Sheremy nodded. “I’ll see you later then, at the agreed place.”
“Yessir.”
Sheremy hurried along Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, then turned into Chancery Lane, whereupon a feeling of sadness overwhelmed him, and he found himself in tears. He paused, took a deep breath, then carried on.
Gentleman Smyth met him at the top of the steps of Bedwards House. “Good evening, sir. You are well, I trust?”
“Very well. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Parboiled egg of flightless cuckoo sir, brought last year from the cloud jungles of Nepal and served on a bed of Tibetan grubs.”
“Excellent!”
Sheremy ran up the steps to the dining room, where he saw everybody that he expected: Lord Blackanore, Juinefere, Franclin Spar-Turney, Grubiander Tune, Velvene, Kornukope and Eastachia, who, by special request of Lord Blackanore, had been allowed to present herself unbagged, though she wore a headscarf low over her forehead.
“Am I late?” he said with a grin.
A muttered grumble was his reply. He glanced at Juinefere, then smiled and winked at her. She smiled back. He glanced at the front sash window, to see it open just a fraction.
Then he said, “But where’s Sir Hoseley?”
Lord Blackanore handed him a manila envelope, saying, “This arrived for you. It carries both the monograms of Sir Hoseley and of Jomb Gravelspitte.”
Sheremy recognised the handwriting so he ripped open the envelope, pulling out the single sheet within. It was, as he expected, a photogram.
Standing on a footstool, he exhibited it to the assembled crowd. “This image,” he said, “was taken by Jomb Gravelspitte from a rooftop on Ludgate Hill. It shows myself, Officer Murchison Volume of Scotland Yard, and Sir Hoseley Fain. Can you all see?”
More mutters…
“Ladies and gentlemen, you can indeed see that Murchison and Sir Hoseley are in cahoots, swordingtons raised to kill me. Yes! That’s terrible enough, isn’t it? But there’s something more, something that will shock you to your core. We won’t be seeing Sir Hoseley ever again, because he is Jacques the Raper, Le Violeur, who stalked Whitechapel and murdered so many innocent night birds.”
The men of the Suicide Club gasped and murmured to each other, their faces showing how appalled they were. Eastachia shook her head and lowered her gaze. Juinefere did nothing; Sheremy had already told her.
“One of our own number,” Lord Blackanore said. “How grim that we should come to this. I shall pass on the information to the police.”
Sheremy nodded. “And now dear colleagues, ladies… I wish to begin my presentation concerning the wager.” He paused for a sip of water, glanced once again at Juinefere, then took a deep breath. “The three of us in this wager – four of us including the esteemed Eastachia Wetherbee, who worked alongside her husband – gave ourselves the task of discovering the real nature of love. I can tell you in full truth, dear fellows, ladies… it has been a difficult journey for me. I was born into a family of lesser aristocracy, and, as is the way of such things, I joined a club of gentlemen when I was old enough. But for me it had to be a special club, and so I joined this one, the club attempting the most daring schemes, so that I might gad about the world doing good for one and all. Or so I thought. For it transpires that we of the upper classes have rather neglected the lives, and indeed the livelihoods, of much of the population of London Town – specifically of women. And, yes, of the lower orders too. I can tell you, it gave me the greatest pleasure to see our Prime Minister yield to the demands of the Pearlies – and all because he was a true Britisher who couldn’t go back on his word. Ah, the irony!”
“Get on with it, Pantomile,” Lord Blackanore muttered.
Sheremy turned to him and replied, “I’ll take all the time I need, dear fellow. My wealth is at stake, do you remember?”
Lord Blackanore raised his gaze to the ceiling, but said nothing more.
Sheremy sipped more water then continued, “Women have been treated abominably by us men. It’s time for that to change. I wish, here and now, to declare my full support for the cause of Suffering, led so marvellously by Lady Bedwards. I’ve written to the Pankhursts to this effect already, in case you’re wondering.”
“I can attest to this,” Juinefere said.
