“Hurry it up there, baitfish! You’re agin’ me!”
Matthew went up the steps to where the two men waited. He was aware of being watched; it had been rare in the last two days, since the incident with Albion, for him not to be watched, or spoken about in whispers by the other prisoners. No one knew quite what to make of Albion’s visit, and by now word had circulated throughout Newgate though neither Baudrey nor any of the other guards had mentioned it to Matthew; it appeared that the officials had taken the route of willful ignorance.
“Move on!” Baudrey gave Matthew a shove, which was not unexpected. Matthew shuffled along the circuitous corridor, passing the archway into Budapest. They came to a staircase leading up to a door of grated iron. “Halt,” said Baudrey, and Matthew obeyed.
A ring of keys made a metallic, almost musical noise, though music of the rudest sense. “The things they have me do ’round here,” Baudrey complained, as he slid a key into the cufflock. The cuffs fell away. “I ain’t bendin’ for no piece a’ garbage like this ’un,” he said, and he gave the keys to the other guard. “You do the honors.”
The second man muttered his own complaint, but nevertheless he bent to unlock Matthew’s ankle shackles. Then the chains were off and the second guard put them over his shoulder while Matthew stood rubbing his raw wrists.
“Your fee’s been paid,” Baudrey said. “Mind you don’t do somethin’ that warrants ’em on again.”
“Paid?” Matthew felt as if his brain was becoming as useless in here as a brick of soap. “Who paid it?”
“Up them stairs.” Baudrey pushed Matthew’s shoulder with the wicked billyclub. He took the keys from the other guard, followed Matthew to the top and unlocked the grated door. “In with you,” he said, but this time he didn’t give the shove. He aimed an evil eye at Matthew, whose gait was still that of a shackled man, and then he closed the door and locked it between Matthew and himself. “The things they have me do,” he repeated, and then he shook his head, turned round, and he and his companion descended the stairs again.
“Mr. Corbett.” It was a quiet voice, the name spoken with respect.
Matthew turned to his left. In a corridor similar to the one on the lower level stood a man with a high mane of curly dark brown hair that may or may not have been a wig, it was difficult to tell. He wore a wine-red dressing gown imprinted with a pattern of small gold paisleys. “My name is Daniel Defoe,” he said. “May I have the pleasure of your company?”
“Well…”
“I promise you no harm. My quarters are just along the corridor. Shall we?”
Matthew took Defoe’s measure. He was a tall man, but slight, possibly in his early to mid forties. He had a long narrow face, a nose equally long and narrow, and intelligent dark brown eyes that were examining Matthew with the same interest. He was clean-shaven and appeared to be in relatively good health for this place that so easily destroyed the health.
“You’ll pardon me,” Matthew said, “if I ask what this is about?”
Defoe offered the merest hint of a smile, which seemed awkward on a face constructed for only the most serious of expressions. “The human condition,” he said. A couple of other prisoners, both of them very well-dressed and clean compared to the rabble below, were peering from open doors made of wood instead of bars or grated iron. One of them removed from his mouth the pipe he was smoking and called out, “Is he the one, Daniel?”
“Yes, he’s the one. Please, Mr. Corbett…come along, we can have some privacy.” He motioned to his left.
Matthew’s curiosity was inflamed. He had always thought such would be his undoing but for the moment it had to be satisfied. He followed Defoe to an open door just past the others, was motioned in, and found himself in a room that—if not quite the equal to New York’s Dock House Inn—was certainly a royal palace compared to Cairo. The man had a writing desk with a leather chair, a second leather chair for visitors, a small round table beside the chair, and an actual bed with real bedding and pillows. On the floor was not dirty hay but a dark red rug. Atop a dresser was a burning candle clock, a waterbowl and a handmirror. A small shelf held a dozen books. To top this veritable paradise was a window allowing in gray morning light and overlooking the courtyard his coach had entered that first day. Through it he could see the slowly moving banners of black coalsmoke that somehow reminded him of the tentacles of Professor Fell’s octopus symbol, but it was a window an imprisoned king would kill for. It mattered not that the stone walls of Defoe’s private cell were damp and streaked with fungus and the cell itself was quite chilly; one could survive here in relative comfort.
