The Meaning of Night (5 page)

could not bear to see Bella distressed. And so I folded her in my arms – it was growing

dark, and we were alone on the stretch of path that led out of the park – and kissed her

tenderly.

‘Oh, Eddie,’ she said, tears welling up in her eyes, ‘do you not like me any more?’

‘Like you?’ I cried. ‘Of course I like you. More than – more than I can say.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly,’ I replied. I told her I hated myself for upsetting her so, that I would

indeed miss her while she was away, and that I would count the hours until she returned.

She gave a little laugh.

‘Now, now,’ she said in mock admonishment, ‘don’t come the poet with me, sir.

An occasional thought in the course of the day will be quite sufficient.’

We kissed again, but as she withdrew her lips from mine I saw again that look of

seriousness in her eyes.

‘What is it, Bella?’ I asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

She hesitated for a moment. ‘No, not exactly wrong.’

‘You are not –– ’

‘No – by no means – no.’ She reached into her pocket. ‘I have received this. It

came yesterday morning, after you left.’

She handed me a folded piece of paper.

‘I must go. Kitty is expecting me. I hope you will call when we are back.’

I watched her walk away, waiting until she was out of sight before I unfolded and

read what she had handed to me.

It was a short note, written in a small neat hand:

The note was signed ‘Veritas’ and was addressed simply to ‘Miss Gallini’, with

no direction, suggesting it had been delivered by hand.

Here was a thing, and I own that it knocked me back for a moment or two. I read

the note again; but as the light was now nearly gone, I decided to go straight back to

Temple-street and take stock.

I was, no doubt, in a somewhat nervous state, for as I was proceeding past the

Diorama, in Park-square, I thought I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. But when I turned

round, there was no one to be seen. The street was deserted, except for a single carriage

making its way back through the fading light towards the Park. This would not do. I

grasped my stick with determination and walked on.

Back in my rooms, I lit the lamp and spread the note out on my table.

The hand had something familiar about it – some trace of memory seemed to

cling to it; but, try as I might, I could not bring its associations to mind.

I investigated the paper closely with my glass, held it up to the light, even sniffed

it. Then I examined every character in turn, pondered the choice and order of the words,

and why the author had underlined the name Edward Glapthorn. I studied the flourishes

of the signature, and sought to tease out what lay behind the choice of the pseudonym

‘Veritas’. As I write this, I am amazed by my obtuseness, my inability immediately to

grasp the truth; but there it is. The deed I had so lately committed in Cain-court had, no

doubt, produced confusion of mind, and dulled my usually acute powers of perception;

and in these dark autumn weeks, convulsed by the most terrible of betrayals, and in fear

of my own life, I was already in the grip of a kind of madness, and could not see what

was plainly before my eyes. The consequence was that I spent an hour or more trying –

with mounting frustration – to force the note to yield up its secret; but it defeated me.

Except in this one thing: I knew, with utter conviction, that, though addressed to Bella, it

had been meant for me. And so it proved.

Who? Who knew? Though I have never killed before, I am well used to living on

the night-side of things. As I shall later relate, my work has hardened me to violence and

danger, and I have trained myself in all the arts of the paid spy. I had therefore taken

every precaution, deployed all my acquired skills, to ensure that my victim and I had

entered Cain-court unobserved; but now it was clear, beyond a doubt, that I had slipped

up. Someone had followed us. Someone had seen us.

I paced the room, pounding my knuckles against my head, trying to recall every

second of those fateful minutes.

I could remember glancing back towards the entrance to the court, soon after

striking the fatal blow, and again as I’d slid the knife down the grating. Memory could

give me back nothing to indicate that I’d been observed. Except . . . Yes: the slightest of

sounds, though no sign of movement. A rat, I had thought at the time. But was it possible

that someone had been silently watching my victim and me from the deep shadows that

lay in the angles of the walls?

This thought now instantly took hold, and then led to another. How had the

presumed observer identified me? The answer must be that he already knew me. Perhaps

he had been watching my movements for some time and had followed me in my

peregrinations that night, and then tracked me to Blithe Lodge. But why, with the

information he possessed, had he not already denounced me to the authorities? Why had

he written to Bella in such a fashion?

I could discern only one motive: blackmail. With that conclusion came a kind of

relief. I knew how to deal with such a situation. All I required was to gain some quick

advantage over my pursuer. Then I would have him. Yet it was not altogether clear to me

how such an advantage could be obtained; and still I could not understand why the

blackmailer had revealed his hand to Bella first. Perhaps he merely wished to torment me

a little before administering the coup de grâce.

He – it must be a man, and an educated one – was clever. I was prepared to grant

him that. The note had been subtly conceived. To Bella, who knew nothing of what had

happened in Cain-court, it hinted at dark possibilities that might alarm any woman, even

a demi-mondaine: ‘He is not what he seems . . .’. Women instantly distrust the unspecific,

and their imaginations soon begin to transform hints and suggestions into solid fact. What

would Bella’s fancy conjure up from these vague but troubling insinuations? Nothing to

my advantage, certainly, and much to her disquiet. But to me, the note sent a different

message: a threat to reveal to Bella what I had done if I did not come to an arrangement.

This was the cleverness of it: it was intended to put us individually on the rack; and by

mischievously sowing doubt and alarm in the innocent Bella, it inflicted a double

punishment on me.

I returned to my table and picked up the note again. This time I held it up to the

light of my lamp and went carefully over every inch with my eye-glass, searching

furiously for some clue to the identity of the sender, something that would set me on his

trail. I was on the point of giving up in angry frustration when I noticed a row of small

holes pricked into the paper, just below the signature.

