The Mist in the Mirror (13 page)

So – Vane had dabbled in the occult, like many a stupid young man before and after him. It made him a fool, and an unpleasant one too, but I wondered if any of the tales
and rumours I had been told amounted to more than gossip that had gathered colour over the years, and stories that had grown more alarming with every re-telling.

I went on turning the pages of the Record, fascinated by the picture it painted of the life of the school half a century before, wondering how much things had changed, discovering small items of interest, such as the fact that Dancer’s father had been Dean, before him, but this was the last volume I intended to peruse that day, for it had grown even colder, the afternoon was drawing in and darkening, and I fancied hot tea and toast, before my fire.

And then I came upon first the report, in the Record, and then, clipped to its page, the account taken from a newspaper, of the death of a boy at Alton. His body had been found, hanging from a beam in a locked room. He had been beaten, and it was stated that, when last seen, and for some days previously, he had appeared to be in a state of distress. He was thirteen years old and his family resided at Kittiscar Hall, in the remote village of the same name in North Yorkshire.

His name was George Edward Pallantire Monmouth.

In the middle of the night, I remembered the leather trunk.

I woke from an exceptionally deep and quite dreamless sleep into the soft snow-reflected light of the bedroom, and, as I did so, I had a clear picture in my mind of the shabby brown trunk, with domed lid and iron handles, which contained everything I had kept from the things in my Guardian’s bungalow in Africa. He had not hoarded possessions, and by the time I had cleared out, and given away the everyday domestic stuff, there had been mainly books left, together with a few treasures he had collected over his nomadic life, and some personal items I had not felt it right to part with. Immediately after his death I had gone very thoroughly through his papers, partly out of necessity, in order to clear up any business affairs, but also in the hope of finding something relating to myself, some small clue as to my parentage and background. There had been nothing. It was as though I had come newly into the world when I arrived here at the age of five, and had had no previous existence. Whether he had deliberately destroyed any papers I did not know, and, as soon as I saw that there was nothing, I had ceased to trouble myself about the matter; I had simply packed up what I wanted, or thought ought to
be kept, and stored the trunk, along with a few things of my own, in a vault in the city some miles away. There they had remained until I had begun to make my arrangements to return to England. Now, the trunk stood, still strapped and undisturbed, together with the rest of my belongings that had been delivered by the shipping company to Number 7, Prickett’s Green.

I did not know why it should now have come quite so vividly into my mind, but I lay and thought about the trunk, looked at it, as it were, in my imagination, unstrapped it and lifted the lid, but I could not recollect very much about what it contained, for I remembered little about that time. I only knew that I had to sort through everything anew, for I was even more desperate to find some trace of my former existence.

George Edward Pallantire Monmouth. Was it the purest and most bizarre coincidence that he bore my own surname? Had he anything whatsoever to do with me?

I would not rest until I had found out. In my heart, I was certain there must be some connection, that that was why I had been so driven by my intense interest in Conrad Vane. I believed that, in some way, my family had had dealings with him, and that the dead boy had some connection with me.

Was it his poor ghost that I had heard sobbing behind the door? Was he the pale boy? Had he been trying to attract my attention, haunting me in a desperate effort to seek my help? And what did he want? Peace? Succour? Or vengeance? All things seemed possible, that night, things I had never before dreamed of as likely, but would always have dismissed out of hand. My recent experiences had begun to open my mind, but it had not been until I had come here to Alton, read what I had read yesterday afternoon, and begun to uncover the truth about Conrad Vane, and above all seen the name, George Edward Pallantire Monmouth, set out before me, that I had been fully convinced
of things that lay out of sight, below the surface of the ordinary world.

Strangely, I was less afraid than I had been. I no longer thought that I was ill or mad, or the butt of some malicious trick.

It was bitterly cold in the room. Ice had formed delicate and beautiful leaf and fern patterns on the inside of the windows. But it was quiet, the atmosphere felt as tranquil and undisturbed as it had been all day. I had spent the evening staring into the fire, trying to make some sense of what I had found, and recover from the shock I had received. There had been no incidents, no spirits of good or evil had sought me out. It was as though, by touching upon the truth, I had vanquished them, or else laid them to rest. I hoped that they would not return. But I did not intend to leave the matter, I could not, not now, I would have to get to the heart of it. If nothing else, I must satisfy myself about the boy. Moreover my interest in Vane had changed. At first, I had planned to write some eulogistic biography of a hero. Then, as I had discovered more, to present the portrait of a fascinating, strangely divided character, to the world. I wanted both to expose and explain him. But now, in beginning to find out about Vane, I had apparently stumbled upon clues to my own history, and I cared about this most passionately of all. If the two were in some way intertwined, then I meant to unravel the threads.

I returned to London the following day. When I went across to the house to tell Dancer, he seemed surprised and also considerably relieved.

‘I am afraid that I am not taking your advice,’ I said. ‘But I have made a discovery – something I would prefer to keep to myself, and this makes it imperative for me to return to London.’

‘Then your visit to Alton has not been fruitless – the records were of some interest?’

‘Yes.’

He searched my face. ‘You seem calm,’ he said, ‘untroubled.’

‘Entirely.’

‘I pray that you will remain so.’

I thanked him, and then asked if he knew whether there had been any alterations to the corridor above the cloisters at any time. I thought that he looked wary.

‘Not in recent years. As I told you, that is the oldest part of the school, and in a way rather separate from it. Elsewhere there have been changes – the boys’ living quarters were somewhat medieval and lacking in comfort, they have been improved greatly, even since I was a scholar here.’

