*[Thomas Netter (c.1375–1430), born in Saffron Walden in Essex (thus known in religion as Thomas Waldensis), was a Carmelite theologian and controversialist, and confessor to Henry V. He played a prominent part in the prosecution of Wycliffites and Lollards. The Sacramentalia is the third volume of the author’s Doctrinale antiquitatum fidei ecclesiae catholicae, a complete apologia of Catholic dogma and ritual intended to counter the attacks of Wycliff and others. On the face of it, it is a strange work for the narrator to covet. Ed.]
7
In dubio*
I found Le Grice waiting for me, lounging against a wall, cheroot in mouth, in the feeble but welcome sun.
‘God damn you, G,’ he cursed, good-humouredly, as I approached. ‘Been waitin’ for you for fifteen minutes or more. Where the devil have you been? The tide will be out before we get off.’
We pulled the skiff down to the water, stowed our coats in the stern, rolled up our sleeves, and pushed off into the inky-brown water.
Behind us were the myriad masts of the Docks, London Bridge, dense with its morning traffic, and the looming dome of St Paul’s; before us, the distant line of Waterloo Bridge, and the slow curve of the broad stream down towards Hungerford Market. All around were vessels of every type and size, plying up and down, and on each bank the city bristled in silhouette against the pearly-grey light, brushed over with the always present haze that the metropolis exuded. Past vistas of dark lanes opening out towards the river’s edge we went, past the crazy lines of chimney pots and jagged tenements etched against the sky, and the nobler outlines of spires and battlements, past watermen’s stairs and landing stages, warehouses and gardens. All about us gulls wheeled and circled, their raucous cries mingling with the river sounds of waves slapping against moored hulls, the flap of sails and pennants, the distant toot of a steam-tug.
We rowed on steadily, saying nothing, each enjoying the sensation of pulling against the mighty stream, glad to be out on the open water – even foul Thames water on a November day. For my part, I felt sweet release from the many nights that I had spent staring at the skylight above my bed. In front of me, the muscles of Le Grice’s great back wrenched and stretched the oyster-coloured silk of his waistcoat almost to bursting, and for a moment my mind started back to my former dream of rowing down a hot summer river behind the muffled form of Lucas Trendle. But the image passed, and I pulled on.
Just below Essex Wharf, a woman dressed in tattered and filthy clothes, a hamper suspended by her side from a leather strap about her shoulders, the remnant of a ragged bonnet on her head, was prodding and poking along the shore, serenely seeking objects of value in the ooze and foetid slime of the river’s margin. She looked up and, ankle-deep in the mud, stood watching us, her hand shielding her eyes against the strengthening sun, as we rowed past.
After tying up below Hungerford Stairs, I reached into the stern to retrieve our coats. On doing so I noticed, some way behind us, a single figure in a small rowing boat, oars down in the water. He had clearly been proceeding upstream on a similar course to ours, but now, like us, he had come to a rest, though he remained some distance out from the shore.
‘Did you not see him?’ asked Le Grice, twisting his great neck back towards me and looking over at the solitary figure. ‘He joined us soon after we saw the woman at Essex Wharf. Friend of yours?’
No friend of mine, I thought. He presented a threatening silhouette, his tall hat standing up starkly black against the light that was now breaking westwards down the channel of the river.
Then it struck me. I had been a fool to believe that Fordyce Jukes would think of following me himself, knowing that I would instantly have recognized him. He must have some accomplice – and here he was, the man in the boat, grimly biding his time; the man, perhaps, who had tapped me on the shoulder outside the Diorama; and the man who had pushed past me under the Egyptian portals at Abney Cemetery. No longer invisible; no longer shadow-hidden: he was here, in full daylight, though still out of reach. But sweet relief washed over me on seeing him; for now, I hoped, I could begin to turn the tables. Come a little closer, I whispered to myself, just a little closer. Let me see your face.
‘What’s that you say?’ Le Grice was reaching back for me to hand him his coat.
‘I said nothing. Here.’
I threw his coat at him, and then turned again to look back at our pursuer. If I could lure him from the safety of his boat onto dry land, then I might contrive an opportunity to confront him. I pulled on my coat, feeling the reassuring weight of the pocket-pistols I always carried with me. Then I gave one more look astern, to fix in my mind the distant figure of the watcher.
He was exceptionally tall, with broad shoulders – even broader, perhaps, than Le Grice’s; clean shaven, as far as I could tell, though his upturned coat collar might conceal whiskers; and his large ungloved hands gripped the oars purposefully as he contended with the current to maintain his stationary position. But the more I scrutinized him, the more anxious I became. A formidable opponent, doubtless; but I am also a big man, and was confident that I could give a good account of myself, if it came to it. Why, then, this anxiety? What was it about this bobbing figure that discomfited me?
We gained the street, and proceeded to Le Grice’s Club, the United Service. Le Grice had been kicking around for some years with no fixed prospect in view; but being a soldier’s son, the opening of hostilities in the East earlier in the year, and the despatch of the expeditionary force to the Crimea, had suddenly stirred him to buy into the Guards, though he had yet to take up his duties. He talked excitedly of his impending military career. Like everyone at that time, his head was full of the great events in the Russian campaign, especially of the Light Brigade’s heroic charge at Balaclava, soon to be so memorably evoked in Mr Tennyson’s great ode.* For my part, I was happy to let him talk on, for my mind was occupied with our friend from the river. I had expected to catch sight of him by now, but, to my surprise, no one appeared to be following us.
We reached the steps of the Club, crowded with arriving members, without incident. Luncheon was excellent in every respect. Le Grice, in fine form, called for a second bottle of champagne, and then another; but I wished to stay alert, thinking still of our pursuer, and so let him have the lion’s share. After an hour or so had passed, it became apparent that my companion was in no fit state to row back with me; and so, after putting him into a hansom, I returned to the river alone.
Stopping every few yards to make sure I was not being tracked, I finally arrived at Hungerford Steps, retrieved the skiff, and prepared to row back. My head was racing. Where was he? I set off, turning my head from time to time, expecting he would be there, but I could see nothing. Arriving at Temple Pier, I stood up to moor the craft, lost my balance, and fell back into the river. As I sat there, in two feet of cold stinking water, the amused object of attention of a number of passers-by on the embankment above, I saw the dark figure of the solitary rower. Once more he had stopped his craft mid-stream, laid back his oars, and sat looking straight ahead with ominous concentration. Again, no features were discernible, simply this alarming attitude of acute attentiveness.
Cursing under my breath, I slopped and splashed my way back to Temple-street. At each corner I stopped and looked back, to see if the mysterious rower had disembarked his craft and was following me, but there was no sign of him. Unable to bear the water in my boots any longer, I tore them off in frustrated fury and walked the last few yards to the stair-case of my chambers in just my stockinged feet.