White Stone Day (25 page)

men – and possibly by the fox as well. All afternoon the two
retired soldiers in shabby reds have been wandering the streets of
Oxford, which seems to them as dusty and desolate as any village in
Bengal or Lahore. At last the sky has grown sufficiently dark for the
lieutenant–colonel to remove his sun–glasses and
determine their position by means of an area map of the town,
purchased at the train station by his subaltern. It is the first time
they have ventured out of London. They have done their duty, and
should be on their way back to London had not Mr Lush ordered them to
remain, to carry out a second assignment when called upon. In the
meantime they remain at liberty and on their own – a singularly
disorienting experience. 'Do we have our bearings at last, sir? Do
you make our position?' Weeks has been jittery and out of sorts since
their arrival. He is unnerved by the creatures in black gowns who
sweep back and forth in the streets, some with gold tassels dangling
from their flat hats. To the corporal it is as if they have entered a
coven of wizards. Looking up from the map, the lieutenant–colonel
speaks in a controlled manner, not to undermine the morale of the
company. 'Mr Weeks, are you aware that this map you purchased is in
French? 'What?' 'I cannot read our position, because it is not in
English.' 'I do not understand, sir. Are we in another country?'
'When we alit from the train, sir, I sent you to the stationmaster's
wicket with a shilling, to obtain a map of the town of Oxford. This
map what you purchased is in French.' 209 WHITE STONE DAY Wouldn't
you know, thinks Weeks. Besides the mysterious gowned figures,
another alarming discovery while wandering the streets has been the
presence of people speaking in French, standing in small groups in
the older parts of town, discussing statuary and pointing at the
architecture. 'Mr Robin, you know I do not read. Reading is not in my
line. And we was in a dead hurry with Mr Lush waiting for us up the
road.' 'I am aware of that, corporal. Still, the bloody map is no use
to us in a foreign language, is it? How are we to find our bearings
without a bloody map to go by?' 'Point taken, sir. Request
instructions.' 'We will obtain directions from a local civilian.' The
corporal contemplates a gentleman–commoner from Balliol flying
past in his silk gown, chased by a number of other gentlemen,
similarly attired and with cigars in their mouths, emitting
high–pitched laughter. 'Ask directions from that lot? Sir, do
you think they can be trusted?' 'Probably not. Devil take it, Weeks,
why did you not ask for a bloody English map?' 'Well, I spoke English
when I asked for it, didn't I? One would think that sufficient. And
there is nothing French about the uniform, tattered though it is.'
Robin and Weeks stop to think about this, and come to the same
conclusion. 'Mr Robin, sir, I believe it was the man behind the
wicket. He saw that I was new to the region, that I do not read and
would not know the difference. He sought to make a fool of me, sir.
And being blind in the daylight, you were at a similar disadvantage.'
'I quite agree. By the voice he had a superior way about him.'
'Shabby treatment for the heroes of Lucknow I should say, sir.' 'It
calls for a punitive expedition, in memory of the brigade –
HazarF 'Indeed, sir. For those who died for England on foreign soil –
HazarF Robin places his sun–glasses in his pocket and leads a
brisk march in the direction of the train station. Without his
glasses, Robin's eyes glitter like the scales of a fish. 'The more I
see of the country, Mr Robin sir, the more I pine for the old days –
O for the pipeclayed belts and the pillbox hats, and the smell of
beer and oats and horse–piss . . .' Robin produces his flask.
'Tot, corporal.' 'Thank you, sir.' Weeks takes a long draught. 210
IFFLEY LOCK, OXFORDSHIRE 'Beware of romanticising the brigade, Weeks.
Butcher and bolt is what we did.' 'Yet we is Englishmen, sir, as
British as any h'ramzada on this stinking street!' The
lieutenant–colonel stops to administer another dose from the
flask to his subaltern, as the corporal's eyes are beginning to glaze
over. 'Speak more quietly, will you? You are attracting attention.'
Weeks continues to reminisce over army life in India, albeit in more
moderate tones, while they trace their way back to the train station
for a meeting with the clerk. REQUIESCAT IN PACE Lambert, CHARLES
GILBERT, 43 years. On Saturday 3rd June, at a private funeral, shall
be consigned to earth the Mortal Remains of Reverend C. G. Lambert,
precentor for Church of St Swithan Church, Chester Wolds,
Oxfordshire, and trusted Spiritual Adviser to the Duke of Danbury.
