Set in Stone (14 page)

‘The Cross Keys?’

‘Big coaching inn, by Waverley Cross.’ Seeing my unrecognizing expression, he added: ‘Staverton road, then left on the Portsmouth turnpike.’

‘But he’s not there now?’

‘Shouldn’t ’a thought so. Good while back, this was.’

‘And how far is it to the Cross Keys?’

‘Five mile or thereabouts.’

I thanked him, immediately wondering how soon I could make my way to the Cross Keys; for that must surely be Mr Waring’s current lodging place, whatever Reynolds thought. My opportunity came sooner than expected, when I joined the two young ladies for luncheon.

‘Will you ride this afternoon, Juley?’ Marianne
asked her sister, who was still pale and untalkative, and eating little.

‘I don’t think so,’ Juliana answered.

‘Poor Queen Bess!’ Marianne continued. ‘She will consider herself quite neglected!’

‘
You
could take her out for an hour or so, Marianne, if you wish,’ said her sister.

‘Oh no – you know I am not fond of riding, and it is far too hot. I should melt quite away.’

‘I think I shall rest in my room this afternoon,’ Juliana said, after Alice had come in for the plates. ‘I did not sleep well last night, and am fatigued.’

‘I shall sit with you,’ said Marianne. ‘I can complete my translation while you sleep.’

And thus they effectively dismissed me from their company. On an impulse, I said: ‘Juliana, would you allow me to borrow Queen Bess this afternoon?’

‘I did not know you were a horseman, Samuel.’ Marianne leaned towards me with her customary eagerness. ‘Why not take Guardsman, Father’s horse? He is standing idle in the paddock, and is far more suitable for a gentleman to ride.’

‘I make no claim to horsemanship!’ I said hastily. ‘I have no more than rudimentary skill – and would not presume to ride your father’s horse without his permission. I have a mind to explore the surrounding area – it will help me with the paintings your father has commissioned,’ I prevaricated, ‘and it would be very pleasant to do it on horseback. Queen Bess would suit me admirably – I am not heavy, and she would carry me easily. Is she quiet and well mannered?’

‘Yes, indeed! She is perfectly amenable, and you are most welcome to borrow her.’ Juliana seemed pleased to oblige. ‘She will be glad of the outing. I have rather neglected her these last few days. I am only sorry that we have not thought of offering you a horse before now. It is very remiss of us.’

I found Reynolds and bade him saddle the mare for me – finding out, meanwhile, that his only assistant in the stable yard was a heavy, slow-witted fellow who bore no resemblance to the golden-haired man I had seen by the lake that morning, thus eliminating the possibility that it was a groom I had encountered. Soon I was riding out through the gates, past the place where I had first met Marianne. In comparison with the anxiety I had felt then, I now seemed so established at Fourwinds, that home, Sydenham, the Slade and my friends there had all but faded from my consciousness.

As I had told the girls, I was no horseman, but I felt comfortable enough on Queen Bess’s back. She was willing and obedient, as befitted a lady’s horse; a stronger-mettled steed would have taxed my abilities and left me no time to contemplate the simple pleasure I felt in the sun on my face, the regular clop of hooves, and the woods and hedgerows heavy with midsummer growth on either side of the track. The air was heady with new-mown hay; the meadow next to the track was shorn and pale, with haycocks stacked in rows; thistledown drifted on the merest breath of air beneath the trees, and a thrush sang from a tall elm. I could easily have felt myself drowsed and lulled
by the quiet of the afternoon, had not my errand pressed me forward.

The Cross Keys was soon reached. It was a low, sprawling building of flint and tile, spanning an archway which led through to a stable yard behind. A collie dog basked in the sunshine; there were, at this hour of the afternoon, few people about. I dismounted, tied the mare’s reins to a wall-ring, and entered a low-ceilinged tap room. Two gentleman farmers, as I took them to be, sat over a late dinner of pies and potatoes; the innkeeper, aproned and drying his hands on a towel, came to see what I wanted. Wishing him good afternoon, I ordered a pint of ale and sat with it at the serving bar before asking my question.

‘I believe that Mr Gideon Waring, a sculptor, stayed here for a while, a year or more ago?’

‘Waring . . . Waring,’ the man mused, counting out my change. ‘Aye, I believe he did. Longer ago than a year, though. If it’s the man I’m thinking of, it were closer to two years. Tall feller, quiet, well set up?’

‘That sounds like him!’

