Alms for Oblivion (30 page)

Then I neatened my clothing, tugging Topcourt’s coat about me. I hoped I didn’t look as though I’d passed the best part of a week on the road. Fortunately the couple of nights
which I’d spent in the inns had enabled me to get rid of some of the smudge of travel.

I set off at a downhill march, not to the heart of the village but towards the great house which lay at a little distance, a life-preserving distance, from it. This was Quint House, the
residence of the Agates. I walked steadily, afraid that if I checked my steps now my resolution might falter. For what had seemed a good idea as I fled from Southwark – that I should return
to the place of my birth and seek shelter with the family of my old childhood friend, while I took stock of my predicament – now looked a less certain thing with every step I made towards
their front door.

What claim did I have on them? I was Peter’s friend, but Peter was dead. I’d written to the family a heartfelt letter, explaining something of the brutal circumstances of his death
but without suggesting that I myself had fallen under suspicion for it. I’d supposed, in a careless kind of way, that the Agates might be glad to hear more details of his death from the
friend Peter had sought out in London - or, if not his death, then of his last days, and quite happy days they had been too.

If Mistress Margaret, Peter’s mother, had been alive, I know she would have welcomed me with open arms. But she was dead. In her place was Gertrude, the harpy-like stepmother whose claws
and flapping dugs Peter told me he’d run away from. As for father Agate, old Anthony, the one who had bitterly opposed his son’s plans to go on stage, what would he say when he clapped
eyes on a member of the disgraced tribe of players on his doorstep? Even though I’d been unaware of Peter’s intentions before he’d arrived, wouldn’t I somehow be blamed for
luring Peter to London and so bringing about his death? That was assuming Anthony Agate even remembered me. Then there were Peter’s sisters . . . but what was I to them? Only one, Anne, had
been there for Peter and me to shoo away and trip over. The others had been little children, inconsequential and out of sight. And Anne I’d most likely tweaked and teased horridly. If she
remembered me at all it would probably be with indifference or distaste.

So, all in all, my plan seemed not just ill thought out but futile.

Half a dozen crazed notions ran through my head as I covered the final furlongs to the Agate mansion.

Why should I stop here in my old village? Almost everyone I knew was dead. I could just keep going, letting my legs carry me where they would. Why not simply plunge on into the wilds of the West
Country and there make do with what I could grab and grub? After all, Abel Glaze made a good living out of tumbling down in the public highway or exhibiting his fake wounds to interested viewers. I
was no less of an actor than him.

Or I might head for a seaport, to Bristol or Plymouth, and there take ship to . . . to a new life in another land. But I was no great lover of boats. The widest strip of water I knew was the
Bristol Channel. And the only foreign country I’d ever had a glimpse of was the wild mountains of Wales, and they were quite enough to be going on with.

So I continued in my progress towards Quint House and entered by the front gate, passing between pillars surmounted by great stone balls. As a child I’d thought they looked as big as the
globe. The house, built of a stone that even on this overcast day looked warm to the touch, stood four-square and solid before me. To one side was the small chapel which had been erected by old
Peter Agate, the pious grandfather of the family. I traversed familiar gardens and walked up the flagged path. A gardener was raking the fallen leaves. He looked up incuriously.

I contemplated going round to one of the side entrances but, in the event, knocked at the main door. When no answer came, I rapped more loudly. I heard footsteps inside. My mouth was dry. I had
no idea what I was going to say.

A pale-faced woman opened the door. She was wearing mourning but wasn’t dressed like a servant. She looked too young to be the new lady of the house, Peter’s stepmother, Gertrude.
Too young and too attractive for a harpy. There were shadows under her eyes. She regarded me almost in bafflement and didn’t seem inclined to speak.

“Is the master of the house at home?”

“The master?” she echoed.

“The mistress then?”

“She is with Ralph Verney of Miching.”

“Ah,” I said, not recognizing the name.

“They are talking of monuments.”

“Monuments, of course,” I said. Then, realizing that I needed to make matters clear, if only for my own sake, I started again.

“I – I am an old friend of the Agate family. Or, to be more precise, an old friend of Peter Agate.”

