The Traitors' Gate Page 8

  “Ah, well,” he said with a sigh, “perhaps it’s too early to say. Can I fetch you something to eat? To drink?”

  “No, sir. I should see my father.” I started for the steps but paused. “Please, sir, might you know what Scotland Yard is?”

  “Scotland Yard!” cried the bailiff. “What makes you ask about that?”

  “I … I heard it spoken of and wondered what it is.”

  “It’s the offices of the Metropolitan Police, where the constables are all headquartered. In old-fashioned times ambassadors from Scotland resided there.”

  “Would … would someone called an ‘inspector’ come from that place?”

  He nodded. “The top constables do. The ones who investigate the most serious crimes. The best is Chief Inspector Ratchet. Reports right to the superintendent, he does, who then reports directly to the home secretary.”

  “Do you know one named Inspector Copperfield?”

  “Copperfield?” He held up the pamphlet he’d been reading. “That’s the name of this serialized story everyone’s been following. David Copperfield. By that author, Mr. Dickens. Wonderful story. Wonderful writer. Is that truly this inspector’s name: Copperfield?”

  “He said so.”

  “I never heard of him. Perhaps a new man on the force.”

  “Would they wear disguises?”

  “Disguises? Well, yes, from time to time. They surely aren’t in uniforms.”

  “And what’s a ‘swell mobsman’?”

  He considered me thoughtfully. “He’s a clever confidence man. A cheat. What makes you ask all this?”

  “Just curious,” I said, and started off.

  “Master John!” he called, and held out a small book. “I acquired this for your father. Bring it to him with my compliments. Not entertaining like Copperfield, but, given his circumstances, practical.”

  I took the book, noting the title: The Prisoner’s Guide; or, Every Debtor His Own Lawyer.

  “And, Master John, do remind him,” said the bailiff, “he must not leave the premises.”

  I ran up the steps before he could say more.

  Happily, my father was not in bed, as I feared he might be. Instead, he was fully dressed, working upon his neckcloth, folding it with great exactitude.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said when I came in. “Wondered where you’d gone. At school, perhaps.”

  “Father,” I said, frustrated that he should have forgotten, “I went to do the errands you asked of me.”

  “Did you? Ah, yes.” He turned and continued to work on his neckcloth, his back toward me, as if unwilling to look me in the eye.

  “And how, young sir,” he asked, “is the weather today? Chilly? Damp? I heard some wind rattling the shutters. But, of course, this is an ancient place and—”

  “The bailiff wanted me to give you this book.” I held it out to him.

  He took it, barely glancing at the title before tossing it on the bed as if it had nothing to do with him.

  “He also asked me to remind you,” I said, “that you’re not allowed to leave the inn.” When Father made no comment, I said, “Don’t you want to hear what happened?”

  “Did something happen?”

  “You asked me to visit your great-aunt Euphemia.”

  “Do you know, I’m quite sure she should be called ‘Lady.’” He still refused to look at me. “She is the daughter of a baronet. My great-grandfather. I’m assuming she must hold land somewhere. But there are strict rules regarding what you call someone, very strict rules.”

  “Please, Father, I want to tell you what happened. If you’re interested.”

  “Of course I’m interested! How did you find her?” he said with a final fussing over the neckcloth. “Was she friendly? Chatty? Full of family gossip? Did she offer you a substantial breakfast? Were other people calling?”

  Gazing at him, I realized he was trembling.

  “Father,” I said, “she didn’t say no.”

  He swung right around, eyes upon me. “Oh, excellent! What did she say exactly?”

  “That I should return for her answer. Tomorrow.”

  “Well done, John!” he cried. The trembling gone, he clapped a firm hand upon my shoulder. “I’m absolutely sure our little difficulties will soon be resolved. Of that we can be quite confident.”

  “But, Father—listen to me—I’m not sure she will say yes. She … she said some very unpleasant things about you.”

  “She or her solicitor, Mr. Nottingham?”

