by Avi
This man was all but leaning over the bailiff, talking into his face—not as if engaged in an argument, but with serious purpose. His left hand held a top hat while his right hand—forefinger extended—tapped on the bailiff’s chest as if to punch a mark on it.
“Heed my words, Mr. Tuckum, heed ’em,” he said. “All is now ready. We’re about to haul in our nets.”
“I hope you’re right, sir,” Mr. Tuckum returned. “Old-fashioned as I am, my greatest fear is—” At that moment he caught sight of me standing there, looking on, listening. He immediately stopped talking.
The large man, following the bailiff’s gaze, turned. I could feel his severe eyes appraising me.
Next instant Mr. Tuckum cried, “There you are, Master John! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He hastened forward, took me by an arm, and determinedly guided me away from the man to whom he had been talking, making no introductions whatsoever. By then, however, I’d remembered who the man was: Chief Inspector Ratchet of Scotland Yard.
“Alas,” said Mr. Tuckum, speaking rapidly as he led me off, “I’m afraid it went as we feared. A sad business, a sad business. As for me, I’ve grown quite fond of your father.”
“Where is Father?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at the inspector. He was looking after us.
“Placed in Her Majesty’s police van. I don’t know if he has already reached prison, but no doubt he will arrive there soon enough.”
“What will happen then?” I said.
“Perhaps it would be best to return to the inn, where I can explain everything to your mother as well as to you.” He had taken me around the corner, so the inspector was no longer in sight. “Was not your servant girl with you?”
“I left her by the curb.”
“Then let us collect her and be on our way.”
“Mr. Tuckum,” I said, “I think I saw Mr. O’Doul at the court.”
“The one who brought the writ of debt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perfectly natural he should be there. All the same, I should have liked to observe him.” To which he added, “Just my old-fashioned curiosity.”
I said, “I do feel badly.”
“Egad! An old-fashioned boy like you should feel distressed.”
I was about to say that I felt badly because he was not being honest with me. Instead, I said, “I fear I won’t be able to help my father.”
“Now, now! Every day is a … hmm … new day, Master John. Quite new. Ah, here is your girl.” He meant gray-haired Brigit.
United, we made our way back to the Halfmoon Inn in a Hansom cab, each of us in a silent, contemplative state of mind. But the moment we entered the inn, we were confronted by Clarissa, who, upon seeing us, sprang to her feet. “He’s come back!” she cried, her face illuminated by a rare smile.
“Father?” I said. “Here?”
“Not Pa, silly,” she exclaimed. “Mr. Farquatt!”
“Mr. Farquatt? Here?” cried Brigit.
“Himself!”
“Clarissa!” I said. “Don’t you wish to hear what’s happened to Father?”
“I know all—”
“Clarissa,” admonished Brigit with a severity she did not often use with my sister, “you need to listen.”
“Perhaps, my dear young lady,” said the bailiff, “it would be best to fetch your mother so she, too, can hear our news and so may decide upon your next steps.”
“I’ll fetch her,” said Brigit, and she went off. I sensed that, annoyed by Clarissa’s self-centeredness, she wanted to leave.
I sat down on one of the benches to absorb such little warmth as the fire cast. Clarissa, quite irrepressible, took a place right next to me and took hold of my arm as if to make sure I, at any rate, would listen to her. “John,” she said, “you don’t seem to understand.”
“Clarissa, Father is in prison.”
“I know what happened,” she said. “Mr. Farquatt was there in court and told me.”
“He was?”
“Of course he was. And he saw it all. John, he told me that he was so impressed, so moved by Pa’s eloquence in making his defense.”
Brigit returned.
“Indeed,” Clarissa continued, “dear Mr. Farquatt—you must listen to me, Brigit!—was kind enough to say that Pa’s spirit reminded him of me. As a result, despite what had happened between us before—you see how much he cares for me—he came directly here and once again asked for my hand in marriage. And, oh, John, I have accepted him!”
