Mr. Timothy

by Louis Bayard

  He studies it awhile longer, then raises his head.

  —Sergeant William Rebbeck.

  And as he speaks the name, his eyes dart towards the doorway, in a rush of expectancy, and I swivel round in my chair, fully expecting to see Mr. Bowler himself, bearing down with his gleaming blade, and I am already heaping curses on myself—the credulity of you!—and my arms have crossed in front of me, bracing for the blow, but they are not braced for this blow, which is simply a gale of surprise. For the doorway is empty, empty.

  And from behind me comes the inspector’s soothing voice.

  —My apologies, Mr. Cratchit, I have led you astray. Sergeant Rebbeck is nowhere in the building. Indeed, he no longer bears the title of sergeant, being no longer affiliated with Scotland Yard.

  I fix him with my best interrogative glare.

  —Was Sergeant Rebbeck employed by the Detective Department?

  —Like most police, he regarded this department with an implacable hostility. In which I take a sort of morbid pride.

  —And when did he leave the force?

  —Three years ago this past September.

  —And was he asked to leave?

  —That, I’m afraid, is confidential business, Mr. Cratchit. Not for idle bruiting, I’m sure you understand.

  —I would understand if he hadn’t taken to chasing people with wood-carvers’ blades.

  Eyes shining, Surtees jabs an index finger into the air. A quality of childish gloating suffuses his face.

  —Primitive Methodist.

  —I’m sorry?

  —Willie’s late father. Methodist minister. Don’t know why I should recall that.

  Why indeed? I find myself gripping the arms of my chair just to cram down the anger. Uncle N’s words rattle in my ear:

  One thinks he’s not quite attending at first….

  —You refer to him as Willie, Inspector. Am I to presume you are friends?

  —Oh, that’s just the fragment of an old nickname, Mr. Cratchit. Not one I coined. But here you are, in need of assurances, so may I offer you one? This very day, I promise you, I shall do everything in my power to locate Mr. Rebbeck and call him in for inquiries.

  —Inquiries?

  —Why, yes. If in fact there is some larger criminal enterprise at work—a point I don’t necessarily concede, but for argument’s sake—and if certain malfeasants are indeed preying on young girls, then surely we should begin by questioning the one man who is known to have some connection to them.

  —In the hope that he will confess on the spot? Is that the presumption?

  —I have learnt never to presume anything, Mr. Cratchit.

  —And whilst you are posing polite inquiries of your friend Willie, his employer will simply take on a replacement and continue his operation unimpeded.

  —Mr. Cratchit, as soon as I am persuaded that such an operation exists, I will move like an Arabian steed to close it down. I’ve never seen an Arabian steed, but I fancy it moves very quickly indeed.

  He is leaning back in his chair again, his hands once more interlaced across his chest. He gives a soft little whistle.

  —Oh, me, you are still not satisfied, Mr. Cratchit.

  —No.

  —You believe…I am merely speculating here, forgive me…you believe that even were we to take Mr. Rebbeck into custody, this young friend of yours would remain in danger.

  —I do.

  —Then by all means, allow me to put your mind at ease. Simply tell me where she is, and I shall do my best to see to her safety.

  Odd. When I left them this morning, I couldn’t have imagined her any safer. She was sitting on the arm of Gully’s chair, leafing through his atlas. He had asked her to point out her native town, but the town itself was not shown, just a blur of topographical green, and even this was enough to draw names from her mouth: Rossano…Policastro…Paola…Acri…. Whether these were neighbouring villages or people who inhabited them, I couldn’t have said. But Gully listened in a trance of respect, the way one might listen to a Latin mass, understanding and not understanding. He was filled with the sacredness of his obligation. And as I think back on that, I ask myself: How could a peeler ever feel the same?

  —He who hesitates, Mr. Cratchit.

  And still I linger over that tiny tableau, and it takes the jagged edge of the inspector’s voice to scatter it for good.

  —I trust your faith in Scotland Yard has not been unduly tainted by your experience with Mr. Rebbeck.

