The Skull and the Nightingale (47 page)

“It has been claimed,” he said, “and I apologize to Mr. Thorpe for recalling so coarse a pronouncement—that the tortoise can devote an entire month to a single act of copulation. I confess that I myself have never enjoyed a pleasure so prolonged. ”

“Human life could hardly accommodate such prowess,” I observed.

My godfather had been roused from his exhaustion by Yardley’s remarks.

“I believe I have heard you say,” he ventured huskily, “that there may be strange affinities between creatures seemingly antithetical.”

Yardley assented, instancing a friendship he claimed to have observed between a bull and a goose who shared a field.

“But,” said he, “there are antipathies equally as strange. Dr. Smollett remarks in his
Travels
that the silkworm is so delicately constituted that it may actually die if approached by a woman—heh! heh!—who is menstruating. You must excuse me, Vicar.”

Mr. Gilbert nodded without a smile: “Perhaps one day we shall comprehend this commerce between bull and goose and woman and worm.”

S
o feverish and fatigued had my godfather seemed during the dinner that I was hardly surprised when he took to his bed for the two following days. The weather having deteriorated, I stayed within doors, rehearsing again and again in my mind the conversation I hoped soon to be having. I was beginning to fear that Mr. Gilbert’s indisposition might postpone it indefinitely. It also occurred to me to wonder whether it might not carry him off altogether—but I concluded that this was not yet desirable, given the uncertainty of my prospects.

By my seventh morning at Fork Hill, a strong wind was slapping rain against the windowpanes. To my surprise I received word that Mr. Gilbert was somewhat recovered and wished to speak with me in his study. I found him sitting in an armchair with a blanket around him and a large handkerchief in his hand. He looked weary, but his voice was clearer.

“You have come a long way to visit me,” he said, “and it is time that we talked. Mr. Hurlock remarked upon your tongue. How is it?”

“Somewhat better, sir, I thank you.”

“How did you come to injure it?”

I told him again about the jolting coach, not sure whether the lapse of recollection was a good or a bad omen for our interview.

He heard my explanation absently, and asked if I had enjoyed the dinner.

I remarked that I had been surprised to see Hurlock there.

“A sign of subjection,” said my godfather. “A tame bear.”

I waited for further prompting. Mr. Gilbert closed his eyes for a moment or two, before asking: “How, in your opinion, did Mrs. Ogden feel toward her husband?”

Taken by surprise, I paused to consider.

“I would surmise that she had a measure of respect for him. And there was gratitude—certainly gratitude. But little warmth, little fondness.”

“Did they quarrel, do you suppose?”

“I cannot say with any certainty, but I would think not. He was a taciturn fellow.”

That damned lump on my tongue made it difficult for me to say “taciturn.” I was wondering where these questions might be leading, but it seemed that they were to lead nowhere. My godfather clapped his handkerchief to his face as a sudden fit of coughing took his breath away. When he recovered and could speak again, it was on a fresh theme.

“Your letters have been empty of incident since those unfortunate events. How have you been passing the time?”

I explained that I had thought it advisable to remain inconspicuous, but that I would shortly be looking for a fresh start, for a new adventure of some kind.

“You have not seen Miss Brindley again?”

“I have not. I believe that she has passed to the patronage of my friend Mr. Horn.”

“And you still have no thought of resuming your pursuit of Mrs. Ogden.”

“None at all, sir.”

“I understand you. I understand you.”

Clearing his throat painfully, the old invalid said: “It would be interesting to know what passed between her and her husband on that morning—on that last morning.”

“Perhaps nothing, sir. He left very early.”

My godfather nodded, and then closed his eyes again, as though he would gladly have dozed. He roused himself to say:

“There is one aspect of this affair that seems not to have come to public attention.”

I was at once alert. “And what is that?”

“Mr. Ogden wrote to Lord Downs that he was returning to London for pressing domestic reasons.”

I kept my voice steady: “The word ‘domestic’ did not, I think, appear in the newspaper reports.”

