by Ewan Lawrie
I had summoned some composure in the meantime and addressed the professor’s half-brother.
‘And what purpose was there in the charade of your brother’s experiments?’
He laughed. ‘Why, I am going to make you famous. The resurrected man. The true secret of the strange longevity enjoyed by some.’
I could make no sense of his words and he knew it.
‘You will be presented in society. Fêted at expositions. You will, in short order, be the most notorious man in the world. And then you, and I, will be exposed as a fraud.’
‘To what possible end?’
‘The end is the end. An end to prying into certain parties’ circumstances. When a lie is so much more credible than the truth, it is invariably taken as such, you see.’
‘Do you think I will go along with this nonsense?’
I cleared my nostrils of a few remaining drops of port.
‘The Model Asylum is still a lively concern.’ He looked with disdain at the reddish liquid spattered by his feet.
‘What of it?’ I made to grab his shirt-front, but he eluded me.
‘I paid a great deal for copies of certain... case histories.’
It would have been beneath me to ask precisely what he meant.
‘Then you know that I am cured.’
Still feeling the rigours of the professor’s mad attempt to reanimate someone not actually dead, I sat in a chair at the head of the table. He followed. He towered over my seated form and said in a voice filled with sand and glue, ‘Come now, we both know how Moffat escaped the chains of lunacy.’
‘In that case, how can I be of use? I am no resurrected corpse.’ Bile rose in my throat.
‘I did not pay so much for some case histories. Specious reports on medical research, death certificates – all of these could and can be bought – should one have enough money. I mean to present you before a select group in Vienna; once my proposal is accepted you will accompany me on a grand tour.’
‘It will convince no one of anything,’ I said.
‘Of course not, but I mean to discredit others as well as myself. ’
His eyes glittered. A man excited by the prospect of de-stroying others and preserving himself.
‘Forgive me, but I still do not understand.’
‘The followers of the Rosy Cross, the philosophers, the adepts; they all see through a glass darkly,’ he gave a short, bitter laugh, ‘but still they see. I mean to use you to close their darkling window on a world they should never have glimpsed.’
I said nothing, believing the man almost as mad as his half-brother.
Chapter Fifty-two
Rudolf Jedermann’s self-possession returned, summoned by an interrogative cough from Maccabi.
‘Ah, Herr Jedermann. What is to become of Gibbous House?’
His composure was not so firmly fixed, since he turned on Jedediah, his brow close to touching Maccabi’s own. ‘What?’ he bellowed. ‘This palace of infinite varieties? This carbuncle? This monstrosity? I do not care!’
Jedermann’s head advanced with each outburst and Maccabi was soon pinned against the long board. It might well have been the second occasion on which I had truly witnessed someone being browbeaten.
‘Gibbous House is mine, is it not? Maccabi, I shall decide its fate,’ I interjected.
Miss Pardoner’s customary snort preceded any reply from Maccabi or Jedermann.
‘You will do, Mr Moffat,’ said Rudolf Jedermann, ‘as you are instructed. Free will, in any case, is an illusion. Even fools can stumble on some truths, on occasion.’
Finding at least the second part of this statement not incompatible with my own reading of the situation, I concluded that any protest would scarcely be material.
Moving close to Maccabi, I clapped him hard on the shoulder, saying, ‘Jedediah, grasp that bell and summon us some provender, I find that having been dead is quite a stimulus to the appetite.’
I turned toward Jedermann. ‘Unless, of course, I am bound for the Inquisition before nightfall?’
Some impediment required clearing from his throat. He answered, ‘We will depart soon enough.’
The familiar dissonance of the hand bell somehow managed to ensure the arrival of Mrs Gonderthwaite in less time than it ought to have taken her to come from the kitchen.
‘Dinner?’ I said.
‘It is barely five in the evening, Mr Moffat,’ Mrs Gonderthwaite asserted.
Quite how she achieved the appearance of looking down her nose at me – despite being a good hand’s breadth the shorter – I could not say.
