On the bed, the dead man leaned slowly, then toppled to one side. The bedstead creaked under the slow impact. Below the mattress, held in place by the wire-lattice, the letter which earlier he had read for the last time, finally fell apart, diamond shaped fragments fluttered to the floor like confetti, scraps of an earlier message. “My dearest George, my only”, “for when our time comes, and it shall”, “with all my love, Annabel”. Nazim turned and closed the door. Blood soaked through the mattress and dripped down steadily onto the fragments of the letter.
It was past seven and his destination lay almost an hour away by foot. Lemprière strode briskly south then east along the Strand. Somerset House was a white hulk to his right. He moved through and around the crowd. Observing Peppard’s advice, he looked about him to left and right at regular intervals. He had done this all week. His vigilance had become an obscure point of pride. The Falmouth had sailed into their lives, which would be different now, and Theo, the note’s recipient, whoever he was, would be the agent of that change. Past the courts at Temple Bar and the arcades of Fleet Market with the stench of the Fleet Ditch bubbling up from beneath the flagstones, up the short climb to Ludgate, around Saint Paul’s and into Cheapside, Lemprière hurried through the evening traffic to Milk Street. The tavern was up ahead, where his friend and the mysterious Theo awaited him.
Being situated almost a mile from navigable water, any vessel which may have occasioned the naming of the Ship in Distress must have been subject to a very great distress indeed. If the provenance of its title was obscure, so too was its design for the building seemed almost wholly made up from eaves. Successive narrow storeys overhung one another in the manner of a staircase seen from the inside and the whole construction impended over Milk Street like a monument to the final drunken lurch before its own collapse. Despite this, Lemprière regarded the tavern without apprehension. Muddle rather than menace was its keynote. The tenements to either side fed it with a steady stream of patrons whose custom this night was augmented by a meeting of the silk-weavers’ guild. Lemprière saw them to his left as he entered the door, a quarrelsome bunch set apart from the main body of clients who stood about drinking and exuding faint disgruntlement at the invasion.
A fierce debate was boiling up amongst the weavers. ‘I’ll not eat rye!’ yelled one fiery spirit. ‘I’ll starve first!’ Lemprière noted that the moderates amongst them invoked Sir John Fielding while the urgers of mayhem, who were more inclined to break some windows or torch the lascar-house, shouted for Farina. He wondered how many more such disaffected assemblies were wavering between complaint and riot within the city. The mob outside the inn had turned ugly with frightening speed. He stood there, fingering the tear in his coat. Peppard was nowhere to be seen.
The weavers had digressed into an examination of Farina’s credentials and Lemprière listened to their chatter as he looked around the dingy surroundings. Accounts of his provenance varied: the bastard son of a Whitby collier’s captain, an orphan, product of a Wapping rookery or a frenchman naturalised in his tender years from a usurped line of Merovingian kings, a soldier of fortune, an imposter, pretender, mountebank or Moses; there was mention of his feuding with Wilkes, a shadowy role in the Gordon Riots two decades later, exile in the Low Countries after that, or Spain, the silencing of a woman in Stepney (never proved). Now he was back, claiming to fight for them and fighting to claim what was theirs, their champion, deluder, leader and mis-leader, a mastiff who would tear off the heads of kings, noblemen and nabobs. A toast was raised and they cheered ‘Farina!’.
Lemprière moved off nervously. The regulars were clumped together, pint pots clenched, glancing disapprovingly over their shoulders at the racket. Lemprière weaved a path through them to the far side of the room where, at one of the tables which ran along the wall, he saw a solitary figure.
