The Skull and the Nightingale (48 page)

As I walked on through the trees, musing in this vein, my foot slithered on a stone, almost throwing me over. Again I bit my swollen tongue, and again I swore. I sat down on a fallen trunk till the bitter pang should have passed.

It was exactly in that moment, as I was squatting on damp bark, with my face caught in a grimace, that a chance recollection, and then a chance connection, showed me, with the clarity of a lightning flash, the truth of my situation. In that single second I knew conclusively that I had been deceived, that my high hopes had been the merest delusion. The shock was so sudden, and so great, as to resemble a physical blow. I stood again and gasped for air. In a few seconds of further thought I had interpreted my past afresh and expunged my imagined future.

The new understanding seemed to disconnect me from my surroundings. I looked about me, quite at a loss. It seemed that I had no reason to be where I was, or to be anywhere else—no reason to go forward or to go back. Mere instinct led me to plunge deeper into the wet woodland, my movements mechanical, my mind empty. I came confusedly to myself as I saw someone standing in front of me and heard a voice saying: “Mr. Fenwick, you look pale. Are you unwell?”

It was Mrs. Hurlock. Of course it was Mrs. Hurlock. This was where we had met before: she must have been looking for me.

I could think of nothing to say. Here we stood amid misty autumn woods, two pitiable creatures. She was looking at me, concerned. Something was expected of me, but my mind was empty. Without a word, without a thought, I seized this plump lady and threw her down upon the wet leaves. I was kissing her throat, laying bare her big breasts, throwing back her clothes, forcing apart her thighs. In a moment I was thrusting myself again and again into her body, as I would have done at that moment had she been a child, a grandmother, or a sheep. I think I must have shocked or hurt her, for she scratched my face as I spent with a long animal howl that reverberated among the dripping trees.

I do not recollect quite how it came about, but afterward I burst into tears, sobbing on and on like a child. My breeches, smeared with mud, were still unfastened and my wig had fallen off. Mrs. Hurlock, whose dress had been torn aside, held me to her naked bosom, kissing my face, stroking my hair, and murmuring endearments. She seemed to interpret my wild grief as relating to herself, a wordless outburst of impassioned feeling. Having despised and abused and deceived her, I could hardly begrudge her the mistake.

After some few minutes, when I had sniveled myself to silence, I pulled away with some incoherent mumblings and a last peck upon her cheek, and stumbled off toward Fork Hill House. As I entered, mud-stained and distracted, I encountered the physician who was leaving. I cannot think what he made of my red eyes or the damp leaves clinging to my clothes. He told me, with professional decorum, that Mr. Gilbert was still seriously, though not dangerously, unwell, and should keep to his bed for several days.

T
he following morning I wrote my godfather a brief message of sympathy and farewell, and set out once more for London.

Chapter 27

T
he latter half of my return journey was obscured by autumn mist. In London, where these vapors were thickened with city smoke, the streets through which we clattered were so many dusky caverns. The circumstance was apt: I felt suffocated by uncertainty, unable to discern what the future might hold.

Arriving at Cathcart Street chilled and stiff, I found some comfort in the friendly greeting from Mrs. Deacon and more from the fire that had been lit in my parlor. I sat beside it sipping tea and wondering how to pass the days ahead. There was now no intrigue to pursue, nor had I any incentive to seek out odd sights. My single plan was to talk with Matt Cullen, find out from him whether there had been further news concerning Ogden, and discuss my changed situation.

Lingering discomfort from the journey caused me to retire early and to wake late. The house was as thickly muffled by mist as on the previous day. I sat by the fire once more, scarcely capable of thought—still less of useful action. There came relief of a sort when the maid brought a letter, newly delivered:

Dear Mr. Fenwick,

My aunt and I have decided to withdraw to York for a time. I am in need of respite, since I remain greatly distressed and confused by recent events. Mr. Gow and Mr. Semple have been empowered to take charge of all business and legal matters during my absence, and will keep me informed concerning them.

