The Mist in the Mirror (14 page)

Old Nan.

There it was! Yes, I had it … there … No. A hint, then, a slight scent, faintly, in my nostrils. Then it was gone again.

Old Nan.

But I was satisfied in one respect.

George Edward Pallantire Monmouth, of Kittiscar Hall, Kittiscar.

I had proved his connection with me.

I slept in the chair that night, beside the dying fire, and woke in the early hours of the morning cold as death, my head aching, so that I cried out in pain when I moved, and, when I stood, was giddy. All around me, the contents of the trunk lay in piles, books, papers, little half-opened packages of this and that. But the one book, the only thing I cared for, or which held any interest for me, was still clutched between my fingers, as it had been all that night.

The following morning, I received a letter from Lady Quincebridge reminding me of my engagement to spend Christmas with them, and stating that, unless she heard to the contrary, she would have me met from the three o’clock train at Hisley, on Saturday, Christmas Eve.

From what I had seen of her, and from the nature of her address and invitation, I thought it likely that the house would be a grand one and the party smart, and that I should therefore need to get myself a few more clothes. For the next couple of days, therefore, I was too busy to do anything more – even supposing I knew what more might be done – about pursuing the information I had found written inside the Prayer Book.

I went to a modest gentlemen’s outfitters off Piccadilly, and purchased a dinner suit, smoking jacket, and a new, heavy overcoat, together with various extras in the way of respectable dressing gown and slippers, shirts and shoes. I might even have enjoyed making my purchases, had I not felt tired and somewhat out of spirits, with a vague aching in my limbs and head, which I did my best to ignore.

A thaw set in just before Christmas Eve, so that the streets and roadways turned to rivers of black, frothing
water. The sky was overcast, the air foul, and it scarcely seemed to come light all day. But I went for a walk among the stalls of Covent Garden market, and enjoyed the sights and smells, of fresh, piled Christmas trees and mounds of bitter-smelling holly, the geese, turkeys and capons swinging in rows outside butchers’ doorways, fetched down every so often by aproned boys bearing hooked wooden poles.

The previous Christmas, I recalled, I had spent in a remote mountain village in Tibet, drinking rancid buttered tea and listening to the eerie chants of the Buddhist monks and the tinkling of a thousand bells, across the thin, pure air. It had been as far from this murky London mire and coming Christian festival as might have been, another world, a dream – I could scarcely believe in it.

When I returned to Prickett’s Green that night to pack my belongings, I still felt somewhat depressed and thought that I might have caught a chill, but I took some powders, with hot rum, slept well, and, in the morning, a sluggish, dark, raw one, decided that I had succeeded in shaking it off before it took hold.

I dressed with some care, locked up the rooms – I had left a note for Threadgold, who was, as usual, invisible – and called a cab to take me to Waterloo. At the last minute, I slipped the small black Prayer Book into my pocket.

It was a gloomy journey, the railway train was crowded, and I ill-tempered with my fellow-passengers. I retreated into myself, hunched into my corner, and brooded, turning the inscription in the book over and over in my mind, trying yet again to catch and pin down those hints of something, something that I knew, and which would open the door into my past for me. But I was no more successful than before and almost began to wish that I had not found the book and so had nothing to tantalise me, nothing to pursue.

I realised that Conrad Vane, and what I had discovered
about him, had ceased to dominate my thinking – indeed now I recoiled from the very thought of him. My attitude was quite changed. It was the boy, George Edward Pallantire Monmouth, to whom I was now in thrall.

The train rattled on and my brain seemed to rattle with it. I was in a half-daze, half-dream, and only woke with a start because the carriage seemed suddenly so stiflingly hot I was forced to fling off my coat and jacket to cool myself, though my fellows stared at me hard enough, for doing so.

The countryside beyond the windows was dull and drear, rain slashed across from the west, and mournful animals stood about, heads bowed, in the waterlogged fields. For the first time since my arrival, I longed for the heat of the tropics, for blue skies and vivid flowers, brightness, the glare of the sun and the huge open continent stretching away from me on every side, I felt cramped and oppressed, I had no purpose here, I lacked friends, and all those I saw around me had closed, dull, pallid faces.

