“I cannot say, sir.”
“I wonder. Mrs Frant believes you had private business with her husband.”
“It is true that on one occasion I was able to be of service to Mr Frant.” I turned away, so that he could not see my face. “I confess I do not understand why you find this meeting that Mrs Frant witnessed to be of such significance in the matter of Mr Frant’s death.”
“I should have been surprised if you had. I have not told you the whole of it yet. The drawing-room window was open, despite the cold, because Mrs Frant had been airing the room. The stranger raised his voice, and she heard him quite distinctly say the words Wellington-terrace. Moreover, she believes – though I do not know how much weight one should attach to this – that the man had an Irish or perhaps American accent.” Carswall tapped the arm of his chair with the base of the glass. “I do not deny that her ears may have heard, at least in memory, what she wanted to hear. One more thing: she is convinced that the private business you had with her husband had to do with the stranger in Stoke Newington. She is barely well enough to speak at present but she charged me to lay all this before you.”
I bowed my head. A wave of shame swept over me.
“You would not wish to make her suffering worse, I take it?” Carswall said.
“No, sir.”
“Then you can have no objection to disclosing whatever you know.”
“Very well. After the man’s first visit to Stoke Newington, Mr Frant was naturally concerned for the safety of his son. I saw the man again, by chance, one afternoon in Long Acre. I gave chase and eventually ran him down and heard his story. He is an American, he told me, but of Irish descent. He called himself David Poe. The reason for his visit to Stoke Newington was not Charlie or Mr Frant. Charlie’s friend Edgar Allan was the object of his interest.”
“Allan? The son of the American who lives in Southampton-row? The Mr Allan who was badly hit when the tobacco market collapsed?”
“I cannot comment on Mr Allan’s business dealings, sir, but he is certainly the father of Edgar Allan – or rather the foster father. Young Edgar makes no bones about the fact that he has been adopted. This David Poe claimed to be his natural father.”
“Why should he turn up now after all these years?”
“He hoped for money.” I hesitated. “I think, too, there may have been an element of paternal affection in him. Or at least of curiosity.”
Carswall blew his nose long and loud into a large yellow handkerchief. “I do not understand. On the second occasion, he gave them money.”
“Yes, sir. I can only infer that in the interim Mr Poe’s material circumstances had considerably improved.”
Carswall consulted his watch. “There is another point: Mrs Frant made it quite clear that on that first occasion the man was interested in Charlie, not in the other boy.”
“I believe it probable that Poe made a mistake. I should make it clear that at the time the man seemed inebriated. Also, there is a certain resemblance between the two boys.”
“A double, eh?”
“Not precisely, sir. There is a similarity, no more than that.”
Carswall threw the butt of his cigar into the fire. “Tell me, were you able to establish where the man lives?”
“In St Giles. He would not say exactly where, but he informed me that he is often to be found at the Fountain, where he works as a screever.”
“And you told Frant all this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Some time after this, the man Poe reappears in Stoke Newington, with his circumstances miraculously changed for the better. Later, Mrs Frant sees her husband talking with a man, who may be this Poe, in Russell-square, an encounter her husband afterwards denies, and also overhears the words Wellington-terrace. Later still, a body which purports to be that of Mr Frant is discovered foully murdered in Wellington-terrace. Well? How does that strike you?”
“On the present evidence, sir, it is impossible to judge whether these circumstances are connected, whether they are in some way linked.”
Carswall hammered the heel of his left hand against the arm of the chair. “Don’t lecture me, young man. That’s the trouble with you bumbrushers, you treat the world as your schoolroom. Now – how well do you know St Giles?”
“I have walked there on occasion.”
“For pleasure?” When I did not answer, he gave another of his laughs, a strange, hard, almost inhuman sound that could have come from the mouth of a great bird. “Do you know the Fountain?”
“It’s somewhere north of the church,” I said. “Near Lawrence-street, I believe.”
“Will you go there tomorrow and seek out Mr Poe?”
