The Somnambulist

Chapter 15

I have long believed the city, the country, indeed the world at large to be run by precisely the wrong kind of people. From the government to the great financial institutions, the peerage to the police force, our lives are controlled without exception by the stupid and greedy, the venal, the rapacious and the undeservedly rich. How much more comfortable would it be if the rulers of the world were not the cognoscenti of the bank balance, the ballot box, the offshore account, but were drawn instead from the ranks of the everyday — honest, kind, stout-hearted, commonplace folk.

In the course of this narrative we have encountered few such paragons. Mrs. Grossmith, perhaps. The Somnambulist. Mina the bearded lady. To that list we may now add one other: Miss Gillman, the mild-mannered sage of Highgate.

When Moon and the Somnambulist arrived on her doorstep, she and the giant took to one another immediately, sensing perhaps that they were kindred spirits of a sort, that they shared the same benign outlook on the world at large.

But the Somnambulist was confused. He had to struggle hard to resist the urge to scratch his head — in part from genuine befuddlement, in part because his wig itched abominably. He was a little comforted, however, to note that Miss Gillman seemed every bit as bewildered as he. And as was so often the case, the only person who understood what was going on was Edward Moon.

“Miss Gillman,” he asked, as their hostess sipped her tea, “do you recognize this?” He pushed into her hands the slim black book Barabbas had given him in Newgate, his copy of the Lyrical Ballads.

The old lady flipped back the cover and read the dedication within. “It’s mine.” She sounded surprised. “Do you know, I’d thought it lost forever.”

“The dedication… It’s for your father?”

“How did you come by this?”

“It was a legacy,” Moon lied fluently and without compunction. “I believe its last owner acquired it at auction.”

“Really? I must confess I never knew you were such a lover of poetry. Your reputation precedes you, of course, but this… this is most unexpected.”

“It’s a new interest of mine. Recommended to me by an old friend.”

“I’m afraid I’m rather at a loss as to how I can help. It’s a great pity my father is no longer with us. He would have been of so much more use to you than me.”

“Tell us what you can. Tell us about Coleridge.”

“It was so long ago,” she said doubtfully.

“Of all those who had the honor of knowing the poet personally,” Moon said, slapping the Somnambulist’s hand as the giant reached out for his ninth digestive of the day, “I understand you’re one of the last still with us.”

Miss Gillman gave a watery smile. “I suppose that’s a distinction of sorts. Of course, I was still a girl when he died. Did you know he’s buried close by in our little churchyard? He was a kind man despite it all.”

“I understand he stayed with you here?”

“Oh, he lived upstairs for years. I’d be happy to show you his room. My father cred for him there until his death, paid, I believe, by some sort of stipend, though I think he did it mostly out of love. Mr. Coleridge was one of the family. A second grandfather, if you like. He had stopped writing by then, almost entirely. His best work was long behind him. And as you know, he had become a slave to that disgusting opiate. It was a great source of pain to us all.”

“Go on.”

Miss Gillman spoke for the best part of an hour, happy to relive her memories of the remarkable man with whom she had shared her childhood. She told them how, abandoned by his wife and child, fugitive from an unhappy love affair and disowned by his friends and admirers, the poet had come to Highgate to live as a lodger-cum-patient in the Gillman household, where it was hoped he might heal himself and extinguish his addiction. He stayed, as it turned out, for the rest of his life.

Moon listened politely, the Somnambulist made short work of the remaining biscuits and time flowed by in a stream of anecdotes and reminiscences. They were in a bubble there, the giant thought, far removed from the world outside, and on hearing Gillman speak, he felt as though someone else’s story, some other narrative, were impinging itself, suddenly and without warning, upon their own.

“There was the boy, of course,” the old woman said. “At the end.”

Moon looked up. “Tell me about him.”

“He was an apprentice, still a child, not more than nine or ten. He used to bring the old man his prescription up to the house. Prescription — that was the word he used. We never liked to actually name the thing out loud.”

Moon urged her to continue, peculiarly convinced of the importance of her story.

