The Meaning of Night (49 page)

It was the package containing the proofs of Dr Daunt’s translation of the De

mysteriis, handed to me by the pot-room servant from the George as I was about to take

train from Stamford. I threw the package on my work-table, intending to read the

contents when my mind was clearer.

I doze for an hour or so. When I wake, the idea of a chop and some hot coffee

suddenly thrusts itself forward for my consideration. I examine the proposal and find it

excellent in every way. It is still early, but I know of a place.

I stand up, rather shakily reaching for my great-coat, which is lying on the floor.

Whoah there!

And then the floor-boards seem to fall away beneath me and I am tumbling

through the air, spinning round and round, descending ever deeper into a great yawning,

roaring void.

I came round to find Mrs Grainger dabbing my face with a wet napkin.

‘Lord, sir,’ she said, ‘I thought you was dead. Can you stand, sir? There now, a

little more. I ’ave you, sir, don’t you worry. Dorrie ’ere’ll help. Look sharp, dear. Take

Mr Glapthorn’s arm. Gentle does it. That’s it. All’s well now.’

I had never heard her say so many words to me, and never will again. Sitting back

in my chair, with the wet napkin tied round my forehead, I was also surprised to see her

daughter standing by her side. Then, to my complete astonishment, I learn that it is

Monday morning, and that I had slept the clock round.

After I had recovered a little, I thanked them both and asked the girl how she was.

‘I am well, thank you, sir.’

‘As you see, Mr Glapthorn,’ said her mother, smiling weakly, ‘she goes on very

well. A good girl still, sir.’

Dorrie herself said nothing, but seemed, indeed, in fine fettle, with a bright

expression on her face, dressed in a neat little outfit that showed off her figure extremely

well, and altogether looking winsome and contented.

I said I was glad to hear, and to see for myself, that Dorrie appeared to be

prospering, and felt not a little satisfaction that I had done some good by the simple

expedient of employing her mother, and sending a little money to Dorrie every now and

again.

‘Prospering?’ said Mrs Grainger, with a sly look at her daughter. ‘Why, you may

say so, sir. Go on, Dorrie, spill it.’

I looked quizzically at the girl, who blushed slightly before speaking.

‘We have come to tell you, sir, that I am to be married, and to thank you for all

you have done for us.’

She bobbed sweetly, giving me such a fond and modest look as she did so, that it

fair made my heart melt.

‘And who is your husband to be, Dorrie?’ I asked.

‘If you please, sir, his name is Martlemass, Geoffrey Martlemass.’

‘A most excellent name. Mrs Geoffrey Martlemass. So far, so good. And what

sort of a man is Mr Martlemass?’

‘A good and kind man, sir,’ she replied, unable to hold back a smile.

‘Better yet. And what does good and kind Mr Geoffrey Martlemass do?’

‘He is a clerk, sir, to Mr Gillory Piggott, of Gray’s-Inn.’

‘A legal gentleman! Mr Martlemass holds a pretty full hand, I see. Well, I

congratulate you, Dorrie, on your good fortune in finding good, kind Mr Martlemass. But

you must tell him that I shall expect no nonsense from him, and that if he does not love

you as you deserve he shall have me to answer to.’

A little more good-humoured raillery on my part followed, after which Dorrie ran

off to fetch in some breakfast, Mrs Grainger set to with mop and bucket, and I repaired to

my bedchamber to wash my face and change my linen.

With breakfast over, and my chin shaved, I felt revived and ready for the day.

Dorrie was off to meet her beau at Gray’s-Inn, and that piece of information immediately

settled the matter of what I would do with myself for the next few hours.

‘If you will allow me, Dorrie,’ I said gallantly, ‘I’ll escort you.’

I offered her my arm, an act which appeared to amaze Mrs Grainger greatly, and

off we went.

It was a fine bright morning, though there was a stiff breeze off the river. As we

walked, Dorrie spoke a little more of Mr Geoffrey Martlemass, whom I began to

conceive as a dependable sort of fellow, if a little serious in his outlook, an impression

confirmed when we encountered a small man of notably anxious mien, distinguished by a

pair of magnificently bushy mutton-chops,? standing by the entrance to Field Court.

