Free Jack Maggs by Peter Carey Page B

already?”
    “He’s a regular dervish, Sir.”
    “And outside now?”
    “Yes, outside.”
    “Then I am locking the door. You are in your house. You are all alone. Nothing can harm you. You are going to the window now. You are looking out of the window?”
    “Yes, I am looking out of the window.”
    “What do you see? Any street numbers? Shops?”
    “Nothing, Sir.”
    “You can’t see anything?”
    “Pitch black, Sir.”
    “Come, Jack Maggs, there is the lamplighter, now look—it’s as bright as day.”
    At this, the Somnambulist became extremely agitated, rolling his eyes and striking himself upon the breast.
    “I am not permitted to tell you.”
    “You must.”
    “No,” cried the footman and threw out his arms, one of which struck Tobias Oates a grazing blow upon his temple.
    “Cease!” cried Toby. “Be still!”
    But Jack Maggs groaned and flung himself violently back in his chair.
    “Be still there, that’s a fellow. Down now.” In this style Tobias continued to soothe his angry subject, talking very low, as to a frightened beast.
    When peace was finally established, Tobias Oates stood and gazed down at Jack Maggs. He would be the archaeologist of this mystery; he would be the surgeon of this soul.
    His youthful face was flushed, and the flecks in his pale blue eyes had turned as bright as mica. He picked up the stool and moved it over to the desk, and though it was too low for such a task, he sat upon it to compose his letter.
    “Dear Mr Buckle,” he began, “one sometimes hears a servant de scribed by this or that lady as a ‘treasure.’ ”
    With his prisoner’s breathing whispering in his ear, he continued—three drafts before he had it exactly right.

15
    IT WAS EDWARD CONSTABLE who informed Mrs Halfstairs that her new footman was missing. He presented himself triumphantly in her parlour door at six o’clock on Monday morning, knocking in that brisk way— one, two, one two —that was at once so characteristic and so insolent.
    She bade him enter.
    “Yes, Constable.”
    “It’s your man, Ma’am . . . He’s bolted.”
    Her stomach tightened. She lay her quill down on the blotter.
    “Which man , Mr Constable? If it is Mr Maggs you mean, he has likely gone on an errand for the master. Did you inquire of the master?”
    “It is my belief, Ma’am, that Mr Maggs was never in his life an upper servant. He seems to be some kind of rascal.”
    “You are not a parson,” said Mrs Halfstairs, “and were not employed to have beliefs. Did you check with the master?”
    “You think the master harmed?”
    She had thought no such thing, but now she thought it—she saw again the dreadful death of the previous footman, his skull half blown away and all that matter on the oaken dresser.
    “I came first to you, Ma’am,” said the footman. “I did not think to wake the master.”
    “Then go now, if you please, Mr Constable, and check the silver.”
    “The silver, Ma’am?”
    She caught his bright hard eye.
    “Not the master, Ma’am? The silver ?”
    “Do as I have asked you,” said Mrs Halfstairs. “And pray do not disturb Mr Spinks with this news until I tell you to.”
    She climbed the stairs with a heavy heart, wishing for the old days when Mr Spinks had ruled the household. Constable would not have behaved this way then. Pope would not have dared to kill himself. As she walked heavily up the stairs—her breathing came hard to her— Mrs Halfstairs was convinced already that her master had been harmed. Her mood was therefore much elevated when she peered round Mr Buckle’s partly opened door and found him safely snoring in one corner of his enormous bed.
    As she returned to the ground floor a knock came on the front door, and she answered it herself, to Mr Oates’s messenger.
    By the time Constable came to inform her that the silver had not been stolen, she had carefully examined the contents of Tobias Oates’s letter and knew that Jack Maggs was to be a source of glory not