gang.
‘What does it say?’ Charles asks, rising from the chair. Mr Poll makes no move to put the letter in his hand; indeed, he does not even look at Charles.
‘It is from Lucan,’ he says. ‘Caley and Walker are taken by the law.’
Beside me Mr Tyne makes a hissing sound, but it is Charles who speaks.
‘Would he have us beg?’
‘That is precisely what he means to have,’ says Mr Poll, his voice dismissing Charles’s words as if they were those of a foolish child. Charles’s face darkens, but if Mr Poll sees it he gives no sign. Instead he rounds on Mr Tyne, holding the letter out at him.
‘And you, man. How is it I must learn of it thus? Is ittrue?’ – though it is plain from the fury of Mr Tyne’s expression that he knew no more than any of us. ‘Well? Answer me!’
‘I do not know.’
Mr Poll stares at him for a long moment.
‘Go then, find out.’ And then he turns away, dismissing us. Only Charles remains, looking at his back, his eyes cold.
It is dark before Mr Tyne returns, the house silent and still. We follow him to Mr Poll’s study, where he makes his report: Caley and Walker are indeed taken, and at this very moment sit in the cells of Bow Street where they were brought after a struggle in the yard of St Bartholomew’s.
Outside in the street the night is mild, the cries of children and the scent of smoke rising through the windows, but in the house it is cold.
‘Very well, then,’ says Mr Poll. ‘It is done.’
O NCE MR POLL HAS GONE I follow Charles and the others to a place in the Haymarket. Inside the air is hot, and close, the rooms crowded with men and women all talking and drinking. Chifley would play at cards, and almost immediately takes himself and Caswell away to find a table, leaving me alone with Charles. Charles moves restlessly, looking through the rooms as if for something which remains ever out of reach.
‘What will happen to Caley and Walker?’ I ask as we go, and he gazes at me though I speak of something from long ago, another time, another place.
‘They will be tried, and no doubt convicted.’
‘Of what?’
‘Theft, trespass, public affray. Some charge will be found.’
‘And us?’
He shrugs. ‘We will be Lucan’s again.’
Surprised by the carelessness of his tone I begin to object
– but he reminds me that these are not subjects for company such as this. On the room’s other side Chifley and Caswellhave found a game and are seating themselves. Chifley motions us to join them, but Charles declines, excusing himself and leaving me there.
And so left alone I wander back through the house, looking at the faces, the dresses and the jewels and the beauty of the women whose bodies fill its rooms. Down the stairs in the hall, there are palms in massive pots, and by the door Negroes in uniforms, and in the ballroom the band plays.
And then quite suddenly I see her, half-turned away. She wears a dress of the deepest blue, her hair piled high upon her head. I begin to walk towards her, delighted to find her here, but then I realise she is not alone, that she is on the arm of a man I do not recognise.
He is older than her, moustachioed, his frame broad, and powerful. I stop, a kind of space opening within me, and then she turns. That she sees me, I know – for our eyes meet and for a long instant she freezes, gazing back, her eyes dark with the look of warning she gave me that night, months ago, in Kitty’s room. Then she looks away, showing no sign of recognition.
‘You know her then?’ Chifley’s voice.
‘Who is that man with her?’
‘Her lover, Sparrow, a man of property.’
I will not flinch.
‘What? You thought she might love you alone?’ Chifley asks.
I step away, not prepared to let him see how his words have cut me, the room moving as if I am drunk, my legs weak, and his face lit with his crooked smile.
L ATE, AND IN THE STREET rain has begun to fall, a mist which moves in clouds through the glow of the lamps. Alone and
‘What does it say?’ Charles asks, rising from the chair. Mr Poll makes no move to put the letter in his hand; indeed, he does not even look at Charles.
‘It is from Lucan,’ he says. ‘Caley and Walker are taken by the law.’
Beside me Mr Tyne makes a hissing sound, but it is Charles who speaks.
‘Would he have us beg?’
‘That is precisely what he means to have,’ says Mr Poll, his voice dismissing Charles’s words as if they were those of a foolish child. Charles’s face darkens, but if Mr Poll sees it he gives no sign. Instead he rounds on Mr Tyne, holding the letter out at him.
‘And you, man. How is it I must learn of it thus? Is ittrue?’ – though it is plain from the fury of Mr Tyne’s expression that he knew no more than any of us. ‘Well? Answer me!’
‘I do not know.’
Mr Poll stares at him for a long moment.
‘Go then, find out.’ And then he turns away, dismissing us. Only Charles remains, looking at his back, his eyes cold.
It is dark before Mr Tyne returns, the house silent and still. We follow him to Mr Poll’s study, where he makes his report: Caley and Walker are indeed taken, and at this very moment sit in the cells of Bow Street where they were brought after a struggle in the yard of St Bartholomew’s.
Outside in the street the night is mild, the cries of children and the scent of smoke rising through the windows, but in the house it is cold.
‘Very well, then,’ says Mr Poll. ‘It is done.’
O NCE MR POLL HAS GONE I follow Charles and the others to a place in the Haymarket. Inside the air is hot, and close, the rooms crowded with men and women all talking and drinking. Chifley would play at cards, and almost immediately takes himself and Caswell away to find a table, leaving me alone with Charles. Charles moves restlessly, looking through the rooms as if for something which remains ever out of reach.
‘What will happen to Caley and Walker?’ I ask as we go, and he gazes at me though I speak of something from long ago, another time, another place.
‘They will be tried, and no doubt convicted.’
‘Of what?’
‘Theft, trespass, public affray. Some charge will be found.’
‘And us?’
He shrugs. ‘We will be Lucan’s again.’
Surprised by the carelessness of his tone I begin to object
– but he reminds me that these are not subjects for company such as this. On the room’s other side Chifley and Caswellhave found a game and are seating themselves. Chifley motions us to join them, but Charles declines, excusing himself and leaving me there.
And so left alone I wander back through the house, looking at the faces, the dresses and the jewels and the beauty of the women whose bodies fill its rooms. Down the stairs in the hall, there are palms in massive pots, and by the door Negroes in uniforms, and in the ballroom the band plays.
And then quite suddenly I see her, half-turned away. She wears a dress of the deepest blue, her hair piled high upon her head. I begin to walk towards her, delighted to find her here, but then I realise she is not alone, that she is on the arm of a man I do not recognise.
He is older than her, moustachioed, his frame broad, and powerful. I stop, a kind of space opening within me, and then she turns. That she sees me, I know – for our eyes meet and for a long instant she freezes, gazing back, her eyes dark with the look of warning she gave me that night, months ago, in Kitty’s room. Then she looks away, showing no sign of recognition.
‘You know her then?’ Chifley’s voice.
‘Who is that man with her?’
‘Her lover, Sparrow, a man of property.’
I will not flinch.
‘What? You thought she might love you alone?’ Chifley asks.
I step away, not prepared to let him see how his words have cut me, the room moving as if I am drunk, my legs weak, and his face lit with his crooked smile.
L ATE, AND IN THE STREET rain has begun to fall, a mist which moves in clouds through the glow of the lamps. Alone and
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