Sheremy smiled at her. “And so to love.” He paused, glanced up at the ceiling, then took another sip of water. “I can sense you all waiting for me,” he said. “Could the Suicide Club change the world through this simple wager? Christianity, after all, changed the world because of one man – St Paul. Might I become a kind of St Sheremy in years to come?”
“No,” said Franclin Spar-Turney.
“Why, I agree with you, dear fellow!” Sheremy said. “And I thank you for saying that, for it allows me to present to you the real nature of love.”
“Then what is it?” asked Lord Blackanore.
“Let’s first ask why Franclin is correct in saying that I won’t become a St Sheremy of love. It’s because, to do that, I would have to use words. Words, my friends, such as the Bible utilises! But love can’t be captured in a net of words. No combination of words known to us, nor to any other man or woman who has ever existed, can describe love.”
“Then this wager is pointless,” Franclin said, a frown on his face.
“Ah, dear fellow! Not at all – because the true nature of love is action. It’s not what we write that matters, it’s not what we say, it’s what we do. Actions, as has been observed on many a previous occasion, speak louder than words. And so, in conclusion my dearest of colleagues, members of the Suicide Club, and ladies also, I present to you my action, my deed, that is my offer to you, Lord Blackanore, in the matter of the wager.”
Sheremy leaped down from the footstool and ran over to Juinefere, who, seeing him, stood up, an expression of puzzlement on her face. And Sheremy took her hand and pulled her to the sash window, where lay a miniature machinora constructed from a large Iranian tea tray and a bag of steaming moisture. He pulled up the window, allowing cold evening air into the chamber.
He waved to everybody – most of them stood on their feet, eyes wide and mouths open – then pulled Juinefere onto the tray, which promptly rose and passed beneath the window. Sheremy pulled Juinefere to her knees and pushed down her head, ducking as the machinora carried them outside the building. Then they sank to ground level, and Sheremy leaped off. Juinefere followed suit.
“My darling,” he said.
“Sheremy, what are you doing?” she replied.
“This is love, Juinefere, this is life, this is action. I’ve loved you for so many years, and now I’m proving it by deed. Will you elope with me, a man poverty stricken, to an unknown future, and all for love?”
“Poverty stricken?”
He shrugged. “I have by default lost the wager, my darling. My action in spiriting you out of the building has made my claim but at the same time ruined my chances. It is a paradox! Much like love, in fact.”
“Oh, Sheremy!”
She leaned forward and kissed him; and in that moment, though the rain poured down and he knew not what might happen next to him, he was the happiest man in the world.
Juinefere said, “But where to now?”
Sheremy indicated the covered cart standing beside the pavement. “In there lie all my worldly possessions, that I took from my house in Gough Square. Leave behind the world of the aristocracy that you’ve so far known, leave it Juinefere and come with me. I know a little place in Wales where we can be two ordinary people, living ordinary lives.”
She hesitated. The rain pelted down. Then she said, “Very well. You have convinced me!”
Sheremy leaped upon the cart footplate then pulled Juniefere up, so that they sat side by side, cramped and somewhat damp beside the driver.
“To Wales,” Sheremy said. “And freedom.”
~
Eastachia Wetherbee watched Sheremy jump upon the Iranian tea tray, pass with Lady Bedwards through
the open window, then vanish into the dark of the night. She glanced at Kornukope, who sat, head in hand, beside her.
“Are you well?” she asked him.
He nodded. “As well as can be expected, dearest one.”
“Did that surprise you?”
He lowered his hand and looked at her. “Yes it did, of course it did. Pantomile is a man of spontaneity, which, we now see, is his undoing. He has lost the wager.”
“Then the wager is ours to win,” she observed.
He managed a weak smile. “Ever the practical one,” he observed.
Eastachia nodded, waiting for Kornukope to turn away again; and when he did she put her hand into her handbag and pushed the protective end off the syringe that lay there, raising it, shaking out the air bubbles, then jabbing it into his upper arm. She pulled back her hand at once, avoiding the response; Kornukope tapped his arm as if bitten by a gnat.
He turned to glance at her, frowned, grunted, then turned away again.
Lord Blackanore said, “Now it is your turn, Kornukope.”
