The Skull and the Nightingale by Michael Irwin

physically vigorous. I cannot claim to be a scholar, but I am reflective and read quite widely. I can adapt myself to most kinds of company. I am sensual, probably to a fault. By temperament I am cheerful and amiably disposed, but I can have darker moods—even fits of rage.”
    Mr. Gilbert nodded, as though I had said nothing to surprise him.
    “You are not afraid to take risks?”
    “No.”
    “You have a relish for unusual situations?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can you be ruthless?”
    This question called for a little thought.
    “I believe I can.”
    I wondered at these questions. Was I to be asked to stage a robbery or an assassination? But Mr. Gilbert let the matter drop as suddenly as he had broached it, and poured more port. One of his great black dogs padded silently from the house and laid his head on my godfather’s knee. I felt at ease—even exhilarated. What a singular exchange this was, under the stars, our words punctuated by stirrings of twigs in the breeze or the occasional scuttling of a rabbit. Where would it take us next? In the moonlight my godfather, with his pale face and small wig, had a ghostly luminosity which seemed to render him more dominant. Fondling the dog’s ears, he spoke again, this time ruminatively:
    “I lost another neighbor, Squire Warhurst, last year. By all accounts he died a good death, praying to the last. He was confident of admission to heaven, and Parson Thorpe endorsed that expectation. His soul may be there as we speak. Yet the man was a bully, a glutton, and a hell-bent whoremonger till mending his ways at fifty, following a stroke. If Warhurst has been saved, I can feel guardedly optimistic as to my own prospects.”
    He broke off: “You suspect that I am facetious?”
    “To be candid, sir, I was not sure.”
    My godfather smiled faintly. “I am not sure myself. But seriously, or half seriously, I reflect that the years and capacities I have left are insufficient for me to emulate this man’s sinfulness, even if I wished to do so. May I not, then, indulge myself a little? A very little?”
    After a hesitation he continued, as though lost in soliloquy:
    “A man may avoid the sin he is too timid to commit. In such a case, surely, the professed belief is mere faintheartedness. Might not the Almighty deem that the fellow has been cowardly rather than virtuous? Might not the eternal reward be curtailed accordingly? If so, the poor devil would be twice deprived—in this life and again in the next.”
    I tried to meet the challenge: “Then you believe in an afterlife?”
    “Of course.” A pause. “From time to time.”
    Somewhat baffled by now, I tried to exert myself:
    “Sir, I am not sure where your remarks are tending.”
    “Then I must make myself clear.” My godfather drew a breath and spoke out with decision. “The case is this. I have preserved appearances for so long that none of my neighbors know—indeed, I scarcely know myself—what lies below the surface of my character. Caution and good fortune have protected me, but they have protected me too far—protected me from life itself. I have never married, never fathered a child, never broken a bone, or so much as seen a corpse, save on a gibbet. I live in a great house defended by servants and dogs. The price I pay for my safety is imprisonment of a kind. I need a window in this confinement, a window through which to see a wider life.”
    “Were you not saying as much to me on my last visit?”
    “I was, but I wish to go further. There lies the point—I wish to go further.”
    He took a full mouthful of port. By now he was agitated, his breathing quicker.
    “I invited you to describe the life of London. But as I read your letters I came to recognize that I seek something more particular—the recklessness of personal doings. Do you follow me?”
    “I think so, sir.”
    “I wonder if you do . . .” His tone changed. “Let me say that I like the sound of your friend Mr. Crocker. I have a taste for