Michael Cox (15 page)

THE CARRIAGE HAD pulled up outside the ancient Church of St John the Baptist, where a numerous crowd of mourners and village onlookers had already gathered.
We descended, and the crowd dutifully parted – like the Red Sea before Moses – as my Lady and her two handsome sons, followed by the other members of the Evenwood party, with me bringing up the rear, processed in solemn order through the church-yard to take their seats in the places of honour that had been prepared for them.
As a measure of his eccentricity (for which I heartily commended him), Professor Slake had long since prepared strict instructions that his committal should be conducted with the utmost simplicity. Consequently, there was a welcome absence of the usual pomp and paraphernalia – no frightful bearded mutes and hideous feather-men, no black-draped coach, like some omnibus of death. I had witnessed such vulgar horrors in London, when I had stayed with Mrs Ridpath, and the sight had filled me with disgust.
The simple wooden coffin was conveyed into the church on a two-wheeled hand-cart, decked out with late-summer flowers and dark-blue ribbons (the Professor having been an Oxford man), and pulled by the deceased’s gardener and his son. Behind the coffin walked the solitary figure of Mr Montagu Wraxall, Professor Slake’s nephew and closest surviving relative (as I was later informed by Dr Pordage), holding before him – like an offering – a copy of his uncle’s great work on the history of the Gentile nations (this information also being courtesy of Dr P).
*
The service duly began, conducted by Mr Thripp – pompously conscious of the dignity that had been unexpectedly conferred upon him – who mounted the pulpit at the appointed moment to give us a full forty minutes of his prolix thoughts on mortality. As he drew at last to a close, to the visible relief of the congregation, the sound of heavy rain began to echo through the building.
‘Just such a day as this when they buried Mr Carteret, your predecessor,’ I heard Dr Pordage, sitting in the pew behind me, whisper to Mr Baverstock.
‘Just such a day,’ agreed my Lady’s secretary.

