The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  ‘And whom do you accuse of stealing these documents, from you and Carteret?’ The question hung in the air for a brief moment as he regarded me, grimly expectant.

  ‘I accuse Mr Phoebus Daunt.’

  Seconds passed. One, two, three … Seconds? No, a lifetime of agony. Outside, the partial light of late afternoon was giving way to the encroaching darkness. The world seemed to turn with infinite slowness as I waited for Lord Tansor’s reply to my assertion. On his next words, I knew, all would be won, or lost. Then he spoke.

  ‘You are pretty cool, sir, for a damned liar. I’ll give you that. You want money, I suppose, and think this cock-and-bull story of yours is a way to do it.’

  ‘No, my Lord!’ I jumped up from my chair, and we faced each other, eye to eye, across the desk; but it was not how I had imagined it would be. He recognized no evidences of consanguinity; he felt no tug of that indissoluble golden thread that should unite parent and child across time and space. He did not know me as his son.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said, pulling back his shoulders. ‘I think you are a rogue, sir. A common rogue. And an unemployed one, too, for you can expect to be dismissed from Tredgolds with immediate effect. I shall write to your principal this very evening. And then I shall bring charges against you, sir. What do you think of that? And I’m not sure I shan’t have you horsewhipped out of my house for your damned effrontery. You accuse Mr Daunt! Are you mad? A man of agreed distinction, who enjoys universal respect! And you brand him a thief and a murderer? You’ll pay for this slander, sir, most dearly. We’ll have every penny off you, sir. We’ll have the clothes off your back, sir. You’ll rue the day you tried to get the better of me!’

  He turned and pulled angrily on the bell-rope that hung just behind his desk.

  I made one last effort, though I knew it was too late.

  ‘My Lord, you must believe me. I am truly your son. I am the heir of your blood for which you have longed.’

  ‘You! My son! Look at you. You are not my son, sir. You are barely a gentleman by the state of your appearance. My only son died when he was seven years old. But I have an heir, thank God, who is every inch a gentleman; and though he does not have my blood, he is everything I could wish for in a son, and fit in all respects to assume the ancient name that I have the honour to bear.’

  At that moment a knock came at the door, and Hooper reappeared.

  ‘Hooper, show this – gentleman – out. He is not to be admitted to this house again, under any circumstance.’

  Look at me! Look at me! I cried inwardly. Do you not see her in me? Can you not see yourself? Is there nothing in these features to convince you that it is your own son, and not some adventuring impostor, who stands before you?

  I tried to hold his gaze, willing him to see the truth. But his eyes were blank and cold. I picked up my hat, and turned away from him. As I reached the door, I gave a brief half-glance back. He was sitting at his desk again, and had taken up his pen.

  *[‘Said, and done’ (Terence, Heautontimorumenos). Ed.]

  45

  Vindex*

  I walked away from Evenwood for the last time, through the drizzle and the dark, stopping only once as I reached the Western Gates to look back at the many-towered palace that I had once dreamed would be mine.

  The lamps on the Library Terrace had been lit – it was Lord Tansor’s inveterate habit to walk there every evening, whatever the weather, with his dog. Above, in my mother’s old apartments, a light gleamed. She was there – my dearest love was there! And then I felt such a weight of sadness descend upon my spirit, crushing every vestige of hope in me. I took one final, lingering look at the place that had brought me to such despair, and then turned my back on it for ever. I had been stripped of everything due to me by right of birth. But one thing remained in my full possession: the will to bring Phoebus Daunt to account. To this new end, I would now devote myself, to the last ounce of my strength.

  I began the next day.

