White Stone Day (28 page)

does not exist, and none of the rules applies. After another
excruciating pause, Danbury clears his throat gently, and addresses
his visitor in an almost ethereal whisper. 'Mr Boltbyn, if only as a
way of lubricating the conversation, might you oblige me by
explaining the purpose of your visit?' 'The young, the young, the
p–p–p– ... It is like a terrible dr–dr–
dr– 'Mr Lush, perhaps it would help if you gave Mr Boltbyn some
water. 'Throat trouble, Mr Boltbyn?' asks the estate manager. 'Will
you take water?' 'I c–c–cannot s–s–speak of
it,' replies the vicar, miserably. 'Water it shall be, then,' answers
the estate manager, while giving the duke a look as if to say, Do not
push him too far. For the fact of Boltbyn's stammer, the scrambling
of a mind to find its bearings, does 238 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE
not make the situation any less serious. Upon entering the house, the
vicar's speech was audible, though confused, and Lush distinctly
heard the words obscene and horror, and, most important, Eliza.
'Pray, what is it you cannot speak of, sir?' asks the duke, as though
moderately intrigued. 'It is unsp–sp–speakable. I–I
cannot speak of it.' 'Then perhaps it had best remain unspoken.'
'M–m–madness!' The word explodes in a bellow and the
vicar appears to fall into a sort of seizure, not unlike a man the
duke once witnessed choking at dinner, whose gaping mouth had the
stupid, agonised appearance of a fish. 'It is beyond
c–c–comprehension. I am in a s–state of ... I am
s–s– stunned.' 'What an odd coincidence. Do you know, I
was just thinking about stunning a fish.' 'You are mad, sir. You are
a m–madman.' T suppose that is true. Everyone is mad in a way.
If we weren't mad, we wouldn't be here.' 'Your water, sir,' offers
Lush. Upon swallowing his water and after a series of sighs, the
vicar collapses into the duke's ancestral chair. Lush silently
cautions the duke to overlook this impudence, for the man is pretty
far gone. 'Mr Boltbyn,' says the duke, T was only trying to remind
you that madness is an omnipresent, necessary part of life. Madness
is God– given and must be accepted.' 'How you can s–speak
of such a thing, and the h–hand of G–God not crush you to
dust!' 'Well, if it is that awful to think about, my advice to you is
not to think about it.' 'You c–c–cannot make light of it,
sir! It is be–be–beyond imagining that you would make
light of it!' 'Make light of what, pray?' 'I–I–I cannot
'You cannot what? Jump a horse? Skip a rope?' T saw the
ph–ph–photograph, sir! Of D–David Whitty and, and –
Oh, monstrous! It is too horrible! . . .' The duke and his estate
manager exchange a significant glance in which the latter asks: What
shall we do now? and the former replies, Oh just leave him to me,
damn you! For awhile, the two look down upon the wretched spectacle
of a man who believes he is too sensitive 239 WHITE STONE DAY for the
real world, only to discover that the world is infinitely worse than
he imagined. The duke clips another cigar and leans into the flame
supplied by– Lush, who can see that Danbury is finding the
conversation rather interesting, in the way that it is interesting to
dissect a frog. 'Have you been to London, Mr Boltbyn? Have you
visited the theatre? The music hall?' 'W–what is that to you?'
'Are you at all acquainted with the personal services on offer on
every street in the city? Or did you spend your time at church?'
'W–w–what are you implying?' Boltbyn does not wish to
listen, yet he must, compelled by the duke's voice and bearing, his
perfect aplomb. 'Dear fellow, I say only that in London life is no
more or less mad than it is here at Bissett Grange. For example, by
taking the trouble to walk along the Embankment, you will find
parties who may be put to work for a few shillings, who have tied
Mussulmen to the mouths of cannon – is that not so, Mr Lush?'
