Then, and only then, was the public satisfied, and willing to go home.
The Crown
Whitty adjusts his new frock-coat of violet (well regarded on Bond Street), in the hope that he will grow accustomed to the high silk choker, now the fashion. The cut of his pale yellow trousers is superlative, so long as he does not sit suddenly. Everything is new except the boots, which he judges good for at least another half-year.
He will be absent from public view for several days: he intends to take the water-cure, a good cleaning being the ticket to health. And the arms of Mrs Plant.
Aware that he has not been looking his best in past weeks, the correspondent wishes to leave in his wake the impression of a man on top of his game, among colleagues and enemies alike, and among certain young people who might have admired him for some reason, then thought better of it.
He watches Phoebe while she scans the room in a quick, professional sweep. (She notices him, yet gives him no special attention.) She moves behind the counter to have a quiet word with the barkeeper; now she disappears upstairs, with the preoccupied expression of a practical woman with several things on her mind.
Stunning Joe Banks, seated beside Whitty near the entrance, wearing a magenta coat (beside which Whitty might as well be a wet pigeon), holds his glass of Scotch whisky to the light in order to inspect its colour. ‘As an employer it is an astonishment to me, how the nature of a position is defined by the one what fills it. The publican business is like boxing in that way.’
‘Do you mean to say that Miss Owler has little to do?’
‘Quite the contrary, Sir. From the morning she came into our employ, Miss Owler began to discover many things to do. Now she has sufficient to do that I don’t know how I will replace her.’
‘What makes you think that you will need to replace her?’
‘Miss Owler seeks a career on the stage. When the stage comes into it, you cannot shift them. I have seen it before.’
Down the stairs she comes, balancing on the palm of one hand a bucket of iced champagne. She crosses the floor, past the dancers to an inconspicuous table occupied by a young Cambridge gentleman who
appears alone, neglected and out of place in these surroundings. The sort of gentleman whose custom the Crown seeks; a gentleman who will pay well in future for a welcome now.
Whitty notes her velvet dress, the colour of coral, quite opposite to the green she wore on that night – which he will revisit more than once, both in memory and as crisp copy, the night a girl stared down the Fiend in Human Form …
‘Good evening, Mr Whitty.’ Phoebe smiles and extends her hand. Alas, she takes no particular note of his improved appearance.
‘Miss Phoebe, may I say that you look splendid. Allow me to extend my compliments to you on your new dress.’
‘It isn’t such a luxury, you know. With a day between wearings, both will wear longer.’
‘I’m sure that is so.’ Whitty wonders: What was he seeking? Did he expect to bask in the infatuation of a juvenile forever as a kind of tonic?
Fool!
‘It is good to see you again, Mr Whitty. I should like to converse at length, for much has happened, but as you can see I have ever so many things to do. Would you excuse me, please?’
‘I assure you, Miss, I excuse you utterly.’
And with a quick nod of acknowledgement to her employer, she is gone.
A pause, while two gentlemen of a certain age contemplate the relentlessness of time.
‘So it goes,’ says Stunning Joe Banks to his glass of whisky.
‘So it does.’
‘A drop more?’
‘Please.’
‘One can only make the best of things, of course. We all must work with what we have before us, Mr Whitty, and I encourage you to do so. Might I point out that there are women in this very room who might prove diverting. As an example, allow me to direct your attention to the vixen entertaining the young Cambridge fellow by the window: ‘the Jewel of Morocco’, they call her. Background a total mystery. And do you descry the mark over her upper lip? Said to be the mark of a sultan’s daughter …’
‘Very impressive,’ agrees Whitty. So saying, he abruptly drains his whisky, retrieves his stick, and leaves without a further glance in Etta’s direction.
Peculiar sort of fellow, thinks the publican, relighting his cigar.
The Falcon
In the darkened wooden hall Owler nods to the young, uniformed electric telegraph messenger, who, after rendering the patterer a quick glance from head to toe, rolls his eyes in disdain and continues out of the building.
Thinks the patterer: should this current run of good fortune continue, he will instruct Phoebe to purchase a suit of clothes from one of the shops on Waterloo Road – made of wool and not corduroy, in keeping with their improved situation.
He pauses before the green baize-covered door, having grown momentarily doubtful, forgetful as to his purpose in coming; but then reminds himself that he has been expressly invited by the Editor: he has an appointment. He has legitimate business within. No person, uniformed or not, shall have reason to turn him out.
Thus reassured, he pushes open the door and steps into a splendid room which has been lit by a guinea’s worth of tallow candles, and is the picture of significant activity – a room in which telegrams are received, cigars are smoked, journals are considered, and the vital issues of the day weighed and discussed in their historic context. To Owler’s ear the rumble of erudite conversation seems actually to vibrate physically with significant content, like a pump drawing upon an historic well of events transpiring in the depths of the earth.
‘Ah, Mr Owler. There’s a good chap. Over here, Sir. Good to see you.’
The Editor, from what one can discern from a face so utterly concealed by whiskers and a large monocle, greets him with unaffected enthusiasm, even going so far as to extend a cigar over the desk – which, as he draws nearer upon the Turkey carpet, Owler realizes is meant for him. The Editor’s lens shines into Owler’s eyes like the beam of a lantern.
‘Thank you, Mr Sala, Sir. Wery kind of you I’m sure.’
‘You are more than welcome, Mr Owler,’ replies the Editor, holding a lit lucifer. ‘Tremendous crack on the hanging piece, old boy. Bloody crisp copy to be sure. And I don’t mind confessing that I was somewhat dubious – unknown quantity and all that.’