At Hisley, I was met by a car, a dark green Bentley, and I sat back in the deep upholstery, my bags stored away in the boot, willing myself to enjoy the luxury, but apprehensive, sure I had far better have remained at Prickett’s Green, mouldering alone over a fire, for I felt uncertain as to how I might be received and whether I would be at my ease and not entirely out of place in some grand house among strangers, with a hostess I barely knew. But the car turned in through a pair of high gates and in spite of my forebodings I sat forward to look ahead for my first sight of Pyre. As if aware of my interest and to make the most of the approach, the chauffeur slowed the car. The rain had stopped and the sky cleared and lightened a little, though it was still a dull enough day and drawing in rapidly. After a short drive between uninteresting shrubs we swung round into a long, straight carriage ride between great elms, with parkland on either side, in which small deer were grazing. I
imagined it in high summer, with the leafy branches meeting in an arch overhead and the sunlight filtering through the leaves. This was the England of which I had read in the stories in my Guardian’s books when I was a boy; this was the sort of picture I had carried for years in my mind.

‘Now you see the house, sir, there, ahead.’

I looked and, as I saw it, felt my spirits lift. It was indeed a magnificent, extraordinary place that rose before me, at the far end of the ride, a soft grey stone house, with a wing on either side, and a flight of steps curving up to the front doors.

Before it, set in the centre of the sweeping, circular drive, was a huge fountain, and great urns flanked the pillars of the porch. The door stood open, and light from within streamed into the gathering dusk – indeed, every window was full of light, the shimmer of glass chandeliers mingling with the softer light of candles banked on stands. I saw a classical orangery, and, as we turned into the drive at last, caught a glimpse of lawns stretching away behind the house into the darkness, of high walls and lily ponds, pleached walks and more fountains, and a slope descending out of sight towards the gleam of the lake.

Then, we were stopped, and Lady Quincebridge was at the door and coming quickly down the steps to greet me and I was swept up from that moment into the splendour and brilliance of her world, as well as the warmth and sincerity of her welcome. When I stepped inside the house, I felt as if I were being enveloped in light and richness, and cocooned in the comforts and splendour of the Christmas setting.

The house was magnificent, with a great hall, and staircase rising up from it, dark wood panelling and old, polished furniture gleaming in the blaze of the log fires that burned in every room. The Christmas tree, decorated with baubles and painted fir cones, candles and ribbon, reached up almost to touch the high ceiling, the fireplaces and door
mantles were swathed with holly and the whole house smelled sweetly of woodsmoke, pungent fruits and green branches. I stood, dazzled by it all, but at once Lady Quincebridge was at my side, concerned and full of friendliness.

‘Weston will show you up – your bag has already gone. Now do make yourself at home and familiar with everything, and wash and so forth, as you wish. You are looking tired, Mr Monmouth.’

She laid a hand lightly on my arm for a second, looking carefully into my face. ‘There is something wrong,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I can see it, sense it, something has happened to you. Well, you are safe here, we will look after you. Now – there will be tea in the drawing room, when you come down. The place is full of children, you will hear them all about, but mainly at the top of the house, and at least they take their tea together in the nursery, you will not have to face the little monsters just now!’

I murmured my thanks and followed the man up the staircase and, when I glanced back, saw that she was watching me, her face sombre and clouded, yet her expression, as I had once before seen it, oddly distant too.

At the top of the stairs I came, with a start, face to face with Lady Quincebridge again – or, rather, with her portrait, a magnificent, full-length study. She was portrayed standing in a conservatory, beside a camellia in flower, the windows behind her open onto a vista of the park that stretched away into the distance, and she wore a violet-blue evening dress, with a cascading train – the colour seemed to vibrate as I looked at it.

