Ellsworth rose from his chair and began rummaging through one of several boxes marked “1831.” After a search of several minutes, he found what he was looking for, returned to his desk, and spread a sheaf of papers out in front of him.
“The incident occurred in spring 1831,” he said, perusing the pages before him. “That was before I arrived in this district. The matter was investigated by Sergeant Bartholomew Dawes, who found that Florence Spriggs was the mistress of Geoffrey Wingate. James Frost had known Miss Spriggs at an earlier time in their lives. In a fit of jealous rage, Mr. Frost inflicted horrible damage on the face of Miss Spriggs. Christopher Spriggs, the victim’s brother, is believed to have shot Mr. Frost dead in retaliation. Sergeant Dawes spoke with a witness who saw a man whose description was similar to that of Christopher Spriggs running from the site of the murder. Sergeant Dawes said further that Mr. Wingate is a respectable gentleman and that he believed Miss Spriggs and her brother created a fiction after the murder and slashing in order to extort money from Mr. Wingate.”
Rage underscored by the pounding of my heart coursed through my veins.
“That is an abomination.”
“I understand your sentiments, Mr. Dickens. But as an inspector, I have been taught a simple rule. Take everything on evidence. Take nothing on its looks. Miss Spriggs may have a feel of honesty about her. But by her own admission, she practiced a trade that was dependent upon her ability to deceive men with regard to her true feelings and nature. You think that the study of facial expression comes by nature to you and that you are not to be taken in. That is an error. The fact that you give a great deal of time to the reading of Latin, French, whatever, does not qualify you to read the face of another. You cannot accept all that she tells you as truth.”
It took a moment for me to gather my thoughts. Then I spoke.
“Florence Spriggs and Geoffrey Wingate are of different classes, but that is the least of their differences. They are as unalike as good and evil.”
“Let me look further into the matter. If you return in two weeks time, I will tell you what I have learned.”
After I left the station house, I made a decision that might have been foolish. Fueled both by outrage and a reporter’s curiosity, I felt compelled to visit Geoffrey Wingate.
The most common form of public transportation in London is the omnibus, a vehicle drawn by horses that follows a given route. Passengers get on and off as often as the patterns change in a kaleidoscope, although they are not as glittering and attractive.
I disembarked the omnibus near Wingate’s residence, walked the final two blocks, and made several turns in the street with the hesitation of a man who is conscious that the visit he is about to pay is unexpected and might also be unwelcome. Finally, I approached the front door, grasped the brass lion’s head that guarded the house, and slapped it firmly against wood.
A servant opened the door. I handed him my card.
“Would it be possible for me to have a few minutes with Mr. Wingate?”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?”
“No. But we have met before.”
I was escorted into the foyer. Several minutes passed.
The servant returned with Amanda Wingate.
“Mr. Dickens, it is so nice to see you. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“I thought I might speak further with your husband about his business. I can come back another time if it is inconvenient for Mr. Wingate to see me now.”
Amanda brought me to the parlour, waited until I was comfortably seated, and disappeared from view. “Geoffrey is with a client,” she said on her return. “But if you join me for tea, he will be available in less than an hour.”
All the while, she stood perfectly erect, her figure drawn up to its full height. She was the most beguiling woman I had ever seen. As on the day when we met, her clothes had a certain character of tightness, as though everything with two ends that were intended to unite were such that the ends were never on good terms and could not quite meet without a struggle. There was an untamed quality about her.
Tea was served.
“I read several of your sketches this past week,” Amanda told me. “I admire those who excel in the art of writing.”
We talked for a while about Boz. Then I led the conversation in a different direction.
“When did you and Geoffrey meet?”
“Three years ago.”
“How long have you been married?”
“It will be two years next month.”
She deflected further questions about herself, always bringing the conversation back to me. At one point, her lady’s maid came into the room. Amanda introduced us almost as equals. Clarice, the maid, was appropriately deferential. I liked the fact that Amanda treated her as she did.
In due course, another servant appeared and announced that Wingate would see me in his office.
I sat in the same seat that I had occupied three weeks earlier.
“I hope that I am not intruding.”
“Not at all,” Wingate said with a smile.
I could not say much against his features separately. But put together, I no longer liked their look. His smile, it now seemed, did not extend beyond his mouth, so there was something in it like the snarl of a cat.
“I am curious as to how you began in business,” I asked.
“I was brought into finance by a man named Owen Pearce. He taught me what he knew, and I became his partner.”
“What brought the partnership to an end?”
“He died.”
I looked closely at the character in Wingate’s face. Calculation was ever present in his eyes.
“How did he die?”
“Under unfortunate circumstances. It was a great loss. To have had him as a partner and friend for as long as I did was a blessing in my life.”
I cautioned myself that Benjamin Ellsworth had questioned the credibility of Wingate’s accusers. That did little to put my prejudices to rest.
We spoke more about his business. Either Wingate was speaking differently from the way he had spoken during our first interview, or my ears were attuned to different things.
