Charles Palliser (97 page)

“I can’t believe it! He wouldn’t have done such a thing!” Then he pauses and after a moment exclaims: “Yes, I can. The old rascal. After all my years of loyalty!”

“Thank heavens I’ve got that off my conscience,” the attorney says. “Now would you do something for me?”

“Yes, yes,” the other mutters distractedly.

“Mr Vulliamy?” the lawyer says softly with a beatific smile.

The clerk comes out of his reverie: “At your service, sir. Yes, indeed. Anything you want. For the truth is, Mr Sancious, that I believe you may have saved me.”

“Most gratifying,” the attorney says. Then he asks: “What would you answer me if I were to say to you the name ‘Fortisquince’?”

Mr Vulliamy looks at him in alarm.

“Ah-hah,” says the attorney. “So you know it, do you?”

“No, that’s to say, yes.” He looks round nervously. “We cannot speak now, Mr Sancious. Pray let us meet.”

At that moment the boy runs to the street-door and Mr Sancious says quickly in an under-tone: “Come to my office in the evening next Thursday.”

As he speaks, the old gentleman enters wrapped in a muffler which the boy unwinds, circling around him like a shabby Maypole-dancer. All the while his employer’s lean face glares at the attorney:

“I’ve just come from the money-market,” he says. “Amphlett and Cleator have closed, and Bazalgette’s, and also Hornbuckle and Ditmas.”

Vulliamy shakes his head in dismay, looking at his employer intently.

Without even glancing at him, the old gentleman motions to the attorney to accompany him into the inner office.

“This is bad, very bad,” Mr Sancious says, as the door closes behind them. “Some of the best houses have smashed. I have heard that even Quintard and Mimpriss may be in difficulties.”

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“Not in the least!” the old gentleman exclaims vehemently.

“Are you certain of that?”

“I am assured so by an unimpeachable informant.”

“Indeed? Indeed?” the attorney mutters. “The truth is, I have been offered bills of theirs at a discount of fifty per cent.”

“Take ’em!” the old gentleman cries. “Take as many as you can and buy the rest for me!”

“I am not buying on my own behalf but for another party,” the lawyer says. “Alas, Mr Clothier, I have no cash. Our joint speculations have wiped me out completely. And, I fear, left the Pimlico and Westminster unable to meet its liabilities.”

“The company will go into receivership,” the old gentleman whispers, nodding his head towards the outer office.

“So he … ?” Mr Sancious replies in an undertone, glancing towards the door.

The old gentleman draws one finger across his scraggy throat and smiles faintly.

“As a set-off to balance this,” Mr Sancious says, “I have excellent news as far as our other business is concerned. What would you most hope to hear from me?”

Mr Clothier stares back and silently mouths one word.

The attorney smiles: “Exactly. My agent has informed me that that is the case.”

“Excellent!” the old gentleman cries, clapping his hands and springing from his chair in excitement. Then he turns to the attorney and demands: “Can you furnish me with proof of this? Proof that will stand up in court?”

“Not yet, though I have been trying to. And I believe I will soon be in a position to satisfy you. However, you and I didn’t bargain for that complication, Mr Clothier, and so it will cost you more. Meanwhile, I’ll take what you owe me for this.”

“Half now and half when you show me the proof,” Mr Clothier insists.

The attorney nods reluctantly and once more the strong-box is unlocked and a bundle of notes handed over.

“Now as for the boy,” the old gentleman begins.

“That is in hand, Mr Clothier. For my other piece of news is that he is secure again.”

Mr Clothier hugs himself with glee. Then he stops and says: “But listen carefully. I want my instructions to be followed to the letter.”

Since, of course, you know as well as I what they agreed to do, I will leave the two gentlemen there.

Meanwhile in the outer office Mr Vulliamy says to the boy: “Charley, run out for a bottle of best Hollands.”

“But I can’t get that no nearer than Paul’s-church-yard, Mr Vulliamy.”

“Never mind that. Do as you’re bidden.”

When the boy has gone Mr Vulliamy listens to the murmur of voices from the inner closet. Then he takes a piece of candle-wax, warms it over a flame and works it with his fingers. When it is soft he removes the great key from the street-door and quickly presses the wax onto it.

