaps I have.’

In the Norfolk Hotel, Strand, we called for coffee, and she threw back the hood of her cloak and removed her snow-dusted bonnet.

‘I do not think we need continue to pretend,’ I said. ‘I believe your friend will have informed you concerning recent events.’

‘She is no friend of mine any more,’ she replied, shaking out her blonde curls. ‘I consider her to be – well, I do not wish to say what I consider her to be. We were once the closest of companions, you know, but now I hate her for what she has done to you.’

She gave me a look of quiet significance.

‘It was just a pleasant game at first, and I was happy to help her play it, though of course much was kept from me. But as I began to understand how things were with you, and that you truly loved her, then I told her that she must put a stop to it; but she would not. And when Mr Daunt joined us in Paris—’

‘In Paris?’

‘Yes. I am sorry.’

‘It does not signify. Go on.’

‘When Mr Daunt came to join us, my heart began to break for you, knowing that you would be thinking of her constantly, and believing that she was thinking of you. That cruel note that she made me write to you was the last straw. I tried to warn you, did I not? But I think by then that you were past all warning.’

‘I am grateful to you for your kind feelings towards me, Mademoiselle. But I do not think Miss Carteret could help herself. I do not and cannot defend her – not in the least – nor can I ever absolve her for deceiving me; but I understand what drove her to treat me as she did.’

‘Do you?’

‘Why, yes. It was that most potent, and most plausible, of motives: love. Oh yes, I understand her very well.’

‘Then I consider you to be most generous. Do you not wish to punish her?’

‘Not at all. How can I blame her for being a slave to love? Love makes slaves of us all.’

‘So you blame no one for what has happened to you, Mr Glapthorn?’

‘Perhaps you should call me by the name I was given at birth.’ She gave a little nod of understanding.

‘Very well, Mr Glyver. Is no one to blame for the loss of what was rightfully yours?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘Someone is to blame. But not her.’

‘You still love her, of course,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I had hoped—’.

‘Hoped?’

‘It really does not matter. Of what interest can my hopes possibly have for you? Eh bien, this is what I wished to say to you, my dear Mr Dark Horse. You may think this matter is over; that, having stolen your life, your adversary is content. But he is not content. I have overheard something that gives me great concern, and which should give you concern also. He has taken grave exception – very grave exception – to what has happened to his associates, and for which he blames you. I do not know, of course, whether he is right to do so; it is enough for me to know that he does; and this being so, I urge you – as a friend – to take note. He is not a man to make idle threats, as you must know. In a word, he thinks you pose a danger to him, and this he will not tolerate.’

‘You have heard him threaten me, then?’

‘I have heard enough to make me walk through the snow for this past hour to speak to you. And now I have done my duty, Mr Edward Glyver, who was once dear Mr Glapthorn, and now I must go.’

She rose to leave, but I held out my hand to stop her. ‘Does she ever speak of me?’ I asked. ‘To you?’

‘We do not enjoy the familiarity we once did,’ she replied, and I saw and heard the regret that she felt. ‘But I believe that you have left a mark on her heart, though it pleases her to deny it. I hope that is of some comfort to you. And so good-bye, Mr Edward Glyver. You may kiss my hand, if you please.’

‘With the greatest of pleasure, Mademoiselle.’

I was back in Temple-street by half past nine to make my final preparations, happy in the now confirmed knowledge that my enemy wished me dead. It would make what I was soon to do so much easier.

On with my wig – courtesy of Messrs Careless & Sons, theatrical costumiers of Finch-lane, Cornhill – and a pair of wire-framed spectacles. A decent but shabby suit, with a capacious inside pocket, completed the ensemble. Into the pocket went the knife, wrapped in a piece of cloth, that I had purloined from the Wellington. I was ready.

I proceeded first to the Adelphi Theatre, where I purchased a ticket for the evening’s performance: this I then gave to my spy, William Blunt, who was to take my seat at the performance in order to provide me with an alibi. Near Stanhope Gate in Hyde-park, a little across from Lord Tansor’s house in Park-lane, I next located the place I had identified a few days earlier as being suitable for concealing a bag containing my best clothes. At last, as instructed by Mrs Venables, I presented myself to Mr Cranshaw at ten sharp with my recommendation from that lady.

