Michael Cox (54 page)

III
The Study

ALTHOUGH EMILY HAD continued to call me down at night – by means of a bell she had instructed to be installed in my room – in order to soothe her when afflicted by her night-terrors, my own sleep had been untroubled by bad dreams for some time. That night, however, one came to me of a most peculiar and disturbing character. It has troubled my slumbers on many nights since.
I am standing, candle in hand, in a large, empty, windowless chamber, the walls, ceiling, and floor of which are entirely plastered over with smooth, white sand. A faint breeze is blowing, scattering swirling eddies of sand about the floor.
All around the room are a dozen or so closed doors. On the sandy floor before one of them lies a small golden key. I pick up the key, and unlock the door.
A sudden gust of salt-laden wind extinguishes the candle as I pass through into a great sea-cave, low and wide, whose huge gaping mouth gives on to a distant expanse of booming surf, with a vista of sparkling turquoise ocean beyond.
I am now standing on a narrow ledge of black, ridged rock, around which the waves slap and suck. Through the mouth of the cave streams the pearly sunlight of early morning, illuminating a great host of identical stone forms rising up out of the solid rock – line upon line of long-haired sea-maidens, their webbed hands outstretched to the rising sun, heads and shoulders bedecked with wreaths of living seaweed, all gazing out towards the open sea, their clinging blue-black draperies glistening in the pallid light as the waves break back and forth over them, sea-water running down the folds of their garments, so exquisitely rendered, frozen for all eternity.
I turn away and return to the room from which I had entered the cave, closing the door behind me; but as I do so, the sand-covered walls begin to shift and buckle, and in an instant I am engulfed.
In utter terror, I struggle to break free from the suffocating mass; but the collapsing sand fills my eyes, my nose, my mouth, with such irresistible rapidity that soon I can breathe no more, and so give myself up gratefully to Death.

THROWING BACK THE sheets, I sat up, perspiration running down my face, my heart pounding wildly.
Once a little recovered from my dream, I lit my bedside candle. The clock showed twenty minutes past the hour of four.
The window was still open; but the breeze had now dropped, and all was silent as a tomb. On a sudden impulse, I felt the need for fresh air; and so, despite the hour, I dressed, and went down to the Library Terrace, where, with light beginning to break faintly in the eastern sky, I walked up and down until the wildness in my head had abated.
Back in my room, as I sat thinking again what my strange dream might portend, the silence was broken by the sound of a door closing on the floor below.
I well knew the sound of that door – the distinctive creak (despite frequent oiling) of the hinges, the hollow note it made when it was pulled shut. I knew also, by the peculiar acoustic properties of the connecting staircase and passage-way, that these sounds could be heard from my room.
Fired by a sudden instinctive certainty that I must make an investigation, I went out into the passage, descended to the first floor, and was soon standing outside Emily’s private apartments. I did not enter them, however, for my attention had been caught by a faint light flickering up through the stairwell from the vestibule below.
Down I went; and then I saw her.
It was an uncanny sight. She was wearing the long white night-gown that had once belonged to Phoebus Daunt, which, trailing out behind her in the near-darkness, seemed like the winding-sheet of some poor wandering wraith, newly risen from the grave.
I was now only a few feet behind her, pressing myself close to the deeply shadowed wall of the staircase in order to avoid detection.
Candle raised, her long hair streaming down her back, slippered feet pattering softly on the stone flags, she passed the portrait of the Turkish Corsair, and quickly turned into a long vaulted corridor, flanked on either side with faded banners, shields, crossed weapons, and other martial accoutrements.
On she went, occasionally stopping to take breath, until stopping at last before the one place in the house in which I had never yet set foot in all my ramblings: the late Lord Tansor’s study, and now Emily’s own inviolable sanctum, the door to which was kept permanently locked.
From the shadowed embrasure of a narrow window that overlooked the rose-garden, I watched as she took out a key from the pocket of the night-gown and unlocked the study door, which she softly closed behind her.
I strained my ears, but could not make out the sound of the key turning again; and so I advanced on tip-toe to the door, kneeled down, and placed my eye to the empty key-hole.
She was standing with her back towards me, in the act of placing the candle on a heavy mahogany desk, which stood before the window on the far side of the room. As I watched her, she suddenly turned, as though she had heard something, picked up the candle, and began walking quickly back towards the door. I had but a second or two to run back to my former hiding-place before the study door opened, and Emily came out into the corridor, looking anxiously about her. After a moment or two, apparently satisfied that she had not been observed, she went back inside. This time, however, the door did not shut properly; and when I ran back, I found that I was able to push it open slightly, to give a better view of the study’s interior.
Tall and narrow, its single window giving out over the Entrance Court, the room, including the ceiling, was panelled in dark wood; glass-fronted bookcases covered the right-hand wall; on the left hung a line of portraits.
Having lit a small oil-lamp that stood on the desk, Emily now went over to one of the portraits, depicting a portly gentleman, dressed in the costume of the last century, his wife and dog by his side. I thought at first that she was about to take the picture down, perhaps to reveal some secret compartment, like the one concealed by the portrait of Anthony Duport. Instead, she began pressing the bottom edge of the painting’s ornate gilded frame, in what appeared to be a deliberate sequence of actions. Then, with a soft click, the adjacent portrait, of a severe-looking lady of advanced years, suddenly swung open, to reveal a dark cavity. From this she removed a leather bag and what I soon saw was a key, then closed the secret door. Unlocking one of the desk drawers with the key, she took out two envelopes, which she proceeded to place in the bag.
After sitting meditatively for several moments, breathing heavily, she got up again and opened the door of a narrow cupboard set into the panel-work, from which she brought out a long, hooded cloak and a pair of delicate dove-grey evening pumps decorated with black beading. Throwing the cloak over her shoulders, and exchanging her slippers for the pumps, she strapped the leather bag across her chest, extinguished the lamp, and, candle in hand, began to walk towards the door, obliging me to scurry back to my hiding-place once more.
I heard the key turning in the lock of the study door; moments later, Emily’s cloaked and hooded figure flitted past.
Slowly, I counted to five, and set off after her.

