The Meaning of Night (24 page)

‘Mr AT’, I thought, could now be identified, tentatively, as Mr Anson Tredgold,

solicitor. This now explained an earlier entry: ‘L has agreed to my request & will speak

to her legal man. She understands that I fear discovery & require an instrument that will

absolve me of blame, if such a thing can be contrived.’ It seemed clear from this that

some form of legal document or agreement had been drawn up, to which both had been

signatories. Of such an agreement I had found no trace amongst my mother’s papers; but,

seeing its likely importance to my case, I began there and then to devise a way of getting

my hands on a copy of it. My great enterprise had begun.

The next day I wrote to the firm of Tredgolds, using the name Edward Glapthorn.

I described myself as secretary and amanuensis to Mr Edward Charles Glyver, son of the

late Mrs Simona Glyver, of Sandchurch, Dorset, and requested the pleasure of an

interview with Mr Anson Tredgold, on a confidential matter concerning the

aforementioned lady. I waited anxiously for a reply, but none came. The weeks went by,

during which I made a number of enquiries concerning employment, none of which bore

fruit. Then, in the first week of September, a short note arrived informing me that Mr

Christopher Tredgold would be pleased to receive me privately (the word was

underlined) on the following Sunday.

The distinguished firm of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr has already been mentioned

in this narrative, in connexion with my neighbour Fordyce Jukes, and as the legal

advisers of Lord Tansor. The firm’s offices were in Paternoster-row,? in the shadow of St

Paul’s: a little island of the legal world set in a sea of publishers and booksellers, whose

activities have made the street proverbial amongst those of a literary inclination. The firm

occupied a handsome detached house, part of which, unlike many such buildings in the

City, was still used by the Senior Partner, Mr Christopher Tredgold, as his private

residence. The ground floor formed the clerks’ offices, above which, on the first floor,

were the chambers of the Senior Partner and his junior colleagues; above these,

occupying the third and fourth floors, were Mr Tredgold’s private rooms. One peculiarity

of the building’s arrangement was that the residential floors could also be reached from

the street via two side staircases, each with its own entrance that gave onto two little

paved alleys running down either side of the house.

It was a fine morning, bright and dry, though with a distinct feeling of impending

autumn in the air, when I first saw the premises of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, which were

soon to become so familiar to me. The street was quiet but for the dying chimes of a

nearby church clock and the rustle of a few newly fallen leaves drifting along the

pavement and gathering beside me in a little twirling heap.

A manservant showed me up to the third floor, where Mr Christopher Tredgold

received me in his drawing-room, a well-proportioned apartment with two tall windows

looking down on the street and swathed and swagged in plush curtains of the most

exquisite pale yellow, to which the sunlight streaming in from outside added its own soft

lustre.

All, indeed, was shine and softness. The carpet, in a delicate pattern of pink and

pale blue, had a deep springy pile, reminding me of the turf against which I had lain in

my little nook above the Philosophenweg. The furniture – sparse but of the finest quality,

and much against the present ponderous taste – gleamed; light danced off brilliantly

polished silver, brass fittings, and shimmering glass. The matching blue-and-gold

upholstery of the long sofa and tête-à-tête chair? that were set around the elegant Adam

fireplace – each item also enclosing an abundance of perfectly plumped cushions of

Berlin work – was deep and inviting. In the space between the two windows, beneath a

fine classical medallion, stood a violincello on an ornate wrought-brass stand, whilst on a

little Chippendale table beside it was laid open the score of one of the divine Bach’s

Suites for that peerless instrument.

Mr Christopher Tredgold was a gentleman of around forty years, of middling

height, clean shaven, with a full head of feathery grey hair, a fine square jaw, and eyes of

the most piercing blue, set widely on his broad tanned face. He was dressed immaculately

in dove-grey trousers and shining pumps, and held in his left hand an eye-glass on a

dark-blue silk ribbon attached to his waistcoat, the lens of which, during the course of our

interview, he would polish incessantly with a red silk handkerchief kept constantly by

him for this purpose. In all the time of our subsequent acquaintance, however, I never

once saw him raise the glass to his eye.

