The Traitors' Gate

  “Please, sir …,” I tried again.

  “Have you come back to beg for pardon?” he went on, the cane a-tremble in his hand. “To reenlist? Have you returned to your obligation, your duty, to satisfy your country’s need for intellect? If the latter, you are too late. You have proven your stupidity.”

  “Please, sir,” I blurted out, “I have a message for you from my father.”

  That caused him to halt.

  “Your father?” he said, his voice curiously uncertain.

  “Yes, sir.”

  What he did next, I could hardly believe.

  CHAPTER 43

  I Am Amazed

  Sergeant Muldspoon smiled.

  He even nodded agreeably. The next moment, as if he’d caught himself out, the smile turned to a frown. His rigidity returned. “Now then,” he said, eyes sharp upon me. “Be quick. The class is waiting. What possible message,” he sneered, “might I want from your gentleman father?”

  “The … one …,” I stammered, “that he thought you … might want.”

  “That he is in prison?” he said.

  There was an audible gasp from the students.

  Taken by surprise, I hardly knew what to say.

  The sergeant glared at me intensely. “Do you wish to speak to me now, here, or in some … private place?”

  Through my agony, I sensed his intent. “Private,” I managed to say.

  “Very well, then. Step outside. March!”

  I retreated in haste, hardly listening as he provided instruction to the class as to their behavior during his momentary retreat. Meanwhile, I waited for him just outside the door, uncomfortable and unsure. Did he or did he not want the secret?

  Before I could think further, he came clumping out of the room.

  “Now then, John Huffam,” he said, making sure he shut the door securely behind him, “why is your father even sending me a message? Has it something to do with your absence from school?”

  “He is … as you know, in prison, sir,” I said.

  “And deserves to be.”

  “Did … did Brigit O’Doul tell you that?” I dared.

  His belligerent mode seemed to falter slightly. There was, I thought, a sudden flicker of nervousness in his eyes. What he said was, “I do not know the woman.”

  “She’s our family servant. It was she who fetched me from school.”

  “I do not associate with servants.”

  “What about her brother?”

  He started.

  “And Mr. Farquatt. Do you know him?” I pressed.

  Again that flicker of unease as he considered my question. “A French gentleman,” he said. “Only yesterday he asked that I meet with him in private. When I did, he informed me that your father was in prison. He also told me that he was marrying your sister and that, by so doing, he, henceforward, was to be considered the head of your family, and that all business should be channeled through him.”

  I tried to grasp his meaning.

  Not waiting for me to reply, he said, “Master Huffam, why is your father in prison?”

  “Debt, sir.”

  “Has he found a way to repay it?” he said, clearly challenging me to respond. I felt as if we were dueling.

  “Sergeant Muldspoon, sir,” I lunged, “if you want my father’s secret, he will sell it to you for three hundred pounds.”

  Sergeant Muldspoon took a fair time to reply, as if crafting a suitable answer. His eyes shifted, as if looking to see if anyone else was about—watching, listening.

  “Master Huffam,” he parried, “I am not aware of any secret your father might have that would be of the slightest interest to me. Surely nothing worth three hundred pounds.”

  “He’s copied it all out,” I said. “I shall have the plan with me this evening. At All Hallows Church—by the Tower of London—when the bells strike eight.”

  He remained silent, though continuing to gaze at me with hard eyes. I could have sworn another smile flickered upon his lips, though this time it was a smile he would not allow himself to fully show. All he said was: “Dismissed!”

  “Will you come?” I said.

  Instead of answering, Old Moldy turned about and clumped back into the classroom.

  Left behind, I could not truly say if he had revealed anything as to whether he would appear at the church and thus pass through our traitors’ gate. On the face of it, he surely did not say yes; but then again, he most certainly did not say no.

  I waited until I heard his cane striking the slate. The next moment the boys chanted, “V-I-C-T-O-R-Y spells ‘victor’!”

  I admit, I wanted that singular choice of word to mean he would come, but I knew that—at best—it was but the choice of my desire.