“You are quite sure he was moved by what Father said?” asked, wanting to be certain I’d heard correctly. “And it was that which made him return to you?”
“Isn’t that wonderfully romantic?” cried my sister, with nothing but joy. “I think Father will be pleased. Aren’t you so pleased, Brigit?”
Brigit said nothing. If anything, she appeared quite glum.
I looked around. Mr. Tuckum was across the room, but I was sure he had been listening to this conversation. I turned back to Clarissa. “My congratulations, I’m sure,” I said—rather flatly, I fear.
Clarissa was not to be denied. She clasped her hands and beamed. “Of course,” she said, “before it is final, Mr. Farquatt will need to go to Father and ask his blessing and permission.”
“He’ll have to go to Whitecross Prison to do so,” I said.
“John, I assure you, Jean cares so much for me, it will not matter.”
“Jean?” I said.
“Mr. Farquatt’s Christian name,” said my sister. “You know, John, now that we are on intimate terms, it’s altogether proper for us to use such names. Isn’t that so, Brigit?”
“I would think so,” Brigit replied, but with continued gloom.
“But I have even more news for all of you,” my sister went on excitedly.
“Which is?” I asked.
“My happiness is quite secure. But Mr. Farquatt—Jean—is truly prepared to help Pa in his great difficulties.”
“How?” demanded Brigit.
“Now that Pa shall be his father-in-law, Jean is willing to pay off his entire debt.”
“That is wonderful news!” I cried, and looked around to share in the general delight.
Mr. Tuckum, however, was looking very solemn. As for Brigit, my sister’s happy words caused the color to drain from her face.
None of this was what I would have expected.
CHAPTER 28
I Confront More Riddles
It is difficult to describe my emotions as my mother, sister, and I—along with Brigit—gathered round to listen as Mr. Tuckum set forth our situation.
Had we not learned that my sister was to be married? Good news, surely.
Mother, for one, was very pleased.
Had it not been announced that Clarissa’s husband-to-be—Mr. Farquatt—was to pay Father’s debt?
Wonderful news in which my mother, my sister, and I rejoiced.
Then why was Brigit, who should have been equally joyful, so clearly unhappy? The same for Mr. Tuckum.
The truth is, what filled that room gave me a sense of unease: an awareness that things were not quite what they should be, as if there were as many shadows in that room as people. And, whereas I could name all the people, I could not put names to the shadows.
Mr. Tuckum interrupted my thoughts. “The circumstances in which you now find yourselves,” he began, “must be clearly understood. Mr. Huffam has been removed to Whitecross Street Prison. There he will reside until his debt has been certifiably paid or a settlement accepted and agreed upon by this Mr. O’Doul. Since the sum is so … hmm … large, the conditions of the Insolvent Debtors’ Act shall not apply.
“The costs encumbered by Mr. Huffam in prison shall be four shillings a week. That is, of course, on the paupers’ side. Mr. Huffam has the option of paying for a great variety of genteel comforts—lodging, food, drink, et cetera, et cetera, as set forth by the warden, Mr. Ambrose Makepeace, as fine a gentleman as this town or any town ma
y see.
“Mr. Huffam’s family—which is to say, you—have the option of living with Mr. Huffam in the prison, at such cost as Mr. Makepeace has established.”
“I am not prepared to reside in prison,” Mother snapped.
“Then where will we stay?” asked my sister.
The bailiff interjected: “Needless to say, Mrs. Huffam, Miss Huffam, Master Huffam—as well as you, Brigit—you retain your liberties and may come and go at the prison, within the rules, curfews, and such regulations as pertain.”
“Can we not return to our home?” asked Mother.
“Mother,” I reminded her, “the furniture is all gone.”
“Quite true,” said Mr. Tuckum. “And being the old-fashioned man that I am, I should remind you that the expense of living here, at the Halfmoon Inn, has already accumulated to the amount of two pounds, three shillings, and one pence. Many a debtor, cast into prison, finds it desirable—if merely from an economic point of view—to have his family reside with him.”