'Indeed, your Grace. Dismissed servicemen are accustomed to the most
appalling cruelty. Understandable, I say, given the cruelty invested
on them. Is your Grace suggesting that we may need such assistance in
this case?' 'No, Lush, what is required from Mr Boltbyn is a degree
of realism.' Danbury bends close to the vicar, who is making a
careful study of the water in his glass. 'I am told that in
Whitechapel there are brothels filled with children, where a
gentleman may carry on in whatever beastly fashion he likes, also for
the price of a few shillings. An appalling business, but there you
are.' 'I do not understand your m–m–meaning, sir. Why
tell me this?' 'I am explaining to you why there is no point making a
fuss. We live in a brute of a world. One is always running into
objectionable things. People with manners don't make a fuss. It isn't
done. An unpleasant business takes place, one accepts it as part of
life. It is childish to bite one's lip over it.' A peculiar calm
descends upon the vicar, like the air after a thunderstorm, and he
speaks in surprisingly clear syllables: 'This is not about what
people do, sir. It is about what you yourself have done. I think that
you are mad, sir. I marvel that you place your conduct in the human
realm, that you put yourself on a scale of human b–b–behaviour,
and not the beastliness of wolves.' 'Ah yes, of course. So sensitive,
so touchy. You who cannot face life 240 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE
have chosen the path of fantasy. You choose to dream – for it
entails no risk. Your little mind is strewn with roses, their thorns
clipped, little girls holding them in their dimpled hands. Nor does
age or infirmity wither your imaginary garden, nor the base, carnal
things of this world. Yet your heart knows what you think, what you
really dream in your sleepless bed. Are you so shocked to discover
that others are capable of action?' 'It is 1–1–life and
death that I speak of, sir! Of ch–children, for that is what
they were, no matter how low–born or fallen! The value of a
child's life is not a matter for discussion!' 'Sir, if I may speak
frankly: is anyone to believe that you actually thought the girl you
yourself photographed, this Eliza, to be asleep?' I–I . . .'
'You did the proper thing. You kept your place, and followed the lead
of your betters. I advise you to do the same in future.' 'You are an
aberration, sir. You are deformed.' 'And by what authority do you say
such a thing, you overgrown child? You are an aberration, but that is
your privilege. Still, if you suppose I care a damn for the moral
pronouncements of a ten–stone infant, you are mistaken.' 'I
will expose you, sir! It is m–m–m . . .' 'Yes, yes, yes,
monstrous and all that, but of course everything is monstrous to you.
Unlike you, I accept my duty, which is to safeguard the house and
what it stands for. Wars have been fought over it, sir. Thousands
have given their lives – not a few Whitechapel urchins.' 'So
you murdered them. You murdered them all.' 'It is the great families
who provide leadership through war, death, pestilence, and –
who was the other horseman, Lush? I can never remember.' 'Famine,
your Grace.' 'Famine. That is correct. Get me a brandy.' Lush obeys.
Calmer now, and with an air of finality, Boltbyn rises to his feet.
The duke does likewise, in order to look his prey in the eye, before
dealing the killing stroke. 'You allude, Mr Boltbyn, to a terrible
secret you feel honour–bound to expose. I applaud your sense of
moral purpose, sir, your unflinching determination, at the price of
your reputation, your freedom, even your life.' 'What you do is
beyond thinking. It is monstrous.' 241 WHITE STONE DAY 'Monstrous,
yes, you used that insult before. And it would indeed shock the
parish beyond measure should something so monstrous as you imply have
occurred at Bissett Grange. Yet, with the advantage of hindsight, one
can see the potential for such an abuse. And it would not be the
first time such a monstrous deception were played upon a member of
the aristocracy. Given sufficient audacity, it is conceivable that a
photographic society might be corrupted into taking liberties with
children. Especially when some of its members have already exhibited
a dubious interest in photographing little girls, in indecent
postures and states of undress. To my shock and shame, I have with my
own eyes witnessed such pictures of Miss Emma Lambert, whom I have
taken under my protection.' The duke crosses to the side–table,
opens the drawer, and produces the photographs, one by one. 'Here we
see Emma, supposedly as a beggar–girl. Note, Mr Boltbyn, the
bare shoulder, the insinuating aspect, the coy angle of the head –
all of which is to remind the viewer of the true nature of
child–begging in London streets. Having been to the city, I
don't have to remind you of the filth which can emanate from the
mouth of a Haymarket child.' The duke produces another picture. 'Now
note the artist's depiction of our dear Emma as a runaway, about to
climb from an upstairs window, forsaking the family which has raised
her and cared for her, to join her lover in an illicit affair. I ask
you, sir, Who is that lover, if not the photographer? 'People will
wonder what blindness kept me from discovering such filth in my own
house. Put it down to the naivete of an overgenerous fool, who sought
to devote his property in the service of progress and art, and was
monstrously deceived for his trouble! 'Report it, sir. Throw dirt
upon the Danbury name – and upon the name of Wallace Beverley.
