by Tobias Hill
‘Tomorrow. For the letters.’
‘Letters are free, Martha. You don’t have to repay me for that.’ A wave moved through the onlookers, lifting them briefly off their feet. Desire made visible, Daniel thought. The impulse of want loving want. By the hoardings of Trafalgar Square someone screamed. A woman’s laughter, high and bright with hilarity.
‘I’d work for you always.’ Martha squinted up at him. ‘If I could. I like learning. I’d give you something, if I could.’
‘I – thank you, then.’ He tried to bow for her. An elbow caught him in the ribs and he scowled. ‘Nothing expensive, mind.’
‘I’ll write to you what to do. Tomorrow night.’
‘Tomorrow night it is.’ A gun went off a yard ahead, the crack of a pistol, so that before he could ask her what she meant to write Martha had turned away. The faces around them turning with her. The cheering creeping closer.
*
They saw almost nothing. The mounted peelers eight feet tall, sabred, immobile as statuary above the crowd. The second Progress at five, chariots gridlocked all the way to the palace. Not Victoria Guelph, certainly. Not the crown as she knelt to receive it.
They never heard the way the Abbey filled with a great wordless rush of movement, the peers and peeresses raising their coronets together. The crowning a mime of possession, a physical need echoing through the eyes of two thousand people. Daniel and Salman didn’t see the way the light fell just then, catching itself in the crust of stones they had made. Desirably divine. A halo above the head of a queen they would never see again.
They were part of the crowd, and the crowd celebrated in sight of nothing but itself. In Green Park they bought sloe gin and boiled beef, hungry for everything, eating standing as the dusk came down. Gunsmoke gave way to night-time illuminations. William pulled Daniel’s forehead against his own.
‘I love you and leave you, sir.’ He was shouting, extravagantly drunk. ‘I have a fuck to find now and a job when I can. Where’s your hand? Give it here. A fine jeweller., Goodbye, goodbye.’
‘Good night, William.’ Daniel watched him lose himself in the crowd. Fireworks overlapped above the trees. Under their blossoming light he looked around for Martha and found he could only see Salman. His wide face upturned, broken open with its smile. Daniel pushed through to him. ‘Where is Martha?’
‘Long gone. Back to the palace.’
‘Alone?’ It surprised him often, now, this concern for the child. The way it had crept up on him, like Martha herself.
‘Tch. She can take care of herself. It’s a stone’s throw.’ Salman peered sideways at him. His mouth pulled down into a smile. ‘Look at the sky. It’s beautiful. Look at it. We have thrown jewels up to God tonight.’
Daniel followed his gaze. They stood like that, together, drinking until the last of the gin was gone. At midnight the Queen could still be made out on the balconies of the palace, watching rockets bloom over Mayfair, but the brothers never saw her there. They headed east, following the river home. Drunk with alcohol and the euphoria of the city around them. Moving of their own accord, free of the crowd’s muscular dynamic. Singing sometimes, sometimes not, half-forgotten lines under their breaths. Shanties, work lays, love songs.
Ludgate Hill was still busy, the gypsies unsmilingly making their killing. A uniformed horn and two clarinets sat outside Rundell’s, playing drunken anthems. Daniel stepped over them to the nightwatchman’s door. Indistinctly, as he knocked, he could see a bill nailed to the panelling. He leaned towards it and stopped, the smile fading in the shadow of his face. Quite still, reading to the end.
Another firework opened above them, crystalline and thunderous. Salman leant over his brother’s shoulder to cheer upwards. Daniel’s voice drowned out. He spoke again. ‘It is closed down.’
‘Closed?’ Salman looked down. A figure shouldered past him. Then another, pushing him back, as if he had lost the sense of the crowd. ‘How can it be closed when Rundell is meeting us here, tonight? If you will just put some back into your bloody knock–’
He hammered at the door. Harder, light blooming behind his eyes. ‘This is not right. Jigger it, we have come to the wrong house–’ Salman stepped away into the street, staring up at the unlit building. At the periphery of his vision the darkness seemed to be thickening. As if it could fall further than midnight. He shivered in the breeze. ‘We have gone wrong somewhere. Daniel?’
The bill fluttered on its nails. Daniel reached up, smoothed it out. Not thinking of himself, or jewels, but of turning points. Of how quickly lives could fall back into themselves.