III
Pythagoras Lodge

THE DOWNPOUR – sudden, but short – had almost abated by the time we gathered round the grave-side; but it was still necessary for umbrellas to be hastily procured, and for we ladies to mind our skirts as we picked our way through the deep puddles that had formed along the rutted path.
When the coffin, with all due ceremony, had been lowered into the grave, the sides of which still oozed with muddy rivulets, Mr Wraxall moved forward, his uncle’s book in hand. This he proceeded to wrap round with one of the long dark-blue ribbons that had adorned the hand-cart; then, kneeling down, he let the ribbon unfurl, allowing the book to fall gently on to the lid of the coffin.
No one, except me, seemed in the least surprised by this singular piece of ceremonial. Indeed, it appeared to have been anticipated by many of the mourners, for I heard one gentleman remark to another that it had long been talked about in the village that the Professor wished his life’s work to be placed with him in the grave (although not in the coffin), so that it might be the first thing to come into the light at the Resurrection, which he confidently expected to take place on the first day of the year 1900.
A cold collation had been prepared for the most distinguished mourners – principal amongst whom, of course, was the Evenwood party – at the Professor’s former home, Pythagoras Lodge, which stood a little way out of the village on the Helpston road.
From its name, I had expected some forbidding Gothick pile, and my hopeful imagination had pictured a miniature Otranto set down in the quiet East Anglian countryside. Instead, when the carriage came to a halt, I was a little disappointed to find ourselves before a neat little villa, not fifty years old, covered in dark-green trellis-work, and standing in the midst of a large square of perfectly tended lawn, the space broken only by an ancient cedar.
Mr Wraxall welcomed us in, and then escorted Lady Tansor into the morning-room, where the collation had been laid out on two long tables.
The late Professor Slake’s nephew had intrigued me from the moment he had entered the church behind his uncle’s coffin. He was – as confirmed by Dr Pordage – about sixty-five years of age, clean-shaven, and entirely bald except for the merest wisps of downy, pale-silver hair clustered about each ear. Yet he had an ageless radiance about him, making him appear to be unsullied and unburdened by the usual human woes and disenchantments. He displayed, in addition, such a vigorous and active intelligence in his smiling grey eyes that he might almost have been mistaken for a young man just embarking on life, full of ambition and boundless optimism.
I followed my Lady and her sons into the morning-room, but then held back as they stopped to be introduced by Mr Wraxall to a group of ladies and gentlemen, before they moved on to take their seats around the fire at the far end of the room. In that moment, Dr Pordage came up and, without my asking, began to tell me something of Mr Montagu Wraxall.
Although now retired from the Bar, in his heyday our host had been accounted one of the most formidable prosecuting barristers in London, with a reputation for rigorous and meticulous preparation of his cases, and for a certain intellectual ruthlessness in argument that few could equal. Many were the celebrated murder trials in which he had triumphed, sometimes against considerable odds. Despite his amiable personal qualities, to be prosecuted by Mr Montagu Wraxall, QC, was, it would seem, a fearsome prospect; and amongst the criminal classes of the capital, it was once held as an almost universal truth that Wraxall would hang you for sure if you came up before him on a capital charge.
‘But modest, my dear,’ confided the doctor, leaning towards me, and stroking his grey spade-beard by way of emphasis, ‘almost incorrigibly so. And, do you know, I believe his modesty to be genuine. What do you think of that?’
I smiled mutely, then asked Dr Pordage whether he would be kind enough to bring me a glass of iced water, as my throat was a little dry.
Off he scampered; but he had hardly gone when Mr Wraxall himself was suddenly by my side and was introducing himself.
Of course I began by offering my condolences on the death of his uncle. I immediately saw that I had been foolish to think he was unsusceptible to universal cares. A shadow seemed to pass across his face.
‘You are Miss Gorst, I’m certain,’ he said. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’
He saw my puzzled look, and smiled.
‘I only meant to say that you are seen as being unusual, Miss Gorst, and that always starts country tongues wagging – although you should be flattered to be the subject of so much talk. You are a phenomenon, you know.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ was my honest reply.
‘Consider,’ said Mr Wraxall. ‘You neither look like a lady’s-maid, nor speak like one; and I strongly suspect that you do not think like one either. Other people see the discrepancy, too, and they naturally wonder why such a person has been obliged to enter domestic service. I wonder that myself, you know. Now don’t be cross with me.’
‘Cross, sir?’
‘For being so impertinent as to say what is simply true. I’m afraid that it’s one of my principal failings – although of course I’ve many others.’
‘Is it, then a fault to be truthful?’
‘The truth is sometimes unpalatable, you know.’
He then said that he hoped he would have the pleasure of continuing our acquaintance at Evenwood.
‘You may perhaps know that my late uncle was given use of the Lodge attached to the old North Gates, as a residence on those days his duties required him to be in the Library. There are a great many papers and other effects there to be gone through – I fear my uncle was a little lax, not to say disorganized, in the arrangement of his own affairs, although he was wonderfully efficient in conducting those of his employer. Lady Tansor has kindly allowed me to occupy North Lodge while this work is being carried out; and so our paths may well cross once more. I hope they do.’
So we parted.
I had begun to walk over to join my Lady and her sons when Dr Pordage called out to me.
‘Miss Gorst! Your water!’
I had no choice but to turn back and take the glass from his hand, which closed clammily around mine as I did so, forcing me to pull away, spilling much of the water in the process.
‘How clumsy of me!’ he exclaimed, taking out his handkerchief. ‘Do please forgive me, Miss Gorst.’
‘It’s nothing, sir. Excuse me.’
Handing back to him the almost empty glass, I quickly made my escape.
‘And where have you been, Alice?’ my Lady asked, in an irked tone. ‘You should have been here with us.’
I told her that I had been speaking with Mr Wraxall.
‘Speaking with Mr Wraxall! Well, well. Then I suppose I must forgive you.’
‘Your dress is rather wet, Miss Gorst,’ Mr Randolph broke in. ‘Won’t you come and sit by the fire to make it dry?’
I thanked him, but said that I preferred to stand.
‘Come now, Miss Gorst, you really must dry yourself.’
The admonition came from Mr Perseus, who – to my considerable surprise – was now offering me his own chair.
‘See how they compete for your favour, Alice,’ said Lady Tansor. ‘Was ever a lady’s-maid so honoured?’
Whilst the little laugh that followed was meant to disguise the sting of the words, I saw that Mr Randolph had coloured slightly at them, although the face of Mr Perseus remained impassive as he stood, with his hands holding the back of the chair, waiting for me to sit down.
I thanked Mr Perseus for his consideration, which had seemed genuinely given, but politely insisted that I was perfectly comfortable.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then you’ll excuse me, I hope. I’m in need of a cigar.’
‘Will you not eat first, Perseus dear?’ asked his mother. ‘You ought, you know.’
‘I have no appetite for luncheon,’ he replied, somwhat sharply, ‘and smoking on an empty stomach is a great stimulant for my work. I have the last canto of my poem to finish, as you know, and a cigar will help me to shape my thoughts.’
After he had gone, Lady Tansor turned to me.
‘The demands of genius are very great, you see, Alice. They constantly force postponement of the commonest necessities of life. But where would we be without such rare individuals as my son, who strive only to bequeath beauty and harmony to the world? As the possessor of an uncommon poetic talent, Perseus feels his duty to the present generation, and to posterity, most keenly. We are to go to London soon – have I mentioned this to you? Perseus is to show his poem to a publisher. I am confident that he will like it, and that it will be a great success; but of course it must be finished first. And so he must do what he must, even though I do not quite approve of cigar smoking.’
Then, turning towards her younger son:
‘Randolph, dear, I find that I am a little hungry after all. Will you fetch me a small piece of pie?’

