Kitty writhed. Suddenly, as though in impatience or disgust, she stamped her heel on the hearthstone.
“But I am a fraud too!” she cried. “Denise and I were not to blame, did I say? That’s a lie; you know it. Without the best of good fortune, you would now be lying dead at the Gothic grotto. Yet I could think only of how incensed Aunt Gabrielle might be at a brawl in the waxwork, and must beg and scream to be carried from there that instant. It was all a waste. It was all for nothing.”
“It was not a waste, Kitty.”
“Sir?”
“It was not a waste; be comforted. This tune of London Bridge and of the knitting-needle, as I apprehend it, had no meaning to your mind save as a warning. But to me it conveyed the right clue by the wrong means. This tune of London Bridge and of the knitting-needle—”
“Knitting-needle? What knitting-needle? In the song of London Bridge Is Falling Down, as I have ever heard it, there are no words of a knitting-needle.”
He had stopped abruptly. They stared at each other, now little more than outlines to be seen in the thickening dark.
“True,” he answered. “True; I had not collected my wits; pray forget I said this. And why do we stand here so? Lights! There must be lights!”
He turned away, not meeting the wide eyes. On the dressing-table, against the wall by the window and just underneath a large painting, stood two candles in polished pewter holders with a tinder-box between them.
Jeffrey blundered over to the dressing-table. A flint snapped against an oiled wick; yellow light pushed back goblins.
It ran up over brown panels, restoring reality. It caught Kitty’s fair complexion and her green gown; it touched the suit of plum-coloured velvet, coat threaded with silver, which Jeffrey had been wearing the night before. He swung round from the dressing-table, white wig in silhouette and a monstrous shadow of him across the ceiling. But that light did more than strike glints or bring back reality; it was as though, in some subtle sense, both his mood and Kitty’s had altered.
On the wall behind him, above the dressing-table, hung an oil painting in imitation of Rubens: in full-flesh detail it showed Venus in the arms of Mars. Kitty, who blushed easily, might have been expected to avert her eyes. She did not do this. Instead she stood with her back pressed to the ledge of the chimney-piece, looking past him at the painting.
“Sir, sir, you are not open with me!”
“Am I not? Why?”
“What is it you would hide from me?”
“No, Kitty; what is it you would hide from me? What is the secret?”
“Secret?”
“With that mummery at the waxwork you risked my life and your own. You did this, as I understand, to impart news of such great significance that Major Ruthvern Skelly might have done murder because of it. Well, what is the secret? Or is this news of no great significance at all?”
“Oh, but indeed it is.” Kitty’s eyes returned to his face. “God He knows it is! Sir, it concerns Madam Cresswell and Hamnet Tawnish.”
“You would not tell me, I hope, that those two are not really brother and sister? That they are no blood-kin at all? That in fact they are husband and wife and have been husband and wife for some time? Surely this is not all?”
“All?”
“That was what I said. Any person who studies those two must see there is little true resemblance between them. Mrs. Cresswell is short; Hamnet Tawnish is very tall. Her hair is fair; I have not seen him without his wig, but his long blue chin suggests hair very dark. Any fancied similarity is in carriage, in demeanour, in bloodless cast of countenance; in their features they have no resemblance whatever.”
The girl stood motionless.
And Jeffrey’s shadow bent crookedly across the ceiling as he moved forward.
“Come! If you were listening outside the door when I spoke with Mrs. Cresswell, sure you must have known I guessed this? You must have heard her fly into a rage when I suggested a secret husband, and intimated it might be this so-called ‘brother’?”
“In very truth madam was enraged,” Kitty cried, “as I saw through the keyhole before I fled away.” Here Kitty’s face flamed. “Yes; why should I not? Considering the wicked things which occur in that house, what with Mr. Tawnish going to her bedchamber by night when Sir Mortimer is not there, I am most grateful to escape the house and return to my aunt. But madam is married to Mr. Tawnish. Her marriage-lines, writ on parchment, she keeps in the drawer of her dressing-table; I have seen them. If Sir Mortimer should ever learn she is married …”
“I greatly fear he may know it already. We must have a better answer than that.”