Matthew was further surprised when Defoe produced a key from his clothing and locked the door. “Privacy assured,” the man said. “Please sit down. Ah, I expect you’d like a cup of clean water? I say clean, but let’s remember where we are.”
Matthew sat down. My God, he’d nearly forgotten what a comfortable chair felt like! It was almost too much for him, he nearly had to stand up again to get his equilibrium.
Defoe poured water from a bottle into a wooden cup and offered it to his guest. “I wish it were a nice claret, but that must wait for another time.” He took the other chair at the writing desk. “We have ninety minutes, by the candle clock. I asked for two hours, was offered one, and I had to negotiate further, with some success. Now,” he said, as his eyes took even more of an intensity that Matthew took as a true need for knowledge, “tell me about yourself.”
Matthew drained the cup. The water, obviously from a well beyond the prison walls, was not quite clear but not at all scummy nor did it smell like it had been strained through a dead horse, as did the liquid in Cairo’s communal barrel. “Ahhhh, that’s good!”
“More, then?”
“In a moment. I never realized plain water could make one tipsy.” He put the cup aside and cast his gaze again around the fabulous quarters. “I’m assuming you paid my chain removal fee?”
“I did. I inquired as to whether you wore chains and I was told you did. I have a little money to spare. I believe it was for a good cause.”
“My most grateful appreciation, sir. But…tell me…what is all this? I mean…this is—”
“Unexpected?” Defoe’s brows went up. “Of course. You know by now that the part of Newgate not run by prisoners is commanded by the most venal of officials. Those inmates who can afford to buy a little space, a little privacy, a little…shall we say…civility in here, are allowed—encouraged—to do so. Now, I am far from being rich but I have wealthy friends. Unfortunately not wealthy enough to pay the debt of my sentence for sedition against the crown, but I am able to be comfortable here, as much as possible.”
“What’s your occupation?”
“Writer. Traveller. Thinker. Philosopher upon the balance of good and evil in this world. Such does not allow me to bask in the glory of gold, but I am satisfied with my position. Now…you. I wish to know your history, why you are here, and consequently why Albion chose to visit you in Newgate Prison, something that I believe has never happened before.”
“Oh,” said Matthew, with a frown. “That.”
“Of course, that. Oh, how Lord Puffery would love to get hold of this tidbit!”
“Lord Puffery,” Matthew repeated. “By name Samuel Luther, printer?”
“I’ve never met him nor do I know anyone who has.” Defoe placed the tips of his long fingers together. “It wouldn’t surprise me for this item to appear in the next Pin. I’m sure someone from the prison has already sold it to Lord Puffery and it will be embellished beyond all belief. Though I have to say, Albion’s appearance in this formidable pile of stones needs no embellishment to be utterly fantastic. He was there for only a moment, I understand? He pointed his sword at you and made a motion of threat?”
“Some say threat. Some say he was offering protection from…you know…the others.”
“His method so far,” said Defoe, “is to murder ex-prisoners released from gaol. Six so far. All men o
f low repute, but delivered from their sentences by able and cunning lawyers.” Again, he gave just the slightest hint of a smile. “Do you have an able and cunning lawyer, Matthew?”
“Absolutely not. The only friend I have in London is a man who despised me in New York.”
“New York? We have time and there’s a story here. Tell it.”
Where to begin? Matthew asked himself. The beginning, of course.
