The Devil's Making Read Online Free Page B

them”, as they say. You’ll need them for the Legislature. To get there. The bridge has finally rotted through and been condemned, so you’ll have to walk around James Bay in the mud. Watch out for the signs that say “No bottom”. They mean it. I’ll draw you a map. Look, I have some splendid Wellingtons here.’
    So my old acquaintance Frederick Blundell of Brasenose sold me a pair of rubber Wellingtons for the sum of three dollars.
    *   *   *
    Government Street, Victoria’s main thoroughfare, comes to an end at a long wooden bridge to the Legislature buildings, known as the ‘bird-cages’, across a wide bay of the Inner Harbour. The bridge is closed off and is visibly rotten, with slats fallen into the water. It’s necessary either to take a ‘ferry’ – one of the rowboats moored nearby, whose owners charge a dollar a trip – or to skirt the bay by a road which is merely a slough of mud and puddles. I took the road. There were only a few shanties here and there, with chickens or ducks running or paddling around them, stretches of long grass, and the frost-blackened remains of vegetable patches. On a rise up to my left was a wooden church – the cathedral – a humble site for the world-shaking doctrinal schisms which apparently threaten. Several horses and carts passed, with passengers in elegant coats, presumably coming from the Legislature. I was kept busy scrambling away from the road to avoid being splashed with mud. I felt pleased not to be doing the rounds of the failed lawyers, suppliant for a job. Visiting the Legislature gave me a sense of purpose, at least until I arrived there.
    The ‘birdcages’ are indeed a grotesque architectural feat, but not disagreeable. They are faced with pink brick and half-timbered to give an Elizabethan effect, though the timbers have been painted red. The roofs are also red, and pagoda-shaped. The main building has a little square bell tower, and is fronted with wooden steps to a door with a fan-light window. Horses were hitched to nearby posts, and the drivers of carts or buggies were standing in conversation in the sun at the edge of pleasant lush lawns. There were even flowerbeds with Michaelmas daisies, asters and chrysanthemums, only slightly frost-blackened. I followed a path which led past the carts and to the back where a wider flight of steps than in front led up to a long veranda on which some men in frock coats were standing arguing. They turned to look at me with cold curiosity. I asked whether Mr Begbie was in Victoria at present.
    â€˜You’re in luck. Here’s here now’, one man said. He had fixed intense eyes and a silly coal-scuttle shaped beard sticking aggressively forward. His accent was not quite like the local American.
    The men continued to stare at me as I went in the door which was propped open on a chock of wood. There was a large panelled vestibule lined with benches, a circular staircase, and various doors. A man dressed in a black coat with silver buttons came forward and I handed him my letter of introduction. He took it and went through one of the doors. I sat on a bench and waited, twiddling my thumbs, aware that my Wellingtons were incongruous. Eventually the porter reappeared, followed by another man, who from his fussy air appeared to be a clerk. ‘Mr Hobbes? Mr Begbie will see you now.’
    He escorted me into a large room whose windows looked out onto the front veranda. There was a fireplace with a wood fire, a table with documents strewn over it, and leather chairs.
    â€˜Mr Hobbes. I am Matthew Begbie. Welcome to Victoria.’ His voice is English, sharp, and high-pitched for such an imposing man. He is tall, dandyish, but broad shouldered. Thinning hair, a pointed grey-brown beard, aristocratic face with wide brow. Like engravings of Walter Raleigh. An elegant courtier. Frock coat, ruffed cravat, jewelled pin. Frederick mentioned,