Dulcis was the word that impressed itself on my mind when I met Mr Christopher

Tredgold for the first time. Pleasant, soft, charming, mellifluous, refined: all these

intangible impressions of character seemed to mix with the atmosphere of the room, its

elegance and fragrance, to produce a sensation of sweet and dreamy ease.

Mr Tredgold rose from the seat he was occupying by the window, shook my hand,

and invited me to make myself comfortable on the tête-à-tête chair, whilst he (somewhat

to my relief) took a seat on the sofa. He smiled seraphically, and continued to beam as he

spoke.

‘When your letter was passed to me – Mr . . . Glapthorn . . . ’ – he hesitated for a

moment as he glanced down at a little sheaf of notes he was holding – ‘I thought it would

be more convenient for us both if we conducted this interview in a private capacity.’

‘I am grateful to you, Mr Tredgold,’ I replied, ‘for giving up your time in this

way.’

‘Not at all. Not at all. You see, Mr Glapthorn, your letter intrigued me. Yes, I may

say that I was intrigued.’

He beamed again.

‘And when I am intrigued,’ he continued, ‘I can be sure that the matter in hand is

out of the ordinary. It is a remarkable instinct I have. It has happened time and again. I

am intrigued; I investigate the matter in a private capacity, carefully, quietly, and at my

leisure; and then – it always happens – I find something extraordinary at the bottom of it

all. The ordinary I can leave to others. The extraordinary I like to keep for myself.’

This statement was delivered in the smoothest of tenor tones, and with slow

precision of enunciation, which gave it a chant-like quality. Before I could reply, he had

consulted his notes again, polished his eye-glass, and had proceeded with what was

evidently some sort of prepared introduction to our meeting.

‘In your letter, Mr Glapthorn, I find mention of Mr Edward Glyver and his late

mother, Mrs Simona Glyver. May I ask what your relationship is to either of these two

persons?’

‘As I stated in my letter, I have been engaged by Mr Edward Glyver as a

confidential secretary, to assist him in the ordering and final disposal of his late mother’s

papers.’

‘Ah,’ beamed Mr Tredgold, ‘the authoress.’

‘You know her work?’

‘By reputation.’

It did not strike me as odd then, though it did later, that Mr Tredgold was aware of

the identity that lay behind the anonymous and pseudonymous works of my mother. He

beamed at me to continue.

‘Mr Glyver is presently residing on the Continent and wishes to conclude his

mother’s affairs as quickly as possible. As it is impossible for him to take on the whole

task himself, he has delegated the business side of things to me.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Tredgold, ‘the business side. Indeed.’ Another polish of the

eye-glass. ‘May I ask, Mr Glapthorn, you will excuse me, if you have some authority on

which we may proceed?’

I had come prepared for this, and reached into my coat.

‘A letter from Mr Edward Glyver,’ I said, ‘granting me temporary power of

agency over his affairs.’

‘I see,’ he replied, taking the document and looking over it. ‘A little irregular

perhaps, but this all looks to be in order, although of course I have not had the pleasure of

meeting Mr Glyver, and I do not think we hold any correspondence from him.’

Again I was prepared.

‘A corroborating signature, perhaps?’ I asked.

‘Certainly that might suffice,’ said Mr Tredgold, and I handed him a receipt,

signed of course by myself, for the supplying of a handsome pocket translation of Plato

by Ficino (Lyon, 1550, in a pretty French binding) by Field & Co., Regent’s Quadrangle.

This appeared to satisfy the Senior Partner, who, having polished his glass once more,

leaned back and beamed a further question.

‘You spoke of a confidential matter in respect of the late distinguished authoress,

Mr Glyver’s mother. May I know what it concerns?’

