First Person SinisterRobert Earnest ‘Ere I am then. Standin’ across the road from the ‘ouse. It’s dark. But the front of the buildin’ is lit by a gas lamp. Just there on the edge of the pavement. Flickerin’ gaslight’s reflected on the bright green door an’ railin’s. ‘is favourite colour, I’m told. They’re set back from the road across a low-walled, raised yard. Three steps up. So... this is where ‘e lives. This ugly ‘otch-potch of an ‘ouse. Imposin’ front door but mean winders. ‘eavy curtains that won’t let much light into two stories, an attic an’ a basement. A square, ‘igh-walled garden forms a corner to the property. At this junction of New Road, to my right, an’ the High Street, where I’m standin’. Fog is slowly descendin’ to the roof tops. I’ll wait ‘ere now. Till the upstairs lights go out. Till the occupants go to sleep. I’m up to no good. I’m ‘ere for an illegal purpose. Yeass I am. I’m goin’ to break in. I’ve got my reason. Money. No not money I’ll be stealin’. Though God knows I qualify. No, money I’ll be paid. My editor will be forkin’ out. Not that I’m on ‘is regular staff. I’m one of those men who do the dirty jobs. Jobs ‘is reporters aren’t expected to do. My reputation as cat-burglar an’ pick-lock is the only reference I need. An’ I do it on the understandin’ that if I get caught, the editor will deny ‘e knows me. I’ve been ‘ired because of rumour. It’s whispered that tonight the owner of this ‘ere ‘ouse might kill the girl. The one everyone is so anxious about. It’s my job to get in. To find, as my editor puts it, "evidence of his intent." Or even to discover perhaps, if ‘e ‘as done the deed. A strange job you might think. I’ve ‘ad stranger. I don’t question motives as long as the money’s there. Though I do know my editor’s motive. It’s no more respectable than mine. ‘e calls it by a new-fangled name. "Journalism by Investigation." ‘e backs up his furtive motives with fine words. "We ‘ave to move with the times," ‘e says. "We’re almost ‘alf way through the nineteenth century. The newspaper business is about to explode with the edification of the masses. We ‘ave a job to do and by God, I’m goin’ to see we do it." An’ then ‘e adds that same old nonsense. "The public ‘ave a right to know." ‘e doesn’t fool me. I know ‘is motive for ‘iring me. It’s got nothing to do with lettin’ the public know anything. What’s more ‘e knows I know. Anyway... To the job in ‘and. I’ve decided when to get in. It’s just a matter of waitin’. Waitin’ as the servants at the top of the house turn out their lights. They’re glad to sleep, I expect. Domestic work is ‘ard work, preparin’ food, cookin’, an’ cleanin’ a big ‘ouse with about thirteen rooms Right. It’s time. The light in the main bedroom ‘as gone out. I go round the ‘ouse into St. Marylebone Churchyard behind. That’s where I’ll climb in. Not over the garden wall. I’d be foolish to be seen climbin’ in there. Even though there are only a few people an’ the occasional Hansom Cab about. I’m makin’ my way through gravestones. Takin’ care not to walk on the dead. I want the dead on my side tonight. As I thought, scalin’ the wall proves to be no trouble at all. I’m at the back of the ‘ouse. Railings surround steps down to the kitchen door in the basement. I cross a tidy lawn and descend. The lock takes me ten seconds to pick. But there are bolts inside. The door won’t open. A small winder alongside should cause no trouble. A spatula of tin bends round the frame and under the catch inside. It lifts it. I slither inside. Landin’ on my ‘ands. I stand. I strike a lucifer. I’m in the Butler’s Pantry. I don’t forget to slide the bolts back for a quick escape if necessary. My practised burglar’s eye takes inventory. There’s a bath with wooden cover. Butler’s tray. Bottle rack. Couple o’ chairs. Pair of steps. Clothes ‘orse. An’ a fender before a cosy fire-grate. A comfy little retirin’ room. Per’aps to smoke in. Wouldn’t mind a job like that meself. I cross to the door. I turn the doorknob an’ go through. I’m in the kitchen. The warmth of the range still ‘eats the room. The glow lights it. I blow out my match. A huge table fills the centre of the room. The usual dressers, shelves, chairs line the walls. All I can ‘ear is ticking. Glancing round I see a Dutch clock on the mantelshelf. I make my way to steps which wind up two walls to the entrance ‘all. A bronze gas-lamp burns in a wall sconce. Pulleys ‘ave adjusted it to a tiny flame but still enough to see. I move with stealth, on rubber-soled shoes, across a marble-patterned floorcloth. There’s an umbrella, coat an’ ‘at stand. Four French-polished Mahogany chairs an’ a writing table. On the walls, engravin’s in gilt frames an’ a stuffed game-bird in a glass case. I’d say ‘e was quite well-off. I explore beyond the doors leadin’ off the ‘all. With ‘esitant care I open the first just a little. I peep inside. A large room. No lights burn ‘ere. But I can just make out crimson damask curtains ‘anging to the floor over a three winder sweep. An expandin’ Mahogany dinin’ table and twelve upright chairs tell me it’s the dinin’ room. The walls are lined with pictures in gilt frames. Very impressive for visitors. Beneath my feet, a Turkish carpet over imitation-oak oilcloth. If my mind wasn’t on the job in ‘and, I’d give this room a closer look. But this is not the one to my purpose. My nerves jump and I start as I see a man’s silhouette reflected in the sideboard mirror. Then I realise