Charles Palliser (81 page)

As soon as he smiled I saw the resemblance to Stephen and this, as much as the kindness that the smile and the invitation expressed, gratified and reassured me. If I was any judge of physiognomy — the art of reading the mind’s construction in the face —

then this young man was honest and good-hearted.

A moment later I found myself in a small chamber which seemed all the more confined because of its steeply sloping ceiling. A door led into another room, which was hardly larger than a cupboard as far as I could see. A very small fire consisting of a countable number of coals was flickering in the hearth and did little to combat the cold of a winter afternoon, for although it was only the middle of November, winter had arrived. A worn Turkey carpet made a pitiful attempt to cover part of the floor. Two easy-chairs stood before the fire, a sopha was between it and the door, and a desk with an upright chair stood near the single small and dirty window. In truth everything was near everything else, so small was the chamber.

“Sit down,” my host said, and I sank into one of the chairs. “You look done up,” he went on. “I wish I had something hot I could give you. The fact is that I’m rather short of tin just at present and I don’t have anything here.”

“Please don’t worry,” I said, though hunger was making me faint.

“Let me lend something to Uncle,” he said and looked round. His expression expressed comical dismay and indeed there seemed to be nothing worth pawning in the room. There were no ornaments, no pictures, and no clock. The furniture was so shabby and broken down as to be almost useless for its intended purpose INHERITANCES

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and certainly worthless. There were no books except for some large and ancient tomes on the desk, on which lay the implements of writing: a sander, a quire of paper, a pounce-box, wafers, a brass frame like a lectern, a tablet, and a pen which he had obviously been nibbing when I had interrupted him.

“I must have something left,” he said, “though strictly between ourselves, Uncle’s been rather greedy just lately. I’ve had a run of bad luck. (I shouldn’t say luck, for that’s a fool’s notion.) So nearly everything has gone up the spout already.” He laughed and then, seeing my gaze upon the books he explained ruefully: “They aren’t mine. I only wish they were, but they’re from our office.”

My pride revolted at the idea of receiving charity from one who was so clearly himself in need, and who could joke so bravely about his poverty.

“No, no,” I said, “I couldn’t think of allowing it. My friends will look after me.”

He looked relieved and seated himself in the other chair.

“Your parents?”

“I have no father.” I hesitated. “And my mother is dead.”

“But you have friends with money? That’s a very fine thing.”

“Yes,” I agreed. I noticed his gaze upon my garments and feeling that this claim accorded strangely with the figure I presented, I said: “They have been trying to buy me new clothes and clean me up, but I haven’t had time. I’ve only just got back to Town from Yorkshire.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “You were at school with my half-brother down there?”

I nodded, wondering if he had learned anything yet of Stephen’s fate for the cheerfulness of his tone suggested that he had not. His next words resolved that doubt and made my heart sink at the realization that I was to be the bearer of bad news.

“How is the dear lad?” he asked, smiling pleasantly.

I could not answer and seeing my confusion his smile gradually faded.

“Is he ill, or …”

He broke off and I was forced to say: “I am afraid he is dead, Mr Bellringer.”

He turned away and covered his face with his sleeve.

“Poor Stevie,” he said after a moment. “When did this happen?”

“The very end of July. I am surprised and grieved that you did not know.”

“There is no-one who would have told me. His aunt and I are not on any sort of terms. But you have not told me what he died of ?”

“They killed him,” I answered without reflecting.

I had considered long beforehand what I would tell Stephen’s half-brother about the circumstances of his death and had decided to play down the Quiggs’ brutality. I spoke as I did now because, tired and hungry as I was, it was easier to tell the truth. As soon as I had spoken I realized that it would have seemed wrong to have disguised the truth, and I believe that without knowing it I was influenced in this conviction by the bereavement I had just suffered.

Henry started at my words: “Can this be true?”

So I described the circumstances leading up to the boy’s death — murder, as I called it — sparing nothing but taking care to avoid exaggeration. He listened without interrupting me with an expression of sympathy that deepened when I came to the brutal beating his half-brother had received.

