Horton arrived at the Prospect soon after six. He bought himself a pint of porter and sat down near a window looking out onto the river. With Lamb not due until seven, he had some time to himself, valuable time in which to think. His eyes rested on the ships and boats crowding the river outside. Their endless activity always settled him.
His peace was short-lived. Within minutes an unwelcome figure had made himself known. Horton, gazing out onto the Thames, had not seen his arrival, and was startled by Edward Markland’s hand on his shoulder and his velvet voice in his ear.
‘Constable Horton. I was told I would find you in here.’
Horton frowned. Somebody at the River Police, stirring up trouble for him, had no doubt passed on his whereabouts. Or perhaps Markland had been to his home. The man did not understand other men’s boundaries.
‘Mr Markland,’ he said. ‘I am meeting somebody here shortly in reference to the current case.’
‘I am glad to hear it. This will not take long.’
Markland sat down. He took no drink; in fact he looked with some distaste at the metal tankard in front of Horton.
‘Does the drinking of ale aid you in your considerations, constable?’ he asked.
‘I find it does. Taken in reasonable amounts.’
‘Ah. And I wonder what reasonable amounts are, constable. I am told you are a frequent denizen of this establishment.’ Markland said establishment with the same contempt as he might say France.
‘It is a useful spot for meeting informants, sir.’
‘Is it? Reliable informants, no doubt. Made compliant through the copious taking of alcohol.’ Markland sniffed, and passed a handkerchief under his nose, as if the air of the Prospect was polluting his interior.
‘Now, Horton,’ he said. ‘You have brought me no new information on the Johnson case today. I find this unsatisfactory. It is my understanding that you have recently visited East India House.’
‘You seem very well informed, sir.’
‘That may be so, constable, that may be so. Still, the question remains: why did you not report to me about your visit?’
‘I was planning to come to you tomorrow, sir.’
This was a lie. Indeed, he had comfortably forgotten that he was accountable to Markland on this particular case. The man was characteristically rather indolent and had, on previous cases for which Horton had investigated for him, been happy to let the constable alone. This case, it seemed, was different. Different enough to get the Shadwell magistrate away from his usual habitat and into a smelly and grimy tavern.
‘Well, we shall never know if you planned to visit me or not, shall we, constable? As it is, Mr Burroughs sent me a personal note to complain about your presence.’
‘Mr Burroughs is a man of your acquaintance?’
‘He is indeed. And, lest it be said that I am as miserly with my information as you are with yours, know this, constable: I am, like Burroughs, a Proprietor of the East India Company. Only with one vote, but nonetheless, I have interests.’
‘You did not mention this before, sir.’
‘I did not think it relevant before, constable.’
‘Then I take it you will no longer be involved in this particular case?’
Markland blinked and then frowned and then smiled.
‘Your reasoning, constable?’
‘Your personal interests, sir. If it came to pass that there were Company matters entwined with these events . . .’
‘If it came to pass. It will not come to pass, constable. It will certainly not.’
It was rare to see the real Markland, thought Horton, but he wondered if he was seeing him now. Ambitious. Hard-nosed. Contemptuous of his inferiors. The street-fighter in the guise of the dandy.
‘You seem very, very sure of yourself, constable,’ Markland said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You forget yourself. You forget who I am. I am your superior. And, in this matter, you will take direction from me.’
‘And from Mr Harriott, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. Harriott.’
Markland eased back in his chair, the old comfortable smile on his smooth face. His fingers stroked each other, as if they were infatuated with themselves.
‘Your magistrate, constable, is not quite the man you think he is.’
The tankard in Horton’s hand felt suddenly heavy. Or perhaps it was just the air in the room thinning out, its invisible odours dropping away. Markland smiled a vinegar-thin smile.
‘Harriott is financially embarrassed, constable. Acutely so. He has made certain unfortunate investments. He is an inveterate fiddler in business, as you must certainly know. He has a number of patents which he has been trusting to lift him out from this temporary difficulty. Unfortunately, none of them has performed the way he may have wanted. He has been forced to move to a meaner residence in Burr Street. And he is terribly ill.’
Horton stood up.
‘Sit down, constable.’
Horton’s fist clenched, and Markland saw it.
