White Stone Day (21 page)

malevolence, the flinty contempt in the eyes, the barely concealed
groan whenever he initiated one of his infantile games. Not long
after the mother made her exit (an assignation with the duke, no
doubt), the elder daughter gathered sketch–book and pencils,
and left the company for the wood, alone. An unanticipated
opportunity – to do what? In truth, Lush cared not a fig
whether or not the daughter stumbled upon her mother, in flagrante –
in fact, such an event might prove an advantage, if only the threat
of imminent scandal might stifle the affair. What worries Lush is
that the girl might find the cemetery; should 169 WHITE STONE DAY
that occur, the creature would present a serious threat to the estate
and, most important, to himself. Run of the house, indeed!
Accordingly, while Emma wandered down a path to the right, Lush took
a more circuitous route to the spot he now occupies, in the
graveyard, awaiting the moment of truth – and the resolve
required to do what must be done. Inside his coat pocket, he feels
the barrel–shaped bottle and the handkerchief he will use, for
he is not a beast. As with the others it will be done painlessly, and
with a heavy heart. How is it possible, Lush wonders, for a mere
child to uncover, in the space of a few days, secrets which have
remained secure for half her lifetime? Not a normal child to be sure,
and certainly not an innocent one. Childhood fables come to mind
about the changeling, the demon child, who can be saved from the
clutches of the devil only through torture, or by causing it to
laugh. Lush has no stomach for torture, and no hope of making Emma
laugh. She sees in her peripheral vision the unmistakable hedgehog
shape, beneath a hawthorn tree, in a corner of the cemetery, beside a
lichen– green obelisk with a barely discernible symbol of the
Freemasons. A feeling of dread comes over her – that this
hedgehog is nothing like the one in Mr Boltbyn's story. She wishes
her sister were with her now – which is odd, for it is
difficult to imagine Lydia providing any special protection against
the ill–behaviour of a fully grown adult. Then again, she is
not certain what she needs protection from – having the duke's
protection. He said so himself, and Mr Lush is in the duke's employ.
Unless the duke himself means to do her harm. Emma recalls their
first meeting – the soft gloves, the rose, the eyes of a
hunter. She was afraid of him then, and is afraid of him now. She
does not have the least idea why this might be, for it is clear that
he and Mother – and Father as well – are on the closest
possible terms. Inexplicably, the photograph comes to mind –
the mysterious pattern of shadows and light that caused her to
shudder. Resolving to return to the safety of Bissett Grange at once,
Emma thinks it will take twelve walking steps to reach the gate, at
which point she will casually turn in the opposite direction from Mr
Lush – 170 BISSETT GRANGE whereupon, she will run just as fast
as she can, until the hedgehog is out of sight, and then she will
hide until it is safe. As soon as she starts for the gate, however,
she hears footsteps behind her – a man's heavy boots scrunching
through the overgrown lawn. When she quickens her step, so does he.
As she struggles through the tall grass, in Emma's mind he is
catching up. Now she can feel his presence at the nape of her neck,
and cannot resist turning sideways, and beholds the hedgehog, even
closer than she had imagined, with a white object held out in one
hand. Biting her lip not to cry out, she breaks into a run,
pell–mell, through the tall grass, past the skulls, along the
iron fence, jumping over uprooted sod and exposed rocks, until at
last she summons the courage to look behind her – and there is
the estate manager, far behind, leaning against the gate, seemingly
tying his shoe . . . He was not chasing her after all. Soon
thereafter, Emma happens upon an undulating sheep–walk which
leads to a wide glen, and from there to the conservatory and the main
estate. Now the picnic things are in sight, near the round room;
there, a worried Miss Pouch sits alone at the tea–table, her
book closed in her lap. By this time, Emma has decided not to mention
the incident to anyone. What a silly goose they will think of her,
running away from a gentleman armed with a handkerchief! 'Emma, you
are flushed and out of breath. I hope you have not given yourself a
chill.' 'No, Miss Pouch. I hurried back because I did not wish to
worry you.' 'Mr Boltbyn is photographing Lydia among the flower–beds.