  —Faith in general is in very short supply with me these days, Inspector. I have become quite miserly with it.

  —In other words, you wish to take sole responsibility for this girl.

  —Until the men who seek to harm her are in Newgate. Or swinging from a noose.

  —And failing that?

  —Failing that, I must declare myself an independent agent. With all due respect.

  His eyes seem to narrow and widen at the same time. He clears his throat.

  —Well, in my official capacity, Mr. Cratchit, I cannot, of course, sanction the path you have chosen. But as a private citizen, I am bound to wish you well.

  —I should be glad of more than good wishes.

  —And I hope to offer you more. Once I have learnt anything of import, you may be sure I shall be in touch. May I ask you to do me the same courtesy?

  —You may be sure of it.

  And with that, he jumps to his feet—frankly relieved, I think, to have this tiresome business put behind him. He rubs his hands together with unmistakable relish.

  —So there is nothing left, Mr. Cratchit, but to bid you a very merry Christmas.

  —I think you are being ironical.

  —Not a bit.

  He takes my hand. And if there is an unexpected warmth in that clasp, and a flash of solicitude in his mild grey eyes, those sensations pass so quickly as to cast themselves into doubt.

  I am nearly in the hallway before I think to turn round again.

  —How did the rest of it go, Inspector?

  —Rest of what?

  —That nickname you mentioned. The one coined for Sergeant Rebbeck. How did the rest of it go?

  —Oh, it was just one of those jesting epithets the locals give a chap. I shouldn’t worry if I were you. I myself was known as—

  —Indulge me all the same. What was the full name?

  It is his turn to hesitate. And as though to override his initial reluctance, he says the name at a higher volume than is strictly necessary, and with the crispest possible diction:

  —Willie the Slasher.

  Merry Christmas. A very merry Christmas indeed.

  Yet there must be a measure of genuine holiday spirit welling up inside me, for my first impulse on leaving Scotland Yard is to return to the toy shop that I first passed with Philomela and Colin. For the strange purpose of buying Philomela a gift.

  There are many items to choose from: a toy carousel in the shop window, and inside, rows and rows of hobbyhorses, cricket bats, tops, boats, drums, bows and arrows, miniature prams. I settle on something obscure and plain: a rag doll with a swollen, mottled head and legs that corkscrew around each other. Paltry creature, to be sure, but the sales clerk cannot find enough superlatives for it.

  —Absolutely charming. Exquisite. The little girl will love it.

  I don’t have a little girl.

  And the mere act of repressing that thought drives me into a pique, which the rest of the world conspires to extend. A viscous puddle materialises beneath my left boot. The right boot is crunched by a young boy swinging himself round a lamppost. (This has the odd effect of reintroducing me to my knee, unusually querulous today.) Even a makeshift group of carolers, stationed along the Strand, decides to wander far from its original key and then aggravates the damage with ill-timed flings of handbells.

  The only thing to do is keep moving, in the circuitous path that has come to seem native to me. East for a couple of blocks, checking the reflections in shop windows. North for a bl
ock, south for two more blocks, zigzagging, changing tempo, and whirling about…avoiding any semblance of a pattern.

  And then, finally, down the river. Only here, amidst the barges’ grumbling and the gulls’ flapping and the jetties’ slow rocking, only here do things feel completely visible. The wind blows hard from the west, and the salt from the river has scrubbed the air clear, and a strange vitality sneaks into my limbs. The knee ceases its singing, the arm tingles with unspent force. I think, if I were inclined, I could hurl this rag doll halfway across the river.

  But when I reach the bottom of Craven Street, the doll is pressed even more tightly into my midsection. I make one last check of the periphery—Gully’s patented swivel-swivel—and then forge up the avenue, straight into a ten-knot wind. A starling totters past me in the general direction of the Hungerford Pier. Rising up in its place is a bird of another kind.

  —Hello, dearie.

  She stands there with her hips thrust to one side.

  —What a fine pack of man you are.