Himself excepted, the man was the only patron drinking alone in the tavern. He approached from the side, still uncertain, to observe the man from behind the cover of two stout burghers who grunted to one another in guttural voices. The man’s black cloak was thrown over the back of the chair beside him. He stared straight ahead with his hands clasped about a pint pot, lost in thought it seemed. The cruisie lamps gave a dim, yellowish light but he could make out a prominent, slightly hooked nose and large dark eyes set into an oval face. Ageless, the man might have been thirty or fifty. The light darkened his skin, Lemprière thought at first, but the tavern’s other denizens were ruddier, paler, streaked with dirt or soot, giving the lie to this hypothesis. Straight black hair cut short, white nails.… A lascar. The clothes had deceived him too; he was well kempt. That was it, and Lemprière made vague connections with the general thrust of Peppard’s charges, the Indies, Indians, disappearing ships, lascars worked on Company ships. Nothing was definite but his certainty that this was the Theo of Peppard’s note grew until he approached the Indian who turned and looked up without surprise as though he had been aware of Lemprière’s presence for some time. Lemprière extended his hand, enquiring, ‘Mister Theobald?’ The other rose and took his hand. His eyes flicked down at the tear in Lemprière’s coat.
‘Peppard is our mutual friend,’ he said. Mister Theobald nodded, removed his cloak from the chair nearest Lemprière and placed it beside the hat which was on the chair to his left. Lemprière glanced at the hat. The Indian was looking at him. ‘Of course, how rude,’ he realised. ‘My name. I am John….’
Nazim waited for the surname, but at that moment, Peppard appeared and walked directly past them both without a sign of recognition.
‘George!’ Lemprière called after him. The little man kept on walking.
‘Mister George?’ said the Indian, shaking Lemprière’s hand.
‘No, I… excuse me, one moment,’ and Lemprière pushed through the drinkers in pursuit of his friend. ‘George!’ he called again. ‘George Peppard!’ and Peppard turned.
It was obvious at a glance that Peppard’s fortunes had changed. The threadbare clerk of a week ago was now a proper Bond Street lounger. A new surtout and shirt with matching collar was topped with a knotted muslin scarf. A pair of brightly buffed shoes with elaborate brass buckles adorned his feet. But the greatest change was his hair. Where before there had been a meagre dark brown covering, a shock of bright yellow now hung in frizzed curls almost to his shoulders.
‘Do I know you, sir?’ Peppard affected a mock-haughty tone. Lemprière laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Very good, George,’ he exclaimed. ‘Really very good indeed. Come now, Theobald is waiting.’ He gestured over his shoulder.
‘He is indeed’ rejoined the exotic creature. ‘He awaits an explanation at the least.’
‘George?’
‘I am not George,’ said the other. ‘I am Theobald.’ Lemprière felt the horseplay had gone on long enough.
‘I have already spoken with Theobald,’ he told Peppard, and looked back to where the Indian was waiting.
The Indian had gone. ‘He was….’ he began, then thought furiously. Had he made a mistake? Peppard’s face was peering at him, the lines on his forehead were gone, the eyes a little narrower….
‘You turned,’ he said. ‘I called your name and you….’
‘You called “Peppard”,’ the other interrupted him. ‘I am Theobald Peppard, George’s brother, and now I would like to know who on God’s earth are you?’
The Indian had not exactly introduced himself, hardly said a word in fact. Mister George, perhaps he spoke no English, had wandered off aimlessly, despairing of Lemprière’s return. It seemed the only explanation, but the man had given a clear impression of understanding every word he said. And then there was the hat. He knew the hat from somewhere….
‘… George’s twin brother,’ the new Theobald was saying. ‘I received this note a week ago.’ He showed Lemprière the note George had penned the night he had visited him. ‘Where is George?’
‘You must pardon my mistake,’ Lemprière offered. ‘The
two of you are very alike. In appearance, I mean.’
‘Yes,’ said the other shortly. He was looking around the crowded interior. ‘Well, I can hardly wait here any longer.’ Theobald regarded his surroundings with disdain. ‘Already it is half past the hour.’
‘You have only just arrived!’ Lemprière protested.
‘But I might have arrived promptly and loitered a full half hour,’ retorted the other.
‘You mean you would wait twenty years and miss your brother for the sake of a few minutes?’ Lemprière was incredulous.
‘If George meant to meet me here, he would have arrived on time. What is your interest in any case?’
‘He has a chance to clear his name, with your help and mine.’
‘Clear his name! Of course! George’s ship must always go down with all hands, must it not? I have been here before Mister….’
‘Lemprière,’ said Lemprière.
‘I refused to throw away my life for George’s sake twenty years ago. I refuse again today.’