I was soon directed to a small bare-boarded room where I was to don my livery and powder my hair – or, rather, my wig. ‘Powder,’ boomed Mr Cranshaw loftily, ‘is insisted upon by his Lordship.’ After I had wet the wig with water, I rubbed soap into it, and then combed through the wet mass before applying the powder with the puff provided. Then on with the livery: a stiff, white shirt; white stockings and silver-buckled pumps; blue plush knee breeches; a claret-coloured swallow-tailed coat, with silver buttons and matching waistcoat. Once powdered and liveried, I went along to the servants’ hall to be instructed, with the other temporary footmen, by Mr Cranshaw. Then I went quietly about the place, as if engaged on some errand or other, getting clear in my head the disposition of the below-stairs passages and rooms. The rest of the day was spent in undertaking various tedious duties – carrying chairs and flower arrangements into the dining-room, memorizing the order of dishes in case we were called upon to assist in bringing them up, rouging^* silver, familiarizing ourselves with the guest-list and seating-order (there were to be some forty persons at table); and so on until darkness began to fall, the curtains were drawn, and the candles and lamps were lit.

Lord Tansor appeared at six o’clock to assure himself that all was in order. Our little army of menials lined up in the vestibule and bowed as he passed. But of course he paid no heed to me. I was but a liveried servant.

At seven o’clock, I presented myself for carriage duty, taking up my station by the front door with two other footmen.

So far, so good. I had done what was required of me by Mr Cranshaw, and had aroused no one’s suspicion. But now I must wait upon events, for I had no plan other than to insinuate myself into the establishment and, if I could, put myself close to Daunt. Beyond that, I had no immediate thought. If this last act of our lives was destined to play out in my favour, then I would be most content. If not, so be it. I would have lost nothing – for I had nothing.

And so I waited, standing mutely just inside the front door, wondering when he would come – and when she would come.

The carriages began to arrive. First, I handed out the famous Madame Taglioni^* (for whom, though the lady was by no means in the first flush of youth, Lord Tansor cherished an uncharacteristically sentimental regard), and then the fat daughter of Lord Cotterstock (a costive old roué, with a face like weathered rock, who was already half dead from an unmentionable ailment), followed by her equally porcine mamma and brother. The carriages continued to roll in through the snow to pull up under the lantern of the porte-cochère. Ambassadors, Honourable Members, bankers, generals, dukes and earls, and their ladies: I opened their carriage doors and helped them to disembark, and no one gave me a second glance. At last the Prime Minister himself arrived, to be greeted by Lord and Lady Tansor, followed, in the very next moment, by a sleek carriage bearing the Duport arms.

As I opened the carriage door, I was met first by her perfume; then, as I bent to fold down the step, I saw her feet, encased in delicate grey-kid pumps, decorated with jet beading. She gave me her gloved hand, but I was invisible to her. As she emerged from the carriage, her warm breath misted the air; and for a passing moment, with her hand resting in mine, it was as though she belonged to me once more. The thought made me forget what I was supposed to be, and I began to close my grip gently round her fingers. She shot an angry, insulted look at me, instantly removed her hand, and swept up the steps. There she paused for a moment and looked back.

‘You there! Hold the door!’

I obeyed his command, and he stepped down from the carriage – immaculate, dressed in the highest taste and quality. I made an obeisance as he passed and, as I closed the carriage door behind him, glanced up to see him take Miss Carteret’s arm at the top of the steps and lead her inside.

After the last guests had arrived, I was sent to the dining-room to take up my station by the double doors that led into the vestibule. There I remained, still unregarded by all who passed back and forth, even by my fellow servants. I stood motionless but my eyes were busy, looking for my opportunity.

My faithless girl was seated at the head of the table, an ethereal figure in pale-blue silk, surmounted by a barège overskirt sewn with gold and silver stars, her black hair set off to perfection by a tulle and lace cap ornamented with pale-pink satin ribbon. On her left sat a dessicated young gentleman whom I identified from the guest list as the Honourable John Tanker, MP; on her right was Phoebus Daunt, in all his smiling pride.

After all the guests had settled themselves at the sumptuously decorated table, which gleamed and glittered as candlelight flashed off an abundance of gold and silver and crystal, the soup was brought in. Lord Tansor had become an enthusiast for service à la française, no doubt following its introduction at Evenwood when his protégé had come of age; and so the soup was succeeded by fish, which in turn was followed by the entrées – a dozen in all – and the roasts, and so on, in due order, to the sweets and desserts. It was some relief to me that I had not been required to join the band of brother footmen who were handing round the dishes, for as they bent down to each guest, they had to say aloud the name of the dish that they were offering. I watched with fascinated interest as one of them brought his lips close to Miss Carteret’s ear to ask whether she would take some of the Boeuf à la flammande.^* She made the most delicate gesture of assent, and then held up her hand to prevent him placing too much of the dish on her plate. Next to her, Daunt received a much larger portion and then, just as the footman was about to turn to the next guest, called him back to request some more.

