The Meaning of Night Part 26

It was our first meeting since I had made the acquaintance of Miss Carteret, and I was never more conscious of being 'a thing of sin and guilt'.3 I sat a little way off and watched Bella as she sat by the fire in Kitty Daley's drawing-room with some of The Academy's junior nymphs. Wh.o.r.es, every one of them, of course, but a sweeter, kinder, and livelier bunch of gals you could not wish to meet; and Bella was the sweetest and kindest of them all. She looked so fresh and alive, discoursing easily and amusingly to the little sorority gathered all around her of Lord R-'s insistence, during a recent encounter, that she must dress herself up like the Queen, complete with a diadem of paste diamonds and a pale blue sash across her bust, whilst he whispered warm encouragements into her ear, in a German accent, as they went to it.

Laughter fills the room; champagne is brought in; cigarettes are lit; Miss Nancy Blake trips to the piano-forte to extemporise, con brio, a spirited little waltz, whilst Miss Lilian Purkiss (a flame-haired Amazon) and Miss Tibby Taylor (pet.i.te, grey-eyed, and lusciously agile) canter round and round and in and out of the furniture, giggling as they repeatedly b.u.mp into chairs and tables. Bella, clapping her hands in time to the waltz, looks across to me from time to time and smiles. For though, as usual, she is at the centre of the gaiety, I know she never forgets me: in company, she will always seek me out, or will let me know, by a loving look or by gently pressing my arm as she pa.s.ses, that I am the true and only occupier of her thoughts. Even when I leave here tonight, she will continue to think fondly of me, and to muse on what we have done together, and what we shall do when I next return to Blithe Lodge.

But what can I now offer her in return? Only neglect, inattention, and betrayal. I am a d.a.m.ned fool, I know, and do not deserve the tender regard of such an excellent creature. But it is my fate, it seems, wilfully to cast this treasure from me. She is vividly and gloriously present to my senses at this moment, here in Kitty Daley's drawing-room; yet I know that I shall give her but little thought when I once again see the face of Miss Emily Carteret, whom I love as I can never love Bella. And yet I cannot bear to give Bella up not yet. For my affection for her has not been snuffed out or negated by what I feel for Miss Carteret. It remains bright and true, though overshadowed by a greater and stranger force. As I look at her, it is brought home to me that my heart would be broken, too, if I was to turn away from her now, and for nothing gained.

After the rest of the company has departed, she comes over and sits next to me, placing a jewelled hand on mine and looking smilingly into my eyes.

'You have been quiet tonight, Eddie. Has anything happened?'

No, I tell, her, running my finger-nail gently down her cheek and then placing her hand to my lips. Nothing has happened.

32:.

Non omnis moriar1 ______________*

Wednesday, November the second, 1853.

I arrive back at the Town Station in Peterborough and take a coach to the Duport Arms in Easton. The town, which lies some four miles south-west of the great house belonging to the family from which this establishment takes it name, is, as far as I am aware, distinguished for nothing in particular, except for its antiquity (there has been a settlement here since the time of the Romans), its quaint cobbled market-square, and the picturesqueness of its slate-roofed houses of mellowed limestone, many of which look out across the valley, from atop the gently sloping ridge upon which the town is built, to the village of Evenwood and the wooded boundaries of the great Park.

After I had settled myself in my room, a long low-beamed apartment overlooking the square, I opened my bag and took out a small black note-book, a remnant of my student days in Germany. Tearing out some notes I had made on Bulwer's Anthropometamorphosis,2 I wrote on the new first page the words: JOURNAL OF EDWARD DUPORT MDCCCLIV. I pondered this t.i.tle for some time, and decided that it looked very well. But the sensation of forming the letters of my true name for the first time had engendered a frisson which was both exhilarating and productive of a strange feeling of unease as though, in some way I could not comprehend, I had no right to possess what I knew to be rightfully mine.

