The Matrix (14 page)

I half expected a bent old man to open the door to us, a faithful retainer who had served father and son all his working life. But instead we were welcomed by a well-dressed middle-aged woman who seemed more personal assistant than housekeeper. Her manner was formal and a trifle severe, and I noticed that she seemed torn between subservience and familiarity when speaking to Duncan. An old retainer, then, caught out somehow between the style of one era and the next, between service to a crusty father and devotion to a son from whom she had known greater latitude.

We had lunch in a low-ceilinged dining room at a table built to seat at least twenty. The food was served by a girl of about sixteen who shuffled in and out without a word, and responded to Duncan’s occasional queries in monosyllables or grunts. She did not seem retarded in any way; but watching her serve, I noticed that she kept her distance from Duncan and avoided touching him. She was a pretty girl, and at first I thought there might be something sexual in their relationship.

On reflection, I dismissed the idea as improbable: Duncan had never seemed to me gross or demanding in that way. But I retained an uneasy impression that something else was wrong. The girl seemed watchful of Duncan, as though afraid of him, and not merely in his role as her employer.

I had, to be honest, often wondered about Duncan’s private life. When I thought about it, I realized that I had seen no evidence of sexual activity on his part at all. I had long since disabused myself of the idea that he might be in pursuit of me, and that the study of magic was merely a subterfuge under which to contrive my seduction. For all that, I had no evidence one way or the other, as to his precise orientation in such matters.

He might very well be homosexual, afraid of coming out on account of his career. Or maybe he was simply uninterested in sex, as some people are. Certainly, I had rarely heard him speak even obliquely of a woman with whom he was involved, now, or in the past. It had crossed my mind more than once that he might have dedicated himself to a life of denial, the better to achieve the occult powers he sought. Celibacy was not uncommon among devotees of the magical arts, and more than once in my reading I had come across passages advocating renunciation as a means of preserving a man’s vital force.

‘This is a large house to live in alone,’ I said. The girl had gone, we were sitting in a small study, drinking coffee.

‘I’m not entirely alone,’ replied Duncan. ‘There’s Miss Melrose. Before young Jennie, there was another girl called Colette, a French girl; she left to get married a year ago. I have a cook, Mrs Dunbar, a man who looks after the house, and a gardener. They all sleep here. It’s quite a little household.’

‘But not a family.’

He shook his head.

‘No, there’s been no family at Penshiel House since my parents died.’

A large fire burned in the open grate, painting the walls a deep copper colour. Duncan paused and stared at the flames. A pine log shifted, throwing up sparks as it turned, bright like pieces of cold metal.

‘I was married once,’ he said. ‘Just like you. And like yours, my wife died. Her name was Constance. She lived here with me. We were very happy, happier than I would have thought was possible. Sometimes it seems long ago, and sometimes just a day or two, no more. If Constance were to walk in here now, it would not surprise me.’

To my dismay, I saw that his cheeks were wet with tears. It was the first weakness I had seen in him, the first sign of emotion. The knowledge of it made me feel strangely ill at ease, as though it awakened an echoing weakness in myself.

We finished our coffee in silence. The fire died down slowly, restoring our sense of ease. The shadows covered my embarrassment. Duncan, I think, had none; he wept for himself and for his dead wife, as though alone. He looked up at last and smiled.

‘I’m growing morbid,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Let me show you round before it gets dark.’

It was a large house, full of crooked corridors and tricks of perspective. No floor seemed quite level, a section here or a room there would be divided from the rest by a short flight of steps or a low, sloping passage. In keeping with the style of the exterior, there were turrets reached by spiral staircases, and tall mullioned windows that looked out onto the gardens and the dark, encircling trees.

‘The house was built for my grandfather by John Chesser,’ Duncan said. ‘It was one of his first commissions, before Southfield. William Burn worked on part of the interior, though he was getting on in years by then. It’s never been extended: neither my father nor I cared to interfere with the original design.’

