“And he would be willing to convey to us—”
“For a price, yes.”
“But if he is as deep in debt as you say, I should hardly think we could bail him out.”
“Oh, sir, a desperate man loses all sense of proportion. Though he owe a thousand pounds, yet will he grovel for a groat, thinking in his delirium that every little bit must help.”
Ortega had withdrawn from his doublet his own small book. Did Mr. Castell have a pen he might use—for a few brief notes? Castell shoved ink and pen toward his guest. “Take care what you commit to paper, sir. One must have a very deep pocket in London.”
Ortega wrote with nervous little strokes, holding the pen tightly in his small hand. “Never fear, Mr. Castell. I write in code. It’s known but to me, my master, and but a handful of intermediaries, each of whom I would trust with my life. A curious pair of eyes would find what I write little more than gibberish.”
“Your master made it clear to you, I suppose,” Castell said when Ortega had finished writing and had blotted the paper, “that the strategies I use to procure such information as you now have are my own. I alone deal with Sir Jeremy and the young earl. Your agents may observe my work at a distance, but let them stand clear of me. Otherwise our enterprise may be discovered before the proper hour.”
“Ah, yes, the proper hour,” Ortega breathed, pushing the writing instrument across the table.
“Now, sir, one item more, which I had nearly forgotten. You will want to include some to season your notes.” Then the jeweler embarked on an interesting anecdote about a certain prominent churchman who, for the love of a choirboy, had filched silver from the chancel.
An hour later, his pockets full of papers on which he had written the intelligence Castell had delivered to him, Ortega bade the jeweler farewell and stepped out into the lesser darkness of the night. From a neighboring street, a dog whined peevishly at the moon, now but a thin ineffectual sliver of yellow about to fall off the edge of the earth. The garden through which Ortega walked was full of sounds, the incessant conversation of invisible creatures, tiny, subtle, and disgusting, concealed in the long stalks of grass or in the chaos of moist vines. At the garden gate he paused to look back at Castell’s house. It was a squat, two-story structure made of timber and plaster. Like many another English house it had a solid, dignified front, an unsightly rear, and a malodorous interior that herbs and freshly mown grass strewn here and there did little to sweeten. Ortega sighed heavily, much depressed by his interview, for during the final hour of their meeting something cold had seized him about the heart—a palpable despair to which he could not give a name although he could recall a similar feeling on another occasion. Ortega had been a soldier and in one battle had seen his best friend cut down by a Dutchman’s blade. His friend had lost an ear and part of the throat. The bleeding had been terrible, but worse had been his friend’s expression, the eyes full of comprehension and envy, rejecting hope and the Holy Faith.
He shuddered as he thought of it. It had been an obscene death. But Ortega had disciplined himself, shaken off his horror, rushed back into battle screaming for revenge, feeling all the while that he himself had received some mortal wound.
Ortega felt he had been wounded now again. He was not sure how or why.
He took a final glance at the house, at the window where the jeweler was. The casement was open and although there was no light, Ortega saw the shadow of a human shape motionless there in silent vigil. He whispered a prayer to his favorite saint and crossed himself twice, then he turned on his heels and made quickly for the end of the garden and the alley beyond, almost fearing to look behind him again.
He had thought to find the jeweler a petty purveyor of gossip, someone to impress with his blood and title, with the purity of his lineage and the elegance of his manners. But Castell had not seemed to be impressed. Under normal circumstances this disregard for degree and place would have infuriated Ortega, for he was proud of his title and contemptuous of the English, whom he thought to be dogs unfit to lick his boots. It was, however, Ortega who
had been impressed, awed, perhaps even appalled by his host, this bastard of an Italian father and English mother, this baublemonger who had spoken to him so familiarly and slandered the great ones of the city so casually, this heretic and, yes, atheist, too, who had shown a cunning and malice of such depth that now Ortega wondered what knot might the jeweler untie were he of a mind to do it. What reputation was so spotless that he could not make filthy like a wretched boy daubing a wall with dung to avenge some slight?
Yes, Ortega had been impressed, and as he entered the alley and quickened his step to where there were light and human voices he was not sure but that for the past two hours he had been discoursing with the Devil.
It had come as no surprise to him, however, that the Devil should have proved to be an Englishman.
No sooner had Joan’s head sunk into the down-filled pillow than she fell asleep, but it was a fitful, unsatisfying sleep, with small purchase on rest. Her brain reeled with troubled images of the day, parading before her eyes in a noisome dumbshow. Unawares, she extended her hand to explore the empty side of her marriage bed. Her fingers found the indentation her husband’s body had made, but the space, years in the molding, was empty and cold. Then, as though they had a mind of their own, the fingers retracted with disappointment and found a securer lodging in the folds of her nightgown.
She stirred, half awake, half remembering. Frequently that day she had thought of Tom Ingram. Strangely, she had not thought of him as having been swallowed up in London, nor as having run off to sea as Mr. Castell’s letter said. That awesome expanse of monstrous creatures and dead men’s bones was not the boy’s fate either. She felt he was nearer than that, and with such force did she feel his nearness that it was almost as though any moment he would come into the room where she was and there he would be before her with his sweet, good-natured countenance just as she remembered it and him as safe and whole of limb as when he had lived in his brother’s house in Chelmsford.