I had decided, before leaving for Northamptons.h.i.+re, that I would begin recording, in brief, the daily course of my life, partly in emulation of my foster-mother's habit, but with the additional purpose of providing myself, and perhaps posterity, with an accurate digest of events as I embarked on what I had become convinced would be a critical phase of my great project. Enough of irresolution and fluctuation. Not only had I forgotten who I was, and what I was capable of: I had also forgotten my destiny. But now I can hear the Iron Master's hammer once more, like gathering thunder, rolling ever closer the blows raining down faster and harder to fas.h.i.+on the unbreakable links, sparks flying up to the cold sky, the great chain tightening around me as I am dragged ever closer, and now swifter than ever, to meet the fate he has reserved for me. For it is the afternoon of my life, and night approaches.

So I began to write in my new journal, and it is from this source that I have mainly drawn for the remainder of my confession.

Ten o'clock. The square is deserted. A thin rain has been falling this past hour but is now pattering harder against my window, beneath which a creaking board carrying the ancient arms of my family with the painted motto 'FORt.i.tUDINE VINCIMUS' sways back and forth in the wind.

I take dinner in one of the public rooms, with only a sullen, lank-haired waiter for company. Self: 'Quiet tonight.' Waiter: 'Just you, sir, and Mr Green, up from London like yourself.' Self: 'Regular?' Waiter: 'Sir?' Self: 'Mr Green: a regular here, perhaps?' Waiter: 'Occasional. Another gla.s.s, sir?'

Back in my room I lay down on my bed and took out an octavo volume of Donne's Devotions, which I had brought with me for its inclusion of the incomparable 'Deaths Duell' Donne's own funeral sermon. The book was a much treasured travelling companion of mine, having been purchased new just before I left England to study in Heidelberg.3 I contemplated the reproduction of the striking frontispiece to the 1634 edition, showing an effigy of the author in a niche wrapped in his winding sheet, and then mused for a moment on my youthful signature on the fly-leaf: 'Edward Charles Glyver, Sandchurch, October, 1840'. Edward Glyver was gone; Edward Duport was to come. But in the here and now, Edward Glapthorn fell asleep over John Donne's great rolling periods and woke up with a start to hear the church clock striking midnight.

I go over to the window. The square is lit by one gas-lamp on the far side. It is still raining hard. I note a late wanderer in a long cloak and a slouch hat. My breath clouds the window-pane: when I wipe the gla.s.s clean with my sleeve, the wanderer has gone.

I lay my head back on the pillow and sleep for an hour or more, but on a sudden I am clear awake. Something has roused me. I light my candle twenty minutes past one o'clock by my repeater. There is no sound, except the rain against the window, and the creaking of the inn sign. Is that the sign swinging on its hinges? Or a footfall on the shrunken boards outside my door?

I sit up in bed. There, again and again! Not the sign swaying in the wind; but another sound. I reach for my pistol as the door handle slowly and silently turns.

But the door is locked and, just as slowly and silently, the handle is turned back. The floor-boards creak once more, and then all is silence.

Ten minutes later, pistol in hand, I carefully open the door and look out into the corridor; but there is no one there. There are rooms on either side of mine, Numbers One and Three. Stairs lead down to the tap-room, with another flight up to the next floor, on which are situated two more rooms. There is no way of knowing whether my unwelcome visitor is still on the premises, perhaps in one of these rooms; but I do not think he will return. I tip-toe to the first of the adjacent chambers: the door is unlocked, the room unoccupied. But the other door, at the head of the stairs, I find is locked.

I lay awake for another hour, pistol at the ready. But, as I expected, I was not disturbed again. I conclude at last that I am being foolish, that it was only a fellow guest mistaking my room for his.

And so I gave myself up to sleep.

I awoke to weak suns.h.i.+ne, but, looking outside, saw that the square was still wet from the night's rain and that there was a threatening look to the eastern sky. Going downstairs, I asked the waiter from the previous evening if my fellow-guest, Mr Green, had come down yet. The waiter, still sullen, could not say; so I took my breakfast alone.