When I had finished he looked at me gravely and then said: “Now, look here, old fellow, I remember that my own schooldays were deuced awful. I went to a good birchen academy and was whipped often enough. I think every 374

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schoolboy in England believes at some time that he is at school to be starved and beaten to death. Now, ain’t that so?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“But the Quiggs do sound a worse set of rascals than most. Thank heavens you’re clear of there now and back with your friends.”

“You didn’t believe my story, did you?” I said, and realized to my dismay that I was close to tears. “You think I made it up about Stephen being beaten to death.”

“Now, now, old fellow,” Henry said in a kindly tone. “I think you’ve had a very bad time and so you’re seeing things as worse than they really were. That’s all. One gentleman doesn’t accuse another of lying.” He exclaimed with comical indignation:

“Dammit sir, that’s a duelling matter!”

I smiled uncertainly and he went on: “I only wish I had known what a fearful place that was. But what could I have done for Stevie when, as you can see only too plainly, I can scarcely keep myself ? And I had no legal standing to interfere. His guardian was his aunt.”

“Should I find her out and tell her what I have told you?”

“Oh no,” he said hastily. “Those people — what are they called, the Quiggs? — will have informed her of his death.”

“Do you think that Miss Maliphant … ?”

He interrupted: “Of whom do you speak?”

“Stephen’s aunt.”

“Oh, that ain’t her name now. She married. But what about her?”

“Well,” I said, “I wondered if she knew what was happening.” Seeing his expression of bewilderment I went on: “You see, I believe I was sent to the Quiggs to be put out of the way.”

“To be kept there, do you mean, all during the year?”

“More than that. In the hope, the expectation even, that I would never leave.”

He stared and then smiled oddly: “I say, steady on, old man. I see what you mean, but that’s pitching it a bit strong. What makes you think that?”

I told him that Mr Steplight — the man who had escorted me there — appeared to have a responsibility from Stephen’s aunt to report back on his condition, and that since Stephen was visibly malnourished this tended to inculpate her.

“ ‘Steplight’ ”, Henry repeated. “No, I’ve never heard the name, I’m certain.’ Then he laughed : “As for the idea that his aunt was behind this! Well, she might not have cared for him a great deal, but I think you’re going rather too far. And anyway, what motive could she possibly have for such a thing?”

“You don’t know of one?”

He looked suddenly serious: “Let me give you some advice, old man. Don’t tell the story about the Quiggs beating Stephen to anyone else. And above all, don’t talk about his aunt like that. I know something about the law, and I warn you that there is such a thing as slander and it’s a very serious business.”

I saw that he meant well so I nodded as if in acceptance of this. I had mentioned Stephen’s family-name because I was curious about it, so now 1 said: “May I ask you if you are related to the Maliphant family?”

“No, unfortunately not,” he answered with a smile. “You see, after my father died when I was a very young child, my mother married again. Her second husband was Timothy Maliphant, Stephen’s father. (Both families lived in Canterbury and that is how my mother met Maliphant.) Our mother, alas,

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died very shortly after Stephen’s birth and he and I were brought up by our respective fathers’ families so we knew each other only very slightly.”

Since Henry’s connexion with the Maliphant family was so tenuous, I decided not to mention to him the coincidence — if it was no more than that — of the name appearing in the codicil drawn up by my great-great-grandfather.

“I said ‘unfortunately’ just now,” Henry continued, “because my father, unlike Stephen’s who had a modest independence, was a very poor man.” He smiled mischievously: “Timothy Maliphant’s annuity, incidentally, was inherited by Stephen and held in trust for him until his majority, but it died with him. I mention that in case you’re wondering if it could have been a motive for someone to murder him.”

I blushed for the thought had occurred to me, and indeed it did seem to me now that I had been excessively morbid in my suspicions.

“My own people, the Bellringers,” he went on with considerable bitterness, “are connected with some of the most ancient families in the kingdom. The blood of the Plantagenets runs in my veins. And we once had wealth — far more than the Maliphants, if it comes to that. But it was all lost long ago in foolish speculations, lotteries, card-play and other sorts of gambling. And my great-grandfather was cheated of his birth-right.”

