Chapter 6

The loud gush of hot steam drowned out the cry of the small boy who stood on the platform holding up his bundle of newspapers.

‘Cheers, guv’nor,’ the boy said, touching his hat.

Tucking the grey paper under my arm I tossed a coin into the urchin’s grubby fist and walked down the platform looking up the track at the oncoming steam engine - an invention that I had previously invested money in, with great success - but my interest in the train today had little to do with the money it was making for me and more to do with the lovely young lady travelling on it.

A tall slender woman, with a huge bustle, strutted past me, throwing me the most provocative expression; the lust was active and it attracted all the vulnerable unhappy beauties. She was followed by a man, who I assumed to be her husband, as he scurried forward leading a pair of hardy lads with an excessively large trunk.

The train slid slowly into the station and halted at the platform, jetting out vile-smelling steam into the already polluted air. I took out my handkerchief and wiped my face free of the floating black flecks of dirt and grime and looked through this impenetrable man-made fog.

‘Mr Jeffries!’ The station master ran forward clutching an envelope. ‘So glad I saw you, sir. This arrived on the nine-fifteen this morning.’

‘Thank you.’ I took the letter, glancing briefly at the penmanship before slipping it into my inside pocket.

As the steam cleared I saw Amanda smiling patiently at her terribly boring mother as they stepped from their first class carriage. She was tall and slender with long dark curly hair, which was pulled up at the front and held in place by a bright pink bow that matched the dusky pink of her travelling suit. Amanda, my pale English rose, was seventeen and making her debut in London’s society with startling impact. Her father, Lord Newham, was a gentleman inventor whose project I had an interest in.

‘Lady Newham!’ I called, walking confidently towards them. I doffed my tall top hat. ‘Miss Newham.’

I bowed over the offered hands, lingering over Amanda’s while I sucked in the smell of her sweet flesh that was vaguely tinged with the pollution coughed out from the engine of the train.

‘May I offer you my carriage?’

‘Mr Jeffries, that would be wonderful, and so awfully kind.’ Lady Newham smiled.

She was the kind of woman who overstated her upper class heritage because she was in fact from a middle-class background.

Therefore kind, was pronounced ‘kained’ and despite her still-trim figure her face held that trace of commonness, a slightly peasant ruddiness of the cheeks that no amount of powder could defuse.

I led the ladies swiftly to my carriage where my driver, George, took off his cap as he quickly dismounted and opened the carriage door. I stood back allowing the ladies to enter while slyly watching the gentle sway of Amanda’s hips as she climbed gracefully up. Underneath the fashionable bustle I imagined I could distinguish her boyish shape.

‘Have you just returned from somewhere, Mr Jeffries?’ Lady Newham asked as the carriage pulled away.

‘No. I was expecting a rather important parcel, which unfortunately failed to arrive from the patent office.’

She laughed. ‘My husband is always waiting for a “rather important parcel” too. Are you an inventor, Mr Jeffries?’

‘I fear you have caught me out. I am indeed an inventor, if a rather modest one. Certainly not on the same scale as your husband.’

‘You gentleman are obsessed with your inventions these days,’ Amanda chipped in quietly with an attempt at repartee.

‘Alas, what are we to do? Is it not the fashion?’ I replied.

‘Fashion!’ Amanda’s fair skin pinked subtly. ‘You are teasing me, Mr Jeffries ...’

‘I never tease, Miss Newham.’

I reached out, taking her small hand in mine, and planted a firm kiss on her pale wrist.

‘I always keep my promises.’

‘My husband must remain in London a day or two more,’ Lady Newham interrupted, her eyes fluttering beneath her very elaborate hat, which was so covered in flowers it was as though it had come directly from the garden.

‘Really? Then perhaps you will do me the honour of visiting tomorrow for a light brunch?’

‘We wouldn’t dream of imposing ...’

‘How can the presence of two lovely young ladies ever be an imposition?’

