The Prince of Eden (6 page)

Now as Daniel and Edward retreated to the entrance hall, Daniel's concern was still very genuine. "Are you certain you're not seriously injured, Edward? Next time, please advise me of what you're up to."

Edward placed an affectionate arm about his shoulder. "If you'd been in on it, they would have arrested you as well. I need you here."

Daniel confronted him with a direct question. "And what was accomplished?"

"A plot," Edward replied, "or more accurately half a plot. With the help of the head turnkey, perhaps she'll never have to endure the sentence." He then remembered the packet of money inside his pocket. "And this," he smiled, withdrawing the packet, "this was accomplished as well." Carefully he separated the notes, retaining fifteen hundred pounds. The rest he handed over to Daniel. "I've brought you another mouth to feed. You may need this."

Daniel stared at the very generous sum being offered him. He seemed hesitant to take it. "I don't need that much," he protested.

But Edward insisted. "There are overdue bills. I know. I've seen them scattered about your desk. And give your volunteers something, and hire that man you want to teach the boys tailoring and shoemaking."

For a moment, their eyes held. Still Daniel seemed hesitant. "I've no right to take it," he began.

"Nonsense," Edward scoffed. "You've no right not to take it. Now,

here." And with that he thrust the sum at Daniel and started up the stairs to his second-floor chambers. Over his shoulder he called back good-naturedly, "You're a schoolteacher, Daniel, with absolutely no business sense. It takes money to fill empty heads and bellies." At the top of the landing, he looked back on his friend, the warm features which brought him such pleasure. His fatigue was beginning to take a tremendous toll. When he spoke, his voice was low. "You serve me well, Daniel. Your good works compensate for my sins. Don't shut me out."

From the bottom of the steps came the reply, soft, earnest. "Never, Edward. Surely you know that."

The expression of friendship, instead of buttressing him, seemed to have the opposite effect. A feeling of loneliness, keener than any he had ever experienced before, suddenly held him in its grip. To break its spell, he tried to alter his mood. "Tell John Murrey to wait for me," he called down. "I need to call on William Pitch later. I'll be down shortly."

Then hurriedly he escaped into his chambers and closed the door behind him. His fingers gripped the knob as though to strangle the echo of his last words to Daniel, the tone of voice he loathed, clearly that of master to servant. If indeed that despicable division existed between them, then he, Edward, was the servant and Daniel the master.

In despair he turned away from the door and faced the spartan room, simply furnished with a pallet on the floor, one chair, one table, one washstand, one wardrobe. There was an enormous division between the two of them, one consisting of thousands of acres of rich Devon land, and an annual income of over one hundred thousand pounds and an incredible weight of personal debt and guilt. Peculiar, Edward had not felt the separation as acutely when they both had been boys. But of late it seemed to be growing stronger.

Wearily he shed his clothes and drew on a dressing robe. Carefully he inserted the fifteen hundred pounds in a fresh packet and placed it on the table. And finally he stretched out on the pallet, his mind crowded with disjointed, fleeting memories of trifling episodes of home. North Devon, mother, father. And yet, with all that poignancy of feeling which a man is capable of experiencing, he sensed an intense love and tenderness for the old ghosts. They were all dead, or living in the past, which was as good as dead. What mattered now? None of it.

A few moments' rest and he would go and pay his respects to William Pitch. His mother would want news. Indeed, he too hungered for an audience with the old man, realized with a start the number of times within the last twenty-four hours that William Pitch had entered his thoughts, as though he were calling to Edward, or Edward to him.

He relaxed upon the pallet as images of William Pitch settled over him, his white flowing hair, the features strong and resolute even under the assault of illness and age. The particular worth of William Pitch to Edward, indeed to the entire reading public of London who had so profited from his keen intellectual powers and compassionate wit, was the simple ability of the man to put everything into perspective. If the rest of the world chose to drown in the flood of the present, Pitch stood high up on the dry ground of wisdom.

In memory, Edward could hear the old man's voice, counseling patience, counseling compassion, counseling love for all, and most important, for oneself.

