Beautiful Lies (29 page)

Edward took the Friday sleeper, arriving in time to meet with the estate accountants at Inverallich after breakfast on Saturday. McDougall’s men had worked hard. By then the lawn and the terrace had been cleared of debris, the fallen trees cut up and dragged away. Ladders snaked up the front of the house and work had already begun to repair the roof. Maribel was glad Edward had been spared the worst of it. His face was ashen when he stepped out of the gig, the skin beneath his eyes smudged purple with fatigue. He leaned against one of the gig’s wheels, his hat clutched to his chest, one hand buried in his hair.

‘Oh my sweet God,’ he murmured.

Maribel took his arm, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. They stood together in silence as Edward gazed about him.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said at last.

‘Come inside,’ Maribel said gently. ‘Cora is making a fresh pot of coffee. Did you have breakfast on the train?’

Edward shook his head.

‘How about some kedgeree? Some eggs? There are plenty of eggs.’

‘I don’t want eggs. Good God, Bo, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You knew.’

‘Yes, I knew. But this?’ He gestured helplessly. ‘It is not as bad as it looks.’

‘Isn’t it?’

The meeting with the accountants did nothing to raise Edward’s spirits. A number of the tenants had suffered damage to their properties and would need assistance in their repair. Several had asked for extended time in which to pay their rents. The orchards, which had been predicted to generate significantly increased profits in the forthcoming year, had been decimated. Again it was proposed that Edward consider the sale of a part of the estate. Again Edward refused, but Maribel noticed the weariness in his voice, the way he rested his forehead in the palm of his hand as he contemplated the figures on the paper they set before him. Even Edward, she thought, could not hold out for ever.

Afterwards the two of them walked down to the loch. Neither of them remarked upon the devastated remains of the beech trees, the drifts of sawdust in the gouged lawn. On the pebbled beach Edward bent down and picked up several flat round stones. Neither he nor Henry could be near the loch without throwing stones at it. The wind was brisk, whipping the brown water into little peaks. The trees on the island huddled low against the chill.

‘How was London?’ Maribel asked, rummaging in her pocket for her cigarettes.

‘Like St Petersburg. It seems ever more likely that Warren will prevail, that Matthews will grant him his ban.’

Sir Charles Warren was a former colonial governor and the new Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, a hardliner determined to crush the increasing militancy of a city driven to the brink by rampant unemployment. The bitter October weather had not prevented the swelling numbers of destitute men and women sleeping rough in Trafalgar Square, and, under pressure from the Tory newspapers who condemned the situation as a disgrace to the capital, Warren had drastically stepped up police efforts to keep them out. For weeks his officers had been carrying out a campaign of harassment and summary arrest. As the weather worsened, the skirmishes in the square had grown more belligerent and the number of arrests had spiralled. Meanwhile Warren, fearful of a repeat of the riots that had convulsed London eighteen months before, was exerting increasing pressure upon an uneasy Tory government to outlaw all public demonstrations in Trafalgar Square.

Maribel inhaled. Cold air gave a particular pungency to a cigarette, intensifying its flavour and sending sparks of sensation skittering into her limbs. She coughed a little and inhaled again.

‘And Matthews has the power to do that, constitutionally?’ she asked.

‘The Home Secretary can do as he pleases, if he deems it in the interest of national security.’

‘But that’s outrageous.’

‘It is worse than that. It is a declaration by the government of this country that they seek not to fill the mouths of the starving but to gag them. They mean to let them die.’

‘Can nothing be done?’

Edward shrugged and sent a stone skimming across the corrugated water. It jumped once, a startled leap that sent it somersaulting upwards, and disappeared with a splash.

‘In Parliament? Not a thing. On the street? Perhaps, if we can manage to agree on anything and stop tearing ourselves to shreds.’

‘But won’t that only mean riots all over again?’

‘By God I hope so.’