For an extended period he had been labouring under severe disease of
the mouth; notwithstanding the unceasing efforts of the members of
his devoted family and his able physician, he was at length
prostrated and, after a few days of extreme weakness, his existence
terminated. His death, unexpected and lamentable, occurred on the
previous Wednesday and was marked by a placidity of mind and
kindliness of feeling for all around him. The Reverend Lambert is
survived by his devoted wife, Euphemia, and two beloved daughters,
Emma and Lydia. Services at Church of St Swithan, Reverend Jeremiah
Spoole officiating. Photographs of the deceased, prepared by the
Reverend William Leffington Boltbyn of St Ambrose College, Oxford, to
be presented to family and friends. Whilst in this world I did remain
My latter end was grief and pain; But when the Lord he thought it
best To take me to a place of rest, My time was spent, my glass was
run, And now, sweet Jesus, I am come. 211 42 Oxford Over morning tea
in the drinking–room of the Grass, Whitty peruses the morning's
edition of the Oxford Times through a fog of stale tobacco smoke. 'I
see, Mrs Wafer, that Oxford has taken to the practice of
photographing the dead.' 'Aye, Mr Whitty, it is much in demand by the
mourners.' 'As a memento, I suppose. In London, no parlour is
complete without a family Bible and an album of cadavers.' 'Seems
right morbid to me.' 'Still, to have one's photograph taken by Mr
William Boltbyn is a signal honour, even if one happens to be dead.'
'True for you, sir. Mr Boltbyn seldom photographs anything but little
girls, is what I am hearing.' 'You don't say, Mrs Wafer?' 'Aye, in
particular the Lambert girls, whose father they're burying today,
poor things.' Circling the item on the Reverend Lambert with a
pencil, Whitty scans the list of Oxonians who will be attending the
funeral, and recognises not only Boltbyn, but his Grace the Duke of
Danbury as well. Hello. He resolves to set out for the church at
once, that he might arrive in advance of the funeral and have a look
around. He remembers St Swithan as a minor chapel about two miles
north of the city, a small, mean building, funded in perpetuity by
the lord of the manor in the early part of this century, at the end
of a pointless life chasing the hounds and the chambermaids. Putting
down his newspaper, he reflects upon the strange route his own life
has taken, from his downfall at St Ambrose to his current position
with The Falcon, from a disgraced theology student to a chronicler of
disgrace; from articulating what should be to dealing in what might
be, in the hope of telling what is. Whitty tucks into a full
breakfast of kidneys, haddock and pudding, followed by a healer of
gin and water, followed by a healthy dose or Acker's Chlorodine.
Ready to face the challenges of the day, he folds the paper, with
hardly a glance at the other news. 212 OXFORD A SHOCKING ASSAULT by
Oliver Crabtree Senior Correspondent Oxford Times Following an
enquiry from his wife in the late hours of yesterday evening,
Officers of the Oxford Constabulary discovered stationmaster John
Butty, near death and in an unrecognisable state, having been beaten
and thrown upon the railway by persons unknown. Robbery is the
suspected motive, for an amount of Railway property was taken. Adding
insult to injury, a foreigners' map was discovered in the victim's
mouth. Foreign visitors to the shire have been summoned to the
constabulary for questioning. 'A singularly vicious assault upon a
public servant,' commented Inspector Watkins of the Police. 'Caution
is advised among the citizenry.' 213 43

The
Roland Stones Wouldn't you know, just when the price of images rivals
the price of jewellery, a bell has rung on some invisible clock, and
it is time to begin anew. On his way to set the course that will
secure his future, Albin Lush puts his mind to the logic of the
situation, rather than succumb to a sensation of giddy nausea –
that the normal parameters of risk and profit no longer apply;
suddenly the risk side of the equation has expanded to infinity,
which no amount of profit can balance. In short, he is plagued with
fears that require decisive management. He has not slept in three
nights; the moment he closes his eyes he sees a black, infinite maw,
opening to swallow him up, and next thing he is sitting bolt upright
in the bed, gasping for air. With careful planning, however, he will
soon be free – and high time, for the effort of remaining
steady has taken its toll; witness the burning rash now itching his
scalp and hands. First off, his vocation in the service of the Duke
