But as Charles tightens his grip he feels a hand now on his own shoulder, shaking him, trying to pull him away. ‘It werenae the boy, Mr Charles. It werenae Billy.’
It’s Abel, his eyes watery in his withered face.
‘What the hell are you talking about, Abel?’
‘It werenae the boy, Mr Charles, it were me. I’m right sorry for it. All I can say is I didnae know.’
Charles slowly loosens his hold and the boy squirms away and out of arm’s reach. There’s a livid red mark on his neck, and he’s breathing with difficulty.
‘See? Told yer – yer always accusin’ me and it ain’t never my fault – like the other day—’
‘I suggest you shut up, Billy,’ says Charles, quietly, still staring at the old man. ‘And I suggest you, Abel, tell me the truth.’
‘It were one of those days ye were away, Mr Charles. That gentleman called again—’
‘Sir Percy Shelley?’
The old man swallows, then nods. ‘The one as left the card. ’E came ’ere lookin’ for ’ee and I said as ye were away. And then he said had ye had any luck wi’ findin’ the records and I – well . . .’
‘Yes?’
Abel swallows again. ‘I told him what we found. That the pages were missin’. I’m sorry. I thought as ’e was yer client ye wouldnae mind. I thought,’ he shakes his head sadly, ‘as I might be helpin’.’
Charles stares at him, shamed now, and remembering that he had told Abel nothing of his suspicions of the Shelleys, given him no instructions as to silence, and therefore can hardly blame him now. He takes a deep breath – and a step in the old man’s direction. ‘What exactly did you tell him, Abel?’
‘Just that the pages in the ’sixteen file had been taken out a long time back. That we’d looked for ’em but couldnae find ’em anywhere.’
‘Nothing about the words I uncovered?’
Abel shakes his head. ‘No, Mr Charles. And I swear t’ye I didnae put the book on the fire. That were yer uncle, like as I told ’ee.’
Charles nods, ‘Very well,’ then turns to Billy: ‘I’m sure you have some task or other to do downstairs. See you get on with it.’
The boy leers a glance at him, then hobbles back down to the kitchen, rubbing his neck theatrically. Charles watches him go, then makes for the stairs, only to have Abel catch at his coat as he goes past.
‘It’s a’right, Mr Charles? I havenae done aught wrong?’
Charles pauses a moment, then touches him lightly on the arm. ‘It’s all right, Abel. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have work to do.’
His pace quickens as he goes up the stairs, leaving the old man standing watching him, his face troubled and pale.
Charles’s heart is still beating rather too fast as he closes the attic door behind him and leans against it. Some remorse he has on Abel’s account, but as for Billy – Billy has got away with far more than he’s been punished for in this house, and Charles has no compunction in levelling the scale, even if the boy didn’t happen to deserve his chastisement this time. He pulls off his coat and sits down heavily on the bed, the pages of Mary Shelley’s letter on the quilt in front of him. He reads it again, and then for a fourth time, but the real mystery hidden here still eludes him. As he folds it up and puts it back in his pocket he realizes that in his fury at Billy he has hurt his injured hand and goes over to the washstand to find a new dressing. Only the roll of bandage is not where he left it. He stands a moment looking round the attic, and it strikes him that should Maddox have thought to hide those missing pages in this room he would have been spoiled for choice. He could have secreted them under the velvet lining in the box that displays Charles’s coins, or in the scabbard of the battered and jewel-less Persian scimitar. And there is, besides, a secret drawer only Charles knows of at the base of his case of chemical compounds. But of course the papers cannot actually be anywhere in this room – Maddox has not been up to this floor since Charles moved in, and if those pages do still exist they were removed and hidden long ago. Almost certainly before that tour of Italy whence Maddox returned, some months since, a changed and much older man. Charles wonders for the first time whether he should have asked Abel more about that trip – he knows hardly anything about it – either where they went, or why Maddox made such an enormous effort, at such an advanced age, to undertake his first and only venture beyond his native shores. For while it’s become clear to Charles that his great-uncle has been in a slow decline for far longer than anyone guessed, it’s equally clear that it was only after his return from Italy that he began to suffer the terrifying attacks of violence and madness that led Charles to move into the Buckingham Street house. A house he has now inhabited, incidentally, for several weeks without ever coming across any secret hiding-place – neither door inexplicably locked nor cupboard mysteriously sealed. The only part of the house, in fact, Charles has not treated as if it were his own has been the drawing room, which is now more than ever his uncle’s personal province. Indeed, few of the other rooms were even being used before Charles moved in and hired Billy and the girl; as Maddox aged, his territory retreated, and there are still bedchambers on the second floor that Molly has not yet wakened from their damp, dust-sheeted slumber. Those rooms Charles knows Abel searched, but did he have the temerity to intrude upon his master’s private domain? And yet isn’t the drawing room by far the most likely hiding-place?