After concluding my meal, I returned to my room to prepare myself. I had to take the greatest care to avoid being recognized by Phoebus Daunt, whom I had presumed would be present at the interment. I examined myself closely in the mirror. We had not seen each other, face to face, for fifteen years, not since our last meeting in School Yard in the summer of 1837. Would he trace the lineaments of his old school-fellow in the face that now looked into the gla.s.s? I did not think so. My hair was longer and thicker, and, with the a.s.sistance of dye, blacker than formerly; altogether, I felt confident that the changes brought about by the pa.s.sage of time, together with the luxuriant mustachios and side-whiskers I had since acquired, and a pair of green-gla.s.s spectacles, would s.h.i.+eld me from discovery. I donned my top-coat, procured an umbrella from the sullen waiter, who seemed to be the only servant in the whole establishment, and set off.

A pleasant walk down a steep tree-shaded road, the banks on each side smothered with glistening ivy, led me out of the town down to Odstock Mill. At the bottom of the hill, I took the way that veered eastwards towards Evenwood village. It wanted a quarter of an hour to eleven o'clock.

In the village, there were already people walking down the lane leading to the church villagers, I perceived on getting a little closer, amongst whom I recognized Lizzie Brine, walking with another woman of about the same age. She did not see me, for I was already taking care to intrude myself as little as possible on the scene, having determined not to present myself at the Dower House with the other invited mourners, but to stand back from the proceedings and observe them from a distance.

I therefore waited until the little crowd had turned under the lych-gate and into the church-yard, and then positioned myself a little way off, behind the trunk of a large sycamore tree. From here, I had a good view, both of the church and of the gravelled track that branched off to the Dower House. I was also s.h.i.+elded from the view of anyone else coming down the lane that led back to the village. To my left was St Michael and All Angels, a n.o.ble building, largely of the thirteenth century, dominated by its celebrated spire tall and needle-pointed, resting on a slender tower, and crocketed up the angles. As I was gazing up at the golden cross placed on its tip, it began to rain. Before long, it had become a regular torrent, requiring me to open up my borrowed umbrella.

As the clock struck eleven I heard the sound of footsteps on gravel, and looked out from my place of concealment to see the vanguard of the funeral procession coming down the narrow track from the Dower House ahead of the coaches a large squadron of pall-bearers, feathermen, pages, followed by bearded mutes carrying wands, all solemnly be-gowned, and all looking more melancholy even than their duties demanded on account of the heavy rain now soaking their hired finery. A few moments later, the gla.s.s-sided hea.r.s.e appeared, with its canopy of black ostrich feathers and decorations of gilded skulls and cherubs, the coffin inside covered over with a dark purple cloth. Following close behind was the main armada of six or seven funeral coaches. Then I saw Dr Daunt emerge from the porch of the church with his curate, Mr Tidy, at his side. As the first coach pa.s.sed my vantage point, I noticed that one of the blinds was up, enabling me to catch a clear view of Lord Tansor. He sat, grim-faced, his mouth set tight shut. Then he was gone, but not before I had caught the briefest of glimpses of a tall bearded figure sitting at his right hand. I could not mistake the profile of my enemy.

The remaining coaches, all with their blinds closed, splashed past. Before the lych-gate was an open area, where the vehicles pulled up to discharge their occupants. Attendants rushed forward with umbrellas to shepherd the mourners towards the shelter of the porch; after they had gone, the pall-bearers removed the coffin from the hea.r.s.e and carried it through the rain down the tree-lined path to the church. Lord Tansor, straight-backed, his eyes fixed ahead of him, and looking the very image of proud authority, waved away the offer of an umbrella, and marched purposefully off through the downpour; but Daunt, a few steps behind his Lords.h.i.+p, haughtily signalled to the same servant to perform the service for him that his n.o.ble patron had refused.

Miss Carteret had been in the second coach, with Mrs Daunt and two other ladies, one of whom was unknown to me; the other, however, I thought must be her French visitor, Mademoiselle Buisson. She was slim and of middling height, but her features, except for an impression of pale hair tucked up under her bonnet, were obscured by her veil. As Miss Carteret descended from the coach, she took her friend's arm and pulled her close; thus entwined, they made their way to the church, with John Brine following behind holding a large umbrella over them.