of Danbury is over. In hindsight, Lush sees his original error: in
forming his attach– ment to Bissett Grange he placed too little
significance on the fact that children of the Quality do not mature
at the rate of other Englishmen. The full extent of the duke's
capriciousness has only now come to light. At first, Danbury's orders
concerning the Reverend Lambert seemed in the realm of the rational,
given that impudent letter with its stench of scandal. Who might have
imagined that removing an enemy was but an incidental bonus? That his
Grace's primary intention was to indenture an entire family in the
way that Macbeth acquired the throne of Scotland – by murdering
the head of the house? Lush had thought that the duke had learned his
lesson in the David Whitty affair: when conducting business at the
risk of ruinous disgrace, it is people who create problems. When
there are no people, there is no problem. Now Bissett Grange is
simply swarming with eyes and ears, 214 THE ROLAND STONES with the
risk of bringing everything to light, right from the beginning. The
mere thought of it turns his bowels to jelly. As the carnage rattles
off the main road, past the Roland Stones and over the rise to the
Wayland Smithy, in his mind Lush reaffirms his second decision: the
daughters therefore must go. Both of them. In the face of such risk,
one errs on the side of caution. Moreover, he has decided that the
best plan would be for the brutes to accomplish the task – at a
time when Lush will be miles away. It is as clear as a mathematical
proof. Yet not quite as certain. Goodness knows they made enough fuss
over the last girl. Soldiers are like hunting dogs in that respect –
bred in the bone to tear some to shreds, and others, not. Yet they
will not refuse. They will do what he needs them to do. Reaching into
his coat pocket, Lush produces the small pistol from the duke's
study, feels the satisfying weight of it – neater than hanging,
quicker than gas. Reason, self–interest, and the prospect of
the hangman will prevail. For have they not already crossed the
Rubicon in their own minds? Do they think more than one Hell awaits?
If so, he will shoot them both, and then they can see for themselves,
while he does the work himself. As he climbs down from the carriage,
he feels the pistol in his pocket. It has capacity for two rounds –
adequate for his purpose, one way or the other. Grinding his teeth
behind a congenial smile, the estate manager greets the two
dishevelled officers standing in the mouth of the cave. 'A very good
day to you, gentlemen. My apologies for the accommodations.' 'Only
the dark is sufficient,' replies Robin. 'A field trench would be an
improvement,' says Weeks. 'Permit me to remind you that it is your
own rash actions that have put you in a cave, and not in a
comfortable bed. When you arrived, you said nothing about beating the
stationmaster half to death. The entire city is up in arms, and
conspicuous foreigners are especially suspect.' 'We're every bit as
English as them,' says Robin. 'Even more so.' 'It were an affair of
honour,' adds Weeks. 'My employer is extremely displeased. He demands
that you vacate the area as soon as it is safe to do so.' 'We done
our duty,' says Weeks. 215 WHITE STONE DAY 'And expect to be paid
accordingly,' adds Robin. 'His Grace has authorised a generous
stipend, of that you may be sure. Moreover, he ensures your safe
conduct back to London – provided that you perform one
additional duty . . .' zi6 44

Oxford
Swinging his walking–stick with a new sense of purpose, Whitty
makes his way past the walls of Balliol, past the metal cross
commemorating the heretic Cranmer, and past the quadrangle of St
John's – a stately edifice in whose chapel, Whitty remembers,
it is the practice on a Sunday morning for undergraduates with
hang–overs to vomit into their hats. The dust that pervades the
air at this time of year softens everything; a mile further, however,
and the air clears to an unprecedented freshness. Indeed, he may
cover his nose with his handkerchief, for the intake of oxygen is
making him giddy. At length he finds himself amid large open fields,
scythed by stocky, red–faced men in leather breeches and
shapeless felt hats; soon he approaches the village of Fordlow, a
quaintly desolate collection of thatched cottages, up to its fetlocks
in greenery, with no post–office, constabulary or railway
station. Its public buildings consist of a school, a poky little inn
called the Bricklayer's Arms, and St Swithan – squat and ugly,
