The Traitors' Gate

  “He did what?” cried Brigit, coming to an abrupt stop.

  “I met him this morning, and he asked that I tell Father so,” I said.

  “Mr. Farquatt truly said that?” Brigit demanded of us both.

  Clarissa nodded. “So you must go after him, Brigit,” she pleaded. “Tell him I forgive him. That I will accept him. Then everything can be happy.”

  Brigit, suggesting she hardly knew what to advise, bit her lip. Then she finally said, “Clarissa, I’m thinking it’s not the womanly thing to do.”

  “But you must!” said Clarissa with a stamp of her foot. “That way all our problems will be solved.”

  I said, “Do you know where he resides?”

  Clarissa thought hard, only to have confusion fill her face. “I have no idea. Just his place of work. It’s called …”

  “You told me the Credit Bordeaux,” I reminded her.

  “Then go there,” she cried. “Or I will!”

  “You mustn’t,” Brigit said firmly. “I’m telling you, pursuing him would be the most unwomanly thing. The best we can do is hope that his heart is strong and that he will return.”

  “But, Brigit,” Clarissa said again, all but wailing, “I told him … he must never see me again. Never! I shall be a spinster. I know I will!” She broke again into sobs.

  As she and Brigit, with much moaning and weeping, made their way back to the Halfmoon Inn, Brigit said no more. I crept behind the two women, dreading our return because I would have to inform Mother of all I had learned.

  Happily, when we arrived, Mother was not there. Neither was Father. But Mr. Tuckum was. The moment we walked in, he accosted me.

  “Where is your father?” he demanded. “Has he fled?”

  The truth was, I had no idea.

  CHAPTER 21

  I Sit in Darkness

  “He’s not allowed to leave this establishment,” Mr. Tuckum scolded. “It’s the Queen’s law. When he goes out—if he goes out—a deputy or I must be in his company. The entire intent of his being here is that he not flee. Has he?” His severity took me aback.

  “I … I don’t think so,” I said, though even as the bailiff spoke, I wondered if he had.

  My sister, meanwhile, fled up to her room, Brigit with her.

  “Your father claims he is a gentleman,” said the bailiff, his voice touching anger, “and I wish to treat him accordingly. But now … Have you truly no idea where he went?”

  There it was: The great horror of having a liar in the family. Was I to tell the truth and betray my own father? Or was I to protect him with a lie and therefore tarnish my own character?

  “Come, come,” snapped Mr. Tuckum, “your looks suggest you do know something.”

  “Please, sir,” I said, my eyes welling with tears, “I do know where he went from here, though I don’t know where he is now. I can only ask you to forgive me, for I don’t know how to reply without doing him injury. I beg you to consider he is my father.”

  “Do you expect him to return?”

  “I … think so,” was the best I could offer.

  Mr. Tuckum’s glowering looks softened. “I understand your predicament, and your answer does you honor. You’re an old-fashioned boy, and I’m old-fashioned enough to follow my instincts and trust you. As to whether I can trust anyone else in your family, I shall consult my superiors.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I whispered, and retreated to my room.

  In fact, I was much upset by the bailiff’s anger. Not only was it unexpected, but, knowing my father, it hardly seemed warranted. Not for a debtor. Unless—once again Inspector Copperfield’s ominous words came to my head—it was much more.

  As the evening drew close, I increasingly wondered if Father would return. When he did not, my tension grew.

  It had also occurred to me that if my sister could not go to Mr. Farquatt, I should. But that would have to wait for the next day.

  My mother returned. I heard her as she passed along the balcony and went into her room at the far end. She returned at a much faster pace and threw open my door.

  “What has happened?” she demanded, holding up a candle in such fashion that the shadows beneath her eyes gave her the look of a tragic mask. “Your sister informs me that it was not your father who went to Great-Aunt Euphemia, but you!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And that Euphemia did not promise any of those things your father claimed she had.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It is not to be endured!” she cried. “I spent the entire afternoon making arrangements to purchase a new wardrobe. No, I will not endure it!”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, Mother.”