In such feelings as these—she called them glimmerings—Joan had great confidence, since they were nothing like dreams or visions with their motions, voices, and strange improbable plots, their impertinent mimicry of life. Unbeckoned, her glimmerings fell upon her without pictures or words, filling her with a calm and absolute certitude, with a knowledge that passed understanding. And it was for this reason she knew that Tom Ingram was not in London, nor drowned. Nor was he in France or Spain. But she knew that he was near and that things were somehow awry. He was in danger, yes, that was it. Near but in danger. Her glimmerings had not told her why.
Now she was sorry she had so strongly urged her husband to go to London. Thomas was no longer there to be found.
These were the thoughts she had in and out of sleep. But there was one final glimmering. It had to do with Matthew. It came to her that he was in danger, too, and as she passed from the world of waking to the realm of sleep she felt the premonition cold and hollow in the pit of her stomach. Momentarily her eyelids batted in a little flurry of mute hysteria, and then she went down, down, mercifully down like a leaf falling through the still air.
Four
A DUNG cart had broken an axle before the grim stone face of the prison and one of the keeper’s men, a beefy, ruddy-faced fellow, had come down the stairs to see to it. The man bore his authority with a swagger, surveyed the damage, and mumbled something vile beneath his breath. The cart had spilled some of its load, a pile of nightsoil garnered not an hour before from the prison privies and middenheaps. The keeper’s man and the driver of the cart were now squared off in the middle of the street and had commenced to quarrel. A crowd gathered about them. The driver was a puny little man, filthily garbed as became his profession, and he spoke in a high-pitched whine. The keeper’s man stood oxlike, looming above him, glaring and insisting that the driver clean up the mess. But the driver refused. He was not responsible for the broken axle, he declar
ed. He was not responsible for the street. It was sufficient that he should sweep the privies and fill the cart and lead the creature that drew it. This present misfortune came under the category of an act of God, he said, and therefore let God in heaven see to its remedy. The driver looked at his horse accusingly. The beast was an old mare, uncertain on her wobbly legs and her nose almost touching the cobblestones as though sensitive to her disgrace.
But it soon became apparent that God would not see to the remedy. The noxious pile steamed in the early morning chill, while the driver railed and the keeper’s man glared and the crowd of spectators grew larger and larger. Finally, the keeper’s man lost what little patience he had brought downstairs from his quarters and told the driver that if he did not wield his broom and do it quickly he would break his skull.
A tapster from a nearby alehouse emerged from the crowd to offer his services in the dispute. He knelt down to examine the undercarriage of the afflicted vehicle and confirmed that the axle was indeed broken. Snapped like a twig, he said, rising and making the abrupt twisting motion with his hands to illustrate. The stench from the cart and the pile was awesome. Some of the bystanders were now pushing their way to the outside of the circle of onlookers, their noses and mouths covered with handkerchiefs. So was Matthew Stock, who had been about to enter the prison, eager to see this Ralph, when the incident occurred.
Someone called for the constable and presently he and two sergeants wearing buff jerkins and bearing halberds were shoving their way through the crowd and barking out orders to disperse. It was to no avail, however. Antagonized by the roughness of the sergeants, the crowd turned unruly and from everywhere now there were curses, threats, and protests. From a side street a gang of ragged urchins assaulted the crowd with rocks and bricks filched from a nearby construction site. A dozen or so wardsmen and turnkeys from the prison rushed from the building to join the melee, their swords drawn; they chatged into the crowd, pushing and shoving, brandishing their weapons in the air. Alarmed now, the crowd began to disperse in a mindless panic. There was a general rush for the side streets and alleys. Before Matthew’s very eyes a blowsy red-faced woman was nearly trampled to death when she fell onto her knees in the press. Matthew himself had withdrawn earlier upwind of the cart and its malodorous burden and had situated himself under a grocer’s awning where he could view the outcome in comparative safety.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the uproar subsided. The prison warders returned to the prison, the street cleared, and the sheriff and his men were now quietly conversing with the driver of the cart, who after the riot seemed more reconciled to the work. Then the sheriff and his confederates left and some men from the prison came down the steps and began helping the driver sweep up the fallen ordure. All this was being done under the watchful eye of the keeper’s man, whose fleshy countenance twisted in a grimace of triumph. Presently another dung cart arrived, this one equipped with a solid axle, and the load was quickly transferred.
While this was being done Matthew slipped into an ordinary, drawn by the aroma of bread and bacon. He found a place to sit and enjoyed a good breakfast and then spent the best part of an hour thinking about Joan and wondering what she would advise in his present circumstances. He now understood that what information he had received from the jeweler was false, at best but half the truth. He felt that Thomas had probably had good reason for leaving the jeweler’s employ but he had not an inkling of what the reason might have been, and he had no idea where to find Thomas. His present purpose, to speak to Ralph, Thomas’s fellow apprentice, was his one hope, although he was afraid that Ralph might not know anything either. It was all a melancholy prospect—the long journey to London for nothing.
