The Traitors' Gate

  In a low voice he said, “Shall you go to my great-aunt today?”

  “She requested I do so. But I’ll go only if you wish me to.”

  He reached out and held my arm. “If I’m to stay out of prison, it’s our only chance,” he said.

  I gazed at him. Something had happened to make him realize his true plight. Was it his talk with Mr. O’Doul? My words? Had Mr. Tuckum related the inspector’s words, that he would go to court?

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  He sighed. “And, perhaps, if you don’t succeed, it might be just as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I shall be safe in prison.”

  “Safe?” I cried. “Safe from what?”

  When he didn’t answer, I shifted uneasily and noted that Brigit was watching and listening to our conversation. It suddenly occurred to me that she might have the answers I needed. Not only was she an adult, but perhaps she was aware of things in the family I was not. My sister confided in her. I assumed my mother did as well.

  I turned back to Father. He was not going to answer my question. “Your office?” I asked. “Do I need to go and tell them what has happened?”

  “Mr. Tuckum has made it abundantly clear that I must not leave this place,” he said. “In that regard I am already a prisoner. So, going to my office, I should say … no.” He offered up a dry smile. “As long as the Naval Ordinance Office is not aware of my situation, I might yet collect my salary.”

  In the ensuing silence I said, “Where’s Mother? Clarissa?”

  “Sulking, I suppose,” said Father. He reached out and gently pushed the hair out of my face. “Young John, do take some nourishment. Make yourself presentable and then trot off to my great-aunt’s. We shall hope all will go well.”

  I looked around for Brigit. She had left the room. Had she heard? Did she agree?

  The church bells rang for noon as I walked along Broad Street toward Great Winchester Street. With November’s raw chill penetrating deep, my father insisted I wear his greatcoat, which was too large for me. I was reminded of that girl, Sary, in her tattered, oversized jacket, but to no useful purpose.

  A gray drizzle filled the air. It made all seem dull and smudged. Every edge, every crevice was indistinct, each separate thing becoming part of each other thing. It was, I thought, altogether fitting—a visible representation of my father’s muddled affairs and my jumbled understanding of them.

  I was thinking so hard, I paid but little mind to the street vendors: eel pie men, ribbon sellers, bird sellers, secondhand clothing sellers, and early beggars. But when I did look about, I caught a glimpse of Sary the Sneak. She was still spying on me. For Inspector Copperfield, I had no doubt. But now, recalling Inspector Ratchet’s words, I believed this “Copperfield” was a spy. What did that make the girl?

  Yet, such was my mood of discouragement, I did not really care one way or the other that she was stalking me.

  Then I had a thought: Perhaps I might accost the girl and insist she tell me who Inspector Copperfield was. She had spoken as if she didn’t know the man’s name. I was not prepared to believe her, any more than I was ready to believe anyone. Yet, so befuddled was I—so desperate—that recalling the girl’s offer to sneak about for me, I also contemplated the notion that maybe I should employ her to find Mr. Farquatt. At least my sister might be made happy.

  But when I looked around again, the girl had disappeared.

  There were moments—such as that one—when I could not tell if I was at the edge of all the mystery … or at its very center.

  It was as close to twelve thirty as I could make it when I—feeling the weight of the hopelessness of my mission—banged the lion knocker upon the door of Forty-five Great Winchester Street.

  William, the butler, opened the door. He looked down at me and lifted an eyebrow disapprovingly.

  “Yes?” he said, as if I were a perfect stranger.

  I would have as soon kicked the man’s shins and run off. But that would hardly do. Instead, I said, “Do you not remember me, sir? I’m Wesley Huffam’s son, John. Lady Euphemia asked that I call at this hour.”

  “Ah, yes,” the butler said, as if he had just recalled, though his raised eyebrow more than suggested that my visit was a waste of everybody’s time.

  All the same, he opened the door, and I stepped into the same drab, dead garden of a vestibule.

  This time he said, “Follow me.”