As Matthew told his story, starting with his position as clerk to Magistrate Isaac Woodward, God rest his soul, the light that came through the window moved. Constant stayed the coalsmoke banners, spitting fiery bits down upon the already-seething city. The noise of London was a low hum, punctuated by the sound of horse hooves and carriage wheels beyond Newgate’s portcullis. Matthew left nothing out of his tale of the Queen of Bedlam, nor did he refrain from telling Defoe about Mrs. Sutch’s sausages in the recitation of his search for Tyranthus Slaughter. With words he painted a picture of Pendulum Island and the lair of Professor Fell, and then he dredged up the sorry story of the trip to Charles Town that was supposed to be so easy a task and ended with the loss of his memory, the murder of Quinn Tate and his falling into the clutches of Count Dahlgren. A summary of what had happened aboard the Wanderer, a truthful admission that he really had committed an execution, the rather bitter recounting of his experience with Judge William Atherton Archer, and he had come to the present moment.
The light had dimmed. Clouds had thickened above the coalsmoke and beyond the bars the rain was coming down again in sheets. The noise of it for the time being muffled London’s heavy heartbeat.
“May I have another cup of water?” Matthew asked, for Daniel Defoe seemed to be transfixed; the man’s mouth was partway open, and he looked to be as dazed as Matthew had been upon being thrown into the gaolhouse at Plymouth.
“Oh…yes, of course. Better still, help yourself.” He watched as Matthew poured water from the bottle. “You’ve been a very busy young man,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four, but lately I’ve felt forty-two.”
“Forty-two is nearly my age,” said the writer. “I am just past it. Appreciate your youth and vigor. Your tale…the story of your life…is amazing, Matthew. Of course I’ve heard of the Herrald Agency, though I’ve never had need of their services. And Professor Fell…I also have heard that name, but I thought him a myth, something to scare the children with when they misbehave.”
“He’s the most real myth I’ve ever met. Interesting…Archer also considers Fell a myth. I’d think that in the course of his career he might have been charged to give trial to someone in Fell’s circle.”
“Judges are first and foremost people. Sometimes they don’t wish to see the truth, particularly if they can’t do anything to change it. I just hope my own situation changes for the better. I had the misfortune of being brought before Judge Salathiel Lovell, who is cut from even sterner and more unreasonable cloth than Archer. Well…here we are, islands to ourselves, and shipwrecked by circumstances. But tell me now…do you have any idea why Albion might have considered you of some importance?”
“None. The greater question is…how did he get into Newgate? And…might he still be here, either as a guard or an official of the prison? Perhaps someone here with a bent for the law that’s a bit warped, and who didn’t think those six men should have been released under any conditions. The problem with that line of thought, though,” said Matthew, “is that all the six were not confined to Newgate. In fact, I don’t know if any of them were, but I do know one had been recently released from St. Peter’s Place.”
“Hm,” said Defoe, with a slight nod. “You’re not in a position to do much problem-solving, are you? But I can tell the steed is champing at the bit.”
“My nature, though sometimes regrettable. What I’d like to know is, was there any connection among the six men, other than their being prisoners and released by either craft or graft? Did they have the same attorney? Did the same judge pass sentence on them? Albion has gone to a great deal of trouble to get himself dressed up in that gold-painted mask, and he’s not shy about attracting attention, either. So…what’s his point, and what his story?”
“A tale of woe and madness, I’m sure. Unless Lord Puffery has hired a murderer and nightstalker to provide grist for the mill. Readers are eating that up.”
“Possibly a tale of woe,” Matthew agreed, as he watched the rain coming down beyond the bars. “Of madness, possibly not. It seems to me there’s a cogent plan behind this…and for some reason I have been entered into it. I don’t think Lord Puffery cares much about me.” He turned his full attention again upon his host. “You say you’re a writer? And you’re sentenced here for sedition?”
“I wrote a political pamphlet that was not appreciated by the crown,” said Defoe. “I meant to stir up a stewpot of discussion, but instead I stirred up a firestorm that quite nearly roasted me. But I will see my way out of this difficulty, in time.” The gathering of the lines upon his face as he spoke belied the confidence of his words. “Better to be imprisoned in Newgate than imprisoned in ignorance,” he mused. “Some gaols are of the soul, and they can be the most cruel.”
“I agree. Unfortunately life itself can have a very cruel soul.”