“Exactly.” Mr. Gilbert huddled the blanket around himself and sat up. “It was not quoted because although Ogden wrote the word, he then scored it through. Lord Downs showed me the original. The wording had been plain: ‘ . . . for pressing domestic reasons.’ ”

Thinking frenziedly, I managed a response:

“Given that circumstance, it seems remarkable that Mr. Ogden went to his office rather than to his house.”

“But it appears that in his office he did and said nothing. When Mr. Gow spoke to him, he simply walked past him.”

“I believe Mr. Ogden was never talkative.”

My godfather discharged a great sneeze into his handkerchief. I think that no man could have hated more the indignity of having the cavities of his skull filled with mucus. He sat for some moments breathing heavily before making an effort to speak:

“Let us suppose that his wife had said something to give him cause for suspicion . . . Might he not have chosen to lurk in his office before going on to Margaret Street to have an eye to her doings?”

I met the challenge directly: “Are you suggesting that he might have suspected
me
?”

“Not you, perhaps. But a lover.”

“Could he have thought that this lover would invade Mrs. Kinsey’s house? Or that his wife would creep out?”

“It sounds improbable. Yet it is said that jealous men may harbor the most unlikely suspicions. And of course in this case the suspicion would have been justified.”

Increasingly uncomfortable, I made an effort to speak thoughtfully: “But this suggestion implies an unlikely circumstance: the poor wretch felt confident enough to take the coach, yet was sufficiently concerned to change his mind on the journey.”

Mr. Gilbert made to reply, but was seized by a fit of coughing which left him scarlet in the face. As he recovered he wiped his eyes and sank back into his chair.

“I find myself a little languid,” he said. “I must ring for some brandy. Will you take some yourself ?”

“Gladly.”

I was by now in full need of the brandy, but I welcomed equally the interruption as the servant was summoned and the errand carried out. It gave me a few moments to collect my thoughts. By the time we were settled again, I was ready to take the initiative:

“If Ogden did return to spy on his lady, he must have come too late or given up too soon. I saw no sign of him in Margaret Street.”

My godfather reached out from his blanket to some papers on his desk and produced what I recognized as a letter I had sent him. It disturbed me to see it here, produced as though in evidence. Mr. Gilbert donned spectacles to consult it.

“You were there at midnight?”

“Exactly at midnight.”

“But you did not stay long?”

“By no means. Having read Mrs. Ogden’s note, I went briskly home.”

“Was there light enough to read?”

“There was not. It was a wretched night.”

“And you had a torn paper with writing smudged by the rain?”

“Exactly so. I had to walk some little distance before I could find a lamp bright enough to tell me the bad news.”

It was as though I were on trial in a court of law. I sipped some brandy to help me keep up appearances. Fortunately Mr. Gilbert seemed to weary of the topic, shaking his head and lapsing into silence.

I felt a sudden surge of anger. Here was this old wretch assuming authority, and asking impudent questions, as though a detached inquirer, when he had been the one to lure me into danger. I had suffered weeks of fear in his service yet now found myself seemingly distrusted and reproached. Before I had time to think, I found myself blurting:

“I cannot but wonder what the promised reward would have been had I concluded the business with Mrs. Ogden.”

I felt a qualm even before my sentence was concluded. This was the first time I had ever presumed to question my godfather. There was astonished hostility in his face as he stared at me with bloodshot eyes, appraising my words.

At last he said: “You have declared that possibility closed.”

Uncertain whether to advance or to retreat, I said: “Indeed.”

“Then that situation no longer obtains and is no longer to be discussed.”

Hoarse though Mr. Gilbert was, his statement was a challenge. I held his gaze and said nothing, still hot with rage, sucking on the lump in my mouth. One misplaced word and we would be quarreling, perhaps fatally. My godfather drank some brandy and paused to feel its effects before, in a gentler voice, offering a fresh start.

“I invited you here for two reasons. One was to hear more about Ogden’s disappearance. It sounded to me a strange affair—and still does. The other was to consider future possibilities.”

This was more promising. I tried to sound conciliatory: “As to Mr. Ogden, sir, I do not think I have anything left to say. I know little more than I have read in the newspapers.”

“But that ‘little more’—it seemed to include some knowledge of the criminal underworld?”

I was inwardly cursing again: “A very little knowledge. Acquired at second hand.”