Eastachia stood up. “I’ll be making our claim on the wager,” she said.
Lord Blackanore also got to his feet. “You?”
“Yes, me.”
Lord Blackanore looked at Kornukope and said, “Is this–”
“Do you really need to ask him?” Eastachia interrupted. “I may be a woman, and I’m not a member of the Suicide Club, but we’ve heard tonight a lot about the importance of women… not to mention the importance of the lower classes – and of course foreigners, such as myself. That is, if you call me a foreigner.”
She glanced at her audience. None of them spoke.
“I’m a Britisher,” she continued, “though I was born in Indoo. And the matter of Indoo is one close to my heart.”
“Is this part of your presentation?” Lord Blackanore asked.
“I’d be grateful,” Eastachia replied, “if you could afford me the same courtesy you afforded Mr Pantomile when he began his presentation.”
Lord Blackanore nodded, then shrugged. “Very good,” he said, with a sigh.
At this, Eastachia said, “Lord Blackanore, I know you are the Secretary of the Suicide Club, and doubtless now the Treasurer because you lack the input of Sir Hoseley Fain, but I signed the wager alongside my husband, and I have the right to make our presentation. I do not expect to be patronised, I do not expect to be mocked, and I do not expect to be endured. Do I make myself clear?”
Lord Blackanore nodded, then looked away.
Eastachia took a deep breath. She felt good! She glanced at Kornukope – no sign of his behaviour changing yet – then continued, “Kornukope and I spoke much about the true nature of love during our adventures, and we found the truth while dealing with Gandy, Mizanthrop and others of the Indoo Home Rule movement. You see, gentlemen, we agree with Mr Pantomile. Love cannot be described in mere words.”
“What then would you use?” asked Franclin.
“Your question is as pertinent as the others you’ve put tonight,” Eastachia replied. “What can we use if words are no good?”
She let the question hang in the air for a few moments. Still no sign of emotion from Kornukope. She had to time this right…
She continued, “In fact, we did arrive at a form of words that we felt might encapsulate the truth of love. Kornukope spoke them in a fit of passion to Pysgod, the King of the Underwater Realm in Windsor Great Park, and they go as follows.” From her handbag she took the sheet of paper that they had inscribed with Kornukope’s words, and read. “‘I would do anything for Eastachia, my most dear wife. Do you think love can be handed around, like sweetmeats? It is a thing of the heart, of time and patience, a thing of giving – and, Your Majesty, of taking, though it be in equal measure. It is the understanding of life, if you will, over time, and with one other of merit.’ That is what he said.”
To this Franclin replied, “But you have negated the validity of your premise, since you have told us these words.”
Eastachia shook her head. “On the contrary, Mr Spar-Turney, you have missed the important point.”
“What then is the important point?”
“That Kornukope spoke the words in a situation of stress, when he thought Pysgod was going to take me away and make me Queen of the Underwater Realm. He spoke in a fit of passion. He was emotional. For you see, gentlemen, you men of this country suffer from a debilitating condition, that my countryman Gandy noticed. It so happened that Gandy intended exploiting your crippling condition, but luckily, through the agency of me and my husband – and it must be said because of a sharp-shooting policeman – he failed.”
Lord Blackanore stirred himself. “Perhaps you should tell us the nature of this condition,” he said.
“I will. It’s the prelude to our claim on the wager, which I’ll make shortly. Kornukope… are you well?”
Kornukope shook his head. “I feel… a little drunk.”
Eastachia raised her hands to calm the murmured hubbub. “Gentlemen, silence please! Kornukope is well. But very soon he will illustrate the nature of your debilitating condition.”
“What exactly is it?” Lord Blackanore insisted.
“You are unemotional,” Eastachia replied. “You can’t express your true feelings. Whether those feelings be grief, joy, fear or embarrassment, you keep them inside yourselves, held back by your stiff upper lip.”
“But that is the Britisher way,” Franclin protested. “It is how we made our Empire.”
