Gibbous House 104

Constable Turner allowed Edgar Allan a few moments to compose himself, before abruptly bidding him to:

'Begin!'

Evidently Maccabi had apprised him of the reason for his summons, for begin he did, in a wavering voice:

'What is fear, I ask you? To phrase it mathematically,' - here a nod to the Professor- ' fear is the product of mystery multiplied by imagination. Which factors I must explain. I do not mean the hermaneutic mysteries of the Kabbala or of the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross. Rather the unexplained and unexplainable in the world of the mundane. Equally, I do not mean the contrived imaginations of the novelist or playwright. No, I refer to the visceral imagination of those alone and abroad in the night.'

He hesitated at this point, perhaps concerned at the Professor's bristling at the mention of the Kabbalists and Rosicrucians.

'Put the case, a hypothetical one to be sure, of a man found delirious in a street in, shall we say, Baltimore. The man raves, crying out the name “Reynolds” from time to time. He is soon taken up, his last words might be 'Lord, help my poor soul,' since many call on Him for the first time, at the last. The man is buried in the clothes in which he was found, they are not his own, they say, and the name on the tailor's labels does not match the one upon his headstone. So who has died? One man or two? Or is this the only Resurrection?'

His voice had grown stronger through this short oration and the white flecks on his lips resisted the sharp lick of his tongue. But he was barely begun and continued thus:

'Or shall we put another case, more empirical in essence – although perhaps lacking a body of proof? Can a man in this modern age, just disappear? It would seem he can: the mere assumption of a name can change a man so completely as to place him beyond the grasp of determined pursuers. Even so, if a man plunges into baptismal waters, as it were, does he not reappear, somewhere, reborn? Can he not be found if an image of the disappeared is at hand?'

At this point, Allan produced from his coat two daguerreotype portraits about the size of a small volume. One depicted himself a little younger, less careworn. He held up the other to the company for their perusal:

'This is Heathfield Cadwallader.'

I recognised him, certainly. So, I was sure, did the others, since -in effigy- he yet remained in residence in the gatehouse.

'A handsome fellow, is he not? His looks would preserve well in age, I think.' I said.

'He was a cousin, distant I admit. Impecunious too, and not above a supplicant letter, even to a relative as distant in miles as in blood. He was persisitent. Many letters I threw away unread over the years. But one last missive I did open, I cannot tell you why. It was written in Newcastle and despatched on a ship across the Atlantic: a letter of quite different character. No tales of hardship, no pecuniary requests, simply a few veiled hints as to an improvement in expectations.
He mentioned a large house in the north, and a notary in Seahouses. But he was not more specific. My own letter of encouragement went unanswered.'

He picked up the glass, by now quite drained of bitters; the Professor nimbly arose and filled it with more of the same. Allan sipped absently and cleared his throat before continuing:

'Some years later, it – ah- behove me to depart the Americas. Being experienced in the Fourth Estate, I thought to try my hand in Northumberland. I took a position at first with The Journal in Newcastle, with a view to finding my relative, to see if his expectations had been met. At first, I enjoyed uncommon luck. The Office of the Turnpike Authority had had occasion to deal with a Mr Heathfield Cadwallader. It seems my relative had been in the habit of travelling between York and Newcastle on the stage, whilst taking the opportunity of relieving the more gullible passengers of their valuables at cards. He was little suspected at first, being in the respectable company of a wife. He was warned off the coaches in Newcastle at a date shortly before that of his letter.'

Cadwallader appeared to have been a resourceful enough fellow, I was intrigued that he had met so grisly an end.