The Frightened Man

Wilde’s funeral. Privately, he would think that it had ended for him with Emma Gosden’s gesture.

Chapter Ten

Back in London, he climbed his stairs like an old man. The funeral had been hellish. It had all been a kind of comedy, but he found it sordid and humiliating for the dead man. We all end up in a box, but it doesn’t have to be a Jack-in-the-box.

At the top of his stairs, he opened the door to his sitting room. He had expected nobody — Maude hadn’t come to the door, so Denton figured he’d decamped — but at the far end of the long room, just in front of the window through which his attacker had vanished three nights before, a mysterious figure could be made out, crouched, indecipherable, as if caught in some dubious act. The hair on the back of Denton’s head prickled, and he reached for his pistol, slow as he was to recognize the figure’s necromantic gown as Atkins’s tattered Indian robe, then to recognize Atkins’s face above the collar, and finally to understand that the seemingly disembodied helmet above the face was a black bowler resting on a swathing of bandage.

‘You gave me a start,’ Denton said.

‘Nothing to what you gave me, Colonel. I might of shot you.’ Atkins was coming forward, now holding up a hand with the derringer in it. ‘Copper brought this by.’

‘You’re supposed to be in hospital.’

‘Couldn’t lump it another day.’ Atkins took off the hat, revealed a kind of turban. ‘Shaved my head. I look like a bleeding fakir. So I had to wrap it in something, didn’t I? Old scarf of yours, hope you don’t mind.’ He put the hat on again. It sat about two inches above his forehead. ‘Reckon if I’d been wearing this hat when the bastard hit me, I’d never have had to go to the hospital in the first place.’

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Atkins.’ Denton found himself smiling. He touched Atkins’s shoulder. ‘Glad you’re back. Where’s the boy servant — what’s his name? — Maude?’

‘Sent him packing. Wet behind the ears. Did you know the only experience he’d had was as a footman in some jumped-up manufacturer’s manse? Family hopped off to the Continent for a year, gave him his marching orders. Too young to be out alone. All right if I sit?’

‘Well, of course-’

‘Bit wobbly still.’ Atkins fell into the armchair and put the derringer on the table, which still showed the damage from the bullet Denton had fired, the flash mark a burn like a black teardrop. ‘I’ll stagger back downstairs presently.’

‘Like hell. You’ll take it easy until you’re fit. In the meantime-’ Denton, still standing, reacted away from more movement down the room. Atkins’s door had swung open and an indeterminate shape had appeared. Denton snatched at the Colt pistol. ‘What the hell’s that?’

‘Oh-’ Atkins turned, looked down the room. ‘I was getting to that.’

Denton stared into the gloom. Something that might have been a recently sheared sheep seemed to be standing there. ‘What the hell?’ he said.

‘Yes, well — he’s a comfort to me. Frankly, General, I’m jumpy. No point in denying it. Old soldiers know better than to fake the courageous. I still jump at shadows. Can’t stand for anybody to be behind me; I think that chap’s going to brain me again with the doorstop. So, see, I was glad to have Rupert’s company.’

‘Rupert.’

‘Prince Rupert. Loan of a friend who’s in the dog trade. Racing, and so on.’

Rupert didn’t look as if he did much racing. He was in fact, one of the fattest dogs Denton had ever seen. He was also big, ugly and enthusiastic. He had almost no tail, but the rump around the stump vibrated with what might have been joy. He was mostly black but with a white face, and mostly rounded, except for a head and muzzle that were oddly angular. His eyes were more like those of a pig than a dog, slightly slanted, rather smaller than you’d want if you were designing a dog, and pale blue. He went straight to Atkins and tried to hoist his bulk into Atkins’s lap. Atkins managed to push him down; he sat, staring at Atkins, his stump whisking the carpet. ‘Bull terrier in that head,’ Atkins said. ‘Intelligent breed.’

‘I see some Rottweiler in the rear end, myself. The middle looks like whale. But, if he’s a comfort-’ Atkins’s confession of fear had reminded him of his own nerves when alone in the house, the loading of the revolver. He shoved the revolver back into the overcoat pocket.

‘Pardon me saying it, Colonel, but it looks like you’re carrying an anvil in that overcoat.’

‘My revolver.’

‘So I saw. Your tailor would have a fit.’

‘It isn’t really a pocket pistol. But I’d as soon not get stabbed again.’

‘Hand over that coat and I’ll do something to fix it. Open the bottom of the pocket, is my notion — run the barrel down there, maybe sew something like a holster into the pocket to hold it upright. You’ll look like you’re carrying the blacksmith’s hammer instead of his anvil.’

‘The real way to carry it is on its own belt around your waist.’

‘Yes, well, that ain’t the fashion in London these days. Take what you can get, I say — hand over that coat.’

Denton, grateful, put the overcoat in Atkins’s lap and said, wanting to make some gesture, ‘You’d like the dog to keep you company for a while?’

‘Well — to stand watch, as it were, Colonel. Only until-’ He pointed at the layers above his scalp.

‘Dogs have to be fed, watered, walked, cleaned up after-’

‘I’ve done latrine duty before, General. He eases my mind, if you know what I mean.’

‘I think I’ll have the Infant Phenomenon back until you’re well. No, no — I’m not going to have you busting a seam somewhere by going back to work too early — no-’

Atkins made pro forma objections — no recent footman going to mess in his household, couldn’t cook, left a shocking amount of litter, no taste — but gave in easily enough. The man was exhausted, aching and nervous; even a boy on his first job would be a help.

‘But the dog,’ Atkins said with spirit, ‘I feed the dog! Because dogs cleave to them that feeds them.’

‘Well, don’t let him cleave too closely. He’s a loan, correct? Temporary? Until-?’ He, too, pointed at Atkins’s turban and hat.

Rupert grinned from one to the other and, with a satisfied sigh, collapsed at Atkins’s feet.

Denton had settled to read his mail with that feeling of the just-returned traveller that he has been away for weeks, is therefore surprised that so little has accumulated. In fact he had been gone barely thirty-eight hours, and he had only a few pieces of mail — a note from his editor, asking about the progress of the novel he was supposed to deliver in three months; an invitation he wouldn’t accept; and a short, brisk letter from one of his sons in America.

And, hidden by the others, a long envelope from his typewriter, Mrs Johnson. He slit it with a pocket-knife and pulled out several sheets, all but one covered with typed names and addresses.

Mr Denton, I enclose herewith the list of R. Mulcahy’s found in the postal directories, with addresses. There are one hundred and thirty-seven in all. I enclose also a bill for the services of the three employees. One woman is continuing, at my instruction, to look at the advertisements in Kelly’s and also in Grove’s, in case the name appears in any of those; she will finish tomorrow and will submit a separate bill. I hope this is all right.

Yours, L. Johnson.

A hundred and thirty-seven names. At a shilling a name.

Denton looked at the lists — looked and despaired. The addresses were all over Greater London and there was no way to tell one from another — which might be promising, which not. He had promised Guillam he would hand the list over; now that he saw it, he was quite willing. The job of sifting through it would be enormous, too much for one man. Guillam was welcome to it. But he was disappointed, he realized. Let down.