Jedermann, a smile on the lips, if not in the eye, said, ‘I think we might wait for Enoch’s recovery. We’ll be five for eight, Mrs Gonderthwaite.’
Which serendipitous rhyme proved that if the man had not set foot within Gibbous House previously he was conversant with its household.
Mrs Gonderthwaite departed; we three males looked at each other as if expecting someone else to begin some interchange. Miss Pardoner clapped twice and said, ‘Cards, gentlemen!’
We repaired to a smaller table with an appropriate number of lower chairs. This ensemble was situated in the corner furthest from the likely entry point of any comestibles. The seats were comprehensively padded and the fabric, though fine, was as faded as a spinster’s looks. Gilt had been rubbed from the wood by friction at some long time past, judging by the dust on that which remained. The four of us sat: Miss Pardoner with her back to the very corner of the room and thus with a good view of the dining room in its entirety. I sat opposite and felt the less comfortable with my back to any potential ingress or egress. The door through to the horrors of the taxidermist’s lair was within my sight line, but that was all. Maccabi sat at my left hand, Jedermann to my right.
Miss Pardoner opened a drawer in the table itself and produced a bundle that consisted of a yellow silk kerchief. She eyed me as she undid the knot. From this cloth she produced a tired-looking deck of cards. The woman smiled at those around the table and proceeded to deal the cards face up into two distinct piles. To her right she seemed at first to be collecting the deuces and treys, as in the other stock she placed a seven, a king, an ace, a knave and a nine before placing anything other than a low-pipped card to her left. At that it was merely a six of spades. Finally the cards were all apportioned and I had noted that all suits from two to six were at her left hand and the remainder at her right. She opened the drawer once more and swept the supply of lower value cards into it.
It seemed that a round of Speculation was not in prospect.
‘Well, gentlemen. In honour of our esteemed visitor,’ a nod here to Rudolf Jedermann, ‘I propose a game of Schafskopf – or Skat, if you prefer.’
The fellow so honoured let out a sigh, rather than a whoop of excitement.
‘I do not know the game, Ellen,’ I said.
‘We are four; one must sit out, each in his turn. You shall be first, Mr Moffat,’ and she began to jumble the remaining cards in an inexpert fashion. She dealt out every card, ten to each of the three players and the remaining two into something she called the ‘Skat’.
Jedermann picked up his cards and threw them down immediately.
‘These are not correct. The suits... ’ He became silent.
‘Herr Jedermann,’ Maccabi’s voice was oily, ‘it is quite simple... ’
He pointed out the equivalents, mentioning acorns, bells and leaves, whilst allowing that the count would recognise the hearts at least.
They began the bidding, or reizen, as Jedermann termed it. I paid no attention whatsoever, leaving a reverie about murdering the three of them only when actual play began. This was also difficult to follow. Contrary to my expectation, Maccabi laid the first card; Miss Pardoner followed according to the clock, which was less surprising. Jedermann played the diamond jack on the led hearts and took the trick for his own. The hand was played out and subsequently the tricks and the cards therein were perused by each player. Then there was a chattering
of jackdaws as unfamiliar words were interspersed with arguments over the value of the tricks won. At no time did anyone note the scores claimed.
Miss Pardoner gathered up the cards, passed them to Jedermann and came to stand behind my chair.
‘I shall help you with the game, Mr Moffat,’ she said. I supposed that by rights Maccabi ought to have taken his turn to be a spectator.
The cards were dealt. I understood even less of the bidding with sight of the cards being bid on. It was with some surprise that I came to realise that, as the winning bidder, I was to begin play proper. Miss Pardoner’s hand lay lightly on my shoulder, near the neck. Each wrong selection was followed by a fierce pinching of her fingers on my person. I suffered some degree of pain before selecting a card that met with her approval. The game proceeded with some discomfort for me. Clearly, Miss Pardoner was a player of some skill as I won that particular hand. This did not mean that I understood the jackdaw chatter any better than before.
It was with some relief that I learned that Miss Pardoner would not be assisting my play thereafter. Jedermann left the table with speed and made for the long board. He did not return with any refreshment for the remaining players.
