The Skull and the Nightingale (46 page)

As I walked home I felt unexpectedly reassured by all this nonsense. It seemed to confirm that Ogden’s death was now securely accepted, explained and done with, digested by public discourse. The fanciful conjectures I had heard were like so many leaves beginning to cover his nonexistent grave.

Perhaps because warmed with wine, I was seized by a sudden sense of superiority. The members of the Conversation Club, complacently prattling, were pitiful bystanders, the idle chorus of a play. Fittingly enough, none of them had for a moment supposed that they were in the presence of a protagonist.

Dear Mr. Fenwick,

I do not know in what terms to reply to your letter. My predicament is so singular and so distressing that perhaps no appropriate terms exist. I inhabit a dark dream, the normal pleasures and processes of life having been all at once suspended. A month ago, although beset by certain problems, I could be confidently myself: I occupied a certain position; I had it in my power to choose my course. Who or what am I today? I scarcely know. Probably, as it has lately come to appear, a widow. What is my future life to be? I cannot see so much as a week ahead, but grope forward from one day to another, hearing scraps of news, answering questions, receiving advice, signing documents.

Of the circumstances leading to my husband’s death I know nothing, or almost nothing, that you do not. His doings on that day and night remain a mystery to me. I have reflected upon them again and yet again, but to no purpose. Why Mr. Ogden should have cut short his journey, and why he should have been walking the London streets so late, on that night of all nights, I cannot guess. Such surmises as have come to my mind have served only to confuse and unsettle me further. I do know that my husband was a determined, fearless man. If threatened by a robber, he would not lightly submit. It may be that this courage proved to be his undoing.

Fortunately for me, all his business responsibilities would seem to have been assumed very capably by his associate, Mr. Gow, a quiet gentleman who has risen to this difficult occasion with resourcefulness and calm. He has been assiduous in looking after my interests, shielding me from importunate inquirers, and keeping me informed. At his suggestion I have also sought advice from a lawyer, Mr. Semple. He took me to see John Fielding, the magistrate, who explained the probabilities of the case with kindness and wisdom. You may rest assured that I have not been without assistance and protection during this difficult time. But I have nevertheless been subdued to a timorous half-life, passing nearly all my days within doors, in the company of my aunt.

After all, and for reasons you will understand, I have not been able to talk to any of these kind helpers with complete freedom. Largely for those same reasons I feel that I cannot speak with you as yet. There may come a time, however—perhaps at no distant date—when I will find it a relief to do so. In that case I will write to you again.

I remain, &c.

* * *

My dear Richard,

I have read your letter concerning the unfortunate Ogden with close attention, as also a number of newspaper reports. This is a strange tale indeed, much talked about even in these parts because of the incidental involvement of Lord Downs. (The gentleman is faintly gratified, I fancy, by the temporary notoriety.)

My responses to the gradually unfolding news have resembled your own in being curiously compounded. Only in the past few days has the essential truth seemed to emerge: that an honest citizen was murdered for his money in a London street. A pitiful fate. One cannot but feel at the very least a formal sympathy for this unfortunate man. Yet certain aspects of the matter remain puzzling. Here, at a distance of more than a hundred miles from the events, I have heard fanciful explanations concerning Ogden’s return to London and his subsequent fate.

You and I, of course, have a peculiar and oblique interest in the matter of which others can know nothing. It is surely the case, as you suggest, that if you had been seen in Margaret Street on the night concerned, some embarrassing questions might have arisen. The uncomfortable truth is that we were plotting to do this gentleman a major disservice at the very moment when fate intervened to inflict a far greater one. Having contributed to bringing about Ogden’s proposed visit to Malvern, I feel disagreeably close to the events of that unfortunate night. The partly exculpatory consideration, as far as I am concerned, is that if Mr. Ogden had completed his journey to Malvern, he would today be alive and well.

