However, I seemed to have lost my followers in the fog and I would now have to do my best to recollect my feelings of apprehension, of strained ears and of widened apprehensive eyes that could see nothing; of the sensation that every fibre in my body was awake, ears listening, legs slightly weak, lips dry and eyes trying to penetrate the gloom around me. Yes, that had been the way that I had felt. I felt pleased with myself as words and sentences flooded into my mind. I walked on, rapidly, my boots ringing on the broken paving slabs, trying as hard as I could to relive my earlier feelings so that when I sat down to work in the dark hours of the night, I would have a storage chest of sensations to call upon. Dickens had praised the descriptive passages in my published novel, Basil, but I had an uneasy feeling that Hide and Seek was not going to be as good, not going to garner as much praise from the critics. I needed to feel it more intensely as I was scribbling the words on the slip of paper, to experience it and I needed to live through it as I had lived through the agonies of mind and body when I was writing Basil. I walked a little faster and tried to summon those feelings of terror, the panic felt by the hunted as his pursuers gained upon him.
For a moment I thought that my imagination had begun to work overtime. But no. Surely these were actual footsteps behind me. Surely a muted whisper was carried upon the still air.
And then I realized that the footsteps and the whisper were real. Not the sound of drunken carousers, now, but the stealthy cautious movements of a pursuer. Not out in the wilds of America, but walking through the streets of north London. Quickly I began to run, stumbling along, one hand holding my hat to my head, the other holding out the fragile umbrella like a weapon. I cast a terrified look over my shoulder. They were behind me, had cast all caution to the winds now. They had lulled me into a false sense of security, but now that I had chosen a deserted alleyway, they had no fear now of bystanders. Both were undoubtedly following me, running with the long steps of fit and athletic young men. We were less than halfway down the small deserted alleyway and I knew that there was little hope of any help from those unfortunate creatures who might be sheltering within the broken walls and gaping roofs of the buildings on either side of me. It took a brave and confident man to come between a pursuer and his prey on a night like this.
Nevertheless, I shouted ‘help’ as loudly as I could. Another glance over my shoulder confirmed that they were almost on top of me. One of them flashed a light from a bullseye lantern which he wore at his waist. Not drunk, certainly not drunk, not some poor wretches who would be satisfied with a few coins from my purse. These men were dressed in respectable ulsters, capes draped over shoulders and silk scarves tucked in around their necks. But chillingly illuminated by the lantern, both had fixed smiles upon their faces.
And before I could shout again, one of them was beside me, his hand over my mouth. I did not struggle, but stood very still. He flicked the silk scarf from the folds of his ulster and slipped it around my neck. I choked as the noose tightened, dropped my umbrella and tried to work my fingers inside the smooth silk, struggled as hard as I could, but to no avail. My throat hurt and I could hardly draw a breath. I remembered reading once that silk is the strongest of all materials and now I found it impossible to tear it from my neck. I heard one say something about teaching him a lesson and the other said the one word ‘careful’. And then I felt my senses begin to ebb and I knew that I was on the point of death. I began to sag. The smooth feeling of the silk was now beneath my chin and I drew in a deep breath and hung there, dizzy and almost unconscious. They were laughing about something. My hands.
‘Dinky little hands,’ said one.
And the other said fiercely, ‘Shut up, Toby.’
I made no move. My life, I knew, hung on a thread. The strong silk scarf tightened a little around my neck, but then it was loosened.
‘Listen to me, little gentleman.’ The voice in my ear was rough, uncultured and did not appear to fit well with the silk scarf and the respectable tweed ulster. I made no move and resisted the impulse to raise my hands in order to release the choking grip around my neck.
‘Shine that glim over here, Toby,’ said the man and the bullseye lantern flashed its light. My captor was still holding the scarf, drawn tightly around my neck, but with his other hand he reached into the pocket of his ulster and drew something out. He held it to the beam from the lantern. I blinked the moisture from my eyes and then, very gingerly, I reached up and took off my spectacles. My hands were free and I was able to rub the glass clean on the smooth silk of the noose that had been drawn around my neck. I replaced them.
