The Women of Eden (53 page)

Eden spoke in a peculiarly gentle tone. "I feel compelled to warn you, Professor Nichols, that my errand here today is not a pleasant one."

Bertie heard the sharp staccato sleet pelting at the window. The storm was growing worse, the room darker and colder. "Please speak openly, Mr. Eden. It's been my experience that one can deal with anything—"

"Fm grateful for your reassurance, and my request is quite simple.**

"Name it."

"I want you to leave Cambridge, Professor Nichols. I want you to leave England. I v^ll give you one week to put your affairs in order. Then you are to come to my London offices and I will have traveling papers for you plus two thousand pounds to cover any inconvenience. A steamer will leave Portsmouth on the thirteenth of December for Australia. I want you on it."

Bertie looked at the quiet man speaking madness. Perhaps it was a joke. Yes, that's what it was, a bizarre ice-breaker to warm the passage to the true subject. Bertie laughed and stepped farther back until he felt the support of the wall. "I—don't understand," he faltered, the laugh fading when he saw that no one had joined him.

"Of course you do,** Eden went on. "For years Richard has done little but boast of the vast scope of your intellect. Surely you can grasp the outline of so simple a proposition."

"Yes, I can grasp it, Mr. Eden, but I don't understand—"

"Then let me make it clearer." Eden pushed away from the wall and walked to the window, obliterating what little light of day was left. "I must make a painful confession," he said. "For several months both you and my cousin have been under observation by a private investigator, one hired by myself out of London."

"For what purpose?" Bertie demanded, angry at hearing his theory confirmed.

Eden shrugged. "For the purpose of gathering evidence, for the purpose of proving my private suspicions, which I have harbored and kept to myself for many years, since you and Richard first formed an —alliance."

The word was sarcastically spoken. With what ease the scene had become his worst nightmare. "And what would those suspicions be, Mr. Eden?" Bertie asked quietly.

The words came as he knew they would. "That you are a Sodomite, Professor Nichols, of the worst exhibitionistic kind, that your one aim is to corrupt men, as you have corrupted Richard, and that England can do very well without your contagion."

A cold wind seemed to be blowing directly on Bertie's face, but cold as it was it could not extinguish the fires of pain at hearing the accusation stated thus. He turned toward Aslam, regretful that the young man had heard, and requested softly, "Aslam, would you be so good as to wait outside."

Eden laughed. "Don't concern yourself with Aslam, Professor Nichols. First, he is well beyond your corruption, and, second, he knows more about your questionable activities than I myself." The laugh faded to a sad smile. "You see, Aslam has been working in concert with the private investigator, as has a woman named Mrs. Pettibone. Do you know her. Professor Nichols? Does the name mean anything to you?"

Bertie turned away. Mysterious whispers seemed to be filling his ear. The walls of the decaying room were closing in on him. Perhaps loneliness wouldn't be too hard to bear for a man who had taught himself to love life in its entirety.

Eden saw his withdrawal and claimed a premature victory. "Oh, come now. Professor Nichols—things could go much harsher for you.

355 In essence I'm offering you a new life, and I hear that Australia is a promised land, and they need teachers. With two thousand pounds in your pocket you can set yourself up in any kind of Hfe you wish, perhaps even find one of your own kind to share it with."

One of your own kind. How unworthy he felt, how empty. On the wall before him was a strip of loosened wallpaper. He pulled at it and saw it disintegrate in his hands. "What if I refuse to go, Mr. Eden?"

There was a pause, then the voice spoke with even greater regret. "I don't think you would be that foolish," Eden murmured. "You see, I have just come from the poHce inspector's office. I've provided him with impressive evidence of certain Sodomite activities in Cambridge, right under his very nose, as it were. Do you know the police inspector. Professor Nichols? He's a very righteous man, a pillar of support in the local Methodist church and a Bible scholar as well. He quoted endless passages for me, didn't he, Aslam, on corrupt and unnatural behavior between men, called it the handiwork of the Devil."

The voice came closer. "He begged me, Professor Nichols, for the names of the parties involved, so that he could move swiftly to wipe the sinners out. But I withheld the names on purpose, though I promised him that I would supply them later."

