Mr. Timothy: A Novel (16 page)

Why, Philomela?

And upon closer inspection, the question turns out to be many questions.

Why did you run in the first place, before you ever saw the green carriage? You had already suffered Miss Binny once today; seeing her again shouldn't have put you out of countenance. And truth be told, you weren't even attending to her, you were looking at me. And with such an expression! What have I ever done to deserve
that
, Philomela?

And that man in the carriage, making that gesture with his finger--more intimate than anything a stranger would venture--what was it about him that stopped you in your tracks? You
know
him, don't you?

But perhaps I should be posing myself the same question. For the strangest thing of all, Philomela, is this: I know him, too.

The face, at least, with its dark skin and heavy lips, its air of calculated youth. I know for a certainty I have seen that face. The only thing I don't know is
where
.

Ten minutes later, the potboy has brought a hot rum for me, hard cider for the girl. We blow away the steam from our half-pint pots, and as the boy pushes back through the half-door, I hear, above the din of the adjoining room, the publican's voice rising clear:

--Sorry, sir, didn't quite catch that.

And then an answering voice, equally distinct:

--I said Deputy Inspector Rollins, from Scotland Yard. I'm on my feet in a flash, peering over the doorsill. Through the tendrils of smoke, I can just make out the gleaming dome of the publican, saying:

--Off duty, too, eh? Why is it every officer who comes in my pub is off duty? Yes, it was a gentleman and a young miss, stopped in a little while back.

The man he's talking to is hidden from my sight, an obstreperous bagatelle player having blocked the view. All that filters back is his voice, low and pleasant and businesslike, kicking over the traces of old working-class vowels:

--Just the pair I was looking for, the man says.

And as if on command, the bagatelle player leans over to address his next ball, and the way to the bar is clear now, and I see, in perfect profile, the bulky pair of shoulders, the ring of solid neck...and the black bowler hat, clamped even more securely onto the head.

And as I leap back towards the fire, I hear the publican remark:

--Odd, they were
asking
for a constable.

I grab Philomela by the arm, put a finger to my lips.

--No, sir, they're still here. I told 'em to wait till Hugh stopped in.

I snatch up the
Illustrated News
and lower it into the fire.

--Oh, I put 'em in the lounge. We don't serve ladies in the taproom.

The embers are dull. I have to shove the paper deeper into the fireplace, and still it won't catch.

--It's just down and to the...never mind, I'll take you there.

At last. A flicker and then a flare, and the newspaper becomes a torch. I drop it, still flaming, next to the fire screen. I reach for Philomela's hand, and we dance across the doorway, flattening ourselves against the wall on the other side.

A second later, the publican pokes his bald head round the door frame. The nostrils twitch, and the head swivels towards the hearth, where even now the
London Illustrated News
is sending rivers of flame to the ceiling.

--Awww! Gawd!

Groaning, he flings himself at the miniature bonfire, stamping it down as fiercely as Rumpelstiltskin. Ashes coat his boots and trousers, and flaming shreds of paper fly into his face and hair; he claws them away, groans some more, stamps some more. Quite a little spectacle, all told, and we're not the only witnesses. Mr. Bowler--Deputy Inspector Bowler--is watching, too, his back turned to us, his head so close I could knock off his hat with a single blow.

A second passes; another. I can feel Philomela drawing in her breath. And then Bowler takes a step towards the fire screen. And then another. And I realise, with a jolt of relief, that he thinks we're on the other side.

Pantherlike he approaches, treading on the balls of his feet, and just as his head peers round the screen, I grab Philomela, and the two of us go flying through the half-door. Bowler whips round, and then he is lost in a sea of bodies, for we have plunged into the heart of the Lion's Paw populace, and our heads are lowered and our elbows are out, and we are hacking a path to the door.

Recoiling heads, loud remonstrances. A dart whistles past my ear, a glass of ale splashes down the back of my coat. I slip under someone's arm and barrel through someone else's, knocking its owner against the bar.