  Dejected, I headed back toward All Hallows. Uppermost among my emotions was a feeling of grief—no longer believing that Old Moldy was the villain of the piece, but that, by my own logic, Sary was.

  And I would have to report her to Inspector Ratchet.

  Except … I was not absolutely certain. Was Sergeant Muldspoon being extra cautious? Might he in fact appear? What had that extraordinary smile truly meant? What “victory” was in his mind?

  The truth was, I did not know.

  CHAPTER 44

  I AmAlone

  Thoroughly frustrated, I returned to the church and for the rest of a very long afternoon resumed my work. Mr. Snugsbe had sent me down to the crypt, where I polished various silver plates and goblets. Monotonous work, indeed, but my mind seethed.

  There seemed little choice: I must find my way to Scotland Yard, ask for Inspector Ratchet, and tell him what I’d learned. Let him deal with it all. I needed to put all my efforts toward freeing Father from prison.

  Yet, as evening drew in, I gradually came to another plan. Perhaps, after all, Sergeant Muldspoon had been merely playing with me. Perhaps he would come, at the appointed hour. Should I not wait and see? For if Old Moldy did appear, it would mark him as the culprit. And my heart would be the lighter.

  In truth, I wanted him to show up, wanted him to be a traitor. Even as I wanted Sary to be innocent. Had I become like my father, full of theatrical fantasy? Was I wishing, as Sary spoke of it, for an Ali Baba world?

  I had barely come to this conclusion when Mr. Snugsbe appeared—it must have been about five o’clock of the evening—and allowed there was someone above who wished to speak with me.

  Taken by surprise, I said, “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Snugsbe doesn’t know him. Nor would he give a name. He no doubt correctly surmised that Jeremiah Snugsbe’s coat is of no significance.”

  “Does he have a wooden leg?”

  “No.”

  Puzzled, I climbed the stone steps into the nave. A moment’s glance and I saw that the man desiring to speak to me was none other than Chief Inspector Ratchet. As I saw him, I knew I should reveal—perhaps was obliged to reveal—my knowledge about Sary.

  I darted a quick look over my shoulder to see if Mr. Snugsbe had followed me. He had not. Even so, in that same moment I made up my mind to wait and see—for myself—who, if anyone, might appear at eight o’clock that night.

  I approached Chief Inspector Ratchet with caution. “Did you wish to see me, sir?”

  He considered me for such a long moment, I had the impression he was trying to read my mind. All he said, however, was, “I’m here to inquire whether anyone walked through the gate.”

  I knew perfectly well what his cryptic question meant: Did Sergeant Muldspoon indicate he was the chief traitor?

  But I said simply, “I delivered the message.”

  “And the response?”

  Perhaps if he had pushed me, I might have given a different answer. As it was, I replied, “It was not clear.”

  “Ah! Then what do you think we should do?”

  “Nothing,” I burst out. “In fact, I don’t think there’s any need for you to be here.”

  He studied me, then held out a police rattle. “Just in case.”
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  I shook my head. “I won’t need it.”

  “In case,” he insisted, all but forcing it upon me.

  Not given a choice, I took the rattle and was rude enough to turn my back upon the inspector and descend into the crypt. Such was my frustration that I dumped that rattle into an empty urn at the bottom of the steps. It spoke too much of what I’d have to do if Old Moldy did not come.

  I returned to my polishing chores.

  I had been working some eleven hours when the city bells must have tolled seven. I say “must have” because I didn’t hear them deep in the crypt, where I was polishing silver, spending much time on a large Communion plate. When Mr. Snugsbe appeared, the lamp that lit my work was burning low.

  “The bells have struck, Master John,” he confided. “You are free to go.”

  I set down the plate. “Is my coat still fitting?” I asked, feeling a deep weariness.

  Mr. Snugsbe extended an arm, picked up the plate, and scrutinized my work. “Mr. Snugsbe has rarely seen a coat fit so well,” he informed me. “In contrast to the coat he wears, which is always too big for him.”

