by Michael Cox
‘Over there is France, Eddie,’ I remember her saying once. ‘It is a large and beautiful country.’
‘And are there Houyhnhnms there, Mamma?’ I asked.
She gave a little laugh.
‘No, dear,’ she said. ‘Only people, like you and me.’
‘And have you been to France ever?’ was my next question.
‘I have been there once,’ came the reply. Then she sighed. ‘And I shall never go there again.’
When I looked up at her, I saw to my astonishment that she was crying, which I had never seen her do before; but then she clapped her hands and, saying it was time that I was in my bed, bundled me back into the house. At the bottom of the stairs, she kissed me, and told me I would always be her best boy. Then she turned away, leaving me on the bottom stair, and I watched her go back into the parlour, sit down at her work-table, and dip her pen into the ink once more.
The memory of that evening was awakened many years later, and has ever since remained strong. I thought of it now, as I puffed slowly on my cigar in Quinn’s, musing on the strange connectedness of things; on the thin, but unbreakable, threads of causality that linked – for they did so link – my mother labouring at her writing all those years ago with the red-haired man who now lay dead not half a mile away in Cain-court.
Walking down towards the river, I felt intoxicated by the thought that I had escaped discovery. But then, whilst paying my half-penny to the toll-keeper on Waterloo Bridge, I noticed that my hands were shaking and that, despite my recent refreshment at Quinn’s, my mouth was dry as tinder. Beneath a flickering gas-lamp, I leaned against the parapet for a moment, feeling suddenly dizzy. The fog lay heavy on the black water below, which lapped and slopped against the piers of the great echoing arches, making a most dismal music. Then, out of the swirling fog, a thin young woman appeared, carrying a baby. She stood for a few moments, obliviously staring down into the blackness. I clearly saw the blank despair on her face, and instantly sensed that she was about to make a jump of it; but as I moved towards her, she looked at me wildly, clutched the child tightly to her breast, and ran off, leaving me to watch her poor phantom figure dissolve into the fog once more.* A life saved, I hoped, if only for a time; but something, perhaps, to set against what I had done that night.
For you must understand that I am not a murderer by nature, only by temporary design and necessity – a justified sinner. There was no need to repeat this experimental act of killing. I had proved what I had set out to prove: the capacity of my will to carry out such a deed. The blameless red-haired stranger had fulfilled his purpose, and I was ready for what now lay ahead.
I walked to the Surrey side of the bridge, turned round, and walked back again. Then, on a sudden impulse, as I passed once more through the turnstile, I decided to retrace my steps along the Strand instead of returning to my rooms. At the foot of the steps leading down from Cain-court, which I had descended not two hours earlier, a crowd of people had gathered. I enquired of a flower-seller concerning the cause of the commotion.
‘Murder, sir,’ she replied. ‘A poor gentleman has been most viciously done to death. They say the head was almost severed from the body.’
‘Good heavens!’ said I, with every expression of sudden shock. ‘What a world we live in! Is anyone apprehended?’
My informant was uncertain on this point. A Chinese sailor had been seen running from the court a little time before the body had been discovered; but others had said that a woman carrying a bloody axe had been found standing in a daze a few streets away, and had been taken off by the officers.
I shook my head sadly, and continued on my way.
Of course it was most convenient that ignorant rumour was already weaving nets of obscurity and falsehood around the truth.
For all I cared, either the Chinese sailor or the woman with the bloody axe, if, indeed, they existed, could swing for my deed and be damned. I was armoured against all suspicion. Certainly no one had observed me entering or leaving the dark and deserted court; I had been most particular on that point. The knife had been of a common type, purloined for the purpose from an inn across the river in Borough High-street, where I had never been before, and to which I would never return again. My nameless victim had been entirely unknown to me; nothing but cold Fate connected us. My clothes appeared to be unmarked by his blood; and night, villainy’s true friend, had thrown its accomplice’s cloak over all.