  My first task was to observe his movements. To accomplish this, I dressed myself in moleskin trousers, a greasy black coat, a coarse unbuttoned shirt, and a cap and dirty muffler, all purchased from a Jew-clothesman in Holywell-street, and spent several uncomfortable hours every day, loitering in the vicinity of Mecklenburgh-square, and following my enemy when he emerged. His daily routine varied little. Usually he would leave the house at about one o’clock and, if the weather permitted, walk to the Athenaeum in Pall Mall; at three o’clock on the dot he would take a cab back to Mecklenburgh-square, emerging again between five and six to walk or take another cab somewhere for dinner – sometimes to the Divan Tavern in the Strand, or perhaps to Verrey’s or Jaquet’s.* He usually dined alone, and never returned home later than ten o’clock. A light would burn in one of the upper rooms for several hours – some new dreary epic, I expected, was being given to the world. I never saw any visitors come to the house; and, to my infinite relief, there was no sign of Miss Carteret.

  I continued to brave cold and hunger – and the indignity of seeming to belong to that vagabond class of Londoner who live and die in the streets of the metropolis – until, on the fifth day, towards six o’clock, just as I was about to give up and return to Temple-street, I saw my quarry leave his house and make his way westwards towards Gower-street. Pulling my hat down, I followed him.

  I was close now – close enough to see his black beard and the shimmer on his silk hat as he passed under a lamp. He walked with a determinedly confident air, swinging his stick, his long coat trailing out behind him like a king’s train. It had been four years and more since I had seen him playing croquet with a tall dark-haired lady at Evenwood. Dear God! I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing, for the first time, that it had all been laid out before my very eyes on that hot June afternoon in 1850, and I had failed to see it: Phoebus Daunt and his beautiful croquet partner – my enemy and my dearest love. Seething inwardly, with my eye fixed on his retreating form, I continued shadowing him.

  He swung south to Bedford-square, and thence down St Martin’s-lane until he came at last to Bertolini’s in St Martin’s-street, Leicester-square, which he entered. I took up my position just across the street. The two pocket-pistols made for me by M. Honoré of Liège, which have accompanied me on all my midnight rambles about the city, were in readiness. There was no moon that night, and sufficient fog to make escape certain.

  Two hours later, he stepped out into the street again, with another fellow. They shook hands, and his companion walked off towards Pall Mall, while Daunt took his way northwards. In Broad-street, he turned into a narrow lane, lit by a single gas-lamp at the far end.

  I was no more than six or seven feet behind him, but he had no idea I was there – my years as Mr Tredgold’s private agent had taught me how to pursue someone without their being at all aware of my presence, and I was confident that I remained invisible to him. The lane was deserted. I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of the pistols. A few steps more. My shoes were wrapped in rags so that my steps made no sound. He stopped, just under the lamp, to light a cigar – a perfectly illuminated target. Hidden in a doorway, I raised the pistol and brought my aim to bear on the back of his head, just above the collar of his coat.

  But nothing happened. My hand was shaking. Why could I not pull the trigger? I took aim again, but by now he had moved out of the yellow arc of light, and in a moment had disappeared into the darkness.

  I remained standing in the doorway, gun in hand and still trembling, for several minutes.

  I had done many things in my life of which, God knows, I was ashamed; but I had never yet killed a man. Yet I had imagined, foolishly, that it would be easy for me, I who had seen violence done in the course of my work, simply to raise my pistol and blow his brains out, relying on my hate and rage to carry me through. Was I so weak after all? Had my will been overruled by conscience? I had had him where I wanted him, my hated enemy; and something had held me back, though my thirst to
be revenged on him remained as sharp as ever. Then I told myself that there is little in this world that may not be mastered with study and application; and murder is perhaps the least of challenges, if the injury be great enough, and the will sufficient. Conscience, if that is what had stayed my hand, must be stamped down.

  I replaced the pistol in my pocket, and began to make my way back to Temple-street. I was badly shaken. I considered once more whether I was really capable of such a deed. Might not my courage fail me, as it had just done, when the moment came to strike the fatal blow? The mere act of mentally posing the question engendered another little thrill of doubt. Surely I would not flinch a second time? There – again: that momentary prick of apprehension.

  Shocked to the core by my inability to do what I wished to do above all things, I stumbled off, arriving at last at the opium-master’s door in Bluegate-fields.