‘That’s better,’ I said and I forced a note of insouciance into my voice.
My captor gave a quick chuckle.
‘Game little cock bird, ain’t you?’ he said.
I drew in a short breath through my aching throat and hoped that the worst might be over. Now let them search my pockets, take all of my money and release me.
They didn’t though. There was more to come. Once more the silken noose was drawn up to the height of the man’s head. I rose as high as I could, standing on the tips of my toes until the calves of my legs ached and my eyes once again wept tears of agony. I swayed there for a moment and then, just as I felt that I was losing consciousness, he loosened his grip and allowed me to sink back upon my feet again. I stood very still and did not attempt this time to wipe my eyes, just blinked, squeezed them tightly and allowed the water to trickle down past my cheek bones. I stood as quietly as I could and thought about my mother and about Charley.
The bullseye lantern still seared through the fog and lit up the blue and green threads on the second man’s ulster. He, too, wore a silk scarf. I looked up at my captor. His hand was in his pocket now. He brought it out and displayed a short, stout stick.
‘See here, see this cudgel,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Just you look at that, my little man. See the horseshoe nails hammered into the top of it. Now if I was to tap you on that great big head of yours, just a couple of good bangs, well, you know what would happen to them horseshoe nails?’
He didn’t wait for an answer and I had none to give him, just stood there, feeling the sick dizziness getting worse and trying hard not to vomit.
‘Not so talkative now, is he, Toby? Well, I’ll tell you what would happen. They’re short, little nails, you see and if I hit that bonze of yours well and hard, right against that big bulging forehead, well, these little nails would pop out with the force of the blow, go right into your head and they would go straight into your brain. And what sort of a state would you be in, then? What do you think?’
I made no answer. There was something horrible, something deeply frightening about his words and as I visualized the short, sharp little horseshoe nails shooting forth from the blunt-ended cudgel, and killing my brain, I felt my head almost split open with the force of my revulsion.
‘What do you want from me?’ I was conscious of how my voice shook with sheer terror and how the question came out in a high squeaky tone. But I did not care. All I could think of now was to get away from these well-dressed creatures of horror and to give them what they wanted.
‘We wants you to keep your trap shut. You’ve been sticking your nose into matters that don’t concern you,’ said the man with the lantern.
‘And now we’re telling you to stop, to stop if you know what’s good for you.’ The second man swung the small stout cudgel in his hand and made a quick strike with it in mid-air. I flinched, jerked back, felt the silk scarf tighten around my neck and then stood very still. They both laughed, rough chuckles, and I felt ashamed of my cowardice. It was no good, though. I could not be what I never had been. There were two of them and each was almost a foot higher than I was. I looked down at my small, ladylike hands.
‘Very well, then,’ I said mildly.
That seemed to take them aback. They had expected questions, perhaps even some bravado and now they were at a loss for words.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I’ll do whatever
you tell me. Tell me what I have to do.’
‘Stop goin’ around an’ asking questions,’ said Toby.
‘Very well,’ I said for the third time. And as they were still nonplussed, I said, rather daringly, ‘May I go now?’
They were looking at each other. Unsure. Paid men; I had no doubt. Not too certain about their instructions. Violence and threats came easily, but now they didn’t know what the next step should be.
And then all doubts were resolved. The still air that descends on the city with the advent of fog now seemed to be fragmented. A sharp, ear-splitting, high-pitched note from a police whistle rent the air. Quite a distance away, I guessed, but I didn’t hesitate, but put two fingers to my lips. When I was twelve years old, an Italian boy had taken me in hand and taught me all the tricks that he and his friends had learnt. And one of them was to imitate a police whistle.
And the response came instantly. A perfect chorus of whistles. The police, and I blessed their benign presence, were out in force that night.
‘Croak him, croak him quick!’ hissed Toby, but his friend was more circumspect. He didn’t reply. He snatched the silk scarf from my neck and took to his heels, sliding through a gap between the crumbling buildings, like a rat escaping from a pack of terriers. Toby followed him.