‘Dorothy, my love,’ he cried, in an anguished tone, on seeing us. ‘You are past

your time. Whatever has happened?’

Dorrie, releasing her arm from mine and taking his, laughed and chided him

gently that it was only a minute or two beyond the hour appointed and that he must not

worry so about her.

‘Worry? But naturally I worry,’ he said, apparently distraught that he could ever

be thought too solicitous for the welfare of one so precious. We were introduced, and Mr

Martlemass, Dorrie’s senior by some years, removed his hat (revealing an almost

perfectly bald pate except for two little tufts of hair above each ear) and made a low bow

before grasping my hand and shaking it so vigorously that Dorrie had to tell him to stop.

‘You, sir,’ he said, with great solemnity, replacing his hat and throwing back his

shoulders, ‘have the appearance of a man, and yet I know you to be a saint. You amaze

me, sir. I thought the age of miracles had passed; but here you are, a living, breathing

saint, walking the streets of London.’

In this wise, Mr Martlemass began to heap praises upon my head for, as he put it,

‘rescuing Dorothy and her estimable parent from certain death or worse’. I did not

enquire of him what he conceived could be worse than death; but the warmth of his

gratitude for the little I had done to remove Dorrie from the life in which I had first found

her was most apparent, and rather affecting. I then learned that he was a member of a

small philanthropical society that took an especial interest in the rescue and rehabilitation

of fallen females, as well as being a churchwarden at St Bride’s,? where he had first

encountered Dorrie. Normally I can’t abide a treacly do-gooder, but there was a simple

sincerity about Mr Martlemass that I could not help but admire.

I let the little man rattle on, which he seemed determined to do, but at last

proclaimed I must leave them, and so made to go.

‘Oh, Mr Martlemass,’ I said, turning back as though struck by an afterthought. ‘I

believe an old College friend of mine has chambers in Gray’s-Inn. We have lost touch,

and I would so like to see him again. I wonder if you know him by any chance – Mr

Lewis Pettingale?’

‘Mr Pettingale? You don’t say so! Why, certainly I know the gentleman. He has

the set above my employer, Mr Gillory Piggott, Q.C. Mr Piggott is in court today,’ he

added, lowering his voice somewhat, ‘which is why I have been allowed to take an hour

or so for an early fish ordinary at the Three Tuns? with my intended. Mr Piggott is a most

considerate employer.’

He directed me to a black-painted door in a range of red-brick houses on the far

side of the court. I thanked him and said I would try to call on Mr Pettingale tomorrow, as

I had some urgent business to attend to in another part of Town.

We parted and I walked off towards Gray’s-Inn-lane, dirty and dismal even on

such a bright day. Stopping at a book-stall, I began idly turning over the mouldering

tomes there displayed for a minute or two (ever hopeful, like all bibliophiles, of

unearthing some great rarity). After five or ten minutes I returned to Field Court.

The court was deserted, the love-birds had flown; and so through the black door I

went, and up the stairs.

30:

Noscitur e sociis?

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A painted name-plate greeted me: ‘Mr L. J. Pettingale’. I put my ear to the door.

Someone within coughs. An inner door closes. I knock softly – it wouldn’t do simply to

walk in – but no one answers. So I enter.

It is a large, well-appointed chamber, with oak panel-work, a stone fireplace, and

a fine plaster ceiling. To my left as I enter are two tall windows that give out onto the

court below. A fire blazes pleasantly in the dog-grate on the hearth, on either side of

which two comfortable chairs are set. Above the fireplace hangs a painting of a bay

horse, a terrier at its feet, standing in a park landscape. In the corner of the room, to my

right, is another door, closed, through which I can hear the sound of someone attempting,

in a thin tenor voice, a version of the aria Il mio tesero,? to the accompaniment of water

splashing.