  “There was a man there. I don’t know if it was him. But when Lady Euphemia spoke of you—disparagingly—I … I defended you.”

  “Good lad! With excellent reason too. Am I not your father? John, buck up. Pay no attention to her. Or that Nottingham cad. The most unpleasant of people, both of them. She thinks herself wise. He considers himself a good actor. Wrong, both. As you know, it’s really my money she has,” he babbled on. “I’m glad I’ve little to do with her. What of her health?”

  “She said her doctors told her she will die.”

  “Did she really? Well, so must we all. So must we all. But it’s good to know she will provide the help we need.”

  Ignoring his last remark, I said, “Then I went to the Naval Ordinance Office.”

  “Much pleasanter, I’m sure.”

  “I was asked to remind you that you have missed many days of work.”

  “Were you? I’m not so sure I would believe that if I were you. Come, let’s have some breakfast.” Full of energy, he opened the door to the room.

  “And when I came out of the naval office,” I went on, “I was met by an inspector from Scotland Yard.”

  That stopped him. For a moment he neither spoke nor moved, but then he slowly turned back to me. “Were you?”

  I nodded. “Do you know about Scotland Yard?”

  He shut the door behind him and drew close. “I suppose I do. Who was this inspector?” he said, his voice low. “What did he want?”

  “He … Inspector Copperfield … said I should consider his words to me a warning.”

  It was as if I’d struck him. Panic suffused his face. “Copperfield? A warning? What exactly did he tell you?”

  “Not very much. Except that … warning.” I watched Father carefully. “Father, what does it all mean?”

  His fright subsided. “Oh, goodness, John,” he said in his plummy actor’s voice. “What a question to ask of me! You just said it was you he warned. I have not the slightest idea what that man was talking about. The impertinence. If he has business with me, he should have addressed his remarks to me, not you.”

  That said, he turned in haste toward the door. “You’ll excuse me. I’m quite famished. Oh, please don’t mention that incident to anyone.” He fled.

  I looked after him, hearing anew Inspector Copperfield’s words. I thought over that roster of criminals the inspector had listed: thieves, burglars, robbers, cheats, housebreakers, embezzlers, blackmailers, pickpockets, swell mobsmen, shoplifters, assassins, muggers, traitors.

  Which one, I wondered, might apply to my own father?

  CHAPTER 17

  I Hear an Odd Story

  When I finally reached the main room, I discovered my family assembled around the table. Mr. Tuckum was nowhere in sight—perhaps he’d gone off to continue his reading. It was Brigit who was serving the breakfast.

  Halfway down the steps I saw that my mother and sister were in far better spirits than the night before. And I heard my father saying: “So you see, Mrs. Huffam, just as I promised you, Great-Aunt Euphemia will be providing the necessary money. In a few days all this unpleasantness will be over. All will be restored to normal.”

  I stopped—two steps from the bottom—not sure I was hearing correctly.

  “But, Pa,” Clarissa said, “how did you ever persuade the old biddy to give you so much money?”

  “As for that,” said my father, glancing over toward me and giving me a private wink, “she was only too happy to o
blige. Of course, she’s perfectly aware that I’m the rightful heir to Grandfather’s fortune, not her. All but admitted it. No doubt she has an awkward conscience. She certainly should. In any case, she’s willing to share.”

  “Does that mean,” asked Mother with ill-disguised eagerness, “that when she dies—which, considering her age, surely can’t be far off—the entire Huffam estate will come to you?”

  “Indeed,” said my father. “Best to be cautious about such matters, my dear. Aunt Euphemia did not say yes to that, not exactly. Though she did hint strongly at it. Mind, only a hint. But a hint nonetheless.”

  “And Mr. Nottingham, that lawyer who fills her ears with false allegations about you, does he agree to such?”

  “Oh, him,” my father said blandly. “No doubt he must if she says so.”