For who will fail to recognise your most recent subject –
victim, if you will – as a virtual twin of your Emma? Are we to
believe it is a coincidence? And are we really supposed to accept
that you believed the model to be sleeping}' 'You said it was for
r–r–realism. I–I accepted your, your–' 'Of
course you did. It is only natural to take the word of one s
superiors. I strongly suggest that you continue to do so – in
which case, I shall forgive and forget. Like the Lambert woman and
her daughters, I shall take you under my protection, and you need
fear nothing. You are a superlative photographer, capable of
exceedingly lifelike effects. You and Miss Lambert share an admirable
rapport. 242 BISSETT GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE 'Speaking of the Lamberts, I
have something to share with you: after a suitable period of
mourning, I shall ask for Mrs Lambert's hand in marriage. When I do,
I will instruct my daughters to call you Uncle.' The vicar rises
unsteadily and speaks in a hoarse whisper. 'D–do I understand
you, sir? You expect me to remain silent – even to co–
operate}' 'Silence is golden, Mr Boltbyn. By the way, there is a
lovely silent spot in the wood not far from here. You are welcome
there any time.' 'And so is Miss Emma,' adds the estate manager, as
he ushers the vicar to the door. 243

47

Oxford

Whitty
makes his way through the throng of townsmen and gownsmen milling
about the centre of Oxford on a Friday evening, taunting one another
between puffs of tobacco. It seems to him that the town has grown
darker than when he last walked its streets. The buildings are
sootier than he remembers them, they intensify the sombre severity of
the stone facades on Radcliffe Square and the Broad. Burdened by this
oppressive, medieval atmosphere, plastered with ash and perfumed by
cow manure, Whitty recalls how much of Oxford belongs to the Dark
Ages – from the Prince of Darkness to Henry the something, who
should not have murdered the Archbishop of Canterbury, to King John,
who put his nephew in gaol without food until he died, having eaten
his hands . . . By the time he settles into a heated gin at the
Grass, even the drinking–room seems to have taken on a sinister
aspect. Prawn and Ellington (whose tumour seems to pull his ear
sideways) scowl into space like stone gargoyles, while Mrs Wafer,
busy with her knitting, resembles that well–known feature of
the French Revolution, seated by the guillotine, cackling merrily
with each drop of the blade, and never dropping a stitch. 'Bless us,
Mr Whitty, and weren't there two visitors asking for you not a
quarter–hour past.' 'Thank you, Mrs Wafer, and another warm
glass of the out–and–out if you don't mind,' he replies,
wincing at the possibilities. 'By any chance, were the two visitors
dressed in the reds of the Indian Campaign?' 'Poor fellow, you looks
pinched as a rooster.' 'Setting aside my mental state for the moment,
madam, did you recognise the gentlemen as soldiers?' 'No, the first
one was an Irishman in livery. As to t'other, I'd be blind not to peg
the Reverend Boltbyn – he of the books and such.' 'Mr Boltbyn
was here? With the Irishman?' 'No, he came on his own.' 'Do not
forget the pitures, Mrs Wafer,' adds Prawn, whose hearing has
survived age and dissipation. 'Be making pitures of the daughters of
the late precentah 244 OXFORD 'Be talk of them pitures,' mutters
Prawn's asymmetrical companion. 'Talk what they be scarcely decent.'
'They are works of art, Mr Ellington. Like paintings and the like.'
'Not the same at all, Mr Prawn.' 'Mr Boltbyn did look a caution,'
comments Mrs Wafer, refilling Whitty's gin and adding the price to
his bill. 'Jabbering with words as would break his jaw coming out . .
