HELL'S PURSUIVANT IN LONDON
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A fantasy set in London, a latter-day Babylon, in 1826. An agent of Hell is sent to find out what is amiss with England at Christmas. It features Charles Dickens' characters: Scrooge, Jingle & Fagin. No bad language, no violence. A CHRISTMAS CAROL, PICKWICK PAPERS, OLIVER TWIST
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"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here"
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The atmosphere in the 'Outer Ring' was decidedly frosty. Not literally, of course, for that was impossible. A lake of fire underneath kept the heat uncomfortably high. The lake bubbled relentlessly and awaited its chance to burst forth. It was a grim portent of the future. Something else, however, was troubling the occupants.
A figure in hose, elaborate tabard and furred mantle stood, kicking his fettered heels, before two large metal doors. Virtue was non-existent in 'the Rings' so the man displayed no patience whatsoever. The great bronze portal finally opened to reveal Abilsin, formerly a scribe to Hammurabi (1). "Sherriff, there is a task for you". You will note that the denizens of Hell don't waste time with excessive politeness.
Sir William frowned. As a Sherriff under King John (2), and the scourge of the shire courts, he'd been used in life to more respect. He felt a strong desire to pull Abilsin's curled beard; who then smiled because he read William's thoughts. "I thought I was to meet the Duke personally?" William objected.
"The Duke is… indisposed," the Mesopotamian said tactfully.
"What's wrong with him?" William asked.
"Can't you feel it?" said the scribe, troubled. "We think that there is something very wrong in the modern Babylon. It is giving His Grace chills, so to speak."
The Sherriff replied, "Then you've got the wrong man. Outremer (3) is nothing to me. I'm assigned to the Prince over England".
"Oh, it was London, England, I meant, o' flower of chivalry! The new Babylon is causing concern. We fear an inexplicable outbreak of goodwill and charity. It's been getting worse, year on year."
Not wanting to say the word loudly, William mumbled "Well, it must be Christmas down there".
The scribe flinched, "You're very bold, master Sherriff, to name 'the opposition' in this place. You are right however and that is the problem". He fingered a small amulet, hanging at his neck, nervously. "It's most unexpected; they'd almost rid themselves of the habit".
"Huh?" said the knight, not understanding.
"Well they turned incredibly pious a couple of centuries back". Abilsin hitched his shawl about his shoulders as he thought back. "When they broke with the Romish 'church' (4) (that word muttered) they decided not to do anything that isn't in their… book".
Sir William nodded; he remembered the Bible. Even the thought of handling it gave him a burning sensation. "There was that fellow, Cromwell, wasn't there?" (5)
"That's the one," the scribe agreed, "at least he was a part of it. It's now 1826, by their infernal reckoning, and they'd almost reduced it to a day of work or, at most, church". He half turned and the heavy chain about his waist clanked.
"Is it not so now?"
The skirted Babylonian answered "We don't know for sure. There are certain signs of 'goodwill' that make us fear an outbreak of C-mas".
"What do you want of me, man?"
"You, Sir Knight, are to go and investigate. As our pursuivant (6) you will go to London and report your findings to us," said Abilsin.
Sir William clapped his hands together. "Good; do I get my body?"
"Alas, no," the scribe smirked a little. "That is not really in our power. You will be a spirit only; which at least allows you to see what they would hide. Of course, you won't be fettered as a sprite".
"How long have I got?"
"What they refer to as C-mas Eve and C-mas Day." Abilsin looked at the great clock above the doors which was always set at a minute to midnight (for they know that their time is short, in that place). "We felt that you would draw the Opposition's attention by a third day".
The Sherriff replied glumly, "The Opposition will know the moment that I leave here."
"Of course; but they won't think you're doing anything particular; not unless you tarry". With a certain gallows humour, the scribe glanced again at the clock and said, "You must be off; for we don't have long".
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"The merchants of the earth have grown rich from the power of her luxury"
Christmas Eve 1826
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Are you familiar with the phrase "like attracts like?" Think how true it is. Is it any wonder then that the Pursuivant homed in on the offices of Scrooge & Marley, private bankers and money-lenders? A similar nature drew William like metal to a magnet. He didn't realise that he'd be permitted to see only certain things. The unseen God, that he hated and feared, suffered the Hellish kind to operate under His 'permissive decree' but still made them subject to His 'effective decree'. In other words he had licence to act according to his wicked disposition but it would not detract one jot or tittle from the divine plan.