“I am, sir, as you remind me, a schoolmaster, and –”
“Just so, just so, Mr Shield. You are also a man who has seen something of the world. And you are the only person I am aware of, with the possible exception of Mrs Frant herself, who knows what this man Poe looks like.”
“But Mrs Frant has charged me to look after her son.”
“God damn it, am I not paying for the privilege of your presence?”
The rich assume we are in their power, and usually they are right. For now, I was scarcely more than one of Carswall’s servants. If I aroused his ire, he would speak to Mr Bransby and I would be out of my place.
He pressed the repeater button on his watch and it emitted a tiny chime. “Besides,” he said gently, “I am not asking you to do this for me. I am asking you to do this for Mrs Frant herself. And I know you will not refuse me.”
25
The following morning, I slipped out of the house, made my way through the market to Oxford-street, and walked eastwards towards St Giles. I had purchased an old, patched coat from the man who brought the kindling. I carried a heavy stick, borrowed from Mr Carswall.
It was a foul day, the air rendered almost opaque by a yellow fog that found its way into the mouth and tasted like soot. I blundered along the pavements colliding with my fellow pedestrians, and on one occasion nearly losing my life to a passing coal cart.
In the days of what they were pleased to call my lunacy, I would often wander in the Rookeries of St Giles-in-the-Fields. The worst parts were north of the church in that dark lozenge of courts and alleys and lanes that lay between Bainbridge-street, George-street and the High-street. I was never molested, though, even by the dogs that ran wild in the streets. Misery calls to misery. They had known I was one of them.
As I drew nearer the black heart of the place, the smells and the noise rose up to greet me, enveloping me, sucking at me, as though they were but extensions of the fog. The Rookeries were a place where the natural order of things was reversed: where victims became beasts of prey, and preyed in turn on their natural enemy.
I turned off the High-street into Lawrence-street. A woman wearing but a shift despite the cold tore at my coat with fingers as small as a child’s. I brushed past her and in my hurry stumbled over a lean pig ambling through the pool of muck extending into the roadway from the mouth of an alley. A pair of urchins ran after the animal, shouting shrill obscenities in their excitement. I hurried on. I passed a woman swathed in grey blankets, huddled in a doorway, with a baby at her breast. She held out a bare, scrawny arm to me and beckoned. “I’ll make you happy, dearie,” she cried in a thin, reedy whine. And I heard her cursing me in the same, unchanging voice as I left her behind.
“And would you spare a copper for an old soldier to drink His Majesty’s health?” a husky voice inquired from the level of my knees.
I glanced down and saw a red-faced man without legs, huddled on a low trolley.
“Would you direct me to the Fountain? It is not far from here, is it?”
“His Majesty’s health,” the man insisted.
I found a penny in my pocket and dropped it into his waiting palm.
His fingers closed around the coin. “There’s an alley on the left halfway between Church-street and George-street: cut up there and you’ll find it
.”
But his eyes darted towards a knot of drinkers spilling from an alehouse. It was enough to put me on my guard and I hurried away, swinging my stick and looking as sour and formidable as I could. Philanthropy is a luxury. You do not find it in the Rookeries, where even the indulgence of a charitable impulse may exact a price.
I reached the entrance to the alley. The way was unpaved, no more than four feet wide, and its surface was thickly covered with a tide of mud and excrement, human and animal, part moist, part frozen. The passage was densely populated with sleeping, drinking and talking figures. Two little girls sat in the filth, nursing bundles of rags and making patties from dirt. Scarcely a yard away, a man and a woman groaned and grunted in an act of copulation that seemed to bring more pain than pleasure.
With my stick held menacingly before me, I waded through the crowd. From the fog-filled court at the end of the alley came a slow dancing melody, “St Patrick’s Day”, played on a fiddle. I had heard that tune before, when we were quartered next to an Irish regiment. They called the Rookeries the Holy Land or Little Dublin because of the destitute Irish who drained into it from the rest of the city, and the rest of the kingdom.
