My mother now began to spend time in the kitchen with Mrs Philliber and increasingly often she came up late and woke me up by taking a long time making ready for sleep. Then she often lay in bed all morning complaining of a headache.
Towards the end of February the money from the sale of our clothes ran out, and one morning the landlady came up for one of her little talks. Reluctantly, my mother consented to sell the document-case, and handed it to her, carefully placing the codicil in the pocket she wore beneath her petticoats and in which she carried her pocket-book.
I had wondered whether to offer to sell the ring which Henrietta had given me, and I now showed it to Mrs Philliber.
She looked at it with contempt: “Only a bit of pewter and glass,” she sniffed. “Ain’t worth even a penny.”
Flushed with irritation at her words, I nevertheless felt relief that I had no obligation to part with my keep-sake for although the world of innocent childhood in which we had pledged our love to each other seemed so distant, I still remembered the passionate and black-eyed little girl with affection.
The sale of the case brought a couple of pounds which kept us going for a few more weeks, but one morning in the middle of March our circumstances changed dramatically. I had gone out to buy us some rolls for breakfast and as I came in I noticed a man standing on the opposite side of the road. I thought I had seen him there a few days before and reflected for a moment on the oddity of this. However, I had reason to forget about this as soon as I got upstairs, for I found an unpleasant scene going on. Mrs Philliber was standing at the door of our little room and speaking very loudly on the subject of the rent.
“I have no money, I tell you,” my mother cried.
“Then sell that blessed locket,” the landlady cried and I saw that her face was flushed in the way I had come to recognise meant that she could be quite dangerous.
“I can’t! I won’t!” my mother protested.
“Well pawn it then, and you can redeem it when that blessed money comes — if it ever does.”
“I dare not. I might lose it.”
“Well, my dear, you’ll have to do something or out you’ll have to go. And that blessed boy.”
She threw in this last remark apparently in honour of myself, for I gained the top landing at that moment. When I entered the room I found that my mother had buried her head in her arms.
“Then will you at least part with the ring?” Mrs Philliber asked, still from the door.
“My wedding-band?” my mother said, raising her head in surprise.
“Yes,” she said and added sarcastically: “Or does that have sentimental associations?”
“Yes, it does,” said my mother softly. “But I’d rather lose it than the locket. How much is it worth?”
Mrs Philliber advanced into the chamber, took my mother’s small pale hand in her big red one and studied the ring: “Mebbe two pounds.”
“But it cost far more than that, I’m sure. Only look at the workmanship!”
“They sell and buy them simply by the weight of gold, my dear.” She studied the engraving: “What are the letters?”
“ ‘P’ and ‘M’ intertwined in a circlet of roses.”
“And the roses makes a big ‘C’, ain’t that right? Very pretty, but of no value to nobody else. First thing the silversmith will do, he’ll burnish ’em off.”
I had never noticed these letters. What could that mysterious “C” stand for?
“But I need a wedding-band.”
“Indeed you do,” said the landlady. “But they’re not difficult to obtain.” She cackled in anticipation of her joke: “Easier to come by than husbands. And a deal less bother to keep.”
“Very well, I will sell it,” said my mother.
“Come, I have a proposal. You and I will go now to a goldsmith I know of hard by here who will give us a fair price. And for a few pence he will give you a brass ring with the same initials worked upon it. What do you say?”
She nodded her consent.
“Then put your bonnet on and we’ll go now.”
“I need not come, need I, Mamma?” I asked.
“No, Johnnie. Stay here. I won’t be very long. On the way back I’ll buy something nice for our dinner.”
I kissed her and she went out with Mrs Philliber. As I watched them from the window I remembered the stranger I had seen earlier, and noticed that he was no longer there.
After about an hour I heard a loud ringing at the bell of the street-door. I assumed it was my mother returning before Mrs Philliber who had her own key, but when the little servant answered the door, I heard men’s voices. Then there was a rush upon the stairs, the door of our room was unceremoniously opened, and a crowd of strangers burst in.
Foremost among them was a red-faced man with a nose like a wen, who was wearing a three-cornered hat and carrying a silver rod. He looked round the room and, with a sweep of the arm that embraced the few possessions scattered about, shouted at me: “Are these the effects of Mrs Mellamphy, formerly of Manor-farm-cottage, Mortsey by Melthorpe, in the County of etc. etc.?”
I stood bewildered.
“Yes, yes, they are,” said another man impatiently.
He was tall with a long, drooping pale face and I thought I recognised him from somewhere but in the excitement of the moment, could not place him.
“Now, now, Mr Espenshade, not so fast,” said the man in the three-cornered hat. “There is a proper form to be gone through.”
“Damn your forms,” Mr Espenshade said. “I recognise the boy. But the woman isn’t here. I said you should have let me watch the house.” As he spoke he crossed the room and seized me by the arm, gripping me tightly. “We’ve got the boy at the least.”
“Let me go,” I said.
His grip tightened until it hurt. Now that I had had time to collect my wits I realized that there were only three men.