As if the name was a cue on stage, the face of the woman in front of me suddenly crumpled like a screwed-up cloth. She clung to the doorpost for support and looked down at the floor of the
porch.

“I’m sorry,” I said, beginning to have an inkling of what this might be about. “Are you – you are Anne, yes, you must be Anne Agate.”

As I said the words I saw that this was indeed Peter’s oldest sister. When I’d left Miching – when I’d run away from the village – she’d been a girl. Now she
was a young woman.

“Who are you?” she said, between choked-back tears.

For an instant I considered calling myself Topcourt – my incognito, the name that I’d doled out occasionally on my journey – but what would be the point of that? If I
couldn’t play myself in my own village there was no hope left for me.

“Revill, Nicholas Revill.”

“Is it?” she said, glancing up with brimming eyes, and as if doubting my own identity.

“Yes.”

“He that was the parson’s son from Miching?”

I nodded.

“I remember you now. You are changed, a little.”

“You are greatly changed . . . Anne.”

“You wrote a letter to us from London.”

“With bad news in it. I am very sorry I had to write it.”

She brushed at her eyes and, through the tears, came a watery half-smile.

“You said kind things. In among the – the horrors you said kind things.”

“Peter was a good friend.”

“You were a good friend to my brother.”

“Not good enough.”

“You saw him at the end.”

“Almost,” I said, not wanting to enlarge on that final scene in Dead Man’s Place.

“Now you have come from London to see us?”

“I have been on the road these many days.”

“Then you are welcome,” she said, standing to one side.

As I entered through the front door of Quint House, Anne Agate almost fell against me and we embraced without thought, in shared grief for her brother. My own eyes were full by now. We were
standing in the lobby, which opened into a large panelled hall such as you often find in these old-fashioned country houses. Abruptly Anne pulled away from me. Standing in a doorway on the far side
of the great hall were a man and a woman, watching us.

I was able to identify the woman straightaway from Peter’s description. She was dressed in showy black and her cheeks were a hectic red. This must be Gertrude Agate. The man standing in
the shadows behind her was a serious-looking fellow, not Anthony Agate but seemingly many years younger. Presumably this was Ralph Verney, whoever he might be.

“Who is your friend, Anne?” said the woman. “Tell me now please.”

“Not mine but a friend of Peter’s,” said the girl.

“Nicholas Revill, madam,” I said, making a little dip with my head. “I used to live in this village. I am a player from London.”

“Revill?” said Mrs Agate, squinting towards me. She came closer, inspecting. Looked me up and down. “It was you that wrote us about my stepson.”

“I profoundly regret that I had to be the one to convey the news,” I said.

I felt awkward.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I have come to pay my condolences in person. I am only passing through.”

Not altogether true, but not altogether untrue either. Mrs Gertrude Agate, however, didn’t look impressed or pleased and, after another glance up and down, she stepped back.

Fortunately, the man in the doorway chose this moment to come forward. He was also wearing black, set off by a small white ruff. It was then that I put two or three things together – this
gentleman’s grave demeanour and sober dress, his presence in this house of mourning, the talk of a monument (presumably a church monument for Peter). I realized that I was looking at my
father’s replacement. Life had indeed returned to Miching: smoke rose from its chimneys, dogs barked in its streets, and there was a priest back in the pulpit. It was probably he who
I’d seen coming through the lych-gate of the church.

“I believe I am the son of your – your predecessor,” I said, moving forward with my hand extended.

“I hope that you know who you are, sir,” said this clerical gentleman.

His innocent joke was a little too near the truth, but he meant nothing by it. Ralph Verney introduced himself. We shook hands. He had an open, candid gaze. Anne Agate watched with approval.
Close to, Verney looked youthful enough, even though I don’t suppose he was more than a year or two older than I was. But when I thought of the minister of Miching, of course I thought of my
father, earnest, reverend, a little frightening. Essentially an old man – to a boy or a young man’s eyes. So anybody else would be a mere youth in comparison.

“I have heard of you, Master Revill – but I have heard rather more of your father.”

“Much more, I hope,” I said.

“He had a proper care of this parish.”

Thinking of the way my father had returned to tend to its dying members, and so exposed himself to pestilence and death, I could only bow my head in agreement.

At this point, there was a loud coughing from Mistress Gertrude.