  The words are coarse, yes, the voice a pawnbroker’s squawk, but what explains this attire? Better suited to Grosvenor Square, I’d say, than to Limehouse. An almost perfect cone, from her high-crowned, bell-shaped felt hat to her grey jacket hanging full from the shoulders to her even fuller skirt of purple wool, braided at the hem. A structure of Euclidean purity, with that exquisite little hat dancing on top like virtue’s ensign.

  —Care to taste some of Sweet Sally’s candy?

  Lest I mistake her intent, she unbuttons her jacket, inserts two fingers into the line of her bodice, and pulls it down to reveal a ribbon of white flesh.

  In my short time on earth, I have been approached by enough gay ladies to feel quite calloused on the subject. Why should this particular band of flesh have the quality of a summons? Well, she is lovely, for one thing. Terribly lovely, in her highborn weeds. Lacking the prostitute’s usual swath of paint, her face has found its own lustre. It fears no more the light of the sun.

  I take a step forwards, another step back. Her body writhes in a pantomime of desire. She grips the hem of her bodice and pulls hard, until the fabric at last gives way, ripping downwards in a jagged scar to reveal a translucent swath of camisole. But there is barely time to enjoy the view for, after one final smile, she erupts into a sky-shattering cry:

  —Rogue! Villain! Help!

  Other sounds come hard upon it. Cries and footsteps, thundering down the street, merging with the percussion of my heart. I have the raw sense that all of London is converging on us, and still the woman keeps baying, in the ripe tone of a Coburg melodrama.

  —I am undone! Villain!

  Her speech gives way then to wordless sobs, punctuated by shrieks. Someone, an elderly man, is drawing her away, throwing his coat around her, murmuring in her ear. Someone else is running for a constable. (But I was just talking to one…. ) And in this frenzy of motion, there is one peculiarly still point: a woman standing under a sage awning with a black parasol and smiling on me with an entire Sunday’s worth of benevolence.

  I recognise her immediately. The missionary who tried to take Philomela away.

  Not one for grudges, though, is our Miss Binny. Nods to me in the most pleasant fashion. I think, if the context weren’t quite so awkward, she would have no compunction in saying how nice it is to see me again. But then, her whole purpose is to see me again. In this very context.

  —Here’s your man, Officer.

  A low voice, from a region just behind me. A stubby hand on my shoulder.

  Back in Inspector Surtees’ office, of course, he was no more than an imminence. Now he is as real as breath, hard as macadam. And he is grasping not the blade I remember from our last meeting but something that, on first sight, seems less threatening. A small leather bladder, shaped like a petrified tear.

  And it seems he has trained at the Coburg himself, for he raises his hand in a gesture of pure declamation, and his voice reaches all the way to the back of the gallery.

  —Scoundrel!

  The leather sap descends. My right temple bursts into flame. And the last thing I see is Philomela’s rag doll falling to earth.

  23 December 1860

  Dear Father,

  I can’t be entirely certain of the date. There are no windows in this particular establishment, and for all I know, it is still the twenty-second. But the air has an early-morning rawness, and the gentlemen with whom I share the space are deep in alcoholic stupors, except for one, who is having brief and distinct conversations with an invisible interlocutor. He’s the only one I recognise, oddly enough. Lushing Leo. Used to make a habit of throwing himself into the Serpentine in Hyde Park, so that passersby might fish him out and carry him off to the Humane Society, where he would be restored only with copious quantities of brandy. Four, five, six times a day, our Leo was being rescued, until the good folk of the Society caught on. Whereupon Leo took his dodge to St. James’s Park, waiting, on any given night, upwards of two hours to be saved. He used to say, with a shake of his head, that people wasn’t as Christian as they once was.

  He slumbers now, five feet away. Quite damp, as you might expect: the stone floor has grown fairly mossy beneath him, and the air is swampy with his evaporations. Dead to the world, but more than able to hold up his end of the conversation.

  —Uncommon parched, sir. Uncommon parched. Oh, God bless. Lord have mercy….

