White Stone Day (24 page)

permit me to assure you that you and your mother are under my
protection and have nothing to fear.' To which Emma executes another
curtsy, for there is no question that they require protection. The
duke turns to the vicar: 'Sir, oblige me with a word in private.'
Boltbyn nods his assent, reflecting that no bullying superior could
exercise the spell Danbury does, with so little effort.
Without exception, new members of the photographic society begin by
vowing to tell him to go to the devil, and end by obeying him like
footmen. 'Come into the library, then.' 201 WHITE STONE DAY
Boltbyn returns his attention to the two girls. 'Miss Emma and Miss
Lydia, I must withdraw momentarily to speak to his Grace. P–p–p–lcase
comfort your mother. Miss P–P–Pouch has something
important to tell you.' 202 41

Iffley
Lock, Oxfordshire The lock–keeper swings the windlass and the
upper gates part like a pair of hands to reveal a stretch of the
undulating river Whitty knows all too well. It is a perfect day for
boating, with a fresh breeze blowing across the stream, barely enough
to ruffle the waters. Standing at the bow of the Endeavour, he
prepares for yet another assault on his mind and memory. Iffley Lock
is where it happened; the bottle–nosed lock–keeper with
liver–coloured jowls may well be the same party who opened the
gates for David on his last paddle. Whitty recognises the tidy inn
behind the lock–house, frequented by boatsmen in–between
laps, and remembers the blackened Norman church across the roadway,
whose baptismal font is ringed with severed heads, each wearing a
surprised expression, as a severed head might. Each year in
springtime his parents brought him to Oxford to watch his brother run
the boat–trials and races. Since David inevitably excelled in
the event, the trip took on the character of a family rite – a
symbolic quest with an assured outcome and the prospect of renewal.
While Mother and Father joined the other spectators at the start,
Edmund preferred to walk to the turning–position at Iffley
Lock, to await the St Ambrose eight–oar. There he would crane
his neck to spot the boat, first a speck in the distance, then a
shape like an eight–legged insect, skimming along to the last
reach. How he would thrill at the magnificent sweep and life of the
stroke against the green water, with a fresh breeze ruffling the
stream just as it is doing now. Long before he could distinguish the
individual rowers he would recognise his brother's voice piercing the
air: Two, well forward! Time, three, don't jerk! Four, you can get
another pound on! as the marvellous sliver came hard–on up to
the pool below the lock, the coxswain standing at the stern holding a
tiller–rope in each hand, then shipping oars . . . This is the
point where Whitty's memory defers to a mental picture, not of what
was seen but of what was heard from others, yet equally vivid: not
the eight, but a single oarsman in a boating coat and St 103 WHITE
STONE DAY Ambrose cap, handling the sculls like an old hand, out for
a gentle paddle, about to meet his maker. How well Whitty remembers
accompanying his distraught father on their grim journey back to
Oxford while Mother remained home under a doctor's care. When they
arrived, father proceeded to grill each witness like a prosecuting
council, as though by finding fault in their story he might undo
David's death. Not once in that time did Father acknowledge the
presence of the boy by his side. To Whitty it seemed that it was he
who had become a ghost, and not his brother. 'The river was rather
high,' the manager said, a warning he issued to all rental parties
that day, for heavy storms up Gloucestershire way had swollen the
stream, and the Thames was as full as could be without overflowing.
'I assure you, sir, that I warned him to especially mind the
millstream at Iffley Lock, and pull the right–hand scull at
Berkshire.' The lock–keeper recalled having issued a similar
warning: to stay well out before hugging the Berkshire side, and to
mind the small lasher (a kind of wooden trough feeding the millstream
by the river), which created a narrow funnel of concentrated current
that could draw a man off–course and out of control. Only now
does it begin to dawn upon Whitty how each account melded so
seamlessly with the official version. Does life really occur with
such neatness? Equally, the official account of David's death has
remained as clear in his mind as anything he might have witnessed in
the flesh. Standing to the stern of the Endeavour, he can almost see
his brother round the bend and, rashly choosing left scull, hug the
Berkshire side when he should be well out – at which point the
current from the lasher catches the bow of the boat, which whirls
around, turns on its side, and shoots the brother's skiff onto the
planking and down the steep descent as though it were caught in a
waterfall. The algae–covered boards would have been as slippery
as ice as he frantically clawed them, while the boat rolled over like
a piece of driftwood into the still pool below, to disappear beneath
the black water, leaving a grave– marker of scattered sculls
and bottom boards turning gently on the surface. By the time of the
funeral, David's demise had assumed the familiar mythic pattern of
similar tragedies in sport: the expert swimmer who unaccountably
drowns; the experienced hunter who shoots himself through some
elementary error – always with an ironic moral which might be
summed up as Death By Over–confidence. 204 IFFLEY LOCK,
OXFORDSHIRE But now another more recent memory comes to Whitty: I did
not die as you think I died. What did David mean? he wonders –
then stops himself, for there is no reason to assume that the message
was not a parlour trick. Nonetheless, the sentence itself begins to
poke holes in the accepted mythology – the fact that some
unknown person put him through a great deal of trouble, immediately
after he heard it. For there can be no doubt that the atrocious
picture of David was concocted in order to turn him away from the
journey he has undertaken, and the truth about what happened to him.