‘It were a tremendous gamble for you, Sir, that is certain. One requiring no little courage on your part.’
‘Indeed, so it was. Be that as it may, Sir, our friend Edmund Whitty staked his reputation on it. Pioneer of the new journalism he called you, and now I can see why. On-the-scene sort of thing, experience affecting the reader directly through the correspondent – trenchant, vivid, an account which does not simply report the news but is the news, don’t you see. Haw! Hanged a dead man, did they? I tell you, man, Westminster is in crisis over it, and
The Falcon
is at the centre of everything! Sir, we are in the fecking thick of it! What else can the little shites ask for? I’ve got them, Sir, I have them by the bloody curley-wurleys and I’m damned grateful to you for it!’
‘I don’t pretend to entirely get your drift, Sir. Yet I can see you have underwent a rattling good stroke in a managing way and I salute you for it.’
‘Well said. Fecking brilliant, I quite agree.’
‘And on the subject of brilliance, Sir, how goes it with Mr Whitty?’
‘On that, Mr Owler, you may speak with him yourself.’
Whereupon a familiar voice drifts across the room: ‘Top drawer, Mr Owler. Absolutely top drawer.’
‘Mr Whitty, Sir! I am wery glad to see you, I must say!’
Standing by the bookcase at the far end, leaning against the marble bust of some great person of the quality (who stares blankly into space as though astounded), Whitty puts out his cigar on the gentleman’s bald pate and steps forward, hand outstretched: Owler is dumbfounded by the elegance of the man, in his new clothes – and himself just barely beyond corduroy!
‘Equally glad am I to see you, Mr Owler, and pleased to report that, owing to the water-cure, the therapeutic ministrations of a close personal friend and the good efforts of yourself in my stead, I am restored to health: laudanum consumption down to an unprecedented sixty-five grains per day; no gin consumption before noon; Acker’s Chlorodine suspended altogether; medicinal snuff and cigarets judiciously applied. Fit as a fiddle, Sir!’
Adds the Editor: ‘And we must not forget the salutary effect of the recent information.’
‘Quite,’ replies the correspondent, relighting his cigar.
‘Werily, Sir, am I to have the honour of knowing this information? I am certain it must be a stunner.’
‘Certainly,’ continues Sala. ‘Mr Owler, circulation at
The Falcon
threatens to reach a level at which even the little shites are silent – at which even the fecking
investors
are silent.’ So saying, Mr Sala turns to the gentleman at the next desk, concealed behind a copy of
Lloyd’s
. ‘Is that not so, Mr Cream?’
‘Indeed so, Sir.’
‘Mr Owler and Mr Whitty, allow me to present my new sub-editor, Mr Cream.’ A man shaped like a vole smiles in greeting, then returns to his work.
‘Begging your pardon, Sir,’ says Owler, ‘but Mr Whitty spoke about a sub-editor name of Dinsmore.’
‘Mr Dinsmore is in France.’
‘France, Sir?’
‘Mr Dinsmore has chosen to take leave of absence in order to write a biography of Mr Balzac, a dead Frenchman. As well, another pillar of
The Falcon
, name of Mr Lemon, has chosen to accompany him – in the wake of certain rumours, baseless of course.’
‘Once again, Sir, you have the better of me in this matter.’
‘Politics, Mr Owler. Stay away from the politics of the office. That is my advice to you. In the meanwhile, a generous stipend awaits you with our cashier. Do not hesitate to submit to
The Falcon
again.’
‘Thank you. I’m most grateful. Good-day to you, Sir.’
‘One other thing, Mr Owler. Recent information has arrived.’
‘Is there more, Sir? Then I hope you might part with it.’
‘A telegram from Liverpool,’ says Whitty, whereupon the correspondent produces an envelope, which he opens with difficulty. The broken finger is healing poorly — due, no doubt, to quackery.
Telegram,
SS Europa
DISPATCH FROM
SS
EUROPA
LIVERPOOL TO BOSTON
26 JUNE 1852
PASSENGER RYAN DECEASED STOP
SUSPECT CHOLERA STOP
SEA BURIAL STOP
WIDOW CONTINUE BOSTON STOP
THE SORROWFUL LAMENTATION OF
WILLIAM RYAN
The Undoing of a Clever Man
by
Henry Owler
My name is William Ryan
And I were a clever man
And I suffer for Eternity
As only clever can
A charmer to the ladies
And the soul of
jeu d’esprit
And now I charm the fishes
At the bottom of the sea.
Oh once I found a true love
Though I gained her love by guile
When I lost her to another
I found others to defile
Who did make their shabby sacrifice
While I collect the fee
Now I’m defiled by fishes
At the bottom of the sea.
By guile I murdered Sally
Who insisted she should share
Too clever by a fathom
This I found to my despair
Yet misfortune turned to favour
When my love came back to me
As a dream comes to a drowned man
At the bottom of the sea.
When faced with opportunity
A clever man turns brave
With the mastery of a mariner
Who dares to ride the wave
I rode upon the backs of fools
To freedom I did flee
And now I’ve found my freedom
At the bottom of the sea.
Triumph! Riches! Liberty!
And my devoted bride
Who followed me with only
Her companion by her side
We boarded for America
But landed two, not three
While I took up my station
At the bottom of the sea.
God can see the seer
A man sees what it seems
God knows actuality
A man knows what he dreams
Cunning cannot triumph
The Almighty did decree
Thus cunning brought a schemer
To the bottom of the sea.
Do the wicked know their wickedness?
Is half a Fiend a man?
How to measure innocence?
According to whose plan?
Like the tiny teeth of fishes
These questions torture me
In my solitary prison
At the bottom of the sea.
THE END