Gibbous House 14

I awoke with a start occasioned by Parminter’s recession as he intoned a litany on the virtues of moderation. The dream had been as vivid as ever and I woke before its denouement, although I well knew how the matter ended: in sweated and befouled bed linen, odour, death and resurrection of a kind. A man’s good name is a passepartout in the colonies; only if that name comes from quality does it open doors in the home country. To those born without a name of any description, more doors are barred than in the deepest dungeon. There came a knock at the door, and a gruff shout of

‘Moffatt! Alasdair Moffat!’

Drawing the door open sufficient only to view the visitor and hide my deshabille, I peered out. A coachman met my eye and inquired :

‘Moffatt?’

‘Perhaps.’

The man gave a snort of exasperation:

‘The mail coach south is without and I’ll be on it soon, are ye Moffatt or not?’

‘Did we say that I were, what of it?’

His face reddened in total measure, save for the very tip of his nose, and he made to leave. I put out a hand and excused myself by intimating that since I had been lately disturbed from slumber, I was still a little stuporous.

He muttered and held out a letter, saying ‘Packet’ . Without asking for any ‘bona fides’ or receipt he left it with me. How I wished he had been looking for a Duke or some such in need of funds to cover gaming debts. I threw the letter onto the bed and went about my toilet.

I was still turning the letter over and over in my hands after boarding the coach. Parminter eyed me as if I had refuted the resurrection in the middle of his Easter sermon; perhaps he remembered some of his unusual prayers of the previous evening. Nods so curt as to be discourteous were all I received from the mercantile brethren. It bothered me not a whit. As the wheels clattered over the first of many ruts, I opened the letter.

‘To the husband of the late Arabella Cadwallader nee Coble’ it began.

‘We regret the circumlocutory salutation to the esteemed recipient of this missive. You, having received it from the hand of a mail-coach driver, will have the advantage of ourselves on concluding your reading. We supposed, quite correctly, if you are indeed perusing this communiqué, that you would waste no time in travelling north to fulfil the requirements of the late Mr Coble’s will. We ask you to board a further coach, to Alnwick, on arrival in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Should your means be insufficient to cover the journey please contact the Railways agent at the station, where arrangements have been made. Sadly, we are unable to advance funds commensurate with onward travel by railway or for incidental expenses.

We have arranged for a phaeton to attend the arrival in Alnwick of the Newcastle coach every evening until 31st inst. You will be met by our representative, a Jedediah Maccabi, who has been instructed to accompany you to the Harbour Inn, Seahouses. If you would be so gracious as to attend the day following, at 10 ante meridian, the offices of

John Brown & Son
Notaries Public
11, King Street
Seahouses.'

It was signed in a masculine hand with little fuss or flourish. I sighed and folded the letter into my packet of papers and wished the journey away as a prisoner does the days of his sentence, to no avail.