by Peter Carey
“Sit up all night and not get your shilling? No, no. You must go up.”
“I’ve a long way to travel, Ma’am, and a household to attend to.”
“You can’t leave now. He’s left you sitting for hours. You go up and tell him. He’s a fine man, a good man. You won’t find a better one.”
“Just the same,” said Maggs.
“Just the same, my aunt. You go, Sir, or I’ll bring him down myself.”
“But surely he’s asleep.”
“Asleep? He never sleeps. It’s half past five and he’s in his room. Come, I’ll show you where it is. If he’s writing in his book, don’t mind. Just say, here I am and John’s my name and I am here for to get the tip you left me all night waiting for.”
So Maggs ascended the stairs a second time. It was just as well, he thought. If ’twere done, ’twere best done quickly . . .
13
TOBIAS OATES HAD AN obsession with the Criminal Mind. He found evidence of its presence in signs as small as the bumps upon a pickpocket’s cranium, or as large as La Place’s Théorie analytique which showed the murder rate in Paris unchanged from one year to the next.
There was a little shop in Whitechapel, the province of a certain Mr Nevus, where Tobias was in the habit of purchasing what he called “Evidence.” Here he had recently paid a very hefty sum for the hand of a thief. With the exception of the tell-tale little finger, which was malformed, the fingers of the hand were long, thin, very delicate; sadly in opposition to the skirt of skin which trailed back from the harshly butchered wrist. This hand floated in a large wide-throated jar of formaldehyde identified by a brown discoloured label, on which was inscribed a legend in Arabic the meaning of which was not, as yet, available.
He had many such secrets hidden in his study. There, in that cubby hole labelled “M,” were the notes he had made on his visit to the Morgue in Paris. There, on that very high shelf up against the ceiling, was a parcel wrapped in tissue paper and tied with black ribbon—the death mask of John Sheppard, hanged at Tyburn in 1724.
There was much of the scientist about Tobias Oates. The study, with its circular window and its neat varnished systems of shelves and pigeon holes, was ordered as methodically as a laboratory. There was not a loose piece of anything here, not a nightingale feather or an unbound sheet of paper: everything was secured in its own place, tied up with ribbon, or tucked away in labelled envelopes. In these corners Tobias Oates stored not only his Evidence, but also experiments, sketches, notes, his workings-up of the characters who he hoped would one day make his name, not just as the author of comic adventures, but as a novelist who might topple Thackeray himself. And it was this ambition, always burning bright within him, which brought him to his desk before dawn on that day when Jack Maggs came knocking on his door.
The sharp, demanding nature of these knocks announced a visitor who was unfamiliar with his household. Tobias swiftly slid the jar into the corner of his desk. He placed an open encyclopedia in front of it, and picked up his quill. He opened his chap book. He appeared, as he turned his head towards the door, rather as he does in the portrait Samuel Laurence painted of him in 1838. That is, he looked towards his visitor as at a bailiff, or some other person with the power to knock him off his perch.
“Enter.”
The door swung open to reveal Percy Buckle’s footman.
Tobias Oates took in the splashed stockings, sooty knees, damage to the powdered hair.
“Is this bad news?” he asked.
The dark eyes stared back at him balefully.
The writer reached for the golden cord which tied his gown, pulled it loose, tied it once again.
“The pain returned?” he guessed, but he was very confused by such a visitor at such an hour.
The fellow took a half-step into the room.
“What happened to your stockings?”
“I fell,” the footman said curtly, blinking and looking hard around him.
“For heaven’s sake, man, it is five in the morning.”
“The hours are hard, Sir.”
“You were dragged out from your bed? Does that mild man really send his servants out at such hours?”
For answer the visitor clenched his two hands and held them out strangely from his sides. This gesture was queer and unexpected, suggesting more power than any servant had a right to assume. It was then Tobias began to feel afraid.
“Some wrong has been done you?”
“I’ve been waiting all the night, since you finished your pudding.”
The footman took a further step into the room. Toby picked up the only weapon available, his paperweight. It was a two-pound weight belonging to the kitchen scales.
“But where, dear God? All night?”
“In the street.” Jack Maggs closed the door behind him.
“This street? Outside my house?”
“And then most recently, I was conveniently inside your kitchen.”
“Man, you’re shivering.”
“I know it.”
Tobias did not relinquish his two-pound weight, but he offered the chair he had been sitting on. “And what is your true purpose, old fellow?”
Jack Maggs had sat himself in the chair but immediately stood up again, folding his great arms across his chest. “What was it you did to me at dinner time? To be blunt, Sir, that’s what’s on my mind.”
“Ah, so that’s it. The pain has come back!”
“Tell me what you did to me.”
For answer Tobias attempted to lay his hand against the servant’s cheek, but Jack Maggs jerked back his head, curled his lips and showed his gums.
“You pried into my secrets.”
“No.”
“That’s why those gentlemen were looking at me so strange when I woke up.”