His cerulean eyes widened a little as he tilted his head to one side and stroked

back a delicate feather of hair from his forehead.

‘I have found mention in Mrs Glyver’s papers of an agreement between herself

and a certain lady, whom I have inferred must be a client of your firm’s. The late Laura,

Lady Tansor?’

Mr Tredgold said nothing.

‘Unfortunately, Mrs Glyver does not seem to have retained a copy of this

agreement, and her son is naturally concerned that it might contain some undertaking that

he is obliged to discharge on her behalf.’

‘Most commendable,’ said Mr Tredgold. He rose from his chair and walked over

to a little French writing-desk, opened a drawer, and took out a piece of paper.

‘This, I think, is the document you seek.’?

18:

Hinc illae lacrimae?

__________________________________________________________________

____________________

I was amazed. I had expected lawyerly evasion and procrastination, a firm rebuff

even; but not such an easy and rapid capitulation to my request.

It was a simple enough arrangement.

I Laura Rose Duport of Evenwood in the county of Northamptonshire do hereby

solemnly and irrevocably absolve Simona Frances Glyver of Sandchurch in the County of

Dorset from all accountability charge blame censure prosecution or crimination in law in

relation to any private arrangement concerning my personal affairs that the said Simona

Frances Glyver and I Laura Rose Duport may agree to or undertake and do further

instruct that the said Simona Frances Glyver be exculpated and remitted from any

prosecution or crimination in law in toto and in all respects from any consequences

whatsoever and whenever that may arise from the said arrangement and that further and

finally the provisions contained herein shall be incorporated at the proper time and place

into those of my last will and testament.

The document had been signed by both parties and dated: ‘20th July, 1819’.

‘This was drawn up by ––?’

‘Mr Anson Tredgold, my late father. An old gentlemen then, I fear,’ replied his

son, shaking his head.

I did not ask whether such an agreement would ever have held if challenged; for I

saw that it did not matter. It had been a gesture merely, a willing acquiescence on Lady

Tansor’s part to her friend’s natural desire to possess an illusion of protection, if all

failed, from the clearly dangerous confederacy they had been engaged upon.

‘I believe,’ Mr Tredgold went on, ‘that Mr Edward Glyver can be assured that

nothing in this arrangement can now devolve upon him in any way at all. It remains –

well, I should say it remains an unexecuted curiosity. As I said before, something

extraordinary.’

He beamed.

‘Do you – did your father – have knowledge of the nature of the private

arrangement referred to in this document?’

‘I’m glad you have asked me that, Mr Glapthorn,’ he replied, after a discernible

pause. ‘I, of course, was not party to the drawing up of the document, having only

recently joined the firm. My father was Lord Tansor’s legal adviser, and so it was natural

that her Ladyship should have come to him to put her arrangements in hand. But after

receiving your letter, I did undertake a little delving. My father was a methodical and

prudent man, as we lawyers of course must be; but on this occasion he was, I fear, a little

lax in his dealings with Lady Tansor. For I do not find he left any note or other sort of

memorandum on the matter. He was, as I say, an elderly gentleman . . .’

‘And do you know if Lord Tansor himself was aware that his wife had consulted

your father on this matter?’

Mr Tredgold cleaned his eye-glass.

‘As to that, I think I can say with certainty that he did not. I can also say that the

agreement you have in your hand was not finally incorporated into her Ladyship’s will,

for she came to me some time later, with Lord Tansor’s full knowledge this time,

specifically to prescribe new testamentary provisions following the birth of her son,

Henry Hereward Duport.’

I had one final matter to raise with the Senior Partner.

‘Mrs Glyver . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I believe certain arrangements were put in place, of a practical nature?’

‘That is so: a monthly remittance, which this office disposed through Dimsdale &

Co.’

‘And that arrangement ceased . . .?’

‘On the death of Lady Tansor, in the year 1824.’

‘I see. Well, then, Mr Tredgold, I need detain you no further. The business, in all