‘Do me violence, constable, and see what happens. Now, I say again: sit down.’
Helplessly, Horton returned to his seat.
‘I regret having to bring up the unfortunate matter of your magistrate’s private affairs. But you will understand I only have your best interests at heart. Harriott is your protector. He is the man who gives you clear water within which to pilot your odd little craft. But he is not a man on whom you should rely.’
Markland leaned forward.
‘I am that man, constable. I am willing to be your protector.’
‘Sir, I know nothing of Mr Harriott’s position, financial or otherwise.’
‘You do now.’
‘I shall forget what I have heard. But until Mr Harriott tells me otherwise – or until his superior does – I will continue to be loyal to him.’
‘Admirable. Contemptible, as well. Contemptibly shortsighted.’
‘Perhaps, sir.’
‘I can have you removed from this investigation, constable.’
‘I’m not at all sure you can, sir. Not if Mr Harriott wishes to pursue it.’
‘It is my case, not his.’
‘And that is a matter for discussion between the two of you. I, as a lowly constable, only do what my magistrate tells me to.’
‘Poppycock. You are your own man, Horton. Do not underestimate my intelligence.’
Horton said nothing to that. Markland stared at him, a cat gazing at a recalcitrant mouse. Then he stood.
‘You will report to me every day, Horton,’ he said. ‘And you will, in particular, give me a full account of any dealings you may or may not have with the Honourable East India Company. I will allow you to continue your investigations in the manner you see fit, but I will not permit you to keep Harriott more regularly informed than I. Do I make myself clear, constable?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do not make an enemy of me, Horton,’ said Markland. ‘Do not embarrass me in front of my peers. Do right by me, and I shall do right by you.’
He smiled, and it was not the usual Markland smile, the welcoming grin which settled the room and made everyone feel they were in the presence of integrity and wit, for however short a time. No, this was the smile of the leopard in the tree watching the gazelle walk beneath, a smile that emphasised the teeth within.
‘Why, Cuh-Cuh-Cuh-Constable Horton. I do be-be-believe you may be a little the worse for drink.’
Charles Lamb announced his arrival at Horton’s table in the Prospect an hour after Markland’s departure. He grinned, his face warm and friendly despite the clerical pallor, and offered to buy Horton another drink. Horton agreed, though he was already on his fourth pint of porter. He had drunk rapidly after his exchange with Markland. Lamb went away and returned with the drinks: a tankard for Horton, and a jug of gin and a cup for himself.
‘Fuh-fuh-fuh-forgive me for playing the lush, constable,’ said Lamb, after downing a shocking amount of gin in a single draft. ‘This in-in-infernal STAMmer only responds to drink, and we need to tuh-tuh-tuh-TALK.’ He swallowed more gin, and began to talk, of general matters at first: of Bonaparte’s infernal return, of the battle of Tolentino, of the latest coalition and the ambitions of Russia. Lamb spoke with creativity and power, such that Horton found himself vividly picturing the Emperor’s approach towards the Low Countries, his northern march into that figurative space which England shared with the United Netherlands, the flat expanses of sea and land into which the Thames poured. The ale churned in his mind as he looked out at the ships on the river, busy in their industry and diligent, oblivious to the warlike chants from over the water.
Lamb’s stammer did indeed smooth out, the jagged interruptions to his speech giving way to his own personality. He was a man of Horton’s age, perhaps a little younger, with a handsome, open face which was quick to take delight. Lamb watched the other people in the Prospect, which by now was crowded, with the same appetite as Horton.
‘Well, constable, I must say this. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.’
‘I thank you, sir,’ said Horton, somewhat disturbed by this. ‘You knew my name at East India House. How did that come to be?’
‘Know your name? Of course I know your name! The famous Charles Horton, Wapping’s lonely investigator. The éminence grise of crime and its detection. The man who solved the Solander case!’
The mention of the Solander murders brought Horton up short, ale or no ale. How did an East India Company clerk come to know, and what is more, to obviously care about that particular case and his involvement in it? But Lamb was not yet done.
‘And the Sybarites? An unusual case. Though not as uncommon as the London Monster of 1811. Was John Williams really involved, constable? Or was there a darker power at work?’