By the time I reached Chancery-lane, the clocks were striking eleven. Still feeling unwilling to return to my own solitary bed, I swung northwards, to Blithe Lodge, St John’s Wood, with the intention of paying my compliments to Miss Isabella Gallini, of blessed memory.
Ah, Bella! Bellissima Bella! She welcomed me in her customary way at the door of the respectable tree-fronted villa, cupping my face in her long-fingered, many-ringed hands and whispering, ‘Eddie, darling Eddie, how wonderful,’ as she kissed me gently on both cheeks.
‘Is all quiet?’ I asked.
‘Perfectly. The last one went an hour ago, Charlie is asleep, and Mrs D has not yet returned. We have the house to ourselves.’
Upstairs I lay back on her bed watching her disrobe, as I had done so many times before. I knew every inch of her body, every warm and secret place. Yet watching the last piece of clothing fall to the floor, and seeing her standing proudly before me, was like experiencing her for the first time in all her untasted glory.
‘Say it,’ she said.
I frowned in pretended ignorance. ‘Say what?’
‘You know very well, you tease. Say it.’
She walked towards me, her hair now released and flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Then, reaching the bed, she once again clasped my face in her hands and let that dark torrent of tresses tumble around me.
‘Oh, my America,’ I declaimed theatrically, ‘my new-found land!’*
‘Oh, Eddie,’ she cooed delightedly, ‘it does so thrill me when you say that! Am I really your America?’
‘My America and more. You are my world.’ At which she threw herself upon me with a will and kissed me so hard that I could scarcely breathe.
The establishment of which Bella was the leading light was several cuts above the usual introducing house, so much so that it was known to the cognoscenti simply as ‘The Academy’, the definite article proclaiming that it was set apart from all other rival establishments, and alluding proudly to the superiority of its inmates, as well as to the services they offered. It was run along the lines of a highly select club – a Boodle’s or White’s of the flesh† – and catered for the amorous needs of the most discerning patrons of means. Like its counterparts in St James’s, it had strict rules on admission and behaviour. No person was allowed entry to this choice coterie without the unequivocal recommendation of an existing member, followed by a vote; blackballing was not infrequent, and if a recommendation proved wanting in any way, both applicant and proposer faced summary ejection, sometimes worse.
Mrs Kitty Daley, known to the members as Mrs D, was the entrepreneuse of this celebrated and highly profitable Cyprian‡ resort. She went to great lengths to maintain standards of social decency: no swearing, profanity, or drunkenness was tolerated, and any disrespect towards, or ill-treatment of, the young ladies themselves was punished with the utmost severity. Not only would the perpetrator find himself immediately barred and exposed to public scandal; he would also receive a call from Mr Herbert Braithwaite, a former pugilist of distinction, who had his own highly effective way of making delinquent patrons understand the error of their ways.
Signor Prospero Gallini, Bella’s father, the impoverished scion of a noble Italian family, having fallen on hard times, had fled his creditors in his native land in the year 1830, and had made his way to England, where he set himself up as a fencing-master in London. He was now a widower, and an exile; but he was determined to give his only daughter every advantage that his limited means permitted, with the result that she could converse fluently in s
everal European languages, played exceptionally well on the piano-forte, had a delightful singing voice, and was, in short, as accomplished as she was beautiful.
I had lodged briefly with Signor Gallini and his alluring daughter when I first came to London. After his death I maintained an occasional, but friendly, correspondence with Bella, feeling that it was my duty to watch over her, in a brotherly sort of way, in gratitude for the kindness that her father had shown to me. Signor Gallini had left her little enough, and it became necessary for her to leave the house in Camberwell, to which her father had retired, and take employment as companion to a lady in St John’s Wood, whose acquaintance we have already made. She had answered an advertisement for this position, which was Mrs D’s way of recruiting new blood for her stable of thoroughbreds. Very few who applied found favour in Mrs D’s discerning eye; but Bella had instantly charmed her, and was not in the least shocked when the true nature of her employment was revealed to her. Although she began her career as the most junior citizen in The Academy’s little state, she quickly rose through the ranks, being exceptionally beautiful, talented, discreet, and as accommodating as any gentleman could wish. If there is such a thing as a vocation in this line of work, then Bella Gallini may be said to have possessed one.