In the place of honour at the head of the board, the Prime Minister sat with Lord Tansor, engaged in close and detached conversation. Lord Aberdeen looked tired and drawn, no doubt from the increasing strain of prosecuting the campaign in the Crimea, and more than once I saw Lord Tansor place a reassuring hand on his arm. Around them conversation and laughter flowed, to a contrapuntal rhythm of tinkling glasses and the sound of the finest gold cutlery on Sèvres plates.

But now the soup and fish had come and gone, and so had the entrées and roasts. The sweets and ices had been cleared away to make room for six huge branched epergnes,^* laden with dried fruits, nuts, cakes, and sweet biscuits. Lord Tansor rose to his feet, glass in hand, and his guests began to fall silent.

‘My Lords, Ladies, and Gentleman,’ he began, his deep baritone voice instantly commanding attention. ‘I give you a toast. To Mr Phoebus Daunt, whom I am proud to call my son, as well as my heir, and to his future wife, Miss Emily Carteret.’

Glasses were charged and raised, and the happy couple were toasted, to resounding clapping and cheers. Then, from a gallery at the far end of the room, a small military band struck up with ‘See, the Conquering Hero Comes’.^† After the last notes had died away, the heir himself responded with fulsome deference, loquaciously thanking his Lordship for his graciousness and generosity, and then – of all things – quoting at length, without a scintilla of shame, from one of his own poems in praise of great men. He was succeeded by Lord Cotterstock, who struggled to his feet with the help of his son to thank Lord Tansor, on behalf of himself and the other distinguished guests, for his overwhelming hospitality, and to congratulate his Lordship on his plenipotentiary appointment, ‘a position,’ he noted, looking sternly around him, as if to defy anyone to contradict him, ‘that has not often been filled with such conspicuous distinction’.

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.

‘You, fellow,’ he drawled. ‘Run and fetch an officer. Quick as you like. There’s murder done here. Mr Daunt is dead.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The young man then waddled off towards the rear of the house, thinking of course that I had gone off to do his bidding. But I had not.

The hall was crowded now with a great commotion of guests all talking at once, the women in tears, the men standing in groups, loudly discussing the extraordinary turn of events; in the hubbub and confusion, I slowly made my way through the throng until I was at the door that led below stairs, my intention being to leave by one of the side entrances to the residence. At that moment, happening to look back to assure myself that no one was taking notice of me, I saw her.

She was standing alone in the dining-room doorway, alabaster pale, the tips of her fingers placed against her lips in a pathetic gesture of shock and bewilderment. Oh my dearest girl! I am become Death because of thee! Between us was an ocean of noise and tumult; but we were two opposing islands of desperate calm.

I was rooted to the spot, though I knew that every second I delayed brought discovery closer. Then, like the moon appearing from behind a cloud, she turned her face directly towards me, and our eyes met.

For a moment, I was sure, she did not see me; then her gaze seemed to narrow and intensify. But realization was slow to form; she hesitated, and in that briefest of spaces, between doubt and certainty, I turned and headed back through the crowd to the front door, expecting at any moment to hear my name being called out and the alarm raised. I reached the door, but no one stopped me. As I passed out onto the steps, I could not help glancing behind me, to assure myself that I was not about to be apprehended. Again, our eyes locked together as people ran hither and thither. I saw that she knew what I had done, and yet she did nothing. Then a little crowd closed round her and she was lost to my sight, for ever.

I was on the bottom step when I heard her voice.

‘Stop that man!’

Hampered by my silver-buckled pumps, I feared that I would quickly be taken; but when I reached the far side of Park-lane and looked back, I saw to my relief that I had given my pursuers the slip. Shivering with cold and anxiety, I ran like a mad thing through the snow-covered grass to the place where my bag was concealed; there, under the cold sky, beneath which my enemy at last lay dead, I threw off my livery, and put on my suit and coat. In the distance I could hear shouting and the sound of a police whistle.

Leaving the Park, I was soon in Piccadilly, hailing a cab.

‘Temple-street, Whitefriars,’ I shouted to the cabman.

‘Right you are, sir!’

I had prepared myself for discovery. My travelling bag was packed; my documents in order. I hurriedly gathered together a few remaining items: my worn copy of Donne’s sermons; my journal and shorthand epitomes of various documents; the watercolour of my mother’s house; the discarded photograph of Evenwood taken on that hot June afternoon in 1850; and, finally, the rosewood box in which my salvation had lain for so long without my knowing, and the copy of Felltham’s Resolves that I had removed from Lady Tansor’s tomb. This done, I collected together all the remaining papers from my work-table, with the indexed notes that I had made over the years, piled them up in the grate, and threw a match on the heap. At the door, I looked back as the blaze took hold, a crackling furnace, consuming hope and happiness.

