The Meaning of Night (38 page)

altar, placed on trestles and lit by four tall candles in massive golden holders, stood the

open coffin of Mr Paul Carteret.

The upper part of his body had been covered by a white cloth. I gently pulled it

back and looked down at the man I had last seen trotting out of the George Hotel in

Stamford, anticipating a good tea and the company of his daughter.

Death had not been kind to him. His jaw had been temporarily bound; but the rest

of his poor round face showed all too clearly the violence that had been meted out to him.

The left eye was closed and undamaged, but the right had gone completely, reduced to a

horrifying mess of bone and pulp, along with much of that side of the face. I had seen

such injuries before, on many dangerous midnights in London, and knew with cold

certainty that whoever had visited this violence upon him had done so with truly

murderous intent, having, I guessed, something of overwhelming moment to lose if their

victim survived the attack. I was now sure that Mr Carteret had been doomed from the

moment he took horse from Stamford: he had been carrying his own death warrant in the

bag he had strapped round him, and which had now disappeared.

Though I went to church dutifully throughout my childhood, I have retained little

of what is generally called religion, except for a visceral conviction that our lives are

controlled by some universal mechanism that is greater than ourselves. Perhaps that is

what others call God. Perhaps not. At any rate, it is not reducible to forms and rituals, and

requires only stoical assent and resignation, since mediation or intervention is impossible.

But, after pulling the cloth back over Mr Carteret’s face, I found myself bowing my head

nonetheless – not in prayer, for I had no listening deity to whom to pray, but in common

human sympathy.

It was as I stood in this apparent attitude of reverential supplication that I heard

the door to the chapel open.

A tall, white-bearded figure in clerical garb stood framed in the doorway. He had

removed his hat, revealing two wings of white hair swept back on either side of a broad

highway of pink flesh. It could be no other than the Reverend Achilles Brabazon Daunt,

Rector of Evenwood.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I heard him say, in deep plangent tones. ‘I had not expected

to find anyone here at this hour.’

He did not leave, however, but closed the door behind him and walked down the

aisle towards me.

‘I do not think I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance.’

No help for it now, so I told him my name and the simple truth: that I had come

up to meet Mr Carteret on a matter of business; that he had invited me to stay on for a day

or so; and that it had only been on my arrival at the Dower House, the previous day, that I

had learned the terrible news.

We exchanged the usual pieties, dwelt a little on the iniquity of men, and

discussed the likelihood of the attackers being apprehended.

‘This must not stand,’ he said shaking his head slowly, ‘indeed it must not. These

wretches will certainly be discovered, I have no doubt on that score. Such a crime cannot

stay hidden. God sees all – and so do men’s neighbours, I have found. Lord Tansor is

placing an advertisement in the Mercury, offering a substantial reward for any

information that leads to a successful prosecution. That, I think, may loosen a few

tongues. Such atrocities are common, I believe, in London, but not here; no, not here.’

‘It is in the power of every hand to destroy us,’ I said.

A smile broke across his broad face.

‘Sir Thomas Browne!’ he said, with evident delight. ‘“And we are beholding unto

everyone we meet he doth not kill us.” There is always something in good Sir Thomas – a

kind of sortes Homericae.? I often use him thus. Open him anywhere, and wisdom pours

from his page.’

We stood in silent contemplation of the coffin for a moment or two. Then he

turned to me again.

‘Will you join me in a prayer, Mr Glapthorn?’ he asked.

Mirabile dictu! Behold me now, kneeling beside the coffin of Mr Paul Carteret,

with the Reverend Achilles Daunt, the father of my enemy, at my right hand, intoning a

prayer for the peace of the poor victim’s soul, and swift retribution to be visited on the

heads of his murderers – to which last sentiment I was only too happy to add my ‘Amen’.

We rose and went back out into the courtyard.

‘Shall we walk back together?’ he asked, and so we set off.

‘You are not a complete stranger to me, Dr Daunt,’ I said, as we were descending

the chapel steps. ‘I have had occasion to consult your great catalogue,? and am delighted,

on that score alone, to have made your acquaintance.’

‘You have an interest in such things, then?’ he asked with a sudden eagerness.

And so I began to reel him in, just as I had done with Mr Tredgold. The

bibliophilic temperament, you see: its possessors constitute a kind of freemasonry, ever

disposed to treat those blest with a similar passion for books as if they were blood

brothers. It did not take me long to demonstrate my familiarity both with the study of

books in general, and with the character of the Duport Collection in particular. By the

time we had begun to ascend the slope back towards the South Gates we were in deep

discussion on whether the 1472 Macrobius (Venice: N. Jenson) or the 1772 folio of

Cripo’s Conjuracion de Catalina (Madrid: J. Ibarra), with its rare signed binding by

Richard Wier, was the most perfect example of the typographer’s art in the collection.

He spoke at length, too, of Mr Carteret, whom he had known since first coming to

Evenwood as Rector. After Lord Tansor had volunteered his secretary’s services as Dr

Daunt’s assistant in the preparation of the great catalogue, their acquaintance had

deepened into friendship. He had been especially helpful with regard to the manuscript

holdings, which, though not extensive in comparison with the printed books, contained

several important items.

‘He was not a trained scholar,’ said Dr Daunt, ‘but he was extremely well

informed on the manuscripts acquired by his Lordship’s grandfather, and had already

prepared some commendably accurate descriptions and summaries, which spared me a

great deal of labour.’

By now we had reached the point at which the path to the Dower House led off

the main carriage-road.