‘I would be glad if you could spare the time to come with me,’ I said. ‘There is something I want to reassure myself about in your presence.’

As we went through the baize door leading to the upper corridor I paused. ‘Take note,’ I said, ‘of all the doors. I will count them as we go along.’

I did so, numbering them aloud or else reading out from their brass plates, Bursar – Muniment Room – Provost – they were exactly as I had first seen them. As we walked along, I saw that Dancer’s face was clouded, his manner wary.

I stopped. ‘Here,’ I said.

He glanced at me, and then at the wall to which I was pointing.

‘What is there?’ I asked.

‘Why nothing – a blank wall,’ he replied.

‘And behind?’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘Was there never a door? Might there be a room behind here?’ I touched the wall.

‘There is no way in to any room. Unless, of course, some store lies behind here, to which entrance might be gained from within.’

‘Via an inner passage?’

‘I really cannot remember the exact arrangement – this is a very ancient building as you know, a veritable rabbit warren of passages and rooms.’

I was silent. There was a blank wall before us, that much was clear. I ran the flat of my hand across it, but there was not even a slight alteration in the texture or level of the plaster that might have indicated a blocked-up door.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

Yet I was loath to leave – leave him, as it seemed, immured somewhere, sobbing and despairing of any help or comfort.

George Edward Pallantire Monmouth.

His crying echoed in my head.

I turned and almost ran from that haunted place.

At Alton, the snow had been a thing of beauty, to be admired, and enjoyed, a foil to the ancient stone buildings, and softening the landscape all about me.

But London was a city paralysed by winter, frozen to its heart, the pavements rutted and treacherous, the roads a mire of sugary brown slush. In squares and gardens where the snow still lay untrampled, save by the claws of a million birds, it could perhaps be looked upon with pleasure, but going about one’s business, even walking a short way, cold and stumbling, was misery indeed. Only the glow of braziers from workmen’s huts and chestnut and hot potato stalls warmed and brightened the dark, and made fragrant the air that seemed black with frost and tasted bitter on the tongue.

From my windows, I looked out over the half-frozen river and cabs and struggling passers-by, and my fire gave out no warmth, and the winter and the whiteness quite lost their charm for me. And everywhere, it seemed, I now saw only the cold and homeless and half-starved poor, wretches huddled in corners, shivering, and ragged, as though the
bitter weather had somehow brought them to light, exposed them and left them stranded like flotsam at low tide. I was more conscious of this dark side of London than at any time since my arrival in the city.

But I did not spend much time contemplating it, nor sit as I had previously done, for hours in the window, enjoying the life of the river beyond.

I had thrown my bag unopened on the bed, cast off my coat, and, after stirring the fire into meagre life, dragged the old leather trunk out from its standing place in the passage and fumbled with the stiff clasps and locks that had bound it and been untouched for more than twenty years.

For the rest of that day, and halfway through the night, I was deaf and blind to all else save its contents and when finally, with red-rimmed eyes and breaking back, I was forced to abandon it and stagger to bed, I slept – still half-dressed – going over the piles of books and belongings in my dreams, before rising to continue my search, as the dawn came up.

For a long time, I found nothing, though I opened and flicked through every book, ripped apart every envelope, read every letter. The past, and my life as a boy and young man, growing up in my Guardian’s care in Africa, was gradually laid out on the floor as I unpacked the trunk, but for the time being I held back the memories. Later, perhaps, I could afford to give them rein, see and hear and live again that calm and happy time. Not now, now I was in a fever of mind to find something that would let me through another door into a different and wholly forgotten life.

From time to time, I paused to take a turn about the room; went once to the coffee house, where I sat in a daze, exhausted and scarcely noticing what it was that I ate and drank; I threw more coals onto the fitful fire and, eventually, got up a decent blaze. The sky beyond the windows was fiery orange, as the afternoon drew in, and later on it
darkened, the frost seemed to smoke off the surface of the water.

The building below me was utterly empty and silent still, the stairs had been in darkness as I came up. Threadgold had appeared, muttering morosely at my return, but soon retreated again to his secret basement.

Once, I heard the fire engine’s frantic bell, and saw light blazing out from a house further along the walk, heard distant shouting. I switched on the lamps. It grew quiet again, as if the world outside my windows had been frozen into motionless silence by the intensity of the cold.

I found no letter, no documents relating to me, no birth certificate – which surely my Guardian must once have had – no reference at all to my existence. If there had been any papers, they had been destroyed.

Light-headed with disappointment and fatigue I began to feel like a wraith myself, it was as though I had no substance, no real existence in this world at all.

And, then, I came upon the Prayer Book.

It was a small copy, bound in soft black, with wafer-thin pages. I riffled through it, shaking it, as I had with every one of the books in the trunk, in case some slip of paper should be inside. Nothing fell. But, as I closed it, my eye caught the line of writing inside the front cover. It was in dark ink, still strong and clear because it had not been exposed to the light,

I stared at the careful, old-fashioned handwriting, stared until I might almost have burned the words off the paper, and as I stared something deep within me stirred in response, but just out of reach so I could not grasp it – a
name, a place, a time, a person, a voice – what? What? I almost sobbed with frustration, knowing yet not knowing, I felt like a man blindly running down twisting tunnels, swerving, stretching out my hands to grasp what lay ahead and hold it to me, shake it, bid it yield up its secret.

Old Nan. Old Nan.

I flung myself into the chair, and remained there, as the fire sank and slumped down upon itself, my brain straining frantically, scouring every recess of my memory.