Mr. Timothy

by Louis Bayard

  Ding dong ping dong…Ding dong ping dong….

  That’s what it takes, finally: hearing the bells. That’s when I know. I know why she ran. I know everything.

  And now I am the one running. Straight to Philomela. Grabbing her by the shoulders, rattling her back into consciousness.

  And as her eyes straggle into focus, I lower my face to hers, and I say:

  —The bells.

  She gives me a vexed shake of the head.

  —The church bells, Philomela.

  She sits up now, and as the import of my words seeps through, she begins very slowly to slide away from me. I follow, as unappeasable as an inquisitor.

  —Foolish of me not to see it. You’d only ever been to Mrs. Sharpe’s at night, hadn’t you? It was still daylight when I brought you there, and you couldn’t be sure, not completely sure. That’s why you were studying the house so intently. The gate, the alleyway…even the lamplighter…I thought you were just being particular, but in fact, you were on the verge of recognising the place, weren’t you? And then you heard the bells. And you knew for certain.

  Ding dong ping dong…Ding dong ping dong….

  —Such a distinctive chime, isn’t it, Philomela? One could never mistake it for any other. As soon as you heard it, you knew precisely where you were. The very place you’d been trying to escape all along.

  She stops moving now, bows her head over a patch of leaves. So buffeted, so still: in the act of contemplating her, I hear my own voice sink into a dry, leafy rustle.

  —And I was the one who led you back there. Delivered you right to them, didn’t I? Lord Griffyn and all the rest. Couldn’t have done it better if I’d been in league with them. And of course, that’s why you looked at me the way you did. You believed I was in league with them.

  Her eyes flick towards mine, then glance away. It is all the confirmation I need. And with that, the rest of the puzzle slips quickly, neatly, irrevocably into place, like the shells of a Russian doll.

  First George. Then George’s account book. Then the name inscribed therein.

  Mr. Frig.

  Oh, Lord, have mercy.

  Invert the first four letters of Griffyn’s name…transpose the i and r…and meet therein the mysterious receptacle of Mrs. Sharpe’s profits.

  From somewhere on the near horizon, I have the dim sense of Colin circling us, discreetly skimming his feet over the tops of the leaves. Commendable tact. I would congratulate him, were I not diverting all my remaining powers to this girl. To this moment.

  —What happened in that house, Philomela?

  More silence.

  —Why can’t you tell me?

  She never once lifts her eyes from the ground, and yet there is a quickening about her, a mounting urgency. It infects me to such an extent that I find myself staring through her…through time…to my first glimpse of her, floating through the courtyard beneath that white tarpaulin….

  Through the courtyard.

  And now it is no longer an image that claims my attention but a chain of sounds, the blithe word-stream of Chief Magistrate Squidgy.

  Always puts out the best vintages for the guests. Don’t know where she keeps them all, the cellar, perhaps….

  I pass a hand across my face.

  —It’s the cellar, isn’t it?

  Perhaps the word is unfamiliar. Perhaps her own recollection of it is already dissolving. But when at last she raises her head, she imparts only fresh mystery. Her features ripple, her lips part and close again. She looks to be translating, in fits and starts, from the language of another planet.

  —Philomela.

  She shakes her head, four times in rapid succession. Then at last she speaks:

  —More.

  The same word she used in Lord Griffyn’s chamber. Chilling in its brevity.

  —More girls, you mean?

  A quick nod.

  —In danger, Philomela?

  —I am not…it may be. Yes.

  —Where are they? In that house? The one I was taking you to?

  Another nod.

  —Then…then we must go back there, mustn’t we, Philomela?

  And for the first time since I roused her, she actually finds my eye and holds it. She says:

  —Yes. We go.

  It is, as I expected, an acute disappointment to Colin not to be accompanying us. But as I explain to him, someone has to go to Scotland Yard, and who better than he? Who more experienced? Who more accomplished?

  No amount of flattery will win him over.

  —It ain’t right, Mr. Timothy. You’re a-goin’ to have some more Adventure, and she’ll get my piece of it.

