The Meaning of Night (60 page)

and so could not allow myself to believe that it provided the final, incontestable

validation I had been seeking. In the first place, the original documents from which Mr

Carteret had quoted could not now be produced: they had been in his bag when he had

been attacked. How, then, could it be proved that these letters had actually existed, and

that the words cited by Mr Carteret were accurate and truthful, and had not been his own

invention? His character and known probity might argue against such an assertion; but a

lawyer who knew his business could still make much of the inherent doubt. Or it might

be argued that Mr Carteret had produced his Deposition at my behest. I had made a little

progress through this document coming into my hands; and, as far as my own position

was concerned, the Deposition offered valuable circumstantial corroboration of what had

been written in my mother’s journals. But it was not enough.

In other ways, however, the document shone a clear bright light on what had

heretofore seemed mysterious. It was apparent that anyone reading Mr Carteret’s

Deposition might make the reasonable presumption that Lord Tansor could have a living

heir, who had grown up in ignorance of his true parentage. As I considered this point,

turning it over in my mind and examining it from every possible angle, it suddenly

became clear to me why Mr Carteret had been attacked.

What a clod I had been! It was only necessary to ask one question to prise out the

truth: Cui bono??

Suppose that someone unexpectedly comes into possession of information which,

if publicly known, would disbar another person from realizing an expected inheritance of

immense worth. Suppose, further, that this second person is a man of overweening

ambition, and also unscrupulous and conscienceless in the pursuit of his interests. Would

not such a man feel it imperative to secure this information, so that it might be put

beyond human knowledge once and for all, and so secure his inheritance? Thus I

reasoned; and thus I convinced myself that only one person stood to gain from acquiring

the documents Mr Carteret had been carrying in his bag. Who had Mr Carteret himself

named as having pryed into Lord Tansor’s private affairs, and as being guilty of worse,

though unspecified, transgressions? Who had also shown an eager interest in the papers

of the first Lady Tansor? Who desired to know what Mr Carteret knew? And at whose

implied instigation had a watch been set on him?

Phoebus Daunt was that person; and by possessing himself of Lady Tansor’s

incriminating correspondence, he had no doubt thought to deny the lost heir, if he was

still alive, of ever claiming his birthright. But premeditated murder? Was even Daunt

capable of that?

I closed my eyes and saw again poor Mr Carteret’s face, beaten and bloody. And

in that moment I knew, with instinctive certainty, who had done it. Those terrible injuries

constituted the violent signature of Josiah Pluckrose, seen first on the face of Mary

Baker’s sister, Agnes, and more recently, if I was not very much mistaken, on that of

Lewis Pettingale. Pluckrose, acting on the orders of Phoebus Daunt, had first kept watch

on Mr Carteret and then attacked him as he entered Evenwood Park through the western

gates. I saw it all clearly and distinctly in my mind. Whether the intention had been to

murder Mr Carteret, or merely to steal his bag, might still be an open question. But of the

identity of the perpetrators I now had no doubt.

But then, as I further traced the logical course of my inferences and deductions, I

began to conceive the possibility that I, too, might be in danger, if Daunt were to discover

that Edward Glapthorn, the representative of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, was none other

than Edward Glyver, the lost heir. For something told me the game is afoot; that my

enemy was even now trying to seek out his old schoolfellow, and for only one purpose

that I could divine. Edward Glyver alive was a perpetual threat. Edward Glyver dead

made all secure.

Yet though he should seek through all the world for Edward Glyver, where can he

be found? There is no one now at Sandchurch who can tell him. No letters are directed to

him from there anymore. He might look in the Post-office Directory for him, but in vain.

He will not be there. No door-plate, and no headstone either, bears his name. He has

vanished from the earth. And yet he lives and breathes in me! I am Edward Glapthorn,

who was Edward Glyver, who will be Edward Duport. Oh Phoebus, light of the age! How

will you catch this phantom, this wraith, who is now one man, now another?

He is here; he is there; he is nowhere. He is behind you.

But I have another advantage. Though he does not yet know me, I know him. I

have become his father’s friend, and may walk through the front-door of his house any

time I please. I am invisible to him, as he walks to his club, or strolls through the Park at

Evenwood of an evening. Only think, mighty Phoebus, what this means! The man who

sits opposite you when you take the train back from the country: does he have a familiar

look? There is something about him, perhaps, that stirs your memory; but only for a

moment. You return to reading your newspaper, and do not see that his eye is fixed upon

you. He is nothing to you, another traveller merely; but you should be more careful.

There is a fog tonight, the streets are deserted; no one will hear you cry out. For where is

your shield, where your armour, against a man whom you cannot see, whom you cannot

name, whom you do not know? I find myself laughing out loud, laughing so much that

the tears roll down my face.

And when the laughter stops, I see clearly where all this will end. But who will be

the hunter, and who the hunted?

A note from Lizzie Brine, delivered to me by messenger three days later,

informed me that Miss Carteret and her friend, Mademoiselle Buisson, would be visiting

the National Gallery on the following Monday afternoon. Accordingly, at just after two

o’clock, I walked over to Trafalgar-square and stationed myself at the foot of the

Gallery’s steps.

At a little before half-past three, I saw her step out into the autumn sunlight, with

Mademoiselle Buisson at her side. They began to descend the steps as I, with an air of

complete nonchalance, started to ascend them.

‘Miss Carteret! What an extraordinary coincidence!’

She made me no reply, and for several moments not a scintilla of recognition was

discernible in her expression. Instead she stood regarding me through her round

spectacles as though I were a complete stranger until at last her companion spoke up.

‘Emilie, ma chère, est-ce que tu vas me présenter à ce monsieur?’

