I slept – or rather lay – that night in a lodging house in an alley off Fetter-lane. It was a daedal maze of chambers like evil-smelling cupboards; but I paid to have a room to myself and wedged the palliasse against the door. The only intruders were rats and insects, though the house around me was never still, never quiet.
My mind was equally restless. Even if I disposed of the ring, I did not think it would be wise for me to return to Stoke Newington. Mr Bransby was not a corrupt man but he was zealous in attending to the wishes of wealthy parents and guardians. I had little doubt he would dismiss me from his employment; leaving aside the accusation of theft, either of the other accusations was sufficiently grave to justify him in dispensing with my services.
Dansey’s conduct saddened me, though by warning me of what was afoot, he had saved me from almost certain arrest. I was grateful for his kindness, but I own that his unwillingness to trust me rankled. I had not expected that of him. For all his kindness, there seemed something mean-spirited about his behaviour.
Now, as perhaps never before, I needed the advice of a disinterested friend. As the night wore on, the conviction grew that my best course was to find Mr Rowsell as soon as possible and lay the whole matter before him – or almost the whole, for I did not wish to elaborate on what had passed between Sophie and myself, or even between myself and Miss Carswall. As a lawyer, he would be well placed to advise me, and as a friend he had always treated me with kindness.
On Friday morning, therefore, I washed as well as I could and put on fresh linen. I left the lodging house, breakfasted at a stall and went to a barber’s to be shaved. Fed and respectable, I made my way to Lincoln’s Inn. Atkins, Mr Rowsell’s clerk, was copying a document in the outer room. He greeted me coldly – Atkins never cared for me; I believe he was jealous of my place in his master’s affections. I begged the favour of a few words with Mr Rowsell.
“I am afraid he is not here today, sir.”
“He has been called away on business?”
“He has been unwell: there was palpitation of the heart yesterday, and Mrs Rowsell kept him at home to be bled. I believe he is quite recovered but he sent word this morning that he would stay away until Monday.”
“Would he object if I waited upon him at home?”
Atkins’s mouth puckered in the pale circle of his face. “Mr Rowsell is a gentleman who enjoys company, sir.”
I thanked him and walked up to Northington-street. When I rang the bell, the door was opened by a servant but Mrs Rowsell was coming down the stairs, with a gaggle of children behind her. I scarcely had time to open my mouth when she pushed aside the maid and confronted me on the doorstep. I swept off my hat and made my bow.
“Mr Shield,” she said, her face reddening. “You are not welcome in this house.”
In the chilly silence, the children stared up at me. The maid peeped over her mistress’s shoulder. Bransby knew of my connection with Mr Rowsell but I had not anticipated that he would move against me with such rapidity: he must have written yesterday, as soon as he had had the letter from Carswall. Nor had I expected Carswall’s malignity to pursue me so far, or so quickly, or my friends to be so little proof against its power.
“Madam,” I began, “I hope I have done nothing to offend –”
“Go,” she commanded and flung out her right arm as though to sweep me from the doorstep. “Mr Rowsell will not see you again, either here or at Lincoln’s Inn. Nor shall I. Go, Mr Shield, and never return.”
I bowed, replaced my hat and walked away. The door slammed. I drifted, allowing my legs to carry me according to their whim through streets filled with slush and mud and restless crowds. I had lost my position, my good name and even my friends. I had lost Sophie – indeed, had she ever been mine? In the middle of the throng I was as solitary as if I had been a castaway on a desert island.
The currents of the city flung me hither and thither, and at last washed me up among the coaches and wagons in the yard of the Bull and Mouth in St Martins-le-Grand. I hesitated at the open door of the coffee house, the rich smells reminding my stomach that I was hungry. But now I was friendless, I knew I must conserve my meagre stock of money; and I owed it to both my aunt and myself to preserve intact my little nest-egg in the Funds for as long I could.
A plump man was standing in the doorway, haranguing an unseen audience within. He was thinking about money, too. “Six shillings a day! Have you ever heard the like? God damn it, do they think I’m Croesus? Six shillings a day!”
At the same moment, a lady leaned over one of the balconies that ran round the yard and communicated with the rooms beyond. She called down to her maid, who was taking a parcel to the Cirencester coach. “Why didn’t you pack the pearls?” she cried. “You silly, silly girl! You know I always take my pearls.”
Six shillings. Pearls.
The words flew together and jogged my memory. A foolish schoolboy pun fell out. Mrs Jem, I had said on the day that Mr Rowsell had informed me of my aunt Reynolds’s legacy to me, Mrs Jem, you are indeed a pearl of great price. Mrs Jem lived at 3 Gaunt-court, and she still owed me six shillings from the sale of my aunt’s belongings.