The Warlow Experiment Read online

  The maid was uncommonly pretty, he thought, when he opened an eye and saw her as she darted out of the door, having lit the fire. He sat up ready to address her when she returned with hot water.

  ‘Tell me your name, miss.’

  ‘Annie, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Annie. How is your master today?’

  ‘I have not seen him, sir. Samuel do prepare his room.’ She blushed as if she’d told him something rather wicked.

  ‘And is all well in the house today?’

  ‘Nobody know.’

  ‘What does nobody know?’

  ‘Nobody know what will happen next.’

  ‘Ah, indeed. What of Mr Warlow, Annie? What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘He be there still. Cook did see.’

  ‘Cook saw him, did she? But that breaks the rules of the experiment. Why did she do that?’

  ‘The master did tell her to look, after Catherine have tried to let him out.’ Suddenly she became voluble. ‘Poor man I always did think. But Catherine did not agree. But now she must have, for she have done this and they have locked her in the dairy.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘Catherine were daring. Poor man I always did say. Lonely under the ground and Mrs Warlow, his wife, Hannah, sir, and the master, they…’ Blushing from the shock of having said this much she bobbed a curtsey and rushed out.

  Fox was taken aback. Well! If it were true – and everything about Annie’s manner suggested it was – then Powyss was in a thorough pickle. Samuel knocked to ask if he might lay out Fox’s clothes, but of course would not be drawn on any question.

  In fact it seemed to Fox that he’d arrived at exactly the right moment. On the one hand Powyss could shelter him until, as he hoped, the fuss in London died down. And on the other he, surely, could help Powyss in return, for he suspected his friend entirely incapable of unravelling this knot of human complication. He had a veritable riot on his hands! Until recently Fox had had much experience resolving difficulties with the Unitarians at Newington Green, so he believed he could certainly help now.

  Intrigued by these possibilities, he dressed and went down to breakfast, but there was no sign of Powyss. Jenkins, short-tempered, showed him into Powyss’s library, where he whiled away the morning in quite the wrong mood to enjoy its admirable and extensive contents. He was looking through the great long window with its view of ever-receding hills and vast sky making him wonder how he had survived so long with nothing but a pleasing wall against which to grow his struggling new plants and the glimpse of two fine trees beyond, when Powyss came in.

  ‘Fox, I trust you slept well and have been attended to?’

  ‘Certainly, my dear friend, and I cannot apologise to you enough for my precipitate action, but I hope, indeed am sure that when you hear the full story you will understand its cause and permit me to stay.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, ‘but it is I who should apologise for my inadequate welcome last night and shall explain.’

  He looked white and unwell, his black, staring eyes filmed, indistinct. He told him the story Fox had already heard from the maid though with more detail, greater coherence and the complete omission of Mrs Warlow’s name.

  ‘I must confess, Powyss, that already, this morning, I have been given a very brief, fragmentary version of these events from the maid Annie, though from no one else.’ Powyss went even whiter and gripped the back of the nearest chair. ‘There was some mention of Mrs Warlow.’

  At which he flashed a look of such ferocity, even madness that Fox took a step backwards.

  ‘Very little was said, to be fair to your maid,’ he hastened to tell him, ‘but perhaps I am right to infer that your situation is not completely unlike my own with Mrs Clarke.’

  Powyss’s anger dropped. Tired beyond resistance, he sat down as if his legs had given way.

  ‘I should like to be of help, Powyss. Would you listen to some advice?’ For a while Powyss didn’t move. Then he closed his eyes, raised his right hand in a gesture of vague permission and the next moment his head nodded down onto his breast and he snored.

  * * *

  —

  ABRAHAM PRICE had difficulty mustering the number of followers he wanted, and in the end just five men hammered on the door of Moreham House that night with their staves and a pitchfork. Among them Jack Warlow, freshly fired up, wielded a scythe found in a corner at home. Price held a flaming brand in his left hand.

  When he’d heard Catherine was locked in the dairy he had crept down to its window grille and extracted the information he needed from her. He ignored her teary squawking that he go away and never come back again. Two imprisonments were enough for his purpose.