Miss Carteret, too, was veiled; but the poise and grace of her tall figure could not be disguised. Her back was towards me, but in my mind I could picture her face, as I had first seen it, in the light of a late September afternoon. I watched her, arm in arm with her companion, as she walked towards the church, thinking again of how, in the blink of an eye, I had seen in those commanding eyes everything I had ever desired, and everything I had ever feared. But she suffered I saw it in her bowed head, and the way she leaned on Mademoiselle Buisson for support; and I suffered for her, and longed to comfort her for the loss of the father she had loved.

When all the company had entered the church, and the organ had begun to play a solemn voluntary, I left my place beneath the dripping branches of the sycamore-tree. Inside the porch, I halted. The choir had begun to sing Purcell's divine 'In the midst of life we are in death',4 with its anguished dissonances. The bitter-sweet sound, reverberating through the vaulted s.p.a.ces of the church, tore at my heart in the most extraordinary way, and I felt angry tears welling up as I thought of the man whose blameless and useful life had been so violently cut down. Then I heard the resonant voice of Dr Daunt intoning the words of St John: I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

I remained in the porch as the congregation began to say together the words of Psalm 90, Domine, refugium, in which the Psalmist complains of the frailty and brevity of our life on earth, and of the suffering that is inseparable from our sinful nature; then, as the mourners came to the verses in which Moses speaks of G.o.d setting our misdeeds before Him, and our secret sins in the light of His countenance, I picked up my umbrella, turned away, and walked back out into the churchyard.

In due course came the sound of the church door being opened, and I saw that the committal of Mr Carteret's body was soon to commence. I moved away, tucking myself in the recess of the west door, beneath the bell-tower, from where I was able to observe the mourning party and the various attendants, along with a number of villagers and the household servants from the Dower House, follow the pall-bearers through the rain to where the pile of earth marked the last resting-place of Paul Stephen Carteret. Lord Tansor followed directly behind the coffin, oblivious, it seemed, to the unremitting rain; a few paces back, Phoebus Daunt, umbrella in hand, solemnly matched him step for step, like a soldier on parade. One by one, the company began to a.s.semble themselves about the grave.

It was a most melancholy spectacle: the ladies in their bombazine and crepe huddled together under umbrellas, the gentlemen, for the most part, standing unsheltered in the rain or beneath the yew-trees that grew about the church-yard, the black bands on their tall hats fluttering in the wind; the ranks of mutes and other mercenaries supplied by Mr Gutteridge some a little the worse for liquor forlornly holding up their batons and soaking plumes; and the simple wooden coffin being borne towards the terrible gaping gash in the wet earth, preceded by the imposing figure of Dr Daunt everything contributed to a bitter sense of the futility of the mortal condition. All was black, black, black, with a coal-black angry sky over all.

I found I could not take my eyes off the coffin, and saw again in imagination what pitiless brutality had done to the round and once genial face of Mr Carteret. And now he was to be consigned to a muddy hole in the ground. I never was so despairing and comfortless, to see what he had come to, and what we all would come to. I found I could not help but think of the deceased secretary as resembling Donne's 'private and retired man', who in life 'thought himselfe his owne for ever, and never came forth', but who, in death, had to suffer the indignity of his dust being 'published' such an apt and terrible image and 'mingled with the dust of every high way, and of every dunghill, and swallowed in every puddle and pond'. It was, as the preacher averred, 'the most inglorious and contemptible vilification, the most deadly and peremptory nullification of man, that we can consider'.5 I did consider it. And it was indeed so.

Miss Carteret had emerged from the church with Mademoiselle Buisson again by her side, and both ladies now stood next to Dr Daunt as he began to deliver the final part of the Order for the Burial of the Dead.

Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cutteth down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death . . .

And so, with the rain now easing, they buried Paul Carteret at last, to the mournful tolling of a single church bell. Requiescat in pace, was all I could think. In small groups, the mourners led by Lord Tansor, with Daunt close by his side dispersed to their coaches, the mutes and the feathermen tramped off, and Dr Daunt returned to his church. Only Miss Carteret lingered by the grave, whilst Mademoiselle Buisson, with John Brine in attendance, began to walk back to her carriage. She turned her head as she reached the lych-gate, to see if her friend was following; but Miss Carteret remained for some minutes at her station, looking down at the coffin. She appeared to show no external sign of grief no tears, at least; but then, as she brushed aside the black silk ribbons of her bonnet, which a sudden breeze had blown across her face, I clearly saw that her hands were trembling. Then she nodded to the s.e.xton and his a.s.sistant, a boy of about sixteen, to do their work and began to walk slowly back towards the church.