without spire or tower, crouched at the back of a churchyard whose
graves accommodate so many generations as to form a hill several feet
above the road. As he approaches the church, a clamour of rooks rain
upon him a volley of negativity and discouragement, their feathers
gleaming like shards of black porcelain. Removing his hat, he pushes
open the heavy door, enters the church, and pauses while his eyes
adjust to the dim interior. Before the altar lies the corpse,
uncovered from the waist up, in its Sunday clothes, nestled in a fine
mahogany coffin with brass handles and ivory inlay, upon a sturdy
table designed for the purpose. Curiously, on either side of the
deceased, the pillars are carved to depict medieval grotesques –
a succession of half–wits with broken teeth, sores and warts,
japing at one another across the coffin. Surrounding the cadaver,
bouquets of flowers create a stage setting for a recumbent leading
man – who will, at the proper moment, sit bolt upright and
burst into song. Between Whitty and this fragrant tableau of death is
the rear end of 217 WHITE STONE DAY a gentleman, bent over a rosewood
camera, which is set on a three– legged stilt. Before Whitty
can adjust to this unusual spectacle he is dazzled by a flash of
magnesium, and must sit in a nearby pew while the spots fade.
Removing the plate from the camera, and with the poise of a waiter
with a bowl of soup, the photographer transfers it to a portable
darkroom – a wooden frame draped with black velvet – into
which he stoops, so that once again only his bottom and legs remain
visible, framed by coat–tails of mourner's black. In the
interval between camera and darkroom, Whitty recognises the profile
of the most illustrious member of the Oxford Photographic Society –
older by precisely the number of years that have elapsed since
David's death. And yet, other than a noticeable thinning of his hair,
the man does not seem to have aged a day; his smooth, rosy cheeks can
scarcely have felt a razor, while his slender physique is that of a
boy of fourteen. He watches as Boltbyn examines the developed plate,
inserts it into a portable cabinet made of brass and rosewood, then
extracts a fresh plate, all with admirable dexterity. Returning to
his camera, he inserts the plate, replenishes the tray of flash
powder, and adjusts the focal length of the lens by minute degrees,
turning a brass knob. On this occasion, Whitty has the presence of
mind to cover his eyes in advance of the flare. With Boltbyn once
again shrouded in the velvet of the portable darkroom, Whitty rises
from his pew and steps briskly to the nave, to inspect the corpse.
The gentleman in the coffin is straight–featured and blandly
handsome, but with a certain puffiness about the mouth, as though
having suffered an injury to the face. The effect is of a man who
died with his mouth full of food, while trying to smile. Taking a
closer look (with the usual odour of chicken gone bad), he notes the
artificially pink make–up – thick enough to mask the rich
purple of a hanged man; and when he inserts a gloved finger between
the high, waxed collar and the neck, he uncovers the welts left by a
wide cord or a knotted sheet. 'Excuse me, sir, but I do not believe
you are the undertaker.' Whitty removes his finger from the dead
man's collar, turns, and smiles genially: 'Edmund Whitty of The
Falcon, sir. I am at your service.' 'The name is familiar, somehow,'
says Boltbyn, standing with a plate 218 OXFORD delicately balanced on
five fingers. 'I did not see you enter the building.' 'I did not wish
to disturb you. Photography is a delicate business, even for an
expert such as yourself.' 'True. Even under ideal circumstances, not
one plate in five is satisfactory.' 'I have often wondered what
happens to glass plates which are not up to standard. There must
surely be a good many of them.' 'Indeed, I have seen them used to
construct greenhouses . . .' Abruptly, the photographer hesitates; it
has begun to occur to him that this is a rather peculiar situation.
Whitty continues blithely on the subject of photography, though he
knows nothing about it: T suppose that is one advantage of
photographing the dead – they will hold still.' 'Why are you
here, sir?' asks Boltbyn, sharply. 'Were you acquainted with the
deceased? Or are you one of those journalists who like to mock the
feelings of other people?' 'The fact of it is, I came to observe a
master at work. You would be the Reverend Boltbyn, I presume –
unless you prefer your nom de plume.'' The face brightens with sudden
interest. 'Sir, did you know that you just rhymed?' 'No. Did I?'
