by Ewan Lawrie
Judging by the alacrity with which the professor pounced on the nearest of several bottles of wine, I was not the only member of the household relieved that, temporary state of impecuniosity notwithstanding, the cellar remained full. We took our seats, and the door opened.
The baboon-like boys swaggered in, each bearing an enormous covered salver, which – if it were not plate – we could have melted down for enough coin to settle a year of butcher’s bills. Placing the platters haphazardly on the long table, each removed the domed lid of their salver with a flourish. To my left was an enormous roasted haunch, a little long in the bone for beef and, it had to be said, a little stringy looking. To the right was a long and lugubrious face I recognised.
The horse had pulled his last chaise.
The meat was well seasoned and had a flavour somewhere between beef and venison. The Gallic palate had long been used to the pleasures of the equine at table, the professor was pleased to inform us. He seemed a little disappointed that none had refused to partake of the unusual repast. Evidently the head itself was mere decoration; the salver-bearers, however, having taken a fidgety station standing by the wall, eyed the horse’s ignoble head keenly if any diner made move toward it.
‘I think it best Maccabi makes course for Seahouses and the settlement of our accounts on the morrow,’ I said, ‘before we eat our remaining beast.’
‘The mare still lives, and the roan, the other seems to be sickening for something,’ said Maccabi.
‘All the more reason to ensure the matter is resolved tomorrow, Jedediah.’ I gave him a look that had the desired effect, for he held his peace.
The fidgeting boys cleared the platters with more diligence than they had delivered them, perhaps wishing to avoid the inevitable taint of dust on their own supper, should they let them fall. They did not return, and it seemed that the rest of the cutlery had been laid out in vain, save for the professor’s, as he was in the process of some dental excavation with the aid of a fish knife.
More to interrupt this emetic pursuit than out of any real desire, I said, ‘I thought we might all charge our glasses, Professor, and withdraw to the room so appropriately named.’
‘Ahh, it is in need of the cleaning!’ he spluttered.
‘As the rest of the house is not?’ I laughed.
Maccabi shifted in his seat. Miss Pardoner looked on with bored disinterest.
‘Nevertheless,’ he began, but I did not allow him to finish.
‘Notwithstanding your objections, I think we shall repair to the withdrawing room, sir.’
I rose abruptly from my chair and moved to help the little man from his contraption a little more forcibly than he would have liked.
There was no evidence of a room between the vivarium and the library on passing from one to the other, despite the possibility of peering through the exterior windows into one such. Even so I was greatly surprised when the professor took hold of the bell pull beside the huge fireplace in the dining room. The stone rolled back and we made to enter the passage. Miss Pardoner’s look of disinterest had disappeared to be replaced by one of considerable excitement. The perspiration on her upper lip affected me greatly.
By the time we reached the twin statues of the Golem and the dybbuk, my ward seemed quite beside herself, and was incapable of restraining herself from touching the Golem when we reached it.
The professor had no interest in the Golem this time. He extended a finger and proved the extent of anatomical detail lavished on the carving of the dybbuk. No sooner had he inserted his finger, than a huge slab of the red sandstone slid away to reveal an entrance in the side wall of the pas-sage. The three of us followed the professor into the darkness.
Chapter Forty
The reason for the inky-blackness became obvious when the space it filled was revealed to be sufficient only to encompass the four of us – in what the late Mr Edgar Allan would have undoubtedly termed ‘Indian file’. I, being immediately behind Jedermann, felt him fidgeting at around the level of my abdomen; attempting a cuff, I missed by a country mile and struck my hand painfully on something long and rigid.
It must have been a lever of some kind, for it behaved as one and opened a hatch-like affair about four feet in height and two in breadth, about three feet from floor level. This was the entry into the withdrawing room. I boosted the dwarf sufficiently for him to clear the hurdle and enjoyed his acrobatic efforts to land safely on the other side.
