I had made an excellent beginning. The agreement drawn up between my mother and Lady Tansor, which lent its circumstantial weight to my claim, was now in my possession; and, by an unexpected stroke of luck, I had secured employment at Tredgolds, Lord Tansor’s legal advisers. What might come of this situation, I could not foresee. But some advantage, surely, would present itself, if I could gain the complete confidence of Mr Christopher Tredgold.
And an advantage, however small, is everything to the resourceful man.
My first visitor to Temple-street had been Le Grice, who arrived unannounced, late one snowy afternoon, a few days after I had returned from Tom’s funeral. His thundering ascent of the wooden stairs, and the three tremendous raps on the door that followed, were unmistakable.
‘Hail, Great King!’ he bellowed, pulling me towards him and slapping me on the back with the flat of his huge hand. He stamped the snow from his boots and then, removing his hat and taking a step back, surveyed my new kingdom.
‘Snug,’ he nodded approvingly, ‘very snug. But who’s that awful little tick on the ground floor? Poked his horrid nose round the door and asked whether I was looking for Mr Glapthorn. Told him, politely, to mind his own business. And who’s Glapthorn, when he’s at home?’
‘The tick goes by the name of Fordyce Jukes,’ I said. ‘Mr Glapthorn is yours truly.’
Naturally, this information produced a look of surprise in my visitor.
‘Glapthorn?’
‘Yes. Does it bother you that I’ve adopted a new name?’
‘Not in the least, old boy,’ he replied. ‘Got your reasons, I expect. Creditors pressing, perhaps? Irate husband, pistol in hand, searching high and low for E. Glyver?’
I could not help giving a little laugh.
‘Either, or both, will do,’ I said.
‘Well, I won’t press you. If a friend wants to change his name, and that same friend wishes to keep his reasons to himself, then let him change it, I say. Luckily, I can continue to call you “G” in either case. But if assistance is required, ask away. Always ready and eager to oblige.’
I assured him that I needed no assistance, financial or otherwise, requesting only that any correspondence sent to Temple-street, or to my employer’s, should be directed to Mr E. Glapthorn.
‘I say,’ he said suddenly, ‘you’re not working for the Government, in some secret capacity, I suppose?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘nothing like that.’
He seemed disappointed, but was true to his word and did not press me further. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a folded copy of the
‘By the way, I came across this at the Club. It’s a few months old now. Did you see it? Page twenty-two.’
I had not seen it, for it was not a periodical that I often read. I looked at the date on the cover: 10th October 1848. On the page in question was an article entitled ‘Memories of Eton. By P. Rainsford Daunt’, from which I have previously quoted.
‘Seems to be a good deal about you in it,’ said Le Grice.
So many years had gone by since Daunt had betrayed me; but my desire to make him pay for it was as strong as ever. I had already begun to assemble information on him, which I kept in a tin box under my bed: reviews and critical appreciations of his work, articles that he had written for the literary press, notes on his father from public sources, and my own descriptive impressions of his first home, Millhead, which I had visited the previous November. The archives were small as yet, but would grow as I searched for some aspect of his history and character that I could use against him.
‘I shall read it later,’ I said, throwing the magazine onto my work-table. ‘I’m hungry and wish to eat – copiously. Where shall we go?’
‘The Ship and Turtle! Where else?’ exclaimed Le Grice, throwing open the door. ‘My treat, old boy. London awaits. Take up your coat and hat,
In November 1854, settled before a roaring fire in Le Grice’s rooms in Albany, with a glass of brandy in my hand, I found it hard to believe that only six years had passed since I had left Sandchurch for London. It seemed as if a whole lifetime had gone by – so many memories crowding in, so much rosy hope, and so much bleak despair! Faces in the flames; the smell of a September morning; death and desire: impressions and remembrances floated before my eyes, coalesced, and separated again, a multitude of ghosts in an eternal dance.
‘I’ve never told anyone, you know,’ Le Grice was saying quietly, head thrown back, watching the smoke from his cigar curl upwards towards the ceiling, deep in shadow. ‘Never said a word, about this life you’ve been living. Whenever one of the fellows asks, I always say you’re travelling, or that I haven’t heard from you. That’s right, isn’t it? That’s what you wanted?’
He lifted his head and looked directly at me, but I did not reply.
‘I don’t know where all this is leading, G, but if what you say is true …’
‘It’s all true. Every word.’
‘Then of course I understand. You weren’t Edward Glyver, so you may as well be Edward Glapthorn. I thought you must have the money-lenders on your tail, or some such, though you wouldn’t admit it. But you had to keep things close, I see that, until everything could be made right. But what a story, G! I won’t say I can’t believe it, because I must believe it, if you tell me it’s true. There’s more to come, though, that’s clear, and I’m all ears, old boy. But do you want to go on now, or sleep here and carry on in the morning?’
I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to two.
‘No sleep tonight,’ I said. ‘And now, let me tell you a little more about Mr Tredgold.’
