The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  ‘On being informed that the debt had been paid, Mr Pettingale went again to the solicitors to receive his money, which was paid to him, at his request, with a cheque drawn on the firm’s bankers – also my own, as it so happened, Dimsdale & Co., Cornhill. Well, the cheque was duly presented, and the matter was concluded to the satisfaction of all parties.

  ‘But then, a week or so later, a clerk in the solicitors’ office noticed that three cheques, to a total of eight hundred pounds, had been drawn on the firm’s account without, it appeared, any record of the transactions having been made. The alarm was duly raised and the police were called in. A few days later, a man by the name of Hensby was apprehended on the premises of the firm’s bank, attempting to present a further forged cheque, this time for seven hundred pounds.

  ‘Now for the fraud – for fraud it clearly was – to be brought off, two things were required: a specimen of the authorized signature, and a number of blank cheques. It was surmised by the police that the necessary signature might have been obtained from the receipt sent to this Mr Verdant, or even from the cheque paid to Mr Pettingale for the amount owed to him. It was recalled that Mr Pettingale had especially requested a cheque, rather than cash, and the police were also informed by the solicitors that no other cheques had been authorized since this one had been issued. The coincidence was obvious, and so both Mr Verdant and Mr Pettingale fell under suspicion. As far as Mr Pettingale was concerned, he could not deny, of course, that he had sought payment of the original debt from Mr Verdant, but he vehemently denied all knowledge of the subsequent forgeries, and, indeed, there was not a shred of evidence to connect him to them. When asked by the inspector why the money was owed to him, he replied that he had lent the money to this Verdant, whom he said he had met several times at the Newmarket races, for the settlement of a debt.’

  ‘And was there any reason to doubt his account?’ I asked.

  Dr Maunder gave me a somewhat sceptical smile.

  ‘None that the police, or I, could uncover. Mr Pettingale was required to go with the officers to London, and was called as a witness at the subsequent trial; but he could not be identified by the man Hensby, who claimed that he had been casually employed by a gentleman – not Mr Pettingale – whom he had met in a coffee-house in Change-alley, to run various errands, one of which was to present the forged cheques at Dimsdale & Co. and to bring the proceeds back, at a pre-arranged time, to the coffee-house.’

  ‘This gentleman: was Hensby able to identify him?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. He provided only a rather indistinct description, which rendered identification of this person by the police virtually impossible. As for Mr Verdant, when the police called at his address in the Minories he had vanished, and was of course never seen again. The poor dupe Hensby, for such I deem him to have been, was prosecuted, found guilty, and transported for life. A travesty of justice, of course. The fellow could hardly write his name, let alone demonstrate the skill to carry out what were, by all accounts, most convincing forgeries of the authorized signature.’

  He ceased, and looked at me as if in expectation of further questioning.

  ‘From your most informative account, Dr Maunder, it certainly seems clear that the perpetrator was the mysterious Mr Verdant, perhaps working with others. Mr Pettingale appears to have been a perfectly innocent party in the business.’

  ‘You might say so,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I questioned Mr Pettingale myself, of course, on behalf of the University authorities, and could only conclude, with the police, that he had played no part in the conspiracy – or, rather, that there was no substantive evidence that he had played any part.’

  He smiled again, and I took my cue.

  ‘May I ask, then, whether you entertained any personal doubts on the matter?’

  ‘Well now, Mr Glyver, it would not be right, not right at all, you know, to bring my personal feelings into this. As I say, what I have told you is a matter of public record. Beyond that – well, I am sure you understand. It does not signify in the least, of course, that I am by nature of a rather doubting turn of mind. And besides, the affair did not lay too deep a stain on Mr Pettingale’s character. After going down from here, I believe he was called to the Bar by Gray’s-Inn.’

  ‘And Mr Pettingale’s friend, Mr Phoebus Daunt?’

