CHAPTER 35
I Go to the Church of All Hallows by the Tower
I did what William/Wilkie had suggested: found an omnibus heading in the general direction of the Tower. It would get me close to All Hallows.
After paying my three pennies, I climbed into the horse-pulled carriage. Though it was crowded, I managed to squeeze myself onto one of the two facing benches between two portly gentlemen who were not pleased to have me take up any space at all. In fact, I received so many jabs from their elbows—under the pretense of turning the pages of their Morning Herald and Times—that I finally got up and stood by the entrance, where the conductor was standing.
“Never mind the nobs,” he said, nodding to the two gentlemen who had forced me out. “They aren’t much for sharin’. Where you ’eadin’?” he asked in a friendly fashion.
“To the Tower,” I said, that being nearly next to the church.
“Then you best ’old on to yer ’ead, lest they cut it off,” he said, chortling loudly at what he apparently believed was an original joke.
When I got off, I still had a few streets to walk. Of course I could not help but see the Tower of London, surrounded as it was by its thick walls and moat. In the dove gray of morning, its ancient turrets presented a ghostly image of hard stone and roiling river mist that quite satisfied its grim reputation. As I gazed upon it, one of its infamous ravens appeared atop the wall, leaned toward me, opened its black beak, and screeched. It was as if it were giving me a warning, which led me to recall the conductor’s words in a more somber light.
Nonetheless, I turned away and went toward the church. Its name, All Hallows, suggested how truly ancient it was—“hallow” being the Old English way of saying “holy.” Some claimed a church had been there since Saxon, even Roman, times. I knew nothing of that, though I’d heard say it was the oldest church in London. What I saw was a large, bulky stone structure, with a square tower steeple of brick and some stained-glass windows.
I went round to the entryway on Seething Lane. There, the church had two old wooden doors beneath a large clock, but both doors were firmly closed. I found, however, a small side door left ajar. I slipped in quietly.
I entered a small vestibule, went down a few steps into another larger chamber, walked forward—there was nowhere else to go—past steps that I suspected led up to the steeple, then stepped into the church itself.
A grand nave loomed before me, lofty and still. A double row of pale yellow limestone columns supported a flat ceiling. The raised pulpit was at the far end of the church, to one side. Opposite from where I stood was the chancel altar with its cross. Between the back of the church and the altar were many rows of wooden pews, the old wood here and there impressed with what looked to be ghostly—in fact, dusty—handprints.
Curious as it was, I reminded myself that my immediate task was to find Mr. Jeremiah Snugsbe.
At first glance the church seemed to be empty of any living humans. That is to say, it appeared not only hallowed, but hollow. But as I grew accustomed to the gloom—the light was muted, speckled with multihued dust motes—I gradually realized someone was sitting in the very first pew to the far side. What I could see of him was his back, but his posture suggested he was slumped over, asleep.
I walked down the nave toward him, my footfalls echoing loudly—deliberately—on the flagstones and memorial brasses, in hopes the man might wake. But when I reached the pew, the man still slept. Moreover, he was encased within a very large black greatcoat, closed up by more buttons than I could count in a glance. The bottom hem of the coat reached the floor and hid his feet, while at the top all that appeared was a crest of curly white hair—reminiscent of cauliflower. Of flesh, I saw naught.
Since the person—I assumed it was a man—had not stirred as I approached, I could only stand by his side, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, uncertain what to do. Was he part of the church staff or a weary parishioner?
In time, my presence seemed to disturb the fellow. Like a tortoise emerging from his shell, his head—on a scrawny but fleshy neck—rose up out of his coat. Whereas the coat he wore was quite outsized, he was quite small, with the raddled face of a newborn babe. His nose was a stub, his cheeks round, his mouth small, with a small dimpled chin. Not quite in harmony were two beady black eyes, which fastened on me while rapidly blinking—as if unused to light.
“Who,” he asked, “are you?” His voice was gargled, soft-spoken, and hesitant—as if unsure whether he should speak or not.