You will yet again think me inconsistent, but I have concluded that, after all, I would like to see you before I go, should that be possible. There are certain topics which I can discuss with you alone. We leave very shortly. If you are free to call today or tomorrow, I will be most grateful. You will find me at my aunt’s house.

Yours, &c.

Blank as I was feeling, I stirred myself and went that very afternoon—went on foot, wearing a low hat and a long kersey coat to hold off the wetness in the air. The gloom of the weather had subdued the life of the streets: I strode along unhindered. As I neared Mrs. Kinsey’s house I felt a renewed tingling of nervous recollection. I took a deep breath before knocking at the door.

It was Mrs. Kinsey whom I first encountered. As ever she greeted me warmly, but she looked weary, and to my discomfiture I saw a tear on her cheek. She brushed it aside and recovered herself, saying: “I know you will excuse me, Mr. Fenwick. I have a heavy heart. How sadly things fall out.”

“I hear you are to travel to York.”

“It was my suggestion. Sarah has been very sorely tried. We can stay with the Martins, very quietly, away from the questions and the gossip.”

“This has been a hard time for you both.”

“A very hard time. Poor Mr. Ogden. I used to laugh at him, but he was a generous man. He bought me this house.”

As she spoke I followed her glance and saw on the wall to one side of me a portrait of Ogden that I had not previously noticed. It was an unwelcome shock to confront again the heavy, inexpressive face of the man I had last seen lying dead in the mud. I looked away, but remained conscious of his gaze.

Mrs. Kinsey retired, with a few murmured words, when her niece entered. Dressed in black, finely erect, her face pale, Sarah could have been a tragic heroine.

“I see you are in mourning,” I said awkwardly.

“I have been for several days—since I was assured that there could be no hope.”

We sat facing each other, and I waited for her to speak. A week or two earlier such a meeting would have filled me with trepidation. I had imagined being stricken with a guilt which would make it hard for me to speak—let alone to lie. But in my new frame of mind I felt detached almost to the point of indifference.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I did. Before leaving London, I wished to know what you could tell me about that—that fatal night.”

“There is little to tell.” I made a show of recollection: “It was a dark night—and cloudy. I reached Margaret Street about midnight, and saw the watch pass by. When they had gone I came to the house and found your note. I read it under a lamp nearby. Having no means of immediate reply, I made my way home. I recall that it began to rain.”

“You saw no one else?”

“No one.”

Perhaps my newfound unconcern helped me to speak with conviction. In my mind I saw the scenes I was describing more clearly than I had ever cared to remember the actuality. Sarah sat silent, taking in what she had heard. At last she said:

“It seems that there is nothing more for me to learn. I can hardly bear to think of that night, still less to talk about it, but it seems so strange that Mr. Ogden should have returned as he did unless—unless he had some suspicion of a plan known only to you and me.”

I asked the question that had long been in my mind: “What passed between you before he left for Malvern?”

“Almost nothing. But one moment I remember well. When about to go, he returned to the bedroom—I think to say good-bye—and saw me smiling into a mirror. He said, ‘You look happy,’ and turned away. Those were his last words to me.”

I was once more aware of Ogden’s face looking down at us.

“Was that why you wrote to me as you did?”

“Perhaps. Partly.”

“It was as well that you did so.”

“It was. Otherwise my plight would have been insupportable.”

Her sadness would have saddened me at any time. In the light of my new understanding it stirred in me a sense of utter dreariness and futility. I could think of nothing to say that seemed worth saying. It was left to Sarah to speak again, looking me in the eyes as she did so:

“You and I can be candid with one another—and with no one else. Our lives have been linked.”

“They have. What do you now feel concerning your husband?”

Sarah spoke in a low voice: “What I feel is guilt and pity, rather than grief. And therefore further guilt. I respected him and was grateful to him. But he was hard to love. Perhaps no one ever loved him. Then he was killed. That was a sad life.”

I bowed my head in sober assent, but my thoughts were drifting elsewhere. I had been reminded of my interview with Mrs. Quentin.

“What will you do in York?”