I stood alone, watching her tall figure until it reached the open ground beyond the lych-gate, where her friend was waiting for her. As she reached the door of the carriage, Mademoiselle Buisson took out a white handkerchief, with which she gently wiped her friend's face.

33:.

Periculum in mora1 _____________*

I waited until Miss Carteret's carriage had splashed its way up the lane towards the Dower House before leaving the church-yard to begin my walk back to Easton. I wished so much to see her again, to hear her voice, and to look once more into those extraordinary eyes; but, expecting that Daunt would be amongst the company, I felt unsure of my ability to maintain my a.s.sumed ident.i.ty in his presence. Yet as I reached the main street of the village, the desire to feed on her beauty once more overcame my misgivings, and I turned back towards the gate-house and stood within the Plantation looking out across the lawn.

From here I could see into the drawing-room of the Dower House. The figure of Lord Tansor could be easily picked out, standing near the window with another gentleman; behind him, I could see Mrs Daunt, with her step-son by her side. To gain a closer view of the proceedings, I moved stealthily through the dripping trees, taking up my station amongst a planting of shrubs close to one of the windows. The blind had been half drawn, but by crouching down on the wet gra.s.s I was able to see into the room.

She was standing by the fire, alone. Elsewhere, her guests a dozen or so in all had arranged themselves into quietly conversing groups. Then I saw a lady break away from one of the groups and walk over to Miss Carteret. She had blonde hair, of a most unusual paleness, which, with the unconsciously familiar way she took Miss Carteret's hand in hers, confirmed to me that she must be Mademoiselle Buisson.

They said nothing, but remained, hands clasped, for some moments until they saw Phoebus Daunt approach, at which they disengaged and stood side by side to greet him. He gave a little bow, in acknowledgement of which Miss Carteret inclined her head slightly, and spoke a few words. Her face remained expressionless, and she merely dipped her head again in response to whatever he had said. Bowing once more to Miss Carteret, and then to Mademoiselle Buisson, he took his leave. A few moments later I saw him emerge through the front door and make his way back down the path to the Rectory.

All through this brief scene my heart had been pounding as I strained to see how Daunt would be received by Miss Carteret; but when it quickly became obvious that there was not the slightest spark of intimacy between them, I began to breathe more easily the more so when, as Daunt had turned to go, I had seen Mademoiselle Buisson lean towards Miss Carteret and whisper something in her ear. This had produced an involuntary little smile, which she immediately sought to hide by placing her hand over her mouth. From the rather mischievous look on Mademoiselle Buisson's face, I made a guess that the remark had been in some way uncomplimentary to Daunt, and was most satisfied to see how Miss Carteret had responded to her friend's comment. He meant nothing to her that was abundantly clear. She despised him as anyone of sense and discernment would. He was a figure of derision even on such a solemn occasion. Though I had no claim yet on Miss Carteret's heart, it was some comfort to know that, as far as this most precious jewel was concerned, Daunt had no power to thwart my desires.

After a while, the two ladies walked over to join Lord and Lady Tansor at the far end of the room and disappeared from my view. It had begun to rain again, and so I retraced my steps back through the Plantation in order to return to Easton.

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

'Has Mr Green left?' I asked.

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

'Are there any more guests tonight?'

'None.'

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

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

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

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

'And where will Miss Carteret be staying?'

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

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

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

'Do you remember the last time we went to the Cremorne Gardens,' I asked Le Grice.2 He looked up and thought for a moment.

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

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

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

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

'Well, I shall tell you,' I said. 'while you throw another log on the fire and refill my gla.s.s.'

The night remained clear in my mind. We'd been wandering for an hour or two amongst the pavilions and kiosks and flower beds. Darkness had long fallen, and the lamp-lit arbours were full of carmined wh.o.r.es in gaudy silks sipping iced champagne with their swells. I'd been game to continue our jollities elsewhere, but, unusually, Le Grice had expressed a strong wish to be in his bed, and so, at a few minutes before twelve, we'd prepared to leave the Gardens.