With my muffler drawn over my face, I entered Morley’s Hotel, Charing-cross, and called for a brandy-and-water and a room with a fire.

That night, with the snow beginning to fall once more, swathing the city in silence, I dreamed that I was standing on the cliff-top at Sandchurch. There is our little white house, and there the chestnut-tree by the gate. No school today, so I run, exulting, towards the semicircles of white-painted stones that edge the narrow flower-beds on either side of the gate. Billick has not yet mended the rope ladder, but it still serves; so up I clamber, into the branches, into my crow’s-nest. I have my spy-glass with me, and lie down to scan the shining horizon. In my mind, every sail is transformed: to the east, a vanguard of triremes sent by Caesar himself; to the west, low in the water, a Spanish treasure-ship freighted down with Indies gold; and, coming up from the south, slow and menacing, a horde of Barbary pirates intent on ravaging our quiet Dorset coast. Then there is a clatter of plates from the kitchen. Through the parlour window I can see Mamma writing at her work-table. She looks up and smiles as I wave.

Then I awoke and began to weep: not for what I had lost, or for the times that would never come again; not even for my poor broken heart; least of all for the death of my enemy; but for Lucas Trendle, the innocent red-haired stranger, who would never again send Bibles and boots to the Africans.

By my hand,

Edward Charles Glyver,

MDCCCLV

Finis

^*[‘It is finished’. Ed.]

^*[See note, p. 15. Ed.]

^*[In Bishopsgate Street. Ed.]

^†[The Earl of Aberdeen (George Hamilton Gordon, 1784–1860). He became Prime Minister after the resignation of the Earl of Derby in 1852. He was widely blamed for the mismanagement of the Crimean War and resigned in February 1855. He would have gone to the dinner alone: his second wife had died in 1833. Ed.]

^*[Apparently fictitious. Ed.]

^*[The battle took place on 5 November 1854 – the day that Florence Nightingale arrived at the hospital at Scutari. Ed.]

^*[Rouge was a preparation of oxide of iron used to clean silver plate. Ed.]

^*[Marie Taglioni (1804–84), the celebrated Swedish-Italian dancer, for whom her father, Filippo Taglioni, created the ballet La Sylphide (1832), the first ballet in which a ballerina danced en pointe for the duration of the work. Ed.]

^*[A rich and expensive dish consisting of ribs of beef larded and braised, together with fresh (or forced) mushrooms, truffles, meat-balls and Madeira. Ed.]

^*[Large ornamental dispensers of sweets, etc. Ed.]

^†[From Handel’s oratorio Judas Maccabaeus, with a libretto by the Revd Thomas Morell. Composed to celebrate the English victory over the Young Pretender at Culloden and the return to London of the victorious Duke of Cumberland. First performed in 1747. Ed.]

^*[The poem from which these lines were taken is ‘From the Persian’, printed in Daunt’s Rosa Mundi; and Other Poems (1854). Ed.]

Post scriptum^*

Marden House

Westgate, Canterbury

Kent

10th December 1854

MY DEAR EDWARD, —

A brief note, to thank you for yours of the 9th. My brother is coming to town this morning, and has undertaken to ask Birtles to deliver this to you.

As you seem disinclined, no doubt for good reason, to come here, then I shall not press you.

I have to inform you, though, that Mr Donald Orr has written to me – somewhat intemperately – concerning what he calls ‘a serious and prolonged dereliction’ of your duties. He has indicated to me that he wishes to terminate your employment at Tredgolds, with immediate effect. I have replied, requesting that, if you so desire, you should be allowed to retain your rooms in Temple-street, for as long as you need them.

If, however, that does not accord with your wishes, then there is a cottage hard by my new residence here, which I think would suit you very well, for as long as you needed it. And so I shall leave it in your hands, to let me know what you wish to do.

You did not respond to my offer to speak to Sir Ephraim, on a strictly confidential and theoretical basis, concerning the presentation of the evidence to Lord T that you now hold. I make it again. Should you wish to avail yourself of it, I think we can be certain that Sir Ephraim’s advocacy would carry great weight with his Lordship.

And so, in anticipation of hearing from you more fully, I wish you God speed, my dear boy, as the season of our Lord’s birth approaches, and hope that all continues to go forward as you would wish, and to assure you that I am ready to advise you at any time, and give whatever help I can of a legal character. I pray for an early and successful resolution of your enterprise, regardless of the consequences for myself, to which I beg you to pay no heed. Do what must be done, and set right the injustice that you have suffered, for the peace of your mother’s dear soul. And may God reward your labours at last. Write when you can.