446

When I came to the end of my mother’s account I laid my head on my folded arms and rocked backwards and forwards in agony. A multitude of emotions that I could not have named were struggling within me. Now at last I knew the dark secret that my mother had kept from me: that my grandfather had been brutally murdered, and almost certainly by … I could not let myself think of it. How my mother must have struggled during every waking minute to keep that imagination from her thoughts. How strange to think that I had believed I knew her so well and yet had no inkling of that. But then, how little I had understood! Only now did I know (as I then believed) who my father was.

And that, as it seemed to me, my real name was indeed Clothier. And yet even then I wondered if this was so? Did that name have the right to claim me? Was it more mine than the name I had gone under for so long? Or than those my mother and I had chosen? It was the name I had been baptised under, certainly, and yet I did not want it to be mine. And, after all, the more I had learned, the more I understood how much was still hidden from me. What had been in the pages that my mother had destroyed? What had she wanted to keep from me? Was it something to do with my father? That he was still alive? And since Mr Escreet had confirmed the truth of his most incredible assertion, did that mean that my father was sane? But if he were sane did this not make him only the more guilty? My thoughts went round and round this terrible circle: if he was sane then he was hideously guilty. If he was anything less than guilty it could only have been by being insane. Mad or evil, evil or mad, there seemed no way out. How could I accept such a father as this? I repeated my mother’s words: “I could not bear to think that the father of my child had killed my Papa!” I could not bear to think that either. Perhaps, then, another man had been responsible? Did not my mother’s words, in several passages, point towards Martin Fortisquince? (Yet — God knows! — I had reasons for not wanting to believe that, either.)

And why would the old gentleman not reveal more? Were there yet more hideous revelations that he had spared my mother? Could I find my way to my grandfather’s house and speak to him myself ? Perhaps I could learn something from him that would vindicate my father? For though the evidence against him was convincing, yet there were others who had strong motives for wanting my grandfather dead. Old Mr Clothier and his elder son were so desperate that the codicil be laid before the court that they might not have shrunk from murder to ensure this. And the Mompessons, if it came to that, had the strongest reasons to prevent this happening, and I could not forget that Sancious
(alias
Steplight) had come to Mrs Fortisquince’s house in their carriage. So were they involved with him in some way, improbable as it seemed?

It was now the middle of the night and there was silence in this uninhabited city of half-built houses, so different from the raucous noises of the crowded rookeries I had known. I had not noticed that it had got much colder while I was absorbed in the pocket-book, but now I pulled the bed-coverings over myself.

I thought of my mother’s unhappy, wasted life. She had been too trusting but, more than that, she had had no purpose, no design, and had believed too much in luck. Her love for others had made her vulnerable. All this had made her a victim, merely drifting through a life that had no meaning towards

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a meaningless end. I would not make the same mistake. I would trust no-one but myself.

There was no-one living now whom I loved and that made me free and invulnerable. I knew that there was no such thing as luck; there were only opportunities. From now on I would have a purpose, although at present I was too confused to know what it might be. For I became aware now of other emotions than pity and horror. I felt rage. Rage against Mrs Purviance, against Sancious, against Mrs Fortisquince. I wanted — I needed

— to make them suffer. Especially the latter. I could not understand why she had behaved as she had. For what conceivable purpose could she have hounded my mother to her death? What grievance did she have against her? My mother seemed to refer to such a wrong but I could not make out for certain what it was. Then there were the Mompessons and their agent, Assinder, for now I understood what she had been talking about just before she died. So she had known, while I was trying to comfort her, that no help could be expected from that quarter. It would have cost Sir Perceval so little to have helped one whom his family had deeply wronged, and who had a claim of blood upon him as well as justice. At the same time I failed to understand why he had neglected to help her from motives of mere self-serving prudence, for I understood how crucial it was to his interest in the Hougham property to keep alive the entailed line.

