The Skull and the Nightingale. Michael Irwin

her, and found her agreeable company. If I asked a blunt question she would give a direct reply. When I inquired, perhaps impertinently: ‘What are your pleasures, Mrs Deacon – what do you live for?’ she thought for a moment before saying: ‘Charlotte; reading; thinking; friends; coffee; and conversation.’ She had a quietly assured manner, and would sometimes quiz me in her turn: ‘If circumstances had been different, Mr Fenwick, what profession would have suited you?’ ‘Are you of my opinion, that men can be as vain as women?’ ‘Could you make shift on a desert island, like Robinson Crusoe?’

      I had scarcely noticed Charlotte during my previous stay in the house; she was now some twelve years of age, a shy girl with dark hair. I cannot recall how it came about, but one wet afternoon I played chess with her. Knowing myself to be a moderately skilful performer, and thinking to be indulgent, I was so negligent that she defeated me with ease. By way of compliment to her prowess I was more serious in a return match, only to be a second time defeated. We had yet one more game. By now on my mettle I tried my hardest, but was beaten yet a third time. Charlotte showed no exultation at these triumphs, but thanked me for playing with her, and retired. Despite the humiliation I was glad to have stumbled upon this unexpected show of talent: it had always pleased me to find people unpredictable. Mrs Deacon later told me that, although an indifferent player herself, she had taught Charlotte the game and had been astonished by her aptitude for it.

      It occurred to me that I could simply spend more time in Cathcart Street, inventing stories for my godfather – spinning a false life from my own brain – rather than walking the streets to grub out scraps of entertainment for him. But physical restlessness denied me that possibility. Although my rooms were well enough the ceilings were low, causing me to feel large and caged. It was a relief to go out.

      My nether limbs were well exercised by these prowlings. When indoors I would at intervals strengthen my arms by lifting my desk or pulling myself up to a beam. The room must so often have been shaken by these exertions that I wondered whether Mrs Deacon might not feel some apprehension – perhaps even pleasurable apprehension – at being reminded of the presence of a vigorous male beast in her respectable house. She was still a handsome woman, and had manifestly lain with at least one man.

      One evening, on impulse, I again went to dine at Keeble’s steakhouse. The talking fraternity being absent on this occasion, I was glad to sit at an empty table and think in peace. It was with slight irritation, therefore, that I became aware of another solitary fellow taking a seat opposite my own. To postpone conversation I kept my eyes on my plate. When I at last looked up it was to find myself confronted by the grinning face of Matt Cullen.

      My immediate reaction was to burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, in which Matt joined me. Our fellow-diners looked around, puzzled and smiling, at the spectacle of two young gentlemen unaccountably helpless with mirth. I was delighted to encounter Matt once more, and to find him just as I remembered, long-limbed, an awkward mover, with an expression of sleepy good-nature, always on the brink of a smile.

      ‘I am the more surprised to see you,’ said I, ‘because Latimer told me that you had retreated to the country to undergo marriage.’

      ‘There was that possibility.’ He drew a slow sigh. ‘Both families favoured the union. But there was a fatal flaw in the scheme.’

      ‘That being?’

      ‘That being the absence of any spark of animal inclination in either of the parties principally concerned. Each could see the lack of desire so heartily reciprocated that we retreated by mutual consent, leaving our families incensed.’

      ‘Then what fresh hope has brought you back to town?’

      ‘A forlorn one. You see in Cullen a farcical parody of our old companion Ralph Latimer. I seek the patronage of the Duke of Dorset.’

      ‘On what grounds?’

      ‘On the grounds that I am a distant cousin and that I have played cricket with his son.’

      The absurdity of it set us laughing again.

      ‘But what of your own case?’ asked Matt, as we resumed eating. ‘What have you been doing?’

      ‘I wrote to you from abroad.’

      ‘Two letters only, concerned with the exertions of a single bodily member. And here you are in London, apparently embarking on a new life.’

      ‘So my godfather has decreed.’

      ‘You may recollect that I know the gentleman’s name, having been brought up within forty miles of his estate. Mr Gilbert, is it not?’

      ‘It is.’

      Suddenly feeling easy and reckless I cast aside my scruples.

      ‘You shall hear my story,’ said I, ‘and you will be only the second person to do so.’

      I broached it along with a second bottle of wine. Matt leaned forward to listen, his face as nearly serious as I had ever seen it. I traversed the whole ground, from my first meeting with Mr Gilbert, following the death of my mother, through the years when I had divided my time between boarding school and my aunt’s house in York; thence to Oxford, my Grand Tour and the arrangement now agreed. When I had finished Matt shook his head.

      ‘A singular history,’ he said. ‘Mr Gilbert has been generous, yet you seem to describe a benefactor devoid of warmth.’

      ‘That is how he strikes me. He is studiously guarded in all he does. He sips at life.’

      ‘Has he no vices to make him human?’

      ‘None that I have observed. His daily life is as smooth as an egg. It affords the Evil One no hand-hold.’

      ‘Has he always been so cool? Did he never think of marriage?’

      ‘Not that I have heard. But I know little of his past.’

      ‘He must care for you to have done as much as he has.’

      ‘I would like to think so. But his kindness may derive solely from his friendship with my parents. I cannot tell. This is my problem, Matt: I must divert a man whose disposition I do not understand. I am locked into a strange game.’

      Cullen washed down these observations with a gulp of wine, and pondered them for a moment or two, his features pursed up around his half-smile.

      ‘Might not this be a game with no loser? Mr Gilbert is pleased to give money to a promising young gentleman, and the young gentleman is pleased to receive it.’

      ‘I hope it may prove so simple. My godfather fancied that we might be led into “dark territory”. That was his phrase. Should I feel concerned?’

      Matt smirked.

      ‘How gladly, Dick, I would take the same risks for the same money.’

       My dear Richard,

       I have read with interest the experiences you have described and your observations thereon. You have plainly been to no small trouble to record a variety of activities that might entertain me. I was surprised, however, to notice that you have apparently encountered no members of the opposite sex since your return to London.

       Your general strategy I am happy to endorse. Indeed I will go further. I suspect that your account of polite society is likely to hold few surprises for me. To speak in general, I would rather hear more of Mr Crocker, who would appear to be something of an original, than of Lord Vincent and his coterie. It has become a matter of regret to me that, through some pressure of chance or temperament, my own youthful years in the capital were passed largely at that more respectable, and less entertaining, social level. For that reason I will tend to have a greater interest in the excesses, the follies, and even the shady underside of the town. Without leaving my comfortable country