T is for
treachery
(n.)
Winceworth descended to the basement of the Scrivenery in a creaking, cage-like lift. He had only glimpsed down to the cellar once before – as far as he knew it was an untouched, unbothered part of the building, sequestered and sectioned away until the first edition of the dictionary was ready to print. It was full of damp and shadows, the scuttle of strange unseen unnameables alongside the ready-for-use printing presses. He struck a match as he descended and in the flash of light saw the pristine presses sitting waiting in the dark. He could not have told you what the parts of machinery were called nor their intended function – they looked hulking and sleek in the dark and somehow open-jawed. They made the air stink like metaclass="underline" a foretaste of the steam and inksweat of printing to come whenever Swansby’s New Encyclopaedic Dictionary was ready to roll out volume by volume, word by word.
Something skipped over his foot and Winceworth shrank back in the lift. What was the point in all these cats if a burlesque of mice was able to hotch beneath the floorboards? What he thought he had heard from the Scrivenery hall was no pest, however, or a mere clank of pipes expanding or floorboards flexing. He stepped forward into the gloom and struck another match as another mnmunmuffled laugh crept from behind one of the nearest printing presses. He rounded the corner and looked down. The woman scrabbled to cover herself as he lowered the match to her level, and she rolled away and bobbed behind a pile of boxes in the shadows. As she did so, she gave another titter.
Frasham had no such scruples. He was dressed in only his shirtsleeves and socks, everything unbuttoned and encyclopaedic. Winceworth swept his match in an arc and saw his colleague reclining odalisque on the ground, propped up on one elbow and using his jacket as a blanket.
Frasham extended his arms: ‘The whispering lisper!’ He seemed unruffled and either genuinely delighted to have been caught or delighted by his companion’s embarrassment. ‘My good man, descend and join the party!’
There had always been rumours about Frasham and his friends carrying on in this way. Carrying on in this way – Winceworth’s mind became prissy and frilled with euphemism. He heard plenty of gossipy mutterings about Frasham’s dalliances, with talk of lewd boasts and comments and tally charts. Winceworth picked up on this chatter because people talked over his head in the Scrivenery and it was impossible not to rake through the ashtrays and berms of conversations. He had always assumed that these tales of trysts and encounters were just swagger and braggadocio, or, if indeed real, they occurred in grotty hotels or alleyways in Whitechapel. But of course that was not Frasham’s style – of course he would use the Scrivenery as his own bordello once everybody else had gone home. It rankled that even the private and unexpected, scurrilous luxury of after-hours Swansby House had been taken away from him the very evening that he made use of it. Terence Clovis Frasham had been there the whole time beneath the floorboards, snuffling and rutting and doing what he did best with not a care in the world.
Winceworth turned to leave. As the match guttered he noticed again the woman who had shrank back to the side of the room. She was not cowering from Frasham, necessarily, but from discovery. Winceworth recognised her salt-white hair as the match burned out.
‘I trust you are well, Miss Cottingham,’ he said. She tutted and drew some piece of clothing under her chin.
‘Now really,’ Frasham said, smiling through his moustache in such a way that his teeth caught the light, ‘you’ll embarrass her. A drink?’
There was a tfft of flame and Frasham lit a lamp by his side. It revealed a table with an open bottle on it and two glasses. The clothing on the floor tripped Winceworth slightly as he came forward. Pons pons pons. His head was splitting.
‘You are all right, Miss Cottingham?’
‘Perfectly well,’ came the reply, snapped and guarded. Frasham laughed.
‘I would say please, sit down but perhaps your company would not be entirely appreciated. Another time, perhaps.’
‘Until tomorrow, Frasham.’ Winceworth made for the stairs.
‘I’ll never get tired of how you say my name, dear Winceworth. Fraffth’m. You make me sound positively effervescent.’
Winceworth heard a dutiful snicker from Miss Cottingham. ‘Leave him alone,’ she chided, but went on laughing.
Frasham went on: ‘You look completely ludicrous: like you’d been in the wars with a hedge.’ Winceworth moved again to leave but Frasham called after him, ‘Completely battered – a rum job, old man, rum job. And to think it was because of my little prank you were anywhere near Barking. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?’ Winceworth didn’t say anything. Frasham did not seem to notice. ‘Especially since your battle of wits with the bird earlier. And I must say, I’m surprised to find you still in the building: why is that, do you think, darling?’ He directed this to Miss Cottingham. ‘Working over-hours? Got your own little projects to attend to?’ and Frasham raised an arm and indicated the underground room that he occupied, his little kingdom.
‘I bid you both a good night,’ Winceworth said.
‘I’d be pleased if you didn’t mention to anyone your bumping into us,’ Frasham said. The tone was gentle, with no sense of pleading or shame in it, but had an extra edge.
‘I am sure you would be.’ Frasham regarded him. Then, smoothing down his shirt so that it just grazed past his knees, he approached Winceworth. Winceworth took a step back, closer to the lift, but untrousered Frasham pulled his arm and brought them together into a loose embrace as if they were the oldest friends. His breath was sweet and clear.
‘I’ve been meaning to say—’
‘You do not need to make jokes about my lisp.’
‘You misunderstand!’ Frasham recoiled, hurt, then closed back in. ‘My uncle has a friend who has a friend,’ he said, his moustache close to Winceworth’s ear, ‘who knows a man about a dog who knows a man who works in the British Museum. He has keys. Keys to rooms you wouldn’t imagine.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Winceworth said.
Frasham gave a conspiratorial, boyish wiggle of his shoulders. He had never spoken one-on-one to his lowly desk-man counterpart at such length before, and Winceworth felt adrift in the dynamics of power at play. He felt all vulnerability, vulning.
‘You must have heard of it,’ Frasham continued. At school we used to talk about nothing else. Stuff straight from Burton’s translations, Pisanus Fraxi and all that – sculptures and everything.’ Across the room, the Condiment pulled a chemise across her shoulders and fidgeted with hairpins. Frasham seemed to have completely forgotten about her and their discovery. ‘All sorts in there that the public is not allowed to see.’ Frasham studied Winceworth’s face. ‘Well! My uncle and I have been pulling some connections and tomorrow night we have a private viewing! To properly celebrate my being back in the Great Wen!’ He laughed, open-mouthed. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘Sounds quite the evening.’
For his contribution, Winceworth earned another laugh. All Frasham seemed to do was laugh. ‘Elizabeth will be there,’ Frasham said, nodding at Miss Cottingham. She kept Winceworth at a firm distance, jaw set and tight.
‘And Sophia?’ Winceworth asked.
Frasham smirked. ‘Well, now, certain subjects and activities are not perhaps best suited for one such as she. These evenings can get rather raucous.’
‘As if that would keep her away,’ Miss Cottingham snorted. ‘Isn’t she selling some of her collection? Brought all the way from the wild and savage Steppes?’