28
Spectemur agendo*
In the year 1846, through the good offices of my former travelling companion, Mr Bryce Furnivall, of the British Museum, I had begun a correspondence with Dr Simeon Shakeshaft, a Fellow of St Catharine’s College, who was an authority on the literature of alchemy, in which I had developed a strong interest while studying at Heidelberg. We had continued to correspond, and Dr Shakeshaft had been instrumental in helping me assemble a small library of alchemical and hermetic texts. This gentleman, like the Rector of Evenwood, was a member of the Roxburghe Club, and I had recalled Dr Daunt mentioning that this mutual acquaintance had known his son during the latter’s time at King’s College.† Dr Shakeshaft had recently written to me, at my accommodation address, on the subject of Barrett’s Magus,‡ a curious compendium of occult lore which I had wished to acquire; and so, as we had not yet had occasion to meet face to face, I would have the satisfaction of killing two birds with one stone. Dr Shakeshaft’s set was at the far end of the charming three-sided, red-brick court that forms the principal feature of St Catharine’s. Having ascended a narrow stair-case to the first floor, I was welcomed most cordially into Dr Shakeshaft’s book-lined study. We talked for some time about a number of subjects of common interest, and my host brought out several superb items from his own collection of hermetic writings for my inspection. This was most pleasant, and it was a relief to expend mental energy on topics of such absorbing fascination after the difficult events of the past few days.
It was with some unwillingness, therefore, that I wrenched myself back to my purpose, and introduced the subject of Phoebus Daunt.
‘Did Mr Daunt have a wide circle of acquaintance in his College?’ I asked, as casually as I could.
Dr Shakeshaft pursed his lips in an effort to remember.
‘Hmm. I would not say wide. He was not popular amongst the sporting men, and, as I remember, most of his friends, such as they were, came from other Houses.’
‘Was there any particular friend or companion that you can recall?’ was my next question. This time the response was instantaneous.
‘Indeed there was. A Trinity man. They were very close, always going about together. I entertained them both myself – young Daunt’s father and I, you know, are old friends. But wait a moment.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, now I remember. There was some trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
‘Not involving Daunt. The other gentleman. Young Pettingale.’
I remembered the name from the accounts given to me by John and Lizzie Brine of the dinner given by Lord Tansor, following which Mr Carteret had accused his daughter of secretly encouraging the attentions of Phoebus Daunt. He had been Daunt’s guest on that occasion, and they had been driven to Evenwood by Josiah Pluckrose.
‘May I ask, if you are able to tell me, the nature of the trouble you speak of?’
‘Ah,’ replied Shakeshaft, ‘you’d best talk to Maunder.’
And so I did. Jacob Maunder, DD, of Trinity College, occupied a splendid ground-floor set in Great Court, with a fine view of Nevile’s Fountain. Tall and stooping, with a lazy curling smile and a sardonic eye, he had occupied the position of Senior Proctor in the University for a period that coincided with Phoebus Daunt’s time at King’s College. The duties of a Proctor are of a disciplinary nature, and consequently expose the holders of this office to the more sordid and unpleasant propensities of those in statu pupillari.* ‘When you perambulate the streets at night,’ as the Provost of King’s, Dr Okes, once memorably remarked to one of their number, ‘you rarely see the constellation Virgo.’ The post also required a stout heart, as the unfortunate Wale had famously discovered when he was pursued by a mob of undergraduates from the Senate House to the gates of his College.†
I could not imagine Jacob Maunder fleeing in the face of intimidation. He appeared to me fully to deserve his reputation, described to me in brief by Dr Shakeshaft, as a stern and unyielding upholder of University statute and procedure, and a less than merciful judge of the follies of youth. Did he, I asked, handing him a note of recommendation from Shakeshaft, recollect a gentleman by the name of Pettingale?
‘This is a little irregular, Mr …’
‘Glyver.’ I felt no qualms about using the name by which Dr Shakeshaft knew me.
‘Quite. I see here that Dr Shakeshaft speaks very highly of you. Were you up at the University yourself?’
I told him that I had done my studying in Germany, at which he looked up from his perusal of Shakeshaft’s note.
‘Heidelberg? Why, then, you will know Professor Pfannenschmidt, I dare say.’
Of course I knew Johannes Pfannenschmidt, with whom I had spent many a wonderful hour in deep conversation concerning the religious mysteries of the Ancients. This acknowledgement of an acquaintance with the Herr Professor produced a visible mitigation of Dr Maunder’s raptorial demeanour, and appeared to remove any lingering scruples that he had concerning the propriety of answering my enquiry.
‘Pettingale. Yes, I recollect that gentleman. And his friend.’
‘Mr Phoebus Daunt?’
‘The same. My old friend’s son.’
‘Dr Shakeshaft mentioned some trouble concerning Mr Pettingale. It would assist me greatly, in the prosecution of a highly confidential matter, if you were able to inform me, in a little more detail, of its nature and consequences.’
‘Nicely put, Mr Glyver,’ he said. ‘I will not enquire further into your reasons for seeking this information. But insofar as the matter, in its general outline, is one of public record, I am willing to give you some account of the business.
‘I first came across Mr Lewis Pettingale when I apprehended him in a house of ill-fame – a not uncommon occurrence, I am afraid to say, amongst the undergraduate population of this University. Youth can be a little lax in point of moral resolve.’ He smiled. ‘He was disciplined, of course, and put on notice that, if it happened again, he would be rusticated.* But the affair that Dr Shakeshaft has in mind was altogether more serious, though its conclusion appeared to exonerate Mr Pettingale of any taint of guilt or censure.
‘It began, from my point of view, when I was called upon, in my capacity as Senior Proctor, by a police inspector from London who wished to question Mr Pettingale in connexion with a serious case of forgery. It appears that the young man had gone to a firm of London solicitors – Pentecost & Vizard, as I recall – for assistance in the matter of an outstanding debt. He had taken with him a promissory note for the amount of one hundred pounds, signed by a Mr Leonard Verdant. The solicitors undertook to write to this Mr Verdant forthwith, and demand payment of the sum in question, on pain of legal proceedings immediately being taken out against him. Within twenty-four hours, a messenger had appeared at the solicitors’ office with the outstanding debt in cash, and a request from Mr Verdant for a signed receipt.
‘On being informed that the debt had been paid, Mr Pettingale went again to the solicitors to receive his money, which was paid to him, at his request, with a cheque drawn on the firm’s bankers – also my own, as it so happened, Dimsdale & Co., Cornhill. Well, the cheque was duly presented, and the matter was concluded to the satisfaction of all parties.
‘But then, a week or so later, a clerk in the solicitors’ office noticed that three cheques, to a total of eight hundred pounds, had been drawn on the firm’s account without, it appeared, any record of the transactions having been made. The alarm was duly raised and the police were called in. A few days later, a man by the name of Hensby was apprehended on the premises of the firm’s bank, attempting to present a further forged cheque, this time for seven hundred pounds.