On closer examination, I saw that these had been deliberately arranged in groups,

separated by spaces. It did not take long to discern the simplest of codes: each group of

holes represented a number, which in turn stood for a letter. With little trouble I

deciphered the message: ez/vi/vi. Reaching for my bible, I quickly found the verse from

Ezekiel to which the message referred:

An end is come, the end is come: it watcheth for thee; behold, it is come.

Here was a serious setback to my plans. Something I could not have anticipated,

but to the resolution of which I must now divert some of my energy. Watcheth, I

perceived, was a word the sender particularly intended me to take to heart. I could do

nothing, for the time being, to set aside whatever fears the note had raised in Bella; but I

felt sure that I would receive a further communication before long, and this, I hoped,

would afford me some opportunity to begin turning the tables on the blackmailer.

I sat up for half an hour or so before the fire smoking a cigar, then went to bed in

a state of suppressed anxiety. Images came crowding in upon me: the dying smile of

Lucas Trendle, elephants, Bella laughing in the autumn sunshine, a carriage making its

way up a deserted street.

Then, when sleep eventually took hold, came a repeated dream, which haunts me

still.

I am walking through an unimaginably vast subterranean chamber; the echoes of

my footsteps recede into endless depths of shadow on either side of what seems like an

aisle or nave of titanic stone columns. In my hand is a candle, which burns with a steady

flame, revealing an open space beyond the columns. Into this space, the boundaries of

which are indiscernible, I now pass.

I walk on for some time, feeling a vast and oppressive emptiness pushing in all

around me. I stop, and the reverberating echoes of my footsteps slowly die away in a

sickening diminuendo into the surrounding immensity. The candle’s flame reveals only

darkness: limitless, entire; but then, suddenly, I know I am not alone, and a choking terror

begins to take hold. There is something fearsome here, invisible but present. All is

silence; I have heard no sound of footsteps other than my own; and yet I know danger is

near. Then, with inconceivable horror, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder and warm breath

on my cheek and hear the faint hiss of exhaled air. Someone – some thing – standing just

behind me softly blows out the candle. I drop the extinguished flame, and collapse in

utter helplessness and revulsion.

I awoke three or four times from this nightmare in a sweat, my heart thumping,

clutching at tangled sheets. Finally, at first light, I arose with a dry mouth and a ferocious

headache. As soon as I entered my sitting-room I saw it: a rectangle of white paper,

slipped under the door as I slept.

It was a black-bordered card, written in the same hand as the note that had been

sent to Bella. It seemed to confirm all my fears.

Mr Edward Glapthorn is cordially invited to the interment of Mr Lucas Trendle,

late of the Bank of England, at 3 p.m. on the third of November, 1854, Abney Cemetery,

Stoke Newington.

‘In the midst of life we are in death’

The quotation from the Burial Service at first seemed merely apt; but, as I

considered it further, the words began to call to mind some other time and place – a face,

already receding into the shadows of memory; a place of sorrow; rain and solemn music.

It puzzled me, and worried me, though I could not say why. Then I concluded that I was

seeing significance where there was none, and threw the card aside.

Eight days. There was time to prepare myself. I did not expect any further

communication; the blackmailer’s next move would no doubt come – presumably in

person– on the day of the funeral. And if not in person, then he would have to reveal

something more of himself in another communication if he was attain his objective; and

that might allow me the advantage I was seeking. In the meantime I resolved to try and

put all thought of this business out of my mind, as far as I could. I had other pressing

matters to attend to. For the time of reckoning with my enemy, Phoebus Daunt, was nigh.

4:

Ab incunabulis?

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The evening after Bella returned from Dieppe, I took her to dinner at the

Clarendon Hotel.? Mrs D. had been enchanted by the house they had viewed and had

stayed in France to begin arrangements for its purchase.

‘She means to retire there as soon as circumstances permit,’ said Bella, ‘which of

course means that my own position will change sooner than anticipated.’

She did her best to maintain her old easiness of manner, but I could see the effort

it was causing her. At length, she set aside all pretence.

‘You have read the note?’

I nodded.

‘What does it mean, Eddie? I must know the truth.’

‘The truth of what?’ I cried angrily. ‘The truth of a lie? The truth of some vague

and baseless slander? There is no truth here, none, I can assure you.’

‘But who has sent me this?’

‘Someone who wishes me harm for a reason I cannot imagine, someone whose

resentment of me – or perhaps of you . . . ’

She was taken aback by the suggestion.

‘Of me? What can you mean?’

‘Think, my love: is there any member of The Academy who might have a reason

to cause you harm? Someone, perhaps, who has received a visit from Mr Braithwaite on

your behalf?’

‘No, none.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Sir Meredith Gore – you remember? –

was ejected some months ago, but I was not the only one to complain of him. He is

presently travelling on the Continent, and is not expected to return for some time, so I do

not think it can be him. Besides, what possible benefit could he gain from this? And do

you know the gentleman?’

I conceded that Sir Meredith and I had enjoyed no personal contact, other than a

chance meeting on the stairs at Blithe Lodge one evening; but I pointed out that it would

be perfectly possible for him to invent some calumny against me without personal

knowledge, to gain revenge on her for his expulsion.

‘No, no,’ said Bella, shaking her head vigorously, ‘it’s too implausible –

impossible. No, it cannot be Sir Meredith. A drunken old fool, incapable of such

subtlety.’ She paused as the waiter came up with more champagne.

‘You say’, she continued, toying with the stem of her glass, ‘that the implied