  —If all goes well, there won’t be any more adventure to speak of.

  —But why don’t we all go and fetch the police?

  —Colin, if others are in danger, we can’t waste another minute.

  —Well, fuck, whyn’t she say somethink afore, then?

  —I don’t know. I suppose…I suppose she couldn’t before.

  A bitter guffaw escapes from his lips.

  —So she goes and gets herself a conscience, and you go and get yourself kilt.

  —Colin, if anyone can remain safe in such a godforsaken place, it is I. Do remember, I live there.

  But he is not persuaded. Nor is he mollified.

  —S’pose this Surtees mug ain’t in his office?

  —Then wait for him.

  —It’s Christmas Eve! What if he’s on holiday, like?

  —Then come straight back to us. You know the way.

  And so this is the result: we hail two cabs just south of the New Road, in Baker Street. Colin, without a backwards look at us, hops into the first carriage and slams the doors shut after him. I offer him a coin for the fare, but he crosses his arms and slouches out of sight.

  —Keep your damned money.

  The second cab is rather elegantly turned out: a blood horse with polished brass fittings on its harness; a dandyish cabman, ablaze with a red ascot; two small looking-glasses inside, and a tray for cigar ash, and a box of lucifer matches. And in the blind on the side window, a silk narcissus, a perfect replica of the flower woven into the horse’s mane. I can’t help thinking of Adolphus’s sad little equipage, collapsed on its side…Adolphus himself, dispossessed on the curb, with no way to get home….

  I’ll see to him. When it’s all over, I’ll see to him.

  On the corner of Jermyn and Regent, a small, ragged brass band is playing “The Coventry Carol” over a blind busker’s accordion. An old man is selling Christmas punch for tuppence a pint, and the air is quick with pea soup and cloves and hard sauce and burnt dung, and a woman with a shit-smeared baby tugs at the hem of my trousers. But I pay heed only to the figure of Philomela, still wrapped in Father’s comforter and hurtling down Jermyn Street as quickly as she once fled it. Part of me, I confess, expects her to keep running, but when she reaches the house in question—the house that has haunted her into silence—she stops by the gate and waits for me with ill-disguised impatience. Her way of acknowledging, perhaps, that she can no longer run.

  —Ready, Philomela?

  —I am ready.

  Less than twenty-four hours have elapsed since last I crossed Mrs. Sharpe’s threshold; it might be three years, so alien does the place look to me now. The cramped vestibule and the tiny looking-glass and the small wine table with its cracked porcelain pitcher. Everything wreathed with cut ferns.

  And strangest of all: Mary Catherine, caught in the act of dragging a rug outside. She puts a hand to her clavicle, as though she has just discovered a missing locket.

  —Mr. Timothy! My heavens, you look more of a fright each time I see you!

  At a loss for words, I dive into the knapsack and draw out the butcher’s knife.

  —Yours. I’m sorry. I had to—

  Normally, I would do my best to provide an explanation, but on this occasion I am stopped short by the scant residue of blood on the blade’s tip. From Lord Griffyn’s throat.
And remembering that, I am all the more reluctant to part with it. Some curatorial instinct in me wishes to file it away for future generations of scientists.

  Mary Catherine, though, is gently prying the knife from my hand.

  —Let me take that, Mr. Timothy, shall I? Put it in the scullery, shall I?

  —Mrs. Sharpe…

  —She’s in her office with Mr. George. Shall I fetch her?

  —That’s all right.

  Her eyes drift towards Philomela—still sporting that damned comforter, with her petticoat still in shreds.

  —Funny sort of costume she’s got.

  —Never mind that.

  —A bit young for working here, isn’t she?

  —She’s not in that line, Mary Catherine. Please remember that.

  —Oh, it’s no affair of mine, I’m sure.

  With an exaggerated shrug, she gathers up the rug and turns to go.

  —No! Please, Mary Catherine. We’re in need of a favour, I’m afraid.

  —I’m very busy, as you can—

  —Yes, I know. I need you to procure some keys for me.

  —Keys?

  —To the cellar.

  —Oh, but I don’t have them.