In truth, the house seemed little altered since the end of the last century. There were few concessions to modernity: electricity had been installed, there was central heating in the main rooms, the kitchen had a gas cooker, a single telephone dating from the sixties stood in the hall. Otherwise, the furnishings, carpets, curtains, and ornaments belonged to a different age. Even the pot plants seemed to have been preserved.

‘I have the feeling,’ I said, ‘that, if your grandfather were to come back, he’d find himself at home.’

Duncan nodded, glancing round him.

‘He’d find little changed, that’s true. And the whole world different.’

His voice sounded sad, as though he regretted the passing of time and some sort of loss of innocence.

We continued our slow tour of the house. When we had finished, there was still just enough light for a walk in the gardens. It was only then, as we strolled through the grounds, that something else struck me about Penshiel House. I had seen no portraits, no family photographs, nothing to show who had lived and died there. I did not want to reawaken the unhappiness I had seen earlier in Duncan, and so did not mention this curious absence of his ancestors and family. But I thought about it that night, and afterwards, many times.

Towards the end of our walk, it began to snow, lightly at first, then heavily, thick flakes elbowing their way through the freezing air to cover the bare earth. We went inside at once and Duncan ordered tea and scones. The tea was a light Japanese Kokeicha that had come from a shop in Harrogate, and there was home-made shortbread, sweet and buttery and melting. I relaxed again, seduced by the comfort of the surroundings and the wholesomeness of the food. Duncan had recovered his sangfroid and charm, and he regaled me with elaborate stories of Penshiel House and its inhabitants.

Afterwards, he led me to the library, which I had not yet seen, and conducted me round its tall bays of densely packed shelves. There were volumes here I had never seen, editions too precious to be brought out of safe-keeping. In shallow niches between the window bays, the busts of Roman and Greek poets watched us. There were deep shadows in every corner, and all along the narrow balustrade that ran along the library’s second storey. Sometimes I felt a need to turn, as though we were being watched by more than statues. I remembered with an involuntary shudder the library in Ainslie Place, where I had found the copy of the
Matrix Aeternitatis.

By the time we finished, it had grown late. Jennie brought us a light supper that we ate off trays in the kitchen.

‘I’d better get you back before this storm gets any worse,’ said Duncan, going to fetch our coats. Jennie and Miss Melrose had already gone to bed. I put my coat on and followed him to the door.

The storm had already worsened. It had turned to a blizzard during the time we had been closeted in the library, and was now firmly fastened on the countryside. The drive was thick with snow, and drifts had started to form in places.

‘I’ll try to get through if you really want me to,’ said Duncan. ‘But I think you’ll be better off staying the night.’

I had little choice. It was not all that far to the city, and in a good car like Duncan’s, I’m sure we could have made it. But the inconvenience of driving in such conditions, not to mention the not inconsiderable risk of getting stuck on the way back, were scarcely problems I could in all conscience impose on my host. I nodded agreement, and we went back inside.

Miss Melrose was roused to make up a bed for me. I was to sleep in a comfortable room overlooking a long meadow that sloped up to a copse of tall firs at the rear of the house. A fire was lit, and hot-water bottles made ready to air and warm the bed. It was all quite an adventure, I thought, to be snowbound in the countryside, in a house such as this, with a fire and servants and the prospect of breakfast in the dining room before a bank of blazing logs. I thanked Duncan for his kindness and retired with a copy of Scott’s
Bride of Lammermoor
, whose action is set not far from Penshiel House.

I did not read for long. The fire had rapidly warmed the room to a pleasant temperature, and the bed, with its heavy covers and piping-hot bottles presented an irresistible temptation against which the tribulations of the Master of Ravenswood and Lucy Ashton were but a trifling defence. I undressed and snuggled down beneath the bedclothes. Already drowsy, I switched off the light and was soon heavily asleep.

It must have been about three o’clock when I woke. The wind had fallen, leaving a tangible silence in its wake. Though the fire had died down almost to nothing, the room was still warm and stuffy, and under my quilts and bedclothes I was perspiring freely. The excessive heat must have woken me, or so I reckoned. Or had it been something else, a noise perhaps? I listened carefully, but could hear nothing, whether inside or outside the house. For some reason, my heart was beating more rapidly than usual.

