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One fog-laden morning, two figures strode along Parliament Street and Whitehall, their conversation an animated murmur against the backdrop of the city’s early bustle. They turned into Spring Gardens, their destination the statue at Charing Cross. One of them, a man of dwarfish stature and withered features, walked with a peculiar gait. The other, of average height but thin and slightly stooped with age, possessed a sharp countenance softened by a benevolent expression. His black coat, though worn and well-brushed, was buttoned up to the chin. He wore black tights, short drab gaiters, a white neckcloth, and spectacles.
This was Mr. Loftus, a retired merchant of moderate means residing in Abingdon Street. A bachelor by choice, he indulged his passion for antiquities, often rambling through the city in search of historical curiosities. His companion was Morse, whose presence seemed as out of place as Loftus’ curiosity was piqued.
“By Jove, Morse! What a magnificent statue!” Loftus exclaimed, his eyes wide with admiration. “The horse is absolutely splendid.”
“I remember when this very spot bore a gibbet, and instead of a statue, there was an effigy of the martyred king,” Morse replied, his voice thick with the weight of bygone days. “That was during the Protectorate.”
“You and your memories, Morse,” Loftus chuckled. “I almost envy your belief in living through centuries.”
“I only wish you could have seen the old cross that once stood here, erected by Edward I for his beloved Eleanor of Castile,” Morse continued, ignoring Loftus’ jest. “Even in its mutilated state, with broken pinnacles and defaced foliage, the queen’s statues in the recesses were still a sight to behold.”
“That must have been a marvel,” Loftus mused, rubbing his hands together. “Though I admire the statue, I would have loved to see that Gothic cross. It’s a miracle this one escaped destruction during Cromwell’s reign.”
“I can tell you exactly how that happened,” Morse said, his tone darkening. “I was an assistant to John Rivers, the brazier who bought the statue.”
“Is that so?” Loftus exclaimed, leaning in. “I’ve heard bits of the story, but I’d love to know the full tale.”
“Then listen well,” Morse began. “That statue, cast by Hubert le Sueur in 1633, was ordered by Parliament to be sold and destroyed. John Rivers, a secret Royalist, offered a hefty sum for it and became its purchaser. But hiding it was the challenge. He trusted no one but me, knowing my loyalty matched his. We dug a deep pit in his cellar and buried the statue. It took us a month, during which Rivers collected old brass pieces. He presented these as the statue’s remains. The real jest was yet to come. Rivers cast knife and fork handles from the brass, selling them as pieces of the statue. Cavaliers bought them as mementos, and Roundheads as tokens of victory. In this way, he recouped his expenses.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” Loftus laughed heartily, his breath forming ghostly puffs in the cold air.
“When the Restoration came,” Morse continued, his voice low, “Rivers revealed the hidden statue to King Charles II. It was unearthed and restored to its place. Whether Rivers was rewarded, I can’t recall, but his satisfaction came from preserving a piece of history.”
“No reward could surpass that,” Loftus declared. “Now, let’s inspect the sculpture on the pedestal more closely.”
They crossed the road, and Loftus, removing his hat, peered through the iron railing surrounding the pedestal. Morse, eager to illustrate the details, climbed onto a nearby stump.
As they scrutinized the statue, the fog thickened, cloaking the city in a shroud of mystery. Their figures, silhouetted against the gloomy morning, seemed to blend with the dark Gothic surroundings, adding a palpable sense of foreboding to their historical reverie.
“You are aware that this is the work of Grinling Gibbons, sir?” cried the dwarf, his voice cutting through the morning mist.
“Indeed, I am,” replied Loftus, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “The finesse and vibrancy in the depiction of these trophies are simply unparalleled!”
“The rendering of the royal arms is equally exquisite,” Morse added, his fingers tracing the intricate carvings.
“Never seen anything finer,” Loftus affirmed, almost breathless with admiration. “Truly, a masterpiece.”