Everything came back to the disputed title. So much in my mother’s story that made no sense was connected with it. Why had my grandfather suddenly decided not to lay the codicil before the court when he had laboured to find it for so many years and had plunged deeply into debt to a man he distrusted in order to buy it? There were so many puzzles. If my father were sane and guilty then why should he have admitted to my mother that he had gone back to the house after leaving her at the coaching-inn? What happened there when he went back? Was he really surprised to find the bloody bank-notes when he opened the package at the inn in Hertford? At this thought I suddenly recalled my grandfather’s letter and I shuddered, for now I knew what the stain was upon it that had so fascinated me as a small boy and that I had childishly interpreted as blood. And now that I thought of it, perhaps I had been too hasty in dismissing the letter that time when I had tried to read it a few days after my mother’s death.

I remembered that the letter had gone on to refer to a “will” and that I had discounted this as the phantastic product of John Huffam’s obsession with the Hougham estate.

And yet perhaps such a document did exist. That assumption might account for some of the puzzling aspects of his behaviour. It might explain why he had so suddenly and surprisingly lost interest in the codicil. The document that had come into his possession, or that he had hoped to obtain, made the codicil redundant! In that case it must have been nothing less than a later will of Jeoffrey himself ! If that were so, then presumably it superseded the original will! I remembered what Mr Pentecost and Mr Silverlight had told me: there was no statute of limitations applying to wills. And so the provisions of such a will would have the absolute force of Law! (Or, rather, Equity.) What were its provisions? Hastily I crossed in the near-darkness to where I had left the letter in its hiding-place, retrieved it and lifted it out. Something fell out with it. It was the map — or, rather, sections of it — that I had borne with me from Melthorpe and later entrusted to my mother. Suddenly I wondered if I could find on it my grandfather’s house.

I moved the candle nearer and smoothed out the creased sheets. I knew the 448 THE

CLOTHIERS

house was at Charing-cross, over-looked Northumberland-gardens, and was in a court with an alley-way to the street. I could see from the map that it must be either in Northumberland-court to the east of the mansion, or in one of the courts to the west: Trinity-place, one without a name, or Craigs-court. The nameless one seemed most likely.

Now I turned back to my grandfather’s letter, I had just unfolded it and was about to start reading when I heard the gravelly sound of carriage-wheels in the unmade-up street. Hastily I put the letter and the map back in the journal and, getting out from under the blankets into the raw cold, stuffed it into the pocket of my jacket which was lying on the floor. Then I extinguished my candle and pulled aside a piece of the board that covered the window so that I could look out: Barney and the others were getting out of a couple of coaches whose drivers they had somehow persuaded to venture into this district at night.

As I heard the street-door opening I stole onto the upper landing just as the noisy throng, laughing and shouting with more exuberance than usual, entered the house and went into the drawing-room.

I crept down the stairs and entered the chamber above that room from which, because of the lack of a ceiling, I could hear everything as clearly as if I were down there with them, though my view was very restricted.

“You was wonderful, Barney,” I heard Sally say. “I dunno how you done it so well.

You was like a play.”

Some of the others laughed appreciatively.

“We was lucky, wasn’t we?” said Barney, the top of whose head I could just glimpse as he sat on the sopha. “We wiped their eyes for ’em!”

“How long will they be?” asked Meg.

“About two hours, Jack said,” Barney answered.

“Sam told me he thought it would be longer,” Sally said.

“Well, shan’t we be glad to see ’em? That’s all,” Meg exclaimed.

There was a chorus of agreement at this.

“Well come on,” said Will, “tell Bob and me what happened for Gawd’s sake.”

“Has the boy been quiet?” Barney demanded.

“Yes,” said Bob. “He ain’t so much as squeaked.”

“We didn’t need him arter all,” Barney said. “Joey there come along and done what was wanted.”

I leaned forward to try to see whom he was referring to but was unable to.

“But fust,” said Barney, “there’s somethin’ I want to do a-fore I forget.”

I leaned even further forward to try to see what he was doing, but could not do so without risking falling through the joists. Then as the others began to speak, I realized to my horror that he had left the room. I hurried as quietly as I could back onto the landing and heard him coming up the stairs from the ground-floor, mercifully slowly because of the difficulty of ascending those stairs in the near-darkness and because he was already a little drunk. I set off up the next flight and managed to keep out of his sight and get back into my room some way ahead of him. I hurriedly threw myself onto my makeshift bed, pulling the coverings over myself, and closed my eyes. Seconds later I heard heavy footsteps crashing along the joists of the landing, enter the room and then pause only a few feet from me.