I reached the gloomy little court at the end of the alley. The building on the right bore a crudely executed signboard showing a fountain. I pushed open the door and, stepping over yet another crawling infant, entered what appeared to be the taproom. It was low and dark, no more than twelve-foot square, and it must have contained at least thirty people. I pushed my way through the press until I came across a woman built like a guardsman with a great leather belt round her waist from which depended a leather pouch and a bunch of keys. I swept off my hat and executed, as best I could in the confined space, a courtly bow.
“Madam,” I said, “perhaps you could help me. I am looking for Mr Poe the screever.”
She took a long swallow from a tankard in her hand and set it down on a nearby shelf. Turning back towards me, she wiped the foam from her moustache and said, “I am afraid you are come too late.” Her eyelids fluttered over small brown eyes like specks of dried fruit in a pudding. “A gentleman with a wonderful fund of poetry. Such recitations we had of an evening. And such a gentlemanly hand, too, he was never short of work. A petition here, a letter of advice and admonition to a beloved child there, a plea to an aged parent beyond the seas.” She took another swallow from her tankard. “Mr Poe has a style for each eventuality.”
“But he is no longer with you, madam?”
“Alas, no, though he had the bed by the window in my second-floor front for so long he was like one of the family. ‘Maria, my love,’ he’d say to me, ‘you treat me like a king; you are my queen and this room is our palace.’”
She brought her face close to mine and grinned at me, revealing a mouthful of pink, swollen gums. I smelled the sour tang of spirits and the rich, dark odour of rotting meat.
“Why, I could show you the room, if you liked, sir. ‘Such a comfortable bed,’ Mr Poe used to say, and he had no need to share it, not unless he wished to, if you take my meaning. Well? Should you like to see it with me?”
“You’re too kind, madam. Unfortunately, I have pressing business with Mr Poe –”
“There’s pressing and pressing, I always say,” Maria said, nudging me with her great bosom. “Not so pressing, I hope, that you may not take a glass of something warm to keep out the chill? Once this fog gets in the lungs, it can do for a man in a matter of days. My first husband was consumptive, and my third.”
I recognised the force of the inevitable, and requested that she might do me the honour of taking a glass of spirits with me. She relieved me of a shilling, opened a hatch above her shelf and produced tumblers of gin and water.
Shortly afterwards, my hostess became indisposed. First she leaned back against the wall and, grasping my shoulders with a pair of muscular hands, informed me that I was a fine figure of a man. She attempted to kiss me, then drank some more gin and wept a little for her third husband, who she said had touched her heart more than the others.
“Mr Poe’s direction, madam,” I broke in. “You were so kind as to say you would let me have it.”
“Mr Poe,” she wailed, trying without success to throw her apron over her head. “My Mr Poe has forsaken his little love bird. He has flown our happy nest.”
“Yes, madam – but where?”
“Seven Dials.” She sniffed, and suddenly she might have been as sober as a nun. “Got himself a job clerking for a gent, he said, needed to move nearer his new place of employment. Truth was, Fountain-court wasn’t good enough for him no more.”
“Where in Seven Dials?”
“He lodges in a house in Queen-street.” As she spoke, her legs gave way and she slithered slowly down the wall, with her knees rising like mountains until they touched the jutting precipices of her bosom. “There’s a man tells fortunes in the house. Ever so genteel. He has a parrot that talks French. Mr Poe said he looked at him – the man did, not the parrot – and told him he saw beautiful women at his feet, and riches beyond the dreams of avarice.”
26
By the time I left the Fountain, the fog had grown even worse. My eyes stung and watered. My nose streamed. I swam through the coughing, spluttering crowds down to Seven Dials. On the way, I passed through St Giles’s churchyard. The church itself loomed like a great, smoke-stained whale on the ocean floor. It was as though I were travelling through a city at the bottom of the ocean, a drowned world.
