Quincunx

  Hours passed that seemed like days, like weeks. Scenes from my life paraded in review before my eyes. Those early years in Melthorpe. My mother, Sukey, Bissett, and Mrs Belflower. I had never repaid Sukey for the money she had lent me! Henrietta and the Mompessons. And what of Henrietta? Did I love her? Had she loved me?

  Suddenly I felt shame at so much that I had done — and, worst of all, not done. I had been so quick to judge. I had condemned my mother a hundred times. I had refused to forgive poor crippled Richard for betraying Big Thom at Quigg’s. Now I did not feel I had to forgive him. I felt I had no right to. And if only I had thought more of Joey and his mother and less of gaining my rights. Rights. Justice. What did these words really mean? I had deceived myself. My motives were much baser than I had allowed myself to believe. If only I could live, I would behave so differently in the future. What had I ever done for anyone else? I thought of all the times I had brought my mother to tears and now I wept myself, and the more when I thought of the suspicions of her that I had nursed. Mother, father. Grandfather. What did any of that matter? Suddenly I saw in this horrible, pitiable old man my real affiliation. I knew the story he had told me — his quest for justice, his brooding sense of ill use, his attempt to measure love. It was hideously familiar to me. So now I made a thousand promises and resolutions with no certainty that I would have the chance to break them.

  I dared not believe it, but the water seemed to be rising no higher. It was surely falling! It was falling! But I was not saved yet. I had to go back for there was no other escape from the rope that bound me fast. Go back! (Always it seemed that I had to go back! Would I never be really free?) How long should I wait? The only chance I had was to hope that Clothier had left the cellar and had not secured the trap-door. If I delayed too long he would return and start to haul me in. I would wait until the tide had gone down to a foot beneath the trap-door. That would give me just enough space to breathe while I tried to open the trap-door.

  I knelt as the level fell and reached down to feel at intervals until the moment came. Then I lowered myself into the water and swam back, following the rope. I rose to the surface and as I felt the trap-door with my hands found that it was not secured. Of course! He had not been able to bolt it because of the thickness of the rope holding it ajar! No light was coming in round the corners so I assumed that he was not waiting in the cellar or I would have detected the lanthorn. As I was trying to raise the trap-door I was bracing myself against the ladder when it suddenly began to give way. It was rusted through and my weight had broken it free of its mountings. I was terrified until I realized that it did not matter for the water supported me, of course, and by hauling myself against the rope instead I was able to push back the trap-door and enter the cellar in the darkness. I closed the trap-door again, but what worried me was that Clothier would surely notice when he returned that there were now two lines of rope coming from beneath it when there should only be one. I would have to jump out upon him before he got close enough to notice this. So I found a place to hide near the bottom of the steps.

  Soaking wet, I was numb with cold, and a long time passed before I heard the cellar-door opening and saw the light of the lanthorn. He stood by the door presumably listening to the slopping of the tide beneath the trap-door and waiting for it to fall further. Then he came down the steps a little way and I saw him more clearly. He was carrying a knife to cut the rope! Here was a new danger but also an unexpected chance, if I was lucky. Fearing that at any moment he would notice the two ropes, I wondered whether to seize the initiative by throwing myself at him even before he came past me. I would try to get the knife from him and cut myself free, for though my hands were tied together, I still had the use of them. Then I could use the knife to force him to let me out of the building.

  I believe I was about to throw myself at him when suddenly I heard a noise from above. He obviously heard it too for he put down the knife to open the door, and went through it. As soon as it closed I crossed to where he had been and fumbled for the knife which I then used to cut myself free. Even that took some time and to free my hands would be much harder. Groping my way back, I threw the end of the rope down the trap so that there was once again only one line coming from it. Cautiously I passed through the door, went up the next flight of stairs, and peered into the main room of the counting-house. I had the knife and I would use it if need be!

  The old man was shouting at someone I could not see: “What are you doing back here? And at this hour?”

  “What am I doing?” the man answered. “Why, I’ll tell you with great pleasure. More pleasure than I’ve ever had in obeying you, sir — I mean, Clothier.”

  I moved into a position from which I could see the speaker. He was in late middle age and round of figure as of countenance, almost completely bald and very red-faced — though whether this was constitutional or caused by the stress of the occasion I could not know then. He was shabbily clad in an old brownish coat with lustreless brass buttons, a canary waistcoat, and pale blue pantaloons.

  “What is this madness?” Clothier cried.

  “Madness? No, the madness has been to go on doing the things for you that I have done. Wringing the poor for their last pence, fastening on young heirs and sucking them dry, crowding people into rooms that a fair man wouldn’t keep a pig in. Above all, persecuting that poor young creature — your own daughter-in-law, sir — I mean, Clothier. Cheating her of her little money with the aid of that leech, Sancious, and then hounding her into shame and an early grave.”

  Listening, I had to resist the impulse to come forth and embrace the good little man.

  “Get to the point, Vulliamy,” Clothier snarled. “How did you get out of the Fleet?”

