33
Periculum in mora*
‘Do you remember’ the last time we went to the Cremorne Gardens,’† I asked Le Grice.
It was now past three o’clock, and the fire had died quite down. I had been recounting the events subsequent to the violent death of Mr Paul Carteret.
Le Grice looked up and thought for a moment.
‘Cremorne?’ he said at last. ‘Of course. We took the threepenny steamer. When would it have been?’
‘November last year,’ I said. ‘A few days after I’d returned from Mr Carteret’s funeral. We played bowls.’
‘We did, and then we watched the Naval Fete. Yes, and I recall a little set-to as we were leaving. But what has this to do with anything?’
‘Well, I shall tell you,’ I said, ‘while you throw another log on the fire and refill my glass.’
The night of Wednesday, the 9th of November 1853, remained clear in my mind. We had amused ourselves most satisfactorily for an hour or two. As eleven o’clock approached, and the lamp-lit arbours began to fill up with carmined whores and their tipsy swells, I had been game to continue our jollities elsewhere; but, unusually, Le Grice had expressed a strong wish to be in his bed. And so, at a few minutes before twelve, we had made our way out of the Gardens.
By the pay-box, at the King’s-road entrance, we had come upon an altercation. A group of four or five women – whores every one, as I quickly judged – and a couple of fancy roughs were disputing in a rather bellicose fashion with a small man sporting a prominent pair of mutton-chop whiskers. As we approached nearer, one of the roughs grabbed the man by the collar and threw him to the ground. By the light of the large illuminated star above the pay-box, I immediately recognized the anxious face of Mr Geoffrey Martlemass, fiance of Dorrie Grainger.
Our arrival had heated up the proceedings somewhat, but the roughs were quickly persuaded, by a brief demonstration of our combined force and determination, to leg it, while the whores swayed away into the darkness, shouting and jeering as they went.
‘It’s Mr Glapthorn, isn’t it?’ asked the little man, as I helped him to his feet. ‘What an extraordinary coincidence!’
Much against the advice of his inamorata, the philanthropic Mr Martlemass had been on a mission that night to bring the light of Christ to the whores of Cremorne – a task that would have taxed St Paul himself. He was rather crestfallen at his failure, but seemed manfully inclined to dust himself off and attempt the task again. It was only after a good deal of persuasion that he consented to let the uncaring objects of his crusade abide in darkness for a little while longer, and accepted our advice to return home.
‘We took a hansom,’ said Le Grice, ‘and you dropped me off in Piccadilly. What happened then?’
After Le Grice had been deposited safely at the Piccadilly entrance to Albany, Mr Martlemass and I continued our way eastwards. ‘The night has been a failure,’ he said, shaking his head mournfully, as we passed through Temple Bar, ‘but I am glad, at any rate, that our paths have crossed again. I wished to ask after your poor friend.’
I could not think to whom he was referring, whereupon, seeing my puzzlement, he enlarged upon his statement.
‘Your friend Mr Pettingale. Of Gray’s-Inn?’
‘Ah, yes. Pettingale. Of course.’
‘Are the injuries extensive?’
I had no idea what the little man was talking about; but my interest had of course been roused by the mention of Pettingale’s name, and so I decided to feign comprehension of the matter.
‘Extensive? Oh, moderately so, I believe.’
‘All the members of the Society have expressed condemnation and concern – an attack upon a member in his chambers is an occurrence that is believed to be without precedent – and naturally my employer, Mr Gillory Piggott, as a near neighbour of Mr Pettingale’s, feels the outrage particularly keenly.’
‘Quite.’
A little subtle probing on my part soon elicited enough information for me to grasp the story in outline.
A few days after my interview with him, Mr Lewis Pettingale had returned to his chambers one evening at about eight o’clock. His neighbour, Mr Gillory Piggott, happening to come into Field-court half an hour later, noticed a large man leaving the stair-case leading to Mr Pettingale’s set. The next morning, as usual, a waiter from the coffee-house near Gray’s-Inn-gate ascended those same stairs carrying Mr Pettingale’s breakfast, but, on knocking at the lawyer’s door, received no answer.
The door was found to be unlocked. On further investigation by the waiter, the body of Mr Pettingale was discovered slumped across the corner of the hearth. He had been beaten, with some violence, about the face and head, but was still alive. A doctor had been called, and that afternoon the injured lawyer had been taken away in a coach to his house in Richmond, there to be attended by his own physician.
We had now reached the corner of Chancery-lane, and Mr Martlemass, insisting that he would not allow me to be taken out of my way, descended from the cab and, after shaking my hand with his customary vigour, marched briskly off towards his lodgings in Red Lion-square.
During the last leg of the journey to Temple-street, I mused on what the attack on Pettingale might signify; but, as so often of late, I felt as if I were groping blindfold in the dark. I could not say for certain that there was a connexion with the lawyer’s former associate, Phoebus Daunt, though instinct strongly urged me to that conclusion. Perhaps Pettingale’s criminal past had simply caught up with him. A trip to Richmond, I decided, might be both pleasant and instructive.
The following morning I rose early, and with small difficulty arrived in Richmond at a little after ten o’clock. I took a late breakfast at the Star and Garter, by the Park gates, where I began to enquire of the waiters whether
