White Stone Day (30 page)

50

Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire Standing in the portico by the front door while
smoking a cigar, the former estate manager of Bissett Grange savours
this new morning like a man who has just been released from gaol. His
scalp does not itch. Nor do the backs of his hands. For the first
time in weeks, he feels comfortable in his own skin. Life at Bissett
Grange has been an education in how to live like a gentleman. Most
valuable is his manner of speech, painstakingly acquired – the
stately, graceful, unaffected pronunciations of a member of the
quality; not perfect, but good enough to impress the middle classes,
and an inexhaustible coinage to invest in any situation. On balance,
Lush is a vastly improved Englishman. And a richer one, to boot. But
there comes a time when the student must graduate, must take off the
old school tie and venture into the school of Life. Thus resolved,
Albin Lush will pack his valise with a change of clothing,
toiletries, and a fortune amounting to approximately £10,000.
(Danbury had no patience for keeping accounts.) Throwing aside his
cigar, he looks up at the dark beneath a garnet sky, and remarks to
himself that it looks like rain. 'There he is! Do you see him? He has
come out of the house!' 'Where, Lydia?' 'In the portico. It is the
hedgehog, lying in wait for us. O Emma, I so wish we were back in the
house, for I am ever so cold.' 'We must find a warm place to hide. Do
you see how close the forest verges on the conservatory?' 'The
greenhouse, do you mean?' 'Yes, except that in the houses of the
quality it is called a conservatory.' 'Isn't a conservatory to do
with music, Emma?' 'A conservatory is a place where things are
conserved.' 'A place to conserve ourselves, do you mean?' 'To
conserve ourselves is the whole point. We will steal alongside the
wood to where it verges with the conservatory, and then we will run
to 259 WHITE STONE DAY the door and go inside, and hide there, and
hope that the hedgehog does not see us in the meantime. We will wait
there until he becomes tired of looking for us, or until the
gardeners are up and about if need be.' 'And what shall we do then?
Shall we speak to Mother and tell her everything?' 'Yes. But we must
avoid the hedgehog first.' Standing just inside the wood, taking the
weight off his bad ankle, Whitty contemplates the conservatory: an
impressive structure, clearly intended as a homage to the Crystal
Palace, with a rounded glass roof in the picturesque style. Of the
type designed by Paxton, who created the conservatory at Chatsworth,
whose feature is a tropical tank, wherein a woman can stand upon a
giant water–lily. The impressively engineered ridge–and–furrow
roof is designed to render vertical supports unnecessary within,
thanks to a perimeter of hollow columns made of cast–iron –
hollow, so that they can both support the structure and serve to
bring rain–water from the roof, via the gutters, into the
ground. Whitty wonders what range of foreign species dwell inside,
what outrageous plants and creatures thrive by means of steam pipes,
without which all would wilt and die instantly when exposed to the
English climate. Exotic – yet no more so than the creatures who
own them. Hello. At the edge of the wood nearer to the house, two
small figures flutter past in what appear to be white gowns –
in this light they seem to be in mid–air, darting furtively
this way and that, first in the shadow of the wood, then in the
direction of the conservatory, whose glass roof serves as a dark
mirror reflecting the gathering clouds in the sky. More eeriness, he
thinks. People who reside in the English countryside must have nerves
of iron. Having crept through the woods as close as they can to the
edge of the wood, having kept to the shadows as far as possible, Emma
leads her sister – 'Run, Lydia, run!' – on a headlong
dash for the conservatory. 'Now keep to the wall,' she whispers, 'so
that we remain in shadow. The door is just ahead, we must open it
quietly.' 'What shall we do then?' asks Lydia, who wishes she were in
bed. 'We will take stock.' They step into the conservatory, shut the
door behind them, and instantly their faces become flushed in the
steamy, saturated air – filled with heavy scents that remind
Emma of the perfume old women wear 260 BISSET GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE at
church. With a sensation that they have entered a secret, alien
world, they wander past a rockery covered with giant ferns and palms,
then turn a corner to face row upon row of roses, hyacinths, orchids,
water– lilies – every fragrance–producing plant
imaginable. 'O Emma, look! Do you see?' Lydia is not looking at the
flowers; instead, she stares wide–eyed at the glass ceiling.
'Angels!' Emma follows her gaze and sees them too – angels
hovering above, looking down upon them. Lit from behind by the
morning light, they seem three–dimensional, but soon it becomes
apparent that they are actually photographs of young girls, each
imprinted upon a glass pane. They may be insufficiently clad for a
proper choir, and have assumed postures in which anyone would be hard
pressed to sing, yet heavenly light pours through them, like
transparent honey, turning them into angels in the eyes of the girls
below. Multiplied in dozens of plates scattered high above, they form
a combined picture of glowing innocence; yet each face appears
singularly brilliant, beatific, and beautiful, each in its own way.
