White Stone Day (26 page)

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St
Ambrose College, Oxford In his mind Whitty struggles to unravel Miss
Emma's account of her adventures, which ranges from the familiar to
the unexpected to the fantastic – bizarre photographs, a ghost
named Eliza, a sinister hedge– hog. And yet she left no doubt
that the location, Bissett Grange, is verv much of this world. Nor
that it is a matter of some urgency, for Emma is clearly not the sort
of girl to be frightened easily. As a first step, he has resolved to
pay a visit to David's old school (and his own), and to a certain
prominent member of the Oxford Photographic Society, as promised. St
Ambrose is a gracefully crumbling collection of buildings which house
seventy or eighty undergraduates, a high percentage of whom are
gentlemen–commoners – scions of noble families who live
as they wish and dine at the head table, in exchange for double fees.
In David's day it was not unknown for a gentleman–commoner on
the level of the Duke of Danbury to graduate with full honours
without ever having entered the quadrangle. Pausing in the gateway
after taking a portion of medicinal snuff, he raps upon the window of
the porter's lodge and almost recognises the face of its potbellied
occupant, a double for the porter Whitty remembers in his day –
perhaps it is the same man. 'Edmund Whitty to see the Reverend
Boltbyn. I am expected.' The porter shows no sign of interest, nor
does he query the visitor further, his function being not to keep
intruders out but to keep students in. 'That is fine, sir. Carry on.'
As the Whitty family fortunes underwent their decline in the years
before David's death, the younger brother had no option but to follow
the path of his brother, at what was termed 'compassionate rates .
Edmund's position in the school differed from David's, who was by
then a Fellow of the college, like Mr Boltbyn; still, his brother was
able to introduce him to a smart set of clever young men. When the
younger brother took to writing with an audacity beyond his station,
however, David could do nothing to ameliorate his disgrace . . . He
pauses on the familiar quadrangle, overlooked by little saw–tooth
gables and mullioned windows, carpeted by an expanse of grass. By 224
ST AMBROSE COLLEGE, OXFORD tradition, first–floor residences at
St Ambrose are reserved for the ordained Fellows, dropped among the
undergraduates as a kind of ballast, and the Reverend William Boltbyn
occupies one of these. After climbing a short wooden staircase in the
north–west corner, the correspondent faces an oak door with
'Boltbyn' painted on it; following a period of persistent knocking,
the door opens a crack, revealing a face with pink cheeks and a
nervous demeanour. 'Mr Whitty. How do you do? To what do I owe this
visit?' 'We arranged for a meeting, sir. Before the service at St
Swithan's.' 'Did we?' 'It has to do with my brother David, and later
developments in the art of photography.' 'Ah, the art of
photography.' The face in the crack relaxes a touch. 'Has it not to
do with memoirs?' 'Indeed, sir, the memoirs were my primary object.
So you do recall our arrangement.' 'I suppose I must.' 'May I come
in?' 'Is that what you wish to do?' Alarmed, yet wishing to appear
amenable, the Reverend Boltbyn opens the door a bit wider. He is
still dressed for the funeral, in a long, black coat topped by a
waxed butterfly collar, and has taken great care in the way his
side–curls fold over the ears. 'A pitfall of the profession, Mr
Boltbyn, is that once one reaches a certain age, one is expected to
write a memoir – whether one has any memories or not. You will
be writing your own memoirs soon, I expect.' 'I doubt that, sir. I
prefer not to dredge up the bad memories. And today's readers relish
the bad memories most.' Whitty follows his host down a dark hall,
past a dining room stuffed with books, into a sitting room with green
wallpaper and a red couch and settee. In the centre is a round deal
table, on which have been set a half–dozen jelly cremes and a
tea–set. T was about to take tea in any case, so you might as
well join me.' The walls are almost entirely hung with photographs of
little girls. Some have taken the form of fairy pictures, arranged
around what appears to be a painting, or a reproduction of a
painting, by William Nixon Crede, whose saccharine ceuvre Whitty
avoids for fear of tooth–rot. This particular daub depicts a
young woman in classical 225 WHITE STONE DAY guise, sleeping –
as are all Crede's women – on a rock, having dropped a box . .
. Eliza. Calming himself with an effort, Whitty turns to his host,
who is leaning against the mantel, beside the coal–scuttle,
apparently deep in thought. After a pause, the vicar turns and
delivers a speech concerning David which sounds, to Whitty's ear,
thoroughly rehearsed: 'David was a leading light in the photographic
society – as in everything else he attempted. He was the sort
of man one admires, but whose presence discourages familiarity. None
of the members felt himself to be David's equal, on so many levels –
except for his Grace of course.' 'Are you referring to the Duke of
Danbury?' 'Our patron, yes. The duke thought a great deal of David.