Yours, most affectionately,

C. TREDGOLD

THE RECTORY

EVENWOOD

NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

22nd December 1854

DEAR MR TREDGOLD, —

I write in gratitude for your letter of sympathy to my wife and me. Of course I remember very well meeting you, with Mr Paul Carteret, on the occasion you mention.

It has been a most terrible time for us, made worse by the violent nature of my son’s death. We were first told that a footman by the name of Geddington, temporarily engaged for the evening, was suspected, though there was no obvious reason for the attack; but then came the extraordinary news that the true culprit was Mr Glapthorn, whom I must now call by the name of Glyver. I am sensible that you, too, will have been as utterly shocked as we were to learn that so talented and remarkable a man as Mr Glyver could have committed such a deed. His motives are utterly mysterious, though I now remember (which I had completely forgotten until now) that he was at school with my son. Whether that distant relationship affords any clue to his actions, I cannot say. I have been informed by the police that they believe there may be a connexion with the recent killing of Mr Lucas Trendle, of the Bank of England, which apparently demonstrated many similarities to my son’s. It is supposed that Mr Glyver is suffering from some mental affliction – indeed that he may be actually insane. Of his whereabouts, as I expect you know, there is no sign, & it is likely, I suppose, that he has left the country.

Evenwood, as you may imagine, has been thrown into turmoil. My wife, for whom Phoebus was everything, though she was his mother only by marriage, is inconsolable; and Lord Tansor also is deeply stricken. We have lost a son; he has lost his heir. And then there is poor Miss Carteret. What grief that young woman has had to bear is beyond comprehension. First her father brutally attacked and killed, & now her intended husband. She is a most pitiful sight. I hardly recognized her when I saw her last.

As for myself, I have the comfort of my faith, and the certain knowledge that the God of Abraham and Isaac has taken Phoebus unto Himself. My son was held in such high esteem by everyone who knew him, & by the many readers of his works who did not know him, that we have been overwhelmed by kind expressions of condolence. These, too, have been a great comfort.

As so often in times of trial, I turn to Sir Thomas Browne. On opening the Religio Medici, soon after the news was brought here of my son’s death, my eyes fell on these words:

‘What is made to be immortal, nature cannot – nor will the voice of God – destroy.’

This is my faith. This is my hope.

I remain, my dear Sir, yours faithfully,

A.B. DAUNT

Marden House

Westgate, Canterbury

Kent

9th January 1855

DEAR CAPTAIN LE GRICE, —

I am in receipt of your enquiry concerning Edward Glyver.

From your letter it appears that you have been the recipient of various confidences concerning Edward’s history. This, I may say, came as something of a surprise to me; I had thought I was the only person in whom he confided. But it seems that none of us can truly claim to know Edward Glyver; to emphasize the point, I am now in correspondence with a Miss Isabella Gallini, with whom, I gather, Edward enjoyed a close relationship for some time past, but which he had never mentioned to me.

And now it has come to this. I cannot say that I did not fear it would; or to another outcome that, perhaps, we would both have regretted even more. We shall never see him again – of that I am certain. You tell me that you urged him to go abroad, and to give up the business we both know about. If only he had taken your advice! But by then it was past all remedy – you must have seen, as I did, that fixed, haunted look in his eyes.

Miss Carteret suffers, I am told; but the business has at least cured Lord Tansor of his irrational aversion to the collateral line, and so she will have the comfort in due course of inheriting both the Tansor title, and all the property associated with it. What Edward will feel if he learns of this, I cannot imagine.

As to the deceased gentleman, the least said the better. You will infer that I did not share the world’s good opinion of him – though I do not say that he deserved to die. He did great wrong – to Edward, certainly; but there are other things concerning Phoebus Daunt that may never now be told – at least until much time has passed and no more hurt or harm can be done. But there has been enough of death and deceit; and for what purpose?

I hope this letter will find you safe and well, and I pray that God will protect you, and all our brave soldiers. We have all been appalled by Mr Russell’s reports.^*

Yours most sincerely,

C. TREDGOLD.

Blithe Lodge

St John’s Wood, London

18th January 1855

DEAR MR TREDGOLD, —

Yr letter arrived only this morning, but I hurry to send you a reply.

I have not seen him since that snowy night in December last. There had been a falling-out between us, I’m afraid, which I greatly regretted. He stood on the front step & wd not come into the house, saying only that he was leaving England for a time and that he had come to beg my forgiveness for being unable to love me as he said I deserved. Then he told me his real name & the truth about his birth – replacing the half-truths (I will not say lies) I had formerly been given. I understand that you have been long aware of who he really is – he spoke of you most affectionately, & with gratitude for how you have tried to help him. It is a most extraordinary story, & I confess that, at first, I was inclined to think it was all fancy, if not something worse; but I soon saw in his eyes that he was at last speaking the truth. I know also about Miss C—, & how she deceived him in order to deprive him of the proof that would have delivered everything he had dreamed of into his hands. He told me that he loved her, & that he loves her still. And this is why he can never love me.