Ebenezer Scrooge sat at his desk. He was just into middle-age yet already steeped in sin. The catalogue of his misdeeds was growing by the hour. Every mean-spirited action, covetous thought, unkind deed or act of double-dealing added to the chain that he might bear in his afterlife. It was eight o'clock at night – late to be at the office even for such one such as him. In the streets people were scurrying to shops and markets to buy provisions for the coming day. Exhausted and underpaid shop assistants would work seventeen hours or more. Other folk were already buried deep inside a pint pot or searing their guts with cheap gin. The banker and usurer, Scrooge, finished surveying a ledger of debtors with some reluctance. A list of those, great and small, that owed the firm money gave him a glow of satisfaction; if any warmth can be attributed to such a man. Even so, it was time to go home.
Huddled in a doorway outside was a woman of the 'coster' (7) trade. She'd seen Ebenezer inside his property. She knew that he'd not answer the door to the likes of her (I use Scrooge's way of thinking, not mine own). "Mr Scrooge, please, sir, might I have a word?"
The usurer had a nose that could scent importunity. It detected it now, swinging because of it like a weather-cock. "Be sharp about it then, madam," answered the thin lips below that proboscis.
"I'm Mrs Downes, my husband is Sidney Downes."
Scrooge grunted. "That, madam, is your misfortune, not mine".
"He's due to make you a payment, on St Stephen's Day (8)," she stated.
"Seven shillings, in two days," that mathematical brain replied.
"We was wondering… sir, if it might be a little less. Say four shillings?"
"You may keep wondering, madam. The amount due is seven shillings; would ye see me out of pocket by three?"
Mrs Downes dipped in an apologetic curtsy. "No sir, only times ain't easy and we did hope you might wait another week for the balance."
"Now let me see," said Scrooge stroking his razor-like chin. What a wonder it didn't cut him! "The balance of the debt is now £1/2/0 is it not?" The good lady nodded. "If payment isn't made in full then I might take your husband's barrow."
"Sir…" the lady said in sad acknowledgement of that fact.
"What the devil do you think I can do with a barrow?" Scrooge asked. "I'll have to get somebody to take it and sell it. It'd be devilish inconvenient, madam".
"So…would you give us more time?" she asked hopefully.
"I said it was inconvenient – not that I wouldn't do it," the moneylender retorted. "No, I suggest your husband brings me the seven shillings as agreed."
"Oh, Mr Scrooge, it will be so hard!"
"Then, ma'am, you ought to be out selling! This is a good night for trading; I suggest you put some energy into it. You'll manage!" Scrooge thrust his head forward like a scraggy turkey-cock and began to stalk off. "A very good night to you," he threw over his shoulder. Ebenezer felt particularly elated after his small victory. He didn't realise that an unseen cloud of hellish approval circled him.
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"Put away from you crooked speech"
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The little rooms for travellers at 'The Red Duke' were clean but rather like rabbit-hutches in size. Nobody ever stayed long for everyone was just passing through on their way elsewhere. The guest chambers ran the length of the rear upper-floor and could be reached by means of a rickety old staircase. The whole thing overlooked a cobbled courtyard covered in mud and straw. Whenever a coach was set to depart, the yard would fill up with vendors that arose from nowhere as if vaporous. They'd point out the impossibility of journeying without necessities as varied as sealing wax or gingerbread. Young Jewish lads once had the trade 'sewn up' but, of late, Irish boys had become preeminent as they had to eek a meagre existence on the tiniest of profits.
The pursuivant, unseen by man, swirled about the yard like an ill wind. A coachman produced a cloud of smoke from his pipe in rivalry of Mr Stephenson's 'Locomotion Number One' (9). Various hands were engaged in unloading the coach as the passengers stretched cramped legs and tried to straighten bent backs. A man of medium height, yet so thin that he seemed taller, was busy berating an even thinner servant. "Dressing case – left behind you say – lost I say – need it – have to send back for it – inconvenient – most angry – very". His manservant took this staccato broadside with his head hanged.
"Your pardon, sir," said the elderly schoolmaster who'd travelled some miles with the enraged chap. "My things are at your disposal, to make your toilette." John Pottle was staying overnight, it being too late to decently plant himself on his friends.
"Most kind – appreciated – a virtue – greatest of these is charity – blessed are they and so on. Thank you". Having accepted the offer, the placated fellow made his way up the stairs with Mister Pottle. "Don't trust the Boots – probably lose 'em –Sir John Kent got a pair of ladies dancing pumps - notorious for greasy finger-marks too – leave 'em out for my fellow – teach him a lesson".