Our intermittent correspondence continued for some years after she took up residence at Blithe Lodge. I would send a brief note every few months, to enquire how she did, and whether she was in need of anything, and she would always reply that she was going on very well, that her employer was kindness itself, and that she wanted for nothing. Then one day, in the early months of 1853, I happened to be in the vicinity of St John’s Wood and thought I would call on her, to see for myself that all was well, and (I confess) to satisfy my curiosity that she was still as beautiful as I remembered her.
I was admitted to an elegant drawing-room, displaying both taste and means. The door opened; but it was not Bella. Two giggling young ladies, unaware that a visitor was within, burst into the room. On seeing me, they halted, looked me up and down, and then looked at each other. They were a most ravishing pair, one blonde, the other dark; and both had an unmistakable look about them. I had seen it a hundred times, though rarely in such sumptuous surroundings.
They begged my pardon (unnecessarily: I would have forgiven them any liberty they chose to take), and were about to withdraw when another figure appeared in the doorway.
She was as beautiful as I remembered her; dressed to the highest point of fashion, coiffured and bejewelled, but still possessed of a natural grace of carriage, and displaying that warm and open expression with which she had greeted me when I had first come to her father’s house. After her fair companions had departed, we walked out into the garden and talked away, like the old friends we were, until a female servant came across from the house to tell Bella that she had another visitor.
‘Will you call again?’ she asked. ‘I seem to have spoken only of myself, and would so like to hear more about what you have been doing with your life, and what you intend to do in the future.’
I needed no further hint, and said that I would come again the following day, if it was convenient.
Neither of us had said anything concerning the true character of Blithe Lodge; there was no need. She saw, by my look and tone of voice, that I was not in the least shocked or disgusted by what she had chosen to become; and for my part, I could see that – as she had told me so often – she wanted for nothing, and that her professed contentment with her lot was unfeigned.
I returned the next day, when I was introduced to Mrs D herself; and the following week attended a soirée, at which were assembled some of the most eminent and well-placed of the capital’s fast men. Gradually, my visits increased in frequency, and soon brotherly solicitation began to transform into something more intimate. By special dispensation, I was not required to make any contribution to the domestic oeconomy of the house. ‘You’re most welcome here any time, my dear,’ said Mrs D, with whom I had quickly become a great favourite, ‘just as long as Bella ain’t distracted from her professional duties.’
Mrs D being a widow with no dependants, it had long been settled that Bella, who had become like a daughter to her, would in the course of time assume the reins of power in this thriving carnal kingdom. On this account, I would call her my little heiress, and she would smile contentedly as I pictured to her the days of ease that lay ahead once the inevitable mortal release of Mrs D, now in her sixty-first year, delivered the succession into her hands.
‘I don’t like to think of it too much,’ she said, as we lay together in the dark, after the incident in Cain-court, talking of Mrs D’s impending retirement, ‘seeing how fond I am of Kitty, and how kind she’s always been to me. But, you know, I can’t help feeling – well, a little satisfied at the prospect, though I’m sure I don’t deserve it.’
I rebuked her gently for her scruples, telling her that it was folly – and worse – to believe that we do not merit our good fortune, especially if it is ours by right. She kissed me and pulled me close; but I felt suddenly abandoned and alone. For was I not also an heir, and to a far greater kingdom than hers? Yet my inheritance had been taken from me, and could never now be reclaimed. This was hard enough to bear; but, through a considered act of betrayal, I had sustained an even greater loss, which had left me bereft of all hope of recovery. It is trite to speak of a broken heart. Hearts are not broken; they continue to beat, the blood still courses, even in the bitter after-days of betrayal. But something is broken when pain beyond words is suffered; some connexion that formerly existed with light and hope and bright mornings is severed, and can never be restored.