  “Then if you went to his great-aunt, you must tell me what she said.”

  “That I was to return tomorrow.”

  “Is that all?”

  Not having the heart to repeat my aunt’s condemnation of my father, I simply hung my head.

  “Where is your father now?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “Do you understand what this means?” she cried. It was virtually an accusation.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Our possessions, gone. Our liberty, gone. Our lives—me, your sister, and you—all prospects, blasted!”

  For a few moments she stood before me, her rage visibly boiling. As for myself, I feared that she would push me as to where my father had gone and that I would be forced to reveal what I’d seen regarding gambling and Mr. O’Doul. Luckily, she did not. All the same, I felt ashamed.

  Abruptly, she turned and hurried out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Her angry steps crossed to the far end. Another door slammed. After which, blessed silence.

  I don’t know how much time passed—the room grew completely dark—but at length Father did return. I heard his voice below. I heard Mr. Tuckum. My anxiety eased.

  But Mother must have heard him too. Her steps thundered along the balcony.

  My parents argued, fiercely. What they said, I don’t know. I had no desire to listen. Alas, I doubted my father told the truth.

  Then came the sound of my mother returning—with irate stumps—along the balcony. She was followed by new sounds: my father’s slow steps.

  I dreaded his arrival.

  The door opened. He entered the room. Lit candle in hand, he stood at the threshold for a moment and gazed at me.

  “You are sitting in the dark,” he said wearily.

  “I didn’t wish any other companionship,” I returned.

  “Mr. Tuckum has dinner—”

  I said, “Clarissa refused Mr. Farquatt’s offer of marriage because she thought Great-Aunt Euphemia was going to bestow a fortune on us, as you suggested she would.”

  He smiled, faintly. “Two things, John,” he said. “Firstly: By your own account my great-aunt may yet give us something. Secondly: Miss Clarissa can do far better than Mr. Farquatt.”

  “She sent him away.”

  “If she chooses, she can call him back.”

  “She doesn’t know where he lives.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you?” I asked.

  “No. But I have reason to think he’ll be back.”

  Ignoring that wishful notion, I asked, “Where have you been?” and hoped he would tell the truth.

  “Trying to raise the money.”

  It was not, I was willing to believe, a complete lie. Perhaps he thought his gambling would bring in enough to pay the debt.

  “How?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Different ways.”

  “Father,” I said, my voice trembling with emotion, “in two days you will be in the Insolvent Debtors’ Court.”

  “Well then,” he said with unexpected mildness, “so be it. I came to fetch you for dinner. It was meant as a kindness. I, at least, am hungry. I, at least, should enjoy your company.” He moved to go.

  “Father …”

  He halted.

  “I followed you to the Red
Lion. I saw you at your gambling. I saw you talking to Mr. Finnegan O’Doul. Your conversation suggested familiarity. He is a well-known gambler.”

  Though the light was dim, I could see his face flush with embarrassment.

  “Spying on your father …,” he murmured.

  “Father,” I pressed, “please tell me what it all means! What is happening? In what are you entangled?”

  His eyes were upon me, but whether he was actually looking at me, I was uncertain. To my surprise, he pointed to his head: “In here,” he said, “sits a great fortune. For the moment that is all I shall—or can—say. Now I am going down for dinner. The pleasure of your company is requested.” With that, he turned about and left, like an actor making a grand exit.

  By so doing, he plunged the room into more than one kind of darkness.

  CHAPTER 22

  I Overhear a Private Meeting

  The thought of sharing a table with my unhappy family was something I could not bear. Believing the scene would be too acrimonious, I chose to deny my hunger and remain in the dark room. It fit my mood. And at some point I fell asleep.