‘We have gone wrong. We should have gone east, I think. We took the wrong ship. I knew it all along.’ Salman’s voice low and venomous. The horn player crab-stepping away from him. ‘Why did we come here? We were lost the day we arrived. The English are all bastards, fucked out of cold bitches.’
‘Listen.’ Daniel took his arm. ‘Nothing keeps us here now. We have no ambition here and no contract. We can go east.’ He watched his brother’s face begin to clear. ‘We can always go east. Back home. Salman?’
He was frowning. Not looking at Daniel, but past him. Daniel turned, short-sighted, seeing nothing. ‘What is it?’
‘The Old Fox.’
‘George?’
‘Pissing around his hole.’ Salman was already moving, pushing through the last of the crowd. Daniel followed him, a step behind, a long shadow. Only as they reached the King Lud did he make out the shopman, urinating against the pub wall.
He nodded cheerily, tucking himself away. ‘My boys! Good to see you. Very. Will you buy a round? They’ll sell me no more, but you look fresh–’
‘Where is Rundell?’
‘Salman! There is a voice I never hoped to hear again.’ He grinned, port-wine and vomit on his breath. ‘Oh my stars, I have had such a night. I’ve drunk hock from the mouth of a pretty girl. The Queen is crowned. The company is to be wound down. And all the world celebrates.’
He had been crying, Salman saw. Up close the shopman’s face was mired with snot and tears. He mumbled to himself. ‘A company such as Rundell and Bridge’s, it’s no overnight job, there are years of orders to farm out. But it is all ended tonight. It is finished for the likes of us–’ Salman leaned down to the lapidary. ‘The shop is locked up. Our room is there. All our goods.’
‘Aye well, no one goes in now.’ George belched at him, his eyes swimming. ‘Except me. Stay at mine tonight, if need be.’
‘Yours? I thought you lived here.’
‘Ahaha, no indeed. Eight Bread Street. In the morning I’ll fetch your things myself. And tonight I’ll have two young scallies to walk me home.’
‘We are owed money.’
A maroon exploded overhead. George closed his eyes and began to sing faintly. Fast, too fast for Daniel, Salman pushed the shopman backwards. There was a dull crack as his head hit the wet wall.
‘Tigris!’ Daniel reached for them both. Salman shouldered him away. George opened his eyes and smiled blearily.
‘My boys. Were we talking of money, Salman?’
‘Payment for the jewels. For God’s sake, the crown sapphire.’
‘The sapphire.’ Fox blinked. ‘That had slipped my mind. You’re best taking that up with Mister Rundell.’
‘And where is he?’
‘At home, if I know him. Ninth in the crescent, Bridge Street. Just there.’ He pointed shakily towards the river. ‘It would do me no harm, mind, if one of you walked me back.’
‘Enough of this.’ Daniel shook his head. ‘Here. His arm.’
‘The jewels are mine.’ Salman’s voice rose.
‘You are in no state. The jewels are gone, Salman. Tigris.’ The name a warning. Salman took a step away from him.
‘I said I will do it myself! Get in my way and you are – I will–’ He stopped. Hawked into the gutter. ‘And take him with you. I mean to get back what we are owed.’
And Daniel shook his head again. Keeping his thoughts to himself. Thinking
of the jar split open. I have never changed my brother’s mind, he thought. In there, the earth is still flat. ‘I’ll see you at Bread Street?’
Salman watched them go. Fox legless, Daniel stooped against him. Once they were out of sight he began to walk again. Not south, down Bridge Street, under the eyes of the crescent houses, but north. Back up Ludgate Hill, head down, the crowd thinning around him. Outside Ryder’s he stopped. Above the shop a window was still lit. Salman lifted his hand and knocked, eyes shut, until the door opened.
‘Mister Levy.’ Ryder slowly craned out. Looked left, right. ‘A pleasure to see you, after so long. Do you have any idea of the time? If I had not been up comparing the Edinburgh and Dublin Pharmacopoeias–’
‘I need something from you.’ He pushed inside. In the pungent dark of the shop he watched Ryder nod as he closed the door, a silhouette against the jars and tinctures.