  Oh God, what dreams came to me that night – dreams so terrible that I cannot bear to set them down! I ended by raving wildly for an hour or more, so that a doctor had to be called, to administer a strong sleeping draught. When I awoke, it seemed as if I had been laid on a soft bed. A cold salty breeze flowed over my face, and I could hear the cry of sea birds, and the sound of water lapping. Where was I? Surely I was in my old bed at Sandchurch again, with the little round window open to let in the morning air from the Channel? Slowly, I opened my eyes.

  It was no bed. I was lying in the wet, clinging mud, still in my labourer’s clothes, close to the river’s edge, though how I had come there I still cannot say. Gradually, consciousness began to return, and with it a voice whispering to me, softly but distinctly. I moved on my oozy mattress, turning slowly round to see who was with me. But no one was there. I was entirely alone on a dismal stretch of shore beneath a line of towering dark buildings. But then the voice came again, more insistently this time, telling me what I must do.

  I write this now in days of calm reflection; but I was mad then, made so by treachery, despair, and rage, and by the opium-master’s pipe of dreams. I lay, in my degradation, between the worlds of men and monsters; a strange putty-coloured sky, streaked and splashed with vivid red, above me; dark shingled slime beneath me; and the sound of whispering, like rushing water, in my ears.

  ‘I hear you,’ I heard myself say. ‘I will obey!’

  Then I jumped up, shouting in some incoherent tongue, and began running round in the mud, like some demented Bacchic votary.* But it was not wine that made me do this. It was blessed opium, opening a great black gate, behind which stood another, more terrible, god.

  Some time later – whether minutes or hours, I do not know – I was once more in the world of men, though not of them. Down Dorset-street* I tramped, covered in mud, and with a look in my eyes that made even the inhabitants of these infernal regions step aside as I approached. And still the voice whispered in my ear as I made my way westwards.

  At last I climbed the stairs to my rooms, heart-sick and chilled to the bone from my sojourn on the shore. Throwing off my wet and filthy rags, I washed myself and put on clean clothes. Then I lay on my bed, breathing hard, looking up through the skylight at a single winking star that hung, like fragile hope itself, in the pale immensity of morning.

  I would not fail in my next attempt to kill Phoebus Daunt. The voice had told me what I must do to make a trial of my resolve to become a murderer. Another man must die before I faced my enemy again; only then would I know for sure that my will was truly equal to the task. Practice makes perfect, I whispered to myself, over and over again. The god of necessary violence demands two sacrifices, so that the lesser deed may secure the success of the greater.

  Monday, 23rd October 1854†

  I awoke shaking. For an hour I lay and listened to the wind, dreaming that I was in my bed at Sandchurch once again. There are shadows on the wall that I cannot explain. A woman with [tusks?]. A king wielding a great scimitar. A terrible claw-like hand that creeps over the counterpane.

  I reach for my bottle of Dalby’s. This is the third time tonight.

  * * *

  At ten o’clock, Mrs Grainger knocked at the door. I sent her away again, telling her I was unwell. I will not go out today.

  Tuesday, 24th October 1854

  My bottle of Dalby’s is empty. I began to weep as I tried to shake the last few remaining drops into my wineglass.

  It will be tonight.

  I walked down to the river and across Southwark Bridge to take my luncheon in the Borough. The Catherine Wheel Inn was dark and crowded, and no one paid me any heed. I called for two slices of [beef?] from the platter, and then observed the waiter as he went about his task. The knife he used was pitted and discoloured, but it sliced through the red flesh with ease. It would do very well. Much better than a pistol.

  And so to Messrs [Corbyn*] in High Holborn. ‘A persistent headache, sir? Nothing more unpleasant. We recommend [Godfrey’s] Cordial. You prefer Dalby’s? Certainly, sir.’

  * * *

  Five o’clock by the Temple Church. On with my great-coat. Stow the knife securely. On with my gloves, a new pair, which I must take care not to spoil.

  I stepped outside. A sharp night, with fog coming down.

  St Paul’s rose monstrously into the murk. The [lantern] was invisible, and also the Golden Gallery, where I had stood with my dear girl a lifetime ago.