But I did not. I was no hero and so I once again put my fingers to my lips and blew the shrill note as loudly as I could possibly manage. My legs trembled and I felt that if I ran I would fall down, but leaning upon my umbrella I did my best to walk steadily. I was determined only to get out of this pestilent alleyway and never again would I walk in such places, alone and late at night. I stumbled along but fear drove my unsteady legs and eventually I was out in the main street. Once again I blew hard upon my fingers and then I waited for my rescuers.
Never was a sight more welcome than when they rounded the corner and advanced towards me, cudgels at the ready. Inspector Field and men. I hadn’t ever cared very much for the man, and during these last days I had feared and hated him as a possible destroyer of my brother’s liberty and life, but now when I saw Inspector Field I greeted him with great relief.
‘Mr Collins, what’s the matter, sir? Have you been attacked?’ His concern seemed genuine and I realized that I was of importance as the friend of the famous Mr Dickens, a man whose name was on all lips and who, above all, had written an article about Inspector Field and about the great work that he was doing in the slums of London.
‘I’ve been attacked,’ I said, with my hand to my throat. ‘Almost strangled, in fact.’
‘Strangled!’ He seized upon the word and I was reminded of the image of a rat escaping from a terrier. Inspector Field had barked out that word as though he were a pugnacious dog.
‘That’s right. With a silk scarf, of all things.’ I tried to laugh. It was almost laughable, but my voice broke. The feeling of the blood singing in my ears had been too recent for me to dismiss the experience in an airy fashion.
Inspector Field did not laugh at the choice of weapon. ‘A silk scarf,’ he said and there was a note of intense interest in his voice. ‘Did you hear that, sergeant,’ he said and turned his bullseye lantern upon one of the other policemen.
The sergeant’s eyes, illuminated by a blaze of light, widened. ‘Silken Sam’s lot, were you thinking, inspector,’ he said.
‘And the other man, a man called Toby, he had a silk scarf, too.’
Both men looked at each other and one whistled. They looked all around, but I did not point them in the direction where my tormentors had disappeared. I was far too shaken to even think about doing without my protectors for even a few minutes while they pursued the scoundrels.
Inspector Field, however, had my safety in his mind. ‘We’ve just passed Mr Dickens, sir. He was walking just by Shorts Garden. We’ll walk back there with you, sir.’
He said no more about Silken Sam and his strange choice of murder weapon. Inspector Field had never got over featuring in the daily newspapers as a guardian of the peace in stories written by the foremost novelist of the day and he was always eager to supply Mr Dickens with new material in case he would be at a loss for something to write about. I said no more, but walked by his side, gingerly feeling my throat from time to time but relieved and happy to have such a formidable guard to escort me to Shorts Garden.
Dickens was pacing up and down at the entrance to Shorts Garden when we arrived. Inspector Field handed me over to my friend with the air of a mother bringing her son to his first school.
‘Mr Collins has had a shock, sir,’ he said solicitously. ‘A very nasty shock. Got held up by a brace of criminals.’
‘Silken Sam,’ said the sergeant and Inspector Field frowned heavily at him.
‘Don’t know if you’ve heered of Silken Sam, sir, have you? Gentleman Sam, some calls him, but mostly he’s known as Silken Sam. I’d say that you have heered tell of him, haven’t you, Mr Dickens,’ he enquired.
Dickens’ eyes burned with interest. ‘Silken Sam’ sounded as though he could have stepped out from the pages of one of his novels. He stopped beneath the gas lamp and took out his notebook. Then he hastily shoved it back into his coat pocket and turned to me.
‘My poor friend,’ he said. ‘You must have a brandy. You look shocked, doesn’t he, inspector. Let’s all adjourn to my favourite hostelry. You know the Lamb and Flag, Wilkie.’