After breakfast, Matthew walked back to the prison. A few bricks and articles of shredded clothing lost in the fray were all that remained of the riot. Neighborhood shops had reopened to a sluggish business and their proprietors were setting out wares or conversing with customers as though nothing had happened. Across the street from Newgate a puppeteer had set up his stage and a little crowd of children had gathered. From a distance, Matthew could hear the shrill, hysterical cries of the puppets. Punch and Judy. Judy was beating Punch. Punch beat Judy. The children were laughing, and the sun was shining brightly now on the cobblestone pavement.
A gentlemen at the steps directed Matthew to the prison lodge where he understood the keeper had his office, up a flight of stone steps and then down a corridor to a broad chamber where the wardsmen and turnkeys he had seen earlier were sitting about on benches or in the rushes drinking, smoking tobacco, or playing at dice or cards. Matthew noticed that there were a few women among them, sharp-faced slatterns laughing raucously and allowing themselves to be kissed and fondled. One of the warders approached Matthew and asked him roughly what he wanted. Matthew told him he wanted to see the keeper.
“Indeed,” replied the warder with a cynical snort. “So does many a one come to Newgate.”
This warder had a great moon-shaped face, marred by pox, and nostrils from which sprouted coarse black hairs. Matthew explained that he was constable of Chelmsford and had come to the prison to inquire about an apprentice named Ralph. The warder took this in and then shrugged as though the purpose of Matthew’s visit did not matter after all. He asked Matthew to follow him.
In a small room adjoining the larger, Matthew found the keeper seated at a desk. The room was cluttered and more like an armory than an office. Halberds, truncheons, fowling pieces, broadswords and their harnesses, odd pieces of armor much tarnished, several large iron pots, an enormous oak chest with a heavy padlock, a cupboard filled with documents, some yellowed with age and spotted by rat droppings, a comer occupied by staffs with tattered pennants attached, and an assortment of stools and chairs were the most prominent objects in view. The keeper’s desk partook of the same disorder, its solid writing surface damaged by scratches and stains and littered with loose papers, a few books, and the remains of the keeper’s breakfast. The keeper himself was a thickset man, somewhat younger than Matthew, with a short black beard squared like a brush, narrow eyes, and a long livid scar across his right cheek. He wore a laced green doublet and buff-colored shirt with loose flowing sleeves rolled up at the wrist and on becoming aware of Matthew’s presence he looked up sharply with that quick vexed expression of one who has been interrupted while calculating a long column of figures. The keeper surveyed Matthew from head to toe, put down his pen, and dismissed the turnkey. Matthew explained again why he had come.
“Ralph,” repeated the keeper, grooming his beard. “That would be his Christian name. But what of his family? Every tenth man in Newgate was given the name at birth and the rest would adopt it quickly enough if they saw it was an advantage to them.”
“I don’t know his surname. He is an apprentice of Ger-vase Castell’s, the jeweler. The same who keeps shop in the City.”
This information seemed to be of no help. The keeper stared at Matthew dubiously, then shuffled through the mass of papers, withdrawing at length what appeared to be a kind of roster. His eyes searched the list, then he looked up at Matthew. “What was the boy’s crime?” “Theft, I think,” replied Matthew. “At least, of theft he was accused. His guilt is much in question.”
“His innocence you mean, sir,” the keeper said, smiling grimly. “As our reverend divines observe, no man’s guilt is in question. It’s a foregone conclusion. It’s the primal curse. The great rout of our prisoners are thieves at heart, if not for fact. Why, sir, Newgate presents to the eye the largest gathering of cutpurses, priggers, praters, highwaymen, and linen-snatchers in the world. They all come here—rebels, traitors, extortioners, debtors.”
The keeper grinned and stroked his beard. The thought of the diversity of crime seemed to please him. He fixed Matthew with a businesslike stare.
“Then I am out of luck unless I know Ralph’s family name?” asked Matthew hopelessly.
The keeper smiled benignly on Matthew’s perplexity. He was
very sympathetic. But there were so many prisoners. One could hardly count them. “Well, there’s yet another possibility, now I think upon it,” he cried, sitting up in his chair and leaning across to Matthew as though he were about to disclose some intimacy. “Julian.”
“Julian?”
“We have here among the inmates a prisoner of that name. A very marvelous fellow, I warrant you. He knows every scurvy face in the prison—from the master’s chamber to the Hold. Let him have, say, sixpence of good coin and you shall find your errant apprentice in no more time than it takes to lose your purse in Paul’s.”
“This Julian could find Ralph?”
“Does Ralph breathe? Are his legs planted where they ought?” exclaimed the keeper as though Matthew’s question was absurd. “Trust me, Julian can do it.”
The keeper beamed with enthusiasm, and Matthew began to feel better.
“Clarence!”
A great, bull-necked fellow Matthew had observed loitering in die next room responded to the call. The man had been throwing dice with his friends and his countenance, craggy and jaundiced, was the very image of discontented compliance. Clarence came haltingly into the room and stood looking down at the keeper. He had just eaten a plum or some other succulent fruit and the juice of it was running down his chin. He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked curiously at Matthew.
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