He asks that you join them.' The cramp in his side having subsided,
the estate manager rises to his full height, to face the grinning
skulls on the gate: Thought you could run it down did you –
like the lion and the gazelle? How foolish. Lush has taken no
exercise since university; even then, it was only so far as to meet
the quota demanded of a well–balanced Oxonian – Mens sana
in Corpore Sano. Meanwhile, in the intervening years he has taken on
several stone, smoked ten cigars per day, drunk a bottle of claret
and a half–bottle of brandy – the burden of
responsibility here at Bissett Grange. Now Lush realises he faces
a deeper menace: the speed and 171 WHITE STONE DAY
determination with which the girl ran away indicates the canny little
demon, whatever it might suspect, knows Lush to be an enemy. It will
be Christmas in Hell before he catches her alone again. A pity, and a
worry. Stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket, Lush proceeds
painfully along the rusted fence to the sheep–walk, thinking
that the girl will be taken care of, one way or another, and not
necessarily when asleep. Emma finds her sister amid the flower–beds,
trying to prance through the blooms in the guise of a sprite –
a difficult assignment when one is required to stand on one foot as
though in mid–prance. Once, Emma recalls, she was compelled to
stand at the top of a very high ladder, one foot on the rung, as
though she had just climbed out a window, for nearly half an hour, as
the sunlight did not meet with Mr Boltbyn's approval. 'Mr Boltbyn, I
do not know how long I can remain in this awkward position,' Lydia
complains. 'Only one more minute,' pleads the vicar, about to insert
the glass into the camera. 'Imagine yourself as a tree.' 'I do, but
the tree keeps waving in the wind.' 'Then you need to be a bigger
tree.' 'Here is Emma,' says Lydia. 'She is much better at being a
tree.' 'Ah, Miss Emma, we missed you,' says the vicar, relieved.
'Your sister has not yet mastered the art of stillness.' 'I took a
walk. I was thinking about the girl in the mirror, the girl in my
poem who claims to be my twin, and I have decided to give her a name.
Do you know what it is?' 'I haven't the faintest notion. Please
tell.' 'She is Eliza.' 'That is an exceedingly pretty name. Did it
appear in the mirror?' 'No. It was written on the wall of her
prison.' T see. Do you know, there is a book in which something of
the kind happens. It is called The Count of Monte CristoV Emma
thinks, inexplicably relieved: He does not know about Eliza, or he
would surely have stuttered. 172 33

Machpelah
Street Whitty is standing upright now, on the dining table at which
he once ate dinner, with a noose around his neck. There is no doubt
in his mind that the medium suffered the same fate, at the hands of
these same peculiar pillars of empire. To the psychic's credit, he
must have acquitted himself well, for the face of the taller officer
is badly smashed, while the corporal rasps when he takes a deep
breath, in the way of a man with broken ribs. The rope chafes
Whitty's neck as he turns his head in the direction of his fellow
victim, who appears to be saying his prayers. England expects every
man to do his duty! Issuing the above proclamation, the corporal
delivers a forceful kick to the table, causing it to roll upon its
side, and Whitty finds himself swinging from the chandelier, with his
feet a yard above the Turkey carpet. Reaching desperately, he grips
the chandelier with both hands, to lessen the pressure of the noose –
a short–term solution to be sure, for already the sharpish
metal–work is cutting into his fingers. Says the officer in
dark glasses: 'We have hanged many fellow Englishmen, sir. An English
soldier may be hanged for losing his weapon, for cowardice and for
many lesser offences.' 'I am a civilian. Release me at once.'
'Civilian hangings serve to restore public order,' replies the
officer. 'Especially in cases of looting and profiteering.' Whitty is
beginning to lose his grip. Turning his head as far as possible to
the left, he glimpses the form of Downy Dermot, similarly attached to
the chandelier. Having nothing better to do, he cries out at the top
of his lungs, 'Help! Murder!' 'You will have to do better than that
if you want to be heard from the street,' says the white–haired
officer, moving to the door. 'Shebash, sir. Face it like an
Englishman; not like the last fellow, kicking and screaming like a
woman.' 'Your qualms are specious, sir,' rasps the correspondent.