Ever since he was a boy Charles has tried to follow Maddox’s methods and emulate Maddox’s rigour of thought, and what success he has seen has stemmed from that source, both in the Detective police, and in the months since he set up in business on his own. How many times, over the years, has he heard Maddox say those selfsame words? There is no problem, however intractable, that cannot be resolved by the steady application of logic and observation. Logic, thus far, has not availed him; perhaps observation may prove more instructive. Charles sits down on the bed again and closes his eyes. It’s a technique he’s used before – a way of refining his perceptions, and eliminating the extraneous. Allowing his mind free play. If he went down to the drawing room now all his senses would be assailed: the smell of the fire, the sound of the clock ticking, his uncle shifting fretfully in his sleep. Here, in the darkness behind his eyes, there are no distractions.
And so he stands now, in imagination, in the centre of that elegant room downstairs, turning slowly about, exploring the space as if for the first time, yard by yard, inch by inch, as though it had become some Renaissance theatre of memory, each object to be considered not just for itself but as a sign of something else – as a place of potential concealment. It is, as far as he can tell, exactly the same room it was when he was a boy: the same books, the same busts of the philosophers, the same picture of the gardens at the Villa d’Este hung between the two long windows. The books are too obvious for a hiding-place, and the busts are solid stone, as Charles remembers only too well from trying to lift one as a child, but perhaps the painting is a possibility – there could be a space, perhaps, between the canvas and the frame. But the picture is a favourite of Maddox’s, and Charles doubts his uncle would have risked doing it damage. Charles loved that picture as a boy – the avenue of dark cypresses, the enfilade of retreating statues, the figures half seen in the shadows, and there in the centre, on the crown of the rise, the villa glimpsed between the trees, so imposing and so sinister, and so unlike any other house he had ever seen. Every time he was taken to visit his great-uncle he was drawn to it again, to the colours and the soft sfumato and the story the picture seemed to suggest. A story, incidentally, that he once tried to write down, hesitantly at first, but with a slowly growing confidence, only to have his father demand what he had been doing all day, and dismiss his efforts as nothing but an idle and childish indulgence, unworthy of his time. You, I suspect, will think that a pity, and find it significant that Charles never attempted to write anything like it again, and scarcely even remembers the incident any more. You may also think it a shame that he is conside
ring the painting now not as a story, or a work of art, but solely and exclusively as a physical object – a piece of evidence that may or may not have something to reveal. And what he can see in his mind now is how the stipple of the brushwork catches in a shaft of sunlight cast slant-wise across the canvas. And then, suddenly, he knows. Knows as a scientist knows, and he is, of course – among many other things – a scientist. Because, hung where it is, that painting is never touched by direct sun; the only light it ever sees is reflected onto it, from the mirror above the mantelpiece on the opposite wall. A mirror, Charles recalls with a tingle of excitement, which has always seemed rather elaborate for such a classically austere room. And now he remembers a dull afternoon years before, when Maddox forced a much younger and more fidgety Charles to stand before that mirror, showing him the carving and the rich detail, and telling him that the proper name for that style of frame was – not baroque, but something else. Charles racks his brain, searching for the precise word. It began with an r – rococo? No, not that – but something similar. Not rococo but rocaille. And when Charles’s hopeless incompetence in French left him staring blankly, none the wiser, Maddox had pointed out the abundance of tumbling conches and serrated scallops and asked him what they looked like.