“I’m looking for Mr. Jeremiah Snugsbe, sir.”
The man studied me silently, blinking. “And if you found Mr. Snugsbe,” he inquired, “what would you … do with him?”
“Do, sir? Nothing. I’ve been sent to him by Mr. Nottingham.”
“Is that the Mr. Nottingham,” murmured the man, “in the employ of Lady Euphemia Huffam?”
“Yes, sir. Her solicitor.”
“She contributes money to this church. I don’t know why. She never comes here.”
“I don’t think she goes anywhere, sir,” I said. “She’s ill.”
“You might think that would encourage her to attend church more often. But giving money as she does enables her to make demands of this venerable establishment. What is your name?”
“John Huffam, sir.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, eyes continually blinking. “It’s Mr. Snugsbe’s understanding that she requests you be employed here.” That said, his head lowered back into his coat as if taking refuge.
“Are you Mr. Snugsbe, sir?” I asked, causing him to reemerge.
“An interesting question, that,” he whispered. “I don’t greatly desire to be Mr. Snugsbe. There’s not much advantage—that I can determine—in being Mr. Snugsbe.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Consider: What could Mr. Snugsbe have done with his life? Very much. What has Mr. Snugsbe done with his life? Very little. Offered preferment, Mr. Snugsbe could have gone into the church and risen high. What did Mr. Snugsbe do? Went into financial speculation and fell low. How low? Mr. Snugsbe cleans the church. He dusts God’s holy name. Mr. Snugsbe would like to believe there’s glory in that. He suspects not. But being here has allowed Mr. Snugsbe to stitch together a theory.”
“A theory, sir?”
“Of coats.”
“Coats?”
“Exactly, a theory of coats. Mr. Snugsbe’s theory is this: God gives each of us a coat to wear. Here is Mr. Snugsbe’s coat,” he said, plucking at his own black one with doll-like fingers. “Sometimes a man fills his coat, or overflows it. Sometimes he shrinks within. The Mr. Snugsbe you are looking at is very much … reduced. One button for each year of his life.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, sir. But if you are Mr. Snugsbe, Mr. Nottingham sends you his compliments and begs to remind you that he has secured employment for me here.”
Mr. Snugsbe said, “Nottingham and Snugsbe share an interest in failure. Which is to say, they both wear the same coat. Is there not as much bonding in failure as in success? Perhaps more, since failure is in fashion for most of mankind. Why should Mr. Nottingham help you? Have you failed?”
“I hope not, sir. Besides, it’s not he who’s helping me, sir. It’s my great-great-aunt, Lady Euphemia.”
“Do you need help?”
“I fear so, sir.”
“Then that is the coat you must wear,” said Mr. Snugsbe, and he lapsed into silence, even as he shrank down below the collar line. I stood there, not knowing what to say, when he rose up. “Five shillings a week is the offered compensation.” That said, he sank anew.
I immediately noted that such a sum would cover the weekly expenses of my family’s prison keep. “I am very much obliged, sir. But … what shall I do to earn it?”
Mr. Snugsbe craned his neck to gaze at me with his hard, blinking eyes. “Mr. Nottingham made a singular point of saying he didn’t care. ‘My lady,’ says Nottingham to Snugsbe, ‘wishes to give the boy John Huffam something so as to
try him out for a “part.”’ Nottingham says ‘part.’ I say ‘coat.’ ‘Let him play it, says Nottingham, ‘as he chooses. If he does well, say nothing. If he receives poor reviews, forgoes his cues, misses entrances and exits, or fails in any fashion, report to me immediately and I shall inform my lady so she shall cancel the performance.’ In other words—in Mr. Snugsbe’s words—give the boy cloth and see what kind of coat he makes for himself.”
“Am I here to establish my character, then?” I asked.
“As Snugsbe says, every man tailors his own coat.”
Once again the little man retreated into the black folds of his own coat until only his blinking eyes were peeking over the collar at me.
“Shall I … dust the pews?” I offered.