'You are murderers – and smug murderers, which is all the
worse.' 173 WHITE STONE DAY 'Might we stay and watch the death
struggle, sir?' Of all the forms of entertainment, the corporal has a
special regard for traditional army discipline. 'That is not our way,
Mr Weeks. When the 2nd Infantry secures a noose to a man's neck, it
remains secure.' 'True for you, Mr Robin. An efficient hanging is the
thing.' Let him wiggle on the branch, Take not a backward glance. And
we'll hang the more in Delhi in the morning! At the door, the two
soldiers address the two hanged men as though for the conclusion of a
court–martial. 'Britain, India and St George!' cries the
superior officer, heels clicking smartly. 'Hazar cries Weeks, his
salute marred by the missing thumb – whereupon the two wheel
about in tandem and make their exit. In the sudden silence of his
family dining room, Whitty turns in the direction of his companion.
'Dermot, have you done with praying?' he rasps. 'I may have,' comes
the strangled reply. 'How goes it, then?' 'As voluble as can be
expected, sor.' Whitty looks down upon the great mahogany sideboard,
grey with dust, which bore witness to lavish dinners. 'They have
pushed the furniture out of reach, I'm afraid.' 'Oh they have fer
certain. Knows their business them two. Queen's Indian Army, you
know.' 'You flatter them outrageously, sir. They are mercenaries for
the East India Company – killing natives so that the trains run
properly.' 'Veterans o' the mutiny, true. The most feared man–bashers
on the Embankment. Prefers for hanging 'cause it saves ammunition.'
Having no patience for conversation in the circumstances, Whitty's
attention turns to the ceiling beam – and curiously, at that
instant he experiences a memory of the brother . . . A
quarter–century ago, David persuaded his younger brother Edmund
that they might enjoyably swing from this very chandelier, as though
it were a merry–go–round. The two boys climbed upon the
table and enjoyed a merry time of it, until they began to detect the
sound and feel of splitting wood . . . 'Do you suppose, Dermot, there
might be dry–rot in the roof?' 174 MACHPELAH STREET 'I breaks
into houses, not builds them, sor. Yet any kind of rot would be most
welcome.' 'Dermot, I wonder what would happen were we to swing
ourselves back and forth in a concerted manner?' By now, the sound
coming from Whitty's mouth is like air escaping from a hose. 'Knowing
the alternative, sor, we concurves.' The two men begin to swing their
legs back and forth in unison – tentatively at first, from the
knees, then the torso, until the chain supports in the ceiling move
sharply back and forth. The I–bolts in the ceiling appear
discouragingly firm at first, but after four or five cycles the two
hanged men are rewarded with a light, delightful sprinkle of sawdust
upon their heads. Thus encouraged, they begin to chant a unison
'heave–ho', in the manner of sailors, though it hurts the
throat damnably. With each syllable, one man kicks forward while the
other heaves backward, and now their heads are covered by a thick
layer of sawdust, as welcome as manna. By craning his neck backward,
Whitty can now see that the bright iron shaft of one of the Tbolts is
now visible, that two others are moving slightly. The two swing wider
and wider, until they hear a familiar cracking sound from the beam,
followed by a sudden, joyful crash, as the entire apparatus smashes
down upon their heads, together with a dense shower of sawdust,
followed by an entire colony of carpenter ants in a state of utmost
agitation. For a long while the two men lie upon the carpet, buried
in tarnished metal and coiled chains, breathing in great rasps,
spitting dust and ants from their mouths, scraping their eyes with
their throbbing fingers, and wondering what to do next. 'An
auspicious outcome, it seems,' Whitty remarks, at length.
'Seemingly,' replies Downy Dermot. What Whitty has in mind is a
speedy retreat, followed by a dose of medicinal snuff, followed by
several jars of spiced gin, then a bath and a change of clothes.
