The Lambs of London (5 page)

“I am sure Mr. Ireland has better things to do with his time.” Mrs. Lamb was not inclined to be hospitable, but the loud laughter of her husband seemed to tip the balance against her.

“There is port wine in the parlour, Ma. Mr. Ireland is our guest.”

He could scarcely refuse to stay now and, in any case, he felt curiously at ease in Mary’s presence. He sensed that she was innocent of the conventions. She was Charles Lamb’s sister, too, and might provide another means of gaining his acquaintance.

“It was clever of Charles to find it. To find you, I should say.”

“He often passes by.” He had observed Charles on several occasions, staring in the window at the volumes on display. “He came in this morning for the first time.”

“You must be the bookshop in Holborn Passage! Charles has often mentioned it. I envy you terribly, being among such things. Mr. Ireland owns a bookshop, Ma.”

“My father owns it—”

“Do you have a thriving trade?” Mrs. Lamb had suddenly become more interested.

“Thriving is wiving.”

“Not now, Mr. Lamb. Are you an old firm?”

“My father has continued the business for many years.”

Mary Lamb was turning over the pages of
Pandosto
. “This is a book,” she said to him, “for winter evenings.”

“Yes, Miss Lamb. With the world shut out.”

She kept her head bowed. “This may have been the very book he read before
The Winter’s Tale
.”

“He read it like a boy gazing on a beach, looking for pretty shells.”

She glanced up at him, astonished. “Have you always loved Shakespeare?”

“Oh yes. When I was quite a child, I used to recite him. My father taught me the words.” William could recall the evenings when he stood upon a table, singing out in a clear calm voice the soliloquies of Hamlet and of Lear. He had been considered to be something of a prodigy by Samuel Ireland’s friends.

“Charles and I would play the parts, too.” While her parents busied themselves about the dying fire, she told him how she and her brother would take on the roles of Beatrice and Benedick from
Much Ado About Nothing,
or of Rosalind and Orlando from
As You Like It,
or of Ophelia and Hamlet. They had the words by heart, and would furnish them with all the actions and attitudes that they deemed to be appropriate. As Ophelia Mary would turn away and weep; as Hamlet Charles would stamp his foot and scowl. For her these scenes seemed more real, more serious, than anything that happened to her day by day. “But, for Charles, I believe they were part of a game. Now I am talking too much.”

“Not at all. It interests me exceedingly. You might like to know, Miss Lamb, that I have discovered his signature.”

“What do you mean?”

“That of Shakespeare. It is an old title deed from the reign of James. My father has authenticated it.”

“Is it certainly his hand?”

“There can be no doubt about it.” He noticed how the scars upon her face were a shade whiter than her living skin. “I found it in a curiosity shop. In Grosvenor Square.”

“To possess such a thing—”

“It has often occurred to me that there must be some store of Shakespeare’s papers. The contents of his study and his library have simply disappeared. They are mentioned in no will. Yet his family would have reverenced them.”

“Naturally.”

“They would have been preserved.”

“In Stratford?”

“Who knows where, Miss Lamb?” He sensed some intimacy between them. He did not know from where it had come; it had, as it were, descended upon them. Mary’s father had started singing some old song.

“I have often wondered,” she said, as loudly as she dared, “how Shakespeare would have appeared. In life, I mean.”

“No doubt he was very sane.”

“There is no question of that. Singularly sane.”

“He would have been open, and generous. And honest.”

“He had a spring in his step. No force could keep him down.”

“Of course not. He had that within him—” William’s voice rose higher, but then he faltered. “As you say, Miss Lamb, he was not an ordinary mortal.” The room suddenly seemed to him to be smaller; he had a definite sense of proximity to Mary, and to her parents, even to the miniatures upon the walls.

“Yet he understood what it was to be ordinary, Mr. Ireland, don’t you think?”

“He understood what it was to be anything.”

“There are ordinary people in his plays. There are nurses and prisoners and citizens. But they are ordinary to the point of genius.” He recognised Mary’s loneliness even as she spoke to him; there was so much fervour within her that it could not often have been expressed. “Think of Juliet’s nurse,” she was saying. “She is the essence of all nurses that have been or ever will be.”

“And then there is the porter in
Macbeth
.”

“Oh yes. I had forgot him. We must make a list of Shakespeare’s ordinaries.” “We” sounded familiar, and she turned at once to her mother. “Wherever can Charles be, Ma?”

“Where he should not be, I imagine.” She took up her needlework with a satisfied sigh of displeasure. Her husband had fallen asleep by the smouldering fire.