“You mentioned an individual who was familiar with Knott’s Market.”

There was no time for invention: “That was Francis Pike, Mr. Crocker’s man.”

Thanks to that damned swelling, I could barely pronounce the name Francis. My godfather coughed hoarsely once more, but then smiled.

“This is a queer business,” he said in a cracked voice. “We both have our difficulties in speaking.”

He dabbed the handkerchief to his watering eyes. “Did that swollen tongue discommode you in the London salons?”

“No, sir. The damage was done on the journey to Fork Hill.”

“Of course, of course.” He shook his head as though irritated with himself, and succumbed to a shuddering sigh. “I have been anxious to talk with you, Richard, but our conversation comes too soon. This illness clouds my thinking. I am not myself. It is unspeakably vexing. I find I am speaking thoughtlessly.”

“Let me leave you to rest, sir,” I said, rising.

Mr. Gilbert raised a hand but lowered it again, too weary to shape a gesture.

“You are kind,” he said. “A day or two more, and perhaps we will try again. But perhaps”—he broke off, panting—“perhaps we both need a respite. It may be too soon to discuss new projects before this affair of the Ogdens has been fully digested.”

“I will be guided by your wishes, sir.”

Bowing, I turned away, but could see that he had settled back under his blanket even before I left the room.

I
passed the rest of that day in the library, sometimes idly glancing at a book, sometimes staring out at the wet garden, but with my mind always occupied with what had passed between me and my godfather. My thoughts were as cheerless as the weather. Plainly Gilbert entertained doubts and suspicions concerning Ogden’s fate. How serious were they? How far would he pursue them? After all, he knew more about the affair—even if it was but a single word more—than had been reported in the
London Chronicle
. If he picked and picked away at the matter, might he uncover the truth of it?

I tried to reassure myself that he could not. I alone knew the full truth: as long as I kept my nerve and my counsel, I would be safe. There was Pike—and I cursed myself for having let slip his name—but he would remain silent and invisible, having his own skin to save. What had caused my godfather’s qualms? Two circumstances only: the mighty coincidence that Ogden should have died on the very night when I had planned an assignation with his wife, and the single, and obliterated, word
domestic
. As to the latter, I could, at need, suggest that Ogden had originally included it almost at random—for example because he had not wished to imply that he considered some other professional task more important than his appointment with Lord Downs. As to the former: well, coincidences were a matter of common experience. It occurred to me also that I could mention the hypotheses advanced at the Conversation Club. Fanciful though they were, either should seem a more persuasive possibility than that the urbane young man who quoted them was guilty of manslaughter.

With such arguments I gradually calmed myself, but it remained true that I had done a bad morning’s work. My hopes of reaching some new settlement with my godfather now seemed remote. I had been guilty of misjudgment, been too aggressive. Rather than challenge him, I should now further ingratiate myself, become a still closer confidant. When my godfather showed signs of recovery, I might attempt overtures of this sort; but I could not tell how long I might have to wait. The following morning I learned that he was once more confined to his room. I resolved to allow him three further days before leaving for London.

Meanwhile there was empty time to fill. The rain had ceased and the skies were clear. I thought of riding into the village to chat with Thorpe, but decided that I felt a little too vulnerable at present. Once more I lingered in the library, restless and discontented, running again and yet again through the whole sequence of thoughts that had troubled me the previous day, and getting no more satisfaction from them.

In the afternoon the sun began to shine quite brightly, drawing a faintly visible steam from the moist ground. I went out across the wet grass on my habitual walk to the edge of my godfather’s estate. Its aspect was quite changed. In the few days since I had arrived at Fork Hill, autumn had conclusively supplanted the last of the summer. The echoing birdcalls sounded melancholy now. There was a scent of vegetable decomposition in the air. When I reached the woods I perceived how the fallen leaves, flattened by rain, had formed a dank carpet, soon to become an earthlike substance. This was the season of decay and change. In my imagination I saw Ogden’s body, deep beneath foul water, resolving itself similarly into mud. Yet, after all, my mood was tranquil: such transformations were the way of the world. One day my own turn would come, but not yet, not yet . . .