'The windows have been made from the glass Mr Boltbyn uses to make
his photographs,' says Lydia. 'Do you see yourself up there, Emma?
Are you there? For he has photographed you far more often than me.'
'No, I am not there – but look!' Emma points to a particularly
exquisite, dark–haired angel near the top of the domed roof.
'Do you see her, Lydia? There is Eliza!' Lydia, however, has become
distracted by the shadow of a man, standing outside the glass door.
Now she sees a face pressed against the glass, squashed and
grotesque, its nose flattened like a pig's. 'Oh, Emma!' whispers
Lydia to her sister, who is also very afraid. 'Does he see us, Emma?'
Emma puts her arms around her sister and together they kneel beneath
a low stone wall, topped by a plant with huge leaves. 'If we remain
very quiet,' she whispers, 'perhaps he will go away.' By pressing so
hard against the glass that he risks a nosebleed, Whitty can barely
make out the two small figures in white nightgowns, far less ghastly
than they first appeared, crouched near a tropical fern and looking
up at the ceiling. Using the wall of the conservatory as a support,
he makes his way to the glass door and pulls it open; now his lungs
take in the steamy air laden with a heavy sweetness, and he hears the
sound of running water. 261 WHITE STONE DAY 'Ladies!' he calls out.
'I assure you that you have nothing to fear. For I am injured in the
leg, and could not chase you even if I wanted to.' After a long
pause, the two girls appear from behind the rockery, both of whom he
instantly recognises from the funeral at St Swithan's. Proceed
carefully. Assume nothing. 'Miss Emma,' he says, with a small bow.
'Who is he?' whispers Lydia. 'It is the falcon,' replies Emma. 'I am
very glad to see you again,' he says to Emma, then turns to Lydia.
'And no doubt you are the sister.' 'I am very glad you are not the
hedgehog,' says the smaller girl. 'Were you expecting a hedgehog?'
'Not as such,' replies Lydia. 'Edmund Whitty, at your service. And
what is your name, if I might ask?' 'My name is Lydia,' says the
smaller girl. 'And you, sir, are the falcon.' 'That is quite correct.
I am a correspondent with the newspaper of that name. How did you
know?' 'That is not what I said,' replies Lydia. 'You are the
falcon.' Whitty turns to Emma. 'I'm afraid I don't understand.' T am
told that falcons have sharp eyes,' says Emma. 'Please, sir, look up
and tell us what you see.' Whitty looks upward. And he sees. What am
I to say? Clearly the thrifty owner of the estate has replaced the
glass panes with discarded photographic plates, just as Boltbyn
suggested. Which leads to two conclusions: first, that the
photographer possesses neither shame nor fear; and second, that he is
not the vicar. At the same time, there is something ethereal about
these ruined girls, in their desperate postures far beyond their
years; in this light, despite what has been done to them, it is as
though they have been consigned to the heavens. Standing together in
the middle of the glasshouse, Whitty and the two sisters contemplate
the figures above, each according to his or her experience. 'Are they
angels, sir?' Lydia asks. 'Not precisely, Miss Lydia. They are
photographs of angels.' 'Have they died?' Emma asks. 'Yes.' Whitty
lacks the capacity for lying at present. 'There are three 262 BISSET
GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE of them as you can see – in various
positions, and they have all died.' 'What happened to them?' 'For
that you will have to ask your mother,' replies Whitty. His gaze has
fixed upon one of the girls above, who is without any doubt the
Captain's niece. 'You are looking at Eliza,' says Emma. 'How can you
possibly know that her name is Eliza?' 'I met her in a dream.' 'Did
you really?' 'Well, not exactly. I saw her name on the wall of a room
in the house. And I know she looks like me.' 'Indeed she certainly
does,' he replies. 'Look!' cries Lydia. 'It is beginning to rain!'
The clouds which have been gathering since before dawn have finally
joined together to weep upon the conservatory – first in
scattered, tiny droplets, which steadily grow in size and frequency
until the roof is streaming with water, so that the entire
conservatory seems to be in the midst of a waterfall. Whitty and the
two girls watch the spectacle in silence, sharing a moment whose best
expression is silence, and the sound of rushing water. 'Wait until I
tell you about the white stones,' Emma says. Entranced by the
spectacle above and around them, they fail to notice the two men in
soaked uniforms, limping painfully past the conservatory and across
the quadrangle, towards the house. Soaked to the skin and in an
utterly miserable condition, Robin and Weeks hobble up the lawn to
the carriage–sweep, the former clumsily holding his broken
glasses on his nose with his one hand, while supporting his companion
with the other; for his part, Weeks has been growing steadily weaker
from loss of blood. 'How goes it, Mr Weeks?' 'Quite rum for the leg I
fear, sir. Yet the bleeding has subsided. I recommend you go on ahead
and inspect the site, sir.' The teeth of the smaller man chatter
audibly, for the soaking they received has chilled him to the core.
