That visit didn’t make me feel happier, and next day, when I had a holiday from Medina’s company, I had nothing better to do than to wander about London and think dismal thoughts. Yet, as luck would have it, that aimless walk had its consequences. It was a Sunday, and on the edge of Battersea Park I encountered a forlorn little company of Salvationists conducting a service in the rain. I stopped to listen—I always do—for I am the eternal average man who is bound to halt at every street show, whether it be a motor accident or a Punch and Judy. I listened to the tail-end of an address from a fat man who looked like a reformed publican, and a few words from an earnest lady in spectacles. Then they sang a hymn to a trombone accompaniment, and lo and behold, it was my old friend, which I had last whistled in Tom Greenslade’s bedroom at Fosse. “There is rest for the weary,” they sang:
“On the other side of Jordan,
In the green fields of Eden,
Where the Tree of Life is blooming,
There is rest for you.”
I joined heartily in the singing, and contributed two half-crowns to the collecting box, for somehow the thing seemed to be a good omen.
I had been rather neglecting that item in the puzzle, and that evening and during the night I kept turning it over till my brain was nearly addled.
“Where the sower casts his seed in
Furrows of the fields of Eden.”
That was the version in the rhyme, and in Tom Greenslade’s recollection the equivalent was a curiosity shop in North London kept by a Jew with a dyed beard. Surely the two must correspond, though I couldn’t just see how. The other two items had panned out so well that it was reasonable to suppose that the third might do the same. I could see no light, and I finally dropped off to sleep with that blessed “fields of Eden” twittering about my head.
I awoke with the same obsession, but other phrases had added themselves to it. One was the “playing-fields of Eton,” about which some fellow had said something, and for a moment I wondered if I hadn’t got hold of the right trail. Eton was a school for which Peter John’s name was down, and therefore it had to do with boys, and might have to do with David Warcliff. But after breakfast I gave up that line, for it led nowhere. The word was “Eden,” to rhyme with “seed in.” There were other fields haunting me—names like Tothill Fields and Bunhill Fields. These were places in London, and that was what I wanted. The Directory showed no name like that of “Fields of Eden,” but was it not possible that there had once in old days been a place called by that odd title?
I spent the morning in the Club library, which was a very good one, reading up Old London. I read all about Vauxhall Gardens and Ranelagh and Cremorne, and a dozen other ancient haunts of pleasure, but I found nothing to my purpose. Then I remembered that Bullivant—Lord Artinswell—had had for one of his hobbies the study of bygone London, so I telephoned to him and invited myself to lunch.
He was very pleased to see me, and it somehow comforted me to find myself again in the house in Queen Anne’s Gate where I had spent some of the most critical moments of my life.
“You’ve taken on the work I wrote to you about,” he said. “I knew you would. How are you getting on?”
“So-so. It’s a big job and there’s very little time. I want to ask you a question. You’re an authority on Old London. Tell me, did you ever come across in your researches the name of the ‘Fields of Eden’?”
He shook his head. “Not that I remember. What part of London?”
“I fancy it would be somewhere north of Oxford Street.”
He considered. “No. What is your idea? A name of some private gardens or place of amusement?”
“Yes. Just like Cremorne or Vauxhall.”
“I don’t think so, but we’ll look it up. I’ve a good collection of old maps and plans, and some antique directories.”
So after luncheon we repaired to his library and set to work. The maps showed nothing, nor did the books at first. We were searching too far back, in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, when you went foxhunting in what is now Regent’s Park and Tyburn gallows stood near the Marble Arch. Then, by sheer luck, I tried a cast nearer our own time, and found a ribald work belonging to about the date of the American War, which purported to be a countryman’s guide to the amusements of town. There was all sorts of information about “Cider Cellars” and “Groves of Harmony,” which must have been pretty low pubs, and places in the suburbs for cockfighting and dog-fighting. I turned up the index, and there to my joy I saw the word “Eden.”
I read the passage aloud, and I believe my hands were shaking. The place was, as I hoped, north of Oxford Street in what we now call Marylebone. “The Fields of Eden,” said the book, “were opened by Mr. Askew as a summer resort for the gentlemen and sportsmen of the capital. There of a fine afternoon may be seen Lord A—and the Duke of B—roving among the shady, if miniature, groves, not unaccompanied by the fair nymphs of the garden, while from adjacent arbours comes the cheerful tinkle of glasses and the merry clatter of dice, and the harmonious strains of Signora F⸺’s Italian choir.” There was a good deal more of it, but I stopped reading.