'Presume, and nom de plume. It's really quite good.' 'Blast! So I
did.' 'And you scanned as well – with a triplet in the second
line.' 'Completely accidental, I assure you. Perhaps it is the
landscape.' 'How could it possibly be the landscape?' 'A gnomish
aspect to the country. Like pictures in a book of rhymes for
children.' 'Oh. I see.' Boltbyn's face returns to its original
expression of watchful alarm. 'Have we been introduced?' 'As I told
you, I am Edmund Whitty of The Falcon.' 'Quite. Of course. Whitty of
The Falcon. The Chokee Bill affair, the near–hanging of an
innocent man – shocking.' 'I too was shocked, at the time.'
'What brings you to this part of the country, sir? Surely nothing as
nasty as that.' 'One never knows what nastiness lies about; however,
I am here for the memoirs.' Whose memoirs?' 219 WHITE STONE DAY 'My
own, of course. In which, Mr Boltbyn, you seem to play a role. You
may or may not remember that I was once, however briefly, a student
at St Ambrose.' Boltbyn's eyes widen with comprehension. 'Ah –
that Mr Whitty. You exhibited a proficiency with provocative rhymes,
if I remember correctly.' 'Indeed, sir. And speaking of rhymes, what
do you think of this?' Whitty withdraws a sheet of paper from his
pocket and reads aloud the piece of club doggerel based on
Longfellow: 'Under a spreading camera–tree The Picture–taker
stands 'Did I write that?' asks the vicar. 'By Heaven, I think I did!
Where did you find it?' 'I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in
my deceased brother David, who was an avid photographer like
yourself.' 'Th–that would be ... oh yes. Good heavens. David
Whitty. A remarkable talent for the craft.' 'Further on, the verse
refers to various members of the society, I believe. It is all quite
clever: A is for Angley in anger to dwell, B is for Boltbyn and
Bracebridge as well; C is for Crede, the cock in a cage, D is for
Danbury, shocking the age, And for David Whitty, stalking the stage
'Oh,' exclaims Boltbyn in a soft voice, and the negative shatters on
the floor. 'I beg you, forgive me, sir,' says Whitty, looking at a
spreading puddle filled with shards of glass, and the smell of ether
is overpowering. 'It was my express wish not to disturb your work –
and look what has happened!' Whitty looks up, and is surprised to see
the vicar's swallow–tailed rear, heading for the door. 'Mr
Boltbyn!' he calls. 'Shall we say this evening, then? At your rooms
for tea? Excellent!' Seated in a rear pew, between an elderly woman
with the palsy and a gentleman with a boil on his neck, Whitty
focuses upon the face of the 220 OXFORD Duke of Danbury as he makes
his way down the aisle – the receding chin, the side–whiskers
like wisps of angel's hair, the same air of unruffled assurance he
displayed to such effect at Buckingham Gate. As the nobleman passes
by, Whitty notes a slight flicker in the eye, suggesting that he has
been recognised, but not quite placed. At Danbury's side is a sobbing
women in full mourning (well– favoured, from what he can see
beneath the white veil), followed by two girls of contrasting but
equally striking aspect: the younger is in tears, while her
dark–haired sister eyes the congregation with an expression of
anxious enquiry. There is something slightly familiar about the older
girl, Whitty thinks. As the mourners file past the corpse, Whitty
notices Boltbyn's camera, still assembled and leaning the wall;
seemingly Boltbyn, the corpse photographer, has not attended the
funeral. The organ gasps out a series of sombre chords as the vicar,
a Reverend Spoole, mounts the pulpit, and extends what Whitty assumes
to be the invocation, for the man seems to suffer some kind of speech
impairment. Eventually, the amen is sounded, whereupon the choir
erupts in the bellowing of a hymn he particularly dislikes: O
generous love! That be, who smote In Man for man the foe, The double
agony in Man For man should undergo . . . Leading the singing is a
nervous young man who may well be conducting his first service, as an
audition, in the hope of replacing the precentor in the coffin. As
the congregation rises to join together in praise, a small figure in
black squeezes out from behind a line of legs, exits the duke's pew,
and dashes down the aisle and out the door, unnoticed. Overcome with
grief, Whitty expects. Even so, a short word with one of the bereaved
cannot cause her additional harm, and goodness knows he has had his
life's fill of country death rituals. Murmuring vague apologies amid
the din of off–key singing, he slips quickly past the gentleman
with the inflamed neck, out of the nave and out the door, where the
rooks greet him with another round of scolding. As he heads down the
steps to the churchyard, he hears the sound he was expecting, of a
young girl weeping for her father. A quick turn around the cemetery
and he places the small figure covered in black, 221 WHITE STONE DAY
seated upon a horizontal gravestone like a crumbling dining table,
her head buried in her little hands. 'Excuse me, miss,' he says. 'I
do not wish to intrude.' 'Then why are you doing so?' she asks,
without looking up. 'Only to offer my sincere condolences at the loss
of your father. I am certain he was a fine man.' The girl meets his
gaze and, yes, it is the older sister, with the smooth brow and
severe demeanour – softened by sorrow, yet a sceptic all the
same. 'How do you know he was fine? Were you acquainted with Father?'