  —You know where they’re kept, though, don’t you?

  Poor thing. Couldn’t dissemble to save her life. Mouth twists out of alignment, eyes blink: the game is up.

  —I was told never to go down there, Mr. Timothy. On pain of I don’t know what, I’m sure.

  —You won’t have to.

  —Why, it’s got all Mrs. Sharpe’s best vintages. One breath of upstairs air could ruin ’em, that’s what was told me.

  —I will bear all the consequences, I promise.

  —But if they found you, they’d know it was me as gave you the keys. They’d know, Mr. Timothy!

  —I’ll simply say I stole them. It’s not a hanging offence, is it?

  —But Mr. George…

  —Mr. George will know nothing about it. Didn’t you say he was engaged with Mrs. Sharpe?

  And still she hesitates. The time has come to take a new tone, a higher tone. Not an easy task, given my battered face, my torn trousers, but I make the best go of it. A loud harrumph. A squeeze of the lapels.

  —See here, Mary Catherine. I wanted to spare you this, but it appears I can’t. This house…this establishment…is implicated in some extremely serious business. Criminal business. The police have already been dispatched, and they will be here in short order. Now, I mean to protect you and Mrs. Sharpe and everyone else as best I can. And so if there’s anything down there, anything at all, it’s best that I find it first. You do see that, don’t you?

  Whether she does is unclear. But something, I think, has swelled inside her—a germ of fear, an answered suspicion—cresting slowly and overwhelming every other scruple. She frowns. She lets go the rug.

  —Wait here. And don’t let a soul spot you.

  By which she means: Hide. But Philomela and I must be done with all that, for we make not a move in any direction, and as it turns out, the only intruder is Mary Catherine herself, bustling back with the contraband keys jangling in the pocket of her apron.

  —This way.

  We pass quickly down the hallway and then pause by the cellar door while Mary Catherine fumbles for the right key. A good dozen and a half to choose from—a regular gaoler’s ring—and she seems bound and determined to try them all, and as her large, clumsy hands jam each new key into the lock, Philomela flinches…flinches again…and then nearly gives up the ghost altogether when she turns and finds, to the right of the door, Mrs. Sharpe’s bald parrot, shivering as uncontrollably now as Lushing Leo.

  He is indeed a disturbing sight, even for those of us who have witnessed his depilation in stages. But all he does in response to our gapes is poke out his black tongue, bow his head in a gesture of reflexive politesse, and cry:

  —Kroo-sol! Kroo-sol!

  This is followed immediately by the sound of a bolt sliding home. The door shudders but refuses to give way, no matter how hard Mary Catherine pulls against it. And even when I ply my own muscle against it, it resists…and then, of a sudden, abandons resistance altogether and wrenches wide open.

  A cold sable light floods over us. A stream of dust and mould splashes across our faces and makes the flame of Mary Catherine’s candle gutter.

  Taking the candle from her, I usher Philomela inside and make to draw the door after us. But Mary Catherine puts out a hand and whispers:

  —Don’t be shutting it now. It’ll lock on you.

  And with that, she is gone—a jingle of keys and a pair of footsteps receding down the hallway—and all is quiet as Philomela and I stand on the uppermost stair, peering into this wall of cool, dusty, ventilated darkness. I take a step down; I wait for her to follow.

  —We must hurry, Philomela.

  The darkness has already so obscured her face I can no longer read its expression. I can only feel it: an eerie, paralytic pallor, waxen and faintly bilious.

  —Shall I go myself, then?

  —No.

  One syllable, that is all, but there is in it a new note. A concern that extends beyond herself, beyond even me, perhaps.

  I take her hand once more. She does not protest, not even when I draw her level with me. From there we pass to the next step and to the next, moving in a deliberate, dreamlike rhythm. After a few more steps, I lose all sense of descent or, indeed, of direction. The darkness folds us round, and Mary Catherine’s candle, held straight out in front of me, does not disperse the darkness so much as carve a little redoubt from it.

  —Just a few more steps, I should think.