He stood very close now. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you what a trial would mean to both you and Richard, a pubUc trial, here in Cambridge with all your colleagues in attendance, the evidence—and it is impressive—dragged out for all to see."

Bertie tried to move away from the threatening voice.

"And neither do I have to tell you. Professor Nichols," the voice went on, "the outcome of such a trial, the judgment, the swift sentence, the persecution of Sodomites by fellow prisoners. . . .''

To his astonishment, Beri:ie felt his eyes fill with tears. StiU there was a weakness in the fabric of everything Eden had said, a flaw which, if only Bertie could find it, might make a difference. There was something too calm in the voice, some aspect to the threat that Eden was trying to avoid.

With effort, Bertie wiped his eyes. With the obstinate egoism peculiar to trapped animals, he found the flaw and turned on it.

"I have no doubt that you are prepared to bring charges against me, Mr. Eden. But what of Richard? I suggest that you consider the

pain he will suffer if you bring charges against him, your cousin, who, by his own confession, loves you deeply."

As he talked, he watched for the slightest change of expression on that self-confident face. But he detected nothing, though Eden did concede, "It would be difficult. But no more difficult than it has been to watch his steady disintegration from full manhood to something weak and unspeakable." His voice fell. "Thanks to you, Professor Nichols, I can hardly bear my own cousin's company anymore. Your malignancy has emasculated him. He is half-woman now, and I would rather see him dead."

Shocked, Bertie whispered, "I—don't believe you."

"Whether you believe me or not is unimportant." Eden walked back to the window, where Bertie saw the storm raging, the sky blackened with boiling clouds.

The voice rose above the storm. "Only Richard can produce a legitimate heir to the Eden name. Professor Nichols, and, since you lack a womb, then you must be removed from the scene. A young woman of good birth has been selected, and with your departure I'm confident that Richard will recover his lost manhood and perform the function for which he was intended."

"If he doesn't?"

Eden shrugged. "Then I'll send him to prison, without hesitation, for he'll be as good as dead to me, and I prefer that he do his rotting out of sight."

Stunned, Bertie stared at him. He glanced toward Aslam, as though the presence of a third party might alter something. Then all the horror and threats congealed within him and, suffering physical weakness, he stumbled forward and would have fallen except for the trunk, which he reached for just in time. Sitting heavily, he closed his eyes.

"Oh, come now. Professor Nichols," the voice chided from the window. "It isn't the end of the world. In fact, I would suggest that you view it as the beginning of a new one. Will you do that for me, for yourself, as well?"

He could not reply.

**Then I'll take my leave and give you the privacy which you so obviously need. Aslam and I are on our way back to London. We won't stop by to see Richard. Please tell him that I shall look forward to his company during the Christmas Festivities at Eden."

Bertie tried to lift his head, but it hurt to breathe.

*'As for yourself," came the voice from the door, a gentle voice, "I would advise that you see to the conclusion of your affairs here and within the week I'll look forward to seeing you in my London offices." Here the gentle voice altered. "Don't forget, Professor Nichols, that you are still under close scrutiny. If you are not on one of the London coaches by the seventh of December, an envelope will be delivered to the police inspector, and on the morning of the eighth I can promise that both you and Richard will be behind bars. Is that clear? Do you understand everything I have said to you?"

Understand? Understand?

"Good day to you, then. Professor Nichols," the kind voice said. "Al] pain can be borne. If you truly love Richard, tell him goodbye. It will be best for both of you."

"1/ you truly love Richard/*

Fortunately the door had closed when the tears came. But what matter? Bertie had lost everything else before the man. What matter his remaining pride?

The grief did not last long, and in less than a quarter of an hour he was quiet. Seated on the trunk in a slumped position of defeat, he punished himself by hearing again in memory everything that had been said.

He tried to remember the tranquility of Richard's face, specific gestures, the bend of his neck as he dealt with his readers, all the thousand details which in mysterious combination fed his love and reminded him that it was over.