. Oh, bless me, I forgot the letters!' Rummaging through her
voluminous garments, she produces two small envelopes with Whitty's
name inscribed upon them. The first he opens and proceeds to read,
first in silence, then aloud to the company, for it is gibberish to
him: BEYOND OSIRIS' ROILING STONES I' THE RIBWORT LIES SHE STILL
SUNLESS, SOULLESS ARE THE BONES SOBER, CRUEL WAS THE KILL END HER
SLEEP IN NAMELESS EARTH TAKE NO NAME FOR NOBLE BIRTH THAT DECLARES
HER NOTHING WORTH. 'Does this make sense to anyone here?' Whitty
asks. 'It is a poem,' says Egerton Prawn. 'Indeed, I have established
that for myself, but thank you anyway.' 'By Mistah Tennyson, by the
sound and sentiment. Be always on about grand ladies in tombs.'
'Swinburne, more likely,' counters Mr Ellington, with contempt. 'It
is dismal and modern, whoever writ it,' adds Mrs Wafer. Whitty leaves
the drinking–room while the poetry discussion continues, no
wiser than when he entered, while opening the second envelope and
extracting a card of thick vellum: The Right Honourable the Duke of
Danbury K.G.C.V., K.G.C.S., K.C.A.J., (H.)O.L.J. Bissett Grange
Cordially Requests the Company of Mr Edmund Whitty Esq. On Saturday
next, for Luncheon at Twelve o'Clock. R.S.V.P. Trying to fall asleep
between sheets with the texture of wrung–out dish– 245
WHITE STONE DAY cloths, Whitty wishes he had never encountered Mr
Boltbyn and his damned riddles – in particular, the one he
delivered this evening. What the devil is Boltbyn's intention? Surely
not to communicate: how damnably perverse (and damnably English at
the same time) to require the recipient of a personal message to
decode it, before any response is possible. The normal combination of
depressants and opiates has done nothing to pacify Whitty's roiling
brain. Roiling Stones? As he settles into a restless slumber that is
to sleep as gruel is to mutton, again and again the picture of David
appears, posing for a photograph in an unclad state, with that
self–satisfied smile, silently proclaiming to the world, Look
at me! Admire me! See how pleased I am with the meat of which I am
made! Whitty falls into a whirlpool at the centre of a gigantic
puzzle, then wakens abruptly, rigid as a stick, soaked in sweat. He
returns to slumber again only to watch upon the lids of his eye the
most disquieting nonsense phrases, spinning about, which repeatedly
arrange themselves into the text of Boltbyn's verse, with its hint of
a forgotten corpse, a buried woman, a cruel nobleman, and a call to
end her anonymous sleep: BEYOND OSIRIS' ROILING STONES V THE RIBWORT
LIES SHE STILL SUNLESS, SOULLESS ARE THE BONES SOBER, CRUEL WAS THE
KILL END HER SLEEP IN NAMELESS EARTH TAKE NO NAME FOR NOBLE BIRTH
THAT DECLARES HER NOTHING WORTH. Whatever is the fellow trying to
say? And if he has something to say, why does he not say it? From his
Oxford years, Whitty recalls that Osiris was the Egyptian god who
judged the dead – but where does that get him? As he lies in
this mud–hole of a bed, at the mid–point between sleeping
and waking, the lines of verse projected upon his eyelids grow larger
and smaller, then whirl and fragment, so that some letters appear to
have more significance than others, revealing hidden words within the
text, writhing downward and upward in the manner of an acrostic poem:
246 OXFORD BYOS IRBR SUSO SBCR ENER TANO TDEH Blast! Whitty springs
into an upright position, cracking his head upon the rafter just
above the headboard. Bissett. Danbury. Obscene. Horrors. Were these
words consciously buried within the text? If so, how the devil would
Boltbyn expect anyone to solve it? Or does he expect no such thing –
protecting himself from harm while remaining morally superior? Or has
Boltbyn determined that anyone who cannot solve the riddle cannot
solve the larger enigma? Or is it the only language he speaks –
life being such a conundrum in his mind? He opens his eyes to behold
the bleak promise of first light, as the gables and the tottering
chimneys reappear as shadows, then as forms. As he consciously steers
his mind to a more rational framework, Whitty ponders the invitation
for luncheon with the duke. Of course, he will accept by first mail,
yet he has also determined to arrive well in advance of the appointed
time. For as the saying goes, He who arrives late is guilty of
tardiness; he who arrives early is capable of anything. 247