  “I’ve never been in it,” he returned. “And now I’ll tell you something. I had a key to the street-door copied some time ago. Ever since then I’ve been coming back of nights to transcribe papers. (That’s why I haven’t always been wide-awake during the day, sir — I mean, Clothier.) When I was arrested, I took them with me to the sheriff’s and showed them to an attorney — a precious fly ’un, too. He advanced me the monies for the caption and a sham bail bond and told me to come back and get more evidence.”

  “What papers?” the old man asked, his voice trembling slightly.

  “Why, pretty much everything. Most particularly on the Consolidated Metropolitan Building Company and its dealings over that piece of land. Especially with Mimpriss and Quintard. But many other things, too.”

  “Why, you don’t think I’ll let you leave here alive, do you?”

  “I think you’d better, sir — I mean, Clothier. For I’ve left ’em with the attorney who has instructions on what to do with them if he does not hear from me.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Come,” said Clothier in a very reasonable tone. “State your terms. You’ve got the better of me this time, but business is business and I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

  “Why, I couldn’t reconcile it with my conscience to let you go on doing what you have been doing.”

  “What, not for anything at all?”

  There was a pause, and then the little man answered: “Not for less than fifty thousand pounds.”

  So he was no better! Though perhaps he was, for at least he set a high price on the value of his conscience!

  “You’re mad!” Clothier shouted. Then more calmly he said: “You must know I don’t possess anything like that amount!”

  “You do now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard what passed in the cellar not an hour ago. Now that the boy is dead and the will destroyed, you’re the owner of the Hougham property and that’s worth a tidy sum.”

  There was a brief silence, and then the old man said in a silky tone: “Why, you are up to the game! But if I’m to claim the estate, you must help me in the cellar.”

  “Very well. But none of your tricks.”

  They came towards where I was and bec
ause there was no other way to go, I quickly retreated back down into the cellar and hid behind a cask.

  “Let’s have a look at him,” Clothier said and seized the rope. “What the devil!” I heard him cry a moment later on finding it attached to nothing. “He must have drowned whatever happened,” he said. “For I stood on the trap-door until the tide reached my ancles. The rope must have frayed on a sharp edge. I must have the body to prove to the Court that the Huffam line is extinct. But I don’t want it found with the hands tied. Nor in the vaults, for that’s too close to home, but out in the river. You’re five and twenty years younger than I, Vulliamy. Go down and see if you can find it.”

  “Not for the world.”

  “Come, don’t be a coward. We need that body. Climb down while I hold the lanthorn.”

  “I know a trick worth two of that,” Vulliamy said.

  “I’m not trying to kill you, you fool,” Clothier growled. “I’ll do it myself if you won’t, but remember that your receiving the money depends on my remaining alive to inherit! Hold the lanthorn.”

  He began to climb down. I knew the ladder was unsafe and the old man had no rope to save him as I had. Yet if I tried to warn him I would be killed. I recalled the choice I had had to make when Assinder opened the hiding-place. I felt even less compunction now.

  Suddenly there was a cry: “It’s giving way! Help me.”

  I heard a desperate scrabbling of hands and nails on stone, and then a long scream and the thud of the body landing. Then there was silence. Since the tide was right out now he must have hit the wharf twenty feet below. I looked round the edge of the cask and saw Vulliamy peer down into the trap as he stood at its edge holding the lanthorn. After a moment he hurried to the steps and ran up them and out of the cellar.

  After leaving time for him to get well clear of the building, I felt my way in the dark out of the counting-house. Towards the top of the lane I heard footsteps and pressed myself back into the shadows. A moment later Vulliamy passed me with the watch behind him. I ran up one street and then another until I found a quiet place. Then, my teeth chattering and my fingers numbed with cold, I managed to use the knife to free my hands.

  CHAPTER 109

  As I hurried away from the river-front I reflected that for the second time within twenty-four hours I had no idea where I should go. The first time, I had gone to Henry believing that I could trust him. Had he betrayed me? Someone must have, for how had my assailants known where to find me in the dark lane? And how had Clothier known that I had the will hidden around my neck? I could not avoid the suspicion that Henry had blown me up. But how could he have come to form a combination with my enemy? And he had put up a fierce struggle against our attackers. Had Barney then somehow traced me? That seemed much more probable. In that case I still dared not go to Joey and his mother. Then I would return to Henry, but I would be very suspicious of him. I crossed Fleet-street and hurried up Fetter-lane.

  It was still very early when I reached the entrance to Barnards-inn but the gate was unlocked for, as I could see from the dim glow from his window, the porter was awake. I glanced in and saw that he was preoccupied in making his breakfast, so that with the aid of the fog it was not difficult for me to steal past.

  I ascended the stair and as I reached the top I noticed that the oaken outer door of Henry’s chambers stood open and I heard voices. After all that I had been through I hope it may be understood — if not excused — that I tip-toed up to the inner door and pressed my ear against its pannel.

  Henry was speaking: “I very much fear, Pamplin, that we won’t see our young friend again.”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  “Well, from what he told me I know he had enemies who wished his death.”