Mother sighed.
“Perhaps we can stay with Aunt Euphemia,” suggested my sister, a remark that brought forth one of Mother’s most withering looks.
“In conclusion,” continued Mr. Tuckum, “I can assure you that all of this falls well within the majestic traditions of English law and, as such, must surely bring a sense of well-being and comfort to you who have the good fortune to live in this … hmm … great nation. Any questions?”
“Sir,” I asked, “may we visit my father so as to consult with him?”
“Excellent boy!” cried Mr. Tuckum. “I think that’s just the thing to do.”
“I’m sure,” said my sister, “Mr. Farquatt would like to accompany us. Can he speak to Pa in private? He has specifically requested it.”
“If he wishes,” said Mr. Tuckum rather gravely.
“I have heard,” said Clarissa, “that a marriage can be solemnized in prison. Is that true, Mr. Tuckum?”
“Clarissa!” cried Mother. “You cannot be married in prison! And I am sure Mr. Farquatt would not wish it either.”
“I can only say,” said the bailiff, “that there are distinguished clergy attached to all our prisons. Many a blessed marriage has been solemnized there.”
“Very well,” said Mother, “we shall go to the prison this afternoon and sort matters out.” That said, she rose and went up to her room, none too happy, I could see.
After a moment my sister stood up. “Why is it that no one has congratulated me for securing Father’s happiness and liberty? Is it because I, a young woman, have accomplished what no one else could do?”
When no one replied, she announced, “You are all beastly!” and hurried up the steps.
After a moment Brigit followed, murmuring, “I’d best be with her.”
So it was that I remained alone with Mr. Tuckum.
The bailiff waited a moment, eyes on me, as if hoping I might speak. When I did not, he retrieved his installment of David Copperfield and settled down to read.
I gazed into the fire, sifting through what I knew and didn’t know.
At length Mr. Tuckum put his reading down and pushed his eye-glasses up. “Master John, you do not appear in a contented state of mind.”
“No, sir, I am not.”
“Would you be willing to tell me why?”
I considered him. He was looking at me with a frank, open face, his Piccadilly weepers framing a look of perfect benevolence. But then the inspector’s phrase echoed in my head—Then we must make sure to use ’im—and I decided to put Mr. Tuckum to the test.
“That man,” I said, “the one with whom you were talking outside the court, who was he?”
“Ah, well, yes. A … hmm … casual acquaintance.”
“Does he have a name?”
“It … escapes me.”
I had often—surely by my mother—been accused of having far too much fancy for my own good. But at that moment I was quite convinced that no one was telling me the truth!
So much for trust. But I went on, determined to use him. “Mr. Tuckum,” I said, “you were in the room just now when my sister spoke of Mr. Farquatt’s visit to her.”
“I was.”
“Did she not say that Mr. Farquatt was at the court and was so impressed by my father’s eloquence in his defense that it made him return to her?”
“I do believe those were her words.”
“As do I. Yet, I can’t recall my father saying anything in court.”
The bailiff nodded. “The law—in its eloquence—does not allow a defendant to speak on his own behalf.”
“Then how,” I asked, “do you explain Mr. Farquatt’s report?”
“I fear I cannot.”
“Nor can I.” I turned away. “Forgive me,” I said, “I’m in need of some air.”
“Master John,” Mr. Tuckum called after me.
I paused and turned.
“I believe your great-aunt has offered to find you a position?”
“She has.”
“But your mother had unkind words to say about that possibility.”
“She did.”
“Master John, I would suggest—if I may be so … hmm … bold—that you don’t put that offer aside.”
“Why?”
“As you have heard me say many times, Master John, I’m an old-fashioned man. Ready employment should never be spurned out of hand. Not in difficult times.”
“But Mr. Farquatt has offered to pay my father’s debt.”
The bailiff sighed. “Being old-fashioned, it remains to be seen if he will.”
