Jack Maggs (7 page)

14

“THEN THIS IS HOW we will proceed,” said Tobias Oates, turning his back so that his great excitement could be hidden from the subject. “I will send a note to your Mr Buckle, explaining the present circumstances.”

“He’ll dismiss me from his service.”

“On my word, he will
not
dismiss you.”

“He will.”

“By the Lord above!” Tobias turned. “Mr Buckle will do exactly as I wish him to.”

“If I am dismissed, where will I have my crib?”

“Your master is a student of Mesmerism. He will be pleased to make you available for science.”

Jack Maggs’s eyes narrowed, his hawk-nosed face turned hard and shiny, just like, Tobias thought, a peasant with a pig to sell.

“I never said I were available to science.”

“Nonsense. You made a bargain.”

“No. You will get me to the Thief-taker. That is the bargain.”

“Yes, I undertake to introduce you to Mr Partridge and do everything in my power to make that meeting a productive one for you. You, for your part, will do what I ask of you.”

But the fellow was now staring down mulishly at his hands.

“You never said nothing about science.”

“For God’s sake, man,” cried Tobias Oates irritably.

“Don’t shout at me, Mr Oates. I know what I heard.”

“What is there to be unsure about?”

Jack Maggs opened his hands so that the stumps of his fingers lay plainly displayed upon his knee. “I won’t have nothing written down.”

Tobias feared he was about to lose his subject. He had played his hand too obviously. The man had seen his need.

“That’s a pity, Master Maggs, because the deal is done and good enough to stand up in a Court of Law. I am going to make these movements,” he said, keeping his voice as stern and solemn as a magistrate. “They are called ‘passes.’ ”

“No.”

“You look me in the eye,” cried Tobias Oates. He began to pass his hands before the footman’s malevolent, heavy-lidded eyes. “Watch my hands, fellow.”

Finally, Jack Maggs did watch. He watched warily, sitting a little sideways in the chair, as if the square white hands might do him a damage. And yet, by the time night had lifted from the misty little garden, his unshaven chin was resting on his chest.

“Can you hear me?” Tobias Oates asked.

“Yes, I can hear you.”

Tobias blew out his red lips in silent relief. He reached across to his desk and picked up, first his note book, then his quill.

“Are you comfortable?”

The footman shifted his backside, a little irritably. “Yes, comfortable.”

“Is the pain there?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Now you and I, Jack Maggs, we are going to imagine a place where there is no pain. Can you find a place like that?”

“Leave me alone. The pain is always there.”

“Then we are going to make a picture, like in a fairy tale. We are going to imagine a door so thick, the pain cannot get to you. We can imagine high walls made of thick stone.”

“A prison . . .”

“Very well, a splendid prison, with its walls twenty feet thick and—”

The Somnambulist began to move his arms about violently. “No!” he shouted. “No, damn you!”

“Quiet,” hissed Tobias. “Do you hear me? Quiet. If you don’t like a prison you can have a blessed fortress. A castle with battlements and flying flags. It can be a house. It does not matter.”

“A house.”

“Yes. A good sturdy house with double walls of London brick, and oak shutters on the windows.”

“Morrison Brothers on the doors.”

“Very good. Indeed. The locks and latches are made by dear old Morrison Brothers. Now we are standing on its threshold. Where is the pain?”

“Damn the pain. It always follows me.”

“In a shape? Is it the same shape? Like a man? Like an animal?”

“I’m trying. I’m trying.”

“Good. Good man.”

“When I look at it, it changes. Now there are two of them.”

“A man and an animal.”

“No, no, leave off, leave off of me. Leave me alone.”

“Very well. Is the pain there?”

“Yes, of course. I told you. It is always there. I have to stop. I have to stop this now.”

“We can stop it by going inside the house and locking the pain outside.”

“Must I?”

“Yes, you must.”

A pause.

“Where are you now?”

“God help me, I have done what you told me to. I have gone inside the house.”

“Where is the Phantom?”

“You know the answer.”

“Is he inside or outside the house?”

The Somnambulist placed his hands over his ears.

“Inside or outside?”

“How can I see when you are talking to me all the time? Let me alone if you please.” The footman paused, and frowned. “There are people everywhere. I can’t see him.”

“There are people inside the house?”

“Ever so many.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know them.”

“What sort of people?”

“Gentlemen . . . and ladies.”

“What are they doing?”

“Walking around, spying on things. They are opening the drawers and the cupboards.”

“What of the Phantom?”

“Looking in through the window, most agitated.”

“Because locked out?”

“Yes, locked out.”

“And the pain is gone?”