Suddenly he laughed: “And so I, the last of my family, have been left a great inheritance that no duke’s son could hope for: the chance to make my own fortune without the aid of patron or money. As you have probably deduced from these great dusty volumes, it is the profession of the law that I am preparing myself for.”

“Stephen told me you were a lawyer,” I said.

“Not yet,” he said smiling. “I have still to complete my articles.”

“I have thought of the law,” I said. “Is it very difficult without much money?”

“Yes,” he replied. “You need to have been to one of the public schools and to be vouched for by a respectable lawyer in order to be accepted as a pupil. Then you need the premium of about a hundred pounds. And on top of that, you require enough money to keep yourself for the years of your pupillage and articles. My family was only able to furnish me with a part of the premium and so I’ve made my way by law-writing for luckily (though I hate that word) I seem to have the knack of all that kind of thing.”

“Do you mean writing Acts of Parliament?” I asked in awe.

He laughed. “That’s rich! No, indeed. I am the lowest quill-driver, chained to my desk like a galley-slave and merely copying documents. I was in the middle of engrossing a conveyance when you knocked.”

He gestured towards the table and I saw that lying there was a large piece of parchment in red and black ink, and covered in lines ruled in pencil.

I took the hint. He had been very friendly but I really had no further reason to stay apart from reluctance to return to the cold streets.

“I must go,” I said. “Or my friends will be growing concerned about me.”

I didn’t know if this pretence took him in, but it served as a useful fiction that got me to the door without further embarrassment.

We took each other’s hands and he said: “Thank you for coming to tell me about Stevie.” He paused. “Why, I don’t believe you told me your name!”

In my weariness all the names I had used appeared before me. I could not remember why I should use one rather than another and therefore could not choose, so I replied:

“John, just John.”

“Very well, John,” he said, smiling.

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We shook hands, then he closed the inner door and I descended the steep staircase.

I dragged myself back towards Mitre-court, using my second last penny to buy a piece of bread on the way. The very last coin I gave to the deputy, feeling a strange sense of release now that I had no money at all and no idea of how I would eat or where I would sleep the next day.

The chamber’s occupants had changed again and I recognised none of them. As I lay down on the bare boards I felt the contents of my jacket-pocket digging into me and remembered that all this time I had been carrying about with me my mother’s pocket-book with the letter enclosed in it. When I had thought of them I had been unable to bring myself to look at them, but I pulled them out now and examined them by the little light coming through the dirty windows. I was pleased to see the map though I noticed that it had not been unfolded since I had given it to my mother before I set off for the North with Mr Steplight. Then I leaned my back against the wall, opened the pocket-book and began to read my mother’s rather untidy hand. The first entry was dated to that long-distant day when Sukey and I had met Mr Barbellion in the graveyard at Melthorpe and then in the evening I had lain awake waiting for my mother to come up to me after our quarrel:

“First Relation:

“The 18th. of December, 1819.

“My dearest Johnnie,

“You don’t understand, of course you don’t. How could you? You were unkind but you didn’t know what you were saying. You don’t understand what Mr Barbelion’s coming here means. It means that our Enemy has found us. And you led him to us! But it’s not your fault for you are not old enough to understand. I’m not really angry. I will go upstairs now and make it up with you.

“You were asleep. I watched you for fear that you might be pretending, but I believe you were really sleeping.

“I want you to understand everything and so I have decided to write an account of my life before you were born. You will not read it until you are grown up and can understand everything in it. Some of it will be very hard for you to bear and for me to tell you if I am to tell you all of it. I will give this to you on your twenty-first birthday and let you read it. Or perhaps I will let you find it when I am dead.”

I heard my mother’s voice so clearly that now for the first time I felt a sense of loss that was unmixed with anger, and at last tears began to cloud my vision. I tried to ignore them and persevere in my reading, but I could not go on and so, stretching myself out against the wall, I abandoned myself to my grief.