it’s me own. Standin’ in the glow, shinin’ in from the hall through the doorway. I close the door an’ move to the next one. It’s obviously a ground floor dressin’ room. There’s a stained-wood Tent bedstead. The bed made up for sleeping. Perhaps a place where ‘e sleeps so as not to disturb anyone when ‘e returns from ‘is long walks about the city at night. Frequenting scenes of sin an’ degradation, so they say. ‘es been seen. There’s the usual dressing room furniture. Washin’ stands with crockery jugs an’ bowls. Chairs with leathern seats. Dressin’ tables. An’ just near me, a wardrobe with panels of fluted crimson silk. Curtains of yellow, silk damask glow in the street gas light outside the winder. But this also, is not the room I want. I move to the last door. Opposite stairs up to the first landin’. Light shines out through the door frame. A gas lamp ‘as been left burnin’, perhaps to discourage intruders such as meself. If so, it ‘asn’t worked tonight. I creep to the door frame. But before I can peer around, I realise with a shock that someone’s in the room. I ‘ear laboured breathin’. It rises an’ falls, as though somebody’s in distress. But I can’t see who. I edge to the crack of the door an’ peep through. A youngish man, twenty eight or nine, clean shaven, is seated in an ‘igh-backed chair. Cost more than a guinea or two that chair. Gilded carved legs, padded arm-rests an’ red, brocade up’olstery. The man pulls upon strands of ‘is long, dark, curly ‘air an’ sucks ‘is tongue with fierce concentration. ‘is clothing seems to be in some disorder even in its finery. A blue dress-coat faced with silk. A cravat of black satin and brass buttons that shine in the gas light. ‘e twists ‘is ‘ead in mental pain. Covers ‘is face with ‘is ‘ands. ‘is shoulders ‘eave. A child cries somewhere upstairs, ‘is ‘ead jerks up. ‘e tries to rise but sits again in ‘is ‘aste. I flee from the doorway. ‘ide behind the umbrella stand, drawin’ a coat about me. ‘e comes out of the room. Strides across the ‘all an’ climbs the stairs swiftly. I ‘ear murmurings from above. A woman’s voice with a Scottish burr makes soothin’ noises. ‘e replies in agonised tones, with a left-over torment from before ‘e ascended the stairs. This may be my only chance. Now while they talk. I expected ‘im to be out walkin’ the streets. Not ‘ere at ‘ome. I enter the room. The library as I expected. Fitted shelves filled with books line the walls. More yellow, silk damask curtains ‘ang from gilt cornices over two winders looking out onto the garden. I approach the desk. Per’aps I’ll find what I need to know ‘ere. Fear clutches my throat as a voice croaks next to my ear. "Halloa," it says. I spin round. A caged black bird eyes me with spite. It growls, ready to speak again. I shush it. It cocks its ‘ead to one side an’ is silent. I ‘ear footsteps on the stairs. ‘e’s coming back down. I must ‘ide. But where? A leathern easy chair stands in a dark corner. I make for it. A small, pedestal-table with a marble top spins as my knee ‘its it. I catch it before it falls. I draw an overlarge wastepaper basket to the side of the chair. An’ ‘ide behind them both. ‘e re-enters the room. Flings ‘imself down in a spring-recumbent reading-chair at the desk an’ begins to write. Tears run down ‘is cheeks. ‘e moans as what ‘e writes wracks ‘im. Neither reluctant nor ‘esitant, words flow from ‘is pen. The bird squawks "Halloa" once more. ‘e rises an’ flings a cloth over the cage. Again ‘e sits. ‘is pen dips into the inkwell in sharp jabs. The pen flies over the paper. Soon, with a moan ‘e drops it to the desk an’ stands. Weepin’, ‘e strides out into the entrance ‘all. I rise an’ sidle behind the door. Through the crack I see ‘im throwin’ a coat across ‘is shoulders. Threadin’ ‘is arms into sleeves. ‘e places a slouch ‘at on ‘is ‘ead an’ wraps a scarf around ‘is neck. ‘e opens the street door. Goes out. An’ as ‘e closes it, thick, yellow fog swirls in from outside. Now, I’m alone down ‘ere. The child above is still fractious. The Scots voice sings to it softly. I cross to the desk. A calendar spells out today’s date. Wednesday, 13th January 1841. I make a note of it. I read what’s written before me. As I read, I copy it onto a sheet of paper. ‘is writing is close, sharp an’ spidery. The ink still wet. The page is labelled Chapter LXXI. Below... These words: "For she was dead. There upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She was dead..... .....Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead." I’ve got what I’ve come for. The first person to know. As I make my way down the back stairs to the kitchen door, I reflect on why my editor wants this scoop. Not to publish it ‘imself before it appears in Master Humphrey’s Clock Magazine. No. But to personally know the outcome of the last episode of "The Old Curiosity Shop." before anyone else. All over London, wagers are being placed on whether Dickens will kill the girl or not. There’s money to be made. Not just in England either. Even on the quays in New York ‘arbour, as the English packet-boats arrive, crowds line the dockside shoutin’, "Is Little Nell dead?" Can anyone blame me if I ‘ave a few bets meself? * All furniture, furnishings and locations of rooms mentioned are authentic, having been listed in an 1844 inventory, written by Dickens himself, of Number One Devonshire Terrace, Marylebone High Street London. |
© 1999 Westminster Writers' Group. Last updated 02/07/99.