“Where are we?” my mother asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
She began to tremble: “Oh Johnnie, what will become of us?”
“Come,” I said. “We have not done so badly. We have escaped pursuit. No one knows where we are.”
“Not even we ourselves,” she said and to my alarm she began to laugh, but I became even more alarmed when the laughter turned into sobs.
I put my arm round her shoulders. “It will be better in the morning,” I said. “But now we must find shelter for the night.”
Dusk was approaching and it was getting cold. Although my mother was wearing her out-door clothes, I had run out of the house without my great-coat or hat.
“We have enough money to find a lodging for tonight,” I said. “But we must learn where we are.”
I put this question to a decent looking working-man who was passing.
“This is Smiffle,” he said.
Recognising the name that I had not caught on the hackney-coachman’s lips, I remembered something from my study of my map: “Is that near Coleman-street?”
“It ain’t so far,” he said and gave me directions.
“Did you hear that, Mamma?” I said.
She replied dully: “No.”
“We’re in Smithfield, so the street where Miss Quilliam lives, or at least used to live, is quite near. Let us go there.”
She made no response and realizing that it fell to me to take the initiative, I took her arm in mine and led her in the direction the man had pointed out.
It was late by the time we found the street and rang the bell of No. 26 which was a tall, gloomy-looking building in a street whose houses seemed to be eyeing each other askance in genteel distaste.
On learning from the maid who answered that she did not know Miss Quilliam’s name, my mother gasped and staggered. The girl looked at her sympathetically and asked us to come in while she enquired of her mistress. The lofty hall — filled with the scent of flowers that stood in bowls upon elegant side-tables — was only dimly-lit by bees-wax candles, but I could see how fine the furniture was: the rosewood cabinets, the ancient oak-cased clock, and the shield-backed chairs against the walls. My mother slumped onto one of these and I chafed her hands.
After a few minutes another servant-girl returned with a sharp-featured woman of about fifty who, as she approached, eyed us narrowly. She was very clearly in a superior class to Mrs Philliber or even Mrs Marrables, and I could imagine how unfavourable an impression my lack of a hat and coat and my mother’s exhausted state were making upon her.
“I am Mrs Malatratt,” she said. “My servant tells me you are enquiring for Miss Quilliam?”
“Yes, we are friends of hers,” I took it upon myself to explain.
Mrs Malatratt indicated her surprise at my answering: “Is this lady … unwell?”
“She is very tired,” I said. “That is all.”
She looked at me closely and then turned to examine my mother who glanced up and tried to smile at her but, failing to do so, bit her lip and lowered her head.
“Miss Quilliam is no longer here,” Mrs Malatratt said. “She left this house to take up a position in the household of Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson almost a year ago.” She rolled the names and titles out with obvious relish.
“Thank you,” I answered. “But we know that and also that she left that position quite recently.”
“That is so,” Mrs Malatratt said reluctantly, as if unwilling to let go of these illustrious names. “Whom, might I ask, have I the pleasure of addressing?”
“Our name is Mellamphy.”
“If you are friends of Miss Quilliam I confess I am surprised that you do not know where she is.”
“Miss Quilliam did not expect us to come to London so soon,” I said, trying not to exceed the limits of truth. But seeing an expression of polite surprise on the landlady’s face, I added: “It is possible that she has written to the place we have just come from to tell us her new address.”
“I see,” Mrs Malatratt said, looking in the most genteel way as if she believed not a word of my explanation.
If she was not going to trust us, then I felt a sense of freedom from the need to constrain myself to the literal truth: “We have arrived from the country only today after a long journey.” I named the county and said: “From near Hougham where Sir Perceval is a …” I hesitated and then contented myself with “a neighbour of ours.”
“Indeed?” she said.
“Because of a misunderstanding our boxes have been sent to the wrong address on the other side of the metropolis. We were taking a coach to go there and as it passed along this street I remembered that Miss Quilliam had said she once lived here. Seeing that my mother was so tired, I stopped the coach with the idea of finding shelter here for tonight.”
“Very well,” said Mrs Malatratt and, with a sense of triumph mingled with guilt at the fluency of my lies, I realized that I had not deceived her but rather had provided the kind of explanation that was required. “But I am sorry that I cannot help you to find Miss Quilliam. As you say, she left Mompesson-park last summer — towards the close of July, as I recall — and stayed here for a night or two. When she left she undertook to leave a forwarding-address, but she has not done so.”
“Then you know nothing more of her?”
“Merely that she called in only a fortnight ago to ask me to keep for a little longer one or two trunks she had left here. I was happy to oblige her. She left no direction but I believe I understood her to intimate that she had taken lodgings at the other end of Town.”
The West-end! I glanced at my mother in dismay. She did not look back, but I caught the eye of the maid-servant who was looking at me with an expression I could not make out. She now glanced at her mistress with what I took to be timidity and dislike.
Mrs Malatratt looked at us appraisingly: “If you desire to be accommodated I can let you have a room for tonight only. It will be 3s.”