‘Perhaps, Mr Glapthorn, if you have no duties you need to attend to, you might

wish to take some tea at the Rectory this afternoon? My own collection is modest, but

there are one or two items I think will interest you. I would invite you for a spot of

breakfast now, but I have to call on my neighbour, Dr Stark, at Blatherwycke, and then

go on to Peterborough. But I shall be back in good time for tea. Shall we say three

o’clock?’

22:

Locus delicti?

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I cannot resist a half-opened door – just as I am unable to stop myself from

peeping into a lighted and uncurtained window as I pass it on a dark night. The desired

privacy proclaimed by a deliberately closed door I can respect; but not if it is half open.

That, for me, is an invitation that I will always accept. This one was especially tempting,

for I knew it must lead into the room from which I had heard Miss Carteret playing the

piano-forte the previous evening.

After leaving Dr Daunt, I had been admitted to the Dower House by Mrs

Rowthorn and noticed, as I was ambling towards the staircase, that this particular door

was ajar. I continued on my way, but waited on the first-floor landing for a moment or

two until I was sure that the housekeeper had returned to the lower regions of the house,

then quickly descended the stairs again, and entered the room.

The atmosphere in the apartment was close, heavy, and silent. The instrument I

had heard – a fine Broadwood six-octave grand – stood before the far window. On it,

opened, as if ready to be played, was a piece of music: an Étude by Chopin. I turned over

the pages, but it was not the piece I had heard the night before. I looked about me. The

pale blinds had been drawn down, and through them the morning sun cast a muted silver

light about the room. My eye picked out three or four dark-velvet ottomans and matching

chairs, with coloured cushions of Berlin- and bead-work scattered upon them; the walls,

hung with a rich red self-patterned wall-paper, were covered with a profusion of portraits,

prints, and silhouettes; a number of round tables, covered in chenille cloths and laden

with a variety of japanned and papier-mâché boxes, pottery ornaments, and bronze

figurines, were placed here and there amongst the chairs and ottomans, whilst above the

fireplace, to the right of the door, hung an umbrageous seventeenth-century depiction of

Evenwood.

The comfortable but unremarkable character of the room left me feeling a little

cheated until I noticed, lying under the piano-forte, two or three half-torn sheets of music,

which appeared to have been violently ripped out of a larger compilation. I walked over

to the instrument and bent down to pick up the remnants.

‘Do you play, Mr Glapthorn?’

Miss Emily Carteret stood in the doorway looking at me as I was picking up the

ripped sheets to place them on the piano-stool.

‘Not as well as you, I fear,’ I said, truthfully, though the note sounded false, a

pathetic attempt at gallantry. But my words had an effect on her nonetheless, for she

began to look at me with a strange concentration of expression, as if she were waiting for

me to confess some mean action.

‘You heard me playing last evening, I suppose. I hope I did not disturb you.’

‘Not in the least. I found it extremely affecting. A most satisfying accompaniment

to the close contemplation of a twilit garden.’

I meant her to know that I had not only heard her playing, but had also witnessed

the rendezvous with her lover in the Plantation; but she simply remarked, in a flat, vacant

tone, that I did not give the impression of possessing a contemplative disposition.

I immediately regretted the cynical tone I had adopted, for I saw now that her face

was drawn, with dark rings around the eyes that betokened long hours of sleeplessness.

Her manner had less of the frigidity of our first encounter, although I remained wary of

the way her eyes slowly but constantly scrutinized my person with judicial intensity, like

a prosecuting counsel interrogating a hostile witness. But the burden of her grief was now

apparent. She was human, after all; and what could have prepared her for this, the

senseless slaughter of her father? It was not in her nature to speak her misery – I saw that

clearly; but the over-fraught heart? must somehow find expression.

She picked up the torn pieces of music I had placed on the piano-stool.

‘A favourite piece of my father’s,’ she said, though offering no explanation as to

why the sheets had been spoiled in this way. ‘Are you an admirer of Chopin, Mr

Glapthorn?’

‘In general I prefer the music of earlier times – the elder Bach, for instance, but I

attended Monsieur Chopin’s concert at Lord Falmouth’s in – when would it have been?’

‘Six years ago,’ she said. ‘July forty-eight. I was there, too.’

This happy coincidence – for such it was – produced a distinct change in her. Her

look softened somewhat, and as we talked about our separate recollections of the

evening, a faint smile would occasionally moderate the severity of her expression.

‘Miss Carteret,’ I said softly, as I was taking my leave, ‘I beg you to see me as a

friend, for I truly wish to be so. You have told me you neither want nor need my

sympathy, but I’m afraid I must presume to give it to you, whether you will or no. Please

will you let me?’

She said nothing, but at least she did not rebuff me, as formerly; and so,

emboldened, I pressed on.

‘I have dispatched my report to Mr Tredgold, and so shall return to Stamford this

evening, and take train to London tomorrow. But, if I may, I hope you will allow me to

return for your father’s funeral. I shall not, of course, presume on your hospitality? . . .’

‘Of course you may return, Mr Glapthorn,’ she interrupted, ‘and I shall not hear

of your staying anywhere but here. You will forgive me, I hope, for being so cold with

you before. It is my nature, I fear, to let very few people into my confidence. To my

disadvantage, I have nothing of my father’s outgoing nature.’

I thanked her for her generosity, and then we spoke a little further of the

arrangements that had been put in hand. The inquest was to take place on the following

Monday in Easton, the nearest town to Evenwood, under Mr Rickman Godlee, coroner

for the district; the interment, at St Michael’s and All Angels, would be tomorrow week.

‘By the way, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, ‘I am required to speak with some

police-officers from Peterborough this afternoon. I have already indicated to the

authorities that you will be happy to put yourself at their disposal. I trust you do not

object?’

I replied that, naturally, as the representative of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, and

perhaps as the last person to have seen her father alive, I would do everything possible to