--Steady on, then!

But I'm already clearing away the next obstruction. A shove here, a sidestep there, and now we're almost at the door, I can see Philomela reaching for the handle...slowly, too slowly...I'm egging her on, I'm screaming in her ear--
Turn
!--and then, from nowhere, a new obstacle appears: a pale, bleary-eyed man in a torn jacket, swaying across our path, cutting off our escape.

--Buy us a gin, chappie. They've cut us off.

He folds me round in a clumsy embrace, moans in my ear like a mistress.

--It's
criminal
how they treat us here.

I try to scrape him off, but he seems to grow new arms, and each one clutches more desperately than the last.

--Just the one. I'll go home then, I swear....

From behind me comes a stentorian cry, the voice of officialdom:

--Stop that man! He's wanted by the police!

The bleary-eyed man swings his head round.

--No, I ain't!

His hands form a protective phalanx even as the rest of him goes limp, and when I shove him from behind, he flies even farther than I dared hope, right into the protesting arms of Deputy Inspector Bowler. Down they go, in a thrashing jumble, and as I wrench open the door, I see the man hanging on to Bowler's legs like ballast.

--Buy us a gin, mate.... We'll go quiet....

We fly down Duke Street at twice our natural speed. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but the image of that blade, bevelled and honed to a fare-thee-well, is all the spur we need. The buildings pull back, the pavement broadens, and it doesn't even feel like London any more; we seem to be running once again into the old dream. But then up in the distance, I see King William astride his bronze horse, frozen in the act of tripping over a molehill. And I know then where we are: St. James's Square.

The very opposite of a crowd. Here are private town houses with pedimented windows and decorative pilasters, all set back behind wrought-iron battlements. Earls and dukes and marquesses live here. The Army and Navy Club, the Bishop of Winchester's home. A great big advertisement for gentility.

And we're on the wrong side of it.

Chased by a Scotland Yard inspector, a peer of the realm...it's easy to see where St. James would align its sympathies. And, indeed, as we tear across the square, it feels like enemy terrain: every house, every passing carriage seems to bear down on us. Even William III spins his bronze head round to track us with his falcon eye.

It's all too much. I grab Philomela's hand, and we swerve into Charles II Street, and when I look back I can see Bowler's compact figure perhaps fifty yards off, moving as inexorably as a cannonball, and just as I prepare to accelerate, a new hurdle rises in our path: a large frame hung with green baize, capped by a tiny proscenium bearing a letter cloth--"Punch's Opera," and standing to one side, a man in a many-caped blue coat and a limp old beaver hat, already shaking his head.

--Very sorry, sir, done for the day. Must be home to the missus.

--No, it's not...we're...

Words fail, don't they? They
flail
.

I lift the baize curtain of the puppet box and motion Philomela inside, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The puppetmaster's hand slams down on my shoulder.

--Here! Do I look like a bloody hotel?

--There's twenty shillings in it for you.

--Don't matter if it's twenty quid, I don't let no one play with my happyratus.

What would Colin do?

And simply asking myself that question produces the metamorphosis. I whip off my hat, give the man a wink, and in my best Cockney approximation, whisper:

--The peelers is after us!

--Jesus, whyn't you say so?

He shoves me inside, pulls the curtain closed.

--Mind you stand on the footboard, he says.--And keep the feet long-ways, now. You'll be seen otherwise.
There's not enough room for the both of us, so I must clasp Philomela round the waist and lift her off the ground. It's a hard thing to do when you're gasping for air. Between us, our chests swell so violently I think the entire booth must be billowing.

We hear the footsteps first, decelerating slowly, and then a soft, interrogatory grunt.

And then the puppetmaster's voice, saying:

--Very sorry, sir, done for the day.

Bowler sounds barely winded when he speaks. The working-class vowels have reasserted themselves, and the tone is intimate and confiding: he's undergone his own metamorphosis.