As anyone familiar with London knows, it takes little to gather a crowd, and our two antiquaries soon found themselves the center of attention. Ragged urchins encircled them, craning their necks to see what the pair were examining, all the while making jesting remarks. They were quickly joined by a motley group: a young street-sweeper, a ticket-porter, a butcher’s apprentice, an elderly Jewish peddler, a coal heaver, and two charity boys.
“My eyes!” exclaimed the street-sweeper, his broom resting against his shoulder. “Look at these gents! If they ain’t a couple of greenhorns, I’ll eat my broom.”
“Old Spectacles thinks he’s cracked the code,” remarked the porter with a smirk. “We’ll find out what it all means soon enough.”
“Bless my heart,” muttered the Jewish peddler, his accent thick with curiosity. “What a pair of peculiar old gentlemen. I wonder what they think they’re seeing?”
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“I’ll tell ‘ee, mate,” chimed in the butcher’s apprentice, his apron stained with the morning’s work. “They’re seein’ who can see furthest into a millstone.”
“Imagine living my whole life in London and never truly appreciating this splendid work of art!” Loftus exclaimed, oblivious to the curious eyes fixed upon him.
“Take a closer look, old gentleman,” the porter taunted. “The closer you get, the more you’ll admire it.”
“Quite true,” Loftus responded, mistaking the porter’s voice for Morse’s. “It’ll bear the closest inspection.”
“Hey, Ned,” whispered one charity boy to the other, “think they dropped something inside the railing. See what it is.”
“I’m afraid of spiking myself, Joe,” replied Ned. “But give us a lift, and I’ll try.”
“What are you up to there, you young rascals?” bellowed the coal heaver. “Come down, or I’ll fetch the police!”
“Look at these two clowns!” sneered a ragamuffin lad, his bulldog straining at the leash. “I feel like tossing the little one off the post and setting Tartar on him. Here, boy, here!”
“That’d be a laugh, Spicer!” cried another miscreant.
“Arrah! leave them be, you young devils!” shouted an Irish bricklayer. “Can’t you see they’re just two peaceable antiquaries?”
“Oh, they’re antiquaries, are they?” mocked the street-sweeper. “Well, I’ve never seen the likes of them before, have you, Sam?”
“Never,” replied the porter, shaking his head.
“Och, murder in Irish! You’ve upset me and all the fruits of my labor!” shrieked an applewoman, as the bricklayer’s barrow collided with her stall. “Devil take you for a careless lout! Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
“Sorry, Molly,” said the bricklayer, flustered. “I was so taken by those antiquaries that I didn’t see you.”
“Antiquaries be damned! What’s such vermin to me?” the applewoman spat. “You’ve ruined my day’s market! Curse you!”
“Never mind, Molly,” the bricklayer consoled. “I’ll make it up to you. Pick up your apples and join me for a drop of the good stuff.”
Amidst the commotion, a stout gentleman approached from the far side of the statue. Spotting Loftus, he called out, “Why, brother-in-law, is that you?”
Loftus, engrossed in his admiration of the statue, didn’t respond. “Grinling Gibbons,” he murmured, tracing the intricate carvings. “Horace Walpole said that no one before him could give to wood the airy lightness of a flower, and here he has given it to stone.”
“Fine words, my good fellow,” the stout gentleman interrupted, grabbing Loftus by the shoulder. “But don’t you see the crowd you’re gathering? You’ll be mobbed soon.”
“How the devil did you get here, brother Thorneycroft?” Loftus finally recognized him.
“Come along, and I’ll explain,” the iron merchant said, dragging him away, with Morse close behind. “I’m so glad to have found you,” Thorneycroft continued as they escaped the mob. “You’ll be shocked to hear what’s happened to your niece, Evaline.”
“What has happened to her?” Loftus demanded, his heart pounding. “You alarm me. Out with it at once. I hate to be kept in suspense.”