‘An extract of celebration. There you are not the first tonight.’ The apothecary’s voice was husky with chemicals. He moved easily through his ordered shelves. ‘Though I sincerely hope you are the last. I had thought –’ he turned, a blue bottle in his hand ‘– that you were finding other remedies for your nightmares. Hoped, even. But evidently not.’ He smiled at Salman. His mouth all gold. ‘Nine shillings. One for the hour.’
‘I have no more need of that,’ Salman whispered.
‘Ah?’ Ryder took a step towards him. Then another, as if he were attracted to something almost imperceptible. The shadow of smoke from a volatile compound. ‘What is it you want from me, Mister Levy?’
‘I–’ Salman looked around. ‘Not I. An order for Rundell’s. Something to clean stone. To clean metals. And stone.’
‘An acid?’
He nodded, feeling the yammer of his heart as the apothecary stepped away. ‘Not an order I take every Coronation Day, certainly. That will be the muriatic, I think.’ Ryder raised the gaslight. ‘The powders I have sold tonight, those I can put up in paper. But this, now –’ he went to work, decanting a ceramic jar into a clear bottle, smiling with effort’– this I will have to dispense in glass. Cork, you see, blackens the sulphuric acid, and is dissolved by the nitric and muriatic. There! Have a care, Mister Levy.’ He righted the jar. Stopped the smaller vessel tight. Held it out. ‘I hope to see you make something beautiful of this.’
‘How much will it be?’ The bottle fitted inside Salman’s calloused hand. Ryder walked him out. The street was almost empty.
‘The Crown Goldsmiths have their own account here. This I’ll chalk up with the rest. You, Mister Levy, owe me only a good night’s sleep.’ He stopped in the doorway, smiling. ‘Goodnight, Mister Levy. Goodnight.’
He watched the apothecary go, the gaslight fading out. A rider went past, the horse champing. Salman turned away suddenly, as if the ring of metal had woken him. He began to walk again, downhill into Bridge Street.
Steps led up to the door of number nine. Salman rang the bell and turned, looking out over the Thames. Not my river, he thought. There were lights on the water, vagrants’ fires reflected from the riverbank. Blackfriars Bridge stood empty over its stone piers. In the mild June air, he could still smell the residue of gunpowder.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
He turned. The door had opened onto another world, a hallway filled with ruddy light. A butler stood half-bowed, clean-shaven at midnight. From beyond him came the sound of a piano. Laughter. Salman stepped back.
‘Levy. I work for Mister Rundell.’
The butler turned, waiting with invisible patience. ‘If you could come into the hall, Mister Levy. Into the hall. Please come in. Mister Rundell will be one moment.’
He stepped inside, blinking. The hall was furnished entirely in red. A crimson Turkey rug, wallpaper embossed with rosebuds, gaslights hooded under Bohemian glass. He looked down at his own hands, turning their discoloured skin. The bottle ruby between index and thumb.
‘Good morning, Mister Levy!’
Salman looked up. Edmund Rundell was coming down the stairs, livid in the light, bright with energy. Fiendish with it. ‘Now then. Salman, isn’t it? What can I do for you, so early? Shall we drink to the end of Rundell and Bridge’s?’
‘No.’ He lowered his hands, closing them at his sides. ‘Thank you, I am here on business.’
‘What’s that? Speak up. Business?’ Edmund stopped in front of him. He still held a liqueur glass, though it was empty, inverted, alcohol trembling at the rim. ‘Heh. There will be no more business in this house. Come. Watch me make another toast.’
‘No, I–’ His voice found itself. He looked up, searching the old man’s face. ‘You owe me money, sir. For the three jewels.’
‘Jewels?’ Edmund barked with laughter. ‘Jewels! Jigger it, I thought you said Jews, sir. God knows I wouldn’t pay money for those. Aha.’ He wiped his mouth, eyes sobering. ‘And what jewels would these be?’
‘The sapphire. The diamond.’
‘The diamond, sir.’ Edmund licked his lips. ‘The diamond was not yours. I had thought that was made abundantly clear.’
Salman shook his head. His face florid in the unnatural light. ‘The sapphire, then. The jewel in the crown, and the balas ruby. Four hundred and fifty pounds is what is owed. You were to meet us tonight. You cannot tell me–’
The Young Vinegar leaned into his face. ‘Do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot do, sir. In this house or any other.’