After that he intends to peruse the shipping news for imminent
sailings to Canada. 'We had better vacate the premises immediately,
is my view,' he says, rising to a seated position and removing the
noose from his neck. 'It is a rare murderer, sor, who returns to
inspect his work. As well, the Captain takes a low view of those what
fail to complete a dooty. By my reckoning, the danger is the greater
in retreat, and we had best continue.' 'Sir, you were to
assist me in entering this residence. That T75 WHITE STONE
DAY accomplished, you are free to undertake a discreet exit, with my
thanks.' 'Perhaps, yet an attempt on one's life pikes the curiosity
something marvellous.' 'Quite,' Whitty snaps, who may be curious
also, but holds discretion as the better part of valour. Untangling
himself from the knot of chandelier and chains, it occurs to Whitty
that he is about to probe his brother's private life, in the company
of an employee of the Captain. Can this be wise? Does he have a
choice? 'If I may speak frankly, Dermot, as we continue on our
journey, is it your intention to report to the Captain everything
that you see and hear?' 'I have no notation as to what you infer,'
says Dermot. 'I mean that we are in my former home, sir. There are
issues of privacy.' 'We must retrieve our tools, what are also
private,' says the snakesman, who disappears into another room.
Reasoning that if he cannot pry a direct answer from Dermot, neither
will the Captain, Whitty makes his way to the staircase leading to
the brother's chambers on the uppermost floor – stairs he has
not climbed in years, to a room he has never entered at all, even
when his brother was alive. Dermot returns with the heavy carpet–bag
under one arm. 'Appears a fine house,' remarks Dermot. 'A person were
extremely fortuitous to be raised in this house.' 'That may be so,'
replies Whitty. 'Yet one must take into account what went on in it,
and what has gone on thereafter.' 'Possibly,' agrees the snakesman.
'Still, it is a fine house.' The treads groan as though in pain as
the two house–breakers proceed from one landing up to the next.
Each level opens onto a series of melancholy, tomblike orifices that
were once cosy bedchambers, sitting rooms, dens, now with their
window–shutters closed tight. Each floor emits a stronger pong
of mildew than its predecessor. On the top floor, the rooms are
tinier and rougher than any of the chambers below, having been
designed for the armada of servants required for such an
establishment a generation ago. From here they climb a queer, steep
little stairway to David's chambers, really just a turret at the back
of the house. Dermot puts down his carpet–bag to catch his
breath and to extract T76 MACHPELAH STREET an ant or two from under
his collar. 'Some might find it queer, sor, that the first–born
of a fine house such as this would choose such a remote and
inconvenient bedchamber.' 'My brother was of an intense, studious
nature. When at home he preferred seclusion. This is the first time
in my life that I have ventured here.' In fact, when David took the
upstairs room, it seemed as though his brother sought refuge from
having to breathe the same air as the rest of the family. 'I expect
that the door is locked,' he says. 'That is no great problem if you
would stand clear.' So saying, the snakesman turns his back to the
door and takes hold of the railing with both hands. Using the leg
furthest from the door, he suddenly kicks back in the manner of a
mule, so that the heel of his foot strikes a spot next to the
key–hole, causing the door to snap open with a sharp crack.
'Very impressive,' remarks Whitty. 'It is a question of aim and
follow–through,' Dermot replies. 'And practice.' David's room,
while in use, was clearly as spartan as Whitty would expect it to be,
consisting of a simple bed, writing–table and chair, and an
easy chair upholstered with what Whitty remembers as green velvet,
now the colour of dead skin. Under the low gable is a fitted
bookcase. These furnishings, however, lie buried beneath the contents
of David's Oxford rooms: rotting leather volumes of the Greeks, piled
waist–high, manuscripts containing treatises and translations,
now the texture of oat cakes left in the rain, and piles of clothing
– all coloured a rotten greenish–grey. Heaped carelessly
in the far corner is David's photo– graphic equipment, also
mouldy but for the glass and metal, on top of a heavy oak cabinet
with two wide drawers, of the type used by clerks in the City. 'Were
we on regular business,' confides Dermot, 'we would regard this here
as a paucitous return for time and effort.' Whitty has sunk to his
knees and now struggles unsuccessfully to open one of the drawers,
afraid of what they may contain. 'It is locked,' observes Dermot.