Lamb’s handsome, intelligent face now had hunger in it. He had seen a similar appetite in the faces of newspaper men, though Lamb’s interest surely could not be for financial gain, as theirs was.
‘You have me at a terrible disadvantage, Lamb,’ was all Horton would say. Lamb laughed delightedly.
‘Perfect! Your reputation is well earned. A man who keeps his own counsel. Coleridge will be delighted.’
‘Coleridge?’
‘He wanted to come to meet you, but was occupied with another obligation. But I shall report back in detail.’
‘Lamb, this grows tiresome. Who are you, please, to know so much of me?’
‘My name is Charles Lamb, constable. As well as clerking at the Company, I write a bit. The odd essay, the occasional tragedy, even a play for Drury Lane some years ago, though it was met with precious little fanfare. Coleridge, though. You must have heard of Coleridge.’
‘The name is familiar.’
‘Familiar! He is one of England’s finest thinkers and poets!’
‘I read little poetry. In fact, none at all.’
‘No. Of course you do not. But Coleridge has heard of you, sir. We all have. Your name has been discussed several times among us. We find you, and your works, continually fascinating. De Quincey speaks of little else. He is preparing a monograph on the Ratcliffe Highway murders.’
Horton had no idea what to say. This man was obviously well educated and no doubt financially secure – East India House clerks were well paid and vacancies were subject to ferocious competition. Yet despite his charm he talked of Horton as if he were a subject for study, seemingly unconcerned by this impertinence. Who were these poets and writers, to speak of him so?
‘Mr Lamb, I thank you for your enthusiasm,’ he said. ‘But I swear, there is nothing particular or special about me. I am only pursuing the tasks which my magistrate lays in front of me.’
‘No indeed, constable. I think there is a good deal more to you than that. And I think it right that you look into the strange death of poor Ben Johnson and his family. There is a good deal more to that than meets the eye, as well.’
‘Perhaps you can enlighten me.’
‘I have worked as a clerk to the private trade committee for barely a year, constable. And I do believe my presence there to be in the nature of an accident – I am not as bovine as most of the clerks who go through that office.
Lamb sipped his gin more gently, his stutter gone under the drink’s earlier ministrations.
‘I believe Ben discovered something. It was a day some months ago. Putnam had given him a task to complete – he wanted to calculate the market rate for cattle sold in St Helena to Indiamen on the track home, or some such triviality – and gave him certain ledgers from which to gather the information. Ben became agitated at the completion of this task.’
‘Agitated? In what way?’
‘Nothing dramatic. He was a phlegmatic individual. And he didn’t say anything explicitly. Most people would not have noticed. It has been a time of general agitation at East India House; somebody is always worried about something.’
‘Why has there been such agitation?’
‘There are some who think the Company is coming to the end of its time. Two years ago a law was passed which opened trade in India to interlopers, and this has sparked much dismay. Ben told me that he had noticed another change, in recent weeks, relating to St Helena directly. It was as if the Directors expected the island to slip from their grasp. He was deluged by requests for information. St Helena is an oddity in the Company’s holdings. It has never paid its way, you know; it has only ever really served as a staging post for Indiamen returning home. Its loss would, one would think, bear little weight on the Company.’
‘So what did Johnson discover?’
‘He did not say, explicitly. But he said he thought he knew why the Directors wanted to hold on to St Helena.’
‘When was this?’
‘Three months ago, initially. I tried to ask him about it again later, to speak to him about his progress. But he denied having found anything of interest at all. He grew positively heated when I raised it.’
‘When was this second conversation?’
‘Six weeks ago.’
The man was determined to see a story here, even if none existed. He imagined Lamb perched at his clerk’s desk, bored out of his wits, his mind spinning flights of fantasy from the slenderest of threads.
‘Mr Lamb, it is important that we do not see things that are not there.’
Lamb’s face turned sour.
‘Constable, my understanding is perfectly solid. I find your suggestion impertinent. I have told you of my suspicions, and my admiration for you. I think I have done all I can.’
Lamb drank down the remainder of his gin.
‘I will take my leave of you, and my imperfect understanding will accompany me. Good night, constable.’
