The Dark Clue (26 page)

‘Very well.'

She handed me the ticket for my own coat, and a sixpenny piece. ‘You won't get much for that,' she said, with the same knowing look, and a smile that was almost a leer. ‘Couple of pots of beer, and off ‘ome to your missus.'

For all I remember now of the route I took to Farringdon, or of what I saw and heard upon the way, I might as well have been sleep-walking. My every thought – beyond that required to place one foot in front of the other, and to avoid obstacles – was devoted to but one object: to try to concoct a plausible story. My want of one in the pawnbroker's shop had caused nothing worse than embarrassment – indeed, thanks to the girl, I had been spared even that – but with Farrant it would certainly prove fatal. But how to devise something that would meet every eventuality?
I am looking for a friend, who told me he lodged here.
What if he had no lodger – or, worse,
did
have one, who said he'd never seen me before in his life?
Cousin Farrant! Do you not know me? True – I was
only a child when we sailed for Australia, but surely
– ? No – the stuff of melodrama; and, besides, I knew nothing of his family circumstances. In the end, I decided I must simply gather as much intelligence as possible; and then rely on fate to give me a pretext for talking to him, and my own resources to furnish me with a character appropriate to it.

Trotter Street, it turned out, barely deserves the name of ‘street' at all; it is no more than a row of tall, pinched, grey houses overlooking a long straggle of workshops and builders' yards and odd pockets of waste ground. There is but a single line of gas-lamps, which seem scarcely equal to the task of lighting it – at least on a night like tonight, with no moon, and with a heavy fog rolling up from the river; and even when your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, there is little enough to lift your spirits. The road is rough and treacherous, the cobbles broken here and there by black puddles; and at one end of it – just at the point where you think you should be able to turn a corner, and escape to somewhere less desolate – you find your path barred by the locked gates of a blacking works. Farrant's story might yet, of course, prove to be true; but it was easy enough to imagine how a man living here might
fancy
he had suffered a thousand wrongs, when his real grievance was against life itself, for condemning him to such a cheerless place.

Number 20 was almost indistinguishable from its neighbours, save that the painted figures on the door had faded, and you could identify it only by observing that it stood between number 19 and number 21. There was a dim glow behind the fanlight, and a brighter one in the first-floor window, but otherwise the building was dark. I looked about – as had Farrant himself, if he was to be believed, when
he
was pursuing Turner – for an inn or public, where I might make enquiries about him, and take shelter while I was watching the house; but there was none to be seen. I leaned against a buckled fence on the opposite side of the street, hoping I might see someone going in or out; but after ten minutes all that had happened was that my hands and feet had grown numb with the cold. Time, I decided, to take some other action.

There was no light in number 19; and when I approached number 211 heard, from inside, the sound of a glass breaking, and two voices – a man's and a woman's – trying to outdo one another in
drunken argument. I edged away, therefore, all the while keeping my eye on Farrant's house, and knocked at number 18. After a moment, a woman of thirty or so opened the door a foot or so and peered out.

‘Yes?'

‘Mrs. Farrant?' I said.

Her forehead creased, and she drew in her lower lip and shook her head.

‘Mr. Farrant does live here?'

‘You got the wrong house,' she said.

‘Oh, pardon me. Then . . .?' I pointed down the street, and raised my eyebrows.

‘What you want with him?' she said. ‘You a dun?'

‘No,' I said; but before I could go on a child's voice behind her said:

‘What is it, Ma?'

‘Ssh!' she said; but the boy squeezed past her skirts, forcing the door wider open, and stood in front of her, looking up at me. He was about eight, with fair curls and curious blue eyes.

‘I think he may be my uncle,' I said.

‘May
be!'

‘My ma always said she had a brother who was an engraver in London,' I said. ‘Only they had a difference, when they were young; and last thing she said, when she was dying, was: “Find your uncle, and make it right with him.”'

If I had expected this affecting tale to melt her, I was mistaken; for she continued to skewer me with a suspicious gaze in which there was no hint of a tear. The boy, however, at that moment came to my aid.

