Victory

‘Shall we see your Hogarths in their original, do you think?’ Cecilia said sweetly to Renzi, the softness of her expression touching him to the heart. She turned to Kydd. ‘I’ve a fondness for the old rake, do let’s go!’

They were indeed Hogarths, but rather than cutting satire and acid commentary these were cheerful rustic murals and canvases displayed around the pillared walls of the elevated supper booths. ‘The Milkmaid’s Garland,’ Kydd grunted, peering at one. ‘Not as it—’

‘Do cheer up, Thomas.’ Cecilia sighed. ‘This is so enchanting – look, here’s Sliding on the Ice, done with such wit!’

A roar of drollery came from the tables on the floor above. ‘I find Mr Hogarth a mort natural for my taste,’ Kydd said, with an effort. ‘I’d think him to have had a hard time of it in his youth.’

‘That’s indeed the case,’ Renzi said. ‘He had the mortification of seeing his father imprisoned for debt in the Fleet. I rather think these works are payment in kind for long-gone pleasures.’

Kydd looked up. ‘Oh? His father failed in business?’

‘He did,’ Renzi said. Then he added, ‘In thinking to establish a coffee-house that would admit no patrons save they spoke only in Latin.’

Cecilia smothered her giggles but Kydd did not join in. She tried to engage him by asking sweetly, ‘I’m more wondering what a sharp fellow Mr Vauxhall was to conceive the idea of this garden.’

At Kydd’s silence, Renzi explained, ‘My dear, “Vauxhall” refers more to the place than the gentleman concerned – probably from the vulgate “Foxhole” or similar.’

‘Ah! There I have you, Renzi!’ Kydd said exultantly. ‘It’s of another age, I’ll grant – but back no further than the first James. I heard it when a younker – it was where the hall o’ residence of the widow of Guy Fawkes was, Fawkes Hall!’

Cecilia laughed prettily to see Kydd’s animation. ‘There, Nicholas! You’re to take instruction from Thomas in the article of antiquary.’

They strolled on past stately limes and sycamores, but Kydd’s bleak expression returned. ‘And we haven’t seen the half of it,’ Cecilia urged, playfully tugging him. ‘There’s the Rotunda, all properly done in King Louis the Fourteenth mode – and a Turkish Tent in the Chinese style, why you’ll—’

Kydd broke free. ‘I thank you, sis, for your entertainments,’ he said sarcastically, ‘but I have to say it’s not t’ my taste. See those strut-noddies an’ fine-rigged dandy prats – just you hear ’em howl if I pressed ’em aboard. My fore-mast jacks could teach ’em their manners . . .’

He tailed off and stared away woodenly.

‘Oh, er, Miss Cecilia,’ Renzi said carefully, ‘I rather think that following so close upon your brother’s losing his ship this disporting is not to be countenanced. In lieu, I propose that we adjourn to an altogether more . . . robust entertainment.’

‘And what is that, pray?’ she asked defiantly.

‘Which being of a nature not becoming young females of delicacy, I fear.’ Kydd looked up inquisitively. ‘We shall take you home and he and I will step out together – as in times past, as it were.’ He tried to ignore Cecilia’s wounded look.

‘As in times past?’ Kydd asked, when they had settled back in the hackney carriage.

‘Lincoln’s Inn Fields,’ Renzi instructed the jarvey, then replied mysteriously, ‘Not as who might say exactly so.’

‘But isn’t that where your lawyer crew go to ground?’ Kydd said, in puzzlement.

‘Just so, but tonight you shall be entertained to a spectacle such as few have been privileged to witness.’

‘Oh? I’ll remind you we’ve seen some rum sights about this world in our voyaging.’

‘Ah. This is different. Have you ever pondered the most singular philosophical line that separates a living creature from a dead?’

‘No, never,’ Kydd said.

‘Then tonight your curiosity will be satisfied in full measure.’

‘Nicholas, if this is your word-grubber’s wrangling over some—’ They had arrived at a discreet entrance to a dilapidated building along with numbers of others. Renzi was greeted by several distinguished-looking gentlemen and he and Kydd were shepherded inside where they were instantly assaulted by a repulsive, cloying fetor.

‘My apologies – it seems their new building is not far from completing and we must make do with this,’ Renzi said.

They went down the stairs into a peculiar basement. A deep central pit was surrounded by a series of observation galleries along which men gravely filed. When all were assembled the upper lights were doused and the pit readied. A single table in the centre equipped with straps was made to be bathed in light from reflected candles.

‘Be damned! You’ve brought me to a dissection, haven’t you, y’ dog?’ said Kydd, now recognising the sickly odour of new-dead corpses.

‘Not at all,’ Renzi soothed. ‘This is now a scientifical experiment of the first importance. You will recall the celebrated Signor Luigi Galvani?’

‘Frog’s legs?’

‘Quite so. Tonight his nephew, the most distinguished Professor Aldini, will demonstrate to us conclusively that his theories concerning the role of “animal electricity” in the sustaining of vitality is central to the meaning of life itself.’

‘But what are we—’