  We went up the dim flight of steps. At the top he knocked gently on Lady Euphemia’s door, again pressed his ear to it to hear her response, swung the door open, and all but shoved me in.

  It was the same bedroom, though there may have been more medical supplies about. I recalled her three doctors had already visited.

  As for Lady Euphemia, she lay beneath her coverlets, her shoulders and head propped up by her five pillows, this day her sleeping gown and lacy bonnet pale blue in color.

  By her side stood the same servant woman, the bottle of smelling salts in hand at the ready.

  As I stood at the foot of Lady Euphemia’s bed—the butler hovering behind me—the woman studied me with her small eyes, breathing loudly, working her mouth in such a fashion as to again remind me of a great fish gasping for air.

  “John Horatio Huffam,” she said finally, “I hope you are well.”

  “I am, my lady. As I trust you are too.”

  “I am never well,” she informed me.

  There was a touch of pride in her declaration. All the same, I said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m glad for your sympathy,” she returned as she had on the day previous. She paused and then said, “Master John, you are the last of a distinguished line of Huffams. What does that mean to you?”

  “I … I should … like to honor the name,” I stammered.

  “The correct answer.”

  I stood there, not sure what else to say while she continued to gaze at me. After some time had passed, I finally said, “My lady, you requested I come to see you.”

  “So I did,” she allowed. “In the matter of your profligate father. I trust you know the word.”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Profligate: A man who has given way to a life of calumny and dissipation.”

  I wasn’t sure what those words meant either, but they sounded dreadful and I was in no mood to ask for further explanations.

  “Do you work? Earn any income?”

  “I told you: I go to school.”

  “What good will school do you if your father is in prison?”

  “I can only hope he will not be,” I said, hanging my head.

  “I assure you,” she said, “he will. What’s more, I’ve no doubt he deserves to be. I rather suspect he shall remain there for a long time. Perhaps he shall be transported. To Australia.”

  “I pray not, my lady,” I said, feeling my anger rise.

  “My knowledge of him is far better than yours. Three hundred pounds is a vast sum of money to owe.”

  It was too much for me. I looked up. “Is that why you asked me to come? To insult my father and humiliate me further?”

  “See here, young man—”

  “You’re a beastly, mean-spirited woman,” I cried. “I don’t want to be here.” I turned toward the door.

  “Stop him!” she cried.

  The butler stepped between the door and me. His skeletal face showed both ferocity and surprise.

  “Let me pass!” I cried.

  “If you go,” shouted Lady Euphemia, “you will receive no assistance from me. None”

  “You weren’t going to give me any,” I said.

  “I was!”

  I could not run from that. “In what fashion?” I asked.

  “I assure you, it has nothing to do with your—”

  “If you say one more cruel thing about my father, I shall leave and never return!” I shouted as all my frustrations pressed in on me. “I think you’re a bully!”

  “A what?” s
he gasped, one hand reaching for the smelling salts.

  “A bully!” I fairly screamed, my hands balled into fists.

  The butler gripped my arms.

  “Let him be!” cried Great-Aunt Euphemia. She was breathing—or at least gulping—heavily. The butler backed off—willingly, I thought.

  “Very well,” she said. “I won’t speak of your … father. In any case, it’s not him, but you I wish to help. I admire your … fortitude. Your courage. Most people are frightened of me.”

  “I refuse to be!” I shouted, my heart hammering.

  “In fact, you remind me of my father, Augustus Huffam,” she said between breaths. “He, too, was a hothead.”

  Struggling for breath, trying to keep from bursting into tears, I said nothing.

  “I am searching,” she said after a moment, “for a suitable position for you.”

  Taken by surprise, I said, “You mean, employment?”

  “Exactly. In hopes you will be able to support yourself and thereby rise honorably in the world.”

  “But … what about the loan?”

  “Out of the question. Entirely. I am interested only in you. The last Huffam.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “My trusted solicitor, Mr. Nottingham, will inform you about this position once it has been determined.”