I longed to throw off the habit of deceit, and this smiling mask of carelessness I wore to conceal the rage that foamed and boiled beneath. But I could not tell Bella the truth about myself, nor why I had been driven to kill a stranger that night in Cain-court. For she had become the one sweet constant in my life through a storm of trouble and danger of which she had been unaware; yet she, too, had been betrayed, though she did not know it. I had already lost her; but still I could not let her go – not quite yet – nor confess to her what I am now confessing to you, my unknown reader.
Yet there is one person who knows what I cannot tell Bella. And soon he will also come to know how resourceful I can be.
*[‘An introduction to a treatise or discourse’. Ed.]
†[A shell fishmonger and supper-house at 40, Haymarket. Ed.]
*[Nathaniel Wanley (1634–80). The book was first published in 1678. The subtitle reads: ‘A general history of man: In six books. Wherein by many thousands of examples is shewed what man hath been from the first ages of the world to these times … Collected from the writings of the most approved historians, philosophers, physicians, philologists and others.’ Ed.]
*[Henry Colburn (d. 1855), the publisher and founder of the Literary Gazette. Ed.]
†[The French orientalist Antoine Galland (1646–1715) made the first Western translation of The Thousand and One Nights, published in twelve volumes between 1704 and 1717 as Les mille et une nuits. It was a great success and was followed by several other European translations, including the first English rendering of Galland’s text, published anonymously 1706–8 and known as the ‘Grub Street version’. This is undoubtedly the version referred to by the narrator. The translation was both defective and dull, but it inspired successive generations of English readers, up to and including the Romantic poets. Ed.]
*[Waterloo Bridge was known as the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ because of the number of suicides who had leaped to their deaths from it. Ed.]
*[From John Donne, ‘Elegie XIX: To his Mistris Going to Bed’. Ed.]
†[Boodle’s, a gentleman’s club of a semi-political character at 28 St James’s Street; White’s (originally White’s Chocolate House, established towards the end of the seventeenth century) was another celebrated club-house at 37 and 38 St James’s Street. Ed.]
‡[An adjective carrying the m
eaning of licentious or lewd, deriving from Cyprus, an island famed for the worship of Aphrodite. Ed.]
2
Nominatim*
I had slept fitfully, aware of the soft, warm mass of Bella’s body curled up against mine as I drifted in and out of wakefulness. Though pricked by occasional anxieties, I remained confident that no one could connect me to my victim, and that I had completed my experiment in murder undetected. Having consciously subdued all thought of the man I had killed as a man, I found I had attained a kind of indifference to the enormity of the act that I had so recently committed. I was guilty, and yet I experienced no feeling of guilt. It was true that, when I allowed my eyes to close, images of the red-haired stranger would rise up before me; yet even in this twilight state, between sleeping and waking, when conscience may often call up horrors from the depths of our being, I continued to feel no revulsion at what I had done.
Later, it also struck me as odd that my mind did not keep returning to the fatal moment itself, when the knife had entered the yielding flesh of my victim. Instead, I would see myself following the man along a dark and deserted thoroughfare. From time to time we would emerge into a ring of sickly yellow light thrown out from an open door set in a tall windowless building. Then we would proceed once more into darkness. Over and again, when uncertain sleep came, I would find myself in this perpetual procession through black and nameless streets. Not once did I see his face; his back was always towards me as we walked slowly from one oasis of jaundiced light to another. Then, just before daybreak, as I fell back once more into half-sleep, I saw him again.
We were in a small skiff, which he was rowing lazily down a placid river on a silent, heat-heavy afternoon. I lay in the rear of the vessel, my eyes fixed on the muscles of his back as they flexed beneath his coat with each pull on the oars. Incongruously, on such a day, his clothes were those he wore on that cold October evening, including his muffler and tall black hat. As we entered a narrow channel, he let the oars rest on the surface of the water, turned to face me, and smiled.