  But why make such an assumption? Absent any coordinates, we might just as easily be lowering ourselves into the earth’s mantle. A damp, fetid spirit invades our nostrils. A faint dripping resonates from below. I can see no farther than the length of my arm, and yet I can clearly image, on all sides of us, dank green walls—solid on the surface but worried and honeycombed within by the constant drip of viscous fluid. An entire world, on the precipice of collapse.

  And yet the stairs hold our feet quite comfortably, without even a creak. And when the steps come to an end, there is good solid stone floor awaiting us. And something else, too: a new smell, or perhaps an all-pervasive feeling. Excrement and sweat and sinew and pulsing skin. Presence and absence, all bound together.

  This, of course, is pure intuition, for the darkness holds absolute. We take a step here, a step there, not from any hope of arriving somewhere but from an instinctual aversion to staying put. Stay put and be swallowed. And so we press on, in the endless circling rhythm of a nightmare from which there is no awakening.

  Until something slams against my shin. An abrupt incursion of feeling…every fibre in my body explodes, and the candle leaps from my hand, and I watch, in dismal suspense, as it sails through the air. And in the parabola of light, I see, for the first time, the vintages that are kept in Mrs. Sharpe’s cellar.

  Not wine but coffins. A roomful of coffins.

  Chapter 23

  THE CANDLE IS DEAD ON THE FLOOR. My box of matches is upstairs, in the knapsack, next to the parrot’s cage. And because no other light breaks through the Stygian gloom, the coffins, as quickly as they coalesced, revert to memory: a lightning-lit spectacle of elm-wood boxes on black trestles.

  Only the throb in my shin holds me in the realm of the actual, and that pain becomes my home port as I light out into the darkness.

  Within seconds, my hands have landed on a planed wooden surface. As I draw closer, its properties melt into view: a raised lid, a bevelled lip and, most disturbing of all, a row of nail heads, unnaturally burnished, glowing fiercely.

  And more: an unspeakable odor, rising to meet me as I lower my face to the opening. Heavy and acrid and cloying, an organic odor, redolent of evacuation, so large and corporeal I can’t imagine the box having room for anything else. And this somehow liberates me to plunge my arm straight into the cav
ity, to grub along the sides and comb every corner and crevice in search of…what?

  It matters little. There is nothing there. An empty box.

  And as I draw away, my head rocks with the futility of it.

  Empty coffins. Why fill a room with empty coffins?

  Then, like some provisional reply, a tiny cry leaps into the void. Almost undetectable at first—as assimilable as the squeaking of a hinge or the rattling of a window—until it repeats itself, a little more loudly. And then louder still.

  Philomela.

  I whirl back for her, but she is precisely where I left her—directly behind my left shoulder—and the mask of her face has altered but little in the last minute. There is no possibility of such a sound emerging from her.

  Then from where?

  I close my eyes, the better to attend, but the sound refuses to locate itself. I hunt it down the way one hunts a housefly, in clumsy stealth, seeking to trap it in the corner only to find it buzzing on the far wall. And so I am reduced, finally, to groping my way amongst the coffins, running my hands along their raised lids and waiting for the sound to come to me.

  And still it slips away, alternately sharpening and blurring itself in my ear, until it seems to draw itself up through my fingers into the very orifices of my body. I realise then that this particular coffin—the one by which I am now standing—possesses a feature that distinguishes it from the others in the room: it is shut.

  Or as shut as it can be, given that its lid is checkered by a series of gouged-out holes, each large enough to admit a finger.

  I kneel by the coffin. I lower my ear to one of the holes. I rap gently, three times.

  From inside comes a sound such as I have never before heard. Not an extension of the earlier cry but something much larger: the throes of a soul. And undergirding that, the scratch scratch scratch of fingers clawing on wood.

  —Philomela! There’s someone in here.

  Silly of me, expecting her to be shocked. The moment I see her face, I understand: this is why we are here.

  And now she is by my side, reaching under the lid with a grim purposefulness, fumbling for a few seconds, and then, with a sharp, wrenching motion, drawing it upward.

  A latch. The coffin has a latch.