‘Shells, Uncle Maddox. Like the one I found on the beach at Filey last summer, only bigger. Much bigger.’
So what might the word ‘rocaille’ mean?
A frown, then, tentatively, ‘Shelley?’
Charles had never understood why Maddox roared with such delighted laughter at that.
But he does now.
A minute later Charles is racing down the stairs and into the drawing room, scarcely noticing Molly on the steps on the landing, whisking away the cobwebs with a long feather duster. ‘Abel!’ he calls. ‘Where are you, Abel?’
‘Whatever’s to do, Mr Charles?’ says Abel, as Charles clatters into the drawing room to find the old man sitting by his master’s sleeping form. ‘I dinnae want to waken him.’
Charles comes to a halt, breathing heavily. ‘I think I may know where those missing pages are,’ he says, more softly now. ‘They’ve been here all the time – hidden somehow in that mirror.’
Abel looks at the mirror, then back to Charles, transparently sceptical. ‘Whatever makes ’ee think so?’
‘I’ll explain later. Can you help me? I want to see what’s behind it.’
Charles lifts one of the hard-backed chairs in front of the mantelpiece, and Abel steadies it as he climbs up and reaches for the heavy frame. He’d assumed it was hung like a picture, but finds, to his chagrin, that it won’t come away. ‘Is the damn thing nailed down, Abel?’ he says, catching sight of his own shadowed, angry eyes in the tarnished mirrored glass.
‘I cannae tell ye, Mr Charles,’ says Abel, from below. ‘It werenae me as fixed it. The boss had a carpenter come in special to do it. But that were years ago now.’
But even as he’s speaking Charles has shifted onto tiptoe and realized that the mirror is set at a slight angle from the wall. So slight as to be almost imperceptible from the floor, but wide enough at the top, as he can now see, to allow the insertion of what looks like some sort of thin silver tube. It’s a stretch, but Charles is just tall enough to reach in and draw it out. The metal surface is rusted here and there, but otherwise it seems intact, and it must have been made – surely – for the purpose, so perfectly does it fit its narrow niche. Even in the rush of discovery a part of Charles’s mind notes how much trouble his uncle has gone to, and how much, therefore, must have been at stake. But all that is for later. Now he just wants to know. He turns the tube upside down and shakes it gently, then watches – with that frisson the detective, the journalist and the academic researcher all share – as a sheaf of yellowing paper uncoils slowly into his waiting hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Harriet
3rd January 1817
Investigations in the Matter of Mrs Harriet Shelley
Conducted at the Behest of William Godwin, Esquire,
Skinner-street, Holborn
There follows in these pages my final report in this all too bitter case, which has been the occasion of so much grief, and for which I have paid so great a price. Would that I had never accepted it; would that I had kept to my determination to forswear all dealings again with aught of that name – a name my hand trembles to write, and that I struggle even now to hear, far less utter. But my pledge to one, and the duty I believed I owed to another, induced me, against my reason, against my judgement, against myself, to concede. I believed that I might by a slight endurance on my part help secure to them a lasting happiness. I could not know then it would be so fatal a cure.
Remarkable as it may appear, given all that has gone before, I had not met Godwin until he requested me to call at his house in the third week of September last. But if I knew the name, I knew, likewise, the reputation and the work, as any man must who reads widely, and has an active mind, though I state at once that I disagree profoundly with the argument of Political Justice, and condemn utterly the influence it has had, having seen with my own eyes the pernicious consequences.
It was indeed those pernicious consequences, which I have steeled myself with so much anguish to relate, that led me initially to refuse the meeting out of hand. But when Godwin wrote again, insisting that I alone possessed such intellectual powers as he had need of, and that I had been warmly recommended by several great men of his acquaintance (whom he obligingly enumerated), I confess my pride was flattered, much as my curiosity was piqued. And thinking, wrongly as it transpired, that the individual I reviled was no longer in England, I judged I risked little in agreeing at least to a preliminary meeting. How mistaken – how disastrously mistaken – I was in this will become only too clear in the pages that follow.