We parted, & I asked if he would come again – as a friend – when he returned. But he only shook his head.

‘You have your kingdom now,’ was all he said. ‘And I have mine.’ Then he turned and went. I watched him walk down the path, out into the night. He did not look back.

When my employer, Mrs Daley, brought in the report from The Times, naming Edward as the suspected killer of Mr Daunt, I thought my heart would break. What a burden he must have carried with him! To do such a terrible, terrible thing, even though clear injury had been done to him! I saw then how far I had been from knowing him, still less of understanding him. It may be wrong of me to say so, but I shall always think of him fondly, though of course I cannot now regard him as I once did. I loved him truly – then; but he was cruel to me, though I believe not intentionally. He betrayed me, which I might have forgiven. But he did not love me as I deserved, which I cannot forgive.

Yours very sincerely,

ISABELLA GALLINI

Calle Espiritu Santo^*

25th November 1855

MY DEAR MR TREDGOLD, —

I can easily imagine your emotions when you open this letter. Surprise and consternation, I am sure, will be uppermost; but also, I hope, a degree of guilty pleasure, to hear again – though for the last time – from someone who esteems you more highly than any man alive, and to whom you have been a father in all but name.

I have come here, where no one will ever find me, under a name no one knows, to live out my days in a solitude of my own choosing – in a blackened and shattered landscape of extraordinary otherness, carved by a furious god, and fanned by hot African winds. I deserve no sympathy for what I have done; but you, my dear sir, deserve to know how I came here, and why.

After leaving England, on the night of December 11th last, I travelled first to Copenhagen, & then to Fåborg, on the island of Funen, where I remained for nearly a month. From there I went to Germany, to revisit some of my old haunts in and around Heidelberg, before going, first, to S. Bertrand de Comminges in the Pyrenees, where there was a cathedral that I had long wished to see, & then to the island of Mallorca – my last destination until I sailed here.

I intend to say nothing concerning the reason for my exile – to spare you more pain than I have already caused you. I have not escaped punishment, as some may imagine; I am punished every hour I live for the folly of my life, and what it drove me to do. My enemy and I were mined from the same mortal seam; cast into the same furnace of creation, our images impressed on opposite sides of the same coin, separate, but not distinct, conjoined by some fatal alchemy. I killed him; but in doing so, I killed the best part of myself.

I think much of her – I mean my mother – & of how alike we were, & how we were both destroyed by believing it was in our own hands to punish those who had done wrong to us. For myself, I felt impelled by a relentless and misguided sense of fatality, which I interpreted as justifying whatever actions I chose to take. My exile has given me more wisdom. I have been immolated by my former belief in a greater Destiny, urging me ever onwards; but now I have found respite and comfort in a re-acceptance of a sterner faith: that we are all sinners, and must all come to judgment. And in this also: that we should not strive against what we cannot mend.

Of course I think also of my dear girl, whom I shall always love, as you loved my mother. Cruel, cruel! To betray me so, knowing that I loved her above all others for herself alone. Yet though she has tormented me almost beyond endurance, I cannot withhold my forgiveness from her. She will inherit what should have been mine, as I have heard; but she has lost more than she will ever gain; and, like me, she will be required to answer for what she has done.

I live here with few comforts, but enough for my simple needs. My only companion is a one-eyed cat, of superlative hideousness, who appeared on the very first morning of my arrival, and who has not left me since. I have enough of my old humour left to have christened him Jukes.

And so, my dear old Senior Partner, I come at last to what has been occupying me, as a preliminary to asking a final favour of you – if I can trespass on your goodness so far. Since coming here, six months since, I have been writing down all that has happened to me & have accumulated, as a result, a goodly number of large-quarto sheets, purchased for the purpose before I left Mallorca. Yesterday evening, quite late, I laid down my pen at last, and packed all the sheets into a locked wooden box. I now go to meet an English gentleman, a Mr John Lazarus, shipping agent, of Billiter-street, City, who has kindly agreed to deliver the box to you in Canterbury. He knows me by another name, and of course I can count on you not to disabuse him. The key I shall send to you separately.

If you are so minded – as I hope you will be – I would ask you, on receipt, to arrange for the pages to be bound up (I can recommend Mr Riviere, Great Queen-street) & then, if it can be so contrived, for the volume to be placed privily in the Library at Evenwood, where it may be found, or not, at some future date. It is a great deal to ask; but I can ask it of no one else but you.