My ingress was easily effected, as was that of Maccabi. If we had been looking forward to Miss Pardoner’s efforts to preserve her dignity in making her entrance, we were roundly disappointed. The young woman gathered up her skirts and swung a shapely limb into the room. Pivoting gracefully on it, she swung in the other in a quite satisfyingly disgraceful manner.
The professor pushed the hatch door to and revealed to me that we had made our entrance courtesy of Mr Gainsborough. A close inspection of the portrait revealed a faint signature at the bottom right, but it was the high quantity of oil in the paint that convinced me. I wished it had been one of his conversation pieces; it would have most diverting to discuss ‘Conversation in a Park’ with Miss Pardoner.
There was nothing strange about the room, save the lack of a conventional entrance. The ceiling was high, the walls appeared geometrically sound and in conformity with what I had presumed from exterior observation.
It seemed to be what its name dictated, a pleasant room for the entertainment of guests in an intimate setting after a dinner of formality.
‘What is it you do here, Professor?’ I asked, looking around for any clue.
‘Researches; with books and papers.’ He slid a look at Maccabi.
‘Would not the library be the perfect location for such endeavours?’
‘It is quiet here.’ This time his glance fell on the Reynolds alongside our painting of entry.
‘Indeed it is, but you have a plethora of papers in your chamber also, surely?’
Miss Pardoner sidled over to the Reynolds and began fingering the brushwork absently. The professor’s nervous gaze became fixed on her hand.
‘Ah, I do not keep refreshment in my room. I find I need some... libation to aid my concentration,’ he said.
He trotted over to the long sideboard and proved himself in great need of such help. His eyes remained on Miss Pardoner’s hand, which was now touching the intricate carving of the Reynolds’ gilt frame.
‘Look!’ she exclaimed. ‘What strange designs, they look like the Hebrew letters.’ Her eyes were wide, but far from innocent.
‘And see here, halfway up, a Star of David; how peculiar! The frame is not symm—’
She had laid her palm on the religious symbol: there was a click and an unmistakably mechanical sound. The start the professor gave was prodigious. I was more than startled that he held on to his glass.
Miss Pardoner evaded the advancing portrait, if not with grace, with success. The professor had covered his face with his hands. I walked around the portrait, where a metal table had extended from the wall. Underneath I saw something that I believed to be a rack and pinion arrangement, like that of the cog railway between Middleton and Leeds. This was not, in fact, the most interesting feature of the table: it appeared to have the benefit of runnels and perforations designed to drain it of who knew what fluids to a container just beneath the table.
The table shone as if polished; there was not a single blemish upon its surface and I surmised the nature of the liquid that the professor had spilled on his hand.
‘An interesting thing,’ I said, ‘so much effort to hide a table, even one for so special a purpose.’
The professor removed his hands. ‘You have no idea what purpose it serves.’
‘I know that Rembrandt’s Doctor Tulp would have preferred it to his own red deal,’ I replied.
This appeared wide of the mark, for I saw the dwarf acquire a neck as his shoulders relaxed at this last.
‘Naturally, the coroner had good reason to
leave the journalist’s relict in my hands; equally naturally, I satisfied my own curiosity. He was quite right to leave the matter to me, since, as you see, I have facilities far superior to his own.’ His self-satisfied smile would have provoked Saint Peter to choler.
Maccabi seemed also to be relieved at the turn of the conversation, as though a tiger pit had been avoided by sheer chance. He cleared his throat. ‘So, no mystery, Moffat, simply the diligence of the professor. We thought you would prefer not to be troubled by such indelicate matters.’
Quite aside from his impudence in addressing me so, I was displeased that they both considered me such a dupe as to be taken in by this misdirection.
‘So, a burial is it? Here at Gibbous House, outwith consecrated ground? Surely not?’
I could not but accompany these words with a half-smile at the two of them, and no more could Ellen Pardoner.
The professor’s coughing fit, if simulated, was most convincing indeed. Unfortunately, I was unable to smite his back mightily, as Miss Pardoner most solicitously attempted to take care of the fraud. I turned to Maccabi and said but one word: ‘Drink.’