“We have not yet finished our discussion, Ralph, over the best way to commemorate the dear departed,” she said.

I seemed to hear a kind of sneer in her words. I thought it was an unfeeling way to refer to a stepson, even if one who had, no doubt, displeased her by rejecting her advances. I remembered
Peter’s description of her, the shudder of horror he’d given. I noted also the familiarity with which Gertrude Agate addressed Verney, her use of his first name – well, parson or
no parson, she was old enough to be his mother, I suppose. He was quite handsome too, and so might be at risk. From the very slight frown that crossed Parson Verney’s face, I judged that
he’d noted the familiarity too but was sufficiently in control of his features not to let it show much.

“Excuse me, madam,” I said. “I did not mean to interrupt you.”

Ralph Verney turned towards Gertrude Agate. Before she could draw him back into the room off the great hall, I said, “I ask your pardon again, Mrs Agate, but I would like to see your
husband.”

To my surprise, Gertrude Agate stopped in her tracks, turned round and almost seemed to smirk.

“Why?”

“To pay my respects to him.”

“You will have a task in hand,” she said.

“I will not detain him for more than a few minutes.”

Then I shall be on my way, I thought, there’s nothing more for me in this house.

“He’ll wait,” said Mrs Agate. She seemed to be enjoying my uncertainty.

I noticed Anne Agate looking distressed, her face beginning to crumple up once more. As for Ralph Verney, he wore an expression of discomfort which he wasn’t bothering to hide.

“Anthony Agate is dead,” the parson said finally.

“My husband has been dead this long month,” said the ungrieving widow.

“My father is dead,” said Anne Agate.

S
o the story that I’d spun when travelling westwards in the guise of William Topcourt – that I was hurrying back home because of my
father’s death – contained a kind of truth, after all. Only it was the father of Peter Agate who had died, rather than Topcourt’s supposed sire. The monument which Anthony’s
widow and the parson were discussing was to the father and not – as I’d thought – to the son. For old Anthony Agate had perished not long after my friend quit his home for London.
When Peter turned up on my doorstep, and as far as he was concerned, the old man was still alive and still breathing fire and brimstone over his son’s intention to become a stage-player. I
wondered that no one had thought to inform Peter of his bereavement and then remembered that no one knew where to find him. The first news that the Agate family received about their son and brother
was in my letter, the one telling them of his brutal murder. It was a double blow, the mysterious death of the only son coming hard on the heels of the father’s demise.

There was no mystery about Anthony’s departure from this world. He had caught a fever in October. At first they’d thought he’d recover. The moment of crisis had come and gone.
He had dined on rabbit stew. He was sitting up in bed in his chamber on the last day of the month. The autumn fruit from the orchard had been carried up by the gardeners for his inspection. Trays
of quince (after which Quint House was named, I think). Baskets of crab apples and peaches and medlars, that fruit which grosser folk call ‘open-arse’ on account of its appearance. But
Anthony Agate had no appetite for any of this produce of his garden and merely picked at a bunch of grapes. The grapes were the last thing he ate. He had an unexpected relapse as the sun went down
and expired at the low hour of three in the morning. Ralph Verney had been summoned at the end. The parson was newly arrived in Miching. After my father’s death the requirement had fallen
once more on the lord of the manor to bestow the living of Miching. But, since most of the village was dead, it was no very urgent requirement. The pulpit stayed empty like the church. Eventually
Anthony Agate had settled on Ralph Verney. Neither man could have known that what was only their second or third meeting would take place at the death-bed of one of them.

I got these details and others besides from Anne Agate. Whatever the discomfort, even the fear which she and her sisters might have felt in the presence of their father, everything was swallowed
up in genuine grief for him. Within the space of a couple of years, the three sisters – Anne and Margaret and little Katie – had lost their mother, their father and their brother. The
plague has often commissioned his twin, that rascal death, to cut wide swathes through a single family. Indeed the pair take a delight in cutting down every human stalk in a bunch except one, so
that the survivor’s ragged solitude looks like mockery. But there seemed an especial cruelty to the fact that the Agates had been spared the fate of the rest of Miching village only for some
of them to fall under the rascal’s scythe shortly afterwards.