There is much I would wish to hear about – of people I have known, and how it goes with the world I have left behind; and, most of all, of you, and how you are, and whether your collection prospers, and whether you are quite recovered. I am now a man apart, and can never again put on the life I once knew. But I pray – yes, truly – for your contentment and good health, and great long life, and beg your forgiveness for what I have done.

This, then, is what I have learned, since writing my confession on this final shore:Honour not the malice of thine enemy so much, as to say, thy misery comes from him: Dishonour not the complexion of the times so much, as to say, thy misery comes from them; justifie not the Deity of Fortune so much, as to say, thy misery comes from her; Finde God pleased with thee, and thou hast a hook in the nostrils of every Leviathan.^*

I long for sleep, and for soft English rain. But they do not come.

E.G.

^*[The following items have been bound in at this point in the manuscript. Ed.]

^*[William Howard Russell (1820–1907), The Times’s correspondent in the Crimea. His reports of the conditions suffered by the British Army, and especially by the wounded in the hospital at Scutari, during the winter of 1854–5, scandalized the nation. Ed.]

^*[From the small amount of internal evidence, it appears that the narrator may have written this letter from the volcanic island of Lanzarote. Ed.]

^*[A passage from Donne’s Sermon XX, on Psalm 38: 3, in Fifty Sermons (1649). Ed.]

Appendix

P. Rainsford Daunt (1819–54) List of Published Works

Given in order of publication. Place of publication is London in all cases.

Ithaca: A Lyrical Drama (Edward Moxon, 1841)The Maid of Minsk: A Poem in Twenty-Two Cantos (Edward Moxon, 1842)The Tartar-King: A Story in XII Cantos (Edward Moxon, 1843)Agrippa; with Other Poems (David Bogue, 1845)The Cave of Merlin: A Poem (Edward Moxon, 1846)The Pharaoh’s Child: A Romance of Ancient Aegypt (Edward Moxon, 1848)‘Memories of Eton’, Saturday Review (10 October 1848)Montezuma: A Drama (Edward Moxon, 1849)The Conquest of Peru: A Dramatic Romance (Edward Moxon, 1850)Scenes of Early Life (Chapman & Hall, 1852)Penelope: A Tragedy, in Verse (Bell & Daldy, 1853)American Sonnets (Longman, Brown, Green & Longman, 1853)Rosa Mundi; and Other Poems (Edward Moxon, 1854)The Heir: A Romance of the Modern (Edward Moxon, 1854)Epimetheus; with other posthumous poems (2 vols., Edward Moxon, 1854 for 1855)The Art of the Epic (John Murray, 1856)

Acknowledgements

The literary and factual sources on which I have drawn are too numerous, too scattered over the years, and, in many cases, too obvious, to list in full. In particular, accounts of mid-Victorian London abound, and I have freely ransacked them. Thirty years ago, when I first began contemplating this novel, such works needed to be consulted in a major copyright library. Now many of them are freely available on the Web – I direct interested readers, for instance, to the excellent Victorian Dictionary site created and maintained by Lee Jackson (www.victorianlondon.org). Indispensable sources of background detail and ambience have of course included Henry Mayhew, whose London Labour and the London Poor of 1851 no one writing or fictionalizing about this period can afford to neglect, but also the less well-known non-fiction works of George Augustus Sala.

Three real places have contributed to the making of Evenwood, Glyver’s cursed obsession: Drayton House, the private home of the Stopford-Sackville family, and Deene Park, the former home of James Thomas Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan (of Balaclava fame) – both in my own home county of Northamptonshire; and Burghley House, Stamford. The library of – I mean the books collected by – Lord Tansor’s grandfather has been based unashamedly on that of the 2nd Earl Spencer (1758–1834) at Althorp, another of Northamptonshire’s great houses. Residents of East Northamptonshire will also recognize the names of several local places in those of some of the characters – Tansor (a charming village outside Oundle) and Glapthorn (ditto), Glyver’s principal pseudonym, amongst them. Needless to say, the topography of Evenwood and its environs is pure invention, though Lord Tansor’s seat may be envisaged as lying in the north-east corner of Northamptonshire, in the area known as Rockingham Forest.

And so to the most important sources of advice, support, and inspiration: people.

At A. P. Watt: Natasha Fairweather, who has been, and who continues to be, everything an agent should be; Derek Johns; Linda Shaughnessy; Teresa Nicholls; Madeleine Buston; Philippa Donovan; and Rob Kraitt.

At John Murray: my editor, Anya Serota, who has lived in Glyver’s world as intensely as I have, and who has steered the book through to publication with consummate professionalism; Roland Philipps; James Spackman; Nikki Barrow; Sara Marafini; Amanda Jones; Caro Westmore; Ed Faulkner; Maisie Sather; and all the other people at John Murray and in the wider Hachette group, both in the UK and overseas, who have contributed so much.

