The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  I came round to find Mrs Grainger dabbing my face with a wet napkin.

  ‘Lord, sir,’ she said, ‘I thought you was dead. Can you stand, sir? There now, a little more. I ’ave you, sir, don’t you worry. Dorrie ’ere’ll help. Look sharp, dear. Take Mr Glapthorn’s arm. Gentle does it. That’s it. All’s well now.’

  I had never heard her say so many words to me. Sitting back in my chair, with the wet napkin tied round my forehead, I was also surprised to see her daughter standing by her side. Then, to my complete astonishment, I learned that it was Monday morning, and that I had slept the clock round.

  After I had recovered a little, I thanked them both, and asked the girl how she was.

  ‘I am well, thank you, sir.’

  ‘As you see, Mr Glapthorn,’ said her mother, smiling weakly, ‘she goes on very well. A good girl still, sir.’

  Dorrie herself said nothing, but seemed, indeed, in fine fettle, with a bright expression on her face, dressed in a neat little outfit that showed off her figure extremely well, and altogether looking winsome and contented.

  I said I was glad to hear, and to see for myself, that Dorrie appeared to be prospering, and felt not a little satisfaction that I had done some good by the simple expedient of employing her mother, and sending a little money to Dorrie every now and again.

  ‘Prospering?’ exclaimed Mrs Grainger, with a sly look at her daughter. ‘Why, you may say so, sir. Go on, Dorrie, spill it.’

  I looked quizzically at the girl, who blushed slightly before speaking.

  ‘We have come to tell you, sir, that I am to be married, and to thank you for all you have done for us.’

  She bobbed sweetly, giving me such a fond and modest look as she did so, that it fair made my heart melt.

  ‘And who is your husband to be, Dorrie?’ I asked.

  ‘If you please, sir, his name is Martlemass, Geoffrey Martlemass.’

  ‘A most excellent name. Mrs Geoffrey Martlemass. So far, so good. And what sort of a man is Mr Martlemass?’

  ‘A good and kind man, sir,’ she replied, unable to hold back a smile.

  ‘Better yet. And what does good and kind Mr Geoffrey Martlemass do?’

  ‘He is a clerk, sir, to Mr Gillory Piggott, of Gray’s-Inn.’

  ‘A legal gentleman! Mr Martlemass holds a pretty full hand, I see. Well, I congratulate you, Dorrie, on your good fortune in finding good, kind Mr Martlemass. But you must tell him that I shall expect no nonsense from him, and that if he does not love you as you deserve, he shall have me to answer to.’

  A little more good-humoured raillery on my part followed, after which Dorrie ran off to fetch in some breakfast, Mrs Grainger set to with mop and bucket, and I repaired to my bedchamber to wash my face and change my linen.

  With breakfast over, and my chin shaved, I felt revived and ready for the day. Dorrie was off to meet her beau at Gray’s-Inn, and that piece of information immediately settled the matter of what I would do with myself for the next few hours.

  ‘If you will allow me, Dorrie,’ I said gallantly, ‘I’ll escort you.’

  I offered her my arm, an act that appeared to amaze Mrs Grainger greatly, and off we went.

  It was a clear bright morning, though there was a stiff breeze off the river. As we walked, Dorrie spoke a little more of Mr Geoffrey Martlemass, whom I began to conceive as a dependable sort of fellow, if a little serious in his outlook, an impression confirmed when we encountered a small man of notably anxious mien, distinguished by a pair of magnificently bushy mutton-chops,* standing by the entrance to Field-court.

  ‘Dorothy, my love,’ he cried, in an anguished tone, on seeing us. ‘You are past your time. Whatever has happened?’

  Dorrie, releasing her arm from mine and taking his, laughed and chided him gently that it was only a minute or two beyond the hour appointed, and that he must not worry so about her.

  ‘Worry? But naturally I worry,’ he said, apparently distraught that he could ever be thought too solicitous for the welfare of one so precious. We were introduced, and Mr Martlemass, Dorrie’s senior by some years, removed his hat (revealing an almost perfectly bald pate except for two little tufts of hair above each ear) and made a low bow, before grasping my hand and shaking it so vigorously that Dorrie had to tell him to stop.