I decide to leave the singer to his ablutions, settle myself in one of the chairs, feet

on the fender, and light up a cigar. I have almost finished smoking it when the door in the

corner opens and a tall, thin man emerges wearing an ornately fashioned brocade

dressing-robe, Persian slippers, and a tasselled skull-cap made of red velvet, from

beneath which a few meagre strands of straw-coloured hair descend almost to his

shoulders. He is about my own age, but looks prematurely aged. His skin is sallow and

papery, and from where I am standing I am not sure he possesses eyebrows.

‘Morning,’ I say, smiling broadly and throwing my cigar butt into the fire.

He stands for a moment, disbelief on his skull-like face.

‘Who the devil are you?’

His voice, like everything else about him, is thin, with a reedy, querulous tremor

about it.

‘Grafton, Edward Grafton. Pleased to meet you. Cigar? No? Oh well, bad habit,

I’m sure.’

He is taken aback for a moment by my coolness, and then asks haughtily if he

knows me.

‘Well, now, there’s a question,’ I reply. ‘Are you of a philosophical turn? For we

might spend a good few hours considering the nature of knowledge. It is a large subject.

We might begin with Aquinas, who said that, for any knower, knowledge is after the

fashion of his own nature; or, as St Augustine put it . . .’

But Mr Pettingale seems disinclined to enter into a discussion on this interesting

question. He angrily stamps a slippered foot, threatens to call for assistance if I do not

leave at once, and grows quite red – almost replicating the colour of his skull-cap – with

the exertion of it all. I tell him to calm himself; that I have merely come to seek a

professional opinion; and that I knocked at the door but could not make myself heard.

Somewhat calmer, he asks if I am in the profession myself – an instructing solicitor,

perhaps? Alas, no, I tell him: my interest is personal, though it is a matter of law on

which I wish to consult him. I invite him, with a broad smile, to sit down, which he does,

a little reluctantly, looking pleasingly foolish in his dandyish get-up. As he takes his seat,

I vacate my own chair and stand with my back to one of the tall windows, through which

soft sunshine is now pouring.

‘Here it is, Mr Pettingale,’ I say. ‘I put a case to you. Some years ago, two rascals

masquerading as gentlemen swindle a distinguished firm of solicitors out of a

considerable amount of money – let us say, for the sake of argument, fifteen hundred

pounds. The thing is done cleverly – one almost admires the cleverness – and the two

scallywags come out the other end without a stain on their characters, but considerably

richer than when they started. There is a third rascal, but we shall come to him in a

moment. More than this, they so contrive matters that, when all is done, an innocent man

is sent to the other side of the world, to toil his life out, on their behalf, in the wilderness

of Van Dieman’s Land.? Now, the question I wish to seek your professional opinion on is

this: knowing, as I believe I do, the identity of two of the three persons I have described,

how may I best lay a charge against them, so that they can be brought at last to justice?’

The effect of my speech is most gratifying. His mouth falls open; he reddens even

more, and begins to sweat.

‘You say nothing, Mr Pettingale? A lawyer with nothing to say. A most

uncommon sight. But by your uncomfortable demeanour, I see you have perceived that I

have been playing a little game with you. Well then: let us be more direct, shall we?

What is done, is done. Your secret is safe with me – for the time being, at least. I have no

argument with you, Mr Pettingale. My real interest lies in your friend, the distinguished

author. You know to whom I allude?’

He nods dumbly.

‘I wish to know a little more about your association with this gentleman. I will not

trouble you with my reasons.’

‘Blackmail, I suppose,’ says Pettingale mournfully, taking off his cap and using it

to wipe his perspiring brow. ‘Though how you come to know all about it beats me.’

‘Blackmail? Why yes, you have it, Mr Pettingale. A palpable hit! You are a sharp

one, I see. So: the floor is yours. Be quick, be bold, hold nothing back. I would

particularly wish that you do not hold anything back. Let us be completely frank with one

another. And, for good measure, you may throw in a few words concerning the third

rascal. Again, I’m sure you know to whom I am referring?’

Once more he nods, but does not speak. I wait; but still he says nothing. He bites