“Lady Euphemia will receive no ill report from Mr. Snugsbe if you do that,” the little man whispered, withdrawing farther only to pop up saying, “There’s a bag of rags behind the vestry door.”
All that morning I dusted pews. Upon two occasions the minister duly and dully appeared to offer the regular morning prayers. He did so to a handful of men and women who came and went quietly. Now and again I saw Mr. Snugsbe moving about the nave of the church, slowly performing I hardly knew what tasks.
After midday prayers he led me to a small chamber in the under-croft, an ancient Saxon crypt—or so he claimed it to be—and offered me a lunch of crusty bread, a piece of cold mutton, and tepid coffee, which I was more than happy to consume.
“Is the coat fitting?” he asked, which I took to mean was I getting along with my work.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Snugsbe approves.”
“Excuse me, sir, why do you refer to Mr. Snugsbe as, well, another person?”
He was thoughtful for a while and then whispered, “I’m not fond of Mr. Snugsbe. He’s a failure. What’s to admire in failure? Speaking of him as I do allows me to keep my distance.”
Afterward Mr. Snugsbe led me to a loft where I worked polishing brass memorial plaques. Here, I was able to see the pews I’d just cleaned.
It was while gazing about that I suddenly realized I was looking down at none other than Sergeant Muldspoon. He was sitting off to one side of the main aisle, stiff and erect as ever. His hands were resting on the top of the pew before him, in an attitude of prayer. But I knew him well: His posture was only an attitude. His head was cocked slightly to one side, his signal that he was waiting for a response. For what response—and from whom—I could hardly guess.
The answer came shortly.
Into the church, down the nave, and taking a seat right next to Old Moldy was someone I recognized: Mr. Farquatt.
From my perch in the loft I could not hear any of the conversation that passed between them. It was enough to know that they met and talked. Was not Mr. Farquatt representing the sergeant’s ancient enemy, the French? Who was Old Moldy representing?
When Mr. Farquatt shook the sergeant’s hand, bobbed a bow, and left with no blows exchanged, I was tempted to follow my sister’s suitor and see where he went. But sticking, shall I say, to the coat I wore, I dared not. As for Old Moldy, when he left—which he soon did—I had no doubt he would be returning to school, ready to attack his slate in his best military fashion.
It was while thinking of Old Moldy that I had a startling recognition: The day previous my father had asked me if I knew how a gun worked. I had replied correctly because my teacher had given many a lesson about firearms. Was he not an artillery man? In fact, during my last day at school he had inscribed the following on his slate: WAR, RIFLE, GUN, DEAD, HURT, HARD
Rifle!
In other words, if there was one man who would know the value of rifling as my father had explained it to me, that man was Sergeant Muldspoon.
Yet, how could he—patriotic Englishman whom he endlessly affirmed himself to be—how could he be a spy?
I could not wait to talk to Sary.
CHAPTER 36
I Return to Whitecross Street Prison
It was perhaps seven o’clock—I had been in the church almost ten hours—when Mr. Snugsbe found me sweeping the steps to the crypt. He told me I was free to go, but he said I should be back in the morning no later than eight.
“Is the coat fitting?” I asked.
“It is indeed,” said the odd man. To which he amended in a whispery voice, “Just be sure you keep it buttoned up so Mr. Snugsbe shall have no call for requesting a tailor.”
The last sight I had of Mr. Snugsbe was of him settling into an out-of-the-way pew and retreating into his coat.
The evening outside was oppressive, the air heavy, as if about to rain. I went as fast as I could, not wanting to miss Sary. But even as I approached the prison gates, she appeared.
“There you are,” she said. “I was gettin’ worried.”
“I couldn’t leave my employment any sooner,” I explained, glad to see her.
“What work is it?”
“In a church. Cleaning.”
“Well now,” she said, “you’re lucky it’s inside. All this nasty weather with winter comin’. An’ not likely to get into any trouble there. Did you preach a sermon?”
“Dusted things. And you?” I asked.
“Been sneakin’ after Miss O’Doul. Got lots to tell.”