“I watched from eight sharp and never seen her leave the house this morning,” said the one who had not yet spoken, a burly individual in a green coat with a face like a London brick — flat and reddish. He turned to the man in the three-cornered hat: “Then I come and told you so, Mr Fewster.”
“That’s when she must have gone out, you confounded simpleton,” cried Mr Espenshade.
The burly one was the man whom I had seen across the street!
Mr Fewster now said with considerable dignity: “There ain’t no call for language like that, Mr Espenshade. You can’t guard against an accident of that natur’.”
Mr Espenshade muttered something I couldn’t catch, and then, giving me a shake, he said: “Where is she?”
I shook my head.
“Where has your mother gone?”
The maid, Susan, had followed the men up and was standing, pale with fright, at the door.
“Send up your mistress,” Mr Fewster ordered her.
“Please sir, she ain’t here. She’s from home, too.”
He turned to me: “Tell us where your mother is.”
“Who are you?” I cried. “What right have you to come in here in this manner?”
“Every right in the world, young man,” said Mr Fewster drawing himself up and pushing out his chest so that I feared his polished brass buttons would pop. “I am the sheriff’s officer for the jurisdiction of the Marlborough Street Commission of the Peace. And this gentleman,” he said, indicating the individual in the green coat who bowed ceremoniously in my direction, “is Mr Beaglehole who has the honour to be my deputy.”
“The bailiffs,” Mr Espenshade said grimly.
“What do you want with us?” I cried.
“We’re putting in an execution.”
I gasped. The bailiff drew from his pocket a piece of paper and laboriously unfolded it. “I have here a warrant for the securing of the body of Mrs Mellamphy formerly of etc. etc. to be brought before the Commission of the Peace in the County of Middlesex; and likewise for the distraint of all the effects of the said person. The warrant has been issue
d by the local magistrate and backed by the one here and the capias transferred to me.”
Seeing my bewilderment Mr Espenshade said: “In plain English they’re taking up your mother and seizing all her goods.”
“But why?” I demanded.
“I am acting under a warrant issued for the recovery of debt,” the bailiff said.
“But I don’t understand. We owe nothing!”
“Oh indeed?” he said satirically. “That’s not the view of the following plaintiffs at whose suit I am acting.” He unfolded the paper and began to read out a list of names: “Henry Yallop, Anne Peege, Elizabeth Passant, Michael Treadgold …”
“We’re losing our time,” exclaimed the man holding me. “We must find where the woman is.”
Mr Fewster stared at him in reproachful silence and then continued to read: “James Passant, Bartholomew Kittermaster, and Jane Parchment.”
“Those are all tradespeople in Melthorpe!” I exclaimed. “But they have all been paid.”
“Apparently not, young gentleman,” said the bailiff.
“But Bissett was to pay them with the money from selling the furniture!”
“Bissett? I seem to know that name.”
He turned over the paper and searched it until he found what he wanted: “Ah yes. ‘This warrant is issued on information received from Mrs Bissett of etc. etc. to the effect that the present whereabouts of the person named are at No. 31 Maddox-street in the Parish of St. James.’ ”
“Bissett gave that away!” I gasped.
“Don’t forget your main business,” said Mr Espenshade.
As he spoke, and perhaps because I was thinking of Bissett, I suddenly remembered with a shudder of horror when it was that I had seen him: he was the man who had followed me the day I had met Harry and whom I had then seen speaking to Bissett outside the Rose and Crab!
“I don’t need you to remind me,” said Mr Fewster indignantly. Then he turned to me: “Now tell me where your mother is.”
“I don’t know.”
Mr Espenshade gripped even harder and shook me. At that moment I heard a step upon the landing. The three men heard it too and in silence we all turned towards the door. It opened as far as it could, since it was obstructed by the bailiff and his assistant, and a woman’s voice said: “What’s going on in there?”
I recognised the newcomer as our landlady, but Mr Espenshade let go of me and swiftly crossed the room. He pulled open the door and Mrs Philliber, who had obviously been pushing at it, almost fell into the room. He seized her by the arms from behind.
“How dare you?” she protested and tried to pull herself free.
He followed her still holding her arms.
“Let me see your face, damn it!” he said.
“Who in heaven’s name are you?” she demanded.
“She’s my prisoner!” cried Mr Fewster. “Let her go!”
Seizing my opportunity I moved across the room until only the bailiff’s deputy was between me and the door.
“Take a hold on her, Beaglehole!” Fewster cried.
“That’s my miss’is,” cried Susan, adding to the uproar.
The deputy moved forward to obey his master’s orders and Mr Espenshade, catching sight of Mrs Philliber’s face and realizing that she was not the person whom he wanted, let go of her and looked round for me. At that moment I reached the door.
“Hold the boy!” Mr Espenshade cried.
“I don’t have no warrant to hold him,” I heard Fewster say.
“Damn your warrants. He’s going to warn his mother!”