‘No, no. It is really very simple. We have all the evidence, we need only confirmation.’ Lemprière outlined the story of Captain Neagle and the Falmouth, its disappearance and reappearance.
‘Preposterous!’ exclaimed Theobald. ‘Am I supposed to confirm this slander? Do you have any idea who I am?’ Lemprière shook his head. ‘I am the chief archivist of the East India Company,’ he announced, and threw out his chest.
Twenty minutes later, the two of them were tramping the pavements of Golden Lane. ‘It is not so much confirmation we need,’ Lemprière had said, ‘but a decision; for or against. Naturally the whole business is, as you say, preposterous. You are the only man who can prove it, one way or the other. George is obsessed, he must be convinced. We must have proof, you understand?’
Theobald Peppard had understood that he was indispensable. His grudging acceptance of Lemprière’s proposal - to call upon his brother at his lodgings - had followed shortly after.
‘I still do not understand your own interest,’ Theobald was saying as they trudged northwards.
‘In the Vendragon? None at all,’ Lemprière answered. ‘I sought George’s advice on an old document, a family heirloom. We became acquainted.’
‘So whether this ship exists or not, whether or not it is engaged in some underhand scheme, these things make no difference to you at all?’
‘Exactly so,’ said Lemprière. ‘Only insofar as they affect George.’
‘Ah ha,’ said Theobald in a sceptical tone. Lemprière resisted a strong urge to lock horns with George’s brother.
‘When did you become the Company Archivist?’ he asked in neutral tones.
‘What is it to you?’ Theobald snapped back quickly. A raw nerve.
‘Curiosity,’ said Lemprière.
‘Shortly after George’s shenanigans twenty years ago. Are we there yet?’
‘Almost,’ Lemprière said. The dispute between the brothers was growing clearer. Theobald had taken the sinecure while his brother was silenced.
‘Here,’ he said to his companion, indicating the entrance to Blue Anchor Lane.
They turned and began the final stretch of their journey. A small crowd was gathered ahead of them and as they drew closer Lemprière saw that they were clustered about the entrance to George’s house. They were peering through the doorway, craning over one another’s shoulders for a better view. Some of them wore blankets draped about their shoulders. Lemprière edged his way through their midst and was confronted by two beadles who barred his passage.
‘Excuse me.’ He motioned as though to pass.
‘A relative?’ asked one of the officers. The sinking feeling in his stomach hardened to a cold knot.
‘A friend,’ he told them and was waved through. Skewer was standing in the hallway. He made as if to speak as Lemprière passed. The door to Peppard’s room was open. An officer who sat outside did not look up as Lemprière leaned heavily against the door-jamb. Two men were in the room. The first stood between the door and the bed, his bulk partially obscuring the second who knelt, it seemed, on the bed itself.
‘… yes, about a week,’ the second man was saying. ‘It would tally with his employer’s account. Mister Skewer said he failed to arrive for work on Thursday morning, is that right?’
‘It is,’ said the other. ‘I would guess Wednesday evening from the evidence here. You would want to talk to anyone who visited at that time. Done professionally, that much is quite clear, head pushed away, incision in the right spot….’ The man who was standing, turned abruptly and Lemprière saw then that his eyes were bandaged. It was Sir John Fielding.
‘You are a relative?’ Sir John asked in a brisk tone. ‘A friend?’
‘A friend,’ said Lemprière.
‘We need a relative,’ said Sir John. ‘Mister Rudge, we need a relative, for the formalities.’
‘Were you here or hereabouts last Wednesday night?’ he asked Lemprière. Lemprière could not speak. ‘Who are you?’ Sir John demanded.
‘No,’ Lemprière managed at last thinking, they will check, find out…. ‘Smith,’ he said.
‘John Smith?’ Sir John’s tone was sarcastic. George, thought Lemprière. George. Rudge was scrabbling under the bed.
‘There is a letter here, in pieces.’ He was talking more to himself than his companion. Theobald arrived in the doorway.
‘John, what on earth….’ Then he saw the bed.
‘John it is,’ said Sir John Fielding in a gruff voice.
