The Skull and the Nightingale Page 5

  “I’m wedded to a waspish wife

  Who shames the name of woman:

  She’s sharper than a surgeon’s knife

  And sourer than a lemon.”

  The duet being warmly received, Crocker saluted me with a slap on the shoulders that all but knocked me down, convincing me that his physical strength is proportioned to his size. We chatted for some minutes, and I found him as nimble in mind as he is ponderous in body. He asked me about myself with seemingly unfeigned interest, and once or twice I surprised him into a loud laugh. I was pleased to have won his favor this far, since it seemed that here was a man whose eccentricity might put me in the way of some odd experiences. That expectation was to be gratified sooner than I could have anticipated.

  Perhaps half an hour after our duet, the door crashed open with a suddenness that checked all conversation. In strode the tall Captain Derby, his cheeks now crimson and his wig awry. It seemed that this invasion was a freak of conduct prompted by drink, because he had broken free of a knot of companions who stopped short in the doorway. Derby took up a stance facing Crocker, and spoke out in an insolent voice:

  “Mr. Crocker, I come to admire your person. I am told that you have the biggest belly in London.”

  There was silence for a moment, before Crocker gave a cool reply.

  “That may be so, sir. And I take it that you have the smallest brain.”

  Whether Derby’s reputation was current in London I had no idea: perhaps Crocker took him to be merely an oaf; but I knew what must follow. The intruder grinned, as in a situation familiar to him.

  “It seems that you do not know me, Mr. Blubber. I brook no such impudence.”

  He crashed his fist on the table. “I shall require satisfaction.”

  Mr. Crocker, undisturbed, responded affably: “Surely, sir, a duel could afford you very little satisfaction, since my body offers so large a target to ball or blade.”

  The captain’s reddened face twisted into a sneer. “Since you are too fat to conduct yourself like a gentleman—”

  As he spoke, his hand reached for a glass of punch. I knew on the instant that he meant to throw the contents over Crocker, but in that same instant the intention was forestalled. Francis Pike, the lean gentleman mentioned above, leaped upon Derby. He moved with such speed that I could not see exactly what he did, but it seemed that he simultaneously dashed his head into Derby’s face and felled him. In a trice he was astride the man, and holding a knife to his nostrils. Several hands went to a sword hilt, but no further move was made since Pike was so clearly master of the situation. He addressed Derby, who appeared to be half dazed, in a level, even polite, voice:

  “I recommend that you withdraw, sir. If you cause further disturbance I shall alter your face with this knife.”

  He stood up and stepped back, quite imperturbable, although with some of his antagonist’s blood on his wig. Derby could hardly have had another such experience in his career as rake and bully, and I did not know what his reaction would be. He clambered slowly to his feet, uncertain in balance and bleeding from nose and mouth. No one moved to help him. Amid a general silence he limped from the room without a word, avoiding every eye. Hardly had conversation burst out once more than it was stilled a second time as one of Derby’s earlier companions marched in and, although clearly drunk, made a creditable bow in the general direction of Crocker.

  “I apologize to you, sir,” he said, “and to the company, for the conduct of Captain Derby. He is lately returned from abroad and does not know the customs of this house.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Crocker, who had not turned a hair during the entire proceeding. “I will regard the episode as closed.”

  With that we returned to our punch and our chatter. Pike became as unobtrusive as he had been before and no one made reference to his intervention.

  I was eager to learn more about the conventions governing these events. In particular I wished to know how it was that the resourceful Mr. Pike had license to disable a gentleman whose conduct was objectionable. Little Horn was convulsed by what had occurred, but I could draw nothing from him or Latimer beyond the statement that Mr. Crocker’s entourage was governed by its own laws.

  Soon that entourage rose to take its leave. Mr. Crocker paused by me to say that he hoped we would become better acquainted and sing together again.

  I will be happy to maintain the contact. There is striking singularity and force in this huge gentleman. I am sure that he will feature again in our correspondence.

  I remain, &c.

  Chapter 4

  Having written three times to my godfather, I was anxious for a reply. During my years abroad he had sent me no more than occasional acknowledgments of the long letters I had written. He said enough to show that he had read my words attentively, but offered no news of his own. This practice had suited me at the time, but I now looked for something more. I had offered Mr. Gilbert several kinds of matter, and needed to know where I had come closest to meeting his expectations. I resolved to send one further message of safely general description and then remain silent until I had received a response:

  My dear Godfather,

  Here is a brief epistle on a single theme. On Monday last, in the garb of a tradesman, I undertook my longest expedition so far, beyond Tower Hill and the rotting-fish stench of Billingsgate to the docks, wharves, and warehouses of Wapping. Hereabouts one sees an astonishing sight: the Thames bristles with the masts of a thousand merchant ships of every size and condition. How the movements of these vessels and the unloading of their cargo are overseen and controlled I cannot conceive. Yet somehow order is derived from this chaos.

  The riverside quarter seethes, correspondingly, with activity as relentlessly purposeful as that of bees or ants. To walk and watch here is to apprehend by instant conviction what everyone knows as a general truth—that the Thames is the vital taproot of our capital city. If the mouth of the river were to be blockaded, London would shrivel and decay like a dying tree. Through this channel the city takes in the produce of the whole known world—foodstuffs, fabrics, gold, diamonds, timber, and stone—to be adapted and dispersed in accordance with its own needs and practices.