  ‘You, sir,’ he said, with great solemnity, replacing his hat and throwing back his shoulders, ‘have the appearance of a man, and yet I know you to be a saint. You amaze me, sir. I thought the age of miracles had passed; but here you are, a living, breathing saint, walking the streets of London.’

  In this wise, Mr Martlemass began to heap praises upon my head for, as he put it, ‘rescuing Dorothy and her estimable parent from certain death or worse’. I did not enquire of him what he conceived could be worse than death; but the warmth of his gratitude for the little I had done to remove Dorrie from the life in which I had first found her was most apparent, and rather affecting. I then learned that he was a member of a small philanthropical society that took an especial interest in the rescue and rehabilitation of fallen females, as well as being a churchwarden at St Bride’s,† where he had first encountered Dorrie. Normally I cannot abide a treacly do-gooder, but there was a simple sincerity about Mr Martlemass that I could not help but admire.

  I let the little man rattle on, which he seemed determined to do, but at last proclaimed that I must leave them, and so made to go.

  ‘Oh, Mr Martlemass,’ I said, turning back as though struck by an afterthought. ‘I believe an old College friend of mine has chambers in Gray’s-Inn. We have lost touch, and I would so like to see him again. I wonder whether you know him by any chance – Mr Lewis Pettingale?’

  ‘Mr Pettingale? You don’t say so! Why, certainly I know the gentleman. He has the set above my employer, Mr Gillory Piggott, QC. Mr Piggott is in Court today,’ he added, lowering his voice somewhat, ‘which is why I have been allowed to take an hour or so for an early fish ordinary at the Three Tuns* with my intended. Mr Piggott is a most considerate employer.’

  He directed me to a black-painted door in a range of red-brick houses on the far side of the court. I thanked him, and said that I would try to call on Mr Pettingale the next day, as I had some urgent business to attend to in another part of town.

  We parted, and I walked off towards Gray’s-Inn-lane, dirty and dismal even on such a bright day. Stopping at a book-stall, I began idly turning over the mouldering tomes there displayed (ever hopeful, like all bibliophiles, of unearthing some great rarity). After five or ten minutes, I returned to Field-court.

  The court was deserted, the love-birds had flown; and so through the black door I went, and up the stairs.

  *[‘Suspicion’. Ed.]

  *[The Sultan to whom Scheherazade tells her stories in The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. Ed.]

  *[Side-whiskers, narrow at the ears, broad and rounded at the lower jaw. Ed.]

  †[In Fleet Street. Designed by Wren and completed in 1703. Ed.]

  *[The Three Tuns Tavern was in Billingsgate. Its celebrated fish ‘ordinaries’ – i.e. fixed-price meals – were served at one and four o’clock; the charge was 1s. 6d., including butcher’s meat and cheese. Ed.]

  30

  Noscitur e sociis*

  In my work as private agent for Mr Tredgold, I had learned to follow my nose. It has rarely let me down. There was a distinct smell about Mr Lewis Pettingale, though I knew nothing about him, only that he appeared to be a close associate of Daunt’s. But this was enough for me to give up an hour or two of my time, with the object of making his acquaintance, and to see what might come of it. I had my opening planned. It might be instructive, I thought, to discuss the subject of forged cheques.

  On the first floor, a painted name-plate greeted me: ‘Mr L. J. Pettingale’. I put my ear to the door. Someone within coughs. An inner door closes. I knock softly – it would not do simply to walk in – but no one answers. So I enter.

  It is a large, well-appointed chamber, with oak
panel-work, a stone fireplace, and a plaster ceiling of the Stuart period. To my left as I enter are two tall windows that give out onto the court below. A fire blazes pleasantly in the dog-grate† on the hearth, on either side of which two comfortable chairs are set. Above the fireplace hangs a painting of a bay horse, a terrier at its feet, standing in a park landscape. In the corner of the room, to my right, is another door, closed, through which I can hear the sound of someone attempting, in a thin tenor voice, a version of the aria Il mio tesoro,* to the accompaniment of water splashing.