“No, the pain is bad. They should not be there. It is my place, not theirs.”

“Yes, it is your place. Yours alone.”

“They don’t want me owning it. They’ll take it from me.”

“No, it is yours, Jack Maggs. You know it is yours. You must expel everything that agitates you.”

“They won’t listen to me, Sir. I am not a gentleman.”

“But have you tried?”

“Yes, yes,” Jack Maggs cried passionately. “A hundred times over, I have told them, but they will not listen to me, and I must do what they say.”

“What shall we do? What might persuade them do you think?”

“Oh, Sir, that sort . . . that sort should pet the old double-cat.”

“The double-cat?”

“The double-cat. The thief’s cat. It has a double twist in the cord.”

“You mean the cat-o’-nine-tails?”

“The double-cat is heavier.”

Tobias Oates had been sitting with his legs crossed, writing diligently in his court reporter’s shorthand, but when he heard this comment he looked up sharply. “Perhaps we could open the door and simply ask them to leave.”

“Oh, that’s a joke.” The sleeping man twisted his mouth into an ugly shape. “A very good joke, that is.”

“Well, if you would like to try a joke, my man, see what I am doing to them now.”

“I can’t see.” Jack Maggs contorted in his chair. “I can’t see you doing anything.”

“Oh yes you can. You can see exactly what I am doing. I am sending them to sleep. Can’t you see that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Of course you can. Can’t you see their eyes closing? You know I have the power to do that, don’t you?”

“I think they are dying.”

“Some are falling down, but it is only sleep that causes it. They are falling asleep.”

“Now what will I do with them?”

“We are going to get your Phantom to carry them out.”

“He won’t do that.”

“He will do it if I tell him to. I am telling him to remove these people from your stronghold. Look at him. How is he today?”

“He has a nasty look about him, Sir. He keeps staring at me.”

“Yes, but he will do as I say, and he is strong enough to carry out the sleeping people. Some of them are quite large, aren’t they? Do you see a woman with double chins?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Surely there is a woman there in a black dress with a great deal of jewellery?”

“I think I see her now.”

“Is the Phantom dragging her?”

“No, he has picked her up. He is picking her up and carrying her out of my house.”

“You must be feeling a deal better.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Is there any pain?”

“Everything is much better. Much better, thank you, Sir. He is going to stay outside the door now, Sir?”

“When he has carried everyone out.”

“He has, Sir. He’s a such a jolly old bullock, ain’t he?”

“He has removed them already?”

“He’s a regular dervish, Sir.”

“And outside now?”

“Yes, outside.”

“Then I am locking the door. You are in your house. You are all alone. Nothing can harm you. You are going to the window now. You are looking out of the window?”

“Yes, I am looking out of the window.”

“What do you see? Any street numbers? Shops?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“You can’t see anything?”

“Pitch black, Sir.”

“Come, Jack Maggs, there is the lamplighter, now look—it’s as bright as day.”

At this, the Somnambulist became extremely agitated, rolling his eyes and striking himself upon the breast.

“I am not permitted to tell you.”

“You must.”

“No,” cried the footman and threw out his arms, one of which struck Tobias Oates a grazing blow upon his temple.

“Cease!” cried Toby. “Be still!”

But Jack Maggs groaned and flung himself violently back in his chair.

“Be still there, that’s a fellow. Down now.” In this style Tobias continued to soothe his angry subject, talking very low, as to a frightened beast.

When peace was finally established, Tobias Oates stood and gazed down at Jack Maggs. He would be the archaeologist of this mystery; he would be the surgeon of this soul.

His youthful face was flushed, and the flecks in his pale blue eyes had turned as bright as mica. He picked up the stool and moved it over to the desk, and though it was too low for such a task, he sat upon it to compose his letter.

“Dear Mr Buckle,”
he began,
“one sometimes hears a servant de
scribed by this or that lady as a ‘treasure.’ ”

With his prisoner’s breathing whispering in his ear, he continued—three drafts before he had it exactly right.

15

IT WAS EDWARD CONSTABLE who informed Mrs Halfstairs that her new footman was missing. He presented himself triumphantly in her parlour door at six o’clock on Monday morning, knocking in that brisk way—
one, two, one two
—that was at once so characteristic and so insolent.

She bade him enter.

“Yes, Constable.”

“It’s your man, Ma’am . . . He’s bolted.”

Her stomach tightened. She lay her quill down on the blotter.

“Which
man
, Mr Constable? If it is Mr Maggs you mean, he has likely gone on an errand for the master. Did you inquire of the master?”