Intrigued by this breathless and irrepressible character, the spirit later found him in the best parlour of the tavern. The man insisted on wine and tossed the serving lad sixpence. "Bright lad – Christmas – charity – that kind of thing" he explained to Pottle.
"Are you dining here?" Pottle asked.
"Certainly –join me - cold beer and warm fowl – or other way round – whatever – Madam, soup, chicken, potatoes, vegetables – porter – cold night – warming – what m' doctor suggested".
Later, after a very substantial repast, Pottle reluctantly remembered that he really must make his way to church soon. "Wait though – got that prayer book – show you as promised – most interesting – Queen Elizabeth – run upstairs – mind my coat – back soon", he was told.
Leaving his shabby topcoat draped over a chair, Mr Alfred Jingle strolled out of the parlour in shirt-sleeves. "Landlord – rum punch – for two – more logs on fire – be so kind," he said before exiting.
He hummed a little air to himself as he jogged up the stairs. Sat on the end of the bed was Job Trotter – a fellow 'resting' actor currently in the role of servant. Jingle's own trunk, mostly filled with rocks bound in paper, could be abandoned. The polished dressing case with plate fittings was a welcome addition to his impedimenta. "Soft – well-kept - very – here – my old ones for you," he said, pushing his feet into Pottle's boots.
"We'd better be off before the old hunks realises," said Job mournfully.
"Cheer up – gloomy fellow – worked like charm – you go first – watch – whistle if all clear". Jingle's unique linguistic skills never altered. Haste and the glossing over of details were matters of survival in the life that he led. He took the only useful item from his own trunk – a coat of equal shabbiness to the abandoned one – and was ready to disappear into the night.
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"The wicked earn no real gain"
Christmas Day 1826
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Christmas morning isn't a time for any man of goodwill to be up to no good. Now Mr Fagin, being a receiver of stolen goods, was hardly that. Not that, being of Jewish blood, he could be reasonably expected to 'keep the day'. Sadly though, as a most ignoble example of an ancient people of priests and prophets, Fagin did no good on any day of the year.
Christmas dawning in a London rookery wasn't a matter of tremendous excitement for many of its inhabitants. The daily grind of finding a penny for a bed or for food still had to continue. Another night sleeping in a lodging house with sixty or a hundred other impoverished persons filled few with good cheer. A small number of the better sort – the tradespeople – might make something of the day. Even they would probably keep their businesses open – a seventeen hour day was commonplace. People would still call in for bread by the slice and cheese by the sliver. If a shop could afford staff the owners might relax in a room decorated with holly and rosemary, and dine on roast goose.
Fagin and a small band of boys, trained in the delicate art of picking pockets lived then at Number 3 Lightfoot court, off Fournier Street in Spitalfields. The lads knew it as 'Light-fingered Court'. Master Pincher, a rising star of his chosen profession, poured himself his morning draught. I'd like to be able to say that it was milk, but it most definitely wasn't. "Got any bread, Fagin?"
A man of middle-years in a green skirted coat, of comparable age, looked up at his apprentice. "If you want bread, my dear, you must earn it. How can I provide bread without clink? (10) You want bread; get the necessary." (11)
"Gawd bless ye, this Christmas Day, Mr Fagin," Frank retorted.
The fence (12) lifted his arm as if he would clout (13) Franky were he but nearer. He contented himself with indicating the table, which was void of all comestibles. He feigned pronging something on an imaginary fork and drank from a non-existent cup. "Join me, my dear, in the feast of the Barmecides". (14)
The youthful thief had never read 'One Thousand and One Nights' or indeed any book. "You what?" he asked.
"Never mind, Franky, never mind," Fagin said, resigned. "I hope you are going to church this morning?"
Frank and one other, unbelievably, had every intention of going to church. Going to church, please note; not going into church. There was a fine Hawksmoor church nearby that the occupants of Light-fingered Court had never set foot in. A bumper congregation in their Christmas finery was an ideal target for their sticky fingers however. "Course I am, Fagin," laughed the boy. "What d' ye take me for? If I can't lift a well-lined wallet, a couple of silk wipes (15) or a ticker (16) my name's not Frank Pincher."
Although unfamiliar with the vernacular, the evil spirit recognised a larcenous nature when he encountered one. 'Promising,' he thought. 'There is no respect for…this season…here'.
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"The poor you will always have with you".