***

After lunch Edward disappeared to the library to do some work. He had a speech to write, correspondence that required an urgent response. Into his briefcase he had crammed the previous day’s newspapers to read on the train and these he deposited in Maribel’s lap, along with the post from Cadogan Mansions. Maribel set the letters to one side, flicking through the crumpled stack of newspapers: the
Times
, the stalwartly Tory
Herald
, the almost as steadfastly Whig
Post
, the
Illustrated London News
which had no need of politics because it had pictures, the two popular evening papers, the
Globe
and the
Sun
, and, tucked between them, Webster’s
City Chronicle.

Maribel drew the
Chronicle
out of the pile, opening it at random. It was not a newspaper she saw very often and it occurred to her to wonder as she glanced over its neatly stacked columns of words whether it would be possible to tell from the pages of a newspaper if its proprietor was losing his mind. On the opinion pages there was a strongly worded commentary on the diplomatic mission to divide Africa among her European masters; it pressed the Prime Minister not only to push for Britain’s rightful share of Africa’s riches but to remember her duty to civilise its savage peoples. It was a well-written piece, coherent and convincingly argued, its economic imperatives finely balanced with a Christian compassion. If Mr Webster had garnered his opinions from a séance, Maribel thought, the realm of the Other Side must be a strange blend of Hampstead and a parlour in Cheltenham Spa.

Yawning, she flipped the pages, working her way backwards towards the front. She was almost at the cover when she saw the photograph. It was grainy, imperfectly reproduced. Above the picture, a title in bold type saluted A HUSBAND’S DEVOTION.

She stared, blinking stupidly. A photograph printed in the pages of a daily newspaper was oddity enough, though not unheard of. One or two of the bigger newspapers had carried photographs of the Queen in her carriage on the occasion of her Golden Jubilee. But this photograph? There was no mistaking it. It was quite recognisably the photograph that Mr Pidgeon had shown her outside his studio, the portrait of the widow, Mrs Burwood, the face of a young man half visible amid a sheaf of grasses in a large Chinese vase.

The article that accompanied the photograph described the photographer, a Mr Frederick A. Hudson, as ‘perhaps the most renowned spirit photographer in England’. In despair over the frauds perpetrated by unscrupulous tricksters in the name of Spiritualism, Mr Hudson had submitted to an investigation into his methods by the eminent Society for Psychical Research, whose members included not only Mr Gladstone and Lord Tennyson but a Dublin professor of physics and a Cambridge philosopher. After meticulous inspection of the man and his methods, the Society had conceded that, in their opinion, Mr Hudson’s work did indeed offer a scientific proof of the objective reality of spiritual forms.

It was in acknowledgement of the Society’s pioneering research that the
Chronicle
had decided to publish the extraordinary portrait of a British widow whose departed husband had appeared to her during a sitting at Mr Hudson’s studio. The photograph, never previously published, was the tribute of one newspaperman to the thousands of Christians across the country who had themselves experienced the physical manifestation of their loved ones, believers to whom the Lord in His mercy had permitted a glimpse of the life everlasting, and who might today hold their dear departed a little closer, safe in the certainty that, where faith had taken them, the sceptics of science had duly followed. Rigorous scientific investigation had not undermined the foundations of the Christian faith but fortified them and in so doing they had fortified the purpose of science too, for what greater pinnacle of knowledge was there than proof of the soul’s immortality, promised to mankind by God?

The piece, Maribel thought, was a masterpiece of manipulation; the pseudo-science, the shameless bias, the sentimental moral climax. All the same, it was interesting how much more convincing the photograph was when printed on the flimsy paper of a journal. The blurriness of the spirit image hardly mattered when the quality of the print was so poor.

She wondered what had possessed Mrs Burwood to authorise its sale, what Webster had paid for it. She hoped it was a great deal. She thought of the photograph of Charlotte locked in the drawer at the back of her desk. Webster’s article did not identify Mrs Burwood by name but the photograph showed her face quite clearly. Perhaps a widow in straitened circumstances was obliged to do what was necessary to support herself and her family. All the same, it was hard to imagine any situation in which money would be adequate compensation for the insufferable intrusion into matters of private concern. Things at Inverallich might be bad but they would have to be a great deal worse before one could be persuaded to sell anything to a man like Webster.