“May I play something for you, Mr. Ireland? It will prove a point.” Mary went over to the small piano, in an alcove beside the fireplace, and opened its lid. When she began to play, her fingers scarcely seemed to touch the keys; but the notes of Clementi filled the drawing-room. She continued for a minute, and then turned towards him. “It is pretty, don’t you think? It is exalted. But it gives you no particular meaning. That is how I think of Shakespeare. He is purely expressive. He uses the black and the white. That is all.”

If tears had come into his eyes at that moment, he would not have known the reason. “Will you play some more?”

The music passed over her parents without eliciting any response. But he was excited by it. There was no music in the bookshop; he knew only the tunes of the pleasure gardens and the inns. This was altogether different. It came from another sphere. It sustained his perception of Mary.

There was suddenly a banging at the door. Mary swiftly rose from the piano and went into the hall. Mr. Lamb woke up and asked his wife, “How many more sacks to the mill?”

William suddenly felt himself to be a stranger in the house. He had become an unwelcome visitor. He could hear the voices in the hall.

“I have lost my keys, dear.”

“What has happened to you?”

“I was hit.”

“Hit?”

“The ruffian took my watch and fled. Look at my head. Is it bleeding?”

Mrs. Lamb looked wildly at William, and rose from her armchair. “Whatever is the matter with you, Charles?”

“I have been robbed, Ma.” Charles came into the room and, to William, he seemed triumphant. “Oh Mr. Ireland. I quite forgot. Delighted to meet you again. As you can see, I have been detained.”

“Are you hurt, Charles?”

“No, Ma. I don’t believe so. Have you seen the book, Mary?”

“What has been taken from you, Charles?”

“My watch, Ma. Nothing beside.”

Mary went over to her mother. “It is nothing. Charles is quite well. Compose yourself.” She settled her back into the armchair. “He is not marked. Only his watch has gone.” Mr. Lamb had begun to doze again.

Charles sat down beside William. “I was dining with friends. Otherwise I would have remembered our engagement. And then it happened.” There was, perhaps, a trace of condescension in his voice.

“It is of no consequence, Mr. Lamb. Your parents and your sister have been most hospitable. We heard some music. Are you sure you are perfectly well?”

Charles brushed away the question with a movement of his hand. “Music? You have been fortunate. This is the book, of course.” He took up the copy of
Pandosto
from the side-table where Mary had left it.

“The same.”

“May I?”

“It is yours now. Your sister has paid the residue.”

“And how did she do that?”

“I have no notion.”

“I do. Our great-aunt left her a small annuity. She picks it up from the West Lothian Bank in Seething Lane. Precious place.”

“You were fortunate, Charles.” Mary had quietened her mother, and now joined them. “You could have been injured.”

“I am always lucky in the London streets, Mary. I lead a charmed life in the city.”

“Do you think he is wise, Mr. Ireland?”

“If that is his experience. Some find it more testing.”

W
ILLIAM HAD BEEN WALKING
, some months before, by the bank of the Thames just down from the Strand; it was high tide, at three o’clock in the morning. He often came at this time to savour the sound and the flow of the rising water. It gave him hope. He had seen a man standing by the edge, taking off his boots and trousers. There could be no doubt about his intention. “Stop a minute.” William, acting on instinct, rushed over to him. “Wait!”

He was young, no older than William himself. He was trembling with the cold. He muttered something William could scarcely hear; it seemed to be a passage from the New Testament, but William could not be sure. William took the young man’s arm, but was shaken off. “Take a look at my face,” the man said. “You will never see this face again.” Then he seemed to hop backwards. He fell into the water and floated for a moment; as he floated, he smiled at William. Then he was gone. The strong tidal current of the Thames, below the quiet surface, sucked him down. It was so sudden, and so effortless, that William felt a curious desire to follow him.

H
E COULD STILL RECALL
the sensation, as he sat with Charles and Mary Lamb in Laystall Street.

“I have prolonged my welcome,” he said, rising to his feet. “My father will be expecting me.”

“But you will come again?” She turned to her brother. “Mr. Ireland has promised to show me more Shakespeare. The genuine hand.”

William left quietly, so as not to wake their father, and stood with Charles on the doorstep.

“Who was it who squared you? A pad?”

“I never saw him.” Charles held on to the door, as if he were now very tired.

“You had been drinking?”

“I am afraid so.”

“You must take care, Mr. Lamb.” He was aware that he was taking Mary’s part. “The streets are never safe at night.”