“You deserve an explanation,” said Tobias carefully, “but you’ll not get it by glowering at me. Here, I’ll take this stool, and you have my chair again. No one wishes you ill, you have my word. What you call ‘strange’ was human sympathy. They are gentlemen, perhaps, and you are a footman, but they were moved by you. You are filled with Phantoms, Master Maggs. It is these Phantoms who cause you such distress. Did you know that? Do you know what hobgoblins live inside your head like beetles in a fallen log?”
“But how did you make me speak?” cried the visitor, sitting forward again in the chair, his hands upon his spattered knees. “In all my life I never have spoke in my sleep, not never.”
“Last night you were a Somnambulist.”
“Whatever it is called, it is a terrible thing, Sir, for a man to feel his insides all exposed to public view, a thousand times worse than to come before you with my stockings in this state.”
“Would you rather keep the pain?”
“I would have it back ten times over, if my secrets came with it.”
There was a long silence.
“Do you read?” Tobias asked at last.
“I am not an ignorant man, if that is what you’re thinking.”
“You might like to read that little chap book by your elbow. There, that’s the one. Turn to the third last page. The date is the sixteenth of April. There you may read exactly what secrets you have given me.”
Jack Maggs stared at the book but did not touch it. “Oh Sir,” he said, very quietly. “I do really wonder whether that were wise of you.”
“Open it. Read.”
The footman shivered so violently that Tobias Oates was reminded of Pharaoh, a race-horse belonging to his father whose freckled flanks would twitch and shiver at the onset of the saddle. Then, as Jack Maggs slowly and carefully read the two pages of handwriting, Tobias Oates hatched his scheme.
“This is all I said? Naught else besides?”
“That is all.”
“Then I was drunk, Sir, if you’ll forgive my French.”
“But this Phantom lives within you,” said Oates earnestly. “You have a creature who wishes you harm, who lives within you like a worm lives in the b
elly of a pig. It is the Phantom who hurts your face.”
“I ain’t acquainted with any Phantom, Sir. I never heard his name before.”
“I believe that I can remove this pain of yours for ever.”
“Oh, I have had the pain for many years, Sir. It is an old friend by now.”
“Was it friendly to be so attacked in public?”
Jack Maggs closed the little chap book and placed it carefully back upon the desk. “I am happy as I am, Sir.”
“But what if I should take the demons from your heart where they are causing you pain? What if I write them on paper and then place the pages in this box here? When we are done, we can go to this fireplace, Jack Maggs, and we can burn them together.”
“But what is it to you, Sir? It is my pain after all.”
“I am a naturalist.”
“I heard you was an author.”
“Yes, an author. I wish to sketch the beast within you. If you were to continue with this experiment I would not only attempt the cure, I would pay you wages.”
“I do not want money, Sir.”
Tobias laughed suddenly, bitterly. “Good. What other inducement might I offer you? Not to cure your pain? You are fond of your pain.”
“I don’t need nothing.”
“An introduction?”
The footman hesitated. Oates felt that hesitation, like the dull pressure of an eel on the end of a baited line.
“What mean you by introduction?”
“I was imagining you might like an introduction to a superior household . . .”
The footman waved this away.
“It was some other type of introduction that you sought? Speak up.”
“Well, I had planned to ask you, Sir, if you had visited the house again. It took my attention when you spoke of it.”
“Ask now.”
“There are still Thief-takers in business,” the footman began. “Is that what I understood you to have said?”
“You were robbed?”
“You mentioned a Thief-taker at dinner. Partridge. Him who can find any man in England.”
“There is someone you want found?”
“It’s a family matter, Sir.”
“So that could be our bargain?” Tobias Oates leaned forward on his stool and put out his small square hand to shake on it.
“I never said I wanted it.” Jack Maggs folded his arms across his chest. There was a pause. “But if I were inclined that way, when would you deliver him?”
“Directly.”
“Today?”
“No, no. Good heavens. There would have to be value in the bargain for me. Four weeks, three.”
“No, no,” the footman stood, shaking his head and knocking his knuckles together. “I could not wait four weeks.”
“Three,” said Tobias Oates, also standing.
“Two,” said Jack Maggs. “Two or nothing.”
“Two then. Can’t say fairer than that.”
The footman put out his hand to shake and Tobias Oates imagined he could feel an equal but opposite enthusiasm in the other’s violent grasp.
14
“THEN THIS IS HOW we will proceed,” said Tobias Oates, turning his back so that his great excitement could be hidden from the subject. “I will send a note to your Mr Buckle, explaining the present circumstances.”
“He’ll dismiss me from his service.”
“On my word, he will not dismiss you.”
“He will.”
“By the Lord above!” Tobias turned. “Mr Buckle will do exactly as I wish him to.”
“If I am dismissed, where will I have my crib?”
“Your master is a student of Mesmerism. He will be pleased to make you available for science.”
Jack Maggs’s eyes narrowed, his hawk-nosed face turned hard and shiny, just like, Tobias thought, a peasant with a pig to sell.
“I never said I were available to science.”
“Nonsense. You made a bargain.”