I knew that we could find somewhere else for a shilling or eighteen-pence, but at that hour we might find difficulty. Looking at my mother who was still holding her face in her arms, I decided to accept.
“Payable in advance,” Mrs Malatratt added.
I reached into my mother’s reticule and beneath the pocket-book with its mysterious bundle of documents, I found our few remaining coins.
“Take them to the Blue Room, Nancy,” Mrs Malatratt said and with a slight nod she retired magnificently.
I helped my mother to her feet and we followed the maid upstairs to the chamber specified which was beautifully furnished with a large bed and fine damasked hangings.
Nancy drew me to one side and in an undertone asked if we would care for something to eat. Then she whispered: “It ain’t right, what she said.”
“What do you mean?”
“And this ain’t no place for you and your mam. I dursen’t say more.” Then she slipped out of the room. A few minutes later she brought us a little bread and milk, but as if she regretted her earlier indiscretion she avoided my eye and hurried out.
I had difficulty persuading my mother to eat even a little and I could not prevent her from returning to the subject of Bissett’s betrayal: “There was enough value in the furniture to settle all our debts. What could she have done with the money?”
“Tomorrow, Mamma,” I pleaded. “We should sleep now.”
“Why did she do it, Johnnie?” she said suddenly. “I shall never forgive her. Never. After all I have done for her.”
Eventually she stretched out on the bed and fell into a fitful slumber. For some time I lay in the pale moonlight that entered between the curtains and watched her sleeping with feelings of dark foreboding. What was the connexion between Bissett and Mr Espenshade? And if it was she who betrayed our address — as it surely must have been — then who paid her to do so? And why? These questions kept me from sleep, but later I was awakened several times when a carriage drew up outside the house
and the street-door was slammed.
My mother seemed more cheerful the next morning but I could see that she was making a deliberate attempt to be brave and optimistic and I was irritated by this. I wondered how she would take the revelation of the full extent of Bissett’s treachery.
Nancy brought us our meagre breakfast and as we ate it I explained to my mother exactly what had happened at Mrs Philliber’s, confirming that it was at Bissett’s instigation that the bailiff had been able to find us.
“So I was right about her,” she said calmly.
“Yes, but not only that. The man who was with the bailiffs — Mr Espenshade, they called him — was somebody I have seen before.”
I described how he had followed me one day at Melthorpe, and how I had seen him talking to Bissett.
My mother was horrified and the more so when I recounted my suspicions of our former servant going back over a long period. I now told her of the understanding that I suspected Bissett had entered into with Mr Barbellion on the occasion of his first visit, and of the mysterious errand to the post-office which I had interrupted and which I guessed was for the purposes of communicating with him.
“That is bad news, indeed, Johnnie,” she said, reaching to take my hand. “But now I have something to tell you. I told her we were coming to London.”
“Oh, Mamma!”
“It was the night we left the village. She was so hurt that I wouldn’t tell her where we were going. It was while you were collecting your things.”
“And yet you wouldn’t tell me!” I exclaimed. “And I recall that I wondered why she was so much less irritable when I came back. Oh, Mamma! Then perhaps she went and told that man — Mr Espenshade — and he followed us to London.”
“Surely not!” my mother cried.
“Well, perhaps not,” I conceded. “For after all, if our enemy and his people knew where we were, I wonder why they chose to wait until you had sent Bissett Mrs Philliber’s address?”
This was a mystery that we could not resolve.
“We can expect no money from Melthorpe now,” I pointed out a few minutes later.
“What shall we do, Johnnie?”
“We must sell the locket,” I said.
“No, I couldn’t bear to part with it!” she cried.
“Don’t be silly!” I said. “It’s only an old piece of metal.”
“You don’t understand,” she said tremulously. “It’s all I have left of …”
She broke off.
“Of what?” I demanded. She would not answer and I said angrily: “Then I don’t know what will become of us.”
“Johnnie, there is one other thing? Do you remember the document that Sir Perceval and then Mr Barbellion wanted to buy?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “You mean the codicil?”
“Yes. Well, we could offer that to Sir Perceval again.”
“I thought you were not willing to part with it?” I said reproachfully. For I had thought about it often and come to the conclusion that if so many people were so anxious to obtain it, then it would be prudent not to part with it too easily.
“It would be painful because I made a promise about it,” she said hesitantly. “A solemn promise. To my father. Just before he died. But I think he would want me to part with it now that we have nothing.”
I begged her to explain more but she would not. I argued that it would be better to sell the locket but since she adamantly refused, we at last agreed not to part with either of these things.
“Mamma,” I said. “I have an idea. Do you remember Mrs Digweed and her little boy who came to our house the Christmas before last?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, don’t you think it would be a good idea to find them?”
“Why, whatever for?”
“We are now as badly off as they. And they at least know how to be poor, which you and I must quickly learn.”
“But how could we find them?”
“I remember that they lodged in Cox’s-square, Spitalfields, and I believe that is not very far from here. So why don’t we go there and look for them?”
“Well, why not? After all, what does anything matter any more? What does it matter what becomes of us? We are lost now.”