“So do I,” I said. “But I need to tell my father and mother that I’m here. Mother is sure to be vexed with me. Will you wait?”
“Sarah Waitin’ is my true name.”
“Is it really?”
She laughed. “Not likely.”
I went through the gates and signed in. As I did, I paused to note that Brigit had also gone out and returned. This time, however, she signed only Brigit. When I turned the page and looked for her previous signature, her last name, O’Doul, had been blotted out. I had little doubt she had corrected her blunder.
I went right to Father’s cell. There, I found things somewhat altered. Crowded though it was, two more beds had been added. Moreover, a table was laden with a full dinner. Father sat on one bed like a host at the end of the table. Mother and Clarissa—both looking miserable—sat on the other bed, but the dimensions of the cell being exceedingly tight, they sat at the table too. Mr. Tuckum occupied the chair, a napkin tied round his neck.
Brigit was serving.
“John!” cried Mother. If she’d room enough, no doubt she would have leaped up. “We’ve been frantic with worry. Where have you been? We thought you’d gone to the Halfmoon Inn for the night, but Mr. Tuckum reported otherwise.”
Wishing to avoid the question, I said, “I spent the day at the employment Great-Aunt Euphemia found for me.”
“And where might that be?” asked Brigit.
“All Hallows Church.”
“How convenient,” said my father. “Right near my work. You will be able to collect my salary.”
“But near the Tower,” put in Mr. Tuckum, which I understood to be a word of warning.
“What do you do there?” asked my sister.
“Clean,” I replied.
“Clean!” exclaimed my mother, altogether distracted from her question about my night’s lodging. “Mr. Huffam, do you see how your poor judgment has brought your son down?”
“Now, now,” suggested Mr. Tuckum, “it is perhaps old-fashioned to express it, but a boy can’t move up until he is first down.”
My sister sniffled. “If Mr. Farquatt visits this evening, I beg you all, do not speak of John’s employment. It’s too degrading.”
“But I will earn five shillings a week,” I announced.
“Well done, John!” enthused Father. “You see, money is our best friend!”
Refusing to engage with him on that subject, I only said, “And you, sir, how did you pass the day?”
“Most agreeably. There are appealing people here with considerable talent. I think I may even be able to set up a dramatic society. What more could a theatrical producer want? There is, so to speak, a captive audience, abundant time, and little competition b
y way of entertainment.”
“Mr. Huffam,” scolded Mother, “what you have in this place is a house of martyred saints. There’s not one person here, not one soul that I spoke to, who will admit to having any fault that could have tumbled them. Every man, woman, and child insist they have been brought to debtors’ prison because of someone else’s folly, cruelty, or spite. The words ‘I am responsible’ are not spoken here.”
I looked at Father, but all he did was wink at me.
“Where were you last night?” my sister suddenly demanded.
“I met with a friend, who invited me to stay.”
“A friend from school?” asked Mother.
“Just so,” I replied.
“I fear there is not much room here,” said my father, “but of course …”
“You are welcome to return to the Halfmoon Inn with me,” said Mr. Tuckum. “We are all … hmm … family now. I assure you, Master John, I shall charge no fee.”
I studied his face, wondering if he merely wished to make some use of me. No, I had no desire to stay there but would go with Sary.
“If you will excuse me, sir,” I said, “I have already accepted a second night’s invitation with my friend.”
“And food?” asked Mother.
“That, too,” I said, turning to the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”
“Master John,” said Brigit, “may I walk with you to the gates?”
“It’s not necessary,” I said—rather coldly, I fear.
“I should like to,” she returned, sufficiently firm that it amounted to a command.
But no sooner did we leave the cell, the door shut behind us, than Mr. Farquatt appeared before us in the passageway.
“Good evening, Master John,” he said to me. “Mademoiselle Brigit,” he added with a curt nod.
Brigit drew herself up to her full height, towering over the man. “Mr. Farquatt,” she said, “will you be pushing your marriage proposal upon Mr. Huffam again?”