The Skull and the Nightingale (16 page)

The worst of his letter was his eager sniffing after an adulterous affair. How had the old hound picked up so faint a scent? I would need to head him off.

My dear Godfather,

Nothing is more expressive of the monstrous energy of London than the continuous process of building and unbuilding. Construction, of course, is everywhere visible, perhaps most admirably in the vicinity of Grosvenor Square and Berkeley Square, where I often pause to watch the workmen at their task. The phenomenon I have called “unbuilding” I had witnessed only in its consequences until yesterday, when by chance I saw it in action.

I was walking northward from Leicester Fields, near the district of St. Giles, when I heard, somewhere to my right, a loud rumbling, followed by a more general commotion of shouting and screaming. Hurrying in the direction of the noise, I turned a corner and saw a remarkable sight: an old house, four stories high, in the very process of collapse. There was a widening crack almost from top to bottom. Part of the upper front wall had already fallen and smashed to pieces, producing the sound I had heard. Even as I watched, another great slab of brickwork broke away and came thundering down to the cobbles, raising a cloud of dust, as the spectators leaped back, shrieking. The portion of roof above the lost wall then sagged and crumbled, spewing out a shower of splintering tiles.

The din from this avalanche gradually subsided. When the air cleared somewhat we could see the rooms of the upper stories thrown open to view, with the floors sloping toward us and broken staircases leading out into vacancy. At intervals a bed, a table, or a chair would slither forward and drop onto the broken brickwork piled below.

One could judge from the appearance of the interior that this was a building in a wretched state of dirt and disrepair, destined to founder. I learned from those around me that it was the third house in the district to fall this year. This particular street is one of the last resorts of the destitute, and should no doubt be razed in its entirety in the interests of public safety, but the power and will to take such radical measures seem to be lacking. In consequence one sees many houses such as this dying from old age and decrepitude, the crooked window frames sustained by wedges and the broken panes stopped up with rags.

I was told that on this occasion, by good fortune, those within had seen or felt the early signs of disintegration and saved their lives by rushing out before the walls began to crack. In other such cases there have been deaths, particularly among small children and the old. I went on my way somewhat discomposed. Such a collapse seems to take on emblematic force in this time of changing beliefs and toppling ministries.

It also serves as a reminder of the provisional nature of all buildings. It comes naturally to us to accept our houses as so many settled facts of existence, when they are truly no more than accumulations of convention and contrivance. We glue our bricks together with mortar, nail down slices of tree trunk for a floor, build into our walls brittle sheets of glass, to admit light but shut out wind and rain. Then we have curtains to exclude the very light that the glass admits, and candles or lamps to restore the light that has been excluded. It is perhaps less wonderful that some of these structures should collapse than that the great majority remain stoutly upright and protect us from wind and weather.

When Crocker’s platoon of inebriates pushed down his wall, it appeared that vibration might have been the crucial element in their success. Might it not be the case that the seemingly solid streets of London are so abused by continual traffic as on occasion to impart an accumulating tremor sufficient to unsettle foundations from below?

I have received your long letter and studied it with care. It is gratifying to me that some of my anecdotes have stirred your interest. You may look to hear more in subsequent communications. Your hint that “hot blood and imagination” might revive my flagging desire for Miss Brindley’s person has already proved prophetic. Those lively partners have once more been working in collaboration. When I was physically replenished my mind quickly generated a strategy, which I will later describe to you, for recuperating the lady in my eyes.

The other campaign to which you distantly allude will proceed but slowly, if it proceeds at all.

You broached a number of personal and general issues of great interest to me. Aware of my youth and inexperience, I will not presume to comment upon them at this early stage; but I shall be returning to them in subsequent letters.

Yours, &c.

