White Stone Day (32 page)

you look at his portrait of himself, naked, and imagine you had a
confederate? Did you take his friendship for a rapport of another
kind? Was that your mistake – imagining that you were not
entirely alone? That you were something other than a solitary freak?'
'Upon my soul, I do not need to listen to such impudence in my own
house,' replies the duke, giving the bell–cord next the mantel
a sharp tug. 'Point taken,' replies the correspondent and, almost
without thinking, pulls the trigger. 272

51

The
Wood Standing between her mother and sister, Emma looks down at the
grave with its young grass and its white stones, then back at the
gate with its skulls, then around at the surrounding wood, its leaves
and grass glistening thanks to the morning rain–shower; and all
at once she understands how the fantastic superstitions and legends
that permeate the county came to exist. Here they are, the three of
them, taking part in a perfectly reasonable gathering, after all that
has happened. Yet imagine if a passer–by, even in broad
daylight, were to come upon the Lambert women standing in the
abandoned cemetery, two of them wearing muddy nightgowns; imagine how
easily he might take hold of an ancient interpretation, that the
three were engaged in some unnatural custom. Nor would it be
surprising if, upon recalling the sight later, he remembered that the
birds went strangely silent at the time; then he might recall the
sound of a woman intoning in some arcane language. Thus, another
legend might take root in the county, and it would be only a matter
of time before people in nearby villages began to avoid these three
women, to take to the other side of the road at their approach while
crossing their fingers. Emma no longer believes in such things, nor
does she take pleasure in them, for it seems to her that such stories
are like threads, made into a cloak to disguise all kinds of
meanness. She knows she will never entirely cast aside Mr Boltbyn's
fantasy world, in which nameless fear turns to wonder by a leap of
the imagination. Life is filled with terrible things that can only be
explained in a made–up story. But there is no need for this
graveyard to be haunted by anything other than the sad stillness of
its occupants. To Emma, who is nearly grown–up, one thing
remains clear: she and her sister and her mother are together, alive,
here and now, and they share the same story, and the same
responsibility for what is to be done. 'Her name is Eliza,' says Emma
to her mother. 'And I will tell you what happened to her.' 273