  ‘There is no reason at all to believe that he was implicated in the crime in any way. He was certainly not asked to account for himself by the police, or, indeed, by the University. The only connexion I could establish, in the course of questioning Mr Pettingale, was that he had accompanied his friend to Newmarket on several occasions.’

  I thought for a moment.

  ‘Regarding the blank cheques, is it known how they were obtained? Was there, perhaps, an earlier break-in?’

  ‘You are right,’ said Dr Maunder. ‘There had been a break-in, some days before Mr Pettingale sought legal help on the matter of the outstanding debt. One must presume that the cheques were stolen then. Again, suspicion fell on the mysterious Verdant. But as it proved impossible to find this gentleman, well, there the matter rested. And now, Mr Glyver, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with the Master.’

  I thanked him for his time, we shook hands, and he showed me to the door.

  Leaving Trinity College, I took an omnibus from the Market-square back to the station, and had only a few minutes to wait before the next train to London. As we rattled southwards, I felt a curious elation of spirits, as though a door – be it ever so small – had opened an inch or so, and let in a little gleam of precious light on the darkness through which I had been wandering.

  Of Mr Lewis Pettingale’s guilt in the clever conspiracy described to me by Dr Maunder, I had not the least doubt; but it was clear that he had not worked alone. This Leonard Verdant, now: he had been a co-conspirator I was sure, a conclusion indicated, I thought, by his possession of a most unlikely name, concealing – whom? I had my suspicions, but they could not yet be tested. And then there was Mr Phoebus Daunt. Ah, Phoebus, the radiant one, unsullied and incorrupt! There he stood, as ever, whistling innocently in the shadows. Was he as guilty as his friend Pettingale and the elusive Mr Verdant? If so, what other iniquities did he have to his credit? At last, I began to sense that I was gaining ground on my enemy; that I had been given something that might, perhaps, give me the means I needed to destroy him.

  Yet with regard to more pressing matters, all this was of scant comfort. I was returning to London with no more knowledge of why Mr Carteret had written his letter to Mr Tredgold than when I had started out; and the expectations that I had cherished that the secretary might be in possession of information to support my cause had also been shattered by his death. The only certainty I had brought back was that what Mr Carteret knew concerning the Tansor succession had led, directly or indirectly, to this catastrophe. As for me, what a change had been wrought in the matter of a few days! I had left London believing that I might be falling in love with Bella. I returned the helpless slave of another, in whose presence I constantly burned to be, and for love of whom I must turn my back on the certainty of happiness.

  Do not ask me why I loved Miss Carteret. How can such an instantaneous passion be explained? She seemed beautiful to my eyes, certainly, more beautiful than anyone I had known in my life. Though I knew little of her character and disposition, she seemed to possess a discerning, well-stocked mind, and I knew from direct experience that she could claim musical ability well above the common. These accomplishments – and no doubt others of which I was yet unaware – were worthy of admiration and respect, of course; but I did not love her for them. I loved her because – because I loved her; because I could not help succumbing to this irresistible contagion of the heart. I loved her because choice was denied me by some greater force. I loved her because it was my fate to do so.

  *[‘Let us be judged by our actions’. Ed.]

  †[King’s is the neighbouring College to St Catharine’s. Ed.]

  ‡[Th
e Magus (1801) by Francis Barrett, born between 1770 and 1780, is a seminal work on the subject of magic and occult philosophy. The Preface states that it was written ‘chiefly for the information of those who are curious and indefatigable in their enquiries into occult knowledge; we have, at a vast labour and expense, both of time and charges, collected whatsoever can be deemed curious and rare, in regard to the subject of our speculations in Natural Magic – the Cabala – Celestial and Ceremonial Magic – Alchymy – and Magnetism’. Ed.]

  *[‘Under guardianship or scholastic discipline’; i.e. undergraduates. Ed.]

  †[Alexander Wale of St John’s College, then Senior Proctor. The incident took place in April 1829. Ed.]

  *[i.e. sent down from the university for a specified time. Ed.]

