The Prince of Eden (21 page)

Daniel listened carefully and again considered the wisdom of speaking. But at that moment through the rain-streaked window he caught sight of Sir Claudius Potter, hurrying through the rain.

Apparently one of the Peelers saw him as well. As he leaned close over the old warden, he whispered, "Here comes trouble, sir."

The warden craned his injured neck upward, the better to see. "He don't bother me none. I know the law and know the punishment for attempted murder."

At that moment the office door was pushed open and Sir Claudius appeared, drenched from the rain, his complexion, Daniel noticed, bearing a marked resemblance to the gray day. He posed on the threshold for an instant, taking a quick inventory of the plain faces which were gaping back at him. Then leaving the door wide open as though unaccustomed to attending to such trivial details himself, he strode forward, still shaking rain off his cloak and hat. He gazed imperiously down on the old warden, who, as far as Daniel could see, returned the gaze.

"I am Sir Claudius Potter," he entoned, "solicitor to Mr. Edward Eden. I have come to effect the release of Mr. Eden."

The warden continued to look up at him with a set face.

When Sir Claudius's words failed to illicit any response, he leaned angrily forward. "I would prefer not to linger any longer than is necessary," he snapped.

"And I'm not asking you to linger at all, sir," the warden said, in his whispery voice. "Mr. Edward Eden ain't goin' anyplace, not for a good long while."

Again Daniel noticed the Peelers grinning at one another. Sir

Claudius started to say something else, but then the talk within him stopped. He stepped regally back from the desk and slowly reached inside his cloak.

The old warden grinned up. "If it's money you're going after, there ain't enough in the whole world to—"

But still the hand was moving and at last it produced a single piece of parchment, neatly folded, the red seal attached and visible even from Daniel's point of view. Then it was Sir Claudius's turn to smile. As he placed the document on the desk before the warden, he said, "There might have been money, my good man. I was prepared to open my purse for you, or rather the Eden purse, in an attempt to compensate you for your—trials." The smile broadened. "But now? Nothing. Just read and follow orders. That's all that's expected of you."

A faint flush crept up the warden's face as tentatively he lifted the document and broke the seal. Apparently the order was not at all to the man's liking. "But he tried to kill me," he protested.

"And regrettably he failed." Sir Claudius smiled.

The old man stood up with such force that his chair threatened to tilt backward. "He ain't got no right," he whispered hoarsely.

Sir Claudius was now involved in inspecting a seam on one of his gloves. Without looking up, he asked quietly, "Are you questioning the authority of the magistrate?"

Daniel saw clearly the rising fury on the warden's face. He heard the Peelers whispering together. Outside he noticed that a wagon with black covering had drawn up beside the closed gates. A few spectators were now inspecting the wagon. The two drivers sitting bareheaded on the high seat waved them away with the tips of their whips. The scene was ugly, as ugly as the scene which threatened to explode inside the office.

The warden was shouting now, apparently impervious to his injured throat. "Ah, yes," he cried, "you swells stick close together, don't you, winking at your little transgressions whilst the rest of us pass plenty of time in the yard. Attempted murder!" he shouted, jabbing his finger toward the crowd outside by the gate. "Any one of them common blokes out there would be on the gallows. But not Mr. Edward Eden, not his Prince-ship." His voice was heavy with sarcasm, his outrage taking a tremendous toll. "No," he gasped, making a mock bow from the waist, "oh no, the Prince 'a Eden gits a personally writ, specially stamped note of release from the magistrate hisself—"

"That's enough," cautioned Sir Claudius.

"Oh no, sir," the warden went on. "It ain't enough at all." Then to the waiting Peelers, he shouted, "Go fetch the royal bastard. Tell him

due to some mit-i-gating circumstances having come to light, that we poor dumb ones here at Newgate has made us a dreadful error. Tell him wc wronged him terrible by locking him up and tell him there ain*t a mark on me throat, that the muscles is all in good order, and I'm just imagining the pain and swelling. You tell him that!" He continued to shout long after the men had disappeared through the door down the corridor.

Sir Claudius seemed to be viewing the outburst with toleration. There was an undeniable expression of smugness on his face as, reaching forward, he gingerly lifted the order, carefully refolded it, and returned it to the pocket beneath his cloak.

The gesture seemed to stir the warden to even greater fury. "That's right, Sir Claudius Potter," he sneered. "You put your little instrument away, all snug with His Majesty's seal. And when you get back to your fancy digs, you'd better lock it up in a safe place, because one day us common folk is going to come after it, and you and your kind as well, and when that day comes you can get out your fancy piece of paper and use it to wipe your ass 'cause it won't be good for nothin' else."

