a richer note and the words that followed fell into a rhythm, like words often repeated: ‘I give you my word, sir, as one gentleman to another, that I am as innocent as the day is long. It is true that I have fallen upon evil times but the fault has not been mine. I have been unlucky in the choice of my companions, perhaps, and cursed by a generous spirit, by a fatal tendency to trust my fellow men. Yet –’
‘Enough, sir,’ I interrupted. ‘Why have you been following me?’
‘A father’s feelings,’ he said, beating himself on the breast with both fists, ‘may not be denied. The heart which beats within this breast is that of a gentleman of an old and distinguished Irish family.’
By now he was kneeling in the gutter and a knot of spectators was gathering around us to enjoy the spectacle.
‘Bloody clunch,’ an urchin cried. ‘He’s dicked in the nob.’
‘Which, you may ask, has been the worst of my many losses?’ my companion continued. ‘Was it the loss of my patrimony? My enforced departure from my native heath? Was it the bitter knowledge that my reputation has been unjustly besmirched by men not fit to brush my coat? Was it disappointment in my profession and the loss, through the intemperate jealousy of others, of my hopes of regaining my fortune by my own exertions? Was it the death of the beloved wife of my bosom? No, sir, bad though all these things were, none of them was the worst blow to befall me.’ He raised his face to the sky. ‘As heaven is my witness, no sorrow compares with the loss of my little cherubs, my beloved children. Two fine sons had I, and a daughter, destined to be the delights of my maturity and the supports of my old age. Alas, they have been snatched away from me.’ He paused to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.
‘If that was a play,’ observed another of our audience, ‘I wouldn’t pay a penny to see it. I wouldn’t pay a bloody ha’penny. A bloody farthing.’
‘You repugnant rapscallion!’ the man roared, shaking his fist at the boy. Once more he lifted his face to the sky. ‘Why, heaven?’ he inquired. ‘Why do I bare my innermost heart before the vulgar herd?’
‘Who are you calling names then?’ said another voice.
‘The gentleman is unwell,’ I said firmly.
‘No, he ain’t. He’s half-cocked.’
‘Perhaps his wits are a little disordered,’ I conceded, helping my captive to his feet.
The big man began to weep. ‘The lad speaks no more than the truth, sir,’ he said, leaning so heavily on me that I could scarce bear his weight. ‘I’ll not deny that in my sorrow I have occasionally found consolation in a glass of brandy.’ He brought his lips close to my ear. ‘Indeed, now you mention it, a drop of something warming would be a most effective prophylactic against this autumn chill which even now I feel creeping over me.’
I led him, mumbling, down Henrietta-street. The crowd dropped away from us for the man was no longer amusing. In Bedford-street, he steered me to a tavern where we sat opposite each other in a corner. My guest thanked me kindly for my hospitality and ordered brandy and water. I asked for porter. When the girl brought the drinks, he raised his glass to me and said, ‘Your health, sir.’ He drank deeply and then looked inquiringly at me. ‘You do not drink.’
‘I am wondering whether I should have you arrested and given in charge,’ I said. ‘I regret that I shall be compelled to do so if you do not tell me the nature of your interest in myself and in the boys you waylaid in Stoke Newington.’
‘Ah, my dear sir.’ He spread his hands wide. He was calmer now, almost at his ease, and the mellifluous tone of his voice was oddly at variance with his dishevelled appearance. ‘But I have already explained. Or rather I was in the middle of doing so when that pack of ruffians interrupted me.’
‘I am at a loss to understand you.’
‘The boy, of course,’ he said impatiently. ‘The boy is my son.’
I RETURNED TO Russell-square shortly after six o’clock, having missed my six shillings from Mrs Jem; in fact, thanks to Mr Poe, I was poorer than before and had acquired a slight headache. The door was answered by the footman, Frederick, whom I had met before. I desired him to inquire whether his master was at leisure. A moment later, Mr Frant came down the stairs, asked me how I did with the utmost cordiality, and led me into the book-room.
He looked keenly at me and seemed to divine in my countenance the reason for my presence. ‘You have intelligence of the man who assaulted Charles?’
‘Yes, sir. After leaving you, I was walking down to Leicester-square. It appears he had been loitering in the neighbourhood, and followed me.’
There were spots of colour in Frant’s sallow cheeks. ‘Why should he do that? Are you the reason for his interest?’
‘I believe not. I chanced to see him behind me. He ran off but I gave chase.’
Frant made an impatient movement with his hand, which warned me to be brief.
‘The long and the short of it is I brought him down and then gave him a drink afterwards. He confided that he is an Irish-American who has fallen on hard times. His name is Poe, David Poe. His family believe him dead.’
‘And what does he want with you and the boys?’
‘The object of his interest is Edgar Allan, sir, and he hoped I might lead him to the boy this afternoon. He alleges that the Allans are merely foster parents – which I have heard from the boy’s own lips, by the way – and that Edgar is in fact his son. He told me that circumstances forced him to leave his wife in New York, and that she shortly afterwards died in Richmond, Virginia, leaving three children.’
‘Assuming he speaks the truth, what does he want from his son? Money?’
‘Quite possibly. Yet he may not have acted entirely from self-interest.’
Frant gave his bark of laughter. ‘You surely do not suggest that he has suddenly been overwhelmed by the weight of his paternal responsibilities?’
‘No – yet a man may sometimes act from more than one motive. Perhaps he is curious. There may even be a streak of tender sentiment in him. He told me he merely wanted to see the boy, to hear him speak.’
Frant nodded. ‘Once again, Mr Shield, I am obliged to you. Where does he lodge? Did you find that out?’
‘He declined to give me his precise direction. He lives in St Giles. As you know, it is a perfect maze of alleys and courts and he doubted I could find his lodging even if he told me where it was. But he informed me he is often to be found in a nearby tavern, the Fountain. He plies his trade there.’
‘He is gainfully employed?’
‘As a screever.’
Frant shrugged. ‘And takes his fees in gin, no doubt.’
He fell silent and took a turn about the room. In a moment, he said, ‘So you have done me a second service, Mr Shield. May I ask you to do a third?’
I bowed.
‘I would be obliged if you would preserve the utmost discretion about this. Considered in all its aspects, this is a delicate matter. Not so much for you or me but for others. I see a good deal of Mr Allan in the way of business, and I know he is fond of the boy, and treats him as his son. The arrival of someone claiming to be the lad’s natural father would come as a profound shock. Indeed, I understand Mrs Allan is in delicate health and such a shock could kill her.’
‘You think Mr Poe may be an impostor?’
‘It is possible. Some reprobate American, perhaps, who knows of Mr Allan’s wealth, and his generosity towards the boy and his affection for him. Then we must consider Mr Bransby, must we not?