52

Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire Face–down on the floor of the library,
Whitty reflects upon the drawbacks of a policy of playing a situation
entirely by ear – especially when one's theoretical knowledge
of a thing so outstrips one's practical experience. Guns, for
example. While it took no great effort for him to identify the pistol
as an Adams, he had never before touched one of the instruments in
his life, and retained only the vaguest notion how to fire it –
let alone whether it contained ammunition. With his nose buried in
the luxurious nap of the carpet, he grimly recalls the lieutenant–
colonel's command as he ran pell–mell down the lawn, away from
the Roland Stones: Reload! The meaning of that command, was lost upon
him at the time, fleeing on three legs like a wounded stoat. Neither
should it have taken a stellar intellect to realise that the duke
would scarcely choose a tete–a–tete with a declared enemy
without protection near at hand. Nor is it surprising that the Irish
are efficient with a neddy – for which the correspondent is
grateful, for it takes considerable practice to put a fellow out
without killing him. Not that the end will be different in Whitty's
case. No doubt he is about to join Eliza, or perhaps he will become
fertiliser for the conservatory. Will Danbury take pictures of him as
well? Will he become a windowpane? To take his mind off the prospect,
he turns his attention to the whispering voices overhead, one a
thinly disguised Irish brogue, the other a derisive upper–class
drawl. I must be reporting some serious trouble, your Grace. Close
the door, O'Day. We have a more pressing problem here, which must be
dealt with at once. Sir, ye must come out at all speed and see. It is
very bad indeed. Damn your impertinence, get out! Find Lush and tell
him there is something he must deal with at once! Mr Lush cannot,
sir. Nonsense. I have not accepted his resignation, and he still
works for me until I do. Tell him I want him. That is the very
trouble I was coming to, sir. Mr Lush has been 274 BISSET GRANGE,
OXFORDSHIRE beaten to death. Ye'd best come and look, the liveryman
be after losing his breakfast over it. What the devil? Are you
certain? More than certain, sir, that it is a corpse and that it is
Mr Lush – although many would not be recognising him now. Sure,
and it were not an accident, nor the doing of anyone here. Should we
send for the police? Out of the question. We will deal with the
matter ourselves, do you understand? Before we do, sir, ye'd better
see the photograph what was stuffed in his mouth. Whitty remains
motionless, playing dead with his face in the carpet, barely
breathing until the footsteps recede down the hall and out the front
door. After a slow count to ten, he opens one eye to make certain he
is alone, then lifts his head – too quickly, for the pain in
his skull is like the blow of a picaroon. Rising carefully to his
knees by the side– table, he downs the remaining brandy from
Danbury's glass, which gives him strength. On his feet at last, he
leans upon the mantel for support – and before his face is an
ebony box, of a type often used to store medicinal snuff. Capital.
His condition having much improved thanks to the indulgence of his
host, Whitty regards the worthy in the portrait over the mantel,
whose stern expression would turn downright grim at what he plans to
do to the Danbury reputation – assuming, of course, that he
survives, and assuming that the duke has not removed all trace of
what has gone on by the time Whitty convinces the police to pay a
visit. Graves are quickly dug up by a crew of strapping Irish, and
the roof of a glasshouse is easy prey to a slingshot. Exiting the
library, he moves quickly down the hallway towards the front door –
but then remembers what is in the flower–bed outside. Turning
abruptly, he climbs the staircase at speed, resolving to remain
discreetly out of sight until darkness affords him an opportunity of
escape. He makes his way down the dim, suffocating hall, Paladin
arches dripping like stalactites overhead, until he reaches a thick
rope stretched across the hall, reminding him of the rope in the
office of the governor of Millbank Prison and no doubt existing for a
similar purpose. Before stepping over it and exploring further,
however, he tries the door to the left – and finds it open. 275
WHITE STONE DAY He enters a large, utterly dark room which might have
been a drawing–room, before the windows were sealed shut and
painted over. As his eyes adjust to the darkness (owing to the slight
illumination from the doorway), he can make out the shape of a
wall–sconce and a tallow candle. This he lights with a lucifer.
In the resulting patch of uncertain illumination he catches sight of
another wall–sconce nearby, which he lights as well; after
lighting a third candle, the room is adequately bright for him to
recognise the photographic apparatus in the centre, and the stands
containing lighting equipment along the periphery, and the dark
velvet curtain covering the walls. Pushing aside the curtain next to
the door, he exposes the plaster wall, not covered with wallpaper but
hand–painted in the oriental style, in the same pattern as in
the photographs, and every bit as ugly. He turns to the centre of the
room, and in front of the camera in his mind he sees the ghost of his
brother David, in the prime of his life, naked as Michelangelo's
David, intoxicated with all the pride of the English and the glory of
the Greeks, freezing his image against time and deterioration and,
without knowing it, choosing death. For a photograph of a naked human
being can be many things, depending upon the viewer: to one it might
signify perfection and innocence; to another, licentiousness and
depravity. Clearly, when it came to David the duke assumed the
latter. Assuming a similar nature, different only in that David
possessed the photographic skills Danbury lacked. David seemed the
ideal collaborator for the beastly enterprise Bissett Grange was
about to undertake. And now Whitty can imagine the scene that must
have taken place when Danbury made his proposal and David responded –
possibly with a fist to the jaw. Realising his mistake, the duke or
his servants saw to David with a blow from a neddy perhaps, followed
by an apparent death by drowning. And in his mind Edmund Whitty says
goodbye to his perfect, dead brother, and walks out of the room. But
what to do now? Will he simply hide in some crevice like a rabbit or
will he search further? Deciding upon the latter course, Whitty
climbs over the rope barrier and up a narrow stairway, which leads to
a landing containing two doors. One is open, and looks into a small,
spartan room with bars in the window. The other door is locked. The
second room is utterly dark; but after lighting a candle in the
wall–sconce next to the door, he can see that it is a twin to
its neighbour – the difference being that the window has been
painted over. At first 276 BISSET GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE he takes it for
a bathroom or a laundry, for there is a basin on a counter to his
left. Over the basin, however, are chemicals in wooden racks which,
by the light of a lucifer, he recognises as sodium chloride, silver
nitrate, silver iodide – ingredients necessary for the making
of photographic prints. Nearby is a stack of fine writing paper, and
beside that a wood–and–brass apparatus containing a lamp,
and a rack for holding a glass negative. Further into the room, on
another table in one corner he finds a case divided into slots for
storing the negatives. When he holds a plate up to the light, he sees
the face of an angel. A MYSTERY DEEPENS by Oliver Crabtree Senior
Correspondent Oxford Times Oxfordshire remains in shock and in
mourning at the passing, arrectis auribus, of Harry Godwin, the Duke
of Danbury, having succumbed in his bath on the night of Wednesday
last. Physicians have determined beyond doubt that his death was the
result of an inflammation of the heart – an inherited ailment
known to have cut short the lives of the Fourth and Sixth Dukes
before him, in what was once known as the Danbury Curse. Ergo, the
conclusion that the duke suffered a seizure in his bath, after which
he drowned. This explanation having proven satisfactory to the
authorities, and having taken into account the lack of any sign of a
struggle in the bathroom, rumours of death by misadventure have been
put to rest. Other mysteries, however, remain – having to do
with a number of missing items from Bissett Grange, chiefly items of
precious metal, as well as the entire contents of the wine cellar. A
number of household servants are sought for questioning, as is the
Estate Manager of Bissett Grange, Mr Albin Lush. 277