But all of this was, as yet, in the future. As I made my way to Skinner-street that morning I was anticipating, with some degree of apprehension I confess, an introduction to a distinguished philosopher, a fine thinker, an exacting intelligence. What I encountered in his stead was a short, balding, solid little man, with a long, thin nose, and a very disagreeable wife. And even had I not my own sources of information as to the perilous state of the gentleman’s finances, I should have seen at once that the bookshop of which he had become the proprietor was a failing concern: ill managed, ill situated, and the shelves half empty. I wondered at first, and for a moment, that any man of business could employ such a timid and self-effacing assistant behind his counter, only to find that the young woman in question was none other than the elder daughter of Mr Godwin’s first wife, a Miss Fanny Imlay. A modest, gentle, well-meaning creature, to judge of first impressions, though it was evident, from words Godwin let drop later, and – may I say – in the young woman’s presence, that he adjudged Miss Imlay considerably inferior in capacity to his own daughter by that same lady. That he considered the latter to be singularly bold and active of mind, and almost invincible in everything she undertook, while the former, though sober and observing, was too much given to indolence; that he thought his own daughter very pretty, while Fanny could at best be termed ‘not unprepossessing’. I glanced more than once at the aforementioned young woman during this exposition, and it was evident to me that she was only too accustomed to hearing her own talents thus denigrated in comparison with her younger sister’s. I say this, not only in condemnation, however well deserved, but in anticipation of what is to come, for I believe such behaviour on Godwin’s part – such arrant thoughtlessness – played its own part in the tragedy that was so soon to unfold. For my own part, and from such limited observations as I was able to make, I considered the young lady to be virtuous, gentle and kind; qualities, in my opinion, to be both admired and fostered in woman, even if they were neither valued nor encouraged by her celebrated mother, with her infamous concern only for the rights and freedoms of her sex. That Miss Fanny resembled that lady as little in looks as she did in temperament I could see for myself, by reference t
o a very fine portrait of Mrs Wollstone-craft Godwin which hung over the fireplace. Such a fine portrait, and so centrally displayed, that any subsequent wife might have found it irksome; that the second Mrs Godwin did so, and profoundly, was obvious to me at once, as was the fact that her husband seemed not in the slightest aware of it.
The said Mrs Godwin busied herself, firstly, in providing refreshment, or rather in instructing Miss Imlay to do so; she then took a seat beside her husband, and proposed to lay before me the facts of the case. I was, I admit, disconcerted. I have, on occasion, encountered women of insight and intelligence in the course of my profession – women able to follow the principles of logic and observation that I have always expounded – but I did not expect to find one in Mrs Godwin. Appearances were decidedly against her, but I gradually divined that her coarse features, prominent bosom and rather extraordinary green-tinted spectacles concealed a mind of considerable cunning, even if she could boast neither education nor understanding, in the strict meaning of those terms. I had wondered, on my first introduction to her, and recalling what I had heard of her from others, that she had induced a man such as Godwin to take her to wife, but the more I knew of her, the more I discerned how the feat might have been accomplished.
The lady in question was, at first, most insistent that the matter be handled with the utmost discretion, but I made bold to remind her that her husband had already been given assurances as to that by clients I had served, and that they might rely, therefore, on its continuance now. Thus reassured, she proceeded at length to relate the circumstances as they then stood. It was evident as she spoke that she, at least, had no notion of the events I have already related here, although it was impossible to discern from his impassive expression whether her husband was in a state of the like ignorance. And so it was that I was forced to endure a long account of the adulterous liaison between Mr Godwin’s daughter and the man who had debauched her – a man my interlocutress abused in one breath and exalted the next as ‘the son of a baronet, you know, with the most enormous fortune’. She told me likewise, as I already knew, that her own daughter had departed England in their company, and had still been of their party in their late excursion to Switzerland. What I did not know, until that moment, was that there were rumours Shelley might be contemplating a return to his former and still lawful marital abode. I will say at once that I was neither shocked nor surprised at this, and with good reason: given what I had witnessed I knew no conduct, however base, was too vile for such a scoundrel.
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