  ‘Open up! Open up! Us’ll speak with Powyss!’

  But Moreham wasn’t Birmingham. There just weren’t enough people living round about; his dreams of a mob tearing down the house, as they’d done in that city – of great burning stacks of window frames, furniture, wainscotting, the carting away of stone in mass celebratory theft – had gone. Instead he fixed on the description of the mutiny Catherine had read from the newspaper, the confining of the officers. For that, a group of five sufficiently armed men was adequate. He anticipated only the most puny resistance from Jenkins and Samuel, and indeed from Powyss himself.

  They beat the door again. Price had imagined they’d gain immediate entry, and envisaged storming through the house straight to that library Catherine was always talking of.

  ‘Strike harder, citizens!’ Knobbed sticks and a hayfork were only a small part of the men’s weaponry. Caleb Hughes had stuffed a cobbler’s knife into his belt, and there were mattocks, a chisel and two brummocks, their blades vaguely Ottoman in shape. Amos’s pistol had been a boast.

  Price stepped back to inspect the front of the house again. All the windows were shuttered, so even were they to smash the glass they’d not get in that way. And there was little to fire. The house was stone, its portico also. Only the door was made of wood, so massive that scorching was probably all they could achieve with just his fiery brand.

  ‘Powyss. Open your door. Us wants to speak with you! Unlawful imprisonment!’

  A voice said: ‘Get you gone, Abraham Price. The master will not speak to you!’

  It was Jenkins behind the door still firmly closed.

  ‘But him must speak. For us have weapons, isn’t it.’

  No answer. Jenkins was most like consulting with Powyss. Or else, Price sneered to himself, quaking just the other side of the door.

  ‘It is our right to speak, men,’ Price growled. ‘Jenkins! Us’ll smash our way in! Tell your master that.’

  ‘You’ll be hanged first,’ replied a barely perceptible voice. That other one, Samuel.

  ‘Strung up, Price!’ shouted Jenkins. ‘We’ll be watching when they turn you off!’

  ‘Caleb, Jack, bang in a window. Go!’ he said and stood aside to watch while the two shattered the nearest panes then thumped their sticks against the bolted shutters inside.

  Price held up his hand and they stopped to listen. There was no sound, except the tinkle of a fragment of glass finally falling.

  ‘Now, Powyss, will us speak with you?’

  No reply.

  They gathered together to consider their next move. Jack was for smashing all the windows one by one, Caleb for coming back later with a cart of straw and tar and firing the doors at back and front. They were entirely taken aback when a large figure loomed round the side of the house.

  ‘Greetings, citizens,’ Fox called out to them.

  ‘It’s a trick. Hold him, men!’ Price ordered and they ran forward and each held on to some part of Fox’s considerable bulk.

  ‘Us wants Powyss.’ Price scowled up at Fox, too short to meet him eye to eye.

  ‘You should let me go. I am on your side
,’ Fox said.

  ‘Another trick, isn’t it.’

  ‘No, Citizen Price – you are Abraham Price?’ Price merely raised his chin. ‘I am an old friend of Mr Powyss, but I am also a lover of liberty. I beheld the admirable Hardy at his trial.’

  ‘If you be Powyss’s friend you cannot be a friend to liberty. Him’s unlawfully imprisoned two people in this house!’

  ‘Mr Warlow agreed to live underground and will be well remunerated for it.’

  ‘Him do fuck his wife, isn’t it!’ screeched Price. ‘Stop, boy!’ For Jack was scything frenziedly through every plant within reach as though Powyss had multiple legs.

  ‘Ah. I know nothing of that. But even if it is true, adultery is quite another matter. It is not unlawful imprisonment. And the maid who opened Warlow’s door did so without permission. She ought first to have asked Mr Powyss.’

  Price snorted.

  ‘She was wrong and has been held temporarily. There are far more important rights for which to fight.’

  ‘What do you know of rights?’ sneered Price, and the others sniggered uneasily.

  ‘I speak of the rights of man. And of that great book the Rights of Man which you will find in my coat pocket, citizens.’