This time during the bidding, which I began with one of something, Miss Pardoner queried, ‘Will you go?’ There was a short pause, and thereafter, ‘One more?’
‘Ah... t-two,’ I stuttered.
‘No, will you go?’ Again she waited and repeated, ‘One more.’
In fact, Maccabi was at turn to bid; I mentioned this. A kick from a sharp-pointed shoe followed this observation, and Miss Pardoner hissed, ‘Will... you... go?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. I had no intention of going with Jedermann Senior, though I admired her efforts to disguise her question.
Maccabi said, simply, ‘Three.’
The game finished after one more round, Jedermann declining to rejoin it. Perhaps Miss Pardoner was the winner, but it might well have been myself, or even Maccabi, for all I had understood of the play. The young woman and Maccabi engaged in some chatter concerning Sevastapol, remarking that the Turks owed the British yet another favour for hav-ing routed the Russian bear. I was tempted to intervene at this point and enquire why Her Majesty should aid one savage over another – but I doubted that the company would have welcomed the interjection. I found their interest quite remarkable.
Jedermann appeared to be a practised drinker, refilling his glass at the long board more than severally and patrolling the length of the dining room without the slightest misstep.
The professor and dinner arrived in quick and cacophonous succession. The former barrelled through the door in a state of noisy inebriation, a bottle of spirits in each hand. The latter made an entry by the simian sons of Mrs Gonderthwaite that surpassed any they had previously attempted.
One or other of the boys was seated atop an exquisite, if battered, silver trolley. It was something more suited to the transportation of delicate patisserie from kitchen to dining room in Verrey’s of Regent Street than a hirsute youth. He himself was carrying a huge tureen of silver similar in quality and condition. A piece of flatware was balanced on his head, something the lowness of his brow facilitated. The noise was occasioned by the rattling of the silverware he carried and the cutlery in his pockets, which were being agitated – rather more than necessary – due to the rate at which the whole commotion was propelled into the room by his sibling’s efforts. The meal was served before any of us had taken a seat, each boy managing to produce a relatively clean porcelain soup bowl from about their respective persons.
Yet again, the food was of delightful quality, as though Mrs Gonderthwaite felt a need to compensate for the manner of her food’s delivery with her efforts in its production. It was most diverting that the broth, once tasted, was revealed to be a particularly fine Palestine soup. I hoped that I myself would prove to have as little to do with Jerusalem as the artichokes from which it had been made.
The remainder of the meal passed in a pandemonium of noise and fine viands, my own favourite being a very fine pheasant. Whence it had come, I had not the faintest idea, but it was both plump and succulent. Best of all, my teeth were not inconvenienced by any shot. When the last dish and knife had been removed, Maccabi bade the professor to remain seated and went himself to dispense the port. The professor appeared incapable of walking the short distance to the long board, in any case.
‘Du! Maccabi! Warsht ner stinkender Arschloch!’ The professor was, indeed, drunk. He fixed me with a baleful, rolling eye.
‘It ish not a game. Serioush eksh-esp— Sciensch!’
Rudolf laughed. Miss Pardoner shot him a look containing a little less respect than customary. The dwarf spat on the floor and busied himself with his drink. His temper remained hot.
His half-brother looked at me. ‘We’ll be leaving around midday, Moffat.’
‘Will we?’ I asked.
‘Most assuredly,’ came the reply. ‘You are, of course, most welcome to gather any portables to bring with you. Surely there are things you would like to bring? Things portable and convertible, eh?’
He laughed long and hard this time. At last he said between wheezes, ‘You’ll be ready at noon.’
The professor was not a soporific drunk. He continued to wriggle in his chair, muttering, whispering and occasionally shouting. I sensed that Miss Pardoner, at least, felt embarrassment on his behalf, though his own half-brother did not. Maccabi had the look of someone lured into sitting with a senile uncle through the bait of an attractive cousin. Conversation, for whatever reason, was desultory.