  PART THE FOURTH

  The Breaking of the Seal

  October–November 1853

  Nothing wraps a man in such a mist of errors, as his

  own curiosity in searching things beyond him.

  Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), xxvii,

  ‘Of Curiosity in Knowledge’

  29

  Suspicio*

  That night, I took my supper at Quinn’s – oysters, a lobster, some dried sprats on the side, followed by a bottle of the peerless Clos Vougeot from the Hotel de Paris. It was still early, and the Haymarket had not yet put on its midnight face. Through the window I contemplated the usual metropolitan bustle, the familiar panorama of unremarkable people doing unremarkable things, which you may see out of any window in London at eight o’clock on a Friday evening. But in a few hours’ time, after the crowds had poured out of the Theatre, taken their supper at Dubourg’s or the Café de l’Europe, and made their laughing way home to warmth and comfort, this broad and glittering thoroughfare of shops, restaurants, and cigar-divans would take on a very different aspect, transformed then into a heaving, swollen river of the damned. What is your pleasure, sir? You may find it here, or hereabouts, with little trouble, at any hour of the night after St Martin’s Church has tolled the final stroke of twelve. Liquor in which to drown; tobacco and song; boys or girls, or both – the choice is yours. Ah! How often have I thrown myself into that continually replenished stream!

  Evenwood! Had I dreamed thee? Here, lying at my ease once more on the scaly back of Great Leviathan, feeling the monster’s deep, slow breath beneath me, its rumbling pulsing heart beating in time with my own, the things that I had so recently seen and heard and touched now seemed as real in imagination, and as unreal in fact, as the palace of Schahriar.* And had I truly breathed the same air as Miss Emily Carteret, when I had stood so close to her that I could see the rise and fall of her breast, so close that I only had to stretch out my fingers to caress that pale flesh?

  I loved her. That was the plain and simple truth. It had come upon me suddenly on swift wings, pitiless as death: inescapable, and undeniable. I felt no joy at my new condition, for how can the conquered slave be joyful? I loved her, without hope that she would ever return my love. I loved her, and it was bitter to me that I must break my dearest Bella’s heart. For there is no mistress like Love. And what cares she for those who suffer when their dearest one betrays them for love of another? Love only smiles a conqueror’s smile, to see her kingdom advanced.

  A second bottle of the Clos Vougeot was perhaps a mistake, and at a little after ten o’clock I walked out into the street, somewhat unsteadily, with a light head and a heavy heart. It had begun to rain and, assailed by melancholy thoughts, and feeling a great need for company, I headed off to Leadenhall-street, in the hope of finding Le Grice taking his usual Friday supper at the Ship and Turtle. He had been there, as I had expected, but I had missed him by a matter of minutes, and no one could tell me where he had gone. Cursing, I found myself back in the street again. Normally, in such a mood of restless melancholy, I would have taken myself northwards, to Blithe Lodge; but I was too much of a coward to face Bella just yet. I would need a little time, to regain some composure, and to learn dissimulation.

  Down to Trafalgar-square through the dirt and murk I wandered, and then eastwards along the Strand – aimlessly, as I thought; but before long I had passed St Stephen, Walbrook, and had begun to walk at a more purposeful pace.

  Welcome, welcome! I had been gone too long, the opium-master said.

  And so, bowing low, he led me through the kitchen, dark and vaporous, to a truckle-bed set against a greasy, dripping wall in the far room, where, curling myself up, I laid my head on a filthy bolster whilst the master, with many soothing words, plied me speedily with my means of transportation.

  In Bluegate-fields I had a dream. And in my dream I lay on a cold mountain, with only the stars above me; but I could not move, for I was held down fast with heavy chains, about my legs and feet, around my chest and arms, and in a great loop around my neck. And I cried out for ease – from the bitter cold and from the pressing, suffocative weight of the chains – but no help came, and no voice returned my call, until at last I seemed to faint away.

