Catherine Stovall [Stovall - Cogs in Time Anthology

By Robert Craven

My old friend Frederick Devereux summoned me to a gaslight supper at The Farringdon Restaurant in Leicester Square, one hot July evening in the year 1898. His hangdog assistant, Pennington, having traversed the metropolis of London by hansom cab, had delivered his card to my lodgings close to Adelphi Terrace.

Standing in my reception, I noticed Penningtons suit was frayed around the elbows and knees. His shoes, though polished, were soiled around the heel, no doubt on some assignment around the wharves and opium dens that had sprouted up along the Thames. His collar, appeared freshly starched, but had a faint rim of grime. As for the Derby hat perched uneasily over his oiled hair, it gave off a definite air of defeat.

Im afraid Mr. Devereux is quite insistent you dine with him this evening, sir. He replied when I questioned the lateness of the hour. His accent was Lancastrian, each word carefully measured. We had met once before during Cowes week, when I had helmed Devereuxs yacht The Miranda .

Well, Mr. Pennington, let us go and see what is so urgent, then shall we? I donned my smartest frock coat and silk top hat despite the cloying heat, and reached for my walking cane.

My limp wasnt as pronounced in the summer as in the dank days of November last year. The cane; a recent addition to my ensemble, was a gift from the Admiralty. I checked myself in the mirror, ensuring everything was as it should be; tie pin and watch chain correctly placed. Leaving a note with my housekeeper, Mrs Kelleher, not to leave a supper out, I followed the hulking Pennington to the waiting cab.

The hansom was idling in the street, the horse nodding indolently in the balmy night. Londons gaslights flickered like distant fireflies and the hour rang up the Thames from Big Ben the very beating heart of the Empire. The driver, a lean Irishman with lush grey sideburns and small eyes, leaped nimbly down and opened the door with the slightest hint of insolence.

Lovely evening, gentlemen, where to?

The Farringdon.

Very good.

The cab clipped smartly from the square into the main thoroughfare. Pennington remained silent throughout the journey, occasionally glancing out and looking back, his right hand inside the lapels of his jacket. I suspected he had a revolver concealed in there.

Within the hour, we were at the restaurant. We negotiated a rate with the cab driver to remain outside, though it was a hard bargain, we reached a suitable arrangement. Leaning back into his seat, the Irishman produced a long, thin clay pipe and lit it.

The faint waft of exotic tobacco, laced with laudanum, drifted from him. Leicester square was ablaze with gas-lit and new electrical signage, pulsing to sounds of conversations, music halls, sideshows and organ grinders. Penningtons eyes darted over every passer-by. Satisfied there was no immediate threat, he shook my hand firmly,

Mr. Devereux wishes to see you alone, sir. As soon as he uttered this, Pennington had walked away, blending into the night amid the bustling cacophony of humanity.

I found Devereux in his usual booth. He had his leather-bound tome of music scores on the table. He could often be found in the stalls of an evening concert, one hand waving out the tempo, the long index finger of the other hand following the orchestral score, every note performed, subjected to a forensic analysis. Music was a passion we both shared, along with astronomy. Beyond the booth, at the tables, showgirls, painted ladies and stage-door Jonnies sat, drank and smoked into the small hours. Known for its discretion, The Farringdon was a favourite with several members of parliament.

Good to see you again, Wentworth, I trust your leg is improving?

Im afraid when it was re-set, the surgeon was working under an excessive consumption of cognac. My own fault for enlisting him. It will never be right again. Sometimes on freezing winter days, I wished the leg had been removed. I brandished my ebony walking cane with the silver handle fashioned into a fox, triumphantly.

My parting gift.

Along with a suitable pension, I hope?

Perfectly adequate, thank you.

The South China seas arent for the faint-hearted, my dear boy. He agreed.

Devereux had about him the self-contained air of nobility, earned from a substantial fortune made from his weaving mills in Manchester and his recently sold bicycle factory. He wore a golden pince-nez, fashionably styled coat and trousers, his thick mane of grey hair pomaded in the style of a lusty Italian poet. His beard was full in the radical style of Marx.

It was then that I noticed his companion. A dainty female, dressed entirely in black, sat still at the other end of the table. By candle light, I could not discern her features as they were masked by a heavy black veil. I could make out the blood red of her lipstick, a small mouth, possibly oriental. Her dress was an exotic, rich, black and two long, unadorned, elegant hands rested on the table. A lady travelling incognito.

Ah! Forgive me, Wentworth, allow me to introduce you. Captain Wentworth, R.N., may I introduce Lady Beatrice Holyfield.

I rose, a little disconcerted at my poor manners, and bowed. She gave the most delicate of nods.

And now, my dear Wentworth, let us dine.

I noted he didnt order for his companion.

After a sumptuous supper of pheasant, Devereux and I lit cigars and swilled a heavy Burgundy as we waited for coffee. Lady Beatrice never stirred through the meal; though her head inclined politely to us each time we spoke. Her stillness, I found quite fascinating.