“Ah!” Defoe’s face brightened. His smile was broader. “I like that, Matthew! The sound of it: cruel soul. Cruel soul,” he repeated. “I’ll find a place to slip that in somewhere…sometime or another.” His smile faded. “You know, I’m not the only man of letters here. How quickly one’s star can rise and fall…but that’s the human condition, isn’t it? There are some great intellects here, locked away in the curse of disuse. Just offhand…there’s Edmund Crispin, Thomas Love Peacock, Peter Greenaway, William Knowles, Thomas Tryon, Theodore Sturgeon, John Collier, Charles Godfrey Leland, Ronald Firbank, Max Erlich…all locked away here, all bypassed in the rush toward the future. As I will someday be…and you…and all who live and breathe and fight now to be heard…to be known. But I think…if a man can be known for a little while…if he can be recognized for having given to his earthly kin something that provided joy, or thought, or comfort when it was needed…then his life was worthwhile.” He looked at Matthew with sad eyes. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Matthew. “I do think.”
“A true champion you are,” Defoe answered, and just that quickly the sadness left him like a banished blight. He took measure of the candle clock and saw that time was growing short. “I have enjoyed our conversation. Be sure I will continue to pay your chain removal fee. I wish I had more funds to spare. As I say, my friends are keeping me from the dungeon.”
“I understand. Thank you very much for what you’ve done. I wish I could repay you in some way.”
“But you already have! Being able to talk like this, and my hearing your story…it’s very inspirational, though I’m surprised you’ve not been killed at the hands of some extremely formidable adversaries.”
“I suppose I’ve been lucky,” Matthew answered. “So far, that is.”
Defoe rose to his feet. Matthew knew it was time to return to the lower realm. “The guards will be at the door soon,” the writer said. “I’ll walk back with you.”
At the grated door, as they waited, Matthew decided to ask about a word he’d been chewing on since it had been spoken. “You mentioned a dungeon. I saw a couple of staircases going down. Who’s sentenced there?”
“Prisoners who have attacked the guards, or who are raving insane and murderous.”
“As opposed to being sane and murderous?”
“Point well taken,” Defoe said, “but that’s how it is. Also a prisoner sentenced to be hanged is sent to a dungeon cell for his last two weeks, is kept in solitary and is put on a diet of bread and water.”
“A kind send-off, I’m sure,” said Matthew with dripping sarcasm. “But tell me this, if you know…is every cell down there occupied?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?
”
“I’m wondering…if Albion is not a guard or an official here, and most likely not a phantom able to walk through solid walls, then he is a man who has found another entrance into Newgate. I would imagine there’s quite a network of passages under a city with such ancient beginnings.”
“Oh yes. In fact many live down there. Mostly beggars.”
“Albion may be a beggar by day and an avenger by night. Or, at least, he may be passing himself off as a beggar. I just wonder if one of the empty cells in the dungeon doesn’t have a few loose stones…enough to be moved to allow a body to crawl through.”
“Even if that were true, how would Albion know? And how would he know if the particular cell would be empty? It seems to me he could well have crawled into an encounter with a screaming lunatic who might even be too much for his sword to handle.”
“A good question and an even better observation,” said Matthew. “That would indicate, again, that Albion has some knowledge of what goes on in Newgate, therefore a connection here.”
Defoe asked, “You do know the meaning of the word ‘Albion’, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“‘Albion’ is the ancient name of England. It was referred to as such in Greek writings dating back to the sixth century Before Christ. It also refers to the elemental force—the strength of a giant—that is fabled to be England’s protection again harm. Whoever Albion might be, he has a sense of both the classical and certainly the dramatic. Ah, there’s a light! Someone’s coming up. I can tell by his walk…it’s Parmenter, not Massengill or Baudrey. Those two are to be avoided if at all possible. Good afternoon!” said Defoe cheerfully, speaking to the guard who was wearily climbing the stairs.
“Good if yer a flippin’ frog,” Parmenter grunted as he followed the yellow circle of his lantern. “Stand back.” When the prisoners obeyed, he went about unlocking the door.