Then he was incapable of thinking any more. He closed his eyes. In the beginning of the dream, he saw himself just going through a door. What was on the other side, he could not say. But a feeling of quiet stole over him, as if everything was going to be put to rights again . . .

At noon, armed with the latest edition of The Illustrated London News— for he was a man who liked to keep abreast of events—Jawster Gray left his flat on Charing Cross and headed toward the White Bear at the top of Oxford Street. He looked forward to a cheese roll and a few pints, and a diversion of his loneliness which he always found in the crowded pub.

As he paused on the pavement to await a break in the never-ending stream of carriages, he again pondered his dilemma. Good Gawd! How many times he'd been back and forth over the same territory. Earlier that morning he'd hoped to lose himself in sleep. But his simple bed, which in the past had always granted him soothing respite, had refused for some reason to receive him. He'd turned feverishly for several hours and at last had surrendered to wakefulness, lying on his back like a beached ship, staring out the soot-smudged window at the pale golden rifts in the clouds.

Fifteen hundred pounds would unsmudge those windows right enough, indeed would lift him totally free of the grim alley which served as his walkway, the black, unvarnished door which led in to the smelly stairs which in turn led to the mean, narrow, cold room in which he had passed the last forty-two years.

A few minutes later he took refuge in the White Bear, heading toward his table by the window which afforded him a safe but generous view of Piccadilly. Several of the young serving girls greeted him warmly, their faces glistening with perspiration.

From across the congested room, one called cheerily, "Jawster, you're up and about early."

Usually he enjoyed giggling with the girls. Now rather cheerlessly he

returned the greeting. "A cheese roll," he called out, "and a pint of ale."

He sank heavily into the chair and spread the newspaper before him. For a moment he rested his head in his hands as though his brain were on the verge of exploding. Sweet Gawd! There had to be respite somewhere. Hungry for distraction, he opened his eyes to an article concerning the arrival of the Coburg cousins, German princes, Ernest and a lad named Albert, here for Princess Victoria's seventeenth birthday. Carefully he studied the accompanying illustration. Such pretty children, all of them, although Jawster had no idea how the ship of state would manage to sail under the frail hand of a woman. And he knew, as did all of London, that it was only a matter of time before the old King died and left the slim girl in his place.

Again he stared at the pretty pampered faces before him. He would have liked to have had children. But how could a decent man ask a decent woman to share his lot of twelve shillings a week, and not even that in the beginning.

But now? Was it too late? Fifteen hundred pounds, a piece of Kent land, a comfortable cheery widow, not too old, perhaps still capable of childbearing, a couple of good horses, his own carriage? Why not!

A smile blazed across his face as he stared, unseeing, at the crowds beyond the window. The serving girl was at his elbow now. "Lord, Jawster," she grinned. "The look on your face! What is it you're seein'? The shores of Heaven?"

Hungrily he reached for the cheese roll while she was still lowering the plate. Unfortunately at that moment he remembered again the whole dread pleasure and pain of his last meeting with the Prince of Eden, the free bottle of port, the offer of fifteen hundred pounds.

He settled back in his chair, folded the newspaper to one side, and listened to the pleasant hum of voices rise about him. He stared, still unseeing, out the window at the crush of traffic. Then what was his decision? Use his keys and his position of authority to help the young woman to escape, pocket the small fortune, and never come near Newgate or London again?

Or— Refuse the bargain, endure the open court spectacle of burning flesh, endure too the bond of friendship with the Prince of Eden broken, no more bottles of port, but conscience intact, secure in the knowledge that he had served the law?

Thus he went like that, back and forth, for the better part of the afternoon. The serving girls kept him well supplied with an endless river of ale. And by four o'clock his besotted brain had at last slipped into a kind of welcome numbness.

Another hour and he was due to go back on the watch at Newgate.

In the event the Prince of Eden appeared tonight, and Jawster knew he would, he must have his answer ready.

FeeHng as battered as though he'd fought five hundred Waterloos, he stumbled to his feet, tossed enough coin on the table to cover his bill, and grasping his way from chair to chair, he arrived at the door and the blazing late afternoon sun beyond.