  I decide to leave the singer to his ablutions, settle myself in one of the chairs, feet on the fender, and light up a cigar. I have almost finished smoking it when the door in the corner opens and a tall, thin man emerges, wearing an ornately fashioned brocade dressing-robe, Persian slippers, and a tasselled skull-cap made of red velvet, from beneath which a few meagre strands of straw-coloured hair descend almost to his shoulders. He is about my own age, but looks prematurely aged. His skin is sallow and papery, and from where I am sitting I am not sure that he possesses eyebrows.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say, smiling broadly, and throwing my cigar butt into the fire.

  He stands for a moment, disbelief on his skull-like face. ‘Who the devil are you?’

  His voice, like everything else about him, is thin, with a reedy, querulous tremor about it.

  ‘Grafton, Edward Grafton. Pleased to meet you. Cigar? No? Oh well, bad habit, I’m sure.’

  He is taken aback for a moment by my coolness, and then asks haughtily whether he knows me.

  ‘Well, now, there’s a question,’ I reply. ‘Are you of a philosophical turn? For we might spend a good few hours considering the nature of knowledge. It is a large subject. We might begin with Aquinas, who said that, for any knower, knowledge is after the fashion of his own nature; or, as St Augustine put it …’

  But Mr Pettingale seems disinclined to enter into a discussion on this interesting question. He angrily stamps a slippered foot, threatens to call for assistance if I do not leave at once, and grows quite red – almost replicating the colour of his skull-cap – with the exertion of it all. I tell him to calm himself; that I have merely come to seek a professional opinion; and that I knocked at the door but could not make myself heard. Somewhat calmer, he asks whether I am in the profession myself – an instructing solicitor, perhaps? Alas, no, I tell him; my interest is personal, though it is a matter of law on which I wish to consult him. I invite him, with a broad smile, to sit down, which he does, a little reluctantly, looking pleasingly foolish in his dandyish get-up. As he takes his seat, I vacate my own chair and stand with my back to one of the tall windows, through which soft sunshine is now pouring.

  ‘Here it is, Mr Pettingale,’ I say. ‘I put a case to you. Some years ago, two rascals masquerading as gentlemen swindle a firm of solicitors out of a considerable amount of money – let us say, for the sake of argument, fifteen hundred pounds. The thing is done cleverly – one almost admires the cleverness – and the two scallywags come out the other end without a stain on their characters, but considerably richer than when they started. There is a third rascal, but we shall come to him in a moment. More than this, they so contrive matters that, when all is done, an innocent man is sent to the other side of the world, to toil his life out, on their behalf, in the wilderness of Van Diemen’s Land.* Now, the question on which I wish to seek your professional opinion is this: knowing, as I believe I do, the identity of two of the three persons I have described, how may I best lay a charge against them, so that they can be brought at last to justice?’

  The effect of my speech is most gratifying. His mouth falls open; he reddens even more, and begins to sweat.

  ‘You say nothing, Mr Pettingale? A lawyer with nothing to say! A most uncommon sight. But by your uncomfortable demeanour, I see you have perceived that I have been playing a little game with you. Well then; let us be more direct, shall we? What is done is done. Your secret is safe with me – for the time being, at least. I have no argument with you, Mr Pettingale. My real interest lies in your friend, the distinguished author. You know to whom I allude?’

  He nods dumbly.

  ‘I wish to know a little more about your association with this gentleman. I will not trouble you with my reasons.’

  ‘Blackmail, I suppose,’ says Pettingale mournfully, taking off his cap and using it to wipe his perspiring brow. ‘Though how you come to know all about it is beyond me.’

  ‘Blackmail? Why yes, you have it, Mr Pettingale. A palpable hit! You are a sharp one, I see. So: the floor is yours. Be quick, be bold, hold nothing back. I would particularly wish that you do not hold anything back. Let us be completely frank with one another. And, for good measure, you may throw in a few words concerning the third rascal. Again, I’m sure you know to whom I am referring?’

  Once more he nods, but does not speak. I wait; but still he says nothing. He bites his lip, and his knuckles turn white with gripping the arms of the chair so hard. I begin to get a little impatient, and tell him so.

  ‘I cannot,’ he says at last, with a kind of faltering moan. ‘They – they will—’

  As he is speaking, I see him give a sudden darting glance towards the door, and in a flash he is on his feet. But I am ready for him. I throw him back into his chair and stand over him. I ask again for him to begin his recitation, but still he will not sing out. For the third and last time, I tell him to speak, taking out one of my pocket-pistols, and laying it with exaggerated deliberation on the table. He blanches, but shakes his head. I try another means of encouragement, and voilà!