“It is my belief, Ma’am, that Mr Maggs was never in his life an upper servant. He seems to be some kind of rascal.”

“You are not a parson,” said Mrs Halfstairs, “and were not employed to have beliefs. Did you check with the master?”

“You think the master harmed?”

She had thought no such thing, but now she thought it—she saw again the dreadful death of the previous footman, his skull half blown away and all that
matter
on the oaken dresser.

“I came first to you, Ma’am,” said the footman. “I did not think to wake the master.”

“Then go now, if you please, Mr Constable, and check the silver.”

“The silver, Ma’am?”

She caught his bright hard eye.

“Not the master, Ma’am? The
silver
?”

“Do as I have asked you,” said Mrs Halfstairs. “And pray do not disturb Mr Spinks with this news until I tell you to.”

She climbed the stairs with a heavy heart, wishing for the old days when Mr Spinks had ruled the household. Constable would not have behaved this way then. Pope would not have dared to kill himself. As she walked heavily up the stairs—her breathing came hard to her— Mrs Halfstairs was convinced already that her master had been harmed. Her mood was therefore much elevated when she peered round Mr Buckle’s partly opened door and found him safely snoring in one corner of his enormous bed.

As she returned to the ground floor a knock came on the front door, and she answered it herself, to Mr Oates’s messenger.

By the time Constable came to inform her that the silver had not been stolen, she had carefully examined the contents of Tobias Oates’s letter and knew that Jack Maggs was to be a source of glory not of shame.

She gave the envelope to Mr Constable so he might take it to their master.

“I heard the door bell, Ma’am.”

“Yes, Mr Constable. It was this same letter.”

“Perhaps Ma’am, could I ask, that I be permitted to answer the door, as is my duty?”

“I am always pleased for you to do your duty, Mr Constable. And your master will be pleased to receive this letter at your hand.”

That gave him pause a moment. But then he came at her from a different quarter.

“And did you notice, Mrs Halfstairs, when you was answering the door, did you happen to notice that the next-door servants were about again?”

“No, Mr Constable, I did not.”

“I also went to the door, Ma’am.”

“No need for you to have done that, Mr Constable.”

“And found them all everywhere about the street.”

“I did not notice, Mr Constable.”

“I wonder, did it occur to you, Ma’am, that perhaps Mr Maggs has run away with them?”

“Run away with them, Constable?”

“He has an interest in them, does he not? He said he was to be their footman, although I doubt he was, but he had a very fierce interest in that household, and asked us many questions about Mr Phipps himself. Seeing all this activity, Ma’am, I naturally drew it to Mr Spinks’s attention, and he thought that may explain your man’s departure.”

“Mr Constable, did I not request you to wait until you informed Mr Spinks?”

“Ma’am, you know it most improper for a footman to go having secrets from a butler.”

Mrs Halfstairs took a breath. “Take this letter to the master,” she said at last. “And when you are done with it, present yourself down here.”

And then she went to find Mr Spinks and see if she might restore some order to that poor old wandering mind.

16

AT HALF PAST NINE THE absent footman limped in through the kitchen door. His eyes were wild and red, his hair most queerly disarrayed; a great smudge of black disfigured his smart yellow livery; and yet there was, for all his hobbling, nothing in the least apologetic in his demeanour.

“Can a cove get a cup of something?” he demanded, sitting down at the long deal table and glaring at Mercy Larkin who was busy cutting the rot from the day’s potatoes.

“Yes, Sir,” said she, but no sooner had she set her knife down than Mrs Halfstairs, always alert to the creak of the kitchen door, came clattering in from her parlour on her heavy heels and—without one word about Jack Maggs’s disgraceful livery—escorted him straight away upstairs to be brought before the master.

“Can a
cove
get something?” said Constable mocking Jack Maggs’s hoarse voice. “That
cove
is about to get his marching orders.”

“I never heard of such a thing,” said Miss Mott. “It is the butler’s job to dismiss him. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Halfstairs is thinking of—taking him before the master.”

“At Lineham Hall,” said Constable, complacently stirring his third teaspoon of sugar into his tea, “he would have his livery removed at the gate house and be sent off in his undervest.”

“Mr Constable!” cried Miss Mott.

“Or worse,” said Constable, who had a fondness for shocking the cook. “I once saw a page boy put out in the frost with nothing but a pair of old hessians on his feet.” And he then went on to describe, in some detail, the cruel ways in which various servants had been dismissed from his previous establishment.

