The Skull and the Nightingale (19 page)

I spoke decorously enough, while wondering whether the lady would by now be equipped with teeth of some sort.

Mr. Gilbert changed direction once more, smiling before he spoke: “After your exertions in London you will find Fork Hill very quiet. We have not had a skirmish or a naked dancer in the house in all my years here. The little gathering to view the portrait will take place in two days’ time. If, before then, you would care to ride down to the village, I am told that Mr. Thorpe would be pleased to see you.”

T
he following afternoon I duly knocked on the door of the vicarage, a substantial, high-windowed house near the church. Thorpe welcomed me warmly.

As we exchanged courtesies I was reminded that this was an individual in whose company I felt slightly uncertain. Although he was some few years older than me, I held the advantage in several respects. I lived in London, had traveled in Europe, and was likely to be heir to his very patron; he had been consigned to village life and the role of clergyman. On the other hand, he seemed a man of sense, was in a position to know a good deal about my godfather, and could perhaps look forward to a future more assured than my own. I was pleased to be able to converse with him again, and sound him out.

His rooms were large, the furnishings plain but comfortable.

“You have space enough in your house for a wife and family,” I suggested.

“And space enough in my life, also,” he said, smiling. “I am looking about.”

As I stood in his tranquil parlor I had a sudden perception of his existence as something utterly different from anything I myself could now tolerate. Here was a man educated as I had been, and to all appearances not markedly dissimilar in temperament. Yet for him in this vicarage quiet day must follow quiet day. The seasons would change around him, there would be sermons to write, occasional weddings, christenings, and burials over which to preside—but what else? How would he pass his evenings unless in walking or reading? What friends could he find? Had he a maidservant to debauch? What had he to look forward to, unless the afterlife?

“Do you hunt?” I asked, perhaps too abruptly.

“Occasionally. It is not a favorite occupation of mine.”

He answered the question I had not put: “You wonder whether my life is intolerably dull. One adjusts one’s expectations. In London you live in the present: all is haste and change. In the country we inhabit the past: life is slow and prompts contemplation.”

We wandered out into a rear garden, where there was a cherry tree bearing fruit as yet little bigger than peas. A white cloud drifted away from the sun, and we were suddenly warm and pleasantly dazzled.

“I had the pleasure of meeting your aunt in London,” I said.

“So she told me in one of her rare letters. I saw her quite often as a boy, but now we live in different worlds. It must be eighteen months since we met.”

“She would seem to have known Mr. Gilbert rather well in their younger days.”

“Indeed. The connection has been of service to me.”

There was a pause during which we were both, I think, wondering whether we could safely take the topic further.

“She hinted that she found him a reserved young man,” I ventured.

“So she told me also. Of course she knew the man he was rather than the man he has become.”

“Since those days he must have gained in authority . . .”

“Very considerably,” said Thorpe. “He has the confidence that comes from being a leading figure in the county.”

“Has he so much influence?”

“Oh, yes.”

Thorpe turned and led the way back to the house.

“My own living, of course, was in his gift . . .” He hesitated. “But there are others who are dependent on him. Without his patronage, many lives would falter.”

Unsure of his drift, I nodded, and ventured a frank question: “Were you content to enter the church?”

Thorpe laughed. “There were few alternatives. But yes, I was happy enough as regards a choice of professional occupation. I hope to make a tolerable village parson. Country life suits me well enough, and I can make myself useful at births, weddings, sickbeds, and funerals.”

Pleased by his frank manner, I took a further step: “You emphasize the practical aspect of your work rather than the doctrinal one . . .”

“Yes, because that aspect suits me better. A bishop once told me: ‘One can be a good soldier without being a patriot.’ I try to be a good soldier.”

“Then you have a purpose in life?”

“I hope I have. A sufficient purpose.” He changed his tone: “Mr. Fenwick, the afternoon being fine, I have a suggestion—namely that we should call on the unfortunate Mr. Yardley, who is confined to his house by an injury.”

I consented readily, intrigued at the prospect of seeing Yardley at home.