“Indeed it is,” Eastachia agreed, “and many millions of people in the world are worse off because of that. Many millions of people, gentlemen of the Suicide Club, would be happier, indeed alive today if you had the strength to express your emotions and not pretend they don’t exist. For through emotions you express your humanity. But if you have no humanity, you can be inhumane. And if you are inhumane, you can build an Empire on which the sun never sets, but in which the blood never dries.”
At this, Kornukope stood up and said, “My dearest one… I feel warm towards you. Something is bubbling up inside me…”
“Yes, Kornukope,” Eastachia said, “I’m your wife, your dearest Eastachia.”
Kornukope stumbled across the room, approaching her like a drunkard, then hugging her with all his might. “I do so love you, dearest one,” he mumbled.
Now there were tears pouring down his cheeks. Eastachia turned around, as if dancing a waltz with him, so that the men of the Suicide Club could see those tears. Some were disgusted, looking away, but a few, she noticed, grasped the meaning of what she had said; and there were hints of tears in their eyes too.
“This,” she told Lord Blackanore, “is our presentation. We stand here, wordless, hugging one another. This is our claim on the wager, for this is true love, expressed by emotion alone.”
“But I do not understand,” he said.
“I know you don’t, and you never will if you don’t do the same with your own wife. With your children, Lord Blackanore, even with your friends. For if you can’t treat them as they deserve to be treated, you are no man.”
“But I am a man.”
Eastachia replied, “If you are a full man, Lord Blackanore, then I request that you do something for your country. The demands of Gandy and Mizanthrop are blown to the four winds now that the Shiva Emitter has been neutralised, but the demands of the people of Indoo remain valid. In fact, more violent leaders will emerge if you continue to dominate the country. Go to the Prime Minister, go to the Foreign Secretary, and explain that Home Rule is justified. Follow the example of the East End, soon to be an independent country, and allow the people of Indoo to rule themselves.”
“I will do what I can, Mrs Wetherbee.”
Eastachia smiled. “That’s what I hope you’ll do,” she said.
~
Velvene sat back in his comfortable chair. So far he had watched two presentations, both of which confused him.
Lord Blackanore said, “Now it is your tur
n, Velvene.”
Velvene sighed and stood up. It seemed to him that his old self was being shed, like a snake sheds a skin, leaving him fresh, new, but different.
He said, “Well, gentlemen… Mrs Wetherbee… my presentation does use words. I have thought long and hard about it, and I have discussed the problem with many psychonauts, priests, monks, and indeed ordinary people of the world. And I have come to a conclusion.”
He hesitated. He felt tired, bereft. Yet he felt also a hint of a certain new strength, that he had never known before; and this, he suspected, was that strength imparted by the full experience of life. For so far he had lived as a child.
He sighed, wiped a tear from his eye, then continued, “Well, I should like to tell you something.” From his pocket he withdrew a copy of The Origin Of Species. “This book, written by Mr Darwin of Shrewsbury, explains that different species evolved on our world by a process of natural selection. That process applies to us also. Like it or not, we evolved from apes. But we are different, eh? We have minds.”
“We have minds that use words,” Franclin said.
“Exactly, my friend. Words are how we communicate. You see, we all feel a certain sensation, do we not? A sensation that we all share a common human condition, that at the emotional or moral level we are equals. It is the feeling that human beings are drawn together because of our intrinsic nature. And so some structure, some form of organisation, has to regulate various of our actions, and this, gentlemen, is what we call society. Social behaviour evolved because of the private nature of our minds. Society is a kind of regulator of a myriad minds.”
“We’re with you so far,” Lord Blackanore commented, though his face told a different story.
Velvene glanced at him. “I shall come to you in due course, eh?” he said. After a pause he continued, “There exists however a dilemma in the experience of our lives. We, ourselves, are most vividly and continuously experienced. We know our own deeds and wishes, our every idiosyncrasy and foible, feeling, thought, hope and desire. But no other human being, however close, is experienced in this intimate manner, eh? There is always the impossibility of feeling precisely the same feelings as another, of having different thoughts, of remembering different experiences – in short, of being different people. This dilemma is resolved by the experience of union.”
Hairy London Page 31