Where was it, his new destination? He couldn't remember. Life was shrinking away from him, and everything about him seemed dead and loathsome. There was no future, here or any place else, and how could he ever make it to safety in that raging storm outside? And where was safety? Surely no place in this world.

The resolution to his suffering came to him like a beneficent smile. He luxuriated in it. It promised both release and relief and, since he could endure no more, he stood mth. purpose.

With calm hands he unwound the length of the rope about the trunk and tested its strength. He climbed up on the trunk, the better to loop and knot it around one of the blackened beams. Effortlessly he fashioned a noose, dropped it around his neck, shrugged off the cloak, for he would not need its warmth where he was going, and stepped off the trunk, filled with books documenting the wisdom

and folly of ancient philosophers, into a safe abyss where neither wisdom nor folly counted for much. . . .

It was approaching midnight when Richard, distraught with worry, ventured out of his warm flat in search of Bertie.

Where is he? He had said that he'd be back in time for six o'clock tea.

Knowing Bertie's propensity for a chat with lonely students, Richard had waited patiently until the clock had struck a quarter to twelve. Then he fetched his cloak and a single lantern with a wind shield and made his way through the bitter cold night and the deserted Cambridge streets to the disreputable rented flat which had served Bertie as home for the last several months.

He hurried up the walk, knocked on the outer door and, receiving no answer, pushed through into the narrow corridor.

"Bertie?" he called, his voice falling back on him in echo.

"Bertie, are you there?" he called again, hfting the lantern in an attempt to send the illumination ahead.

Still keeping to the door, he saw nothing at first but the dim outline of the miserable room, a wretched place to shelter a man as rare as Bertie Nichols.

He saw what appeared to be a blanket hanging from one of the beams and he thought, how careless of Bertie to leave it behind, and, in a way relieved that he'd not found the man himself, he stepped forward, thinking to retrieve the blanket and use its warmth for the cold walk home, when the skittering lantern light ran ahead and he saw boots evolve out of the shapeless blanket suspended off the floor, then trousers, then—

A strong instinct warned him not to take a step further. But he ignored the instinct and ran directly forward and faced the atrocity full-front.

The cry started low in his throat and, burning and scraping all the way up, exploded near the top of his head. There was no escape. The agony was constant, and there before him, that beloved face frozen in a macabre death mask, tongue slung sideways out of the mouth, eyes protruding, the neck twisted at an inhuman angle.

He was only vaguely aware of his collapse, his knees buckling, though he was very grateful to the darkness which obliterated the face and plunged him into an abyss which was deep, but not deep enough.

Cambridge December 5,1870

Through eyes dimmed with sympathy and a twinge of guilt, Mrs. Pettibone watched the silent man seated by the front window, apparently unaware of the activity which swirled about him.

She had really expected him to recover before this. In her opinion, the hardest part was behind him. The funeral had taken place two days ago, Professor Nichols in his final bed, in a pretty little graveyard at the edge of town in the shadow of the parish church. Quite a turnout there had been, too, so many students, some weeping openly. She'd thought that would have brought poor Lord Eden a degree of comfort.

But it hadn't. The man had given her instructions to pack his things, he was going home to Eden, and beyond those few words he'd said nothing to her at all.

Securing the top of the wicker packing case, she thought that things had taken a nasty turn. Who would have expected the man to take his own life? Of course, in a cruel way, and God forgive her, it was for the best. According to that investigator from London, a pretty tea-party had been planned for both Professor Nichols and Lord Eden, and she would have hated to have seen that, all the scandal of a trial, their aber-rations, as the investigator called them, paraded out and gossiped over.

No, God forgive her, but they both were better off. Professor Nichols in his grave. Lord Eden with a second chance to act like a man.

Quickly she emptied the last cupboard. In a way she was eager to

see him gone. There were friends waiting for her at the pub who were dying to hear her firsthand account of the goings-on.

Hurry then! This was the last packing case and all she had to do was aflEx her bonnet, say her goodbyes and take her leave. Oh, there was one thing more. She'd prepared a tiny littie giftie for Lord Eden, nothing much, a small basket of hot gingerbread for the road. She'd baked it early this morning to take her mind oflf things in general, most specifically her part in the sad doings.