  When I awoke, it was abruptly. What roused me, I had no idea, nor could I guess the time. My father was on the other side of the bed, snoring, so it had to be late, or early morning. I lay there for a while, increasingly aware that having barely eaten the day before, I was famished. Just thinking about food caused my stomach to rumble.

  Church bells announced the time: two in the morning.

  Assuming that there would be—as there had been the previous left on the table, I got up. Clumsily, I felt my way to the door and stepped out onto the balcony.

  Raw, foggy air swirled about me, causing my skin to prickle with chill. But since it also cleared my mind, I remained there, pondering my father’s claim, that “a great fortune” sat in his head. I tried to guess what he could possibly mean, but here my imagination failed me.

  As I thought about it, I leaned against the balcony rail and gazed out along Halfmoon Alley. The omnipresent fog made the gas lamp by the main street indistinct, hardly more than a glowworm of illumination, giving me the sensation that night itself was brooding on discouraging matters. But there was some light seeping from the inn, enough so that I gradually realized a black Hansom cab was parked in the courtyard right below me. The dark horse was in its traces, one foot lifted, indicating its sleepy state. I made out the driver, too, seated high at the rear of the cab, in greatcoat and hat, arms crossed over chest, head bowed upon his chest—presumably, he, too, slept.

  From the Hansom’s position, I could only assume it had delivered someone to the inn and was waiting to take that same person away.

  As I considered the cab, it came to me that—considering the hour—this was no ordinary call. The guest could not be my father’s. He lay asleep in our room. Could Mr. Tuckum be having a visitor at such an hour? Then I recalled his saying he needed to consult his superiors. Was one of them his guest?

  Just as I was considering slipping down the steps to investigate, light sliced onto the court: The door to the inn had opened. The driver, roused from his sleep, sat up, straightened his hat, and climbed down to light the cab’s two side lamps. The light revealed he was no common driver: He was, in fact, a policeman.

  I squatted behind the balcony railings so as not to be seen. Within moments, I heard voices.

  “Then am I to understand,” came a voice that I immediately recognized as Mr. Tuckum’s, “that no choice will be extended to him? That he will stand before the Insolvent Debtors’ Court at Queen’s Bench?”

  I instantly grasped that he was talking about my father.

  “That appears to be our best chance,” came another voice, low and husky.

  “I must confess,” said the bailiff, “I can’t tell if he’s a complete fool or not.”

  “Or a traitor,” said the other, causing me to gasp. “Certainly, ’e’s playing a deep game, and with a nasty crew.”

  “Can he manage it?”

  “I’ve ’eard say ’e’s a credible actor.”

  Two men sauntered toward the Hansom. The shorter of the two—I could see now—was indeed Mr. Tuckum. The other was someone I had never seen before. Considerably taller than the bailiff, he was broad-chested, rather burly, and wearing, if my eyes saw properly, an oilskin cloak against the damp, cold weather.

  “And,” Mr. Tuckum said, “you have no idea who this Inspector Copperfield might be?”

  “Without question, an imposter,” said the other. “Very troubling. But no doubt ’e’s one of the spies.”

  Spies! I could hardly breathe.

  “But you trust the ’Uffam boy, you say?” the newcomer went on.

  “Young as he is,” said Mr. Tuckum, “John Huffam is as right as English roses. The only one in the family with any … hmm … sense.”

  “Fine,” said the other. “Then we must make sure to use ’im.”

  “I agree.”

  The big man reached out and tapped the bailiff on the chest with his forefinger. “Mr. Tuckum, sir, just know there are ’igher-ups—very ’igher-ups—watching and waiting. The nets are all set. If all goes well, we’ll make a good catch, so the affair could be good for you.”

  “And for you, too, sir.”

  “For me,” said the big man, “it’s all in a day’s work. The thing of it is, Mr. Tuckum, I never makes it personal.” He held out his hand.

  Mr. Tuckum shook it. “Always a pleasure to work with you, Inspector Ratchet, sir.”