If someone would have Whitty murdered over David, it suggests that
he, or someone close to him, probably murdered David as well. Looking
back, Whitty notes that other than half–remembered warnings,
there was no eye–witness to the event itself. Though the
rentals manager and the lock–keeper described a handsome
gentleman, a Fellow and not a mere student, neither identified him as
David. I did not die as you think I died. Whitty begins to laugh, a
frequent reaction when something startling occurs to him. The
laughter builds until he must wipe away the taste of salt with his
handkerchief. Watching him curiously from the bow, the Mussulman
extends the tube of his hookah as a possible remedy. 'No, thank you,
sir,' Whitty replies. 'On this occasion I am just going to have to
think.' A mile and a half distant and just south of the town, they
pass the boat– builders' establishments on both sides of the
river; soon after, they reach Christ Church Meadow on the Oxfordshire
side, where cows continue to graze and where the spectators' barge
containing Mother and Father would moor for the races. The crew of
the Endeavour and Edmund Whitty of The Falcon must now part company,
each as puzzled by the other as when they set out. Still, Whitty
feels it is he who has benefited most from the journey. The eternal
rhythm of the river, the slowing of time, not to mention the curious
dreams emanating from Mr Neffici's wonderful tube, have given him a
new perspective on what he is about to undertake. If nothing else,
for the first time he is able to face the photographs in his Pocket
without flinching at their contents, and to recall past events in
detail without self–pity Still, he could certainly do with a
drink, having spent part of a week 205 WHITE STONE DAY squatting on
the deck of a barge filled with gin, like an alcoholic Ancient
Mariner, without a drop to drink. As for the Mussulmen, having
delivered the last of their doctored gin they will continue up the
waterway to a livery in Heyford, and an agent who deals in young
women from the Midlands–bound, in most cases for the London
brothels eager for green fruit. For a long moment the correspondent
stands on the pavement next to the canal, wondering how best to bid
farewell to his fellow sojourners. Mr Neffici seems similarly at
loose ends, stroking his wedge–shaped beard with an expression
of befuddlement. Out of nervousness more than anything, Whitty
reaches into his coat pocket – and discovers a cigar he must
have scooped from his editor's cigar–box. 'Please accept a
cigar, sir, with my compliments.' Mr Neffici takes the cigar, gives
it a sniff, and replies: 'High–ho, sir, you adorn my mouth with
your gifting.' With that, he reaches into his pocket, extracts a
wedge of brown putty the size of a bon–bon, and extends it to
the correspondent. Whitty accepts the gift with appropriate ceremony,
though he doubts he will make use of the substance, which seems to
produce the most unnerving insights. The Mussulman at the stern,
while untangling some rope, favours him with a nod, while for his
part, the horseman acknowledges Whitty with a complicated motion of
his right hand. For a suitable reply, Whitty gives the fellow the
Oxford salute – the upraised thumb of old– boy
encouragement; at this, the horseman appears startled, then offended,
then articulates a long, bitter reply in what Whitty assumes to be
Arabic. Without further ceremony he hurries across the meadow, eager
for a clean bed, some nourishment other than bitter coffee, a mug of
gin, and a companion who speaks in complete English sentences.