Kitty sprang away from the fire-place and ran from him. But she could not run far. She turned in terror, gripping her fingers together, with the brown-and-gold bed-curtains at her back.
“Sir, what’s the matter? What have I done? Why do you use me as if you thought me a liar, and mistrust every word I speak?”
“Have I said I mistrusted you? Yet you seem most incredibly innocent. And also ignorant as to what kind of secret may be dangerous. If Sir Mortimer’s mistress is another man’s wife, she has done nothing for which we could put her behind bars or even balk her malice against Peg. Certainly she would not have committed murder to keep it dark. There is something else besides all this, something else behind Mrs. Cresswell’s slyness or malice. What is it?”
“I don’t know. Pray believe me: I don’t know!”
“You watch and listen, as handmaids do. What can it possibly be? Think!”
“Well—there are other men. Or there have been. Madam has a great fondness for younger men, as indeed you must have seen when she made a set at you? One night, I recall …”
“Yes?”
“One night”—Kitty moistened her lips—“there was a most cold and whispery quarrel when Mr. Tawnish was in her room. ‘Is it so?’ sneers Mr. Tawnish. ‘Would you have fared better if you had remained with him? Would your lot have been more enviable with the cupper?’”
“With the—”
Again she shrank back. Jeffrey halted his advance towards her as though he had been struck in the face. His left hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. Then his shadow stayed motionless on a white ceiling.
“Kitty, are you sure of those words? Those exact words?”
“I am sure.”
“What did you understand him to mean by the term cupper?”
“I can’t tell. How can I? I heard no more words that were clear. And it may have meant nothing.”
“Or it may have meant much.”
“Sir, have I leave to go from here now? May I go back home to Aunt Gabrielle?”
“Young men!” said Jeffrey, unheeding. “Young men!” He glanced round at the table by the fire-place, and then back again. “Mrs. Cresswell’s marriage-lines, you tell me, are kept in the drawer of the dressing-table there. Are there any other documents or papers in the same drawer or elsewhere among her possessions? Any other documents, that’s to say, which are also writ on parchment?”
“There is one other in the drawer.”
“Have you looked at it?”
“No, I have not. Because you believe there is no such thing as virtue, you must not think me sly or without pride either. The drawer is unlocked; madam is mighty bold and careless; any who opens the drawer may find these documents for all to see. Oh, heaven pity me, but this is poor thanks or reward when I have only tried to aid Miss Peg.”
“On the contrary, you have earned the highest possible reward. Mrs. Cresswell, it seems, has grown a trifle too bold. If we act with despatch enough, we may catch this elusive lady and hold her fast.”
“Through what I said?”
“Through what you said. There are parchments in a clumsy wooden chest above a print-seller’s shop. There are parchments in a fine lady’s dressing-room many miles away. It is only fitting that there should be a connection between these. For together they may supply the motive for a murder last night on London Bridge.”
“London Bridge?” Kitty screamed.
That was where he and Kitty both heard the knocking at the door.
They would have heard sounds before that if they had not been so preoccupied. First there had been a light scratching of fingernails outside. Then someone coughed faintly. Next, when this failed, knuckles tapped at the panel.
“Mr. Wynne! Mr. Wynne! My Wynne!”
“Yes?”
Jeffrey knew the voice. It was Mr. Septimus Frolic, the proprietor of the Hummums, in a kind of discreet agony. From his tone you could imagine him both attempting to bow and stand on tiptoe at the same time.
“Not for worlds, gad’s-my-body, would I disturb any gentleman when he is taking his pleasure. But I can’t help it.”
“You are not disturbing me. Open the door.”
“Open the door?”
“Nor am I taking my pleasure, as you so tactfully put it. Did I not tell you I was expecting a visitor?”