Since he lived but half a mile from the vicarage, we made the journey on foot, at first along the quiet village street and then down a narrow lane choked with summer grass and weeds. The cottage, a small one, proved to be well hidden, lost in a garden of sorts that seemed hardly less wild than the lane. Creeping plants reached up round the walls on all sides, hiding some of the windows with their foliage.

We were admitted by a withered old housekeeper whom Thorpe had mentioned as being Yardley’s only domestic servant and companion. Without a word she ushered us into a dark den, so crammed with cupboards and chests of drawers as to be effectively reduced to less than half its size. If Thorpe’s house seemed too large for his immediate requirements, Yardley’s was its antithesis.

The old man was sitting hunched in a chair, with one heavily bandaged leg propped up on a low stool. He looked leaner and more lugubrious than I remembered him, and showed little sign of being gratified by our visit.

“I cannot get up,” he said, regarding us almost belligerently. “The doctor tells me I should stand as little as possible.”

“Is the injury healing?” asked Thorpe.

“I cannot say—and no more can the doctor: the damage is all internal. The fool binds up the affected part and hopes that it will heal itself. If it does, of course, he will claim the credit; if not, he will accept no responsibility. But sit down, sit down.”

Thorpe and I made shift to extricate chairs from the confusion of furniture.

“How did this accident come about?” I asked.

“Absurdly—quite absurdly. I had my eyes on a kingfisher and caught my foot under the root of a tree. Down I went, twisted my knee, and could not get up again. I was left to crawl my way home like a snake.”

He sniggered unexpectedly at this recollection and became more cheerful.

“You must excuse me, Mr. Fenwick, for being less than welcoming. Thorpe here is used to my ways. I have so few visitors that I scarcely remember how to behave. I pass my days in the company of insects and mammals. There is no cause to speak.”

“But you must speak with your housekeeper,” said Thorpe.

“Why do you think so?” Yardley seemed surprised. “We are all but strangers. She lodges here as a jackdaw may make its nest in a rabbit hole. Little passes between us. I have kept count of the words I utter in a week. The total is commonly less than two hundred—sometimes less than one hundred. I write far more words than I speak.”

“Mr. Yardley has a singular bias,” said Thorpe. “His energies go into observing, collecting, and classifying. These drawers and shelves are crammed with his specimens.”

“Specimens of what kind?” I asked.

“I am a regular contributor to the
Naturalist’s Journal
,” said Yardley. “I have collected butterflies, moths, beetles, and birds’ eggs. In these drawers are dried plants. In the cabinet over there you would find a selection of animal skulls and skeletons. I have also shells, stones, and crystals, but they are of less interest to me.”

“Where do your observations take you?” I inquired, hoping to draw him out. “Are you working on a treatise of some sort?”

“No,” said Yardley. “I collect, examine, describe. I have no greater end in view.”

The response silenced me, but Thorpe again intervened.

“You must understand,” he said, “that Mr. Yardley thinks in particularities.”

“Exactly so,” said Yardley. “It may be that some other man, differently constituted, will make use of my work in a theoretical way. I am content with notes and memoranda and the
Naturalist’s Journal
: I have no ambition to enter the Royal Society.”

“Your immediate ambition,” said Thorpe, “must be to get to your feet again. What did the doctor say on that score?”

“Nothing.” Yardley sniggered again. “He fears to make a forecast that might be proved wrong.”

“Meanwhile you are a prisoner in your own house,” cried Thorpe. “This is wretched luck. What could I bring you to raise your spirits? Some food? Some wine?”

Yardley shook his head. “Wine lifts my spirits, so I drink it in company. But I’ve never cared for the taste. I’m like the cat, which relishes fish but shrinks from water. Hurlock is your otter.”

Perhaps because his knee was painful, Yardley soon became subdued once more, his narrow body drooping. Thorpe and I contrived a little further conversation and then took our leave.

“Y
ou may think,” said Thorpe as we waded through the long grass, “that Yardley did not welcome our visit, but that is his habitual manner, twisted knee or no twisted knee. If no one visits him, however, he feels aggrieved. I assume you know his history?”