'Out of the question, Weeks. The 2nd Infantry leaves no man behind
who is still breathing.' 'Imagine, laying out mantraps with no
warnings.' 'A vicious attack from a deceitful foe, corporal. But we
will regroup. And exact payment in full.' 263 WHITE STONE DAY The
thought of payment encourages Weeks, somewhat. 'A punitive
expedition, sir?' 'With spoils to be taken.' 'It is a caution, Mr
Robin, what we have seen and heard in our homeland. There seems no
limit to the mantraps about.' 'Yet we fight on, corporal. Hazar.
'Hazar indeed, sir.' As the two ragged soldiers lurch towards the
portico, a carriage has been geed–up by the stables. They hear
it rattle up the hill to the carriage–sweep, where it comes to
a halt. Immediately, a liveryman alights with an umbrella, opens the
carriage door and waits expectantly, while facing the front steps.
'Advance with caution,' whispers Robin. 'We are about to requisition
transport.' 'That would be a blessing, sir, for walking is a bother.'
Using one of the front pillars for support and concealment, they
watch and wait until the door opens and Lush appears, carrying a
valise in his hand. Leaving the shelter of the portico, he hurries to
the carriage, hunched over in the rain, holding his coat–collar
to his throat. You! Halt! Halt or I fire! shouts the
lieutenant–colonel, in a parade– ground voice. Though
neither soldier has at present anything to fire with, the ring of
authority stops the gentleman in mid–stride. Lush recognises
the voice and turns to face his two hired man– bashers, with a
queasy sensation in his stomach, for they were not to act until much
later in the day. He was to be well away – that was the entire
point! Such is his annoyance, only now does he take note of their
condition. 'What the devil has happened to you?' 'We was set upon,
sir,' replies Robin, shivering along with Weeks. 'Ambushed,' adds the
corporal, growing faint. 'Good heavens. Well you cannot remain here.
You must be off at once.' 'Indeed we will,' Robin replies. 'But first
we must settle accounts.' 'Very well. You will be paid in advance,
with an additional allowance for your return to London. Should my
employer require you in future, you will be notified in the usual
way.' With an air of confidence appropriate to a gentleman who
possesses a good deal of money, Lush places his leather valise upon
the step of the carriage, opens it, and carefully extracts a small
bundle of banknotes. 264 BISSET GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE 'There you are,
gentlemen. Price as agreed upon for the precentor, and a sizeable
bonus for the two remaining.' The sky having grown sufficiently dark
with rain–clouds, Robin removes his dark glasses, exposing his
milky white eyes. 'You seem to have a fair amount of money on your
person, sir,' he says. 'I am to make a bank deposit on our employer's
behalf – part of my duties as estate manager. As a matter of
fact, gentlemen, you really must excuse me, for I am late for my
appointments.' Lush closes the valise and places one foot upon the
carriage–step – though the rain has subsided somewhat,
his coat is becoming soaked. 'Never mind the door, let us be on our
way at once,' he whispers to the driver, who moves behind the
carriage to the far side. 'Heading into town are you, sir?' asks
Weeks. 'May I offer you gentlemen transport? That leg really should
be looked at, you know.' 'First I have a question in my mind, sir,'
says Robin. 'Ask it quickly, then.' 'What is it, exactly, that you
have done for that money?' T beg your pardon?' 'Word has reached us,
sir, of unsavoury doings here at Bissett Grange.' 'Most un–British
doings,' adds the corporal. 'I do not understand you, nor do I see
how it is any business of yours.' Lush steps into the plush sanctuary
of the carriage, and prepares to close and lock the door. 'But it
does concern us, sir,' replies Robin, whose eyes have the brittle
delicacy of tiny china saucers. 'Does it not concern us, Mr Weeks?'
'It does, sir,' replies the latter. 'Very much so. He would turn us
into monsters, by trickery.' 'Died in transit, was how you expressed
it.' 'It is unacceptable,' says Weeks, holding aloft the photograph.
Lush pounds repeatedly upon the ceiling of the carriage with his
stick, with no response – the liveryman, sensing trouble,
having abandoned the reins and run back to the stables. He lunges
forward to shut and lock the door when, in one swift, practised
motion, the junior officer clutches the lapels of his coat and pulls
him down from the carriage, with such force that the estate–manager's
face smashes against the soldier's forehead. Lush collapses to the