“He was a delivery boy. That was how he first came to us. But Coleridge became fond of the lad. Took him on walks, read him poetry. My family used to own a house in Ramsgate where we’d spend our holidays and I remember he even visited us there once. They played together on the beach. Relations with his own son had always been strained, so Ned became a kind of surrogate for him. ‘Ned’s my heir,’ he used to say. ‘My successor.’ ”

“Ned?”

“That was his name.”

“And his surname?”

Miss Gillman finished her tea. “Love,” she said. “Ned Love.”

Moon and the Somnambulist stared back in slack-jawed astonishment.

“Oh,” she said. “Does that mean something to you?”

Politely refusing further rounds of tea, biscuits and nostalgia, they took their leave of Miss Gillman soon after. Before they went Moon gave her back the book.

“I think this belongs to you.”

“Are you sure? It must be valuable.”

“I’ve no need of it now. Please. Take it.”

Gillman looked doubtful.

“I’ll be offended if you don’t.”

She took it, of course, and sent them on their way with her blessing.

Despite his myriad faults, Moon was occasionally capable of feats of good nature, which peered out from beneath his carapace of misanthropy like a splinter of sun glimpsed through clouds.

They departed Miss Gillman’s cottage and walked the half-mile or so to Highgate Cemetery. The Somnambulist — still yawning, replete from his multiple breakfasts — repeatedly asked the purpose of their journey, but Moon would give nothing away, marching ahead at a punitive pace, a marathon runner nearing the end of the race and hungry for the finish.

They arrived at the church and waded through the tall, unshorn grass of the graveyard, amongst crooked ranks of crucifixes, stones and slabs, many of them askew and at oblique angles, as though they had been displaced by some crazy ruction of the earth. There was no sense of peace there, of gentle rest well earned; rather, there was a neglected, minatory air. They paused before a nondescript grave. The inscription read:

HERE LIES

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

1772–1834

Out of the depths I cry to thee

The Somnambulist bowed his head, oddly reverential, as though by having heard so much of the man who lay in the ground beneath them he felt an inkling of grief for his passing.

Moon showed no such sentiment. “See here,” he murmured as he squatted beside the tombstone. Gently he tugged away at the grass which lay on top. The turf came up easily in his hands, unfurling in precise, regular strips, the soil beneath it freshly turned over.

The Somnambulist felt confused for the third or fourth time in as many hours.

VANDALS

he suggested hopefully.

“Too clinical. Too clever.”

As the giant stared down at the ground, certain terrible possibilities began to suggest themselves.

Moon scrambled up. “It’s worse than I thought. We should hurry. I have the distinct impression that time is running out.”

They strode away from the churchyard, leaving the dead behind and returning, for now, to the world of the living.

Edward,

Another dispatch from the lion’s den.

My second day at Love, Love, Love and Love has proved almost exactly like my first. Eight hours of clerical drudgery, a meager half-hour for lunch and the evening spent underground in this ghastly communal recreation room, praying, listening to the poetry recitals of my colleagues and reluctantly making up a hand of whist. In order to write these words I have had to slip away to my shared bedroom. My friend — Love 893 — has agreed (if asked) to make up some story about my being ill. There is only a finite amount of these people’s piety I can stand.

I am astonished that Mr. Skimpole was able to secure employment for me here at all. Everyone else has been working at Love for months, many for years. As the newest recruit, I can sense a certain coolness directed toward me. Clearly there is a great deal I have yet to discover and none of them seem at all keen to tell me. Even 893, when I question her on Love’s financial intricacies, becomes taciturn and close-lipped. Not, I should add, that I have shown much overt curiosity so far. As promised, I have done my utmost to appear as inconspicuous as possible and I doubt I am thought of as anything more than an unremarkable clerical assistant. Perhaps I have been less inquisitive than I ought. Perhaps my apparent lack of curiosity is in itself suspicious. Maybe I should pry a little more.

I saw Speight again today, striding along the corridor, coattails flapping self-importantly, a cloud of lackeys in his wake. The transformation is so remarkable that I fancy you would barely recognize him now — he seems half-naked without his placard. I wonder how it was that these people brought about so complete a metamorphosis. More to the point, I wonder why.