“No. You will get me to the Thief-taker. That is the bargain.”
“Yes, I undertake to introduce you to Mr Partridge and do everything in my power to make that meeting a productive one for you. You, for your part, will do what I ask of you.”
But the fellow was now staring down mulishly at his hands.
“You never said nothing about science.”
“For God’s sake, man,” cried Tobias Oates irritably.
“Don’t shout at me, Mr Oates. I know what I heard.”
“What is there to be unsure about?”
Jack Maggs opened his hands so that the stumps of his fingers lay plainly displayed upon his knee. “I won’t have nothing written down.”
Tobias feared he was about to lose his subject. He had played his hand too obviously. The man had seen his need.
“That’s a pity, Master Maggs, because the deal is done and good enough to stand up in a Court of Law. I am going to make these movements,” he said, keeping his voice as stern and solemn as a magistrate. “They are called ‘passes.’ ”
“No.”
“You look me in the eye,” cried Tobias Oates. He began to pass his hands before the footman’s malevolent, heavy-lidded eyes. “Watch my hands, fellow.”
Finally, Jack Maggs did watch. He watched warily, sitting a little sideways in the chair, as if the square white hands might do him a damage. And yet, by the time night had lifted from the misty little garden, his unshaven chin was resting on his chest.
“Can you hear me?” Tobias Oates asked.
“Yes, I can hear you.”
Tobias blew out his red lips in silent relief. He reached across to his desk and picked up, first his note book, then his quill.
“Are you comfortable?”
The footman shifted his backside, a little irritably. “Yes, comfortable.”
“Is the pain there?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Now you and I, Jack Maggs, we are going to imagine a place where there is no pain. Can you find a place like that?”
“Leave me alone. The pain is always there.”
“Then we are going to make a picture, like in a fairy tale. We are going to imagine a door so thick, the pain cannot get to you. We can imagine high walls made of thick stone.”
“A prison . . .”
“Very well, a splendid prison, with its walls twenty feet thick and—”
The Somnambulist began to move his arms about violently. “No!” he shouted. “No, damn you!”
“Quiet,” hissed Tobias. “Do you hear me? Quiet. If you don’t like a prison you can have a blessed fortress. A castle with battlements and flying flags. It can be a house. It does not matter.”
“A house.”
“Yes. A good sturdy house with double walls of London brick, and oak shutters on the windows.”
“Morrison Brothers on the doors.”
“Very good. Indeed. The locks and latches are made by dear old Morrison Brothers. Now we are standing on its threshold. Where is the pain?”
“Damn the pain. It always follows me.”
“In a shape? Is it the same shape? Like a man? Like an animal?”
“I’m trying. I’m trying.”
“Good. Good man.”
“When I look at it, it changes. Now there are two of them.”
“A man and an animal.”
“No, no, leave off, leave off of me. Leave me alone.”
“Very well. Is the pain there?”
“Yes, of course. I told you. It is always there. I have to stop. I have to stop this now.”
“We can stop it by going inside the house and locking the pain outside.”
“Must I?”
“Yes, you must.”
A pause.
“Where are you now?”
“God help me, I have done what you told me to. I have gone inside the house.”
“Where is the Phantom?”
“You know the answer.”
“Is he inside or outside the
house?”
The Somnambulist placed his hands over his ears.
“Inside or outside?”
“How can I see when you are talking to me all the time? Let me alone if you please.” The footman paused, and frowned. “There are people everywhere. I can’t see him.”
“There are people inside the house?”
“Ever so many.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know them.”
“What sort of people?”
“Gentlemen . . . and ladies.”
“What are they doing?”
“Walking around, spying on things. They are opening the drawers and the cupboards.”
“What of the Phantom?”
“Looking in through the window, most agitated.”
“Because locked out?”
“Yes, locked out.”
“And the pain is gone?”
“No, the pain is bad. They should not be there. It is my place, not theirs.”
“Yes, it is your place. Yours alone.”
“They don’t want me owning it. They’ll take it from me.”
“No, it is yours, Jack Maggs. You know it is yours. You must expel everything that agitates you.”
“They won’t listen to me, Sir. I am not a gentleman.”
“But have you tried?”
“Yes, yes,” Jack Maggs cried passionately. “A hundred times over, I have told them, but they will not listen to me, and I must do what they say.”
“What shall we do? What might persuade them do you think?”
“Oh, Sir, that sort . . . that sort should pet the old double-cat.”
“The double-cat?”
“The double-cat. The thief’s cat. It has a double twist in the cord.”
“You mean the cat-o’-nine-tails?”
“The double-cat is heavier.”
Tobias Oates had been sitting with his legs crossed, writing diligently in his court reporter’s shorthand, but when he heard this comment he looked up sharply. “Perhaps we could open the door and simply ask them to leave.”
“Oh, that’s a joke.” The sleeping man twisted his mouth into an ugly shape. “A very good joke, that is.”
“Well, if you would like to try a joke, my man, see what I am doing to them now.”
