Home > The House on Vesper Sands(5)

The House on Vesper Sands(5)
Author: Paraic O'Donnell

She allowed herself a moment then. It was something she had promised to herself, that before the end there would be an unburdened instant, belonging to her alone. She took a long breath and released it. Her own living warmth, turned to mist in the cold. But it was not as fierce as she had imagined, that cold, and there was very little wind. She took her place on the ledge, spreading her arms a little way to steady herself, and it was only then—sensing its intimate scatter against her knuckles—that she remembered the snow.

It was everywhere, when she lifted her face, falling now with soft insistence. It felt tender almost, like a final kindness, and when the moment came it was not like falling at all. She offered herself, nothing more, and the waiting air was swift and sure, knowing her for its own. It rushed to gather her up, at last, to take her and carry her weightlessly from the earth.

 

 

II. KYRIE

 

 

I

 

WHEN HIS KNOCKING brought no one to the door, Gideon Bliss retreated from it to make certain of his bearings. He knew that he was in Frith Street, having flagged down a hansom cab to confirm the point. The cabman had been put out of temper, finding that Gideon did not intend to engage him, and had made it known that of course it was fucking Frith Street, adding with some bitterness that he was not a fundament of fucking knowledge for them as wasn’t even going nowhere.

Gideon drew out his uncle’s letter to examine it once more, though he had spent much of the train journey poring over it and knew certain passages almost by heart. Neuilly had written a good deal that struck him as troubling or mysterious, but he had not been unduly perturbed, reasoning that he knew very little, after all, of his uncle’s life and habits. He had the comfort, too, of having been taken at last into the reverend doctor’s confidence, and decided that for now he must simply do as he was bid, trusting that all would come to light in due course.

In certain practical matters, moreover, his uncle had been admirably clear. A change in his circumstances, he explained, had obliged him to quit his former rooms near London Bridge, and to take new lodgings in Soho. He had given exemplary directions, knowing his nephew’s acquaintance with London to be slight, and Gideon had not strayed from these in the smallest particular. He was in Frith Street, just as he ought to have been, having entered it by way of Shaftesbury Avenue. He had continued almost as far as Soho Square, following his uncle’s instructions, and had counted off each doorway that he passed. It was the right house. He was almost sure of it.

He knocked again, as vigorously as politeness permitted, and as he waited he made a careful examination of the doorway. No number appeared on the door itself, and although it was difficult to tell—since the hallway within was in darkness—he could see none displayed in the fanlight above it. Indeed, when he drew back to peer again at the upper windows, not a single light could be seen in any part of the house, nor any other sign of human occupation.

Gideon pulled his coat about him, beating his hands together as he deliberated on his best course. He had not minded the cold until now, having kept up a brisk pace all the way from Liverpool Street, but it was not a night for waiting out of doors. He was mindful, too, that it was growing late. Hearing a church bell strike half past eight as he made his way along High Holborn, he had anxiously quickened his step. Although he had visited his uncle in London once before, to be summoned in this way was a thing without precedent. Having been kept for so long at a remove, he saw a chance at last to find favour with his guardian and did not mean to let it pass. It would not help his cause to arrive at an uncivil hour.

He looked up, hearing raised voices, and saw two figures approaching along the footway. The gentleman’s hat was askew on his head, and the lady’s cape was loosely fastened. Their progress was unsteady, but they appeared to be in high spirits. Seeing them turn in at the next door but one, Gideon hurried towards them.

“Good evening to you, sir, madam.” He lifted his hat, skidding a little as he came to a stop. “I do beg your pardon, but I wonder if you might tell me the number of your residence.”

They turned haltingly to face him. The gentleman’s arm was slung about the lady’s waist, and she supported herself in part by clinging to the lapel of his overcoat. He smoked a cigar, but paused now in the act of raising it to his mouth. “You hear that, Bella? Like doves cooing, it was. ‘I do beg your pardon.’”

“It was lovely, Mr. Townsend.” Bella shifted her grip on her companion’s collar, the better to bring herself upright. “I do like a nice speaking voice. Say something else, my love.”

Gideon tugged his cuffs to his palms and gave a small cough of embarrassment. “I mustn’t detain you, madam, since the evening is so cold. I meant to trouble you only for the number of your house.”

“The number of it?”

“Yes, madam.”

Mr. Townsend wheeled into proximity. “What for?”

“Sir?”

“The number. What do you want to know it for?”

“Ah,” said Gideon. “Of course. I am visiting my uncle, you see, who resides, I believe—”

“Your uncle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your own uncle, and you don’t know where he lives? Ain’t much hope of us knowing if you don’t.”

“Forgive me,” said Gideon. “I’m afraid I have not explained the case well. My studies keep me in Cambridge for much of the time, and I have not yet had the opportunity to visit my uncle at his present address. I am almost certain that this is the house, but I find that there is no number on the door. If you would be kind enough to give me yours, I shall be able to deduce my position.”

Bella beamed at him. “That was beautiful, that was. Just beautiful. Weren’t it, Mr. Townsend?”

“Like a lark,” Mr. Townsend replied. “What’s he saying, though?”

“Mr. Townsend!” Bella pivoted gaily towards him and prodded at his belly. “Ain’t you supposed to be a wark of clurks? Hark at me! A clerk of works, I mean to say, with a bit of schooling about you. What’s the number of your uncle’s place, my pet?”

“Number six, madam. It is a boarding house, I understand, where he has taken rooms.”

“Well, that explains it,” said Mr. Townsend.

“Forgive me, sir. What does it explain?”

“Why there ain’t a number on the door. No point, with sixes. The screw comes loose, it tips over—next thing you know, it’s a nine. No good to anyone. You’d have been off by three.”

“Yes, sir.” Gideon tried to keep the impatience from his voice. “I do see your point.”

“And what if there was a six and a nine?” Bella said, gurgling with amusement. “You do know what a six and a nine make, darling?”

Gideon bowed his head by a fraction. “Unless I am much mistaken, madam.”

Bella and Mr. Townsend slumped for a moment in merriment. Gideon looked about him uneasily, taking advantage of their distraction to retreat by a pace.

“Oh, the wickedness we must answer for,” Bella said, composing herself a little. “Don’t pay no attention to us, my love. This is number four, so you ain’t missed your mark. Your uncle one of Mrs. Coombe’s lodgers, then?”

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