“Mr. Wynne, sir, you were not expecting this visitor. He is from the magistrate-in-chief across at Bow Street He is the law. That’s why I can’t help it.”
“Leave off!” said another voice, thin and elderly but so hoarse Jeffrey hardly recognized it.
And the door was thrown open.
“That will do,” Joshua Brogden snapped at the proprietor. “I will tell His Worship how you tried to impede me. Now go.”
Few had ever seen Justice Fielding’s clerk either ruffled or upset. But he was badly upset at this moment. All good nature, all sympathy had dropped away. His mild spectacles and sober black clothes seemed charged with a demoniac quality foreign to him at other times. He entered and closed the door. Even then he did not reveal his full state of mind.
“Baths!” he said, cocking an ear as though for the benefit of a listening proprietor. “Rooms where gentlemen may sleep off a carouse! Rooms where heads may be mended and blood let after a brawl or a duel! Rooms where … well, we’ll say no more of that!”
“Shall we not?” Jeffrey demanded. “Mr. Brogden, may I make you known to Miss Katherine Wilkes?”
“Your servant, madam.” Grudgingly Brogden ducked his head. He opened the door, peered out as though satisfied, and closed it again. “I hope, Mr. Wynne, that your present air of comfort and even smugness belies your state of mind.”
“It does not. There is reason to feel smug.”
“I am sorry you think so. You are in great trouble, Mr. Wynne. You are in greater trouble than you imagine.” Suddenly Brogden squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled a breath as though it hurt him. “She is mad! She is moonstruck! She should be locked up perpetually for her own good, and no doubt His Worship will see she is.”
“Who is to be locked up? Or whom do you speak?”
“Of whom should I speak but your friend Peg Ralston? This lunatic girl has escaped from Newgate Prison.”
XI
The Way Back to Newgate
“MAD!” REPEATED BROGDEN, SHAKING a skinny arm and fist. “Mad, mad, mad! What’s to be done now?”
“Pray, sir—” Kitty began timidly.
Brogden stamped across to the dressing-table. He snatched up a candlestick and held the light high. First he looked round at the paintings, which were all of the imitation-Rubens sort like that of Venus and Mars; then he looked up narrowly at Kitty, several inches taller than he.
“Young woman,” he said, “are you known as ‘Kitty’ Wilkes? Are you here as a witness and for no other purpose?”
“Oh, indeed I am!”
“H’m. I was deceived once before; I’ll not be put upon again. Don’t think to cozen me by a good and modest seeming.”
“Oh, I will not! Pray, sir, is it difficult to escape from Newgate?”
This was unfortunate.
“Young woman, are you familiar with the procedure governing that prison?”
“Nay, I know nothing!”
“Why, then: any person not locked in a cell or laden with fetters may walk out of Newgate at any time he chooses, with none to say ‘Boh!’ to him or even observe him among the visitors. But felons condemned to hang or be transported overseas are locked up in irons and too well guarded. Lesser offenders never even try it. Those without money must wear fetters: they can’t escape. Those with money may usually buy their freedom: they-don’t want to escape. All, that is, except this zany girl who must change her gown and run from there with a handkerchief at her eyes as though weeping! Such an excess of stupidity is not in nature.”
“Gently,” said Jeffrey, and seized his arm. “Gently, now.”
Brogden faltered. After that outburst he became what clearly he was: an old, somewhat confused man, with natural kindliness and anxiety welling up through his sense of duty. The light of the candle, still held high, began to tremble. Jeffrey took the candlestick from him and set it back on the dressing-table. Then the clerk passed a hand across his eyes.
“You are right,” he confessed. “I am not wont to fall into tantrums. They must be resisted. At the same time …”
“Brogden, this is not good for you. Sit down. Let me order you a negus or even a brandy.”
“I can’t take my ease. I must not. You don’t seem to envisage what may be the consequence of this escape.”
“It is bad enough, though far from hopeless. What a fool! Good God, what a fool!”