“There are times when I am subtle. I am often diplomatic. But I am never dishonest . . . Envious people some times speak against me, but things roll on just the same . . . Do you know what rumour is, Mr. Dickens? It is idle gossip. One should never repeat rumour. That is the only way of paring the nails of the rumour monster.”
For the most part, Wingate looked steadily into my face. Once, he rose from his desk, put his hands in his pockets, rattled the money that was in them, and laughed. Finally, he dipped his pen into the inkstand on his desk and began to write. It was a signal that our meeting was over.
Then he said something that surprised me.
“Amanda and I are entertaining for dinner at six o’clock on Saturday evening. If you have no better engagement, it would give me great pleasure if you and your betrothed could join us.”
The advantages in accepting Geoffrey Wingate’s invitation to dinner seemed to outweigh their negative counterparts. So on behalf of Catherine and myself, I accepted.
Catherine had heard Wingate’s name mentioned by her father and, when told of the evening’s plans, was excited by the prospect of sharing a meal in such fine company. I thought it best not to enlighten her with regard to my beliefs as to our host’s character.
On Saturday evening, we rode by hackney carriage to the Wingate home. A servant opened the door and took our coats. Geoffrey, as we were instructed to call him, greeted us warmly.
“I hope you have brought your appetite with you.”
We sat first in a large room with a fireplace that radiated warmth. The furniture had an air of old-fashioned comfort. Crimson drapery hung from the windows. Candelabras twisted like the branches of trees stuck out from richly paneled walls. Every ornament was in its place. Decanters stood filled with fine Scotch whiskey, sherry, and wine.
&nbs
p; The other guests were Cedric Baldwin, August Rutledge, and their wives.
Cedric arrived wearing an extremely stiff hat, which looked as though it would sound like a drum if struck with the knuckles. He was a short pudgy man with a shiney bald forehead and deep voice of which he seemed uncommonly proud. His lineage was such that he had been surrounded by wealth from the cradle, and he spoke as though descended in a direct line from Adam and Eve. I learned that it was a source of great comfort and happiness to him that, in various periods of recorded history, his forbearers had been actively connected with numerous slaughterous conspiracies and bloody frays and that, being clad from head to heel in steel, they did on many occasions lead their leather-jerkined soldiers to the death with invincible courage and afterward returned home to their relations and friends.
August was a tall thin man with a profusion of brown hair, the neck of a stork, and the legs of no animal in particular. His skin was so pale that, were he cut, I believe he would have bled white. The least of his stories had a colonel in it. Lords were more plentiful than commoners.
The two wives, named Juliet and Grace, were richly dressed in silk and satin with glittering jewels on their fingers, wrists, and neck. Catherine’s ring was quite modest by comparison, composed of not much diamond and a great deal of setting.
Wingate introduced me to the others as “the man who is Boz.” Catherine imparted the information that I had recently moved into new rooms in anticipation of our marriage. Cedric praised our host’s business acumen, informing everyone present, “I’ve invested thirty thousand pounds with him. His methods are safe and certain.” August opined, “They say that virtue is its own reward. But as a man of business, I prefer monetary compensation.”
Amanda was gorgeously attired in a manner that flaunted the superiority of her charms. As before, her clothes were of a tight-fitting fashion. The evening dress she wore was a tantalizing shade of green, pulled in to accentuate the smallness of her waist with beads aligned on the silk in such a way as to draw one’s eye to her generously exposed bosom. As if one needed prompting.
A gold bracelet, dangling gold earrings, a diamond ring. She was a magnificent work of art to hang jewels upon. Dazzling, striking, tall, and stately. Dignity and grace were in her every movement. In an unguarded moment, I saw Wingate looking at her as a man might look at a resplendent tiger in its cage.
Then it was time for dinner. The dining room was remarkable for the splendour of its appointments. The table was busy with glittering cutlery, plates, and glasses. A half-length portrait in oil of our host hung on a wall opposite the windows. Artists on commission always make their subjects out to be more handsome than they are, or they would get less work. Such was the case here.
The feast began. Sumptuously cooked dishes were elegantly served. A roast leg of pork bursting with sage and onion. A stuffed filet of veal with thick rich gravy. Vegetables and breads. Exquisite wine.
“Geoffrey is a wonderful judge of wine,” Amanda told us.
When not otherwise engaged, the butler stood by the sideboard. From the servants I saw that evening and from conversation at the table, I gathered that Wingate had a staff of eight in his employ. There was the butler, a valet, Amanda’s lady’s maid, a housekeeper, a cook, a young woman who assisted the housekeeper and cook, an errand boy, and a man who performed the tasks of coachman, stable master, and gardener.
When asked, Catherine offered the information that she was the oldest of nine children. Throughout her life, she was inclined toward corpulency and overeating. On this occasion, she blushed very much when anybody was looking at her and ate very much when no one was looking. The veal on her plate disappeared as if the poor little calf still had the use of its legs.
She also drank too much wine, and I wished that she would refrain from speaking on any but the most mundane subjects. Then she drank more, and I concluded that her merits would show to the greatest advantage in silence.