I confess to finding the story disturbing in another sense, which could be accounted trivial, but to me is not. You will be aware of my interest in the workings of cause and effect. I am positively ill at ease with the unpredictable and the accidental. In the case of Ogden, we began and developed a story only to lose control of it through what seems to have been sheer chance. The narrative turned in our hands and became another tale altogether.

It is absurd in me, of course, to feel put out by the failure of people and events to conform with my plans. Moreover, as Yardley has more than once pointed out to me, the experiments of the Royal Society itself often go amiss and yet by the very fact of doing so can provide valuable findings. In this case, however, I see no such potential gains; it seems simply that there were considerations in play of which I knew nothing. I still look for elucidation.

I would therefore welcome an opportunity to talk with you, reviewing what has happened and why, and considering what should next be done. I would be greatly obliged if you could pay another visit to Fork Hill, perhaps arriving by Saturday next.

I remain, &c.

Chapter 26

O
f all my journeys to Fork Hill this proved the most exhausting, for my mind was ceaselessly active. At first I was plagued with recollections of Ogden. He had traveled these very roads not long previously, perhaps in this same coach, with no notion that he would be dead before the following dawn. Only when we were well clear of London was I able to banish those images and return to my own situation. I was soon suffused by anxious excitement. Within days, for better or worse, my prospects would be dramatically altered. Mr. Gilbert and I could not continue in our previous course because it had come to an end. We would need a fresh start, on fresh terms.

I would first have to put the Ogden misadventure completely behind us; but I felt that this would not be difficult. Mr. Gilbert would know only what I myself had told him, and any questions he asked I could readily dispose of. The received version of what had taken place occupied so exactly the space of the actual events that by now I half believed it myself.

The next challenge would be to decide upon a new project, a new way for me to earn my godfather’s money. An advantage I now held, I flattered myself, was that I had surely earned his confidence. Everything he had so far asked of me I had duly performed—save only in the case of Sarah, where the matter had been taken out of my hands. Our partnership being now firmly established, it was time—and more than time—for a parley about terms.

As the coach bumped and swung through the autumnal countryside I spoke out boldly, within my own head, addressing my godfather with a frankness and underlying indignation which I certainly would not be able to display to his face:

“Since we are to review the future, sir, I must ask whether you think it reasonable that I should be expected to continue on the same footing as before. For six months, as you have tacitly acknowledged, I have been a discreet, dutiful, and active agent on your behalf, responding to your secret wishes, feeding your curiosity with regular reports. Yet I have been living in the dark, with no hint as to what might come next.

“You are after all my godfather, and have otherwise no living relatives. I think you would concede, sir, that, as the weeks have passed, our communications have taken on an increasingly confidential, even intimate, tone. We have become close. Is it not now time for that affinity to be publicly declared? I put the question with diffidence, because I could have hoped that you would be before me in this matter, but have I not earned the right to be recognized as your heir?”

Unfortunately I could hear with equal clarity a cool rebuttal:

“I have listened to your reproaches with some little surprise. I do not think I can convict myself of a lack of generosity toward you. Have I not paid for your education, for your travels abroad, and for your comfortable life in London? I have yet to learn that one who gives on this scale—even a godfather—incurs an obligation to give more. And is it not also the case that in March you accepted the present arrangement with some alacrity?”

The debate was played out repeatedly in my mind, with various additions and shifts of emphasis. At one point I fell asleep and even in my dreams found myself angrily proclaiming: “You presume too far, sir. Do you know where you have led me?”

I was woken painfully when the coach thumped into a deep rut, and my jaws were banged together. Unluckily I had bitten hard into the lump in my tongue, which had never fully healed. The coach came to a halt and had to be emptied before the horses could haul it clear of the miniature trench in which it had lodged. My fellow passengers saw me dabbing blood from my mouth and kindly commiserated with me. It struck me as curious that they should at once have noticed this slight physical hurt yet could not have guessed my mental turmoil through hour upon hour of the journey.