He was wise enough not to interpret this utterance as an offer and plundered the sideboard for a suitable flask, pouring a simple brandy for the four of us.
Miss Pardoner and the dwarf engaged in a little wrestling as she attempted to ensure his sipping of the spirit and he endeavoured to secure a gentleman’s draught of it.
In any event, I grew tired of the midget’s theatricals and demanded, ‘Jedermann, where is the body?’
The professor broke off his attempts at wresting control of the brandy. Tilting his head upward, he looked me in the eye and asked, ‘Does it matter?’
I felt I should be wary in answering this question, so I posed my own.
‘How can it not?’
‘The important thing is the tenth intellect, or the human soul,’ he said.
It was moot whether it were possible to discourage the windbag, but for the sake of provocation I sighed.
‘Immortal or otherwise, I cannot believe in it.’
‘Avicenna’s floating man demonstrates that you are wrong not to do so.’
‘How is that?’ I asked, hoping the lecture would not be too long. I ran my hand absently along the rack under the metal table. My ward interposed with the answer while the professor continued to find something interesting in his glass.
‘Imagine yourself suspended in the air, isolated from all sensation. You are floating. You cannot even feel your own touch on your body. You still think; you are aware of your physical self, are you not?’ Her eyes took on a silvered look as though tears might come at the thought of being suspended so.
‘How can I know, never having experienced such a thing?’ I said.
The professor spat out a single word, ‘Sophistry’, before yelping loudly as he stubbed his toe on the leg of the metal table.
Miss Pardoner rushed to the dwarf’s aid and fussed over him in a disproportionate manner. I was no longer concerned about the whereabouts of the late journalist’s mortal remains: there had been something left on the rack after all. A tiny square of some material midway between paper and leather. If I knew not the location of the corpse, I knew what had been done to it.
Inspection of the Gainsborough’s frame revealed a tiny carved menorah on the left hand side. I pressed it and made my exit, leaving the three of them behind me. It required only a few moments of blind groping to find a lever at the other end of the extremely short passage. I reflected that the manner of gaining entry to it was more appealing. Once at the statues, on rendering the Golem detumescent, I heard the familiar sound of the heavy stone moving and stepped out of the fireplace into the dining room.
It was pleasurable indeed to be in my own company at last. I thought I might take a turn outside in the hope of clearing my head, for it had been stuffy in the withdrawing room. It was no conscious decision to turn to the left once outside the front door, to walk past the exterior of the east wing until I reached the window offering the view into the withdrawing room.
Despite the short time it had taken to reach its window, the room was empty; the artistic efforts of Messrs Gainsborough and Reynolds were reattached to the wall and there was no trace of spilled fluids on the floor. Perhaps the three of them had repaired to their respective chambers, but I doubted it were so.
There being nothing of interest to see through the window, I decided on prolonging my excursion. It was not quite full dark, but it was well past what I had called the gloaming as a boy. At the end of the wing, I spied light emanating from a library window. The dwarf was asleep, mouth agape, sprawled in a chair, tiny legs dangling a good twelve inches from the floor.
On turning at the end of the wing, hard by the French windows, I was startled by a whimpering and growling. Clearly Job had decided that the library was his domain, for he had remained in it throughout dinner and thereafter, I supposed. I opened the French window, for it was not locked, and hissed, ‘Job, for pity’s sake, quiet.’
To my great surprise, he stood erect and begged my pardon fulsomely in his still rusty voice.
‘Well then,’ I said, ‘let us rest a while, Job. Like friends.’ Job made himself comfortable on the floor; I made my way wearily to my chamber in the hope of a night undisturbed by dreams.
Chapter Forty-one
It was not to be so. My sleep was disturbed by an endless cycle of the interview with the Keeper and the strange visitor that had resulted in Moffat’s release, and therefore my emergence from the egg of Bedlam. In the manner of dreams, there seemed to be something about the events that I had failed to grasp. A sense of something happening off stage; a feeling that the dialogue spoken by the actors contained a meaning occult to me. Most unsettling of all was a feeling of familiarity surrounding the tall and vaguely exotic fellow who had accompanied the doctor that day. I could not say if it was his manner, voice or appearance that caused this feeling.