Both my North American editors – Jill Bialosky at W. W. Norton in New York, and Ellen Seligman at McClelland & Stewart in Toronto – have been wonderfully supportive throughout the final stages of writing and publication. Grateful thanks also go to Louise Brockett, Bill Rusin, Erin Sinesky, and Evan Carver at Norton; Doug Pepper and Ruta Liormonas at McClelland & Stewart; and to everyone in both companies – again too numerous to name individually – who has been involved in publishing The Meaning of Night. I would also like to thank my foreign-language publishers for their enthusiastic commitment to making Glyver’s story available to readers in Europe, Japan, and South America, as well as acknowledging the not inconsiderable labours of the individual translators.

Amongst those who so generously responded to my requests for information, I must acknowledge first of all the advice supplied by Clive Cheesman, Rouge Dragon Pursuivant, at the College of Arms, on various matters relating to the (fictitious) Tansor Barony, and to the legal intricacies of Baronies by Writ. I cannot thank him enough for the care and courtesy with which he responded to all my enquiries. Any remaining legal or genealogical howlers that may have escaped scrutiny are, of course, most definitely my responsibility, not his.

Michael Meredith, Librarian of Eton College, and Penny Hatfield, the Eton Archivist, supplied help on several details concerning Glyver’s and Daunt’s time at the school, in particular the Ralph Roister Doister incident, although they should in no way be held responsible for the fictional results.

Gordon Biddle helped to establish how Glyver travelled by train from Stamford to London via Cambridge; whilst for advice on the technical aspects of Glyver’s passion for photography I am grateful to Dr Robin Lenman. Further advice on early photography was kindly provided by Peter Marshall.

I tender particular and admiring thanks to Celia Levett, for her miraculously meticulous copy-editing, and to Nick de Somogyi, for his equally rigorous proofreading. Both have saved me from much embarrassment.

I am indebted to David Young, for his enthusiastic and confidence-boosting verdict on a draft of Part 1, and to another old and valued friend, Owen Dudley Edwards, who gallantly undertook to read and comment on a proof copy over the course of a weekend.

To [Achilles] James Daunt, proprietor of Daunt’s Bookshop in London, may I also record my appreciation for not objecting to the fact that I unknowingly appropriated his name for the Rector of Evenwood.

I would like to express here, without elaboration, my gratitude, and that of my family, to a group of people who have – literally – helped give me the chance to finish what has been in my mind for so long: Professor Christer Lindquist, together with Beth McLaughlin, and all the other members of the Gamma Knife team at the Cromwell Hospital, London; Mr Christopher Adams; Dr Adrian Jones; Dr Diana Brown; and Professor John Wass.

Finally, like all authors who depend on those close to them for daily support and understanding, what is undeniably real about this novel is the debt I owe to my family: to my darling wife Dizzy, without whom I would have no reason to write; our daughter Emily (whose name, I must emphasize, is the only link with my main female character); my stepchildren Miranda and Barnaby; my grandchildren, Eleanor, Harry, and Dizzy Junior; and my daughter-in-law Becky; my mother-in-law, Joan Crockett, in whose house large chunks of the novel were written, and the other members of the Crockett clan in Dorset. It is a sadness to us all that my late father-in-law, Gee Crockett, is not here to see the novel published. Last, but never least, my thanks and love go to my wonderful parents, Gordon and Eileen Cox, who have supported me through thick and thin.

Michael Cox

Michael Cox was born in 1948. After graduating from Cambridge, he avoided working for a living by becoming a singer-songwriter. In 1989, he joined Oxford University Press as a senior commissioning editor. His highly praised biography of the ghost-story writer M.R. James was followed by a critical edition of James’s stories and several successful Oxford anthologies of supernatural and detective fiction. Michael Cox’s first novel, The Meaning of Night, was published to wide critical acclaim and shortlisted for the 2007 Costa First Novel Award. His second novel, The Glass of Time, is a sequel to his debut and has garnered rave reviews worldwide since its publication in 2008. Cox was nominated for Waterstone’s Newcomer of the Year award at the 2006 Galaxy British Book Awards. He lives in rural Northamptonshire with his wife, Dizzy.

Copyright © 2006 by Michael Cox

Cloth edition published 2006

Trade paperback edition published 2007

Emblem edition published 2009

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Cox, Michael, 1948-

The meaning of night / Michael Cox.

eISBN: 978-1-55199-385-0

I. Title.

PR6103.O975M42 2009 823.92 C2008-907502-1

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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