W
hen I met Mr. Gilbert the following morning, I saw at once that he was unwell. His face was flushed and his breathing shallow. He had just enough energy to dismiss, in a diminished voice, my attempt at sympathetic inquiry:

“Since writing to you, I have contracted a slight fever. I hope it will prove no great inconvenience. But I must ask you to entertain yourself for a day or two.”

That afternoon I took the now-familiar walk down to the farthest edge of the estate, where the surrounding woods, soon to be the property of my godfather, were already taking on their autumn colors. There were birds squawking loudly above, and squirrels frisking in the trees, nimble as Trinculo. It was a bright day, warm for October, but a lively breeze sprang intermittently to life, whirling yellow and orange leaves high into the air.

I strode along as buoyant as the wind—the more so in contrast to the enfeebled old fellow I had seen that morning. Could this be the man whose secret desires had regulated my conduct and had even put me in danger of death, whether at the hands of Ogden or of the public executioner? He was ailing, he was dwindling. I was in the ascendancy and could at last bend him to my will.

O
n my fourth evening at Fork Hill, greatly to my bewilderment and somewhat to my disgust, the familiar guests were yet again invited to dinner. Everything was against such a gathering. My godfather, whom I had scarcely seen since our interview, was plainly no better. I could tell, moreover, that his condition was hateful to him, at odds with his innate fastidiousness. He could not be himself, could not preside as he would wish, with his body hot, his face perspiring, and his throat sore. Yet here he was, insisting on playing host to a group of dullards, themselves variously damaged by the doings of the previous half year. It was impossible to believe that the occasion could give pleasure to any of the company.

I contrived a few words with the local visitors before the meal began, but most of the words were mine. When I told the limping Yardley that I was glad to see him out and about again, he vouchsafed me no more than a nod. Hurlock harrumphed a greeting, while his wife, with lowered eyes, ventured a smile. I was luckier with Mrs. Quentin, who told me that after all she had been permitted to remain in the home she had shared with her husband. She thanked me for the kindness I had shown her, and I found myself pleased to be thought kind. Thorpe greeted me as affably as ever, and observed in a low voice that since he had last written to me the threatened hostilities seemed to have subsided.

“But the conversation tonight is likely to be muted,” he added. “You and I may have to exert ourselves.”

He proved to be right. The seven of us could barely keep silence at bay. Hurlock seemed morose and ill at ease, and his wife correspondingly subdued. Mrs. Quentin, although more composed than I had previously seen her, rarely ventured to open her mouth. Fortunately Mr. Thorpe spoke up cheerfully about parish matters, my godfather croaked out a few responses, and I managed many more. Hurlock had at last a little to say about the harvest—which had apparently been less than good—and in the course of subsequent exchanges remarked to me abruptly: “I see you have something wrong with your tongue, sir.” I explained that I had come to bite upon it in the course of my journey from London.

“Stagecoaches are damnable!” cried Hurlock, as if glad to have an excuse for venting fury. “They swing and they bump. It’s a mercy you didn’t bite your tongue clean off.”

Since he chuckled at his own hyperbole, I was able to smile and steer the conversation in a new direction, with a remark upon the fine autumn weather. Thorpe took up the topic, and Mrs. Hurlock unexpectedly observed that she had enjoyed taking walks across a carpet of golden leaves. For a second or third time that evening I caught a collusive glance from her, seeming to suggest that she was still warmly disposed toward me. Recent excitements having driven her from my mind, she was now of no more interest to me than a sack of potatoes, but I fatuously contrived a glint of collusive response for the sake of good manners. Fortunately no one suggested that we should sing.

As on previous occasions, Yardley was at first taciturn, but found his voice after consuming two or three glasses of wine. By the time the ladies left the table he was jauntier than I had ever seen him, as he waxed eloquent about extremes in nature. He likened me, as a young man about town, to the swift, apparently a bird of boundless energy that does everything on the wing. By contrast, he said, he himself resembled the tortoise, looking to achieve longevity through slowness and stasis.