Mr Espenshade made a rush towards me but I managed to get out of the room and down the stairs. I heard him come crashing after me as I shot out of the street-door, and once I was out in the street I sped round the first corner and then the next. I ran the full length of the street and on reaching the next corner looked back just before turning it, and saw that my pursuer was still behind me. Knowing that I could not hope to keep ahead of him in a fair match, I dived into a dark alley-way and flattened myself against the wall, my heart thumping. To my relief he ran past without even glancing into the entrance. I emerged cautiously a few moments later, tormented by the thought of how urgently I needed to warn my mother not to return to the house.
Very circumspectly and by a roundabout route, I made my way back until I was in a bye-street opposite the lodging-house. From here I could see anyone entering or leaving, but I was far enough away to make it unlikely that my pursuers would notice me. Mr Espenshade was standing on top of the steps scanning the street in both directions, while the two bailiffs were in conversation with the driver of a gig that was waiting outside the house.
From here I would be able to see my mother before Mr Espenshade if she came up Pollen-street behind me, but only at the same time as he if she came along Maddox-street. Knowing that there was no possibility of her being able to evade her pursuers in the way that I had, I could not wait passively for her to spring the trap prepared for her.
Mr Beaglehole now clambered into the gig and it drove off, leaving the bailiff and Mr Espenshade standing talking together. But then, to my delight, they went up the steps and shut the door. Just for the few moments while they were ascending to our room, I had my chance and I knew what I had to do, though it was contrary to all my instincts for safety. I thought suddenly of the Huffams’ motto: “Safety is to be sought in the midst of danger”. There was only one place from which I could see almost as well as they, but without any chance of their seeing me. And so I ran across the street and up the steps until I stood at the street-door. From here I could command almost as good a view as they could from the upper windows.
I had been peering anxiously along the street in either direction in the hope of spotting my mother for a few minutes when a fellow lodger came up the steps. When he nodded at me and seemed surprised to find me standing sentinel there, I signalled to him to say nothing. He knocked and the door was opened. Luckily Susan did not look round it for she might have cried out in surprise at seeing me.
At last I saw my mother, recognising her bonnet bobbing above the crowd of heads. My heart rapidly beating, I forced myself to walk at an ordinary pace towards her. There were many foot-passengers on the pavement and I had to hope that my pursuers would not recognise me from above and behind. Fortunately, for she might have made some sign of recognition which could have been observed, my mother did not see me until I was within a few paces of her. As I reached her I kept walking and cried: “Turn around and follow me.”
I had time to see an expression of surprise appear, then I was past her. I dared not turn to see if she were following. My ears straining for sounds of pursuit, I continued to the next corner and turned into Regent-street. I waited for what seemed long minutes — but could only have been seconds — until, to my inexpressible relief, my mother appeared round the corner.
“What is this game, Johnnie?” she asked, smiling anxiously.
“It’s not a game!” I cried. “It’s the bailiffs. We must get away.”
A hackney-coach was passing and I ran into the street to wave to the driver. He stopped his horses and got down with what seemed to me to be deliberate slowness to lower the steps, and I urged my bewildered mother to get in. “Keep driving!” I shouted, pulling down the blinds, as the coachman raised the steps and mounted again to his box.
As we lumbered along I explained to my mother what had happened, leaving Bissett’s name unmentioned. As I saw her horror, the full enormity of our predicament now dawned upon me.
“But how can they have a warrant?” she asked.
I did not speak.
“Something must have happened to Bissett,” she said. “That is why she has not written. But what can it be?”
This was not the occasion to embark upon such a discussion. Our plight was desperate for we now possessed in the world only what we had with us.
“How much money have you?” I asked.
She took her bulky pocket-book from her ret
icule.
“We sold the wedding-band for two pounds and two shillings,” she said. “And the brass ring cost three-pence.” She held out her hand with a forced smile and showed me. “I had my initials worked on it.”
I saw that the letters “MC” were crudely engraved. (What could that “C” stand for?)
“Then Mrs Philliber took her back-rent and ten shillings for the next two weeks, so that leaves only about a guinea.”
“What a pity you paid for two weeks,” I sighed.
“She insisted, Johnnie,” she said timidly.
Apart from this, we had the clothes we were wearing and the locket which Mrs Philliber had told us was worth several pounds.
“I wonder, can Bissett have betrayed us?” my mother said. “I believe she must have, for no-one but she knows our address.” She turned to me in panic: “She must be in league with Mr Barbellion and our enemy!”
“Later, Mamma,” I said. “We cannot think of that now.”
She started muttering to herself, her face white and fearful. I caught a few words: “Enemy … Silas … destroy us.”
I saw that she was shivering. When I raised one of the blinds and looked out of window, I did not recognise the street.
“We must stop the coach,” I said, “or the fare will take all our money.”
I put my head out of window and cried out to the driver. We got out and paid the fare which was 1s. 6d. As the driver was folding up the steps I said: “Please, can you tell us where we are?”
He made no answer but got back on the box. I asked him again. He muttered something I did not catch as he shook the reins and moved off.
We were in a long gloomy street of shabby houses, very poorly-lit by a single oil-lamp halfway along it. We stood at the side of the carriageway and looked at each other in dismay: we had never been out so late in a strange neighbourhood.