  Price was disconcerted, suddenly felt cold as he sensed his plan crumbling away. Before he could stop him, Caleb thrust into Fox’s pocket, produced the book and waved it at them all. Price ordered them to let go of the man. It was as if he’d eaten rotten meat: what he’d hoped to bite and chew was soft and foul.

  He stirred himself. ‘Tom Paine do say we must resist a despot.’

  ‘Paine means monarchies and old governments, Citizen Price. It is for the representative system of government that we must strive.’

  Price hit back: ‘It is an age of Revolutions, in which everything may be looked for, isn’t it.’

  ‘Well quoted, citizen! But hear this: ‘It may be considered as an honour to the animal faculties of man to obtain redress by courage and danger, but it is far greater honour to the rational faculties to accomplish the same object by reason, accommodation and general consent.’

  Price was punctured. At the very least he’d lost on a simple count of words. But he knew it was worse than that. He’d been skewered by his hero Paine himself.

  With a rapid movement he turned and stalked off and the others, in sudden darkness without their leader’s light, stumbled after him silently.

  Fox knocked on the door of Moreham House, assured Jenkins he was alone and was soon inside.

  * * *

  —

  GROPES FOR THE CANDLE STUMP, flint, box. Easy in the dark; done it every day. Spark, flame. Shadows. Shadows shifting with the flame.

  He’s not dead. Not in hell. This is his bed. Devils haven’t come back. He frightened them off. Cursed them three times. Said Our Father, save me from infernold divils three times. Jesus Save Me three times. Has to be three times or it don’t work. Thinks he did it once before. Maybe that was a dream.

  He’s shivering. Door’s shut against the devils. Needs a piss. Are they outside the door? Waitin for him. With the terrible bat from the book who’ll clap him between his wings. Smother him. Gnaw him. He’ll have to piss in the bed if they’re still there.

  Listens. Blood beats slowly in his head. Beat. Beat. Quiet. Been quiet a long time. Or is he dreaming quiet? Familiar scratching beneath the bed back and forth. Biters on the wall, too. Singes some with the candle flame.

  He wants a fire. He’s trembling. Needs heat. Shaking with cold and wanting to piss, he steps out, limps to the door. Opens it a crack, bit more, more, nobody, pisses himself.

  He shuffles into the main room. Holds up the candle, looks about. Nobody here. Didn’t he hear the key in the lock when the last devil left? Or did he?

  Relief strikes a spark of energy. He hobbles over to the fire, scrapes out the ash. Fixes sticks, sea coal, small wood. It blazes and something in him warms even while he shakes.

  Safe! No. Them’ll try again, sure to! Suddenly stops. Cocks his head. I’m like a hare in thick mist, hearin a hound. Be that the key again? Be it? No. But I’ll keep ’em out anyway. I’ll stop ’em. Foot’s not hurtin no more.

  He drags the table first, pushes it hard up against the door. It leans because of the broken leg. He casts around. Wedges a doorless cupboard underneath. Then heaves toppled bookshelves, their glass stoved in, wooden lattice hanging. Chopped-up chairs, smashed side tables, organ legs. Panting, smiling, he bends for more armfuls. Grabbles among hacked and splintered walnut, rosewood, mahogany. The pile nears the top of the door.

  Safe! Now he’s safe. Warmth creeps up his fingers from the grate. He draws forward the chair, stripped and slit. Stuffing drifts like old man’s beard. He sits on springs, kicks off boots, rests his feet against the iron while it heats up. Toe-claws stick through ragged stockings like fingers.

  After a while he stands to warm his legs and arse. Smell is strong. When it gets too hot he’ll find new breeches. Them did send some once. Did they?

  His stomach gripes. Will there be no food now the devils have taken the house? She-devils. Whore of Babylon. Scarlet. Purple. Breasts them do have and hooves. Hairy flanks like cows beneath their clothes. Tails like long cocks wavin out of their arses. Them’ve taken Powyss down to hell, sure to. And the other. Jenkins. Only she-devils left. Them’ll starve im, shan’t they?