Before the vulgarity. Sir Claudius retreated. He drew his cloak about him, glanced in Daniel's direction, then apparently chose the opposite side of the room.

The warden, clearly suffering pain as a result of his outburst, sank heavily into his chair, both hands clasping his throat.

Opposite him. Sir Claudius maintained a silent and aloof vigil. The warden had laid his head to rest upon his desk, apparently spent. The rain tapped out a mournful rhythm against the windows. Daniel sat erect and tried to draw deep breath. He heard the footsteps while they were still a distance away, the muffled sound of boots on stone.

Only Daniel started forward and thus he was the first to greet the mournful little procession as the door was flung open and the four Peelers appeared, one in front, two behind supporting Edward between them, and one bringing up the rear, curious smiles on their faces in marked contrast to the man who slumped between his two supports, his legs dragging uselessly after him, his head limp, breathing heavily as though trying to recover from recent blows.

Inside the office, the Peelers dropped him bodily in the center of the floor. Daniel saw him sink to his knees. A wound across his head was bleeding. He knelt there before all the gaping eyes, with his hands limp at his sides, his eyes opening to Daniel with an unspoken plea for help.

Within the instant, Daniel was at his side, lifting him, leading him toward the bench by the window. Edward sat heavily and seemed at first incapable of balancing himself.

From the desk, the warden had watched it all, a look of pleasure on his face at seeing the man so undone. Now he muttered, "Get the filth out of here."

"Not so fast," Sir Claudius interrupted. "We need a signed release." He stepped back to the desk, smiling. "It wouldn't be very polite of you to set Mr. Eden free, then one hour from now arrest him again as a fugitive." As the old warden glared up at him. Sir Claudius merely smiled agreeably, one hand extended. "The release, if you please."

Daniel still hovered close to Edward. "Try to draw deep breath," he whispered. "We'll be out of here soon."

There was no response. Moreover his breathing grew so torturous that it was audible in the room. Sir Claudius looked in their direction. For a moment, Daniel thought he saw an expression of pity on the arrogant old face. Now turning to the warden, who was angrily filling out the release form, he asked, "Are all your prisoners released in such—excellent condition?"

Without looking up, the old man replied, "He's lucky to have his head still sittin' on his shoulders."

Then Sir Claudius was calling to Daniel. Apparently his signature was required as he was the party to whom the prisoner was being released. Daniel left the bench, eager to do anything that would speed their departure from this place. After affixing his signature in the appointed place, he looked back toward the bench. In his brief absence, the crowds outside the window had attracted Edward's attention. He'd half turned in an awkward position upon the bench and now appeared to be focusing on the rainy scene beyond the window.

As Daniel drew near to him, he followed the direction of his gaze. There, not fifty feet away, he saw the prison gates open, saw the crowds forced back by a sizable contingent of Peelers, two lines forming a cleared path which stretched between the gates and the back of the black wagon which had waited patiently for some time.

He saw Edward stand with effort, his eyes still fixed on the opened gates.

"Come, Edward," Daniel whispered, fearing what would shortly pass through those gates. "Come, let's—"

But Edward drew away from his touch, his hands now pressing against the windowpanes.

Daniel looked back out of the window in time to see four guards emerge through the center gate, bearing a litter between them. On the litter lay a slight figure, a gray blanket covering her face, the hem of black prison garb visible beneath the coverlet. Hurriedly the guards carried her to the back of the wagon where she was received by the two

bare-headed drivers, the litter slipped beneath the black canvas.

The crowds seemed to surge forward as though insatiable, wanting a last look. Only just in time did the drivers scramble back onto their high seats and apply the whips to the horses' backs, and the wagon rattled away.

Slowly Daniel looked back at Edward. He was aware of the silence coming from behind him as apparently everyone in the small office had stopped to watch this final act. But it was Edward's face which held him.

Daniel heard him softly inquire through bruised lips, "Where are they taking her?"

Before Daniel could reply, the warden's harsh voice cut through the suffering. "Now, where do you think, your Highness? Her folks is burying her. She's of no further use to you, or any man."

Again Edward's knees gave way. As he started downward, Daniel was there with strong support. As he grasped him about the shoulders, he looked pleadingly at Sir Claudius. "May I take him now?"

The man nodded and quickly reached for the release. Then together they guided Edward out into the rain. Above the steady downpour and the din of departing carriages. Sir Claudius shouted, "Do you have transportation?"

Daniel shook his head, his attention torn between the question and Edward's rapidly deteriorating condition.

With admirable speed. Sir Claudius hailed a passing hired chaise. Within a few moments the driver led the conveyance close to the pavement. When he saw the limp figure supported by Daniel, he kindly hopped down and assisted them with Edward, placing him inside the chaise.