Even he is not the most bizarre of Love’s employees. I saw the most extraordinary thing this morning: a bearded woman busying herself with books and ledgers, a freak attracting no stares of curiosity or muffled guffaws. Her natural milieu is surely the circus tent, but here she is accepted as one of us. For all its eccentricity, Love is a broad church. Although a relatively recent recruit, Love 986, I believe) she seems to be held in high regard, as a rising star, someone of whom great things are expected.

Now for my news. Toward the end of my shift I was approached by my immediate superior, a plump, hairless man named Love 487. After some small talk about how well I was settling in, he told me that I have been selected to meet, in person, the Chairman of the Board. Apparently this is considered a great honor and I was the subject of many an envious stare at dinner tonight.

It seems that the Chairman (or Love I as he is known to my superiors) is something of a recluse. Few of my colleagues have ever met the man (it is a man, of course — even Love are not quite that forward-thinking). This momentous meeting is set for the day after tomorrow. As soon as I return I shall tell you all.

Once again, I am sending this letter with 893. She has been nothing but kind and generous to me, though I cannot help but wonder how deeply mired in it all she is. Edward, I think she may have known the unfortunate Mr. Honeyman. Last night, in her sleep, I heard her murmur some lines of Shakespeare. Paris — from Romeo and Juliet — the fat actor’s final role. “Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death / And therefore have I little talked of love…”

I have been promised that I shall be able to leave the building at the end of the week, so perhaps I will post my next message to you then.

The atmosphere seems more intense than ever. These people are waiting for something, and whatever it is, I am starting to suspect that only Love themselves will welcome its arrival.

I will write again as soon as I am able. My cordial regards to the Somnambulist.

Charlotte

Mr. Skimpole limped forlornly into the offices of the Directorate, already in a filthy temper thanks to the elevator’s stubborn refusal to work and the subsequent necessity of taking the stairs. Despite his best efforts to disguise them, his symptoms were acute, inexorable, irreversible. Husky, permanently short of breath and unsteady on his feet, he was forced, like some old lush, to apply all his powers of concentration just in order to walk in a straight line. Some might find it ironic that a man whose life had been dedicated to temperance and moderation should end it so closely resembling a chronic drinker. Needless to say, I’d stop well short of making so crass and callous an observation.

Whilst dressing that morning, Skimpole had discovered the presence of five or six fresh and angry red lesions which had scattered themselves about the lower half of his body, speckling his genitals with an itchy, flaking rash. Worse, the attacks had become more frequent and he often found himself having to leave the room whenever he felt their onset, before their pincers of pain began to rummage mercilessly about in his guts.

But he did not walk into the Directorate alone that morning. His son was with him, the boy’s crutches click-clacking like ancient joints as he hobbled down the stairs and across the room to the round table. Together they cut a pitiful pair, refugees from a home for cripples, rejects from some unusually cruel workhouse.

Dedlock was already there, waiting in his usual place, but sitting beside him was a stranger — a tall, smartly dressed, smooth-featured man, emanating discretion and good taste. Set against these, Skimpole felt more spindly and puny than ever. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead dry and breathed in deeply, determined not to appear weak. In the event, he just about managed a “good morning” before he lapsed into helpless spluttering.

Dedlock was staring in disbelief at the boy. “Who is this?”

Skimpole attempted a smile, only for it to fade half-formed from his lips when he saw the granite expressions of the others. “Have you met my son?” he asked as lightly as he could. The Skimpole boy tried to say something in greeting but could only produce a wretched, wheezing cough.

“Your son?” the stranger asked, sounding as though this were the first time he had ever heard the word. “Your son?” he repeated (probably just to check he hadn't misheard the first time). “Are you seriously telling us you’ve brought a child here? Fewer than three dozen men even know of the existence of this place and you bring your son? Grief, man, what do you think you’re playing at?”

“I’m sorry,” Skimpole stuttered. “I just wanted to be with him.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to send him home,” Dedlock said, his tone gentler and less aggressive than the stranger’s.