  “When shall that be?”

  “In two days’ time, at seven thirty in the morning, you will return here?”

  “What … what kind of position will it be?”

  “I have no idea. I have instructed Mr. Nottingham to find something suitable. I have faith he’ll do so. Now you may go,” she said with a dismissive wave of her jeweled hand.

  I stood there for a moment and forced myself to say, “Thank … you,” after which I left the room with the butler.

  CHAPTER 24

  I Have a CuriousEncounter

  Following William, I walked away from my great-aunt’s bedroom and down the steps, hardly knowing what I felt. Should I be disappointed that the money, which I never thought would be offered, was not to be forthcoming? Or should I be pleased that I had received something I had not expected: employment?

  As we went along the hallway, we passed a gentleman sitting by the small table. Head down, he was engrossed in a blue-covered pamphlet, which I recognized as an episode of David Copperfield. He was the same man I had seen in the hallway the day before.

  When I went by, he paid me no mind. Indeed, he averted his face. After I’d gone by, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw him—or his back, anyway—ascending the steps. The thought crossed my mind: Was that Mr. Nottingham?

  At the front door William broke into my thoughts: “Young sir, you are a brave fellow.” He did not speak in his normal funereal fashion, but with some real warmth. I took note too of the “sir.”

  I looked up into the man’s gaunt, ashen face.

  “If Wilkie can be of service to you, then call on William,” he intoned.

  “I … I don’t understand,” I stammered.

  “Madam prefers to call me William,” he said. “She has always called all her menservants William. My Christian name, however, bestowed upon me by my late mother, is Wilkie. So, I repeat,” he said, lifting one eyebrow, and this time managing to convey conspiracy, empathy, and friendship in one look, “if Wilkie can be of service, then I beg of you to call on William.” To my surprise, he held out a bony hand. I shook it as if making a bargain. His grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Just be advised, Master John, my lady’s attorney, Mr. Nottingham, has even less fondness for your father than she.”

  “Why?”

  “It may seem trifling to you, but … Mr. Nottingham, having a great love of the theater, was a serious amateur actor. His Christian name is Connop. Well then, your father authored a critique of one of Mr. Nottingham’s performances for Fraser’s Magazine. ‘Mr. Nottingham,’ your father wrote, ‘while attempting to play the part of Romeo, only succeeded in being a noncompoop, which is to say, he was more ham than not.’ The pun ‘noncompoop’ and the phrase ‘more ham than not’were joyfully bandied about in theatrical circles and prevented Mr. Nottingham from finding further engagements. Mr. Nottingham has neither forgotten nor forgiven. He’s now obliged to create his own roles.”

  “Then why should he help me?” I asked.

  “He will not help you, sir,” continued William/Wilkie. “But insofar as he is employed by Lady Huffam, he must—in his fashion—do what she requests. You are, after all, the last of the Huffams. That means much to her.”

  “Was that Mr. Nottingham just now—in the hallway?”

  “I believe it was, sir,” he said, making me wish I’d taken a better look.

  I walked out of my aunt’s house into a sodden mist thick enough to claim the name of rain. Heading for the Halfmoon Inn, the air was positively souplike, a recipe of garbage, coal dust, and dung.

  As I approached a turn in the road, I was drawn—perhaps wishing I were an innocent infant again—to look into a shop window crowded with children’s toys. As I gazed at the playthings behind the glass, I caught sight of a reflected image of Sary the Sneak. She was not far behind. Seeing her gave me a jolt of anger. Perhaps it was because she was a girl, and slight, that I thought I could deal with her—not one of the exasperating adults with whom I had been dealing, who were all so frustrating.

  While trying to decide what to do—because I very much wanted to do something—I pretended to continue looking into the toy shop window. As I stood there, such was my pent-up aggravation that I determined I would challenge her and find out something about Inspector Copperfield.

