‘Should I bring a doctor, sir?’
‘Doctor?’ Jukes appeared to consider the question at some length. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No need for a doctor. No need at all. Come along, come along!’
Though I could see and hear quite clearly, I found that I was unable to speak or to move either my head or my limbs, and I remained in this curious suspended state for some time. It seemed that Jukes had left my bedside, for I could hear the familiar creaking of the floorboards in the sitting-room. Then, some time later, though whether it was hours or minutes I cannot say, I began to find strength returning, and moved my head slightly to look about me.
On the table beside my bed stood an empty plate, with the remains of a chop and a half-eaten potato; beside it was a tankard of ale, partially consumed. Of either Mrs Grainger or Jukes there was no sign.
I concluded that food had been obtained for me, and partially consumed, and that I had then fallen asleep, though I had no memory of doing either. Slowly, I pulled myself out of bed and, on unsteady feet, dragged myself to the door that led to my sitting-room.
‘Mr Glapthorn, sir, so pleased to see you feeling better! Let me assist you.’
Jukes, who had been sitting in my chair reading a copy of
‘That’s it, take my arm, sir, take my arm. There we are. Goodness me, what a scrape you got yourself in, Mr Glapthorn! I’ll tell you what, sir: you appear to have stepped up to death’s very front door, sir. But all’s well now. Food and rest were what you needed, and what you must take great care to provide yourself with in the future – if I may be so bold. I’ve been sitting with you since yesterday. Oh no, sir—.’ He held up his hand and shook his head from side to side in grinning admonishment as I attempted to speak. ‘Pray don’t say a word. It would be like your good self to thank me for my trouble, but I beg to insist that you will do nothing of the sort. Trouble? Why, what possible trouble have I been put to? None whatsoever, I assure you. A fellow toiler in the Tredgold vineyard, and neighbour to boot, taken ill? Why, only one course of action possible. Pleasure, and the satisfaction of a duty done, are ample, though undeserved, reward for the little I have been able to do. And so, Mr Glapthorn, if you are feeling better, I shall leave you to your recuperation, but on the strict understanding – strict, mind! – that you will take better care of yourself hereafter, and that you will allow me to call again tomorrow morning to see how you are.’
And then, having set a cushion at my back, placed a rug over my legs, and thrown a log on the fire, he made a low bow and sidled away, leaving me aghast at the situation in which I had awoken to find myself.
I immediately threw off the rug, and stumbled over to my work-table. Everything seemed to be exactly as I remembered it; nothing had been moved, I was sure of that. The pen still lay across an unfinished letter – to Dr Shakeshaft on the merits of various English translations of Paracelsus* – precisely where I had left it; the papers tied up in their labelled stacks appeared undisturbed; and the spines of my mother’s journals, each one a familiar old friend, were still ranged in the strictly undeviating line in which I always took care to leave them. I went to the cabinet next, containing all my notes and indexed abstracts; nothing was out of place, and each drawer shut tightly. I let out a small sigh of relief.
And yet the thought of Jukes having the liberty of my room continued to rankle, and I began to examine everything again with redoubled care, looking for any sign that he had been through my papers or other possessions. But then I checked myself. Odious as Jukes was, I knew that Mr Tredgold trusted him, so why should I not do the same? These sudden baseless suspicions to which I was prey only served to cloud my judgment, and divert me from my true goal. Thus did I argue myself out of unreason, though I determined that Fordyce Jukes should never again be given an opportunity to enter my rooms. To this end, when he knocked on my door the next morning, as promised, I did not open it to him, but simply told him through the key-hole that I was much improved (which I was), and that I did not require his assistance.
I ventured out the next day for the first time in more than a week, to take a restorative dinner at the Albion Tavern. The following morning I thought that I would look in at Tredgolds, and so, at a little after half past eight, I locked my door, and walked through the rain to Paternoster-row.
As I entered the clerks’ room, young Birtles, the office boy, came running across, and thrust a letter into my hand. ‘This came in the last post yesterday, sir.’ I did not recognize the handwriting; and so, having nothing better to do, I went upstairs to my room to read it.
To my complete surprise it was from Miss Rowena Tredgold, expressing the hope, in somewhat drawn-out terms, that circumstances would allow me to pay another visit to Canterbury at my earliest convenience. It concluded by saying that this invitation had been sent at the express request of her brother, Mr Christopher Tredgold. Deducing from this that my employer’s condition had improved significantly, I joyously sent off an immediate acceptance.
A few days later I was admitted once again to Marden House, and shown into the room where I had first met Dr Jonathan Tredgold.
Miss Rowena Tredgold sat, unsmiling, in an uncomfortable-looking, high-backed chair, set near an ugly black- marble fireplace, the cavernous opening of which yawned darkly cold. On a low table, drawn up close to her knees, was a tumbler of barley-water, beside which lay a sealed envelope. The heavy curtains in the window behind her were partially drawn, and what remained of the soft declining light of late afternoon struggled into the room through a slash of grimy glass.
I began, naturally, by asking how her brother fared.
‘I am grateful to you for your concern, Mr Glapthorn. It has been a terrible time, but I am glad to say that he is much better than he was, thank you. He knows us, and has been sitting up. And we are thankful that he can speak a few words now.’ She spoke in a lingering, staccato manner, carefully voicing every syllable, which produced the odd impression that she was mentally examining each word for impropriety before it was spoken.
‘There is hope, then, that there will be further improvements?’
‘There is hope, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, after a short expectant pause. ‘Would you say that my brother, Mr Christopher Tredgold, was a good man?’
Though taken back a little by the question, I replied immediately: ‘That would certainly be my opinion. I do not think there can be any other.’
‘You are right. He is a good man. And would you say that he was an honourable man?’
‘Unhesitatingly.’
‘You are right again. He is an honourable man. Goodness and honour are two words that perfectly describe my