By the pay-box, at the King's-road entrance, we'd come upon an altercation. A group of four or five women wh.o.r.es every one, as I quickly judged and a couple of fancy roughs were disputing in a rather bellicose fas.h.i.+on with a small man sporting a prominent pair of mutton-chop whiskers.

As we approached nearer, one of the roughs grabbed the man by the collar and threw him to the ground. By the light of the large illuminated star above the pay-box, I immediately recognized the anxious face of Mr Geoffrey Martlema.s.s, fiance of Dorrie Grainger.

The arrival of Le Grice and I had heated up the proceedings somewhat, but the roughs were quickly persuaded, by a brief demonstration of our combined force and determination, to leg it, while the wh.o.r.es swayed away into the darkness, shouting and jeering as they went.

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

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

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

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

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

'Your friend Mr Pettingale. Of Gray's-Inn?'

'Ah, yes. Pettingale. Of course.'

'Are the injuries extensive?'

'Extensive? Oh, moderately so, I believe.'

'All the members of the Society have expressed condemnation and concern an attack upon a member in his chambers is an occurrence that is believed to be without precedent and naturally my employer, Mr Gillory Piggott, as a near neighbour of Mr Pettingale's, feels the outrage particularly keenly.'

'Quite.'

A little subtle probing on my part soon elicited enough information for me to grasp the story in outline.

Mr Lewis Pettingale had returned to his chambers one evening at about eight o'clock. His neighbour, Mr Gillory Piggott, happening to come into Field Court half an hour later, noticed a large man leaving the staircase leading to Mr Pettingale's set. The next morning, as usual, a waiter from the coffee-house near Gray's-Inn-gate ascended those same stairs carrying Mr Pettingale's breakfast, but, on knocking at the lawyer's door, received no answer.

The door was found to be unlocked. On further investigation by the waiter, the body of Mr Pettingale was discovered slumped across the corner of the hearth. He had been beaten, with some violence, about the face and head, but was still alive. A doctor had been called, and that afternoon the injured lawyer had been taken away in a coach to his house in Richmond, there to be attended by his own physician.

We had now reached the corner of Chancery-lane and Mr Martlema.s.s, insisting that he would not allow me to be taken out of my way, got out of the cab and, after shaking my hand with his customary vigour, marched briskly off towards his lodgings in Red Lion-square.

During the last leg of the journey to Temple-street, I mused on what the attack on Pettingale might signify, but, as so often of late, I felt as if I was groping blindfold in the dark. I could not say for certain that there was a connection with the lawyer's former a.s.sociate, Phoebus Daunt, though instinct urged me to that conclusion. Perhaps Pettingale's criminal past had simply caught up with him. A trip to Richmond, I decided, might be both pleasant and instructive.

The following morning I rose early and with little difficulty arrived in Richmond a little after ten o'clock. I took a late breakfast at the Star and Garter, by the Park gates, where I began to enquire of the waiters if they knew of a Mr Lewis Pettingale. At my third attempt I was given the information I sought.

The house was on the Green, in Maids of Honour Row, a pretty terrace of three-storey brick houses.3 It stood at the end of the row, fronted by a well-tended garden. I entered through a fine wrought-iron gate and proceeded down the path to the front door, which was opened to my knock by a whey-faced girl of a 'Will you give your master this? I shall wait.'

I handed her a note, but she looked at me blankly and thrust the note back at me.

'Mr Pettingale is here, is he not, recovering from his injuries?'

'No, sir,' she said, looking at me with staring eyes, as if I had come to murder her.

'Now then, what's this?'

The question was asked by a grim-looking man with a patch over one eye and a white spade beard.

'Is Mr Pettingale at home?' I asked again, in some irritation.

'I'm afraid not, sir,' said the man, a.s.suming a protective position in front of the girl.

'Well then, where may I find him?' was my next question.

At this the girl began to play somewhat nervously with her pinafore, while casting anxious looks at the man.

'Phyllis,' he said, 'go inside.'