Read Online The Whispering Swarm by Michael Moorcock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Moorcock
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Millsâ Circus. They stabled a lot of their animals across the river in Battersea.
I was still reading when I headed down New Fetter Lane which led into Fleet Lane which joined Fleet Street. I took Claude Duval. Courtly, graceful, handsome and daring, he was a virtuoso on the flageolet. He once played a duet with a lady whose coach he was robbing. He then offered not to take a penny from the coach if she would only grant him a dance. Which she did while her coachman played. Frith had done a famous painting of the scene, much copied by story-paper artists.
I was hardly aware of my real surroundings as I read Claudeâs adventures, keeping half an eye open so I didnât bump into anyone. Before I knew it I had reached Carmelite Inn Chambers and stood looking up at the great iron-bound door in the far corner. With a sense of anticipation I stepped forward and pushed hard on the left side. It didnât budge. I tried the right. Nothing. Stuffing the magazine into my jacket pocket I tried hammering on the doors but only succeeded in hurting my hands. I looked around for someone to ask if the gates opened at a certain time. But Carmelite Inn Chambers was almost deserted. A delivery boy was leaving on his bike. I called âexcuse meâ without any luck. Lights began to burn in offices. I hadnât noticed a morning fog drifting in from the river. If I didnât get back up to Fleet Street there was every chance Iâd have to waste time waiting it out in a pub. I started to hurry.
Of course, I was soon lost in that maze of little streets snaking around one another, more or less paralleling the Thames. It took me half an hour to find the Temple and by the time I reached the Strand, heading for Trafalgar Square, the sun blazed in a clear, pale winter sky. I knew what had happened. Somehow I had chosen the wrong square. It wasnât Carmelite Inn Chambers at all!
So I got my hair cut in St Martinâs Lane and went back to look for another square like Carmelite Inn Chambers. An old Inn of Court where lawyers worked and often lived. That part of London is still full of them. Some sensible monarch set them up when he was reforming the law. The lawyers, of course, soon departed from the spirit of the institution. Rumour had it that most of the apartments were now occupied by mistresses of barristers or the barristersâ mothers.
Remembering that I was due to have tea with the abbot I did everything I could to find the place. Now I felt guilty as well as frustrated. I went back to the Old Bailey, to the typesetter, but they were closed. For hours I tried to find a square that resembled Carmelite Inn Chambers, but I discovered nothing nearby. The more I returned to it, the more I was sure I had been right the first time. I tried pushing on the gates. I asked passersby what they thought was behind them. Most said they had been sealed up since before the war. Others thought there was a boatyard back there, or some kind of junk business. Some of the chambers appeared to look onto the Sanctuary, but, when I asked to see, I was told those windows had been bricked up since before the war. What sort of delusion could I have suffered? I returned to Fleet Street and had a glass of claret at El Vino while I sat and refused to believe what was happening. When people I knew came in I was cheerful. I didnât say anything about my obsession. There is nothing like an obsession to keep food off the table. I decided to wait until Pete Taylor and Barry Bayley could come with me.
I also decided to keep trying periodically but not to spend my life on it. If I continued to insist on searching for the mysterious gate, Iâd really go crazy. However, I was suspicious of comparisons to those stories about vanishing shops or houses, so popular with readers around the end of the nineteenth century. In my world, if a house suddenly vanished it was because Hitler had dropped a bomb on it. Those gates had to be somewhere!
I was still reading when I headed down New Fetter Lane which led into Fleet Lane which joined Fleet Street. I took Claude Duval. Courtly, graceful, handsome and daring, he was a virtuoso on the flageolet. He once played a duet with a lady whose coach he was robbing. He then offered not to take a penny from the coach if she would only grant him a dance. Which she did while her coachman played. Frith had done a famous painting of the scene, much copied by story-paper artists.
I was hardly aware of my real surroundings as I read Claudeâs adventures, keeping half an eye open so I didnât bump into anyone. Before I knew it I had reached Carmelite Inn Chambers and stood looking up at the great iron-bound door in the far corner. With a sense of anticipation I stepped forward and pushed hard on the left side. It didnât budge. I tried the right. Nothing. Stuffing the magazine into my jacket pocket I tried hammering on the doors but only succeeded in hurting my hands. I looked around for someone to ask if the gates opened at a certain time. But Carmelite Inn Chambers was almost deserted. A delivery boy was leaving on his bike. I called âexcuse meâ without any luck. Lights began to burn in offices. I hadnât noticed a morning fog drifting in from the river. If I didnât get back up to Fleet Street there was every chance Iâd have to waste time waiting it out in a pub. I started to hurry.
Of course, I was soon lost in that maze of little streets snaking around one another, more or less paralleling the Thames. It took me half an hour to find the Temple and by the time I reached the Strand, heading for Trafalgar Square, the sun blazed in a clear, pale winter sky. I knew what had happened. Somehow I had chosen the wrong square. It wasnât Carmelite Inn Chambers at all!
So I got my hair cut in St Martinâs Lane and went back to look for another square like Carmelite Inn Chambers. An old Inn of Court where lawyers worked and often lived. That part of London is still full of them. Some sensible monarch set them up when he was reforming the law. The lawyers, of course, soon departed from the spirit of the institution. Rumour had it that most of the apartments were now occupied by mistresses of barristers or the barristersâ mothers.
Remembering that I was due to have tea with the abbot I did everything I could to find the place. Now I felt guilty as well as frustrated. I went back to the Old Bailey, to the typesetter, but they were closed. For hours I tried to find a square that resembled Carmelite Inn Chambers, but I discovered nothing nearby. The more I returned to it, the more I was sure I had been right the first time. I tried pushing on the gates. I asked passersby what they thought was behind them. Most said they had been sealed up since before the war. Others thought there was a boatyard back there, or some kind of junk business. Some of the chambers appeared to look onto the Sanctuary, but, when I asked to see, I was told those windows had been bricked up since before the war. What sort of delusion could I have suffered? I returned to Fleet Street and had a glass of claret at El Vino while I sat and refused to believe what was happening. When people I knew came in I was cheerful. I didnât say anything about my obsession. There is nothing like an obsession to keep food off the table. I decided to wait until Pete Taylor and Barry Bayley could come with me.
I also decided to keep trying periodically but not to spend my life on it. If I continued to insist on searching for the mysterious gate, Iâd really go crazy. However, I was suspicious of comparisons to those stories about vanishing shops or houses, so popular with readers around the end of the nineteenth century. In my world, if a house suddenly vanished it was because Hitler had dropped a bomb on it. Those gates had to be somewhere!
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