Gibbous House 11

My travelling companions evinced as little interest in me as I, in truth, could muster in them. However, I felt I could not forego the opportunity to ask of news from London. I doubted that the clergyman had read either early or late editions, but I did have hopes of the merchantmen. Indeed, for all my confidence that Smackle and Purewipe had not been paid for their efforts from the public purse, it was not sure that they had not later made some official report of Cartwright’s death. Or worse still, fabricated a part for me in it. Though well aware the presses would not have stopped for the unfortunate clerk’s passing, the incident could well have been reported before we had departed the capital, had someone an interest in ensuring it was so.

Addressing myself to Caistor or Pollock – I confess to being unsure as to which – I began:

‘Sir, I am but recently come from the colonies and would know something of London since I spent so little time there before our departure.’

Pollock – or Caistor – eyed me as though I had passed him a clipped coin. Presently he began to regale me with with the most impenetrable arcana concerning the beneficial fluctuations in the price of American cotton and the prospect of the collapse of the Indian manufactories. Attempting to steer the conversation into waters of more interest to myself, I said:

‘Indeed. How very interesting. But changes go far beyond the commercial, do they not? I have heard that London has become uncommon dangerous of late, and this despite some twenty years of the Metropolitan Service’s existence.’

Once again I received a look of near contempt from whichever of the merchant twins I had engaged in conversation. It appeared scarcely credible to him that the safety of persons might be more important than the bale price of American at auction.

Rather boldly, it might be said, the clergyman’s niece - if that she truly were - a Miss Euphemia Lascelles – which, perhaps, she might also have been – interposed:

‘Oh, indeed sir, of late I seldom venture out without protection of the male persuasion.’

I had little doubt of that.

To my surprise, The Reverend Parminter nodded vigourously, the high colour of his cheeks and nose as expressive as a those of a pantomime Harlequin:

‘And neither you should. Why even a gentleman risks much in parts of the capital! I would not venture in Cheapside, but for my calling among the Magdalens.’

I forebore to commend him on the obvious sincerity and depth of his vocation, merely saying :

‘Indeed? And what of other locales, surely the Haymarket or Temple Bar are safe enough?’

Parminter began to form his lips to proffer his undoubted wisdom on the matter, when he was interrupted by the hitherto mute of the merchants:

‘Contrariwise, sir. They are not. I had occasion to witness the aftermath of a brutal murder at the inns of court today. Off Hawthorne Lane, in fact.’

There was no need to provoke the man to elaborate, as Miss Lascelles leaned across the Reverend – who may have reddened still more - to place a gloved hand on the man of trade’s knee.

‘Oh please! Spare me only such details as are too gross for these delicate ears.’

The merchant removed the hand with a thumb and forefinger, and I looked forward to a more explicit account than even Sergeant Purewipe’s official report might have provided.