53

Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire Child of the pure unclouded brow And dreaming
eyes of wonder! Though time be fleet and I and thou Are half a life
asunder. William Leffington Boltbyn disassembles his photographic
equipment for the last time, having waited a week since the death
before returning to the estate, for decency's sake. He performs his
task with a sense of ceremony, carefully rolling each piece in wool,
then tying the bundle with ribbon. Without the settings of Crede and
Angley to create an illusion of glorious antiquity, the photography
room is like the empty stage of a theatre; with neither actors nor
audience to give it life, it is as though the room has itself
expired. Surrounded by funereal black curtains, with no trace of
natural light to indicate the time of day or the century, Boltbyn
imagines that he has died and gone to some shabby approximation of
Heaven – a spurious Heaven for souls who risked little, whose
sinful deeds were not terribly sinful and whose good deeds were not
terribly good, who chose to dwell in a state of artificial innocence,
deliberately insensible to the evil in view. In thinking through the
events of the past few weeks, it has become clear to the vicar that
at some point in his life he made a fundamental error. He does not
know when or how but, as with a mathematical problem, the sum is
inarguable. An unnatural, idyllically sweet childhood perhaps, whose
memory left him with no taste for the bitterness of real life. Yet
who in his right mind would willingly exchange the life of a coddled
child for that of an adult? Who, given the option, would agree to a
procedure in which you begin with perfection, then undergo a steady
process of putrefaction until you sicken and die? As he reduces the
photographic apparatus to its component parts – rosewood and
brass and thick, highly polished crystal, beautifully precise –
Boltbyn wonders whether he was overly hasty in agreeing to sell the
lot to, of all members of the club, Bracebridge Hemyng. The man is
certain to make dreadful pictures with it. It seems almost a 278
BISSET GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE betrayal to consign his precious camera to
a man with the imagination of a literary critic. Could he not simply
keep it for himself, unused, to be contemplated as a beautiful objet
d'art} Being one of the first Scott– Archer models sold to the
public, the camera must surely have historical significance; perhaps
one day he would donate it to a museum, which would be far more
satisfactory than to recoup his original investment of £20. No.
All of it must go. That part of his life is over. There are no white
stones pasted in his diary now, and there will never be again, for
they would have an entirely different meaning, as would the practice
of photography itself. 'I thought you would be here,' says the
familiar, welcome voice of Emma, who has been watching from the
doorway for heaven knows how long. 'Did you take a picture of the
room? It will be a very black picture if you did.' Boltbyn turns to
the love of his life, framed in the doorway as though in a picture.
'Perhaps I will call it, A Coal–Mine at Night.' 'Or Blenheim
Palace, with Eyes Closed.' T thought it best to leave the apparatus
in a readily transportable form. We don't want him damaging it
straight off and then blaming me. Mr Hemyng is a stupid man.' 'Who
summers in Afghanistan.' 'As some avouch, he has a pouch.' 'It's made
of cat–hair and rattan.' They laugh, though he notes that hers
is of the nostalgic kind, and that she looks fondly upon him as
though he were already in the past. Only adults have that laugh and
that look. 'Very good,' says the vicar, cleaning his spectacles,
which have become unaccountably wet. Avoiding her gaze for the
moment, he busies himself with an inventory of the accessories inside
the rosewood cabinet, whose combined value is nearly as great as the
camera itself. 'Let us see now: funnels, beakers, scales and weights,
good, good . . . and silver nitrate, and colodon, and . . . Oh. Oh
dear me.' He looks up to see that Emma has been joined by Lydia, who
stands silently by her side, watching him with sharp, serious eyes.
'How do you do, Miss Lydia. I am very glad to see you.' 'How do you
do, Mr Boltbyn. I trust you are well?' 'Rather perplexed, actually.
For there is no ether in my cabinet. It is the first time there has
been no ether. I had a bottle and now it is gone.' 'Perhaps you ran
out,' Lydia suggests. 279 WHITE STONE DAY 'The bottle is not empty,
Miss Lydia. The bottle is entirely missing. Here is the space for it,
in the shelf right there. As you can see, it is unoccupied.' 'Oh,'
replies the smaller girl. 'I do see that it is.' And she looks up at
her sister for a reply. 'We borrowed your ether,' says Emma after a
lengthy pause, holding Boltbyn in the beam of her dark, quizzical
eyes. 'Mother said she needed it. I should have asked you first. I
hope you are not vexed with me.' 'Oh. I see. Quite. Well, that
explains it, then. And no, no, I am not vexed.' The vicar shuts the
rosewood cabinet carefully, locks it with a brass key, and places the
key in the pocket of his waistcoat. Emma turns from the doorway and
into the hall, where her mother waits anxiously by the stair, holding
a chemical bottle in her hand. 'Has he noticed it missing?' Birdie
asks her daughter. 'He has, I'm afraid. We were too late. And I had
to tell him the truth. Mr Boltbyn and I have always been on truthful
terms, and he would know if something was made up.' 'You told him the
truth? All of it?' 'Only up to a point. Mr Boltbyn is not partial to
detail.' 'I see. In any case, I suppose it is too late to return it.'
'No, Mother, I think you should. He would like to leave his equipment
in a complete state. He is quite fussy that way.' 'But how can I
simply give it back? What shall I tell him?' Her mother's voice is
filled with uncertainty but not fear, being reconciled to whatever
happens from now on. 'When there is nothing you have to say, it is
best to say nothing,' replies Emma. 'Or you might comment upon the
season, or ask him to tell you a riddle. Mr Boltbyn would prefer
that. It is not in his nature to make a fuss.' 280 54