  “And mine,” said the big man as he got into the Hansom, drew the gate closed, and settled himself.

  Mr. Tuckum returned to the inn. The door shut.

  “Scotland Yard!” the inspector called out to the driver.

  “Yes, sir,” said the constable, who had returned to his post at the back of the cab. With a flick of the reins, the horse trotted out of the court and vanished into the fog, leaving only the diminishing sound of hooves clattering on the cobblestones.

  I remained on the balcony, trying to make sense of what I’d heard. Traitors! Spies! Scotland Yard! All connected to my father! So much more than gambling. Or debt. Was that the great idea Father had in his head? And for what were the “higher-ups” watching and waiting? What “nets” were set out? Perhaps it was only because I’d seen it earlier in the day, but my head filled with the image of the Tower of London and the Traitors’ Gate. I am not ashamed to say I shuddered. Indeed, I was truly frightened.

  This Inspector Ratchet—was he real, whereas Inspector Copperfield was not? Or the other way around? As for Mr. Tuckum’s agreeing to make “use” of me, it put me on sharp notice that I’d best be very cautious in my dealings with him.

  All that understood, I was not beyond hunger. Accordingly, I crept down the steps into the dining room, where, as I’d hoped, some food scraps remained on the table. Mr. Tuckum was there too, sitting near the low fire, a glass of something in hand, reading his serial story.

  As I came into the room, the bailiff looked round at me. “Well now, lad, you’re up very late.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid I missed dinner and woke hungry.”

  “Do sit down, boy, and make yourself comfortable. I’m old-fashioned enough to always be happy for company. There’s more than enough,” he said, gesturing to the leftovers. But then he so closely scrutinized me that I wondered if he knew I’d been aware of his visitor. In any case, he said, “I had a friend here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He gazed at me for a moment and then held up his reading. “Can you read?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do consider this story. A brilliant thing. I’ve saved all the installments. It’s about a boy, you know. Not like you, but how a boy grows to understand the world as it is.”

  I had no desire to read, but I drew up a chair and helped myself to some bread and cheese. I was aware the bailiff was still observing me intently.

  At length he said, “Master John, does your father confide in you?”
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  “No, sir,” I answered truthfully, though not without some regret. “He does not.”

  “Is there any hope that he might raise the money … on his own?”

  “I … I don’t think so, sir.”

  “None at all?”

  That time I remained mum, and he stayed silent too, as if to wait me out. Feeling compelled to speak, I finally said, “I shall visit my great-aunt again, in the morning.”

  “A wealthy woman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “‘Hope’—to quote an old-fashioned poet—‘springs eternal,’” he said.

  I focused on my food.

  “See here, Master John,” the bailiff said, “you can trust me, you know. You truly can. You’re a smart lad. I can see that. And you don’t want to go hurting your family or yourself. So if there’s something about your father’s … hmm … situation that might be helpful for me to know, I’m your man. I have … hmm … connections,” he added.

  Wanting no part of his offer, I pushed myself away from the table. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure I appreciate it. Good night, sir.”

  That said, I returned to our room, where I spent the rest of the night in fretful sleep.

  CHAPTER 23

  I Return to Lady Euphemia

  I slept late into the morning, but not so late that there was any danger of missing my day’s appointment with Great-Aunt Euphemia.

  I got up, doused my face in a bowl of cold water, used the outdoor privy, and then made my way to the main room. Father was seated before the fire. Brigit was sweeping the floor. I had no idea where my sister or mother was. Nor Mr. Tuckum.

  “Good morning, Master John,” said Brigit. “Shall I fetch you some breakfast?”

  “Yes, please,” I returned. I was watching my father, who had not even acknowledged my presence. I went up to him. “Good morning, Father,” I said.

  He turned a sad, weary look upon me. I wanted so much to ask him questions, but in truth, I was afraid of the answers he might give—for now I assumed they would be false.