“Whenever I think of the night, Mr. Ireland, I think of cats in courtyards.”

chapter four

T
HREE WEEKS AFTER
the events of that night, Mary Lamb decided to venture into Holborn Passage. Ever since their encounter she had often pictured to herself William Ireland among his books, and in her imagination he had already become a figure of some interest. Charles’s friends were altogether too loud; they were too talkative. William was more sensitive. He had greater refinement of spirit, or so she supposed. She began to breathe more rapidly as she approached the bookshop and read the sign—“Samuel Ireland, Bookseller”—hanging above the door. She passed the bay window and had decided quickly to walk on when a loud laugh, like a bellow, came from within. She paused and turned, to see an elderly man clapping William on the back while another man looked on. William glanced up at her, as if he had been awaiting her arrival, and then hurried to the door. “Miss Lamb, will you come in? You have caught us in a white minute.” She was drawn into the shop almost against her will; she disliked meeting strangers. She recognised Samuel Ireland from the resemblance to his son but, in a hot flurry of embarrassment, she found herself shaking hands with the elderly gentleman who still had the remnants of his laugh upon his face.

Samuel Ireland was already talking to her. “Honoured to make your acquaintance, Miss Lamb. Mr. Malone has introduced himself, I see. You know of his scholarship, no doubt. What we have found, Miss Lamb, is a jewel.”

“More precious than any jewel, Father.”

“Do you see this?” Samuel Ireland held up a disc of red wax, slightly discoloured around its edge. “It is his seal.”

“It is his device,” the old man said.

“So you have explained, Mr. Malone.” Samuel Ireland was still smiling at Mary, but she did not care for his triumphal air. “It bears repetition, sir, if you would be kind enough.”

He held out the seal for Mary’s inspection, and Malone leaned over her to point out its details. She could smell the sourness of his old breath. “This is the quintain.” Mary could see a pole, with a sack on one end, suspended across a bar. “It is an instrument of jousting which turned and turned about. The rider would gallop towards it. He would strike it with his javelin or it would hit him. Do you understand the significance? I did not catch your name. ‘Shake’ ‘spear’ at it. And look there. There are the initials.” Mary could make out an indistinct “W” and “S” at the base of the seal. Now she understood their high spirits.

“He would have used it for correspondence,” William said. “For theatre documents. Mr. Malone has been kind enough to identify it for us. He has published a concordance of the plays.”

Malone was wearing a waistcoat of bright green silk, from which he took out a small bound paper notebook, and turned towards William’s father. “We need more than the object itself. We need the
fons et origo,
Mr. Ireland.”

“Sir?”

“The provenance. The origin.”

Samuel Ireland looked at his son who, as Mary observed, quickly shook his head. “We are not at liberty, Mr. Malone—”

“A client?”

“I cannot say.”

“Well, I am sorry for it. The source of these treasures should be known.”

Samuel Ireland, apparently ignoring Malone’s remark, took Mary’s arm. “Have you seen the deed, Miss Lamb?”

“The deed?”

“I have merely mentioned it to her, Father.”

“Oh this will never do. Miss Lamb really must see the deed. William tells me that you are a lover of all things Shakespearian.”

“Indeed. Yes, I am.”

“And here it is.” Mary was startled to discover that William’s father had the faintest air of a cheap-jack. It was not how she had imagined his family. “This is the thing, Miss Lamb.” He laid out a piece of vellum, and gently touched it with his forefinger. “Very choice.”

“I have examined it carefully,” Malone told her. His mouth was once more perilously close. “It is the exact handwriting. There can be no doubt about it.”

“I am very pleased,” was all she could think of saying.

William noticed her embarrassment. “May I walk a little way with you, Miss Lamb?”

“Oh yes. Of course.”

After hurried farewells he took her out into the welcome chill of Holborn Passage.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said. “They are enthusiasts.”

“Do not apologise, Mr. Ireland. There is nothing wrong with enthusiasm. I merely felt the want of air.”

They walked in silence past an artificial-flower maker, whose stall always stood at the corner of Holborn Passage and King Street.

“I have a confession to make to you, Miss Lamb.”

“To me?”

“I told you that the deed came from a curiosity shop in Grosvenor Square. It did not. It came from the person who gave me the seal.”

“I don’t see—”

“—what it has to do with you? Of course it has nothing to do with you. I will say no more about it.”

“No. I mean, why this person should have imparted such precious gifts.”