  East down Cheapside and into Cornhill, the City churches ringing out six o’clock. I had been wandering for an hour. Him? Or him? The fellow loitering outside St Mary-le-Bow? The old gentleman coming out of Ned’s chop-house in Finch-lane? I was bewildered. So many black coats, so many black hats. So many lives. How could I choose?

  At length, I found myself in Threadneedle-street, looking across to the entrance of the Bank of England.

  Then I saw him, and my heart began to thump. He was [dressed] the same as all the others, but something seemed to distinguish him. He stood, looking about him. Would he cross the street? Perhaps he intended to take the omnibus that was now approaching. But then he pulled on his gloves and walked smartly off towards Poultry.

  I kept him in sight as we walked westwards, back along Cheapside, past St Paul’s again, and down Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street and Temple Bar. Then he turned northwards a short way, up Wych-street and across to Maiden-lane, where he took some refreshment at a coffeehouse, and read the paper for half an hour. At a few minutes after seven o’clock, he left, stood for a few moments on the pavement in the [swirling] mist to adjust his muffler, and then continued on his way.

  A little further we went, and then he turned into a narrow court that I had never noticed before. I stood at the entrance, taking in its high blank walls and deep shadows, and watching the solitary figure of my victim as he walked towards a short flight of steps leading down to the Strand. At the head of the steps was a fizzing gas-lamp that threw out a weak smudge of dirty yellow light into the foggy dark. Where was this? I looked up.

  Cain-court, W.

  He was nearing the steps at the far end of the court, but I quickly and silently caught up with him.

  My hand was closed round the handle of the knife.

  And so, at last, I bring my confession back to the point at which it started: the killing of Lucas Trendle, the red-haired stranger, on the 24th of October 1854. He died that night so that Phoebus Daunt might also die, as justice demanded; for without the death of guiltless Lucas Trendle, I might have failed in that greater aim. But now, by his sad death, committed swiftly and without compunction, I knew, beyond all doubt, that I was capable of this terrible extremity of action. The logic was that of the madhouse; but it did not seem so to me then. On the contrary, it made perfect sense to me, in my disordered state, to kill an innocent man in order to ensure the death of a guilty one. As I confess the deed now, for the second time, I am racked with remorse for what I did to poor Lucas Trendle; but I cannot, and will never, regret what it steeled me to do.

  The events successive to that momentous night have already been laid before
you: the shock that I felt when I learned my victim’s name; the blackmail note received by Bella; and then the invitation to Lucas Trendle’s funeral at Stoke Newington slipped under my door; my parting from Bella following our night in the Clarendon Hotel, when she rightly suspected me of withholding the truth about myself from her; my confrontation with Fordyce Jukes, whom I suspected of being the blackmailer; and, finally, those mysterious taps on the shoulder, outside the Diorama and at Stoke Newington, and the menacing figure who had followed Le Grice and me as we rowed up to Hungerford Bridge.

  It is now the 13th of November 1854. The place: Le Grice’s rooms in Albany. The time: an hour after dawn.

  Le Grice stood up and pulled back the curtains, allowing weak pearly light into the frowsty room. The night after our dinner at Mivart’s had passed away in talk, and by the time that the new day had broken forth, I had placed the true history of Edward Glyver before my dear old friend, sparing him only the despatching of Lucas Trendle, and my resolve to do the same to Phoebus Daunt. My task now was to discover the identity of the blackmailer, and then, when I have dealt with him, turn my full attention to Phoebus Rainsford Daunt.

  My old friend looked at me with an expression of such concentrated seriousness that I began to regret that I had unburdened myself to him in this way.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I thought you were in trouble, and I was right. God knows, though, G, why you kept all this to yourself. I mean to say, old boy, you might have given a chap a chance to help you. But that’s all past now.’ He shook his head, as if some great thought had presented itself for his consideration. ‘Old Lord T, now. That was hard, G. Damned hard. Don’t know how I’d have taken that. Your own father.’ Another shake of his head; and then, with a brighter and more determined air, ‘Daunt, though – an entirely different matter. Things to be done there.’

  He paused once more, apparently reflecting on a new possibility.