“Sir,” I blurted out with anger, “I think you know far more than you are willing to say.”
“Master John,” the man returned with something akin to sadness, “I can say only what the law allows me to say.”
“Or is it, what the law told you to say?”
When he made no reply, I went out the door and into the front court angrier, but more bewildered, than ever.
CHAPTER 29
I Have More Questions
My head was twisted with questions as confused as the London streets. To wit:
Why was Old Moldy at the court?
Why was Mr. Nottingham there?
Why—outside of court—did Brigit and Mr. O’Doul exchange a knowing look?
Why would Mr. Farquatt claim he was at the court when he had not been there?
Why should Brigit be unhappy regarding my sister’s betrothal to Mr. Farquatt?
Why did Mr. Tuckum pretend not to know the large man with whom he had spoken, when it was Inspector Ratchet, the same person he had met at the inn in the middle of the night?
What business did Chief Inspector Ratchet of Scotland Yard have with any of this debt problem if debtors’ prison was so common? Was he not required—as Mr. Tuckum claimed—“to investigate only the most serious crimes”?
And what did Inspector Ratchet mean by saying earlier, “We’re about to haul in our nets”? Who—or what—was he about to catch?
Who was Inspector Copperfield?
And finally: Were these questions all connected?
As I mulled these riddles over, I wandered away from the inn, with no specific objective in mind save to get away. It was only as I turned onto Halfmoon Street that I looked up. Standing right in front of me was Sary the Sneak.
“You tried to trick me,” she said by way of greeting.
“What are you talking about?”
“Yer Mr. Farquit.”
“What about him?”
“You asked me to find out ’bout ’im, right?”
“I did.”
“An’ you said ’e was employed by a company goes by the name o’ Cred Board-o, right?”
“That’s where he told my sister he was employed.”
“Then ’e were foolin’ ’fer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because in all o’ London there ain’t no such establishment, that’s why.”
“But—”
“Ain’t no butter ’bout it. Yer Frenchy Farquit may work for someone at someplace, but you can be sure it ain’t that place.”
I stared at her.
Sary grinned. “Maybe now you can see the point o’ ’avin’ a sneak for a friend.”
“I suppose I can,” I admitted.
“Then ’ows ’bout you payin’ me to follow this ’ere Farquit bloke the same as I followed you?”
I stood there wondering what game Mr. Farquatt might be playing, wondering too if Mr. Tuckum knew something about him he had not revealed. Why else should the bailiff question Mr. Farquatt’s ability to pay my father’s debt? In fact, a new question immediately loomed: Did Mr. Farquatt need to see my father because he wished to request marriage to Clarissa? Or did he propose marriage so that he could go see my father?
I was so mired in my thoughts that Sary tugged me on my sleeve. “What you thinkin’ ’bout?” she asked.
“How much do you charge for your sneaking?” I asked her.
“Thrupence the day.”
“I don’t have any money,” I said.
“Just tell me where I can find ’im an’ I’ll do the sneakin’,” Sary assured me. “I’ll mark you down for credit.”
Recalling that Mr. Farquatt would presumably be joining us at the prison, I said, “Do you know where the debtors’ prison is?” I asked.
“Course I do. Everybody does. It’s on Whitecross Street.”
“I must meet my father there.”
“’E in prison, right?”
“I fear so.”
“Nothin’ fearful about that,” Sary replied. “Anyway, that prison is a lot closer than Australia, where me pa is, ain’t it? Lots of chaps in prison for no reason I can see. Boy I knows, somethin’ like five years old, ’e’s been sent off six months for spinnin’ a top where ’e wasn’t allowed to. Another got five for fallin’ asleep in Kensington Gardens.”
I stared at her.
“It’s true! Not that yer kind pay mind to such.”
“I’m not doubting you,” I hastened to say. “But will you meet me outside the Whitecross Prison at eight o’clock tonight? I should be able to point out Mr. Farquatt to you, or at least tell you where he lives. But make sure no one sees you.”
