The Meaning of Night

‘Hygiene!’ I declaimed. ‘It is a passion of mine. Filth – physical and moral – appals me. I am an eager promoter of clean water, clean thoughts, and the proper disposal of waste. The streets are awash with filth of every description. I simply wish to enlist you and your comrades in my crusade, by encouraging you to make a start on the permanent removal of filth from Number 42, Weymouth-street, at your earliest convenience.’

‘You’re mad,’ said Mr Abraham Gabb, ‘stark mad.’

Thursday, 30th November 1854

Cold, clinging fog. There was nothing to see from my window but the dim dark forms of wet roofs and smoking chimneys, and nothing to hear but the muffled sound of people and carriages passing unseen up and down the street, the wheezing cough of the law stationer who lived on the floor below, and the doleful sound of distant bells tolling out the interminable hours. Despite my earlier resolve to strike at Daunt before he struck at me, I found myself sunk again in indolence. The weeks were passing, and still I had done nothing. And this was the reason.

On the 24th of November, The Times had announced the engagement of the distinguished poet, Mr Phoebus Rainsford Daunt, and Miss Emily Carteret, daughter of the late Mr Paul Carteret. Every day since then I had sat for hours on end, staring at the printed words, and in particular at the conclusion of the announcement: ‘The wedding will take place at St Michael and All Angels, Evenwood, on the 1st of January next. Miss Carteret will be given away by her noble relative, Lord Tansor.’ I had even fallen asleep at the table and woken to find my cheek pressed against the black print.

But today had been different. The announcement from The Times had been consigned to the flames, along with my irresolution. At one o’clock, I walked out in order to accomplish various errands, ending my expedition with an early dinner at the Wellington,^* where I was not known.

‘Will you take some beef, sir?’ the waiter asked. ‘Certainly,’ I replied.

He picked up a heavy, ivory-handled carving-knife, which he first brought to a nice edge with a sharpening steel, before cutting away at the joint most dexterously. It was a joy to behold the succulent slices of flesh falling onto the platter. When he had laid down his knife and brought the steaming plate to my table, I asked him whether he would be good enough to fetch me some brandy-and-water. By the time he returned, I had gone; and so had his knife.

I made my way home via Weymouth-street, where, to my delight, I encountered great excitement. A large crowd had gathered outside Number 42, and a police van was drawn up in front of the house.

‘What is going forward?’ I enquired of a post-man, bag on shoulder, who was standing on the pavement, humming softly to himself as he observed the scene.

‘Murder,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Occupier beaten to death and thrown from first-floor window.’ At which he resumed his tuneless humming.

Silently approbating Mr Abraham Gabb and his associates for their admirable promptitude and efficiency, I went on my way, rejoicing that the terrible violence meted out by Josiah Pluckrose to poor undeserving Agnes Baker, and to the equally undeserving Paul Carteret, had been turned back on the perpetrator. He had escaped a stretching because of me; but I had finally brought him to account.

So much for Pluckrose. Now – at last – for his master.

^*[An avenger or punisher. Ed.]

^*[In Regent Street (corner of Hanover Street) and Clare Court, Drury Lane, respectively. Ed.]

^*[i.e. a drunken devotee of the god of wine, Bacchus. Ed.]

^*[In Spitalfields, known as one of the worst streets in London for violence and poverty. Ed.]

[The following sections of the MS are composed of pasted-in strips of unlined paper. The writing on these strips is occasionally almost illegible. Conjectured readings are in square brackets. Ed.]

^*[Corbyn, Beaumont, Stacey & Messer, well-known chemists and druggists, situated at 300 High Holborn. Ed.]

^*[The Cabinet of Venus. See p. 192. Ed.]

^*[See note, pp. 65–6. Ed.]

^*[The sword of Justice wielded by Sir Artegal in Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Ed.]

^†[A public-house at 11 Windmill Street, Haymarket. Ed.]

^*[An inferior, usually juvenile, street thief and pickpocket. Ed.]

^†[The bookseller Bernard Quaritch, 16 Castle Street, Leicester Square. Ed.]

^*[At 160, Piccadilly. Ed.]

46

Consummatum est^*

Monday, 11th December 1854

I awoke with a start at a little after six, having dozed off in my chair an hour or so earlier. It was here at last. The day of reckoning. I had slept lightly, having taken only a small swig of Dalby’s before retiring early. Today, I would need all my wits about me.

Outside, the street was curiously silent, and the morning light seemed unnaturally bright for the time of year. Then I heard the sound of a shovel being scraped on the pavement. Jumping up, I rushed to the window to find that the usual vista of sooty roofs had been magically transformed by a thick covering of snow, whose purity, dazzling even under a dense slate sky, was quite at odds with the dirt and sin that lay beneath its fleecy embrace.

My mind was clear, now that the day was finally here, and I felt an eager surge of excitement at the imminent prospect of taking my long-delayed revenge on my enemy. The loss of Pluckrose must surely have unnerved him;