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The Bishop of Hoxton toasted his feet by his fireside, reckless of chilblains. He'd had a hard day of it, delivering the Christmas message and giving alms to the poor. He'd doubts about the latter though. He couldn't but feel that indigence was mainly the consequence of improvidence. After all, he was the second (not elder) son of a minor canon of the church. Despite lacking the status of elder son, he'd managed well enough. Why couldn't others?
The reverend gentleman's wife, Mrs Foxtstole was of similar stuff to her spouse. She was a daughter of the ancient Foxstole family from Leicestershire and knew her worth. A large, bustling woman used to command, she had her own little flock of clerical wives to bully. She put aside her tatting as a thought came to mind. "Mr Brassing?"
The episcopal eyes turned towards her. "Yes, m'dear?"
"You really must do something about Mr Pipkin." That gentleman was the kindly, harassed chaplain to Mr Brassing.
"What has the fellow being doing now?" He sighed, for there was something that pained him about the chaplain. He couldn't quite pinpoint what, but knew that there was a definite something.
"He is trying to embarrass you, Timothy."
"How so, my love?" the Bishop asked.
"Haven't you noted him today? He's been a positive whirligig (17) all day."
"Ah, well he has been out amongst the poor," her husband pointed out.
"The poor, Timothy, are always with us, as Our Lord said" the lady said, somewhat missing the point. She picked up her work and thrust a needle through it, hard, wishing it was Pipkin's head. "The chaplain is trying to make a show of you. He takes too much upon himself."
"You think so?" Brassing asked. He'd not considered the matter. Thus far he'd been grateful to be relieved of some tiresome duties.
"There is charity and there is showing off! Rein Pipkin in, Mr Brassing, let him feel the bit between his teeth, hard". The spirit, that was once Sir William, soared about the room with pleasure. Meanness, jealousy and suspicion abounded, even in this episcopal palace, on Christmas Day. How glorious it was.
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"For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world"
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The thing that was once a scribe in ancient Babylon prostrated himself before his master. Abilsin lay splayed on the warm stone floor, waiting for the instruction to stand.
The throne was black and dull in parts, yet shiny in other places, being carved from coal. It was draped with woollen covers, stained in spots with the blood of the poor. The monster that sat upon it held a net and trident as symbols of office. He wore a mitre; the tall, tapering headwear had belonged to Hugh Latimer, Protestant and Oxford martyr. His robe was that of Thomas Becket, the Roman Catholic martyr of Canterbury. These were worn in a perverted appreciation of the fanaticism that could kill in the name of G-. The Duke of the British Isles considered his servant, "Rise," he said wearily.
"The pursuivant has reported, your Grace".
The monster had four eyes representing the nations of the Isles. One was partly closed, its status being in some doubt. An Indian sapphire the size of a pigeon's egg dangled from his forehead. "And?"
"London is as foul as ever. Christmas is not respected amongst any class. The poor, the labouring sort, the merchants, or the leaders of the church."
"Mm. Then why do I feel so uneasy?" the Duke mused. He rummaged in the sacks at his feet, taking out one handful of tea-leaves and another of sugar. He opened his capacious mouth and dribbled the dry stuff into his throat greedily.
"It is most unaccountable, your Grace. Perhaps you are tired?"
As prince over an empire on which the sun never set, that was actually quite possible. "The pursuivant is absolutely certain that there is no resurgence of…you know… that time of year?"
"He didn't see a single person of goodwill. No, Christmas is done for" the scribe was bold enough to conclude.
THE END
Disclaimer:
This story is supposed to be a fantasy, a bit of fun, not a rigorously tested theological treatise.
Explanatory notes:
1 Hammurabi: King of Babylon, reigned c.1792 – c1750
2 John: King of England 1199 -1216, noted for being avaricious and weak
3 Outremer: lit. 'overseas'; a word used for crusader provinces in the middle-east
4 The Reformation 1552-54
5 Cromwell: Oliver, Lord Protector of England 1653-1658
6 Pursuivant: A follower or attendant; a rank used by the Royal College of Arms
7 Coster: costermonger a street market trader
8 St Stephens Day: the 26th of December
9 Locomotion Number One: an early steam engine
10 Clink: money
11 Necessary: money
12 Fence: a receiver of stolen goods
13 Clout: hit
14 Feast of the Barmecides: a non-existent feast of legend
15 Wipes: handkerchiefs
16 Ticker: a pocket-watch
17 Whirligig: a spinning toy