Horton watched the clerk’s thin, long shape make its way out through the crowds in the tavern, and wondered what he had said to offend him so.
St Helena, 22 November 1677
My dear Sir Jonas
I hoped to write to you before now, but have had little to report on the main matter of my voyage. I hoped that we might have some clear weather when the Sun came near our Zenith, so that I might give you an account that I had near finished the Catalogue of the Southern Stars, which is my principal concern; but such hath been my ill fortune, that the Horizon of this Island is almost covered with a Cloud, which sometimes for some weeks together hath hid the Stars from us, and when it is clear, is of so small continuance, that we cannot take any number of observations at once; so that now when I expected to be returning, I have not finished above half my work.
Such hath been my frustrations in staring at the Skies, I have had to turn my attentions to the Island itself, and the People upon it. There are about four hundred Whites in the place, almost all of them planters, and a quantity of Blacks who are slaves. These Whites appear healthy enough, for the climate is astonishingly mild, but the Blacks are appallingly treated. But I do not speak of these. This day I encountered a creature who seems neither Planter nor Slave, an ugly Creature whom I take for a Portuguese. He has neither nose nor ears, and one of his hands is entirely missing. I spied him by my observatory, which he was much intrigued by. He had no English, and I no Portuguese, but by a sequence of attempts I concluded he could speak Dutch. When I asked him how he had come by such a tongue, he said he lived with a Dutch family on the Island. There are some such families, a holdover from when the Island’s status was disputed between England and Holland.
Then he began to speak of the Island. He spoke of a time when the Island was covered in forest, though it be now as bare as one of our Moors. The Portuguese had brought goats to the Island, he said, and these had multiplied to such an extent that they destroyed much of the forest; men, too, cut down trees for firewood and for distilling alcohol, in their monstrous way. I began to realise, then, that he was describing a change which had happened over decades, and this man, despite his deformities, seemed to me no older than forty years. I asked him when he had arrived on the Island, and he gave me the date of 1516. More than one hundred and sixty years ago.
I was astonished, yet he seemed undisturbed by his Revelation. I asked him how a man could live so long, and he said only that ‘it is the Island’, as if this explained everything. And yet there is something about this place, something I cannot fathom or fully explain. The climate is extraordinarily beneficent. I can speak of a vicar who sailed here with me with his wife, both of whom were over fifty and childless. The wife is now pregnant with child, at an age so advanced that such a condition must seem a Miracle. I have spoken to her of it at length; indeed, certain loose Tongues have begun to wag about who the true father of her astonishing child is, such is the time I have spent with her.
I would not have this Fancy shared with your fellow Royal Society councillors, Sir Jonas. It is probably no more than the idle speculation of a man grown frustrated with his work, a man stymied by Clouds. But I cannot deny that there is something inexplicable about this Island, something alien which made me give credit to the ogre’s story.
I have also detected a significant Variation in the Variation of the Magneticall Needle, if such a verbal construction be not too confusing. I have been fascinated by the way Magnetic North varies as one travels south across the ocean, and am developing a theory that these Curve-Lines of Equal Variation can be mapped, and may join each other, such that a Map of Variation might be possible covering the entire Globe.
The most interesting of these is the Line of No Variation, which I conjecture from my own observations runs in a gigantic sweep from the north-west to the south-east along the central Atlantic Ocean, joining Florida and passing through St Helena to the Icey Sea beyond. However, on this Island itself, this Line of No Variation disappears, and the Variation to Magnetic North jumps to almost 10 degrees. The effect disappears a mile off the coast, such that it is barely ever noticed by navigators, as they have no need of their Compass when they can navigate by Eye.
I have no explanation for this odd behaviour of the Magneticall Needle. It worries at me like a sore Tooth, and paints the entire Island in a fog of Mystery as thick as the real fog which obscures the peaks.
I may grow fanciful. This talk of Magnetic Variation may just be down to faulty Apparatus, and my ancient ogre just a fictive Caliban, and I a Trinculo who has drunk too much of Prospero’s wine. But not all discovery is made merely by Observation. There may be more here than can meet the Observer’s eye. We should send more men to St Helena, and we should not limit our Gaze to the Skies.
Yours, in continuing gratitude
HALLEY, E.