35

The Last Sunrise

I
The Evenbrook
29TH MAY 1877

A
T THE
door to the vestibule, Emily halted, looking round to ensure that no one was about. Pausing briefly again, to glance up at the portrait of my grandparents, Lord Tansor and his beautiful first wife, with my father’s brother in her arms, she then quickly crossed the great echoing space, and passed through a low green-painted door tucked away in the far corner.
As soon as she had disappeared from view, I was after her: through the green-painted door, down a short flight of stairs, and along a succession of passages and small dark rooms that eventually opened into a little-frequented hallway on the south side of the house. Facing me, a half-glazed door stood open to the chilly morning air.
I confess that I was bewildered. Where could she be going, at this hour, dressed only in a night-gown, and wearing evening pumps? But there was no time to speculate if I was to keep up with her; so out through the door I went.
To the left, the gravel path that Mr Randolph had taken on the day we had sat together by the fish-pond led under the towering South Front to the stables; to the right, it wound away from the house to hug the pond’s high walls, before passing through an avenue of venerable trees to join the main carriage-drive. It was now obvious that Emily had taken this circuitous route into the Park to avoid being observed. More mystified than ever, I stepped on to the path.
The nascent morning light was now slowly gaining strength, enabling me to make out her dark form hurrying towards the far angle of the fish-pond wall, from which point the path turned sharply towards the avenue of trees.
On she went, with me following as closely as I dared, through the trees, on to the drive, over the bridge, and up the long slope of the Rise, with quick, deliberate steps, as though she was anxious to keep some pressing engagement, and never once looking back or pausing for breath.
To avoid being seen, I had kept to the lines of oaks planted at close intervals on either side of the drive; but the grass was long, and wet from the heavy dew and the recent rain, and this had made my progress slow and uncomfortable. As soon as Emily had crested the slope, I left the safety of the trees, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me to the summit of the Rise. Below me, in the gradually expanding light, I could see the dark outline of the castellated gate-house and, to the right, above the intervening trees, the chimneys of the Dower House and the tall spire of St Michael and All Angels silhouetted against the pale eastern sky. But where was Emily?
I scanned the drive for several seconds; then I saw her, hastening along a path that skirted the boundary wall of the Dower House and led down to the Evenbrook.
Picking up my wet skirts again, I soon gained the path, and in another minute found myself on the edge of a clearing in the thick stands of silver birch and willows that bordered the river.
Here I was obliged to stop, for Emily was now only a few yards ahead of me, standing motionless on the river’s muddy margin, breathing hard, hair disordered from her exertions, her pretty kid pumps all wet and dirtied, ruined beyond the skill of any lady’s-maid to repair.
I was on the point of retreating into the trees, fearing she would turn and see me; but she appeared so oblivious to my presence, so utterly absorbed by her own thoughts, that concealment seemed, for the moment, unnecessary.
The minutes passed, and still Emily stood, vacantly contemplating the fast-flowing stream, swollen by the late rains, until a sudden noise caused us both to look up.
A swan, its brilliantly white wings beating loudly in the dawn stillness, was slowly rising into the air from a bed of swaying reeds on the opposite bank.
Roused from her reverie by the sound, Emily now took off the leather bag, which she dropped on to the grass beside her. She then began to walk slowly down the muddy slope, and into the river.
I stood frozen in horror, my heart in my mouth.
Dear God! Surely she was not intending to end her life here, wilfully committing her body to the unforgiving Evenbrook? But as the water closed round her feet, still encased in the delicate grey pumps, I knew that no other conclusion was possible. She had come to this deserted place, at this early hour, for only one terrible purpose.
She must know, then, that the final account for her misdeeds had fallen due, for immediate payment in full. But she was proud Lady Tansor. She would not be dictated to – by Fate, or even by Inspector Gully of the Detective Department. She would determine her own fate. But oh, my Lady! How will you answer for this final, most grave offence, when you stand at last before the great Harvester of Souls?
It was all of a piece with the life she now seemed determined to end. Her will was all; her proud, self-regarding nature was her only moral guide – her beacon, her constant touchstone, by which all her actions had been directed. I did not have to destroy her: she had destroyed herself.
You may think it despicable of me, and, indeed, I now suppose that it was, but as I stood amongst the trees watching her, I could not contain an irresistible surge of exultation at this self-inflicted defeat of the woman Madame had instructed me to regard as my enemy. True, it was not the triumphant conclusion of the Great Task that my guardian had hoped for; but there was justice in it, of a terrible sort, for the betrayal of my dear father, and for the crimes committed as a consequence.
I had to think of
him
, my poor lost father, and of the suffering he had endured because of her. He must ever be
my
beacon,
my
touchstone. For his sake, I must let her die. Her fate was sealed, in any case, whatever she chose to do; and was it not better, perhaps, that her life should end in this way, in this quiet place of water, leaf, and sighing grass, under a brightening morning sky, than face the grim outcome of a guilty verdict in a capital charge?
Let her will be done, then. I would do nothing to prevent it. Why should I care how Death came to the 26th Baroness Tansor? Even though the blood of the Duports flowed through us both, and although she had showed me kindness and called herself my friend, she meant nothing to me, nothing – not now. Friend? How could she ever have been a true friend to me? How could I ever have been such to her? It had all been a sham, on both sides. We had both been working our secret purposes, even as we had smiled and talked, or giggled at Mr Maurice FitzMaurice, or, on rainy afternoons, heads together like school-girls, had pored over pictures of the latest Parisian fashions.
The days of deceit were over at last, and I need dissemble no more. Now I could return to the Avenue d’Uhrich, to begin a new life, consigning my secret existence beneath the towers and spires of Evenwood to the vault of memory.