Skimpole fought back tears. “I can’t. I need him with me. He mustn’t go home alone. I’m sure we were followed on our way here. Oh, we shook them off, but this isn’t the first time. Not by a long shot.” Frantic, he turned to Dedlock. “Don’t you agree? Whoever they are, they’ve set the dogs on us.”

“Send the child home. Or I’ll have him removed.” The smooth-featured man clicked his fingers and four fake Chinamen materialized obediently at the back of the room.

Dedlock tried to defuse the tension. He gestured toward the stranger. “This is Mr. Trotman.”

“I’m from the Ministry,” the man said darkly, as though that explained it all.

Skimpole seemed uncharacteristically cowed. “I see. How can we help?”

“The Directorate has recently come under my purview…” He tailed off delicately. “There will be changes.”

“Changes?”

“Remove the boy,” Trotman demanded. “Then we can talk.”

Skimpole bent down and whispered in his son’s ear: “Go upstairs. Wait for me there.”

The lad nodded and lurched uncertainly away, manfully tackling the mountainous staircase alone and unaided. Throughout his son’s short life, Skimpole had never ceased to marvel at his courage.

“Take a seat,” Trotman said once the child had left. “This won’t take long.”

Meekly, Skimpole did as he was told.

“I shan’t be coy,” Trotman said. “I’m a plain man. (Judging from the expensive cut of his clothes and general air of affluence, this was transparently untrue.) “I expect frankness from my subordinates and I intend to grant you that same courtesy.”

Dedlock and Skimpole nodded, mock-appreciative.

“The Directorate has become a liability. Your methods are unorthodox, your agents unaccountable, your security laughably easy to penetrate. Slattery never should have got within spitting distance of this room.”

Dedlock began to protest but Trotman motioned for him to be silent. “Let me finish. You’ll have your say in due course.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I query the necessity for all this cloak-and-dagger behavior. Hiding beneath a butcher’s shop in Limehouse. All these agents of yours running around in fancy dress.” He tutted, appalled at the flamboyance, the showmanship of the place. “I’m sure if that particular foible of yours had never become policy, Slattery never would have got so far as he did. I have to be honest, gentlemen — the perception amongst my colleagues is that the Directorate is run by men who delight in wasting time, money and resources and who take altogether too much pleasure in dressing up.”

“Can I say-” Dedlock began.

“You may not,” Trotman countered briskly. “You know the correct procedure for registering your views and I think it’s time you used it. You’ve operated above the law for too long. I understand my predecessor had some sentimental attachment to you. Rest assured, I do not share that weakness.”

“What will you do?” Skimpole asked quietly.

“The Directorate is to be dissolved, effective immediately. If it ever becomes necessary to reactivate it, I can assure you it will be under different management.” Trotman softened. “Gentlemen, you needn’t worry. Your pensions have been arranged. You’ll both be provided for. And if I may be entirely honest, Mr. Skimpole, you really don’t look well. A man in your condition ought never to have been allowed so much responsibility. I suspect retirement will suit you.”

“Haven’t you read our reports?” Skimpole protested. “We’ve got two days until the city comes under attack.”

Trotman favored the albino with a withering look. “I think this crisis of yours his been vastly overstated. I’ve seen no hard evidence of a conspiracy. I’ve had absolutely no intelligence of any substance from you whatsoever. I find your reports to be recklessly alarmist and I seriously question your methods of information-gathering. I’m appalled that any government department should rely upon the word of a fortune-teller. We owe the Vigilance Committee a debt of gratitude in that affair, I think.”

“It will happen,” Skimpole insisted. “Innocenti was right.”

Trotman smirked. “I doubt we need concern ourselves with a nebulous threat conjured up by a table-rapper, do you? In my opinion, Mrs. Bagshaw is far better off in America. They’re a credulous people on that side of the Atlantic. No doubt she’ll make a killing.” Trotman got to his feet. “Pleasant though it is chatting with you, gentlemen, I have to go. I’ve three other meetings this morning.”

Dedlock stumbled up. “Please-”

Trotman waved him away. “If you wish to register a complaint you may speak to my secretary. Thank you for your attention. My department will be in touch shortly. Good day to you.”