“Can I tell you a story, Miss Lamb? A month ago I was sitting in the coffee shop on Maiden Lane. Do you know the one? It has a very fine counter of French mahogany. I had taken with me an old black-print edition of Chaucer’s
Canterbury Tales
which I had just purchased from a customer in Long Acre, and I was turning its pages when I heard a voice distinctly addressing me. ‘Do you know the virtues of books, sir?’

“It was a woman of middle age, sitting at a table behind me. She was dressed entirely in black with a black bonnet, a black shawl and a black umbrella. It is not usual for a woman to be sitting alone in a coffee shop, not even on Maiden Lane, and of course I was a little perturbed. She was clearly not a lady of the town. Excuse my indelicacy, Miss Lamb. Her age and appearance rendered that out of the question. And I surmised that she was either drunk or out of her wits. ‘Virtues, madam?’

“‘Do you understand these things? Papers and books and suchlike?’

“‘It is my profession.’

“‘I do not trust the lawyers.’ I noticed that she was drinking a cup of sassafras, a concoction I heartily detest. ‘As you can see, I am a widow.’

“‘I am sorry.’

“‘There is nothing to be sorry for. He was a brute. But he has left me many papers.’ Naturally I became interested. ‘I have no mind for papers. I need a mind.’ It occurred to me again that she might be one of those deluded women who are often to be found on the streets of London. But there was a carefulness, and steadiness, about her that suggested otherwise. ‘You may think it odd, sir, that I should address you in this way. But, as I said, I have an aversion to attorneys and law-beagles and suchlike. For the last several weeks I have said to myself—if I chance upon a person who has skills in studying and deciphering, then I will pounce upon that person.’ I could not help but smile at this. ‘You see, sir, that I am not used to flowery speech. Will you tell me your name?’ She opened her purse of black silk, and I distinctly scented violets. It is a lovely perfume, don’t you think? ‘I have no card. I have only my husband’s. But the address is the same.’ I noted that her husband, Valentine Strafford, had been an importer of tea and that he had lived at a good address—Great Titchfield Street, in the parish of Marylebone. So I gave her my name, and promised to call upon her. It is what politeness required.

“Quite by chance I passed the house three days later on my way to a book-binder in Clipstone Street. Do you know the neighbourhood, Miss Lamb? It is not antique, but it is interesting. I had as yet no real intention of visiting her, but I must admit that I had been a good deal intrigued by her. I glanced into the ground-floor window and, on a long table, what did I see but heaps of papers and rolls of manuscripts! There were files and boxes on the table, also, together with other documents that had been tied with string or tape. So she had been speaking no less than the truth about her husband’s papers. I did not hesitate, but on an instinct climbed the steps and rang the bell; to my surprise, she answered the door herself. ‘I hoped that you would come, Mr. Ireland. I have been waiting for you.’

“She took me into the ground-floor room that had the papers. I could see a long and narrow garden at the back, where there was one of those follies in the form of a rock-pool. They have become quite a fashion. ‘I am not sure, Mrs. Strafford, if I will be able to help you.’

“‘Nonsense. I saw your eyes widen when you came into the room. You love such things.’ She offered me sassafras, but I declined. She obviously did not care for her husband’s tea. ‘Of course you will be remunerated.’

“‘Before we speak of payment, let me browse for a while.’

“‘They may signify nothing.’

“‘They may signify a great deal. Let me examine them first.’

“And so I set to work. It was an interesting collection. There were records of payments from Bermondsey Abbey, dating from the thirteenth century, and portions of a sixteenth-century rent-roll from the parish of Morebath in Devon. I hope I am not boring you. There was a map of the shoreline from Gravesend to Cliffe; the date was uncertain but, judging from the calligraphy, I guessed it to come from the middle of the seventeenth century. Of course I could not determine how any of these items had come into her husband’s possession. I found a long inventory of goods signed by the Comptroller of the Excise at the London Customs House, dated in the thirteenth year of the reign of Richard II, as well as several pages of heraldic mottoes and devices. It seemed to me to be a random collection, but such a curious one that I felt a certain excitement. It appealed to my sense of adventure.

“Then I came across a deed, recently notarised and sealed with the distinctive green wax from the office of the sheriff of London. My father has pointed it out to me on several occasions. But this was no antiquity. It concerned a property in Knightrider Street, and it was clear from the document that Strafford had purchased a dwelling for £235 only two years before. I walked into the hallway and called out for Mrs. Strafford, who came down at once from the first floor.