Only with these words did her features relax. Turning to Mademoiselle Buisson

she introduced me as ‘Mr Edward Glapthorn, the gentleman I told you about.’ Then,

more deliberately, ‘Mr Glapthorn has spent some time in Paris, and is a fluent French

speaker.’

‘Ah,’ said Mademoiselle Buisson, raising her eyebrows in a singularly charming

way, ‘then we shall be unable to talk about him without his knowing what we say.’

Her English was perfectly expressed and enunciated, with barely a trace of a

Gallic accent. With fetching, girlish volubility, she expressed herself delighted to make

my acquaintance and began at once, as if we already knew each other, to describe some

of the exhibits they had seen, with a breathless enthusiasm that was most engaging. Mrs

Rowthorn had told me that she was of an age with Miss Carteret, but she had a simple

unaffected prettiness about her which made her seem younger than she was. They made

odd companions, certainly: Mademoiselle Buisson was animated, expressive, and

forthcoming, dressed gaily à la mode, and displaying a natural exuberance of spirit. Miss

Carteret, sombre and stately in her mourning black, stood watchfully silently, like a

tolerant older sister, as her companion flittered and giggled. Yet it was impossible not to

sense the closeness of their connection – the way Mademoiselle Buisson would turn to

her friend as she made a particular point and place her hand on Miss Carteret’s arm, with

that same unthinking familiarity I had seen her display at Evenwood after the funeral; the

little complicit glances, eye meeting eye, speaking of confidences shared, and secrets

kept safe.

‘May I ask how long you will be staying in London, Miss Carteret?’

‘With such prescience as you possess, Mr Glapthorn,’ she replied, ‘I imagine you

can answer that question for yourself.’

‘Prescience? What can you mean?’

‘You wish me to suppose, then, that meeting you here is coincidental?’

‘You may suppose what you wish,’ I said, as genially as I could, ‘or, if you cannot

accept the fact of coincidence, perhaps you would be more comfortable with the notion of

Fate.’

At this she managed a contrite little smile and asked to be excused for her ill

humour.

‘Your kind note of acceptance to my father’s interment was received,’ she went

on, ‘but we were disappointed not to have observed you amongst the company.’

‘I am afraid I was a little late in arriving. I paid my respects to your father – as my

firm’s representative, as well as in a personal capacity – after the carriages had departed;

and then, having an urgent engagement here in Town, and not wishing to intrude on you

or your family, I returned immediately.’

‘We were hoping to receive you at the Dower House again,’ she said, taking off

her glasses and placing them in her reticule. ‘You were expected, you know. But you had

your own reasons for not coming, I dare say.’

‘I did not wish to intrude, as I said.’

‘As you said. But you put yourself to a great deal of trouble on our account in

travelling all the way to Northamptonshire only to return immediately. I hope you met

your engagement?’

‘It was no trouble, I assure you.’

‘You are kind to say so, Mr Glapthorn. And now, if you will excuse us. Perhaps

coincidence – or Fate – will arrange for our paths to cross again.’

Mademoiselle Buisson gave me a curtsey and a smile; but Miss Carteret merely

inclined her head a little, in the way I had seen her do to Daunt, and passed on down the

steps.

Of course I could not allow them to go and so, feigning a sudden disinclination to

spend such an uncommonly fine November day looking at dull pictures, requested the

honour of accompanying them a little way, if they were proceeding on foot.

Mademoiselle Buisson announced that they had thought of walking down to Green Park,

which I agreed was a capital prospect on such an afternoon.

‘Then come with us, by all means, Mr Glapthorn!’ cried Mademoiselle. ‘You

don’t mind, do you Emily?’

‘I do not mind, if you do not, and if Mr Glapthorn has nothing better to do,’ came

the reply.

‘Then it is settled,’ said her friend, clapping her hands. ‘How delightful!’

And so off we set together across the Square, Miss Carteret on my right hand,

Mademoiselle Buisson on my left.

Once in the open spaces of the Park, Miss Carteret’s earlier irritation seemed to

lessen. Little by little, we began to speak of things other than the late tragic events at

Evenwood, and by the end of the afternoon, with the sun beginning to decline, we were

talking openly and easily, as if we had all been old friends.

Towards four o’clock we walked into Piccadilly, and the ladies waited by the kerb

while I secured a hansom.

‘May I tell the driver where you wish to be taken?’ I asked innocently.

She gave the address of her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent and I handed her into

the cab, followed by Mademoiselle Buisson, who smiled at me in a dreamy way as she

settled herself into her seat.

‘Miss Carteret, it is presumptuous, I know, but will you allow me to call on you –

and Mademoiselle Buisson?’

To my surprise, she did not hesitate in her reply.

‘I am at home – I should say at my aunt’s home – every morning from eleven.’

‘May I come on Friday, then, at eleven?’ I confess I asked the question thinking

she might invent some excuse for not being able to receive me; but instead, to my

surprise, she leaned her head on one side and simply said:

‘Of course you may.’

As the hansom pulled away, she pushed down the window, looked back at me,

and smiled.

A simple smile. But it sealed my fate.

1853–1855

Our knowledge doth but show us our ignorance.

[Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), xxvii, ‘Of Curiosity in Knowledge’]

(

35:

Credula res amor est?

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The following Friday, as arranged, I called upon Miss Carteret at her aunt’s house

in Wilton-crescent. I was shown into a large and elegant drawing-room, where I found

Miss Carteret and Mademoiselle Buisson seated together on a little sofa by the window,

each apparently engrossed in reading.

‘Mr Glapthorn! How nice!’

It was Mademoiselle who spoke first, jumping up to pull a small armchair closer

to where they were sitting and begging me to sit down.