As we arrived at their country house, I helped Lady Newham step down from the carriage, and I sent a burst of the lust pulsing through her gloved hand. She blinked, a faint, lascivious smile curving her lips.

‘Then we would be delighted, Mr Jeffries.’

As I sat back down in the carriage I remembered the letter that the station master had given me. Removing it from my pocket I carefully opened it.

‘Mmmm. How interesting.’

‘Home then, sir?’ George asked through the grille.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Then you may have a few days off, George, to visit your ... relative, as promised.’

‘Thank yer, sir. That’s very kind.’

George’s lips moved and I tuned into his speech as easily as if I was standing in front of him instead of watching him through the thick glass window of the Tavern.

‘I’m telling yer ... Twenty years I’ve been with ’im and he’s never aged a day ...’ he slurred.

The letter in my jacket pocket burned into my skin.

Mr Jeffries,

I have some interesting news for you. Come and see me at the usual place.

Those closest to you are telling stories again. Unfortunately this has caught the interest of a certain writer whom I fear may wish to use this information against you.

Yours sincerely,

Mr Edwin Sykes Esq

George stopped talking and began to demand more ale from a passing barmaid whose low-cut top detracted attention from her pock-marked skin. She was a young girl and would have been attractive if not so badly scarred.

‘Here, my good man.’ A tall, plump man stepped in front of George and put down a large tanker of ale. ‘Allow me ...’

George snatched up the tanker and greedily drank it, his ruddy vein-covered face shining in the candlelight.

‘Thanks. You’re a real gent, guv’nor, and on time like you said you’d be.’

The visitor turned and swept his handkerchief over the wooden bench opposite before perching down on the edge, and I was able to see his fair eyes and curling effeminate hair more clearly. I was shocked to realise that the ‘writer’ was none other than that Irish tart, the rotund Oscar Wilde. As a playwright, I could only suspect Wilde’s motives in my apparent longevity.

‘Has your employer always lived in London?’

‘Well no, sir. We travels a lot. He picked me up off the streets, near Whitechapel. I was fifteen. I didn’t have no home, no job, nothing. He said he needs a stable boy at the time and his other driver, Henry, was getting on, see. We left London that very night. Didn’t come back until recent like. That was twenty years ago.’

‘Your message said he looks unusually young for his age. Let’s go back to the beginning, George. When you met him, how old was he?’

‘Well sir. I thought he was maybe a gent of twenty-five or so, but ...’

‘Yes?’

‘He was kind of mature for a wealthy young gent. No disrespect sir, but most of ’em is just ... yer know ... daft with women and money. He ... he reminded me of my old man. He always seemed one step ahead of me when I was a lad. You know what I mean, sir? And he sort of talked to me like he was much older. Always telling me fings. George, you need to save up for your old age. George, you need to fink about the future. Stop drinking George, it’ll kill ya. So I finks, yeah, well, he probably just looks good for his age. He must be at least firty.’

George swigged his ale, slopping a large amount around his mouth and down onto his smart black and gold overcoat. Wilde wrinkled his nose, passing his lace handkerchief to George without comment.

‘Ta, guv’nor. You’re a gent, if I might say so. Now where was we?’

‘His age?’ Wilde prompted.

‘Well ... like I said, I known him what ... twenty year.’

‘If he was thirty he must be at least fifty now?’

‘At least.’

‘That’s impossible! I’ve seen him.’

‘Scary, ain’t it?’ George quickly swung the jug up to his drooling lips. ‘But not if you sold your soul to the devil, it ain’t.’

Wilde sat back in his chair suddenly oblivious of the grimy bench that tarnished his pale cream coat.

‘Sold his soul ...’

‘Don’t get me wrong, guv’nor. He pays well. He’s been good to me too ... but ... it just gives me the creeps is all. Him, looking like a young man in his prime ...’

‘There’s more isn’t there?’