  The prospect of having your fingers broken one by one appears to be a mighty incentive to do as you are told; and in no time at all he capitulates. Here, then, though a little more persuading was required as we went along, is what Mr Lewis Pettingale, of Gray’s-Inn, told me on that October afternoon.

  He had been introduced to Phoebus Daunt at the Varsity by a mutual friend, a Kingsman* by the name of Bennett. They had hit it off straight away, and quickly cemented their friendship by discovering a shared, though largely untested, enthusiasm for the turf. Off they would go to Newmarket, whenever occasion offered, where they got in with a rather dangerous set of men up from London. These flash coves knew what they were about, and they welcomed Daunt and Pettingale with open arms. Bets were placed by the pair and, in short order, money was lost. No matter; their new friends were more than willing to advance them a little credit; and then a little more. At last, with the touching optimism of youth, our heroes determined on a rather risky course: they would hazard all that they had – or, rather, all that they had been advanced – on a single race. If their choice came in, all would be well.

  But it did not come in, and all was not well. However, their benefactors took a statesman-like view of the situation. If the gents would co-operate in a scheme that this company of obliging family men* had in view, then they would be pleased to consider the debt paid. There might even be a little something in it for them. If not … The offer was quickly taken up, and one of the gang, an impressive party with a prominent set of Newgate knockers,† was deputed to assist the noviciates in the prosecution of a little well-planned fraud.

  The two young scholars took to the business with a certain aptitude for what was required, particularly on the part of the Rector’s son. I need not repeat what was told to me by Dr Maunder, about how the fraud was accomplished; I will only say that Pettingale revealed that the shadowy person who had employed the dupe, Hensby, had been Daunt, and that it was Daunt also who, after demonstrating to the gang a remarkable facility to replicate signatures, had actually carried out the forgeries.

  ‘And who was Mr Verdant?’ I asked. ‘He was part of the dodge, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Pettingale. ‘A leading light in the little fraternity we got mixed up with at Newmarket. He was the one appointed to shepherd us through the business. Couldn’t have done it without him. Burglary was his trade. None better than Verdan
t. He broke into the solicitor’s office and got us the blank cheques.’

  ‘Verdant, now,’ I said. ‘Uncommon name, that.’

  ‘Pseudonymous,’ Pettingale came back. ‘Not his own, though few people knew his real one.’

  ‘But you did, I think?’

  ‘Oh, yes. His mother knew him as Pluckrose. Josiah Pluckrose.’

  I said nothing on hearing Pluckrose’s name, but inwardly exulted that the suspicions that I had been harbouring as to the identity of Mr Verdant had been proved correct. The origin of his pseudonym was nothing more than this. At Doncaster, in the year ’38, he had put twenty stolen guineas on a rank outsider called Princess Verdant, who rewarded his faith in her by coming in at extremely favourable odds, though her victory may have been assisted by the fact – barely worth mentioning – that she was a four-year-old entered in a race for three-year-olds.* No matter. Thereafter, he was known as ‘Mr Verdant’ to his friends and associates amongst the capital’s criminal fraternities.

  After the dodge on the solicitors had been successfully brought off, Pluckrose fell out with his former colleagues over the division of the spoils and quit the gang in high dudgeon, vowing to be revenged on them all. And revenged he was. Not one of his confederates – five in number – lived to see the year out: one was found in the river at Wapping with his throat cut; another was bludgeoned to death as he left the Albion Tavern one evening;† the three that remained simply disappeared from the face of the earth, and were never seen again. Pettingale could not conclusively say that Pluckrose had done for them all himself; but that he had signed their death warrants, as it were, seemed certain.

  ‘The last to go was Isaac Gabb, the youngest member of the gang – elder brother kept the public-house down in Rotherhithe where the gang used to meet. Rather a decent fellow, young Gabb, despite his roguery. The brother took it hard, and takes it hard still, as I hear. He’d have come down on Pluckrose if he could, not a doubt of it, but he knew him only as Verdant, you see, and as such he’d disappeared, like Master Isaac, without a trace, and was never heard of again. Verdant was dead. Long live Pluckrose.’