It was with some ill humour that I greeted the company at breakfast the following day. My mood was not improved by the arrival of yet more bread and cheese. Maccabi looked relieved to be despatched to Seahouses to pay the estate’s outstanding bills. The professor appeared less delighted by this development.
Miss Pardoner, the professor and I departed the dining room for the more comfortable surroundings of the library. Job scampered to meet me, and only a very stern look prevented his licking my face. Miss Pardoner covered her mouth, but the movement of her shoulders rendered this stifling nugatory. The professor had busied himself with refreshments, chiefly for his own gratification. He was considerate enough to confine the absinthe to his own glass – I was pleasantly surprised to be presented with a jerez, even though it was in a somewhat inappropriate tumbler. Ellen Pardoner received the same, although with the benefit of stemware.
The young lady and I took seats. The professor remained standing, his back to a shelf of books, his stature measuring off scarcely four rows. It seemed the position of someone about to give a lecture, so I felt the need to avert such a torture by saying the first thing that came into my head.
‘Professor Jedermann, I would know something about you, whose destiny seems so bound to that of my own.’
He gave a smile that so far from touched his eyes that they seemed to have turned to glass.
‘My life is not so interesting a subject,’ he said.
‘Begging your pardon,’ my ward interjected. ‘I am most interested, sir.’
Some life returned to the professor’s gaze, but good humour was not what had animated them.
‘Very well. What is it that you wish to know?’
‘Your secrets,’ I said. This time Ellen Pardoner did not attempt to hide her amusement.
The dwarf evinced his usual linguistic discomfiture. One could only guess which secrets he would choose to conceal, but – would the truth be grammatical, or the lies?
‘My family are or was from Transylvania. If I may say so we were o
f the highest rank. I have wandered far. I wander still, I may wander for ever, or at least to the end of my days. My father was... well, it is of no consequence. My mother died in childbirth. I have no brethren, only my father’s legitimate offspring. My young half-brother outgrew me by the time he was ten years old. I did hate this boy and he did hate me. My father did not stint on my education, my tutor was the last of the Medici. I enrolled at the University of Vienna at the age of fifteen. The respect I earned from my mentors brought me also to a position in that institution. Apart from a time studying with Fichte in Berlin and some research conducted in Leyden among the effects of Pieter van Musschenbroek at the university there, I spent my life in Vienna until the year 1820.
‘Imagine my feelings when my loving father sent his first letter to me, in December of 1819. Imagine my feelings when he informed me that the little prince was coming to Vienna. He went by the name of the Comte de St Germain, although this was no more his name than Jedermann is mine. I rather think that it was my half-brother’s little jest. You may have heard of a certain Comte de St Germain’s exploits in London a century ago? No matter.
‘At the time I was conducting experiments based on Galvani’s theories. You may know of Galvani’s nephew? No?’
The professor broke off and lifted a heavy volume from a nearby shelf. I saw from the spine that it was a copy of The Newgate Calendar for 1803. My pondering of what possible use for such a tome the dwarf might have was cut short, when he began to read.
‘He died very easy; and, after hanging the usual time, his body was cut down and conveyed to a house not far distant, where it was subjected to the galvanic process by Professor Aldini, under the inspection of Mr Keate, Mr Carpue and several other professional gentlemen. M. Aldini, who is the nephew of the discoverer of this most interesting science, showed the eminent and superior powers of galvanism to be far beyond any other stimulant in nature. On the first application of the process to the face, the jaws of the deceased criminal began to quiver, and the adjoining muscles were horribly contorted, and one eye was actually opened. In the subsequent part of the process the right hand was raised and clenched, and the legs and thighs were set in motion. Mr Pass, the beadle of the Surgeons’ Company, who was officially present during this experiment, was so alarmed that he died of fright soon after his return home.