‘Yep. Last week it was. This gentleman stops him as he comes out of the gentleman’s club on Oxford Road ... You know the one?’

Wilde nodded.

‘And he says, “My goodness. It’s Mr Billington, isn’t it? Gavriel Billington?” And me guv’nor says, “Sorry, but you’ve mistaken me for someone else”. This man won’t have it. He tells him he’s certain and he hasn’t seen him for years. Then he asks about this young lady. “She disappeared you know? Everyone thought, she’d run off with you.” And my guv’nor, he looks kind of sick. He’s rude to the man, and he never is rude to anyone, sir. Not ever. I can tell you that.’

‘What happened then?’ Wilde sits farther forward.

‘The man pursues him to the carriage and the guv’nor pushes him over, sir. Raises his cane like he’ll hit him with it. And I finks to me self, what’s going on? This is important like. “Stay away from me,” says Mr Jeffries. “I told you, I’ve never seen you before.” Then he gets in the carriage and tells me to hurry up away. Later he says the man was a loony. Was begging for money, but I know what I saw. And heard.’

I stole away as Wilde left money for George, knowing that soon I must finish my quest in London. I would either seduce or marry Amanda. The latter was the most impossible option now and yet I had thought to disappear with my new bride, with my recent investments cashed in. Whether Amanda survived or not, I would be filled for a while and this would afford me the time to establish my life elsewhere.

I waited for George on the cold river bank until the early hours. He staggered out of the tavern and weaved his way along the Thames where he stopped, threw his head over the wall and vomited into the already dank water below.

As I stood in the dark I compared the beauty of the Arno to this vile river bank. It was odd how this disgusting, rat-infested canal, when balanced against the clear and lovely liquid of the water I recalled from my childhood in Florence, could make me feel so homesick.

I followed George as he tripped his way along the bank. Across the water a group of beggars gathered around a small fire made of twigs and salvaged waste. The fire crackled and spit at their icy hands. Farther down the stench became unbearable and I covered my nose with a gloved hand, cursing my over-sensitive sense of smell. George stopped again. This time he didn’t bother tipping his head over the wall, but vomited over the floor at his feet. The acerbic tang of urine greeted me as he emptied his bladder into his breeches. Nausea clutched at my stomach and I swallowed hard. I was rarely sick, but some humans had disgusting habits, particularly when intoxicated, and it was too much for even my immortal constitution. I stood behind him, hand outstretched, but for a moment the reek of him was insufferable. It took everything I had to grab his shoulder. As I spun him around I noted, with satisfaction, his startled gaze before I plunged the dagger deep into his throat.

‘Urgh.’

‘You should never have betrayed me, George. A nice retirement would have awaited you. I would have given you money to live comfortably. Now you die; a drunken fool, old before his time.’

His life ebbed; his eyes froze into an expression of horror and fear that would embellish his features until the rot eradicated his expression. I lifted his body - glad I was wearing black as a gush of blood splurged from the wound onto my jacket and over my hands. Leaving the dagger in place I tipped his body into the Thames. There was a moment of silence, followed by a muted thud as he hit the side and finally a small splash as he landed in the water. I looked across the river at the urchins and beggars, but none looked up; such was the norm for them on the bank of the Thames. It was always a safer option to ignore the sounds of murder.

It was a shame George was such a drunkard; he’d been a good coachman. At least his tall tales would no longer be heard in the riverside tavern and Wilde and his ilk could not gather any more information on me for the time being. I looked at my hands. Why had I wasted so much blood? Perhaps George’s life would have filled me just as much as any other?

I walked slowly away from the river licking my hands. Did I feel any more satisfied? Was this still-warm liquid ever so gently soothing the lust? Of course. Just like the brief deaths of other traitors and would-be muggers, his blood fed me despite the unsatisfactory way it was obtained. For the next few weeks the desperation receded, allowing me the time to plan my conquest of Amanda, giving me the opportunity to regain control of my remaining time in London.