“Yes; she is foolish enough in all conscience.”
“I don’t mean Peg. I was referring to myself. I should have known her well enough to foresee it.”
“Where is Miss Ralston now? Where can she have gone?”
“I don’t know.”
From the corner of his eyes he was watching Kitty Wilkes. Kitty, after that brief flare of fascination concerning the ways of Newgate, had become stolid again. Jeffrey paced back and forth at the fire-place.
“Mr. Wynne, Mr. Wynne, this is entirely between ourselves! Where is she gone?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. I did not contrive this escape.”
“Well, you had better find her. I like this young lady. She can be as exasperating as one of my own daughters. Yet she thinks herself much abused, and she is desperately fond of you. Let us hope Justice Fielding will take a lenient view. For you still don’t seem persuaded of the danger.”
“What danger?”
“Sir Mortimer Ralston, we hear, is gravely ill.”
“Yes, he is ill. I have sent a physician, a friend of mine, to discover—” Jeffrey stopped pacing. “How do you know he is ill? And how came you to find me here at the Hummums this evening?”
“No matter. It would be disloyalty to His Worship if I said more. But what if Sir Mortimer should be dying?”
“Dying?”
“According to news received not long ago, he has been struck down by what some are pleased to call a choleric fit; it is more accurately known as apoplexy. Has he ever before suffered a seizure of this nature?”
“Well, yes. Now you mention it, he—he had some such attack when he first heard Peg was determined to become a play-actress.”
“It is a dangerous malady of the brain, I have heard. It has carried off men more robust than he. On his information (and yours, by the way) his niece has been committed to prison from a month. If Sir Mortimer should die, can he withdraw the charge?”
“No, admittedly not. But—”
“Hear me!” Brogden insisted, wrinkling up his face. “After being given a light sentence for a light offence, this girl deliberately flouts the law by escaping from jail. That is no small matter; that is serious. Do you begin to understand?”
“I …”
“You can’t help her now: as by marrying her, for instance. If Sir Mortimer should die, and Mrs. Cresswell should care to charge her with being incorrigible, Justice Fielding might have no choice but to commit her for trial before a jury at the sessions-house. If she were convicted at that trial of being incorrigible, she could be sent back to Newgate for an indefinite time.”
There was a silence.
&nbs
p; “Brogden,” Jeffrey said in a voice he very seldom used, “what damned hypocrisy is this?”
Kitty shrank still farther back, this time into the alcove beside the bed, looking out with a strange set expression. But Brogden had drawn himself up with no little dignity.
“Young man,” he replied, “you are advised to guard your tongue before speaking so. I have done you no harm. And I am not a hypocrite.”
“Nor is Justice Fielding, I suppose?”
“No, nor is Justice Fielding.”
“His motives were good, let’s allow. He desired to save her from Lavinia Cresswell and Hamnet Tawnish, to say nothing of a murderous knave named Ruthven Skelly, who will not meet justice until they are nubbed at Tyburn. He and Sir Mortimer devised this plot to safeguard Peg in prison. But she was innocent of harlotry; he knew it, and I think his conscience now troubles him.”
“Even if the original charge were false—”
“Yet he would utter pious cant of returning Peg to Newgate as incorrigible? On the word of Mrs. Cresswell, whom he knows to be a rogue? When Peg was innocent to begin with?”
“Well, she has broken the law now! And that is the law, if an enemy should care to invoke it against her. His Worship, I may say, is prepared to be more lenient than she deserves. To be frank, I am come here with a message from him.”
“I see. He offers me the chance to save his face. What is it?”
“If you speak in this vein, young man, I have no more to say to you. Good evening.”
“Stop! Hold!” Jeffrey blundered against the table which held the untouched tea-service and the untouched sneaker of punch. He looked down at the sneaker of punch, a glass vessel like a very small bowl with a tin lid, as though it gave him a sharp reminder. “I ask your pardon,” he added. “I was carried away.”
The Demoniacs Page 14