Amanda distributed her attention among all of the guests. Each person had her full attention while they were engaged. She adapted her conversation with graceful instinct to the knowledge of others, beginning on a subject that the guest might be expected to know best. She understood just enough of each person’s pursuits as made her agreeable to that person and just as little as made it natural for her to seek information when a theme was broached.
She was enviably self-possessed, enchanting in the politeness of her manner, the vivacity of her conversation, and the music of her voice.
The conversation turned to the condition of society, and I found myself discoursing on the monstrous neglect of education in England and the disregard of it by the government as a means of forming good or bad citizens and miserable or happy men. That led to a discussion of differences in class.
“The classes must be joined with an understanding of the bonds that exist between them,” I said. “The rich and powerful owe an obligation to the poor. In a just society, the fate of all would be intertwined.”
“And what do you mean by that?” August Rutledge demanded.
“The strengthening of England lies in the fusion of the classes, in the creation of a common understanding. A true aristocracy would be comprised of those who earn their place in it through hard work, intelligence, and virtue.”
That brought Wingate into the conversation.
“Life is a serious game,” he said. “Everybody is playing against you. Wealth must defend itself.”
“Rich and poor are equal as they lie dreaming in bed,” I countered. “Virtue shows quite as well in rags as it does in silk.”
As I spoke those words, Cedric Baldwin made a show of yawning. “I am not a scholar,” he declared. “But I am a citizen of England. It is in vogue in some circles to talk about the plight of the poor. However, the work houses solve the problem.”
For reasons unbeknownst to me, Catherine chose that moment to enter the conversation.
“I think it best if church and charity care for the poor and leave the government to fighting wars and whatever else it does best.”
Wingate smiled at me. “Your bride-to-be is as intelligent as she is beautiful.”
“It is possible that the flavour of sour grapes is in Mr. Dickens’s mouth,” Cedric Baldwin added.
Then something totally unexpected happened.
“I think that Mr. Dickens’s position is admirable,” Amanda snapped. “If you had been born to less wealth, perhaps you would feel differently about the matter.”
There was fire in her eyes.
“You, sir,” she said, addressing Baldwin, “are a coal merchant. The men who toil in your mines and their families know a different world from yours. Their children are not taught to read. There is no hope for a better life. And those are the families where there are men living in the home and the men have work. There is far worse suffering in England.”
“It is of little importance to me how the poor live.”
“Perhaps not. But it is of importance to them.”
Throughout the conversation, the other wives had remained silent. Now Juliet Baldwin intervened.
“The poor would be less of a problem if there were fewer of them. They have no business being born. They have boys who grow up bad and run wild in the streets, and girls who breed more children who, like their parents, should never have been born.”
Amanda fixed a withering gaze upon her.
“I am of the belief, Mrs. Baldwin, that the poor were made by a higher intelligence than yours.”
The remembrance of Amanda and how she spoke in those moments remains with me to this day. She glowed more gloriously than fire.
“Let us avoid these morsels of morality,” Wingate said, seeking to defuse the situation.
“I will speak as I choose,” Amanda told her husband.
“Keep a watch upon yourself.”
“I shall not. The conditions of which Mr. Dickens speaks exist. And no nation that allows them to exist is fully civilised.”
“Is
that all?” Cedric Baldwin inquired with a note of levity in his voice.
“Yes, sir. That is all. And enough, too, I think. I would prefer not to regard you as hard-hearted.”
“It will all be the same and make no difference a hundred years from now,” Wingate said, continuing his efforts to move the conversation away from conflict. “In the graveyard, we are all alike.”
His voice was such that it travelled from melodious to harsh as befitted his mood. Now it was at its most engaging. “I propose a toast to Mr. Dickens and his future bride. May this be the dawn of happy days for both of you.”
The dinner ended soon after.
“I like this sort of thing,” our host told us. “I hope all of you do not mind dining at another man’s expense.”
“Not at all,” Baldwin offered.
“Then I trust you will dine with us often.”
All that was left was for Wingate to walk Catherine and myself to the door.
“The great thing is to be on the right side,” he said, laying a hand upon my shoulder. “We are not as different from one another as you might pretend. Be one of us.”
A hackney carriage brought Catherine and myself to our respective homes, stopping first at her father’s residence and then my own. It was a lumbering square vehicle with small windows. The straw with which the seating cushion was stuffed protruded from the canvas in several places.
“You spoke inappropriately tonight,” Catherine chided as the carriage neared her father’s residence.
“I did not.”
“You were needlessly confrontational, and you flirted with Mrs. Wingate for the entire evening.”
“That is untrue.”
“It is perfectly true. I had my eye upon you the whole time.”
I was unsure as to what I should say next and uncertain whether the carriage ride would end with my being embraced or scratched. Either possibility seemed equally disagreeable.
The preceding days had brought turmoil to my emotions. The visit to Florence Spriggs and all that surrounded her had taken my thoughts back to the year I had spent in the blacking warehouse. With that came ruminations on the uncertainties of fate and the thin line that separates one kind of life from another.
The Final Recollections of Charles Dickens Page 6