  That intent in mind, I backed away from the toy store and moved on, walking slowly so she would keep following. But when I reached the next corner, I made a quick darting turn and stepped into a recessed doorway. Heart pounding, I waited.

  Sure enough, the girl came sneaking round the corner, quite unsuspecting, her attention focused farther along the street, where she must have assumed I’d gone. The moment she took a step past me, I leaped out and flung my arms about her. My assault came with such surprise that she tumbled to the ground, me atop.

  “’Ere, what’s this?” she cried. “What you doin?” She lay upon the wet pavement, facedown, attempting to twist her head round to see who had accosted her. I took advantage of my position by snatching up her cap and slapping her repeatedly on the head.

  “Why are you following me?” I cried.

  “Oh, it’s only you, is it?” she said, bursting into galling laughter. “Well, I guess you did me up one, didn’t you? I give you that fair an square. An’ no ’ard feelin’s.”

  “Why are you still following me?” I repeated.

  “Not to worry, mate,” she said. “Nothin’personal. I told you, if yous was to pay me, I’d be sneakin’ round whoever you wanted.”

  “But it’s none of your business what I do.”

  “Never said it was me business. But it is me business. You can do what you like. I’m not goin’ to interfere in no way. I just reports what you do. Think o’ me as a newspaper with legs. It’s ’armless.”

  “I want to know,” I said, “who wants all this information.”

  “Oh, that,” she said. “Why don’t you get off me back, an’ we can talk to faces.”

  There was something altogether cheerful about Sary, so even as I was angry with her, I could not help but ease off, stand, and back away.

  “Last time we talked,” I said, “you suggested you were finished with me.”

  “Yup,” she said, brushing off her ragged clothing. “Thought I was too. But when I made me report, this ’ere client o’ mine says I need to keep on yer’eels. Don’t know why. Never asks. I like the coins they pay. Told you, it’s me eatin’ ’abit.”

  “Don’t your mother and father give you food?”

  Her face clouded. “Don’t have none o’ them,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “Last summer me ma g
ot sick with the cholera an’ died.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Before that—a year ago—the old man got transported to Australia.”

  “Why?”

  “For nothin’,” she said with great fierceness. The next moment the anger seemed to melt. “Still,” she said, “it’s the same for others I could mention. The good thing is, in six years Pa will be back. ’E will too, don’t doubt it. Course, ’e’as to pay’is own way’ome, so I’ve been puttin’ aside some to ’elp. Or just maybe,” she added with a saucy wink, “I’ll get to ’im first.”

  Not wishing to be put off by her chatter, I said, “Tell me about Inspector Copperfield—the one who paid you to follow me.”

  “I told you, I never ’eard o’ no Inspector Copperfield.”

  “Then who was it?” I demanded. “I must know.”

  She looked at me and grinned. “I guess I do owe you one,” she said. “Considerin’ ’ow you fooled me so. I’ll ’ave to think you’re smarter than I thought so as not to let you do that again.”

  “Girls are not expected to be smart,” I said.

  She laughed. “That proves how dumb you are,” she said.

  “Do you intend to follow me further?”

  “Long as I get paid.”

  “Then,” I demanded, “I must know who’s paying you.”

  “All right. I’ll give you a name ’cause you caught me fair an’ square,” she said. “’Ow’s that?”

  “Fine!” I cried.

  She thought for a moment. Then she said, “It’s O’Doul. Do that mean somethin’?”

  Mr. Finnegan O’Doul! Of course! It made perfect sense. I tried to think of the man I had seen at the Red Lion and then the man with the false beard who had accosted me outside the Naval Ordinance Office. It could very well be one and the same.

  “And he’s the one paying you to watch me?” I said.

  “You asked a name, so I gives you one,” returned Sary. “You can do what you want with it. Even that’s bendin’ me rules some.” That said, she began to move off. “Just remember,” she called, “if you need me to sneak someone for you, come after me at the St. Giles Rookery. I’ll give you a special price. I like you enough.”