Constable had a long repertoire of such incidents but was cut off in his first chapter not only by the return of Mrs Halfstairs and Jack Maggs, but also by the arrival of the butler himself. Mr Spinks entered the kitchen with a long brass poker which he had, perhaps absentmindedly, carried away from Mr Buckle’s snuggery. He stood with his back to the dresser, swaying slightly, seemingly unsure of why he had come. Observing the distressing confusion in those cloudy eyes, Constable turned all his attention on the miscreant.

“Oh hello Maggs,” said he conversationally. “If you had slept the night at home you would have woken to the sight of your friends next door galloping in and out of their front door.”

Jack Maggs jerked his head towards his informant.

“A stranger would have thought them thieves,” continued Constable, as if unaware of the effect he was having on his listener. “Sugar bowls. Tea pots. You should have seen the
plunder
they carried off.”

“Mr Phipps is returned?” asked Maggs, fixing upon Constable a gaze both fierce and hungry.

“If you had been back a half hour earlier, you might have had your old job back.”

“We have no interest in that household, Mr Constable,” interrupted Mrs Halfstairs.

“Young Mr Phipps was there?” Maggs asked again but to no effect. Mrs Halfstairs was staring malevolently at Mr Constable and so Maggs repeated the question to Mercy, who answered him gently.

“Not Mr Phipps. Just his carriage, and two of the upper servants.”

“You saying he is back?”

“No, Mr Maggs. I’m afraid he ain’t returned.”

Mr Spinks banged his poker. “Sit!”

“Sit,” echoed Mrs Halfstairs. “What is it that you are thinking?”

Jack Maggs did not sit. “I am thinking that if Mr Phipps is home, it is time for you and me, Mrs. Halfstairs, to say farewell.”

Mr Spinks cleared his throat.

“Did not Mr Buckle welcome you back into the fold?” said Mrs Halfstairs, turning incredulously to Mr Spinks. “Did you ever hear so generous and Christian a speech? No, no, Mr Maggs, it is Mr Buckle who is your master now.”

“He’s not sacked?” cried Constable, indignantly.

“You skate on very thin ice, Constable,” hissed Mrs Halfstairs. She turned back to Mr Spinks. “It is true that he has behaved in a most improper manner, but on the other hand he has found favour with Mr Oates. That is true, is it not, Mr Spinks?”

“Oates likes him?” Constable demanded. “Oates has an interest in him? Oates will visit? This Hopping Giles has become a social ornament? Is that what I am witnessing?”

“As any crossing sweeper would know,” said Mrs Halfstairs, “it would be a distinction to the household to have a connection with so up-and-coming a gentleman as Mr Oates.”

“But this rascal,” cried Constable, “he never even heard of Captain Crumley.”

Mercy saw that this last intelligence reached Mrs Halfstairs with a certain force. The housekeeper blinked her little eyes. “Still, we will not release him to Mr Phipps,” she said at last.

Constable appealed to the butler. “He could not do his own hair. I did it for him.”

“Mr Maggs has agreed to be the subject of Scientific Experiment. Is that not so, Mr Spinks? It is your brow?” Mrs Halfstairs suggested to Maggs. “Mr Oates wishes to measure it?”

“Surely, Ma’am,” sneered Constable, “you measured it already.”

“You have pushed my patience, Mr Constable.”

“It is a light enough load, Ma’am.”

Mrs Halfstairs looked hard at Mr Spinks.

“The point,” began Spinks, “the point, Sir . . .”

“The point is about service,” said Mrs Halfstairs. “And I cannot see that you can require Mr Constable’s any longer.”

There was now a great silence in the kitchen.

“Quite so,” said Spinks at last. He tapped the brass poker on the floor between his shoes, then turned a stern unflinching gaze on his footman. “Quite so. Not require him.”

It was obvious Constable had not expected this turn of events. He began to rise from the table, a teaspoon still in his hand. His handsome face was stricken.

“Mr Spinks . . . Sir? Mr Spinks, Sir, do you know me?”

Mr Spinks tapped the poker on the floor. “I know you, Sir.”

Constable held himself erect, but Mercy could see—anyone could see—that his cheeks were hollowed and his eyes desolate.

“Sir . . . you are dismissing me?” His proud demeanour was contradicted by his trembling voice. “Mr Spinks, have you forgotten? May I remind you, Sir, about the problems with my letters . . .”

During all of this dispute Jack Maggs had seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts, but now he took two paces forward and stood beside Edward Constable.

“Mr Constable and me,” said he. “We are a pair.”

Then, much to Mercy Larkin’s surprise, he smiled at Mrs Halfstairs.

“We are bookends, ain’t we, Mrs Halfstairs? Can’t have one without the other.”