I said that I did. I had never heard of it as being a favourite of Dickens’, but he was like that. He had almost an ownership of so many places, so many buildings in London that to go around with him was to have the sensation of accompanying a man through a room full of friends. I listened to the inspector agreeing that he and the sergeant could spare a few moments and would be glad to assure themselves that Mr Collins was no worse for the experience that he had undergone.
‘It’s the wish of the Metropolitan Police that all citizens can walk the streets in safety,’ he said with a flourish and Dickens bowed gravely. His face, though, when he looked at me, was full of curiosity and now that I had recovered from my fright, I began to feel rather curious myself. My mind was busy as I followed my friend and the inspector in the direction of the Lamb and Flag. I noticed that the sergeant walked by my side, matching his long stride to my short steps. His face, beneath the brim of his hat, was filled with interest as, from time to time, he glanced surreptitiously at me. ‘Who are you to have had such an interesting experience?’ he seemed to be saying.
The Lamb and Flag was a good choice. A fire blazed with that good clear red that can only be given by top quality sea coal. It was too early to have many people there. One of the window tables was occupied, but Dickens, of course, was immediately recognized by the host and was ushered to a table by the fire. He instantly took the seat with its back to the wall. He always did that, I noticed. Seated thus he could see the whole room, watch who came in, inspect interesting faces, overhear scraps of conversation.
I took the seat beside him, leaving the two opposing seats for the inspector and his sergeant. Even so, I noticed, the inspector, under the pretext that his chair wobbled, managed to shift his position so that he, too, could at least keep an eye on the door. The sergeant got up and warmed his hands by the fire, rubbing them hard and casting sharp glances around the room and towards the curtained doorway that led to the kitchen.
However, when the steaming jugum of purl arrived and the landlord filled the four tankards, the sergeant came back and held the fragrant mixture to his nose and though still turning his head from time to time and scrutinizing the room with sharp glances, he gradually relaxed and took part in relating the litany of atrocities committed by my late acquaintance, Silken Sam and his gang.
‘Yes, got a whole gang of them, Mr Collins. You was lucky, you know. They reckoned that you would be a soft touch. That would be the way of it. Silken Sam just brought Toby along. Toby is a new boy and he’d be training him, like. Didn’t think they’d have any trouble.’
‘So why is this ruffian called Silk
en Sam?’ enquired Dickens while I hid a slight annoyance by swallowing a large gulp of the hot ale.
‘It’s the scarves, you see,’ explained the inspector. ‘He got a load of them silk scarves once from off a ship at the docks and he didn’t sell them all. So every gang member gets to wear one when he goes out on a job.’
‘Gives them a classy look,’ inserted the sergeant.
‘And he dresses them up, smart-like, good coats, hats, fancy sticks, just as though they were a few gentlemen out for a stroll in the evening, just like yourself and Mr Collins, Mr Dickens, sir.’
Dickens gave me a half grin. He had often laughed at me for my untidy and shabby appearance. But he was too interested in Silken Sam to tease me now. In any case, I was interested in the remark about the fancy stick.
‘He threatened me. He told me to stop going around and asking questions. He took something out of that stick of his,’ I said to the inspector. ‘He unscrewed the brass ring on the bottom of the stick and then he took out a small cudgel.’
‘Heavy?’ asked the inspector with a knowing look. ‘It would be that cudgel of his, the one with the nails in it,’ he informed the sergeant and then looked across at Dickens to see whether he was impressed.
I shuddered. ‘I didn’t feel it,’ I answered shortly and then took another swig of the ale. I wished that I had some laudanum powder in my pocket. Laudanum and purl made a very soothing beverage, I thought, as I listened to Inspector Field stimulate Dickens’ imagination with intriguing details about the life and misdeeds of the individual known to all as ‘Silken Sam’. He seemed to have forgotten all about the warning that I had received, perhaps did not quite believe me. I drank some more purl and then some more and felt that the hot ale was dissolving my troubles, clearing my brain of shadowy figures and bringing forth one figure so that he stood out against the background of indistinct figures clustered together in my mother’s drawing room.
Winter of Despair Page 21