T regret to say that we never met. Yet I understand he was a man of
character and substance.' 'He had trouble with his teeth.' 'Oh. That
is unfortunate.' 'And Mother as well.' 'Do you mean to say that your
mother had trouble with her teeth?' 'No. I mean that Father had
trouble with Mother. And she likewise with him. And now we are under
the protection of the Duke of Danbury . . .' 'Under his protection,
do you say?' 'Yes. So we must be perfectly safe, and yet I am afraid
of, of . . .' She looks down at her fingers, which are all in a knot.
Her dark hair obscures her face. A tear falls, unchecked. 'What is it
you are afraid of, miss? Is it the duke?' With an effort, Whitty
maintains a calm aspect. 'No. Yes. Well to be perfectly truthful, I
am at sixes and sevens. I do not know whom to trust or not trust.
Whom to believe or not believe. I do not know who is good and who is
evil . . .' 'And so you are afraid.' 'Yes.' T know that feeling. And
I highly recommend it.' Emma's brow furrows slightly. 'Why?' 'It has
been my experience, miss, that it is not something one fears that
pounces upon one, but something one would never expect. That is why
it is best not to be too sure of oneself.' She looks up at him with a
quizzical tilt of a perfect eyebrow. Whitty could swear he saw a
trace of a smile. 'So if one is afraid of falling upon one's head . .
.' 'Then it is likely one will land on some other part of the
anatomy.' 'And if one is afraid for one's mother, then it is likely
that . . .' 222 OXFORD 'That the real danger is to somebody else.'
She thinks about this idea, then shrugs her dismissal. 'Sir, you
sound like one of Mr Boltbyn's nonsensical stories.' 'You are
correct, miss, and I apologise.' 'Do you know Mr Boltbyn?' 'I am
familiar with his work.' For a long moment she looks him directly in
the eye, as though discerning friend from foe. 'What is your name?'
'Edmund Whitty of The Falcon, at your service.' 'Are you a falcon? I
know someone who is a hedgehog.' 'No, I am a journalist – a man
who searches for facts,' he replies, lying outrageously. 'And what
facts are you seeking at my father's funeral?' A sharp questioner,
thinks Whitty. Would make a fine solicitor, but for her sex. 'Again,
my condolences, miss . . .' 'Emma.' 'May I sit down?' 'You may, but
only for a short time, and only if you tell me what you are about.'
'I am here to discover the fate of a young woman named Eliza.' At the
mention of the name, Whitty knows he has struck a chord. A long
silence follows. 'Eliza, did you say?' 'Yes.' Feigning disinterest,
Whitty traces the inscription on the tombstone with a forefinger.
Sacred . . . Memory . . . 'There are photographs of Eliza. I have
seen them.' 'Oh really? Can you tell me where I might find these
photographs?' 'Certainly I can. And I can tell you who it was took
them.' Emma tells Whitty the whole story. When one doesn't know whom
to trust, one might as well trust a stranger. 223