“I hardly know. Read and sleep and walk and think.”

“A quiet life.”

“A very quiet life. It is all I am fit for at present.”

She sat with clasped hands and lowered eyes. As I looked at her I could sense Ogden’s painted eyes staring at my profile. I wondered whether she would take the portrait with her to York or whether it would stay here presiding over an empty house.

Sarah rallied a little:

“But you will be in town still, merrymaking on your godfather’s behalf ?”

“I think not.”

“Why?”

“The link between us has been severed.”

Sarah looked up, surprised into attention.

“Can you tell me more?”

“Not at this time.”

“But what will you do?”

“I must seek employment of some kind.”

There was a further silence. We had each made a statement that led to a closed door. It remained only for us to exchange formal farewells. I glanced again at the woman I had widowed and saw that her cheeks were now faintly flushed. As when clasping Mrs.Hurlock a few days previously, I could have wept from pure desolation. Getting to my feet, I said: “I must take my leave. When do you leave for York?”

“On Monday next.”

“Will you write to me?”

“Perhaps. I cannot promise.”

I kissed her cool fingers and left.

M
att Cullen called the following day. He entered with the large grin which meant that he had something entertaining to impart.

“I bring you news that will surprise you.”

“Will it please me?”

“Not necessarily. But it may amuse you. Miss Kitty Brindley is now Mrs. Horn. Not content with being her protector, Nick quietly married her last week. What do you say, Dick? Your face is a study.”

“I was fond of the girl. Nick is a mad young dog, but sentimental. They may both have made a lucky choice. Will she continue on the stage?”

“Most certainly. Nick will be luminous with reflected glory.”

“Perhaps that is better than none. Nick is the first of our band to tie the knot. Will you be asking for the hand of your servant girl?”

“That is not the part I covet. Besides, she saves the money I give her toward marriage with a young lobcock named Barnabas. We are adjuncts, Dick, you and I. We promote the nuptials of others.”

We both laughed, he the more heartily of the two. I broached a bottle of wine and asked if there had been further reports of any kind concerning Ogden. He told me there had not. He had it from Gow that two men had come forward claiming to have vital knowledge, but had proved to be chucklehead reward seekers who knew nothing at all. The affair was as good as closed.

In turn he asked about my visit to Fork Hill, and listened with his usual smiling attention as I spoke of my godfather’s illness and the frustration it had caused him.

“That does not surprise me,” said Matt. “There is a man who cannot bear to feel the clarity of his mind clouded by the weakness of his body.”

I described Gilbert’s keen interest in the disappearance of Ogden, and predicted that even Gow’s latest pronouncements would not persuade him that the story had reached its end.

“In that connection,” said I, “a question occurred to me. How did you first come to make the acquaintance of Mr. Gow?”

Matt scratched his chin.

“I scarcely recall. It was a matter of chance. We happened to strike up a conversation at the Pear Tree.”

“Well dissembled, Matt,” I said approvingly. “What seasoned liars we have both become. So it was not that Mr. Gilbert asked you to seek him out?”

Cullen’s face lost all expression as I spoke. For some moments he sat still as a statue. When at length he replied it was in altered voice:

“So the old devil has given me away?”

“Not that he knows. Being unwell, he let fall some careless words which made me see our past transactions in a new light.”

Cullen nodded slowly, two or three times, but said nothing. It was strange to see his face incongruously dejected, the wig perched above it like a hairy lid. I felt pity for him, and thought what sad creatures all human beings were. To put an end to the stillness I poured more wine and addressed him conversationally.

“When did this begin?”

“In March, after you had left Fork Hill.” Cullen spoke in a lifeless voice. “I was at home in Malvern, with nothing to do. Mr. Gilbert sent word that he would like to see me.”

“Had you met him before?”

“Once or twice, briefly—when you were abroad. He saw me again later, when my father had the gout.”

“The gout was true?”

“Yes.”

“And are you indeed related to the duke?”

“Yes, but I scarcely know him and have no hopes of him.”

“So you lived on my godfather’s money.”