  Creaking! His heart stops. Something’s coming down. Dare he look? He’s so hungry. When did he eat? All days are one. He stopped eating before the devils came. Vomited. Did he? Dreamed he ate. Dreamed he couldn’t eat.

  Smell of hot meat. Will he open the hatch? Open it! She-devil crouchin inside, ready to spring. Open it a crack, then. Crack. More. No she-devil. A tray, heavy silver covers.

  There’s no table; it’s at the bottom of the heap against the door, his wood wall. He carries the tray to the fire. Gets down on the floor with it, on all fours. Cautiously lifts off the covers. Small she-devils might leap straight out, pull him into the flames. Rams his mouth with food.

  * * *

  —

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Fox tackled Powyss. He’d slept well after his confrontation with Price and perhaps Powyss had, too, as he looked a little less pale.

  ‘My dear friend, I hope that today you will find yourself able to listen to my advice.’

  He could hardly refuse, after Fox’s successful quenching of the ‘fiery gardener’, as he named him. Indeed, when he’d come back indoors that night, having defeated the tiny revolutionary rabble, Powyss had made to shake his hand in thanks and burst into a flood of tears such that he was obliged to retire to bed without further speech. Fox decided that he’d become even odder with the years than he was when he’d known him as a boy.

  Here was a house where subversion lurked in kitchen and pantry, where invasion threatened from without and where a madman was destroying the very fundament of the building, while its master sobbed, powerless, in his charming upper sitting room, simultaneously breaking the seventh commandment with the madman’s wife! It was almost farcical.

  Powyss agreed to everything Fox suggested. Warlow’s door would be unlocked, opened up and Jenkins would make an announcement without going further than the threshold, to tell him he was free.

  ‘In due course, you might consider some, should we call it “compensation” to keep Mr Warlow happy when, as is inevitable, he learns that Mrs Warlow, er, that you and Mrs Warlow, er…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I had already thought of that,’ Powyss interrupted. ‘I shall pay him the agreed £50 a year for the rest of his life even though he has not fulfilled the terms of the contract. I shall say that having survived four years is itself an achievement.’ Here he began muttering to himself, something like ‘how shall I ever prevent him’, but it was not for Fox to hear. Clearly his thoughts troubled him, for he pressed his head with both hands
as though to keep them from bursting forth.

  ‘Excellent, Powyss! That’s all very wise. Now, as to the maid, Catherine, do you feel able to be severe with her? And are you aware that a liaison exists between her and your firebrand gardener? My source has taken to releasing more cats from bags with the hot water each morning.’

  ‘I am loath to lose Price. It is true he’s surly and disagreeable, but…’

  ‘He’s much worse than that, Powyss! He would have burned down Moreham House if he could!’

  ‘He’s a fine master gardener. I think it unlikely I could easily replace him. Oh yes, there are plenty of men who’ll weed and dig and plant, but no one can graft like Price or hear a frost coming. No one can espalier a pear like him.’

  ‘Surely he should be taken to the nearest lock-up to await the magistrate?’ Fox said this with probably unnoticeable temerity, aware of the awful possibility of an impending trial for himself.

  ‘But you are on his side, Fox, surely? You told me that he quoted from the Rights of Man.’

  ‘Yes, we threw collops of Tom Paine at each other! But Citizen Price is more than a radical, he’s a revolutionary, a real Jacobin. And without education. A terrifying combination! I’ll tell you what I think. I think you should question each of Catherine and Price. It will become clear what action should be taken when you’ve heard what they say. I will help you if you like. What do you say to that?’

  After breakfast Catherine was sent up. Powyss and Fox sat behind the desk, their attempts to appear intimidating undermined by the charm of Powyss’s pale-green sitting room, Fox thought, its walls papered with leaves he couldn’t identify, though no doubt Powyss would name them if asked.

  Catherine had not Annie’s pretty face, Fox told himself. Indeed she looked as though she’d been given little opportunity to improve her appearance after much weeping in the dairy. She was in any case sallow-skinned, with too much nose, yet there was an undeniable spark of intelligence in her eyes.