I was relieved to have completed this composition: several days had elapsed since I had heard from my godfather, and a reply seemed necessary. Lacking suitable subject matter, I had invented the falling house, having occasionally, like most Londoners, seen the aftermath of such a collapse. Once more I had secured myself a respite: but I knew that my next letter would have to provide livelier reading. My hope was that the masquerade at Vauxhall would supply what I needed, particularly given that Kitty was to be present.

There was another matter that I had deliberately omitted to mention: namely an entirely unexpected visit from Mr. Quentin. I had forgotten his existence, and recalled only when he was in front of me the likely reason for his journey to London.

He proved an awkward guest, refusing refreshment and offering no clue as to the motive for his visit. His manner was nervous, his dark eyes constantly glancing about the room, as though he feared that there might be a spy in hiding in a cupboard or behind a chair. When I asked about Mrs. Quentin’s dental treatment, he shook his head gloomily.

“It has been a protracted business,” he said. “Yes, and a painful business. The teeth were worn and brittle, Mr. Fenwick. Several of them broke—broke in the course of extraction, making it hard to remove the root. My wife was distressed—greatly distressed. She bled profusely. Her mouth is much swollen, but we are told that it will settle—gradually settle. Meanwhile she is reduced to a liquid diet until she has sufficiently recovered to allow for the provision of artificial teeth.”

Not greatly exhilarated by this information, I said what I could to express sympathy and convey good wishes. For some time thereafter we continued to make conversation of a strained and desultory kind. Having disposed of his wife’s misfortunes, Mr. Quentin seemed to have little more to say. If I asked a question he offered no more than a brief reply. Only rarely did he volunteer a remark of his own; the several silences between us being such as to make me think either that he was about to announce his departure or that there was some topic he secretly wished to raise—as, for example, when a man means to ask for a loan but cannot nerve himself to blurt out his request. If that had indeed been the case, I would gladly have offered him the loan—or a gift, for that matter—to be rid of his oppressive company.

When eventually my improbable guest did take his leave, suitable courtesies were of course exchanged, but they rang hollow. The seemingly purposeless visit could not but seem strange to me, and it was plain that Quentin knew it.

Later I wondered whether he had been sent by Mr. Gilbert himself to see me in my quarters and report on anything exceptionable. But even if he had, there was nothing to fear: I had been as sober and courteous as my godfather could have wished. It would be interesting to see whether word of this encounter reached Mr. Gilbert.

I
soon received a more welcome visitor in the shape of Matt Cullen, newly returned from Worcestershire. I sent out for wine, Mrs. Deacon had a meal cooked for us, and Matt and I sat talking till late in the night. I was immediately in better heart merely for seeing him. As always, there was something in his comfortable manner, and habitual half smile, that made life in general seem a more lighthearted affair. He spoke cheerfully even about his father’s gout, although it became clear that the attack had been severe, and that Matt himself had been at pains to provide necessary comfort and assistance.

When I told him how matters now stood between myself and Mr. Gilbert, he listened intently, even while grinning as though there were something droll about the entire situation. I showed him my godfather’s recent letter, drawing attention to the curiosity expressed concerning Sarah. Matt sat musing for some few moments and then chuckled aloud.

“You find yourself in a strange pickle, Master Fenwick,” said he. “I heard Mr. Gilbert’s name mentioned several times in Malvern, and always to the same effect. It seems that his influence has extended throughout the county. He has earned the respect conferred on those who are owed money. Some of our best-known landowners are said to be in his debt. Whether he is liked, I cannot say, but he is feared. This is a patron well worth pleasing, Dick—even at the price of kissing his withered arse.”

“I could wish that that was the extent of the problem,” I said. “He’s a dainty old fellow: I’d as lief kiss his arse as yours. The case is more serious. I ask myself whether my godfather may not be corrupting me.”

“Is he not asking you to enjoy the very pleasures you prefer?”

“Yes, but he now goes further. He transgresses boundaries. You know that my feeling toward Sarah is a solemn matter. If I pursue her it will be in deadly earnest. I cannot lay the matter open for my godfather’s entertainment.”