'You might as well pound your head upon it. Move aside, please.'
Crouching beside the correspondent, Dermot pulls open his carpet–
bag and extracts a number of small tools, individually wrapped in
cloth to prevent the clanking of metal against metal. From among
these he chooses a set of instruments of thin steel, like something a
dentist might employ to probe a toothache. Now he produces a lantern
which, when 177 WHITE STONE DAY lit, trains a narrow, intense spot
upon the lock. From a bundle of metal picks he selects a flat–headed
instrument, which he inserts into the keyhole and turns like a
miniature key. Leaving the instrument inside, he selects a pick whose
end curves upward, and inserts it next to its flat– headed
cousin. With his ear all but touching the lock, he now under–
takes a series of small, deft movements in the way of a watchmaker,
then abruptly rotates the flat–headed instrument and opens the
drawer without difficulty. He repeats the process with the second
drawer. The process, all told, requires about a minute. 'Examine at
leisure, sor.' 'Thank you.' Whitty leans forward with more
apprehension than gratitude and begins to explore. The top drawer
contains, as expected, hundreds of photographs, mostly landscapes
taken during the brother's travels: trees silhouetted in the Cotswold
mist; noble gardens and walks that create a study of perspective near
Cheddar Gorge; the Bowder Stone in Barrowdale; as well as various
other scenes of the Oxford region – the Thames River, Blenheim
Palace, the White Horse of Uffington and the Roland Stones –
eminently predictable subjects for the seeker of Mystic Britannia.
The second drawer contains not landscapes but portraits. Leafing
through with thumb and forefinger, Whitty encounters what appears to
be a series of worthies and colleagues at St Ambrose, dressed in
gowns and caps in cloistered settings, or in sporting clothes at
picnics and boat–races. From a theme of Prominence, both
geographic and human, David's photographs now turn to the theme of
Innocence – mostly portraits of children, all female, with
parasols on their shoulders and smiles upon their faces. Gradually,
the pictures begin to alter in theme and in tone, until the young
women appear as allegorical figures from the Greeks, whose costumes
display rather more skin surface than before. One of these women is
depicted sleeping in the bath – an image made famous by William
Nixon Crede. At the back of the drawer he discovers a sheaf of
portraits depicting David himself, alone and with various companions.
Of par– ticular interest to him is a scene depicting the rowing
team in which David acted as coxswain, to an eight led by none other
than the Duke of Danbury, the same noble who presided over the
brother's last seance. He poses, oar aloft, with one hand upon
David's shoulder. A note on the back indicates that the picture was
taken by William Boltbyn, a fixture of the college – who,
Whitty recalls, achieved a 178 MACHPELAH STREET sort of fame as an
author of children's books, and as a portrait photographer. Still
further inside the drawer, he uncovers another photograph which, to
judge by the equipment at its centre, depicts the photography club of
which his brother was a member – as was, it seems, the Duke of
Danbury, the same nobleman who presided over Bill Williams's last
seance. Attached to the picture of the photography club is a sheet of
paper containing the sort of contrived pastiche Oxford men create for
casual amusement, having little better to do: Under a spreading
camera–tree The Picture–taker stands; A sharp–eyed,
patient man is be, With steady arms and hands . . . Putting aside the
photograph and its accompanying doggerel, he searches the rear of the
drawer and pulls out another sheaf of photo– graphs, one of
which causes him to gasp aloud. David, naked, in circumstances
identical to the obscenity Whitty now carries in his pocket –
from the luxurious divan to the scar upon his shoulder; from the mark
upon his naked thigh to the painted screen and the oriental wallpaper
in the background. The resemblance is not lost upon the snakesman. 'I
say, sor, were that one from the Hollywell job?' Whitty ransacks his
mind for an answer. 'No, as you can see, it is from my brother's
personal collection.' 'I knows that, sir.' 'Indeed you do. You might
as well have a look at this.' Whitty pulls from his pocket the