  “Ever since you foolishly published a critique of his acting,” continued my mother, “he has poisoned her thoughts about you. When we move into the mansion, that man shall have no entry.”

  “Absolutely none,” agreed my father. “But, of course, we can’t move into her mansion tomorrow. Not quite. But—Ah, John,” he said, extending an open hand to me as if he had only just then seen me, “you lazy dog. Up at last, are you? Do join us for breakfast or at least partake in the good news.”

  I could hardly believe what he’d been saying about Aunt Euphemia and about what she said and that I was just getting up, for not a word of it was true.

  “Tell us,” Clarissa asked Father. “What is her house like?”

  “Very grand, you may be sure,” he replied. “All in the latest fashion.”

  I stood there, unable to say a word, marveling at my father’s—to put it kindly—playacting.

  “Can we visit?” said Clarissa. “Pay our respects?”

  “I should certainly think we should,” agreed Mother, “if only to express our gratitude.”

  “As for that,” my father said, “I fear my dear great-aunt is not well enough to have callers.”

  “But at least we should leave visiting cards,” said Clarissa.

  “All in good time, all in good time,” said Father, rising from the table in haste and turning to me. “Not eating, John? Oh well, then, come take a stroll with me. I’ve a mind for some fresh air. My dear Mrs. Huffam, Clarissa,” he said, bowing toward them. “Come along, John.” He tugged at my arm as he headed out.

  I did not move.

  “John,” cried Mother, “for heavens sake, go with your father. After sleeping so late, some fresh air will do you good.”

  “Clarissa,” I said, “I need to speak to you privately.”

  “John,” she said with a toss of her head, “you have no secrets I’d be interested in.”

  “I think I might.”

  “John,” shrilled Mother, “don’t keep your father waiting!”

  “After Clarissa,” I insisted.

  My sister, with a roll of her eyes to make sure I understood she was merely condescending, came to me.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  I led her off into a corner. Whispering, I said, “I met Mr. Farquatt this morning.”

  “You didn’t!” she cried, suddenly interested. “Where? When?”

  “I went out early.”

  “Father said you just woke up.”

  “He was … mistaken.”

  “Did you … speak with Mr. Farquatt?”

  “He sends his compliments and asked me to bring you a message.”

  “Did he?”

  “That he would be happy to meet you at three o’clock this afternoon at the park behind St. Botolph’s Church.”

  Her cheeks glowed. “John, did he truly say that?”

  “He did and that he had a proposal to make to you.”

  Clarissa turned pinker yet. “Are you sure?” she whispered, her normally dull eyes shining with excitement.

  “His words.”

  “I … I shall have to get Brigit to come with me,” she murmured.

  When I shrugged, she remained silent a moment, as if making a decision. “But, John,” she said, though she might have been speaking to herself, “if we’re to be taken up by Great-Aunt Euphemia with all her riches, I’m not so sure I should bestow any thought upon Mr. Farquatt.”

  I hardly had the courage, not then, to tell her the truth—that Father had lied about all that. All I could say was, “Clarissa, be careful. Don’t assume too much.”

  “You, dear brother,” she said with sudden anger, “who will be the last male Huffam, will inherit all from Father. A girl must look out for herself. Little boys never need to think of such things.”

  Not wishing to argue, I said, “Mr. Farquatt also said he’ll be going to France shortly.”

  “He did? Why?”

  “He did not say.” In haste I added, “Clarissa, Father is waiting.” With that, I hurried out of the inn, remembering that Mr. Farquatt had a message for Father, too.

  Father was in the courtyard, pacing up and down in a casual fashion, whistling that tune of his. Hearing me approach, he stopped and took me by the arm. “Did you contradict me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The best of lads! Now come along. We must talk.”

  “Father,” I said, “I don’t think you’re allowed to go anywhere.”

  “Don’t be silly. That kind of rule doesn’t apply to gentlemen like us.” Whistling, he began to stroll away.

  I watched him, then decided it would be better if I went along.