“Don’t be like that,” I said angrily.
At this her pretence of equanimity collapsed and she started sobbing. It was some time before I had undone the damage and she had recovered her composure. While she was making ready to leave, I acted on an idea I had had and wrote a brief letter to Miss Quilliam reminding her of the occasion we had met, indicating that my mother and I were now in London without friends or means of subsistence, and asking her to leave an address at which we might reach her. I gave the letter to Nancy who undertook to put it into her hands when she returned and to retain for us any reply.
We left the house and enquired the way to Cox’s-square. As we approached it the streets grew poorer and poorer and our spirits fell. The heavy sweet stench of a nearby brewery hung over the area, there was a public-house at every corner, and half-naked children swarming in the gutters called out to us for money when they saw how we were dressed — for in that district even our dowdy garments stood out. It wasn’t merely the shabbiness of the clothes of the people we passed in the street that struck me, but their faces — pale, sallow, the skin often hideously pitted — and the eyes of many seemed empty as if they were in a stupor. I saw numerous swollen noses and black eyes, and many of those we passed were pigeon-breasted and had drooping shoulders and bandied legs.
The houses grew increasingly delapidated: the doors peeling and cracked, the stonework discoloured by a rotten green slime where the guttering had given way, and many of the windows broken and stuffed with rags. We passed many narrow slits in the walls through which people were disappearing or from which they emerged.
When at last we reached “Petticut-lane”, to which we had been directed, we found that we ourselves had to pass into such a narrow alley-way in order to reach our goal. Finding ourselves in a dark court with a heap of refuse in the centre, we looked at each other in amazement.
“It was No. 6 wasn’t it?” my mother asked.
I nodded for the stench was so terrible I did not want to open my mouth. The doors had no numbers.
“Which is No. 6?” I asked a little girl.
She pointed towards one of the entrances whose steps were broken and whose battered door was half-open. We climbed the steps and knocked.
A boy called out: “Keep on knockin’, the footman can’t ’ave ’eard you.”
“Bless you,” said a woman passing by. “You just go straight in and find the room you want.”
We passed into the dark hall, unsure of what to expect. There was a door on our left which was ajar and we went up to it and my mother called out: “Mrs Digweed?”
A woman’s voice responded: “Come in.”
This was most encouraging and we pushed open the door and advanced into the room. However, the face that greeted us as we passed round the door, though cheerful and friendly, was not that of Mrs Digweed. The woman was about forty-five, neatly dressed, and with an open, pleasant countenance. Over her shoulder I could see that the chamber, which seemed bright and clean though it was not large, was full of people. A man lay sleeping in a makeshift bed in the corner, a young woman and two little girls were preparing food at the fire, and two younger children were playing with some pieces of coal on the cracked stone floor before the hearth. They looked up curiously at our entrance but then went on with what they were doing.
“You’re not the family called Digweed?” I asked since my mother seemed overwhelmed by what she saw.
“Never heerd on ’em,” she said. “Our name’s Sackbutt.”
I was aware of my mother turning sharply to me and not wanting to see her disappointment I ignored her and asked: “So they’re not in this house?”
“I can’t say so much,” she said, looking at us with interest. “But come in and sit
down. You look fair done up. Meg, clear them things off of that settle.”
As she turned away my mother looked at me with her nose wrinkled to indicate her distaste but I nodded at her that we should accept the invitation. So we seated ourselves, I on a very precarious chair and my mother on the single decent piece of furniture, a battered and patched settle.
“Let me see,” said Mrs Sackbutt, counting off on her fingers; “there’s the Sneezums and the Glatts and the M’Tongues down here. But I don’t know about all the rest of the house. There’s …”
My mother interrupted: “Do you mean that each family has one room?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Sackbutt with unmistakable pride. “There ain’t no sharin’ down here, though as I says, I can’t answer for the rest of the house.”
My mother turned a ghastly face towards me.
Oblivious of this, Mrs Sackbutt continued: “There’s the Clinkenbeards in the first-pair front, and the Meatyards in the back, so they’ve got two rooms apiece, though in course they pays more than what we do.”
“Do you mean that you pay for this?” my mother cried.
“In course,” said Mrs Sackbutt in surprise. “Why, you are simple. Are you Irish?”
“No, we’ve just come from the country,” I explained.
“Four shillin’ a week. Why, you pays everywhere except p’r’aps a few places like the Holy Land or the Devil’s Acre or the Rookery at Mitre-court in Hatton-garding and such, and I wouldn’t go there, not if I was able to crawl nowheres else.”
The man muttered in his sleep and turned over.
Mrs Sackbutt went on: “But as for here, why, the landlord’s deputy, Mr Ashburner, comes round regular every week and if you can’t pay, why, out you go.”
I saw my mother shudder. Did she know the name? That was an absurd thought. How could she?
“He takes most of the rents for here and Bell-lane,” Mrs Sackbutt went on.
“Bell-lane!” my mother exclaimed. “Is that near?”
“Why the next street to this,” the good woman answered.