“I know nothing about him, beyond meeting him twice at dinner.”

Thorpe looked surprised. “He is another of your godfather’s pensioners. I know the story only by hearsay, but it seems Mr. Gilbert came upon him years ago when he had not long commenced his botanical studies and was living in poverty. He set him up here as you have seen, in a small cottage with a small income.”

“That would seem to be a generous act.”

“I am sure that it was generously intended. But one outcome of it was to turn Mr. Yardley in upon himself. Since he had no reason to seek work and no great desire to find friends, he gradually became a recluse. If Mr. Gilbert did not prize him out of his shell occasionally, he might commune with insects alone.”

“A melancholy outcome.”

“Whether it is melancholy for Yardley I cannot say. He seems to enjoy his life, whatever others might think of it. But I fancy there was some disappointment for your godfather. It is said that he hoped to be sponsoring some great work of scholarship. As we have just been told, Yardley has no plans of that kind.”

“But Mr. Gilbert has not cast him aside?”

“He has not; but I think he has come to value Mr. Yardley purely for himself, a singular specimen in his own right.”

“Then you see Mr. Gilbert as a naturalist of sorts?”

Thorpe smiled: “If you yourself made that suggestion, I would not contradict you.”

O
nly as his guests began to arrive did Mr. Gilbert remark to me that Mr. Hurlock could not be present. His wife would be coming with her friend, a Mrs. Ford. Colonel Stearns together with his wife and two grown-up daughters were the first of the visitors to appear. I conversed for some little time with Stearns, a quiet man, not easily to be associated with blood or battle. Thorpe came with the Quentins, Mrs. Quentin being tight-lipped and somewhat pale. There were two or three other elderly guests, whose names I have forgotten. Mrs. Hurlock caught my eye and smiled as she entered with her companion. It was a sober gathering, but the mere presence of so many people and voices produced a mild animation that made the big house livelier than I had ever seen it.

At length we were led through to the drawing room where the painting was to be displayed. It was still upon an easel, and hidden by a cloth. My godfather introduced Mr. Rowley, a tall, spindly fellow with a crooked jaw, and it was the painter himself who drew back the cloth, to a small flurry of approbation. For me, who had seen the work at an earlier stage, there were several surprises. To one side of the house you could now see the foliage of the oak tree that had been cut down before the picture was painted. The coloring was altogether richer, bringing out, in particular, the texture of the stonework and the details of my godfather’s braided coat. But above all the face was now more interesting and enigmatic than it had been. The landowner still looked with pride on his estate, but there was also, as it seemed to me, a certain detachment and calculation in his gaze: he was viewing his property yet seeing or thinking beyond it.

While Mr. Rowley spoke to the colonel, who seemed to be a possible future client, I asked my godfather about the oak tree, and was told that he had described it to the artist so that the painting might reach back to include an element from the past. Later I talked to the painter himself, and was glad to do so: it seemed to me magical that this plain-looking fellow who might have passed for a waiter or a barber could imprint a face or a scene on his mind and set it down on canvas perfectly miniaturized. When I mentioned the change that I had observed in the depiction of Mr. Gilbert, he replied that this should not seem surprising:

“I could catch a likeness of sorts in a few strokes, but that is a single aspect, a single mood. As I see more I can add more.”

“Then can you show several moods at once?”

“I would hope so.”

I thought, but did not say, that here was a demonstration of the plurality of the passions.

My godfather brought Mrs. Quentin across to consult me about our coming performance. Her manner was as timid as before: she spoke few words, seemingly as ill at ease with her artificial teeth as she had been with her decaying ones. I undertook most of the talking in order to spare her embarrassment. Fortunately she felt comfortable as far as the music was concerned, confident that she could accompany any of the songs in the book.

The size of the gathering meant that the great dining hall was for once to be brought into use. As we made our way to it my godfather appeared at my side.

“Hurlock is in Warwickshire. He has to administer the estate of his brother, who died last month. But this is not the kind of entertainment he would care for. Mrs. Hurlock, by the way, is to spend the night here.”