  “Father,” I asked, when I caught up to him, “what is it about that song that you like so much?”

  “A catchy air. But it’s the words I like most. You could learn something from them:

  Of friendship I have heard much talk

  But you’ll find in the end,

  That if distressed at any time,

  Then money is your friend.

  If you are sick and like to die,

  And for the doctor send,

  To him you must advance a fee,

  Then money is your friend.

  If you should have a suit of law,

  On which you must depend,

  And must pay your lawyer for a brief,

  Then money is your friend.

  Then let me have but a store of gold,

  From ills it will defend:

  In every emergency of life,

  Dear money is your friend.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  I said, “At church I once heard Dr. Grantly say, ‘Money is the root of all evil.’”

  “John, John, I thought you were too old to believe such twaddle. Like it or not, money is your friend. That’s the modern view. One must do the necessary to have it. You’re just bothered that I told the family that it was I—not you—who went to Lady Euphemia.”

  “I’m not, sir.”

  “My dear boy, you know how down they all are on me. A gentleman like me—head of the family and all that it pertains—wants some support, don’t you think? You might have sympathy.”

  “I told you,” I insisted, “I don’t care about what you said. You can claim it was you. It’s just that Lady Euphemia did not say she’ll give you the money. Only that I was to come back tomorrow.”

  “Phoo! It amounts to the same thing.”

  “Father, I don’t think so.”

  “Anyway,” he said, brushing away my objections with a wave of his hand, “I’m off to see if I can sort things out on my own.”

  “With that Mr. Finnegan O’Doul?”

  He came to an abrupt halt. “How do you know that name?”

  “His name was on the writ. And you and I talked about him last night.”

  “John, must I repeat, I don’t know the man.” That said—as though he were rebuking me—he started off, faster, trying now to get away from me.

  “One other thing,” I called after him. “As I was going to Great-Aunt Euphemia, I met Mr. Farquatt.”

  That held him. “Did you?”

  “He said that if your di
fficulty is such that you require assistance, you need only request it of him.”

  My father grew thoughtful, as if turning something over in his mind. “Were those his exact words?”

  “Close enough. Is there something wrong in his saying so?” I asked.

  “No, no,” said my father. “I’m much obliged, I’m sure. Now, John, I must be off.” Making clear he did not want my company, he turned and strode away.

  I watched him, wondering where was he going in such sudden haste, when, after all, he was not supposed—by Mr. Tuckum’s decree—to be on the streets at all.

  Then the thought came: If I could be followed—as that Sary the Sneak had done to me—I could do some following too. Learn more about your father, the inspector had said. So had the clerk in the naval office.

  Keeping a discreet distance, I went after Father.

  CHAPTER 18

  I Enter the Den of the Red Lion

  The streets were filled with pedestrians, vendors, costermongers, hawkers, and newspaper callers. But then, it was midday and all of London had become an endless market. I could not help but think of my school, since noon till two had been the best time of the day for me: Sergeant Muldspoon went off we knew not where, while we boys had two free, blissful hours. Released from military discipline, we often just wandered aimlessly. Or I might regale my schoolmates with the latest stories I’d read in The Tales of the Genii. As I followed Father that noon, however, school, Ali Baba, and Old Moldy seemed but memories of the distant past.

  Despite the crowds, my father was not hard to follow. No doubt thinking he had freed himself from me, he appeared to be in no great hurry. Rather, he ambled along, as if the world’s problems fell exclusively to the Queens first ministers.

  So it was that after many turns he made his way to Crispin Street near the Spitalfields Market—the old French silk weavers’ quarter. Once there, he turned into a public house, which bore the image of a red lion rampant and thereby made itself known by that name.

  HOT ELDER WINE read the placard in the window. Men and boys were going in and out, mostly laborers, but a fair number of businessmen, clerks, shop tenders, and gentlemen of my father’s class. The few women entering were all escorted. There seemed nothing in the least unrespectable about the Red Lion.