Had he not met a tragic end, I have no doubt Danbury would have found
him a position on the estate.' 'So the duke is a photographer as
well?' 'Unfortunately, his Grace lacked a gift for the craft. Your
brother spent hours instructing him, but the results were never more
than mediocre. Not so with David, of course. Nobody at Oxford matched
him in combining the technical and the artistic aspects of the
process.' 'Excepting yourself, sir.' 'Perhaps so. Yet David excelled
in so many other areas of university life. The boating set, the
reading set – I can safely say that his passing cast a pall
over the entire college for many weeks ... Your disgrace was hard on
him, you know. As a Fellow of the college, it cast a shadow on his
reputation.' Whitty is about to speak in his own defence, but thinks
better of it and downs a second jelly creme instead. Then he turns
his attention to the painting of Eliza. It is time to introduce a
narrative of his own. 'Mr Boltbyn, I am grateful for your kind words
concerning my brother. And it is a privilege to make your
acquaintance. I only regret that we were brought together on such a
sad occasion – over the remains of Mr Lambert. Such a tragedy,
to lose a dear friend by hanging.' 'It would be in–in–in–'
'Sir, though I had no acquaintance with the Precentor at St
Swithan's–' '–inconceivable, to allow s–s–s–'
'Yet I am sufficiently acquainted with the symptoms of hanging to 226
ST AMBROSE COLLEGE, OXFORD know that his journey to the next world
was not as described. Mr Boltbyn, do you agree that suicide is a
mortal sin?' 'God is the master of life. We are stewards of life.
Life is not ours to discard.' 'Well put. Yet there are ambiguities,
surely. Life is not kind to some people.' 'It–it–it is,
sir, a t–t–tragedy that I trust, as a gentleman, you will
keep in confidence if–if–if you feel a shred of regard
for the welfare of the family.' 'You may be assured of my discretion
– not from altruism, but because such a scandal would hardly
cause a ripple in London. Maddened by Dental Problem, Man Takes Own
Life, perhaps; or Hanged by the Neck to Spite His Teeth. What does
the sad tale of Mr Lambert amount to, compared to a narrative such
as, say: Country Church Abets Atrocious Murder} Or even better:
Eminent Children's Author at Centre of Oxford Outrage}' 'I do not
understand your meaning at all, sir. And if I did, I suspect I would
not like it.' Whitty examines the picture he knows for certain to be
Eliza, under the agitated stare of his host. 'I am curious about this
picture, sir. The artist is, I believe, William Nixon Crede.' 'Mr
Crede makes his paintings from photographs. He would prefer that this
were not generally known.' 'A reproduction of a reproduction, then.'
'That is Mr Crede's method. More praise, for less effort.' 'Of
course. C is for Crede, the cock in a cage.' 'Correct.' 'And did Mr
Crede take the photograph?' 'No, it was I who took the photograph.
When it comes to the apparatus, Crede is all thumbs.' 'It appears to
be a depiction from the Classical repertoire.' 'Psyche, actually. A
myth having to do with lost beauty.' 'The face is familiar.' 'A
m–mythical figure. You can look it up if you wish.' 'I mean the
sitter. She is an intelligent girl. A perceptive girl, in my
estimation.' You–you have not touched your tea, sir, though the
cremes seem to have met with your approval. Would you care for
something stronger?' 'Whatever you have.' 227 WHITE STONE DAY The
vicar fetches a bottle and two glasses. 'Mr Whitty, are you fond of
mathematics?' 'Numbers depress me unbearably.' 'Riddles, perhaps?'
'Please proceed.' 'Here is a good one. Because cigars cannot be
entirely smoked a derelict who collects cigar–ends can make one
complete cigar out of every five ends that he finds. Today, he has
collected twenty–five cigar– ends. How many cigars will
he be able to smoke?' Replies the correspondent, at once: 'Six
cigars. He will make five cigars from the twenty–five, and
another from the five ends that remain when he has smoked them. I
have seen derelicts perform just such a manoeuvre.' Disappointed at
the quick response, Boltbyn pours Whitty a glass of brandy, and more
tea for himself. 'Your answer displays an unbecoming familiarity with
the smoking habits of derelicts.' 'Permit me to repay one conundrum
with another, sir,' Whitty says, and presents the vicar with the
photograph of David, alone. 'This is a photograph I found among
David's things. Like the picture on your wall, it seems to depict a
figure in the Classical style.' Boltbyn glances at the photograph
with mild interest. 'Ah yes. I remember this as one of a series –
as you put it, in the Classical style.' 'Did you take it?' 'No. David
took it himself.' 'He took it himself?' 'By means of a bulb beneath
his foot, which he would squeeze and thereby expose the plate. An
ingenious manipulation of the equipment, and a testimony to your
brother's skill. And to his vanity, if I may say so.' 'Which brings
us to another riddle: having explained one photograph, what do you
have to say about this one?' Whitty places on the table the
photograph of David and Eliza – and waits. Producing a
gold–rimmed pince–nez, the vicar examines the photograph
of David and Eliza as though it were a text in a foreign language.