Trotman sauntered from the room, whistling softly to himself (he was the kind of man who whistled a lot), apparently oblivious to the devastation he had left in his wake. Uniquely, Dedlock was lost for words.

“It’s outrageous,” he said at last. “They can’t do this.”

Skimpole didn’t seem to hear. “Stupid,” he murmured. “He’s left the city open to attack.”

“We’ll appeal. Speak to his superiors. Go to the top.”

Skimpole’s voice sounded distant and muffled. “Won’t do any good. He needs to be dealt with immediately. I know of only one body with such power. Highly unofficial… and not without an element of risk.”

“Who?” Dedlock asked eagerly.

“You know their names. I shall not speak them here.”

Dedlock sank slowly back onto his chair, suddenly ashen, the ruddy health draining from his face. “You’re not serious?”

“Afraid so.”

“You’ve no idea what they can do.”

Skimpole leant forward. “I can’t allow all this to be torn down. It’s the only thing left to prove I ever lived.”

“Bit morbid of you, old man.”

The albino staggered up. “I must go. My son is waiting. Leave this to me.”

Dedlock let him go, not trying to stop him despite his suspicions about what he was planning. He snapped his fingers and one of the ersatz Chinamen appeared at his side. “You heard everything?”

The man bowed. “Yes, sah.”

“Well, then. Bring me a bottle of brandy.” He grinned. “Two glasses.”

Skimpole had barely got clear of the room before the attack hit. He grabbed at the stair rails and jackknifed in agony, clutching his stomach impotently and biting hard on his tongue to stop himself from crying out. He hoped desperately that Dedlock wouldn’t leave the room and find him like this. As soon as he was able, once the worst of the pain had passed, he began the ascent to the shop above. He arrived to find his son chatting amicably to the proprietor, mercifully innocent of all that had transpired below.

“Thank you,” he said, wheezing his way across to the boy. “Thank you for looking after my son.”

“My pleasure.”

Skimpole began to shepherd his charge to the door when he stopped and turned back. “Do you know,” he said, “I’ve never asked your name?”

The Chinaman grinned. “No, sir.” So he told him his name, something monosyllabic that began with a W. The albino forgot it, of course, almost immediately, but at least, just once, he had asked.

Out on the street, the two of them hailed a cab. Several passed by empty, refusing to accept so grotesque-looking a cargo, and it was some time before one finally stopped.

“Where are we going?” asked the boy as they clambered aboard.

“A special place, underground.”

“What’s it called?”

“I’d be breaking the rules if I told you.”

“Oh.” The child looked disappointed, but even at his young age he had begun to appreciate the necessity for discretion.

Skimpole ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately and decided to relent. No time for secrets any more. “The Stacks,” he whispered. “They’re called the Stacks.”

Mr. Cribb peered across the cafe table at Edward Moon.

“It’s good to see you,” he said. “Last time we met you weren’t quite this friendly.”

“We have to be quick. The Somnambulist doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Would he mind?”

“He has this… It sounds ridiculous… This bete noir about you.”

“Really? Do you have any idea why?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Ah, well.”

“Listen, you tug me along through London, you tease me with clues and intimations. You seem to delight in cropping up in my life unannounced and tantalizing me with slivers of the truth. Why, sir? To what purpose? That business by the docklands — you led me to Lud on purpose, I’m sure of it.”

“I did?” Cribb looked genuinely bemused. He scratched at his left hand, which, Moon noticed, was bandaged up as though he had been recently injured. “Rather, you mean I will. You seem to forget that your past is my future.” He smirked. “And vice versa.”

“What was it? A prank? Are you laughing at me?”

He tutted. “I’ve no idea. You ought to have asked me at the time.”

“I feel as though I am traveling into the dark and that it is you who has led me there.”

“Come, come. There’s no need for all that.”

Moon snorted and, at long last, Cribb did his best to explain.

“Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I do owe you an explanation.” He sighed. “I’ve seen the future, Edward. Not by traveling but by living. Forgive me, I’m not sure how to phrase these concepts in a way that will make sense to you… Look at it like this. Yours is a single chronology, rosy and predictable. Tuesday follows Monday, Wednesday follows Tuesday. Not for me. I walk backwards through my life. I wake on a Wednesday morning and the day before was Thursday. My life is a constant slipping away, a losing touch. From your perspective we will meet twice more. The next time I shall not be myself, the time after that I’ll barely recognize you. I’ll say goodbye the day we met.”