  In the country—in your own Worcestershire—there is a familiar annual progress as nature’s energies erupt from the earth—for example, in the form of grass to be translated by farm animals into meat, milk, wool, and leather. In London such rhythms are half forgotten: an insatiable city gulps down an unending variety of goods from the ends of the earth.

  It is a mighty undertaking and a mighty spectacle. However, this trading has a darker side. The river is no longer the silver ribbon of poetry, but a turbid black-brown stream, the water thickened with filth. It is to be hoped, but also to be doubted, that the copious sewage of the city flows out to the open sea as surely and regularly as the merchant ships sail in. When the tide retreats, the riverbanks are seen to be strewn with every sort of civic detritus from sodden rags, bottles, and wood fragments to animal carcasses.

  Onshore, in the warehouses and counting houses, commerce is visible as a living thing. Goods are translated into guineas, and guineas into goods—a reciprocal exchange with the life-sustaining regularity of a heartbeat. Regrettably, however, the corporal metaphor does not end there. The vitalizing activity generates refuse as the river itself does. One sees rats and beggars searching through the rubbish for leavings to devour. But more dangerous creatures haunt these streets and alleys, parasites on trade: smugglers, pilferers, and robbers. The district is a world in itself, and a perilous world, where one must be perpetually on guard. But it excited me: I must learn more about it.

  Yours, &c.

  There intervened an encounter that was for a time to distract my attention from my dealings with Mr. Gilbert. I was in Piccadilly, near Hyde Park. Wrapped about in a drab greatcoat I could have been taken for a merchant of the middling sort. N
o doubt it was for that reason that Catherine Kinsey, Sarah’s aunt, was able to pass within two feet of me without so much as a second glance. Pulling my hat over my brows, I turned about and followed her at a small distance. If she had been alone, I would have greeted her, but she was walking, and conversing, with another woman of similar age and respectability. They turned left, and left again, into Alcott Street, where they parted. Mrs. Kinsey’s companion continued on her way; she herself entered the front door of a house on the corner with Margaret Street.

  I lingered outside it with a pounding heart: surely I had tracked Sarah down. Yet my exhilaration was tempered by curiosity. This was a fine street of handsome new buildings. If the Kinseys lived here, they had dramatically risen in the world. Might they have inherited money? It was perhaps as well that, dressed as I was, I could make no further approach at this time: I needed to present myself to better advantage.

  Next morning I came to the house in gentlemanly guise. To the maid who answered my knock I said that an old acquaintance of Mrs. Kinsey, Richard Fenwick, newly returned to London, had called to pay his respects. I was left on the doorstep for some little time before a carefully rehearsed reply was brought to me. Mrs. Kinsey sent her compliments. She would be very pleased to see Mr. Fenwick, but particular circumstances prevented her from doing so that morning. She hoped that I might be able to call at the same time on the following day.

  So it came about that I was duly ushered into her presence twenty-four hours later. Even before we spoke I had observed that the interior of the house, its curtains and furnishings, confirmed the impression conveyed by its exterior: it seemed that Mrs. Kinsey had prospered extraordinarily since I had last spoken to her.

  She had always been an affable lady. Our exchanges were warm but brief, speedily resolving into the very situation for which I had scarcely dared to hope. Mrs. Kinsey informed me that she was unexpectedly called away, but was sure that I would be pleased to meet her niece once more. After bows and courtesies the lady departed, and Sarah came in.

  I felt an instant sense of shock. Here was the Sarah I had known, but changed in every way for the better. She was more expensively and elegantly dressed, she moved more gracefully. What seemed to be a slight thinning of the cheeks and an enhanced brightness of the eyes elevated her face from its former prettiness into positive beauty. Above all there was a confidence in her manner that lent her a striking animation. In the past she had been subject to an instinctive diffidence, although capable of sudden directness and rebellious wit. Now these underlying traits were in the ascendancy. As we exchanged greetings and sat down she looked me in the eye and seemed to be suppressing a smile.

  I had some airy opening remarks prepared: “ . . . regretted loss of contact . . . my own fault . . . warm memories . . . would hope to renew . . .”

  Her reply was concise: “I am pleased to see you again, Mr. Fenwick. I was here yesterday when you called, but the circumstances were a little awkward. So I arranged to visit again this morning when I knew you would be here.”

  “To visit?”

  “Why, yes. This is my aunt’s house.”

  “Then you—?”

  “I live in Margaret Street. I am married, Mr. Fenwick.”

  “Married?” I was trapped in the interrogative mode.

  “I was married last September to Mr. Walter Ogden.”

  She was easy and terse, in full command. It was necessary to rally a little:

  “I have known you well enough to forgo formalities. How did this come about?”

  “I met Mr. Ogden last July, through the merest chance.”

  I tried, with indifferent success, to sound quizzical rather than sour: “A swift courtship. Mr. Ogden must be a man of considerable charm.”