The walls of the upper corridor were lined with beautiful pictures, more portraits, still-life studies of bowls of hot-house fruit, and blowsy, drooping roses, elegant black gun dogs, men on horseback, and small, exquisite chalk drawings of children, of a dancer, of a kitten, and again and again of Lady Quincebridge, sketches of her head, resting on her hand, or standing brushing her long hair forwards;
and then some landscapes of the house and gardens and park, formal and serene.

The man opened a door at the far end of the corridor, and I followed him into my room.

The curtains were drawn across the windows, and, when I glanced out, I saw that darkness had fallen so that I could get no sense even of the direction the room faced.

I turned and looked about me, at the fine furnishings, the wood, the canopied bed, the pleasing pictures – nothing was overpowering or intimidating to me, everything had been provided for my comfort and ease, and it struck me, perhaps fully for the first time, how generous and trusting it was of my hosts to invite a virtual stranger into their home at this season. I was grateful, and I resolved to repay their kindness by being as model a guest as I knew how.

The man had indicated that my bags would be unpacked for me, but I took out the gift I had brought for Lady Quincebridge, and, after washing, ventured back down the stairs. I had seen a pile of Christmas parcels arranged on a low stool beneath the tree, and I was setting my own down as unobtrusively as I could. It had not been easy to select something for people I scarcely knew, but I had found a small, delicately figured porcelain model of a pair of children dressed in the country clothes of the previous century and bought it because my instinct told me I had best choose what pleased my own eye and hope that my taste would be shared.

As I was setting it in place, I heard Lady Quincebridge behind me. ‘Mr Monmouth – now do come into the drawing room and have tea. We are only family and a couple of friends just now – but we are a very large party for dinner, over forty, I’m afraid – it has become a tradition and we can’t see any way of giving it up!’

I followed her towards the fireplace at the far end of the long room, where tea was set out among a group of sofas
and chairs, and made my first acquaintance with the rest of the house party.

There were various sisters, and cousins, a married son and two daughters with their spouses, a great-aunt – I was confused by them, now, though later I came to separate and know them better. There were also a married couple and a bachelor friend – and Sir Lionel Quincebridge himself.

‘It is extremely kind of you to welcome me here,’ I said. ‘I am a stranger to you, yet you invite me freely and openly. It would have been a bleak enough Christmas for me otherwise, I confess.’

He shook my hand. ‘My wife has often made friends in this way, Mr Monmouth, and somehow her instinct is unerring.’

‘And has her trust never been misplaced or betrayed?’

‘Never – though, of course, she does not go about inviting people by the score, only now and again. I believe it is the Biblical imperative with her – to bring in guests from the highways and byways and welcome them to one’s table!’

He was a handsome man, tall, with a leonine head of grey hair, and a slight stoop from the shoulders. His manner was welcoming and friendly without reserve, yet I detected a shrewdness and alertness in his eyes and in one or two of his questions that told me he would not be an easy man to deceive, and that he acted as a balance and temper to any impetuosity on the part of his wife.

I talked to him a good deal that evening, and over the course of the following days, and found him to be a man of wide learning and sound judgement, manifold interests and a great good humour. He was sociable, personable, amiable, yet I sensed that he had strength in reserve and a cutting edge, too, which he might employ to devastating effect. In short, he was a fine lawyer, who had reached the top of his profession with ease. The house and estate, he told me almost at once, had come to them through his
wife’s family – Lady Quincebridge was a woman of substantial means.

At dinner, a tremendous, glittering affair, I was seated halfway down the long table, next to a lawyer friend and neighbour, and one of the married Quincebridge daughters. From the latter, I learned about the neighbourhood – she and her young family lived only a short distance away, and she was a happy, easy companion. But it was the former, whose name was Geoffrey Ludgate, who drew me out skilfully on the subject of my travels. His particular interest, like mine, was in the far east, and most of all China, about which he was well informed, yet he appeared to want to hear everything I could tell him nonetheless and I realised how skilfully Lady Quincebridge had arranged her table and combined her guests.