Someone called after him, but he didn't answer. Out on the pavement he stood for a moment as though in a stupor, the street noises magnified in his ears, his bleary eyes seeing all in triplicate. Pedestrians jostled against him. A street urchin tried to slip a grimy hand into his pocket.

"Be off with you," he shouted, waving wildly at the child. Then he saw the sullen eyes in the youthful face and softened his attitude. "Don't rob old Jawster today," he smiled. "He's a poor man, as poor as you." He leaned closer, grinning. "But come tomorrow. Then you can rob old Jawster, for he'll be a rich man."

The stream of pedestrians separated them, carrying the child in one direction, Jawster in the other. It astonished him to discover that in that instant the decision had almost been made.

He looked angrily about. No one in all those passing faces was paying the slightest attention to him. Well, then nothing to do but step out into the middle of the pavement and announce his news again. Everyone must know. Someone must care. He drew himself up and wished that the pavement would hold steady. He lifted his head, closed his eyes, and taking a broad stride, stepped directly out into the flow of carriages.

Then here it came, that great shadow bearing down on him. A man's voice, very close or so it seemed, shouted, "Watch—"

Jawster tried to do as he was told. Glancing upward he saw six horses pulling a crowded omnibus heading straight for him. He thought quite lucidly that he'd never seen such monsters before. Where had they come from? The huge beasts seemed to be flinging themselves about, sending a flurry of white foam from their mouths.

The noise and confusion boiled around him, the brutes coming closer. He stepped back before the onslaught; his boots caught on something and he was falling backward, the giants rearing up over him, hooves striking the pavement all about while Jawster cried out, "Jesus-"

Then he lay quietly on the pavement, pain and darkness increasing. Now and then a hissing sound slipped from his mouth. Through a dim red moist curtain his eyes moved from one to another of the horrified onlookers. "A rich man," he muttered.

Blood filled his mouth, a stream of blood spouting from his nose, his

splintered legs twisted beneath him. One hand moved up as though to hold his head together. A pain as sharp as a blade pierced through to the center of his brain. The grip of his teeth on his tongue relaxed. A decision had been made.

At five o'clock that afternoon, hopelessly stalled in a traffic crush near the White Bear on Oxford Street, Edward gazed out his carriage window at the chaos beyond.

Old John Murrey shouted down at him. "It's a horse-drawn omnibus, sir. Gone sideways it has. A lame horse, I reckon—"

"No rush, John," Edward called out. "Do your best."

As a direct ray of late afternoon sun struck his face, he closed his eyes. The restless interval which had passed for sleep had not really revived him. His thoughts went continuously back to Newgate, to Charlotte imprisoned there.

Rapidly he lifted his head and stared fixedly out the opposite window. Pray God old Jawster Gray had lost his battle with his conscience.

With a start the carriage lurched forward. John Murrey called down, "It's a dead man, sir."

As the carriage inched slowly forward, Edward leaned toward the window. He saw ahead a stalled omnibus, passengers leaning out of the windows, and on the pavement he saw three Peelers bending over a crumpled form, the legs twisted in a macabre position, blood everywhere, the poor victim himself obscured by the Peelers and the press of curious onlookers. Somewhere in this vast city, there would be a pitiful pocket of grief this night. Corpses, if not men, were always loved.

The traffic was thinning, the scene outside his window a manageable flow. He remembered as a child his mother bringing him to William Pitch's house, delicious fortnights prowling the British Museum and the lovely empty fields beyond. He smiled openly now, remembering how his mother had given him stern instructions never to mention the family secret, that her half-sister, Jane, and William Pitch were not legally married. But then she'd always hastened to reassure him that the duration and intensity of their union made them wed in the eyes of God. It seemed a silly point then and now.

From atop the high seat he heard John Murrey calling to him again. "Great Russell Street, was it, sir?"

"Yes, John, straight ahead, then to the left." As they drew near his destination, he made an attempt to straighten himself from the jogging ride. He'd taken certain pains with his dress, knowing how important such matters were to his Aunt Jane. He'd forced himself into black peg-top trousers, a buff-colored waistcoat, and black coat. On the seat