“Ridiculous.”

“You know it’s true.”

“Then you know what happens to us? To the Somnambulist and me, to the city?”

“Know but can’t tell.”

“Why?”

“There are rules I can’t break. My position is a privileged one, and though I have the utmost respect for you and your methods, I will not jeopardize it.”

“Do you ever speak plainly?”

“Believe it or not, I am never deliberately oblique. I have always done my best for you.”

“Was Innocenti right? If she was, we’ve only two days left.”

“Well, then. Perhaps we should save the recriminations for another time. Why am I here?”

“I need your help.”

“I’d assumed as much.”

“There is a man I have to locate, the final link in the chain I have forged.”

“His name?” Cribb asked, sounding as though he already knew the answer.

“Love.” Moon watched his companion intently for any sign of recognition. “Ned Love.”

“Ah,” Cribb sounded pleased.

“Ah?” Moon repeated, infuriated. “What do you mean by ‘ah’? Do you know him?”

“I can tell you only that you’re close. Very close. No more than that.”

“But can you find him? He’d be an old man by now.”

“If he’s somewhere in the city, then yes, you may rely upon me. As soon as I have him I’ll send word.”

“Excellent.”

“Well, then.” The ugly man got to his feet.

“Thomas?”

He turned back.

“Please. Tell me how it ends.”

“Sorry.” Cribb smiled. “You’ve no idea how complicated it is being me.” He touched the brim of his hat and walked from the cafe.

Moon settled the bill and wandered home, troubled in his mind and anxious for a resolution. This case, singular though it had been, had hung over him for far too long. High time to bring an end to it.

E,

I apologize if this letter is to be shorter than the rest. Love 893 has been removed from my room and a new woman put here in her place. Older by far, a long-term employee, Love 101 is a hatchet-faced crone who has assumed an immediate dislike of me and seems determined to act more as my gaoler than my roommate. Why 893 was summarily evicted I am not entirely certain, though naturally I have my suspicions.

I am watched all the time and I am no longer permitted to absent myself from the evening prayer meetings. It seems more and more as though I am a prisoner here, one neither liked nor respected by my fellow inmates. Needless to say, I do not sleep well — my nights are fitful, my dreams troubled.

Tomorrow I am summoned into the presence of the Chairman of the Board. His name is spoken amongst the faithful in the most absurdly hushed and reverential tones — he is as royalty to these people, small god of their little realm.

He is Love 1, the alpha company man, Ur-Love. It seems as though a thousand is some predetermined limit for the company, a quota to be met. That number is almost attained, and as soon as a Love 1000 is found it seems certain that whatever it is these people have been planning will come to fruition.

I cannot for the life of me make out how much in earnest these people are. At times I am convinced that, with their poetry and prayers, they are harmless zealots who delight in schemes and plots which can have no reality beyond their own fevered minds. But more and more I feel as though I am in danger here, that my colleagues are working toward some terrible and devastating end, some outrage to be perpetrated upon the city. Whatever evidence led you to place me here (and I quite refuse to acknowledge any part the charlatan Bagshaw may have played in the matter) you did well to heed it. Whatever they are planning, they mean for it to happen soon.

My work was as uninteresting today as ever but I did happen to stumble upon one small item of note. Whilst working through an especially tedious ledger, I came upon a record of the company’s transactions. Until recently Love, Love, Love and Love were buying up a great deal of property underground. Disused pieces of the sewer system mostly and some stretches of tunnels abandoned by the railway. I have no doubt that you will find this suggestive, though its precise significance eludes me at present.

I shall endeavor to find out more when I am able, but for now I must tread carefully. I am under close observation and I should not like to guarantee my own safety in the event of their discovering my true purpose here. When may I leave? I feel like the dim heroine of some shilling shocker walking blithely into peril.

But I must go. My time alone has ended. I hear my warder approaching.

C.