  “Determination was the decisive quality. Mr. Ogden is a man of strong will.”

  “Would I like him?”

  “I hardly think so. Two men could hardly be more different.”

  “In what respect?”

  “In most respects. He is a particularly serious man.”

  “A solemn one?” I ventured.

  She considered the suggestion serenely, and then smiled.

  “Perhaps a little.”

  “Are you laughing at him?”

  “I do laugh at him sometimes—but only behind his back. I do not care to vex him.”

  “You make him sound formidable.”

  “And so he is.” She paused, before adding lightly: “He deals in diamonds. For that reason he was untroubled by my own lack of means.”

  “Indeed.” I sought a new direction: “Did you ever mention me to him?”

  “I mentioned that I had been visited at one time by a genteel young man of uncertain prospects.”

  “Did that disclosure disturb him?”

  “Not the least in the world.”

  Disappointed and obscurely resentful in several ways at once, I could find nothing further to say. It was left to Sarah to resume the conversation:

  “Since we are being so unfashionably plain with each other, may I ask about your own situation. I take it that your grand tour is at an end?”

  “It is. I returned last month. Thanks to the generosity of my godfather, I am now a licensed man about town—at least for a year or two.”

  “Then it would seem that we are both provided for.”

  Was there a hint of bitterness in her voice—the faintest of hints?

  It was my turn to look her in the eyes. “This has become a particularly candid conversation.”

  She held my gaze. “Each of us now knows how the other is placed.”

  “You have been able to marry into prosperity. Perhaps it was as well that our correspondence had lapsed.”

  “It must be in some such way that most friendships fade.”

  I stood up. “I must congratulate you on your good fortune—and leave you.”

  She rose in her turn, with a slight flush, and spoke in an altered voice: “I should not like us to part in this vein.”

  “In what vein, Mrs. Ogden?”

  “Cold, bright, false. I would not wish to seem unfeeling. We have been close, you and I . . .” Her voice quickened: “But we were both left ill provided for, and so have had to make our way in the world as best we can.”

  On the way home, and indeed for several days following, I found myself discomposed. Who could have foreseen that Sarah would already have a husband, and a rich one, and that marriage would have given her such assurance. My feelings were oddly diverse. It had been disconcerting to be thrown onto the defense by a woman I had once patronized. I was stung by the instant dissolution of what had become a gratifying fantasy compounding tender feeling and ruthless seduction. And I felt that I had undervalued this handsome, cool young lady. Mr. Ogden had shown himself a shrewd judge, and captured a wife who would do him credit, even if, as I was determined must be the case, she had married him merely to secure her future. Common sense told me that Sarah must be happier as the wife of a wealthy man than as the lover of an adventurer with uncertain prospects, but I was unwilling to be persuaded. The best bargain I could make with myself was to see this lost chance as a source of half-pleasing melancholy. I made shift with this notion since I had much else to occupy me, but it was clouded with resentment and unease: I had lost a point of moral anchorage.

  Since April showers were frequent, I was often indoors, where I did a good deal of writing. In addition to my laborious drafting of letters, I was keeping a new journal as a quarry of possible epistolary material. Sometimes I would sing, and sometimes write facetious verses—a diversion I had enjoyed during my travels. I remained on friendly but formal terms with my landlady. Only gradually had I learned that her husband had been Mr. Gilbert’s tailor, and had died of a fever when she was expecting their first child, her daughter, Charlotte. Through the agency of Mr. Ward, my godfather had intervened on he
r behalf, securing the house in which she lived on condition that he could make use of it from time to time.

  I had regular conversations with her, and found her agreeable company. If I asked a blunt question she would give a direct reply. When I inquired, perhaps impertinently: “What are your pleasures, Mrs. Deacon—what do you live for?” she thought for a moment before saying: “Charlotte, reading, thinking, friends, coffee, and conversation.” She had a quietly assured manner and would sometimes quiz me in her turn: “If circumstances had been different, Mr. Fenwick, what profession would have suited you?” “Are you of my opinion, that men can be as vain as women?” “Could you make shift on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe?”

  I had scarcely noticed Charlotte during my previous stay in the house; she was now some twelve years of age, a shy girl with dark hair. I cannot recall how it came about, but one wet afternoon I played chess with her. Knowing myself to be a moderately skillful performer, and thinking to be indulgent, I was so negligent that she defeated me with ease. By way of compliment to her prowess I was more serious in a return match, only to be a second time defeated. We had yet one more game. By now on my mettle, I tried my hardest, but was beaten yet a third time. Charlotte showed no exultation at these triumphs, but thanked me for playing with her, and retired. Despite the humiliation I was glad to have stumbled upon this unexpected show of talent: it had always pleased me to find people unpredictable. Mrs. Deacon later told me that, although an indifferent player herself, she had taught Charlotte the game and had been astonished by her aptitude for it.

  It occurred to me that I could simply spend more time in Cathcart Street, inventing stories for my godfather—spinning a false life from my own brain—rather than walking the streets to grub out scraps of entertainment for him. But physical restlessness denied me that possibility. Although my rooms were well enough, the ceilings were low, causing me to feel large and caged. It was a relief to go out.