“‘You have found something, Mr. Ireland?’

“‘I believe I have, Mrs. Strafford. Let me show you this document. Have you seen it before?’

“‘No. I have not.’

“‘Then you have a new house.’

“‘My husband never mentioned this. Whatever was he thinking? Knightrider Street? That is by St. Paul’s, is it not? Not a cheap property, I am sure.’ She looked up at me, but I know nothing about such matters. ‘We must see it at once.’

“We hailed a closed chaise. I prefer a cabriolet. These chaises smell of stale straw and damp umbrellas, don’t you think? But there was nothing else to be had. We were stopped briefly in Holborn, where a young boy had been mangled by some horses, and then travelled eastward to Knightrider Street. Do you know that street, Miss Lamb? It curves like the side of a Roman amphitheatre. That is how it acquired its name.

“Mrs. Strafford jumped out of the cab before I had a chance to pay the fare, and in her eagerness she walked ahead and passed the right door. I called her back, and we stood together in the street. It was a dark afternoon, and there was a candle behind the window. That was rather a surprise. It would not have seemed marvellous to me that the supposedly dead Strafford was living here and, judging by the look of horror upon Mrs. Strafford’s face, the same thought had occurred to her. But I could see her mustering her courage, and she mounted the steps to the door. She rapped upon it, and for the first time I noticed that she was not wearing gloves. Odd, don’t you think? The candle was then removed by an unseen hand. We waited with growing impatience, until the door was opened by an old lady who seemed bowed by some frightful disease. ‘There is nobody at ’ome,’ she said.

“To my astonishment Mrs. Strafford walked past her and called out ‘Come down! Come down!’

“‘Mr. Strafford never comes no more.’

“‘I beg your pardon?’ Mrs. Strafford had been about to climb the staircase, but she turned back.

“‘He ain’t bin ’ere for eight months or more. I ain’t bin paid for two months neither.’

“‘You are the housekeeper, are you?’

“‘I was, but I ain’t bin paid.’

“‘We will attend to that.’ I could see that Mrs. Strafford was not a woman for delay. ‘How much did my husband owe you?’

“If she was at all surprised by the sudden appearance of Mrs. Strafford, she did not show it. ‘Sixty shillin’s. Seven and six per week.’

“‘You don’t mind paper money, I take it?’ She took three pound notes from her purse. ‘It is as good as metal.’

“There was some further conversation between them but I was curious to discover what, if anything, lay behind the doors of this old house. I love the evidence of the past, Miss Lamb. There was a back room, just beyond the staircase; as soon as I entered I sensed the faint odour of old papers, as refreshing to me as any herb or plant. What is the sweetness of flowers compared to the savour of dust and confinement? There was a large wooden bureau in a corner of the room; I opened it and discovered piles of documents folded, tied, or laid down in single sheets.

“Mrs. Strafford came up suddenly behind me. ‘What is this? More papers? Oh Lord, my husband was drowning in papers.’

“‘They may be all over this house. What can I do—’

“‘What can you do with them? You can keep them, Mr. Ireland. You found the house for me. You may have its papers.’

“I reflected for a moment, and found myself looking out through a grimy window at a small paved courtyard. ‘No. That is not just. Let us put it differently. If I find anything that is of value to me, but not to you, then I may keep it.’

“‘Agreed.’

“‘As easily as that?’

“‘It is easy to give away what I never possessed. Here are the housekeeper’s keys, Mr. Ireland. When you have finished your work, the house will be sold.’

“I came back to Knightrider Street on the following morning, with the excuse to my father that I was examining a gentleman’s library in Bow Lane. As I said to you, I wished this to be my own adventure. I began at the top of the house, and inspected each room thoroughly. The house was for the most part bare of furniture, except for a small room that the ancient housekeeper had occupied, but there were several chests and cases in which I found more documents. It was clear to me now that Mr. Strafford had been an inveterate and eager collector of manuscripts; there were bills of mortality, actors’ parts written on long scrolls, diplomatic correspondence and even folio pages from an illuminated Bible. Do tell me if I am boring you, Miss Lamb. It was on the second morning, however, that I discovered the deed that contained the signature of William Shakespeare. The deed my father has just shown to you. I had not noticed the name at first, and had put the document to one side with some other deeds. Yet something must have caught my attention. It may have been no more than the proximity of the ‘W’ and the ‘Sh.’ I picked up the page again and, an hour later, I was conveying it back to the bookshop. It was the perfect gift for my father. But then, just yesterday, I also found the seal.”