‘Who's he talking about?' he said, tugging at his mother's apron. He completed the question by forming the thumb and forefinger of each hand into a circle, and then holding them before his eyes.

‘You didn't ought to make fun of him,' said the woman. ‘What with all his kindness to you.'

I remember feeling a great tiredness pass through me, weighting my legs and sapping me of the will to go on. It was late – it was cold – I had come all this way, and learned nothing for my pains save that Farrant had once been kind to a child, and there seemed no prospect that I might learn anything more.

But then, the next instant – it all happened so quickly that it is still confused in my mind – the boy darted out on to the pavement, before his mother could grab him; shouted, ‘Come on, I'll show you!'; ran two or three steps; and then abruptly stopped.

‘There!' he said, pointing to a figure moving slowly away from us. ‘There he is!' Something in the way he braced himself and tilted his head told me that he was intending to call out; but I stopped him just in time.

‘Hush,' I said. ‘I want it to be a surprise'; and then, before he could question me, or protest, I handed him the sixpence the girl at the pawnbroker's had given me, and left him and his mother staring after me as I set off in pursuit.

More than half a century ago, Farrant had followed Turner through the fog; now, here was J, following
him.
This symmetry, for some reason, exhilarated me, as the resolution of a piece of music may please the ear, or the perfect balance of a composition (think of Turner's own
Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus)
satisfy the eye. I was so distracted by it, indeed, that I became careless, and almost gave myself away; for – somehow foolishly conceiving him still to be the strapping young fellow he had been then, and imagining that it would be all I could do to keep up with him – I started at a tremendous pace, and came upon him far too quickly. Hearing my footsteps, he stopped and turned, and looked about him like an old bear sniffing the air; and would, I am certain, have seen me, save that – as I saw at once from his heavy spectacles, and half-closed eyes – his sight was now too weak. I stood quite still, holding my breath, until at length, hunching his shoulders, he lumbered on again, feeling his way with a stick. I had learned my lesson – as he, I recalled with a smile, had learned
his
in Norton Street; and waited half a minute or so before setting off once more, this time being careful to keep a prudent distance.

I did not have to continue in this manner for long. At the end of the street he turned into the main thoroughfare, and then, after fifty yards or so, into a small public house – which I must have passed on my way there, though I had no recollection of it – called the White Post. Fearing that, if I went in after him immediately, he might associate me with the footsteps he had heard, and correctly guess that I had been following him, I decided to linger outside for a few minutes. To the left of the door was a low,
uncurtained window through which I could see a crowded parlour hazy with tobacco smoke, and hear the cheerful chime of glasses and the ebb and flow of laughter and conversation. Although I could not stand directly before it without being noticed, I found that if I pressed myself against the adjacent wall and craned my neck, I still had a clear view of one half of the room – some rustic prints; the end of a long table (the people sitting at it were largely invisible, but I could just see an assortment of elbows, and two tankards, and a hat); and a small modern fireplace, bright with coals. In the chimney corner were two comfortable chairs – one empty, the other occupied by an old man with a grimy red neck-tie and a round, beef-red face. Something in the way he tapped his fingers, and then looked up questioningly, made me suppose he was waiting for Farrant; and so indeed it proved, for a few seconds later my quarry shuffled into view, and shook the old man's hand.

I say ‘the old man's'; but as he removed his cloak, and gently eased himself into the vacant chair, I saw that Farrant was in fact the older of the two. Time had made sad work with him, but he must once have been an impressive figure: even now, bent and frail though he was, his large girth and broad shoulders made him seem almost too big for the little room, and his big-nosed, wide-mouthed, craggy-browed face gave him the imposing presence of a Roman emperor – an impression accentuated by his skin, which the cold had turned as white and luminous as marble.

Within a few moments the two men were talking intently – Farrant leaning forward, and rotating his hand to emphasize his words; the other nodding in agreement (though there was a certain wariness in his eyes, it seemed to me), and drumming his fingers ceaselessly against his wrist. When the barmaid brought their mugs of beer, Red-tie looked up and smiled at her; but Farrant appeared not to notice her, and continued speaking without pause. I waited for two or three minutes more, and then, when Farrant at length sat back and cast about for his drink, concluded that I might safely go in.