Abandoning the paper on the floor she rose to pour herself another cup of coffee. As she sipped at it she gazed out over the garden towards the pewter gleam of the loch. In the driveway McDougall was supervising the unloading of a cart and several men worked among the broken rhododendrons. The sound of the saws carried mournfully on the wind. Around the window the roses were battered but apparently undamaged. She should prune them while she was here, she thought, or they would grow leggy. Roses could take a terrifying amount of pruning, Vivien had shown her that. The more one savaged them the better they seemed to like it.

Sighing, Maribel put down her cup and picked up the pile of letters. One, in a pale blue envelope, was written in an unfamiliar hand. She turned it over, slitting it open. Her mother had always said that coloured writing paper was for governesses and little girls.

Parkside, Wimbledon

Dear Mrs Campbell Lowe
,

I fear that, on the occasion of our last meeting, we parted on less than warm terms. I write neither to apologise nor to seek an apology – I presume to imagine that you, like myself, are of too indomitable a constitution to be distressed by a little plain speaking – but rather to thank you. Only days after our contretemps, I was fortunate enough to have offered to me an extraordinary photograph taken by the great Spiritualist, Mr Frederick Hudson. Had you proved less intractable, I might never have had the privilege of publishing perhaps the most important proof to date of the material existence of the spirit. You described your own photograph with devastating candour as, and I recall your words exactly, a ‘failed attempt at portraiture by an incompetent amateur’ and, though I flinch at so cruel a verdict, I must confess that, when considered alongside the genius of the peerless Mr Hudson, even the most strenuous of imitations must surely be found wanting.

This letter comes therefore with my grateful appreciation. As editor of perhaps the most widely read newspaper in London I have a duty not only to my loyal readers but to the Truth and to the guidance of those who trust in God. You may wish to purchase tomorrow’s
Chronicle
to see the results for yourself.

Your obedient servant &c

Alfred Webster

Maribel stared at the letter. Then, with a furious shake of her head, she crumpled it up and threw it into the grate. The fire licked inquisitively at the ball of blue paper, scorching its edges before it caught in a sudden burst of green flame. She jabbed at it with the poker, stirring it into a shower of black fragments. She had never told Edward about the photograph. Why would she have? Edward was not interested in a spoiled plate. Like Webster’s letter it was not worthy of the paper it was printed on. The
Chronicle
lay where she had left it, carelessly folded on the button-backed sofa. Snatching it up she thrust it too into the fire. It caught immediately, bursting with a sudden and violent heat that sent flames roaring up the chimney.

T
HE LAST DAY OF
October fell on a Monday. At the showground in Earls Court, the Wild West played the last of its three hundred London performances. Colonel Cody himself had not missed a single one, though Henry told Maribel privately that on more than one occasion he had needed a little help in mounting his horse. The newspapers, whose gloom at the end of the cowboy bonanza was palpable, estimated that, during its five-month run, two and a half million Londoners had paid to see the show, turning the likes of Buffalo Bill, Annie Oakley and Buck Taylor into household names. As the American Exhibition prepared to close its doors, several of Edward’s parliamentary colleagues, under the presidency of Lord Lorne, met with their American counterparts to discuss the establishment of a Court of Arbitration for the settlement of disputes between Britain and the United States.

‘It is the opinion of the
Times
that “civilisation itself consents to march on in the train of Buffalo Bill”,’ Edward announced as Maribel poured his tea. ‘“It is no paradox to say that Colonel Cody has done his part in bringing America and England nearer together.”’

‘I thought Miss Clemmons was American too.’

‘You, Bo, are a shameless tattletale.’

‘Blame your brother. I simply repeat what he tells me for the purpose of your education.’

‘How commendably diligent you are. I must go.’

‘Already?’

‘I have a meeting with Burns. What time does Cody expect you?’

‘About half past ten, I believe.’

‘Take him this.’ He handed her his copy of the
Times.
‘It is not every day a cowboy changes the world.’