Without meaning to, Salman found himself stepping back again. Stuttering. ‘The business left between us–’
Edmund spoke through him. ‘How old are you, Mister Levy? No, don’t tell me. I am four times your age at the outside, but I will have you, sir, if you speak that word here again. I am done with business.’ He snarled, following Salman, increments of light passing over his face. ‘You believe you matter, young man, eh? But you are wrong. Today matters, because today sees a line drawn under all my business. It is the end of my uncle Philip’s concern, which the world has been privileged to know. His time has wound itself out now. And mine has not.’
He reached Salman and stood over him, his voice exhausted with its own anger. ‘Philip. I am talking about Philip. I outlive everything that he made today.’ A river drum sounded outside, distant. The fog is coming down, Salman thought. Above him, Edmund shook his head. ‘Do you understand any of this? Of course you don’t. Get out of my house, Mister Levy. You have no business here.’
He began to turn away. Salman reached out for his shoulder, feeling the worker’s sinew under the tailored cloth. There was a sound, not a word so much as an explosion of air, spittle dotting the old man’s lips as he veered back, and Salman raised the bottle and broke it across his face.
For a moment there was no sound. The smell of acid filled the hall, sour and acrid. Edmund bent over, his hands going together to his face. As if he wept, Salman thought, and as he watched, something did begin to weep between the jeweller’s fingers. He knelt down beside him. Leant back against the wall, not touching the old man, not quite whispering.
‘You took everything I loved, you see. We are not so different, Mister Rundell. We loved the same thing.’
The jeweller began to whine. Distant, close enough to touch, Salman saw there was flesh running down his chin. He moved closer. Matter of fact. ‘We are alike, sir. Anyone who knows how to love a jewel knows how to cheat a man to get it. And you have cheated me of everything I had. We are brothers to dragons, and companions to owls. Our skin is black upon us, and our bones are burned with heat.’
Against him Edmund began to move, rocking on his heels. A sound escaped between his teeth, something like laughter. Salman put his mouth against the jeweller’s ear. Saying nothing. Resting there until there was no sound left.
Smoke rose from the juncture of the hands and head. Salman stood and opened the door. A light mist curled in around him, incandescent in the porch-light. He stepped out into it and began to walk. Eastwards, towards the docks.
I will break, h
e thought. I will break open, now, like a vessel. And out of me will spill a horror of jewels.
Edmund’s silence rising and rising behind him.
Bread Street, first light. In the doorway of number eight, two men stand talking. The shorter leans against the street wall, bare head crooked up. His hands open and close, raw with gurry sores or burns. He looks tired, and he is, he can feel it in his bones. Tired of doors. Even so, as he talks it is the second man who cries out. He sinks to his knees, his stature bent back into itself. At number five, Adams the fishmonger looks up. It is Friday, the best of days. He watches for trouble, as he guts.
There are no ships east. If there were, the brothers could not afford them. A schooner will take them as far as Lisbon for all the English money in their pockets. From there they will have to work their way. For good labouring men it would be five months at best. It will take them eleven. Only one will ever pass as a labouring man.
They stand on the export wharves, waiting for the ship at noon. No one comes to see them go. They have nothing except the clothes they stand up in. They have lived in the city for five years. The shrieking of gulls rises above them, full of hunger. The shorter man stares after the sound. Only when his brother stoops to him does he turn away. The ship is ready for transit, and besides, he can’t see what he was looking for.
Buckingham Palace at high tea. Alone with a decanter of Madeira, Lehzen is brooding in the chambers of Victoria Guelph, the child she once governed, when she sees the footprints for the first time. Naked and charred black, they criss-cross the Queen’s rooms, as if a small devil has come searching for sinners. Long before anything is found missing the warders have already been summoned by her screaming.
Martha is already well away, down in the basements of the palace. It comes easy to her, what she does, easy as learning letters, her feet as quick as her mind. The warders in their red tails make it only a little more difficult than she expected. It is like a game. Three times she has to hide, the box held against her wheezing chest. It is later than she would like when she comes to a roped-off stairwell, a room of bloodstone fireplaces, a corridor where the carpet sags down, rotting into the space beneath.
