at all.
Digby muttered and sang to himself as he strode along, leaning forwards, uncomfortable and eager to be on home turf. He felt as though there was a knot in his brain that he could not untie. Pawning the watch would have given him a substantial sum of money, perhaps even enough to win the favour of a woman, for even had he stowed most of the money away, there would have been enough to buy her a new bonnet and as many ribbons as she wanted. It was all the pretty ones wanted: a few coins flashed before their eyes.
The streets were busy; the sedan chairs were halting, almost piling up on each other; there was the clatter of hooves as the horse pulling a hackney carriage shied at a street seller. Two men were arguing over a debt in the middle of the street. As he hurried on, weaving his way through the other pedestrians, Digby felt the disquiet and conflict of the city grate on him; he had enough to deal with, starting with the rattling contents of his own brain. Renard’s death had seemed to him some kind of happy accident; he had only seen the watch, snatched up the beauty, seen an opportunity and taken it. But as the days passed he had began to wonder: what had he been thinking of to take the valuables of a murdered man, and one he had known? He was divided between distress at his actions and fear for his own safety. He had even begun to fancy that the murderer had stood nearby when he found the body, watching from the shadows, and it had disturbed his sleep last night, his own cry of panic waking him.
At the top of it, there was Mr Maynard to worry about. Fine Mr Maynard, stopping him on Bond Street the other morning to ask questions about Pierre Renard. When he’d started talking, Digby had clamped his hand around the watch, feverish with fear, mumbled his excuses and gone straight to the Red Lion. If they found it on him, he’d be stretched by the neck in no time, and the thought of it made him want to weep with terror.
His pace quickened further. Finally, he reached the west churchyard of St James’s that fronted on to Jermyn Street. In the shadows, he coughed heartily. He thought of the coroner’s meeting for Pierre Renard. He remembered how he had stood, feeling secure and comfortable, with something like optimism framing his thoughts. He had never given himself to it completely, but its loss was still bitter.
He leaned against the wall, hoping it would support him for a moment. He knew what it all came down to, really; he had kept the watch because it was his secret. Having it with him gave him strength: its beauty was something he alone could enjoy. When he was able to hold it in his hand, and examine its details by the light of a candle, it was worth enduring the fear of discovery. It seemed to him to be fated, telling him of the life he was destined to live. Once he had thought he would make such objects, that he would finish his apprenticeship and be a maker of beauty. Owning it was a compensation, for it seemed to have its own kind of life, and it tempered his bitterness. To let another human being set eyes on it would taint its sanctity. He realized now that he could not let it go.
He was standing in the churchyard when he saw Dr Taylor come out of the church, followed by his wife. They’d been at prayer, he presumed, pulling his hat down to shade his face. You like praying, don’t you, Doctor? he thought. Such mealy-mouthed little prayers before you go to touch up all the fine ladies. You like taking possession of your godliness before you take possession of those women, summing them up, dismissing them, as you dismiss us all. And yet you have a wife who is happy to walk beside you. He couldn’t stop his thoughts running along dark channels, his heart beating faster, poisonous black bitterness in his heart’s blood. I lived a good life until now, he thought. Do I deserve this, the only comfort I have a piece of metal stolen from a corpse?
He wondered if he would be able to sleep before he
Digby muttered and sang to himself as he strode along, leaning forwards, uncomfortable and eager to be on home turf. He felt as though there was a knot in his brain that he could not untie. Pawning the watch would have given him a substantial sum of money, perhaps even enough to win the favour of a woman, for even had he stowed most of the money away, there would have been enough to buy her a new bonnet and as many ribbons as she wanted. It was all the pretty ones wanted: a few coins flashed before their eyes.
The streets were busy; the sedan chairs were halting, almost piling up on each other; there was the clatter of hooves as the horse pulling a hackney carriage shied at a street seller. Two men were arguing over a debt in the middle of the street. As he hurried on, weaving his way through the other pedestrians, Digby felt the disquiet and conflict of the city grate on him; he had enough to deal with, starting with the rattling contents of his own brain. Renard’s death had seemed to him some kind of happy accident; he had only seen the watch, snatched up the beauty, seen an opportunity and taken it. But as the days passed he had began to wonder: what had he been thinking of to take the valuables of a murdered man, and one he had known? He was divided between distress at his actions and fear for his own safety. He had even begun to fancy that the murderer had stood nearby when he found the body, watching from the shadows, and it had disturbed his sleep last night, his own cry of panic waking him.
At the top of it, there was Mr Maynard to worry about. Fine Mr Maynard, stopping him on Bond Street the other morning to ask questions about Pierre Renard. When he’d started talking, Digby had clamped his hand around the watch, feverish with fear, mumbled his excuses and gone straight to the Red Lion. If they found it on him, he’d be stretched by the neck in no time, and the thought of it made him want to weep with terror.
His pace quickened further. Finally, he reached the west churchyard of St James’s that fronted on to Jermyn Street. In the shadows, he coughed heartily. He thought of the coroner’s meeting for Pierre Renard. He remembered how he had stood, feeling secure and comfortable, with something like optimism framing his thoughts. He had never given himself to it completely, but its loss was still bitter.
He leaned against the wall, hoping it would support him for a moment. He knew what it all came down to, really; he had kept the watch because it was his secret. Having it with him gave him strength: its beauty was something he alone could enjoy. When he was able to hold it in his hand, and examine its details by the light of a candle, it was worth enduring the fear of discovery. It seemed to him to be fated, telling him of the life he was destined to live. Once he had thought he would make such objects, that he would finish his apprenticeship and be a maker of beauty. Owning it was a compensation, for it seemed to have its own kind of life, and it tempered his bitterness. To let another human being set eyes on it would taint its sanctity. He realized now that he could not let it go.
He was standing in the churchyard when he saw Dr Taylor come out of the church, followed by his wife. They’d been at prayer, he presumed, pulling his hat down to shade his face. You like praying, don’t you, Doctor? he thought. Such mealy-mouthed little prayers before you go to touch up all the fine ladies. You like taking possession of your godliness before you take possession of those women, summing them up, dismissing them, as you dismiss us all. And yet you have a wife who is happy to walk beside you. He couldn’t stop his thoughts running along dark channels, his heart beating faster, poisonous black bitterness in his heart’s blood. I lived a good life until now, he thought. Do I deserve this, the only comfort I have a piece of metal stolen from a corpse?
He wondered if he would be able to sleep before he
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