  “Has Mr. Snugsbe considered going to a tailor?” I said, referring to him as another person in deference to the way he spoke of himself. “His coat could be taken in.”

  “For the coat to be taken in, Mr. Snugsbe would have to be taken out,” he said, his face suggesting great pain.

  “The result might be a better fit.”

  “Mr. Snugsbe doesn’t know if that would work. A boot or a glove: Such articles come on and off with ease. A coat requires massive unbuttoning. According to Mr. Snugsbe’s general theory of coats, once a person achieves his majority—say, twenty-one years, or twenty-one buttons, if he has a coat—he will fit it rather than the coat fit him. He is, as it were, an oyster in his shell, which may be pried apart only at the peril of life itself.”

  I did consider telling him I expected to meet someone at eight o’clock in the church, but I decided against it. It would, I suspected, provoke much talk of coats. At the moment my mood was ill suited for that.

  “Then I hope to see Mr. Snugsbe in the morning,” I said, and after bidding that singular gentleman a pleasant evening, I left him in the crypt. Believing, as I did, that he slept there, I wondered if he did so in his coat. Surely, upon his death, he would be buried in it.

  On the way to the upper level I passed the urn where I’d left the rattle. On reflection, I put the rifling plan in with the rattle, my thought being that I should take no chance of losing it—or having it filched from my pocket. That such an action suggests the contradictory state of my mind, I readily admit.

  The evening services having been concluded, the nave was perfectly empty, perfectly still. The building’s great age, dimness, and quietude made me feel too young, too vulnerable to meet the challenge that lay ahead.

  Unsure if I should simply wait out the hour in the church, I chose to seek some air. I had been underground for most of the day, and the truth is, I was finding it hard to breathe, hard to deal with the passing time, hard to stay calm. An image came to mind of the slow ticking clock in Great-Aunt Euphemia’s vestibule. Like time on that clock, I was being dragged forward. Toward what, I hardly knew.

  Outside, the lamps around the Tower punctuated the heavy fog, which was creeping slowly up the hill like an unrolling blanket. The air, however, was no colder than it had been in the morning. I found it bracing.

  Among the buildings visible over the Tower walls, I could see a few twinkling lights, reminding me that the fortress was not completely deserted. The White Tower of 1078 stood as strong and implacable as ever, like a historic ghost. While I did not believe in ghosts, I was haunted with thoughts of traitors.

  Restless, I strolled down the hill past the outer gatehouse. When I passed the lone Beefeater on guard, I began to regret telling the police to keep away.

  But then as I thought about it, why should I trust them, either? Virtually everyone—Mr. Tuckum, Sary, Inspectors Ratchet and Copperfield, Brigit—all had been trying to use me, trying to bring pressure on Father. Even Father was trying to use me! I suppose I could say I was angry, but the closer truth is that I felt miserable.

  I continued on along the long wharf that fronted the Tower. Here, the river fog was thickest. I could just make out an assortment of boats, mostly at anchor or tied up. Then I saw a small steam launch nosing out of the mist toward the riverbank. It must have been screw driven, for I saw neither sails nor paddle wheels. I observed what looked to be a furnace mid-ship—red sparks drifting from its funnel—and even a few men, at least one at the bow, one at the rudder. Then I heard the splash of what I presumed to be an anchor. The launch ceased moving. But sparks still flew, suggesting it did not intend to stay for long. So deep was my sense of isolation that just the sight of the little boat with its small crew provided some comfort. It allowed me to think I was not entirely alone.

  I gazed down at the Traitors’ Gate, the tide lapping with cat licks against its weighty portcullis. The next moment I felt a sudden chill as it occurred to me how close I was to meddling in treason. How glad I was then that the rifling plan was not in my pocket!

  Determined to remain steadfast, I made my way back to All Hallows certain that I’d wasted enough time—that it now had to be close to eight o’clock.