‘A love letter.’ Rudge was picking up pieces of paper, spattered with blood which had soaked through the mattress. ‘“With all my love, Annabel”,’ he read aloud. ‘Annabel who?’
‘Make a note of it,’ said Sir John. That was what Henry would have done. ‘Make a note of everything.’ George’s body. Lemprière turned and stumbled down the stairs.
Once outside, he took deep breaths of the cold night air, his hands clenched inside his pockets, his eyes shut.
‘Why?’ Theobald had sidled up. ‘Why George?’ Lemprière stared at the little man, who seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘Could anyone believe that nonsense of his about Neagle’s ship? It was all so long ago, all finished years ago.’
‘A week,’ said Lemprière. ‘Not years, a week. And I will prove it too, with or without your help. George was right. I will find that ship, and the reason for its being here. Everyone will know that George was right and everyone else, yes you too, was wrong.’
‘Of course I will help,’ Theobald protested. ‘Within my powers. But let me remind you, Mister Lemprière, George is dead because he nosed about where he had no business. As I said, George’s ship always had to go down with all hands….’
‘But it didn’t, did it?’ Lemprière rounded on him. ‘It went down with George while you were safe in a Company sinecure, and nothing’s changed there, has it? Except this time his fortunes will not rise again because he’s dead, and you are alive and will not help!’
‘Now you listen to me,’ the other man snapped. ‘Mister Smith or Lemprière or whatever you call yourself, I will help if I wish, but don’t pretend your efforts are for any reason than saving your own hide. If George is dead because he knew of some, some business, then you are next. I would not throw away my life for George before, and I’ll not do so now. Good day to you Lemprière, and good riddance!’ Theobald turned on his heel and stamped off down the street.
‘He was worth a hundred of you!’ Lemprière spat after the man.
Theobald’s words had stung him, though he was wrong about the ship. George had had no chance to tell anyone of the Falmouth’s reappearance. Self-interest, Theobald had alleged. George’s words, almost his last, came back to him, Unless the crisis is you … the agreement, John, it begs awkward questions … I have been followed. George had even thought to warn him: if they are watching me, then they will know of you. But he had been wrong. It was the other way around. He, Lemprière, had led them to George Peppard. And it was not the shi
p which had brought them to murder him. Only the two of them had known of its existence. And if it was not the Falmouth, that left only one possibility. It was something in the agreement.
In the days which followed the weather grew fine and cold. A bitter wind cut through the first half of February. Peppard was dead. Each day, Lemprière would allow the fact a little more weight, one more of its aspects. The taut membrane of his understanding dipped under the load, touching lightly on other surfaces beneath. Lemprière’s thoughts led to the Widow, thence to himself and the face borne away through the night, yes, that night, thinking, He might have wed, his last chance might have completed the cycle to arrive again more wanted and needed than before, seeing his own chance veer away into an uncertain night, framed in the coach window. Lost? No, everything would come around, in the end. But there was the mess of flesh and blood, Peppard’s body, an end to his own cycle. Chopped short: a broken circle, or one never drawn in the first place. As Peppard reached out at the last for the woman he sought through the years of scandal and disgrace, she fell away from him. Lemprière thought of Juliette. Peppard’s body punctured the water’s surface and sank slowly into the depths; a drowned sailor with the pumping flukes of his destroyer painted in his eyes, the little man shooting up papers and their explanations in streamers, confetti reeling down in a theatre rainstorm. A cold truth waited. It stood in the concealment of the characters, in the slopping waters and the night. It was an agreement between dead men, a ship lost and then found. It was Juliette.
After his encounter with Rosalie, and more mindful of his vulnerability following Lydia’s swift removal of his purse at the Pork Club, Lemprière had placed the gold signet ring in the safety of his travelling chest. Its jagged surfaces now caught the morning sunlight. A rough ‘C’. It functioned as a makeshift paperweight for the letters, documents, cuttings and scraps which Lemprière had already removed from the chest, examined and discarded as irrelevant. The chest itself lay open on the floor beside him. A mound of paper awaited inspection in front of him. He was slumped on the floor and one of his legs had fallen asleep.
Lemprière's Dictionary Page 40