SHE IS NOW wading ever deeper into the stream, her long cloak spreading out behind her in a dark, undulating arc, making her seem like some strange species of mermaid, and reminding me most uncannily of the stone sea-maidens of my recent dream.
From the Rectory garden, some distance beyond the trees, a dog begins to bark excitedly, followed by a shout. Mr Thripp is an early riser, and is no doubt preparing to walk out with the ebullient little terrier that is his constant companion. The picture that forms in my mind of the Rector – absurd and irritating though he is – making his way up the tree-bowered lane to the church, his dog scampering hither and thither before him, panting with pure instinctual delight, as terriers do, seems to belong to some other world, far removed from this place of contemplated death. As the sound dies away, my conscience begins to awaken.
Can I really stand coolly by and watch this woman die, and do nothing to save her? I urge myself, once again, that it
must
be done: the duty to which I have pledged myself, heart and soul, demands it. I must be as stern and unbending as a judge passing sentence on a convicted malefactor, thinking only of her offences.
Yet as I watch her, my resolve – to let her do what she has come here, of her own free will, to do – begins to falter; and then a new and shocking thought takes hold.
Will not inaction be a kind of killing, and make me a kind of murderer? I have no blade, no pistol, to use against her; no poison to be secretly administered; I would lay no hands on her, to choke off her life. Yet if I do nothing, I will be a silent accomplice in her death. It is an absurd notion; but it produces a stinging sense of culpability that slowly starts to eat away at my former determination to remain a dumb witness to what is unfolding before me.
My heart should have been hardened by now against all feelings of pity or compassion for my former mistress. Yet common human sympathy is sweeping irresistibly through me, and tears start to run down my face.
Even now I can save her, even now. I am young and strong; she is weak from illness, debilitated by sorrow and guilt. I could run to her, pull her back to the bank, and then urge her to fly, no matter where, from the inevitable consequences that await her once Inspector Gully has called, at nine o’clock sharp, to pay his compliments. There is still time. It is not too late.
I cannot believe that Madame, or even my departed father, had either foreseen or desired that things would end in this dreadful way. They had wished only to punish Emily, by depriving her, and her sons, of their illicit inheritance. Why not save her, then – from herself, and from the full rigour of the law? If she escaped, as my father had escaped, she would still lose everything that she had plotted and schemed to maintain.
I can never forgive her for betraying my father, and for driving him almost to madness; but I know that she acted under the spell of her surpassing love for Phoebus Daunt, who had then paid the price for their mutual guilt with his life. Can I be certain that I would not have done as much for Perseus?
I am sick to the heart of plots and secrets and double-dealing, of pretending to be what I am not. The Great Task is no more. All is lost, and I am almost glad that it is so. I am weary also of obeying instructions, even from dear Madame. I, too, have a will of my own. I must – I shall – exercise it. I shall be myself at last.
With painful slowness, dragging the weight of her water-logged cloak behind her, Emily has now passed through the shallows towards the middle of the stream.
In a moment, all confusion has melted away, like mist before the rising sun. My decision is made.
I will not let her die.