Two or three of the men sitting at the table glanced briefly at me as I came through the door, but otherwise my appearance seemed to provoke no response at all, and I knew that about the
coat, at least, I had made the right decision. The smoky warmth pressed against my face, as tangible and stifling as a blanket, and made me suddenly aware how chilled I had become. It required no great feat of acting, therefore, as I picked my way between chairs and stools, to shiver and rub my hands and mutter ‘brrr' under my breath – or not, at least, until I started to come within earshot of Farrant's conversation, and heard (so I thought), amongst a torrent of words I could not make out, one that stopped me dead: ‘Turner'.

My first impulse, naturally, was to stand still and listen; but to do so would be to risk alerting them to my interest; and with a great effort of will I forced myself to continue my dumbshow. They fell silent as I approached; but Red-tie looked on with a kind of distant amusement, like a man who happens by chance upon a street-entertainer, while I stationed myself before the hearth, and began stamping my feet, and blowing on my hands, and shaking the steam from my mist-sodden clothes.

‘Evening,' I said, at length, seeing that if I was to get into conversation with them I must initiate it myself. They nodded, but did not reply; and after a moment – as if he thought this small show of ceremony had concluded their business with me – Farrant leant towards his companion and said, in a strangely light, womanish voice:

‘Undoubtedly it would have greater weight from you.'

Whether because he felt uneasy at continuing their discussion in my presence, or merely because he was curious about me, I cannot say; but Red-tie ignored him, and continued to watch me. After a few moments he said:

‘You been out all night?' He looked towards Farrant. ‘You see him, Jack? He's wet as a dog.'

Farrant screwed up his eyes to look at me. The effort made him frown; but any appearance of sternness immediately vanished when he drew in his breath with a soft whistle of pity, and said:

‘Oh, you poor chap. What happened to you?'

‘Missus threw him out of the house,' said Red-tie, with a laugh, and I started to join in; but Farrant silenced us by lifting his big hand, and shaking his head.

‘No,' he said gravely. He continued to look at me, not unkindly, as if giving me the chance to explain myself.

‘I came to see my sister,' I said. ‘Only she wasn't in.'

Farrant nodded. ‘Where's she live?'

‘Trotter Street.' That, I knew as I said it, was a mistake; but I couldn't immediately bring to mind the name of any other street in the vicinity. Cursing my own carelessness, I waited for him to ask me what my sister was called, and which her house was; but he merely nodded again, and went on:

‘And where do
you
live?'

‘Other side of town. Putney,' I said.

‘That's a fair way,' said Farrant. He looked about him, and prodded the air with his foot until he struck a stool, and then hooked his boot under the stretcher and drew it towards me. ‘Here. You don't want to stand after a walk like that.'

‘Thank you,' I said, sitting down.

‘Something urgent, was it?' said Farrant. ‘I could give her a message, if you like. I'm just at number 20.'

For a moment, I had absolutely no idea how to reply; and then, as if someone had suddenly set off a flare, illuminating a landscape that until now had been lost in darkness, I saw with perfect clarity what I must say:

‘That's very kind of you; but the fact is I'm just back from Petworth.'

Did I imagine it, or did Farrant and his companion exchange furtive glances? I went on:

‘Her boy's in service at the house; and I came to tell her how he goes on there.' I paused, but neither of them spoke – though they seemed to be watching me so keenly that I felt I must comment on it, or again risk rousing their suspicion. ‘Do you know Petworth, then?' I said, looking from one to the other. ‘In Sussex?'

‘Only by repute,' said Farrant, with a dry smile.

‘Lord! you should see it! Regular catacomb of a place. Most of, it empty, and the servants kept running one end of it to the other from morning to night.' I laughed. ‘My nephew, he's a droll young fellow, he says it's no wonder they call
them footmen,
for that's the bit that does most of the work.'