“She has left me,” Thorneycroft lamented, his voice tinged with a bitterness that cut through the chilly air. “Left her old, indulgent father—run away.”
“Run away?” Loftus repeated, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Impossible! I won’t believe it, even from your lips.”
“I wish it weren’t true, but alas, it is,” Thorneycroft responded mournfully. “And it was so unnecessary. I would have gladly given her to the young man. My only hope is that she hasn’t utterly disgraced herself.”
“No, she’s too principled for that,” Loftus reassured him. “Rest easy on that score. But with whom has she run away?”
“A young man named Anthony Darcy,” Thorneycroft revealed. “He came to my house under peculiar circumstances.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Loftus said.
“But I have,” interjected Morse, his voice carrying a strange, timeless weight. “I’ve known him for two hundred years.”
“Who is this?” Thorneycroft demanded, eyes narrowing.
“A crack-brained fellow I’ve engaged as my valet,” Loftus explained. “He fancies he was born in Queen Elizabeth’s time.”
“It’s no fancy,” Morse insisted. “I am well acquainted with Anthony Darcy’s history. He drank the same elixir as myself.”
“If you know him, can you help us find him?” Thorneycroft asked, hope flickering in his eyes.
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” Morse replied. “I only saw him for a few minutes the other night, after I was thrown into the Serpentine by the tall man in the black cloak.”
“What’s that?” Thorneycroft exclaimed, his voice quickening. “I’ve heard Evaline speak of a tall man in a black cloak. I hope he has nothing to do with her disappearance.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he did,” Morse said. “I believe that black-cloaked gentleman to be—”
“What! Who?” Thorneycroft demanded urgently.
“None other than the devil himself,” Morse declared mysteriously.
“Rubbish!” Loftus scoffed. “I told you the poor fellow was half-cracked.”
At that moment, a roguish-looking fellow with fiery red whiskers and hair, dressed in a velveteen jacket with ivory buttons, approached. He had been watching Thorneycroft from a distance. Touching his hat, he said, “Mr. Thorneycroft, I believe?”
“My name is Thorneycroft,” the iron-merchant responded, eyeing him warily. “And your name is Ginger, I fancy?”
“Exactly, sir,” Ginger replied, touching his hat again. “I didn’t think you’d remember me, sir. I’ve got news about your daughter.”
“Evaline!” Thorneycroft exclaimed, his voice thick with emotion. “I hope your news is good.”
“I wish it was better, for her sake and yours, sir,” Ginger said gravely. “But I’m afraid she’s in very bad hands.”
“She is if she’s with the black-cloaked gentleman,” Morse added.
“Why, Old Parr, is that you?” Ginger asked, astonished. “How you’ve changed!”
“But what of my daughter?” Thorneycroft pressed. “Where is she? Take me to her, and you’ll be well rewarded.”
“I’ll do my best to take you to her, and without any reward,” Ginger said. “My heart bleeds for the poor young creature. She’s in dreadful bad hands.”
“Do you mean Mr. Anthony Darcy?” Thorneycroft asked.
“No, he’s as much a victim of this infernal plot as your daughter,” Ginger replied. “I thought differently of him at first, but I’ve changed my mind since learning more.”
“Your hints alarm me,” Thorneycroft said, his face pale. “What can we do?”
“I’ll know more in a few hours,” Ginger said. “I don’t have the exact clue yet. But come to me at eleven tonight, at the Turk’s Head, behind Shoreditch Church, and I’ll put you on the right track. You must come alone.”
“I’d prefer my brother-in-law accompany me,” Thorneycroft said.
“He wouldn’t help,” Ginger replied. “I’ll make sure there’s plenty of assistance. It’s a dangerous business, and it can only be managed a certain way by a certain person, and he’d object to anyone but you. Tonight, at eleven. Goodbye, Old Parr. We’ll meet again soon.”
And without another word, he hurried away, leaving Thorneycroft and Loftus standing in the gathering gloom, shadows lengthening around them like sinister tendrils.