  Using the small side door, I entered the church and stood at the head of the nave. A few flickering candles in widely spaced wall sconces provided some little light, creating long, shifting shadows that poked about the ancient structure like softly prying fingers. The double row of pale yellow columns reached into high obscurity while the lead tracings of stained-glass windows, as if to challenge the evening gloom, managed some small winking radiance of their own. The church was not merely quiet, but utterly devoid of sound—as if life itself had passed into the solemn sleep of unmeasured time. I saw no one. Still, I had to admit someone could be there, lying on a pew, invisible to my eyes. I lacked the desire—and courage—to check.

  Instead, after some thought, I chose to sit and wait in the farthest back pew, at the far side of the south aisle. By so doing, I would be behind anyone who entered through the vestibule. It seemed likely that a newcomer would look down the nave, toward the altar, not toward the back or side, where I would be waiting and watching.

  So it was that I hunched down, resolved to stay until it was beyond time for anyone to appear. I knew whom I wished to come: Sergeant Muldspoon. How curious, I thought, that I wanted my enemy to appear!

  But what, I asked myself, would I do if Old Moldy did appear? I’d have to confront him alone. How? Simply show myself? Try to hold him? Surrender the plan? Oh, why had I told Ratchet I did not need the police? Foolish boy! For what if the schoolmaster did prove violent? I considered fetching the rattle, but I feared it was too late to budge.

  The truth was—and I finally was willing to acknowledge it—I did not know what I should do in any instance, and I was also very frightened.

  But about then the City bells chimed the hour of eight.

  CHAPTER 45

  I Makean Astounding Discovery

  As always, there was a cacophonic swelling, a metallic clanging and sounding of bells, arching into a deafening crescendo, only to gradually diminish to less, to nothing, to none, until the ensuing silence encased the solemn soul of stillness itself. Hardly daring to breathe, remaining where I was, I kept my eyes fastened to the door.

  How much time passed, I am not sure, but quite suddenly, I was sure I heard footsteps in the outer entry. I listened harder. I could have no doubt: Someone was approaching.

  I stared, wide-eyed, as the door swung open. A figure stepped into the nave. My heart pounded.

  I could see nothing of the person’s face, though I sensed it was a man … a tall man at that, with a top hat. He appeared to be all in black, but the view was so steeped in shadow, I could not tell for sure.

  Whoever he was, he hesitated at the inner door as if searching for someone. Whe
n no one else appeared, he walked down the central aisle. I listened for Old Moldy’s distinctive clump. I could not hear it. At the same time I spied something in this person’s hand that looked very much like a sword.

  Halfway to the altar the man stopped and turned. Doing so, his face was caught in a flicker of candlelight.

  I gasped. The man was bearded.

  It was Copperfield—which is to say, it was the man pretending to be a police inspector.

  Though dumbfounded, I had not the slightest doubt that he was looking for me and that he was there to lay hands upon the rifling secret.

  Oh, how I then regretted my telling Inspector Ratchet to keep away! But because I had done exactly that, I knew it was my responsibility to confront this man.

  I’m not sure how long I watched him, trying to determine his identity. I failed at that. There being no choice, I gripped the pew before me with both hands and stood up.

  “Were you looking for me?” I called out, my voice echoing down the nave.

  Taken by surprise, the man leaned sharply in my direction, staring into the shadows, his patently false beard dangling from his chin.

  “Who’s that?” he cried.

  I could not identify the voice.

  “You know perfectly well who I am,” I returned. I could see now—and was greatly relieved—that what he held in his hand was not a sword, but an umbrella.

  He leaned forward again, squinting. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, straightening up. “Why are you here?”

  His question struck me as odd. “This is my place of work,” I replied. “Why are you here?”

  He considered my remark and me momentarily, then shouted: “Impertinent boy! Who are you to question me? It’s not as if I haven’t warned you! You may be quite sure you shall pay the consequences!” Finally, as if dismissing me, he called out, “Snugsbe! I must see you.”

  That he should call for Mr. Snugsbe was a further bewilderment to me. None of this was making sense. Emboldened, I thought to slip out of the pew and move down the aisle, making sure I remained between the man and the entryway.