“Have you not already done so?”

“I have hinted—no more. But I seem to have whetted his appetite.”

“You should whet it further. In that direction lies prosperity.”

“Am I to be allowed no life of my own? Am I to be my godfather’s performing dog?”

“You put the case prejudicially,” said Matt. “But why not? Provided that the performance guarantees you a sufficiently fat lamb chop.”

How seriously he was speaking it was hard to judge: we had both drunk well.

“Cullen,” I said, “you are a man without principles.”

“I have
numerous
principles. But I resort to them only in emergencies, for fear I should wear them out.”

When I told him how Gilbert had warned me against him, he feigned offense.

“Here I am, pleading his cause. This is a dotard blind to true merit.”

“Then my case is hopeless,” said I.

Chapter 10

I
called on Tom Crocker to see what progress he had made in furnishing his house. He and Francis Pike were engaged in unpacking a number of objects purchased at an auction. These were miscellaneous goods indeed, including a large mirror, a tiger skin, a fat smiling Buddha (purchased, said Crocker, because it reminded him of himself ), and a huge carving in dark wood of a snarling wild boar. Crocker expressed himself particularly pleased with this latter purchase, which he said he proposed to use as a seat. When with some effort he straddled it, animal and rider did indeed look oddly comfortable together.

Being hard at work, Pike was not wearing a wig. I was therefore able to see, for the first time, that his right ear was badly torn. When he was out of the room I asked Crocker about it, and, to my embarrassment, he called Pike back to give me an account of what had happened. He did so with his habitual composure:

“That damage, sir, was done when I was a boy, living in the country. When my family had no food I turned to poaching, and on one occasion I was caught by the gamekeepers. Wanting to make an example of me, they nailed my ear to a tree. When they had gone I was able to tear myself free.”

“Were you not in agony?” I asked, shuddering.

Pike paused, his bony face thoughtful. “It
was
painful, sir; and there was quite considerable loss of blood. But I don’t consider the ear a serious part of the body—only a flap of gristle. I’ve had worse things happen to me.”

“Mr. Pike is a practical philosopher,” said Crocker. “However bad the situation, he hits on the best course he can find, and goes on with life.”

I was taken round the house on a tour of inspection. Considerable progress had been made since my previous visit: there were carpets, curtains, and furnishings in place, and some of the pictures had been hung. Through a window I saw that the wall of the rear garden had been completed.

I was quite unprepared for the shock that awaited me. We had moved upstairs to see a room destined to be a library. A stocky man was standing there, looking intently from window to doorway and back again, as though calculating distances.

“Ah!” said Crocker to me. “You must meet Mr. Ogden. Mr. Ogden, this is my friend Mr. Fenwick, come to admire our progress.”

Ogden turned absently, as though our entry had interrupted a train of thought, and offered a token bow.

“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Ogden,” I said, in some little confusion. “Your name is already known to me. I was acquainted with your wife when we both lived in York.”

“Yes, yes, I believe she has mentioned you,” he replied inattentively.

Ogden was staring directly at me, but with no sign of interest. He was just as I recollected him, heavy and drab, if not without a certain force. Somehow he woke in me an instant sense of physical aversion: I could not easily have brought myself to shake his hand.

“London is smaller than we think,” said Crocker, unaware of such tensions. “Mr. Ogden lives in Margaret Street, just along the way. He is giving me valuable advice on the refurbishment of this house.”

“I understood that you dealt in diamonds, Mr. Ogden,” said I, surprised.

“I did, sir—I do. But my interests have reached outward toward glass, mirrors, crystal, chandeliers . . .”

He spoke politely, but let his sentence trail away. Crocker intervened on his behalf:

“To get the measure of Mr. Ogden you must see his work. His great interest is in the disposition of light within a house. The source may be a window, a doorway, a mirror, or a chandelier. He can direct your eye and double the illumination. But he is making his survey and we must leave him to it.”