Halfway across the meadow he stops, transfixed by the castellated
outline of St Ambrose College, seen in the long light of afternoon it
is medieval in appearance, like a tiny outpost of civilisation in a
Dark Age. Given that it could well be someone connected with St
Ambrose who wishes him ill, in choosing his lodging he decides to
favour Town over Gown, though it will require him to endure the stink
from the central market: in London one's handkerchief turns black
whenever one blows one's nose; in the town of Oxford to breathe the
air is like attending a convention of slaughterers. 206 IFFLKY LOCK,
OXFORDSHIRE To avoid being recognised for the time being, he keeps to
the lanes below Broad Street, past the Twelve Philosophers and down
the back alleys; past a medieval churchyard as black as if it had
been charred; past townsmen in their peculiar, anachronistic clothing
(like the third– hand offerings near Waterloo Bridge), until he
can see no evidence of a university presence, other than a lone
proctor fluttering down the road in search of gownsmen who have gone
missing at roll–call. Threading his way through a series of
courts, he reaches the dark entrance of the Grass, a quiet little inn
whose occupants pay by the week or the month and are therefore
unlikely to spread word of his return, being at one or another stage
of delirium tremens. In the little bar he recognises the proprietor,
a stout woman with spectacles as thick as telescopes, whose age is no
clearer to him than it was nearly a decade ago, in her greasy
armchair, stitching plain work for her grandchildren. 'Bless us if it
isn't Mr Whitty of St Ambrose! Weeks it has been since you were with
us,' she exclaims, with a publican's eye for a patron and a
publican's imperviousness to the passage of time. 'Whitty it is
indeed, Mrs Wafer. And a good evening to you. I trust that you still
draw famous ale.' 'The Grand Medallion is it not?' 'Quite right, Mrs
Wafer. Let us have a jug of that excellent substance, please. And
you'll take a glass with me, won't you?' 'Duncan!' she cries,
exhibiting the publican's capacity to speak with a velvety murmur for
the clients, and a glass–shattering shriek for the staff. For
the professional seeker of information, the regular clientele of a
small inn comprises a virtual encyclopaedia of the city. It is a
curious fact of life in such drinking establishments that, however
addled the individual brain may become, the room as a whole remembers
everything. The ruling spirit in the drinking–room of the Grass
is a former advocate named Egerton Prawn, an octogenarian in a shiny,
snuff– coloured frock coat and slippers. According to Mrs
Wafer, the human eye has never seen him otherwise attired. Should Mr
Prawn mistake himself on some point or other, he will receive speedy
correction from his constant companion, Mr Ellington – a man of
about fifty, with a tumour growing upon his left ear which hangs from
the lobe like a fig. 207 WHITE STONE DAY Mr Prawn represents that
most valuable journalistic commodity, the Failure who Watches. Whitty
therefore cultivates Mr Prawn with generous lashings of brandy and
ale, to be repaid with local facts – especially concerning the
university. For while it is true that the masses in Town may be
reflexively disregarded by Gown, the reverse does not apply. A fierce
preoccupation for Town, is Gown. 'Thangs be a bit calmer since ye
left, Mr Whitty,' begins Mr Prawn, in that flattened Midlands accent
which can drive any fellow Briton to strong drink. 'And yet I should
expect more than one rat in the wainscoting, sir.' 'True, sah –
a good deal more than one . . .' Mr Prawn places a finger beside his
nose, signalling the confidentiality of what he is about to divulge
to a relative stranger. The narrative proceeds, with Mr Ellington
acting as a kind of editor, his tumour swinging one way or another as
a verdict of accuracy. By the time Whitty staggers up the stairs to
his bed, he has gathered an inventory of the scandals and
controversies of the term, as well as the various rumours circulating
like leaves come autumn – it being characteristic of academic
life that only rumours are to be believed. He now knows which
gentleman commoner has been paying for his grades; which published
eminence has lost his mind and drools over his notes; which don's
wife is up to no good with the tutor–assistant; which servitor
has become independently wealthy as a procurer of women and opium;
which comely townswoman has ensnared a besotted proctor . . . After
the scandals came the suicides. As always, Oxonians have been hanging
themselves and poisoning themselves, or stuffing their pockets with
stones, hopping off a bridge and making a hole in the river. These
incidents are recorded as 'accidental death', in the interests of
both the family and the university, with the result that every
untimely death, even genuine accidents, leaves a scattering of
suicide rumours circulating in its wake. In this respect, David's
death was no exception. Unhappily, nothing in Mr Prawn's litany of
scandal stands out as having any possible connection to David or the
Captain's niece. The most recent rumoured suicide, expressed in the
alarming vowels of Mr Prawn, 'be the precentor Mr Lambert, said to
die of fever when the truth is he hanged himself – so say the
servants. Poor Miss Lizzy discovered him hanged from the bedstead wi'
the teeth hangin out, be so shocked she not out of bed since.' 208
IFFLEY LOCK, OXFORDSHIRE This one will bear investigation, Whitty
thinks, having acquired a special suspicion of all hangings outside
the prison–yard. Whitty opens the door to his room with his
latch–key, reflecting that the evening has been by no means a
failure, if only because he is happily drunk for the first time in
days. The garret–room assigned to him – rarely swept,
frightfully dirty and with a low, slanted ceiling – affords a
splendid view of the surrounding chimney–pots and slate roofs,
as well as a relatively clean, if damp, bed. Whitty sinks into the
luxury of a horizontal, comparatively soft surface, reflecting that,
as usual, his quest is that of a near–sighted hound, who will
recognise the fox, if at all, when it is literally in front of his
nose. Excepting that in his case the hound is himself hunted by armed