As Daniel started to climb in after him. Sir Claudius restrained him for a moment. "I'm afraid it isn't quite over, Mr. Spade," he said, frowning up at the rain.

Daniel stepped back down to ground. My God, what was left?

Sir Claudius reached inside his cloak and handed him the release. "This is a very expensive piece of paper," he warned, "and it carries with it certain obligations. The magistrate wants him out of London for a period of time. I'll write to Eden Castle this afternoon and inform them that he's coming."

As Daniel pocketed the release. Sir Claudius peered into the chaise. "A good long sojourn to Eden Point might be the best thing for him. I'm sure you understand."

No, Daniel didn't understand. Almost every grief in Edward's life resided in Eden Castle, the one place on earth where his bastardy was

thrust continuously before his eyes. But Daniel was in no mood to pursue the subject. If the magistrate wanted him out of London, he would do his best to follow that order.

As Daniel started to enter the chaise, he stopped for a final word. "Thank you. Sir Claudius," he said.

The expression of gratitude seemed to embarrass the man. "Well, we get paid, don't we, all of us? He's quite a handful, your friend. I would suggest that you get him immediate medical attention. Then pack him off to his mother. She brought him into this world. Let her ease his passage through it."

To that nonsense, Daniel said nothing and resumed his climb into the chaise. As they pulled away from the pavement, he saw Sir Claudius imperiously waving his private carriage forward, and he saw more, saw through the smudged windows of the prison office, the old warden carefully watching, his bandaged throat like a white banner in the gray day.

Settling opposite Edward, he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, then leaned forward against the rocking motion and took the hand which lay limp upon the prison suit.

"Edward?" he whispered. "Can you hear me?"

But the vacancy on the face opposite him alarmed him, a clear signal that, out of choice, nothing was being received.

The rest of the ride through the wet, clogged streets of London was passed in silence, a silence so great that the faint rattling of the chaise resounded in Daniel's head. And he continued to keep a constant vigil on his friend.

A short time later as the chaise drew up before the house on Oxford Street, Daniel quickly alighted and reached back a hand to the silent man.

But there was no indication that he was either accepting or rejecting the assistance. The lips moved, but the expression did not alter. Two words fell heavily upon the air. "St. Peter," Edward whispered.

At first the name did not register, then it did. Fearful, Daniel leaned back into the chaise. "No, Edward," he protested. "It will solve nothing and only lead to—"

But the name was uttered again, stronger than before. And again Daniel objected. "Come inside, please. I'll summon a physician. You need medical—"

Suddenly a limitless anger rose on the corpselike face. He turned to Daniel with an expression so devastating that Daniel retreated. He saw again in his mind the foul-smelling opium den near the Embankment, the macabre dwarf who gleefully dispensed death in red-brown vials.

There was nothing he could do. He stepped out of the chaise and closed the door behind him. The driver was waiting on his high seat, looking expectantly down. Slowly Daniel reached into his inside pocket and withdrew coin. He handed it up to the driver and gave him the address on Toadley Road.

The rain was yet increasing, a deluge now. As the chaise pulled away, he saw Edward turn back to the other window, his head slumped forward, the same posture of near collapse.

Daniel didn't want to think about it anymore.

As the chaise turned the corner at the end of Oxford Street, he remembered Sir Claudius's order to get him out of London. By nightfall, Edward would be out of London, out of this world, in fact, floating, uncharted, on the delirium of an opium cloud.

Behind him, he heard a voice calling to him from the door. He looked up to see Elizabeth poised on the top step in the rain. "Where's Mr. Eden?" she cried. "Matilda said you went to fetch him. Where—"

As Daniel drew even with her, he placed his arm about her shoulder and hurried her up the steps out of the cold rain. "He's safe, Elizabeth," he soothed. "He just needs some time to himself, that's all."

But the girl merely pulled away and went back to the large rectangular window flanking the door. "I need to wait for him, sir." Again she turned her face to the window, a determination in her small figure at least equal to the determination that Daniel had just witnessed in the carriage.

He felt dull and tired. He didn't have the heart to inform her how long her vigil might stretch, or where the object of her devotion had gone. As he started up the stairs, he looked back and saw her mutilated hand pressed against the glass. It reminded him painfully of the morning. Thank God Charlotte had escaped into death. For just an instant, Daniel begrudged Edward his temporary escape.

Quickly he smothered such thoughts and dragged himself wearily the rest of the way up the stairs. Inside his room, he stripped off" his wet clothes and stretched out on the bed.

Finally, after having made him suffer anew each torment of the day, sleep obliged him to beg before it would permit him to lose consciousness ...