  In some respects, he is having a better time of it than I. Speech is virtually impossible for me just now: my mouth is numb, and all available sensation seems to have concentrated around my right eye. This head of mine, Father, has swelled like an exotic gourd. It feels freakishly large, larger even than myself. And yet, in the troughs between the throbbing, I have located deep recesses of lucidity. I find myself ranging with great confidence over the facts of past and present.

  Gully and Philomela, for instance. I believe them to be safe. For you see, I was waylaid before I could give them away. And if Gully is true to his vow, Philomela will never stir out of doors until I have given him word, and how can I give him word when I am a tenant of the station-house cell? So for now, I believe them safe.

  What else can I say with certainty? The jailer is fat. I infer this from hearing the tread of his feet against the stone, the way his keys jingle and then go instantly silent, as if they were being smothered in a great orifice. I seem to recall, too, a pair of porcine hands diving into my pockets, but perhaps I say that only because my purse has been confiscated. One of my purses. I have adopted Signor Arpelli’s practice of keeping a separate purse in an inner compartment. Ha!

  Gully and Philomela, safe. Jailer, fat. Money, here. What else?

  It is raining. Of that I am almost certain. Raining quite violently, to judge from the tiny cataract of water spilling down the wall behind me. Also, there is a periodic tremor in the floor that suggests thunder. In my mind, Father, it is one of those titanic gales—the kind that split tombstones and bowl down villages. I can hear it battering Mrs. Sharpe’s casement windows, I can see the long fingers of water snarling down the joists of my bedroom ceiling. Drip drip. Drab drab. I hope your comforter will stay dry.

  Well, that about exhausts the present, so what remains for an intermittently lucid mind to do? Lacking better exercise, it must turn to the past. Why it should fix upon Sam, I cannot say. I almost never think of him any more, although there was a year or so when I thought of nothing else. But he was still fresh in the ground then.

  One thing I never told you, Father: I was the first to find him. You see, I’d wanted him to take me down by the tracks with his friends, to race the Birmingham parliamentary, but Sam said I’d only embarrass him, which was almost certainly true—I could never have competed with the other boys—but still a bitter thing to hear put so baldly. So I resolved to follow him, at a safe distance. Quite the detective I was, hobbling along, ducking in and out of niches and mews. I lost him somewhere by the Railway Arms and wandered about for close to half an hour, se
eking him in eating houses and office houses and the goods yard. No sign. By that point I was all done in—following people was exhausting work for me then—so I sat on an embankment overlooking the canal and closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, there was the most extraordinary thing billowing in the water: a great flower, practically a whole new phylum. Brown fronds and white petals and pistils that looked very much like boots.

  I don’t think I understood what it was—not completely—until I went into the Excavators’ House of Call and asked them for a hot lemonade. And when the alarum came half an hour after, I was reluctant to leave; in fact, I didn’t want to leave ever again.

  But I did, somehow. And I remember how startled you were, Father, that I’d made it to the scene so quickly. Or perhaps you were just twining your brain—even then, in that first numbing shock—around the inscrutable workings of Fate. Because it wasn’t supposed to be Sam, was it? The child you lost too soon.

  He never even made it to the Birmingham train. As best anyone could tell, he snagged his foot crossing the bridge, tumbled headfirst into the canal, and struck his skull on a submerged stone. Precious little water in his lungs, the doctor said. He never had a chance to drown.

  And that was all for Sam, except memories, and what is left even of memories? Yours and Mother’s are interred with your bones. Mine are founded on perhaps six years’ acquaintance and bent through the prism of childhood; I scarcely trust them. If I think of Sam at all now, I think of him as an absence…or else a different sort of presence. A timbre that could be lightened or darkened as needed, and which spoke more directly through some of us than others—through Mother more than anyone. Never left her entirely. I remember her telling me, about a week before she died, that she’d seen Sam peering through the front window, waving his dirty little hand. Just wanted her to know he was all right.

  —So thoughtful, said Mother.

  That was the first sign, I think, that Uncle N wasn’t going to make things all right. We were all under that spell, weren’t we? The money. The money. It would make me well again, make my brothers and sisters prosperous, it would float you and Mother into an honourable retirement, with rabbles of grandchildren to carom off your plump knees.