  “His death! What have you got me involved in, Bellringer? Do you mean to say that you believe those villains who attacked me intend to murder him?”

  “I very much fear so.”

  I heard a long, low, and most unclerical whistle and then Mr Pamplin said, in a voice shaking with fright: “What the deuce do we do now?”

  “We go to the police-office and lay an information before the beak.”

  “But only think of the scandal if our part in this gets abroad.”

  “But we have to, Pamplin. It’s the only chance we have of saving the boy.”

  “Do you know who those men were and where they’ve taken him?”

  “No, I have no idea.”

  “Then what purpose is served by going to the authorities? It’ll only get me into the most infernal scrape. My bishop won’t like it. You know how much trouble I’ve already had with him.”

  “I’m sorry, Pamplin, I’m afraid you’ll have to take the consequences.”

  “Really, Bellringer. It’s your fault for getting me into this. I agreed to do you a favour because you’ve helped me in the past. If you do have to go to the beak can’t you keep me out of it?”

  “I don’t see how. I need someone to vouch for my innocence in all of this.”

  “Your innocence! What about me? We’re both innocent, but how is our story going to sound when it’s reported in the papers? There’s always some damned journalist hanging about the police-courts waiting for stories of this kind. And why should the justice believe us, anyway? It all sounds improbable enough to me: a missing heir, a mysterious document of some kind. And a young fellow in the middle of it! You seem to forget my circumstances. This could be the end of my hopes of advancement.”

  “Why should you care for that? You have a rich enough living already, haven’t you? But it’s barely dawn and I’m confoundedly hungry. Before we do anything, let’s have some breakfast.”

  “Excellent idea. The Cocoa-tree should be opening about now.”

  “Then you go on ahead and I’ll follow when I’ve washed and changed my dress.”

  As I heard footsteps approaching I moved away from the door. I had heard enough to have my suspicions allayed.

  The door opened and Mr Pamplin stood gazing at me in amazement. I believe that for an instant he thought I had returned from the grave and in the face of a miracle every one of his profoundest beliefs was shaken. He stepped backwards into the room, his mouth drooping speechlessly, and I followed him.

  Henry turned and presented to my gaze almost as ghastly a spectacle as I: his face was bruised and since he was in his shirt and trowsers I could see how badly torn his clothes were, and that the shirt was covered in blood.

  He looked at me for some moments with the strangest expression: “My dear John!” he exclaimed at length. “It really is you! Thank Heavens you’re safe!”

  He moved forward and, dirty and wet as I was, embraced me. In my weakened state I felt tears rising at his obvious pleasure in seeing me again.

  “Awfully glad to see you safe, old man,” said Mr Pamplin, having recovered his composure. “Spares me some uneasiness, I can assure you.”

  Henry led me tenderly towards a chair before the fire. “What happened?” he asked. Then he glanced warningly towards his friend who was watching us intently and added in an undertone: “Tell me when he’s gone.”

  I saw the danger and though I had much to say and many questions to ask, I kept silent.

  “You got away, evidently,” Henry went on in a more natural voice. “Well, don’t tire yourself by telling us now.”

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  Henry laughed: “Your friends knocked me to the ground and kicked me. When they had gone, Charles and I spent a comical half-hour blundering about in the fog trying to catch each other.”

  “Comical!” the clergyman protested.

  “Very comical in retrospect, though hardly so at the time. You see, John, I unwittingly frightened him half to death so that he would run off whenever I came near, taking me for one of our assailants. But in the end we found each other. Then we looked for the watch, but of course it was not abroad. The Charlies are always safe and snug in the watch-house on a night like this. We dec
ided to come back here and clean up before going before the beak.” Then with a warning smile at me, Henry said to his friend: “Be a good fellow, Pamplin, and order us over breakfast, will you?”

  “Very well,” he answered rather irritably and departed.

  As the door closed behind him Henry smiled at me conspiratorially and said: “Tell me quickly what happened before he gets back. And change into some dry things.”

  He gave me a dressing-gown and while we talked, I removed my soaking garments and he hung them before the fire.

  “The men who abducted me were agents of Silas Clothier, who is the claimant under the codicil if I die. He tried to kill me but I escaped and he died instead.”

  “Died?” Henry repeated.

  “Yes. But not before he had destroyed the will.”

  “You are sure he is dead?” Henry asked.

  “Certain,” I answered, rather surprised that he was so much interested in the old man’s fate and so little in that of the will. I told him briefly what had happened. “What do you think I should do now?” I asked. “Should I go to the magistrates?”

  “What purpose would that serve?” Henry asked rather distractedly.

  “I believe none,” I agreed, “for I am safe at last from that family, for the Clothiers — or, rather, the Porteouses — have no claim on the estate now that I have outlived the old man.”

  “Yes,” Henry muttered. “They have no claim.”

  There was a silence, and then he said: “If you reveal yourself to be alive, that has far-reaching implications.”

  I looked at him in surprise.