--Yeah, mate, sorry to interrupt. I'm looking for this young bloke, twenty-two, maybe. With a young gal. They was headed this way.

--Hain't seen no one like that, Officer.

A pause; a soft chuckle.

--Oh, no, mate, it ain't like that. See, they peached something from a friend of mine, I'm just trying to get it back for him.

--Have it your way, Officer.

Another pause. And the voice, when it comes back, is a little harder.

--A gentleman and a young girl. You must've seen them.

--We hain't seen nobody 'ceptin' yourself, has we, Punch?

Followed by a high, screeching call:

--Nooy-ey, nooy-ey!

I'd cede a fair amount of my life's income to see the deputy inspector's face right now, but his voice never wavers.

--Listen, mate, there's a reward in it for you.

And there it is. The one word I most feared.
Reward
.

My hands tense round Philomela's waist; my stomach screws itself into a ball. Any second now, those curtains will be torn open, and that will be all, won't it? Every escape route closed off. Destiny bearing down....

And then I hear the puppetmaster say:

--A reward, is it? Well, in that case, ladies and gents, they went that way.

I can't see, but from the tone of his voice, I'm almost positive he is pointing in opposite directions.
We wait there in the darkness, our breath stopped, our ears primed for the sound of travelling feet.

And before long, that sound does come, or at least something close to it. And after it the puppetmaster's voice, murmuring in the night:

--He's gone, but give it a minute.

In fact, it is two or three minutes before the curtain opens once again to reveal our benefactor, extending his hand to Philomela. He helps her back onto the sidewalk, then turns to me.

--Your accent needs work, mate.

I grope through my pockets, I say:

--Let me...let me....

He puts out a hand to stop me.

--Just tell me. Did you really pinch anythink?

--No.

--He really a peeler?

--I don't know.

He nods.

--Well, you take good care of yourself, young miss. And a merry Christmas to you both.

Ten minutes later, we are making our way up Regent Street, relieved to feel the familiar press of bodies, London's black-suited throngs squeezing us back into anonymity. But for all that, we are not so anonymous as to escape a tap on our shoulders just shy of Piccadilly.

--Mr. Timothy!

Philomela's cloak hangs rather loosely on Colin now, but her scarf is still wrapped round his neck, and there is about him a barely concealed air of triumph.

--I give 'em a good chase, Mr. Timothy. The coach was a-followin' me a good three blocks, I thought I had 'em, and then the damn cloak catches on a hitching post--ripped a bit, sorry, Filly--and Bowler Boy there, why, he jumps right out, don't he? Hoofs it the other way, so I run back, but I can't find no trace of you, not till now, anyways, so you gave him the shake, did you, there's a treat, and you didn't let him fillet you, there's a good fellow.

--We're fine, yes. Now if you'll help me escort Philomela back to Mrs. Sharpe's...

Colin frowns, falls back a step.

--Oh, I wouldn't be in too big a hurry on that score, Mr. Timothy. --Why not?

--Well, he were just knockin' on Mrs. Sharpe's door, weren't he?

--Who?

--Bowler Boy, who else? Prob'ly been makin' the rounds of the whole bloody neighbourhood. "You seen so an' so?" "
You
seen so an' so?" It were only a matter of time 'fore he got to yours.

Of course: one would expect no less from a dedicated emissary of Scotland Yard. And one could depend on no end of cooperation from the local citizenry.

--Colin, tell me. Who was it answered the door?

--Well, it were hard to see, Mr. Timothy, bein' at pains to stay out of eyeshot and all.

--Man or woman?

--Man. That much I can say. Bit bald, maybe. Oh, and had his sleeves rolled up, real casual like.

George
.

I see him now as I last saw him, on Mrs. Sharpe's front stoop, with his middle-class ease, his submerged glee...and lying just behind, a bland hostility, ponderously deep. Who more likely to assist the police in their inquiries?