'As you can see, Mr Boltbyn, the two figures had to have been
photographed at different times – the evidence is on your
wall.' Continuing silence. 'Was it a trick in the development? You
are the expert, sir.' 'Yes. A t–t–trick . . . two glass
n–negatives, one on top of the–' 228 ST AMBROSE COLLEGE,
OXFORD And for the second time today, Whitty hears the satisfying
crash of glass shattering upon the floor. He dared not hope for such
a reaction; a simple gasp would have sufficed. 'Her name is Eliza,'
Whitty says. The vicar stares down at the shattered teacup, at the
tea splattered upon his boots and trousers, at anything but the
photograph in his hand, which he holds at a distance as though it
were in flames. Continues Whitty: 'Or perhaps I should say that her
name was Eliza, for she was taken by persons who murder at their
convenience.' Boltbyn sets the photograph gently upon the table, face
down, and stares at the blank surface for several moments. He nods,
not in the way of agreement but of a terrible finality; now he turns,
crosses to the window overlooking Adera Street, opens the casement
wide, leans outside as though taking the air . . . and leaps out the
window! For a moment Whitty fears he has driven the man to suicide,
until he remembers that Mr Boltbyn's rooms are on the first floor. He
is about to leap out the window in pursuit, when it occurs to him
that he has been left alone in the gentleman's private rooms. Of
course only a cad or a journalist would exploit this opportunity to
rummage through another man's private life. Whitty closes Boltbyn's
window, puts the photographs back into his coat pocket, pours himself
an ample measure of brandy, and sets to work. What the correspondent
had assumed to be bookshelves turn out to be a frame for a series of
secret compartments – which, when opened, reveal child–objects
of all sorts. The playthings are remarkable for their extent and
variety: a glass– topped music box, through which one can view
its inner workings; an organette that produces music from perforated
cards; a compartment fitted with mirrors, creating a trompe–l'oeil
doll's house extending in all directions. At one point Whitty opens a
small door and a severed clown's head springs out at him, in a way
that is most alarming. From other apertures emerge mechanical walking
bears, singing tops, talking cats, climbing monkeys, a smoking
railway engine, a flying bat, a singing dog, a clockwork bank –
not to mention a library of picture– books and games. An oddly
touching collection, thinks Whitty. Its owner actually thinks as a
child, knows at first hand what surprises and delights. He has never
tired of childish things – therefore desires to be with
children in the way that a native desires to be with his own kind.
229 WHITE STONE DAY At last he locates the one spot in the room which
has been put aside for Boltbyn the adult – a cubby containing a
desk, lamp and bookcase whose every horizontal surface overflows with
books, manuscripts correspondence, publisher's enquiries, drawings,
design notes mathematical problems; and, piled upon a shelf, a series
of diaries, year by year, continuous from the age of ten. Mr
Boltbyn's diaries are consistent with the genre, self–absorbed
and self–aggrandising, distinguished by two curious tendencies.
One is to underline important words, like an over–wrought
schoolgirl; the other is the addition of white stones to the text –
pebbles really, never more than a half–inch in diameter, glued
with white paste at the edge of the page, beside a date whose entry
is blank. Nor do the entries above and below the stones reveal their
significance, being an account of people spoken to, food eaten, the
weather – the normal events of a repetitious, insular life.
What do the pebbles mean? Clearly, the use of stones in place of
written language indicates a message from the diarist to himself –
a private code. And there exists the obvious symbolism in which white
stands for purity, and a stone implies permanence. Whitty cannot
dismiss such a simple–minded interpretation out of hand –
especially given the cloying sentimentality of the man's serious
verse. Working from the present to the past, all of the writing is
original, and all of it is bad: Between the green brine and the
running foam White limbs unrobed in a crystal air, Sweet faces,
rounded arms and bosoms prest To little harps of gold. In other
entries, the diarist notes his philosophical speculations, with
typical overemphasis: There are sceptical thoughts which uproot the
firmest faith; there are blasphemous thoughts which dart unbidden
into the most reverend souls; there are unholy thoughts which torture
by their presence the fancy that would fain be pure. This is the