The fancy had barely formed in my mind when I recalled that St Giles was indeed a place where people drowned. A few years before, within a stone’s throw of the church, an enormous vat had exploded at the Horseshoe Brewery. Thousands of gallons of beer washed like a tidal wave through the parish, sweeping away stalls, carts, sheds, animals and people. In this locality, many people live in cellars. The beer flooded into these underground homes, and eight people were drowned in ale.
The thought of this vengeful wave sliding through the streets and lanes lent weight to a growing suspicion that I was pursued. The sensation crept upon me by imperceptible degrees, gradually more palpable like a hint of damp in one’s sheets. Though I turned and looked over my shoulder again and again, the fog made it difficult for me to identify individuals in the mass of humanity that pressed immediately upon my heels.
I stopped at a street corner to get my bearings, and a set of footsteps behind me also seemed to stop. I turned right into New Compton-street, away from Seven Dials. By now I had convinced myself that someone truly was following me. I continued in a westerly direction, and then swung down and round into Lower Earl-street, and so towards Seven Dials. My conviction wavered. I could hear so many footsteps around me that I could not identify the ones that I thought had been following me.
I crossed Seven Dials and walked slowly up Queen-street, keeping to the left-hand side and peering into each establishment I passed. Roughly halfway down, I found a little shop with a parrot’s cage discernible on the other side of its grimy window. I pushed open the door and went inside. The parrot squawked, a strange harsh call with three syllables, instantly repeated. In another instant the squawk became words and acquired meaning.
“Ayez peur,” cried the bird. “Ayez peur.”
The room was no more than eight feet square, and it stank of coal fumes and drains. For all that, it was a sweeter-smelling place than the street and certainly a warmer one. A man sat hunched over a stove at the back of the shop. He wore a coat that trailed to the ground, a muffler and a greasy skullcap of black velvet. A blanket covered his legs to shield him from the draughts. He turned to greet me, and I saw a clean-shaven face with fleshy features beneath a lined but lofty brow.
“Fortunes; ballads, whether political or amorous by nature; medicines for man and beast,” he intoned in a deep, cultivated voice, with a method of delivery that would not have been out of place in the pulpit; “remedies for the afflictions of venery; charms of proven efficacy to satisfy all human desires in t
his world or the next; rooms by the week or by the day. Theodore Iversen is at your service, whatever your pleasure may be.”
Not to be outdone in the matter of civility, I took off my hat and bowed. “Have I the pleasure of addressing the owner of this establishment?”
“Ayez peur,” said the parrot behind me.
“I hold the lease, though whether I shall be able to afford to do so next year is another matter.” Iversen laid down a pipe on the table beside the stove. “You do not want to know the future, I suspect, nor do you want a charm. That leaves medicine and accommodation.”
“Neither, sir. I understand that one of your lodgers is an old acquaintance of mine, a Mr David Poe.”
“Ah, Mr Poe.” He turned aside to stir a small iron saucepan standing on the stove. “A refined gentleman. A martyr to the toothache.”
“And is he at home at present, sir?”
“Alas, no. I regret to say he has left the shelter of my roof. Or so I assume.”
“May I ask when?”
Mr Iversen raised his eyebrows. “Two days ago – no, I tell a lie: it was three days. He had kept to his room for a day or two before that with his toothache, a sad affliction at any age; to my mind, we are better off without teeth entirely. I offered to give him something to ease the pain, but he declined my assistance. Still, if a gentleman wishes to suffer, who am I to stand in his way?”
“And did he say where he was going?”
“He said nothing to me whatsoever. He stole away like a thief in the night except, unlike a thief, he stole nothing. No matter – he has paid for his lodging until the end of the week.”
“So he has not left the room for good?”
“That I cannot say. I have a number of infallible methods of revealing what the future holds – and as the seventh son of a seventh son, I am of course gifted with second sight as well as extraordinary powers of healing – but I make a rule never to use my skills of prognostication for my own benefit.”
The American Boy Page 13