A small battery-operated lamp had been left on my bedside table by Duncan. I switched it on, lighting the room imperfectly. Drawing back the bed linen, I swung my feet to the floor, grateful for the cooler air that brushed my skin. I felt a sudden need to use the bathroom, and desperately tried to remember where it was situated.

Slipping on my trousers and a sweater, I opened the door, bringing the bedside light with me. I remembered that the nearest bathroom was along a short stretch of corridor and down a flight of some six or seven stairs. Duncan had pointed it out to me on the way to the bedroom.

Leaving my door to, I headed off along the passage, eager to get it over with and scurry back to my room. It was bitterly cold, and the overpowering heat of a few moments before had already started to seem desirable. I felt vulnerable and ill at ease walking through those silent, shadow-infested corridors in a house I barely knew.

The bathroom was where I had remembered, an old-style affair with stained white porcelain and wooden panels. When I flushed the toilet, the sound seemed to vibrate through the entire house. The cistern refilled slowly. Somewhere out of sight a water pipe banged in the silence.

As I crept back to my room, I wished I had gone back to Edinburgh earlier, while there was still an option. The house was still and brooding, its silences pregnant with a sense of menace and melancholy. Nothing was quite what it seemed. The heavy wallpaper concealed leering faces and prying eyes among its whorls and vortices.

After the uncompromising cold of the passage, my room again felt overheated and stuffy. Leaving my light on the bedside table, I crossed to the window and drew aside the curtain.

Outside, the sky had cleared, leaving a swathe of brilliant stars and a sharply etched moon. The ground was iced with snow. A silver landscape sloped away from me, ending in a dark, serrated band of trees that almost touched the moon. I had never seen such stillness, or whiteness so intensified. Unclipping the catch, I pushed the window open. It slid up on the sash without a sound, and I leaned forward, breathing in the ice-cold air.

I sat there for a long time, invigorated and entranced. Behind me, the batteries in my lamp slowly died, but I did not break away from the window in order to switch on the main light. The moon travelled in a shallow arc above the trees, immense and trembling, like a nocturnal creature stalking the night sky. I had never known such peace, or such silence, since leaving Lewis. My assumptions about Penshiel House were manifestly false. There could be no room for evil in a place where such loveliness existed.

I began to grow cold. As I reached up to draw the window down again, something caught my eye. It might have been there some time, but unnoticed on account of its position a little below the line of the trees, near where the meadow met them. Leaning towards the window, my eye had been brought downwards, permitting me to see that part of the landscape more clearly.

I think it was the movement that caught my eye. I held my breath, thinking that I had surprised a fox or a squirrel moving across the snow. But it was larger, big enough to be a wolf, I thought. Except that there are no wild wolves in Scotland now.

As I watched, the creature moved again, crawling in the direction of the house. It had long legs and moved awkwardly, more like a spider or a crab than an animal of the forest accustomed to walking on all fours. As I watched it come towards me, I felt more than simple cold rush through me. There was something unnatural about the thing on the ground, yet it had an almost human quality about it. I could not tear myself from the window, horrified and frightened though I was. The creature moved slowly, yet with determination, across the still surface of the open field, dragging its limbs through the snow, and leaving in its wake a narrow furrow.

From time to time, it would halt and lift its head, as though sniffing the air. Was it hunting? Was it blind and merely questing? As it reached a point about halfway, I could see it more clearly, though mercifully not in any detail. It stopped again and raised its front quarters, then raised its head, and I was sure that long matted hair, like a woman’s, trailed from it, and that it was in some sense human.

It continued its halting progress towards the house. I had a horror of it now, a mounting loathing that urged me to close the window and huddle beneath my blankets. But it was light outside and dark in my room, and I could not face the darkness. The thing shuffled through the snow, nearer and nearer the house, articulating its long arms and legs like the appendages of a dreadful insect.