9

In Which Madame’s Second Letter is Opened

I
A Vision of Judgment

I
T IS
now a little past first light, two days after the funeral of Professor Slake.
Mr Perseus has smoked a sufficient number of cigars to enable him to complete his poem on Merlin and Nimue, and tomorrow we are for London, to visit the prospective publisher, and to spend some days in my Lady’s town-house.
The late Lord Tansor’s London residence in Park Lane, the scene of the murder of Phoebus Daunt, was sold as soon as my Lady succeeded to the title, in the year 1863. She now has a handsome house in nearby Grosvenor Square, although she spends little time there.
She called me down three times last night. On the first occasion, I was required to brush her hair; on the second, she wished me to read to her from Mr Daunt’s
Penelope
;
*
then, at a little after three o’clock, she was content simply for me to sit opposite her, by the bedroom fire, as she silently contemplated the flickering flames.
‘You must have been brought up a Catholic, I suppose?’ she suddenly asked.
I told her the truth: that I had attended church regularly as a child, and that I had learned my catechism and read the Bible regularly, but that my guardian, while devout herself, had chosen not to impose formal reception into the Roman faith on me. This, she always said, would have gone against the wishes of my Protestant father. I had thus been allowed to make my own choice on the matter, once I reached the years of discretion.
‘And what was your choice?’ my Lady enquired.
‘I profess no single, exclusive creed or denomination; but I do have a kind of primitive faith nevertheless.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I believe,’ I replied, seeing an opportunity to test my Lady’s conscience, ‘that there is an eternal creative Power, which we call God, and that we shall all come to judgment at the last under His all-seeing eye.’
The words were those of Mr Thornhaugh, and reflected his own religious convictions. The effect of them on my Lady was immediate.
‘Judgment?’
The log that I had thrown on to the fire had suddenly burst into flame, illuminating her face. It had turned ghastly white, and I saw that she was gripping the arms of her chair, as if some invisible force were trying to wrench her from it.
‘Enough of such talk,’ she said, after some moments. ‘I am tired now, and wish to sleep if I can.’
I helped her back into her monstrous carved bed, and drew the heavy red hangings round her, leaving open only those nearest the fire.
‘Will that be all, my Lady?’ I asked, when I had poured her out a glass of water.
‘Yes, Alice. Good-night.’
She closed her eyes for a moment; and then, with a profound sigh, turned on her side, away from the firelight, her long dark hair starkly black against her white night-gown.
Good-night, my Lady
, I thought to myself.
Sweet dreams
.

WHEN I AWOKE, to the soothing sound of pigeons cooing on the leads above me, I was surprised to find that I felt not the least bit fatigued, despite the disruptions of the night; and so I thought that I would take the dawn air before going to dress my Lady.
Drawing the curtains back, I looked out. The prospect that met my eyes was a dismal one.
A dirty, grey light was struggling into life, and thick, clinging mist, almost like the impenetrable white miasma in my nightmare of little Anthony Duport, obscured the view of the Park beyond the pleasure-grounds – a true early-autumn mist that heralded decay and rottenness. It brought to mind maggoty apples strewn across the damp grass of an untended orchard, and piles of stinking mildewed leaves, fleshy underfoot. Death was in the air. I shuddered, and was about to turn away, having abandoned my plan to walk about the grounds, when something caught my eye.
An indistinct figure – a well-built man – could just be made out, standing on the other side of the ha-ha that terminated the gardens.
I watched him for a minute or more, but he did not move. He was tall, wearing a chimney-pot hat, and was carrying a stick; but these were his only discernible characteristics. What was he doing at this hour, and on such a cheerless morning? Waiting for someone? Surely not, at such an early hour. More likely he was some wandering insomniac, pausing to take in the beauties of the house, which, even on such a drear morning, retained its power to stir the heart.
My warm breath having misted the glass, I began to rub it over with my sleeve. When I looked out once more, the man had gone, swallowed up by the enveloping vapour.
After breakfast, Barrington stopped me at the foot of the back stairs to give me a letter. I saw immediately that it was from Madame; but, having then to dress my Lady, as well as a full morning of other duties before me, it was not until luncheon was over that I was able to find time to return to my room and open it.
It was, as I had hoped, the second Letter of Instruction.