The Meaning of Night

snow.

He lay there, on a pillow of wine-red blood, his face as white as the shroud of cold snow into which his body had fallen. My breath met the bitter air, forming little spurting clouds; but my enemy breathed no more. I kneeled down, and looked into his face.

Snow flecked his beard. A little trickle of blood had drained from his mouth, staining his perfectly laundered shirt. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the over-arching sky.

Our great journey was at an end. But how had it ended? In victory, or defeat? And for whom? The two of us, Edward Glyver and Phoebus Daunt, friends once, had been brought to this moment by a power that neither of us could control, or understand. He would never now enjoy the things that were rightfully mine; but I, too, had been denied their possession. I had taken my revenge, and he had paid the price that I had set for the many injuries he had done to me; but I felt scant comfort, and not a trace of elation, only the dull sense of a duty done.

I reached into my pocket and took out a piece of paper, on which I had copied some lines from a poem in the volume that Daunt had given to Le Grice.The night has come upon me.

No more the breaking day, No more the noontide’s glare,

No more the evening’s ray,

Soft as lovers’ sighs.

For Death is the meaning of night;

The eternal shadow

Into which all lives must fall,

All hopes expire.^*

They had struck me, on first reading them, as having – unusually for the author – some small merit, and I had carried them around with me ever since, as a kind of talisman. But I would need them no more. Placing the crumpled paper in his stiffening hands, I picked up the knife, and left him alone to face eternity.

In a large earthenware bowl, on a table outside the kitchen, were dozens of dirty knives and forks soaking in hot water. Casually, I dropped the carving knife into the bowl as I walked past, along with my blood-soaked gloves, and went back up the stairs to the vestibule.

‘Geddington!’

It was Mr Cranshaw, wearing an expression of deep disapproval.

‘Where are your gloves, man?’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Cranshaw,’ I replied. ‘I’m afraid I dirtied them.’

‘Then go down and get some more. At once.’

He turned away; but then a servant, white-faced, suddenly appeared, hastening into the vestibule from the door that led out to the conservatory. He signalled to Mr Cranshaw, who went over to him. Whatever was said to him produced an expression of immediate shock in the butler. He said a few words to the servant, and then hurried into the dining-room.

Soon there was a sudden scraping of chairs, and an anxious hush descended on the guests, followed by a scream and the sound of shouting. Lord Tansor, walking quickly with unseeing eyes, appeared in the doorway with Cranshaw, followed by three or four gentlemen, including Lord Cotterstock’s son, who broke away and came towards me.

‘You, fellow,’ he drawled. ‘Run and fetch an officer. Quick as you like. There’s murder done here. Mr Daunt is dead.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The young man then waddled off towards the rear of the house, thinking of course that I had gone off to do his bidding. But I had not.

The hall was crowded now with a great commotion of guests all talking at once, the women in tears, the men standing in groups, loudly discussing the extraordinary turn of events; in the hubbub and confusion, I slowly made my way through the throng until I was at the door that led below stairs, my intention being to leave by one of the side entrances to the residence. At that moment, happening to look back to assure myself that no one was taking notice of me, I saw her.

She was standing alone in the dining-room doorway, alabaster pale, the tips of her fingers placed against her lips in a pathetic gesture of shock and bewilderment. Oh my dearest girl! I am become Death because of thee! Between us was an ocean of noise and tumult; but we were two opposing islands of desperate calm.

I was rooted to the spot, though I knew that every second I delayed brought discovery closer. Then, like the moon appearing from behind a cloud, she turned her face directly towards me, and our eyes met.

For a moment, I was sure, she did not see me; then her gaze seemed to narrow and intensify. But realization was slow to form; she hesitated, and in that briefest of spaces, between doubt and certainty, I turned and headed back through the crowd to the front door, expecting at any moment to hear my name being called out and the alarm raised. I reached the door, but no one stopped me. As I passed out onto the steps, I could not help glancing behind me, to assure myself that I was not about to be apprehended. Again, our eyes locked together as people ran hither and thither. I saw that she knew what I had done, and yet she did nothing. Then a little crowd closed round her and she was lost to my sight, for ever.

I was on the bottom step when I heard her voice.

‘Stop that man!’

Hampered by my silver-buckled pumps, I feared that I would quickly be taken; but when I reached the far side of Park-lane and looked back, I saw to my relief that I had given my pursuers the slip. Shivering with cold and anxiety, I ran like a mad thing through the snow-covered grass to the place where my bag was concealed; there, under the cold sky, beneath which my enemy at last lay dead, I threw off my livery, and put on my suit and coat. In the distance I could hear shouting and the sound of a police whistle.

Leaving the Park, I was soon in Piccadilly, hailing a cab.

‘Temple-street, Whitefriars,’ I shouted to the cabman.

‘Right you are, sir!’

I had prepared myself for discovery. My travelling bag was packed; my documents in order. I hurriedly gathered together a few remaining items: my worn copy of Donne’s sermons; my journal and shorthand epitomes of various documents; the watercolour of my mother’s house; the discarded photograph of Evenwood taken on that hot June