  A sleep within a sleep. A dream within a dream. I awake – from what? And my heart leaps, for now I stand in sunshine, warm and vivifying, in a secluded courtyard, where water plays and birds sing. ‘Is she here?’ I ask. ‘She is,’ comes the reply. And so I turn and see her, standing by the fountain, and smiling so sweetly that I think my heart will burst. In black mourning no more, but in a comely robe of dazzling white samite, with her dark hair flowing free, she holds out her hand to me: ‘Will you come?’

  She leads me through an arched door into a deserted candlelit ballroom; faint echoes of a strange music reach us from some unimaginable distance. She turns to me. ‘Have you met Mr Verdant?’ And then a sudden wind extinguishes all the lights, and I hear water lapping at my feet.

  ‘I do apologize,’ I hear her saying from somewhere in the darkness. ‘But I have forgotten your name.’ She laughs. ‘A liar needs a good memory.’ And then she is gone, and I am left alone on a drear and lonely shore. I look out to see a heaving black ocean, with a pale-yellow light suffusing the horizon. In the distance, something is bobbing on the waves. I strain my eyes; and then, with a fearful pang, I see what it is.

  A blackbird, stiff and dead, its wings outstretched, drifting into eternity.

  The carriage-clock that stood on the mantel-piece struck half past five. It was now Sunday morning, and I had spent a second profitless night seeking oblivion in the company of my demons, returning home feeling sick and tired, and falling asleep in my chair in my coat and boots.

  When I awoke, the room was cold, and had a strangely desolate air about it, though it was full of familiar things: my mother’s work-table, covered in papers as usual; next to it, the cabinet with its little drawers, overflowing with the notes I had made on the documents and journals she left behind; the curtained-off area at one end containing cameras and other photographic necessaries; the faded Turkey rug; the rows of books, each one a well-remembered old friend; the tripod-table on which I kept my travelling copy of Donne’s sermons; the portrait of my mother, which used to hang over the fireplace in the best parlour at Sandchurch; and, on the mantel-piece, next to the clock, the rosewood box that had once held ‘Miss Lamb’s’ two hundred sovereigns.

  I sat staring into the empty hearth, exhausted in body, and troubled in spirit. What was happening to me? I had no happiness, no contentment, only restiveness and agitation. I was adrift on an ocean of mystery, like the blackbird in my dream – powerless, frozen. What dark creatures inhabited the unseen deeps beneath me? What landfall awaited me? Or was this my fate, to be forever pushed and pulled, now this way, now that, by the winds and currents of circumstance, without respite? The goal that I had once had constantly before me – simple and supreme – of proving my claim to be the lawfully begotten son of Lord Tansor, seemed to have become dismembered and dispersed, like a great imperial galleon full of treasure dashed to pieces on a rocky shore.

  There was a piece of paper lying on the tripod-table beside me, a stub of p
encil with it. Seizing both, I began to compose a hasty memorandum to myself, outlining the problems confronting me that were now demanding resolution.

  I read over what I had written, three, four, five times, in mounting despair. These disjoined and yet, it seemed, intertwined and co-essential conundrums swirled and chattered and roared around my head like Satan’s legions, refusing utterly to coagulate into a single reasoned conclusion, until I could stand it no more.

  As I stood up to throw off my great-coat, something fell out of the pocket, and landed on the hearth-rug. Looking down, I saw that it was the package containing the proofs of Dr Daunt’s translation of Iamblichus, handed to me by the servant from the George as I was about to take train from Stamford. It was impossible to bend my mind to such work at present, and so I threw the package on my work-table, intending to open it when my mind was clearer.

  I dozed for an hour or so. When I awoke, the idea of a chop and some hot coffee suddenly thrust itself forward for my consideration. I examined the proposal and found it excellent in every way. It was still early, but I knew of a place.

  I stood up, rather shakily reaching for my great-coat, which was lying on the floor. Whoa there!

  And then the floor-boards seemed to fall away beneath me and I was tumbling through the air, spinning round and round, descending ever deeper into a great yawning, roaring void.