By eleven Miss Pardoner – and Maccabi – had retired to their chambers, and the two Jedermanns and I seemed locked in a relatively silent contest to be the last to take to their bed. Eventually Rudolf took a gracious leave. I, too, took my own shortly after, choosing not to remain alone with the drunken dwarf. Perhaps I should have done so.
Chapter Fifty-three
A last look at the repeater by the light of the moon revealed the hour to be three. Sleep came – as it often does – at the moment at which I had despaired of it. The blessed relief was undisturbed by dreams and seemed all the shorter for it. I awoke sweating and coughing, although the smoke coming into the room from under the door was wispy and hardly dense.
The door was not locked. Swinging the door wide enabled me to consider how to penetrate the mound of furniture blocking my egress. It might have been possible to wait for the fire to burn through it, but it occurred to me that a choking death would have been my fate long before it could do so. Putting a shoulder against the rear of a large armoire proved nugatory. Perhaps it was full. I found it strange that the efforts required in moving such an enormous and weighty piece had not disturbed my slumber.
The smoke had become a little thicker: it was an irritant to the throat but no more. The room itself, however, was hot, and although I was still in my déshabillé, a sheen of perspiration covered every inch of my exposed skin. Nevertheless, I began to dress, reasoning that it were better to force the flames to consume a few layers of wool and cotton before my own flesh.
The sheen had become a flood by the time my boots were on. I smashed the small window with an elbow. A few bright flames licked at the edges of the door frame, although the armoire itself still seemed to resist the conflagration. Head and shoulders through the empty window frame, I looked downward. There seemed no hand- or foothold to facilitate a gingerly executed descent down the wall itself. In addition, it seemed I would have to remove my topcoat, as I was on the point of becoming wedged in the aperture. Worst of all, the window looked out onto the stalls of the yard, but there was no sign of straw, nor hay, nor anything at all to break what was sure to be a precipitous fall. The remaining glass fell inward as I jerked out of the opening. My topcoat fell in a heap to the floor as I shrugged it off.
The varnished wood of the armoire was blistering now, whilst the flames themselves had nibbled at the edges of the piece. Picking up the porcela
in from beside the bed, I threw it to the floor in as petulant a gesture as to which I had ever been provoked. The bourdeloue, thankfully empty, landed safely on my topcoat. Despite the lack of satisfaction at de-stroying something, it was pleasing to have some hope aroused in my breast by the glimmer of a stratagem for escape.
Having dropped the topcoat out of the window, I watched it fall gracelessly and with some momentum, it being of quality material. The bedclothes followed in quick succession, all a-bundle. I was grateful that I had chosen the least luxurious of possible accommodations, since the mattress from the rude cot followed these in its turn with only a modicum of force required to ensure its passage through the narrow opening. The armoire was truly alight now. I pushed the cot to the wall beneath the window. The bed enabled me to clamber feet first through the window facing inward. The conflagration was making alarming progress across the room. I hung by my hands from the window frame for a few moments, contemplating the long fall. Perhaps my resolve hardened before the flame touched my fingers, but in any event I loosed my grip.
Despite my preparations, the landing left me a little stunned. It was some moments before I felt I might safely move. That I did not do so was entirely due to the knife at my throat. Cullis’s grimy hand was wrapped around the haft and his ill-cared-for teeth loomed above it. His breath smelled as though he had been chewing sheep-droppings to sweeten it.
‘Divven’t think I divven’ na!’ he said.
Judging silence the best course, I kept mine.
‘It was ’ee. Yiz killed worlad!’
Indeed, I had; but I was at a loss to know how he knew it, since the policeman, before his unfortunate demise, had been unable to discover the identity of the murderer. There was a sharp pain and I felt blood trickle down my neck. Cullis collapsed, insensible, upon my person. Shoving him aside I stood and saw the rock in the dog-boy’s hand.
‘Well done, Job Catchpole! I am indebted to you.’
The boy stared mutely for a few seconds, then knelt to tend to the wound in Cullis’s scalp.