‘Aye, he put up here for ten days or so. Harvest time, I remember that.’

‘Has he returned since?’

He pursed his lips, considering, then slowly shook his head. ‘Not to stay here, he ent. No, I’ve not seen him.’

‘Do you know where he went after leaving here?’ I began to feel that my mission was futile; why should
this innkeeper, with any number of guests passing through, have more than economic interest in a man who had visited briefly so many months ago?

‘That I don’t know.’ He was already diverted by one of the farmers, a corpulent man with a bulbous nose on which each vein was drawn in purple, who had come to the bar counter and was jingling the money in his pocket.

‘I’ll trouble you for two more pints, Frank, if you please,’ said this burly fellow; then, turning to me, ‘Now, young sir, pardon me for interrupting, but I can point you at a man who’ll tell you about the sculptor you’re enquiring after. You’re the new artist living at Fourwinds, is that right?’

‘I am. Samuel Godwin is my name.’ I wondered how he knew, then recalled Eliza Dearly’s remark that I was the talk of the neighbourhood, to which I had given little credence.

‘Jack Nelson,’ said the farmer, shaking my proffered hand.

‘You’ll know Charlotte Agnew, then,’ said the landlord, looking at me. ‘Miss Agnew, I should say. Used to wait at table here. Give her my regards if you’ll be so kind.’

I nodded; this I could scarcely believe, but, more interested in wresting information from the farmer, I let it pass. ‘Can you really help me, sir?’ I tried to gaze not at his nose, but at the kindly pale eyes behind it. ‘I should be most grateful.’

‘Indeed I can – you’ll find the man not two furlongs from this spot. Take yourself down to St
Stephen’s, in the village there, and speak to Ned Simmons.’

‘Ned Simmons? And I’ll find him at St Stephen’s Church?’ I repeated, thinking the man referred to might be vicar or verger.

‘Aye. He’ll be there now, up the tower, most like. Stonemason, see. He and your sculptor used to drink here of an evening, both being in the same line of trade.’

A stonemason! With a quickening sense of excitement, I paid for the farmer’s two pints, for which he thanked me profusely. Then I downed my ale as fast as I could, thanked both farmer and innkeeper in turn, and took my leave.

I remounted the patient mare, and guided her in the direction the farmer had indicated, towards the nearby village.

This settlement proved to be no more than a small gathering of cottages with one or two larger dwellings. The church tower – of the squat, square Norman variety – showed above a cluster of trees, behind a lych gate. Here, once more, I tethered Queen Bess, my hands clumsy with haste and excitement. I could scarcely bear the thought that the stonemason might have downed tools for the day, or even finished his work and left the area. My fears, though, were quickly allayed: I saw rough scaffolding erected around the tower, a canvas bag of tools lying open on the ground, and heard, from above, the regular
tink, tink
of metal on stone. A ladder led up the flint tower, but the person wielding the chisel was not in sight.

I made my way through lichen-encrusted gravestones
to the base of the tower. Cupping both hands around my mouth, I hollered: ‘Mr Simmons? Mr Simmons, are you there?’

The tinking ceased; a few moments later a peaked cap appeared over the edge of the balustrade, and a face beneath it.

‘Who’s that?’

‘My name is Samuel Godwin. May I speak with you?’

Cap and face bobbed out of sight. I waited; thought I should have to yell again; then a booted foot planted itself on the ladder, followed by another, and then by the whole form of the stonemason as he backed nimbly down the rungs. In a moment he was standing beside me. He was a small man of perhaps forty, shorter than I, and wiry as a jockey. Impatient at the interruption, he rubbed dust off his hands.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘I beg your pardon for calling you away from your work, Mr Simmons. But I wonder if you can help me? I’m in search of a sculptor named Gideon Waring, and I understand you knew him.’

‘Oh?’ He jutted his chin at me. ‘And who might you be?’

‘My name is Samuel Godwin. I’m employed by Mr Ernest Farrow, at Fourwinds.’ I held out my hand; after a moment’s pause, he returned the gesture and we exchanged a perfunctory shake.

He scrutinized me with astute brown eyes. ‘Are you on Mr Farrow’s business? Has he sent you after Waring?’

‘No – no.’ I felt it best to be frank. ‘He knows
nothing of this enquiry. Since seeing Mr Waring’s stone-carvings at Fourwinds, I’ve become very curious about him. I want to meet him if I can, and learn more about his work.’

‘And what might you be – land agent? Accountant?’ He looked at me narrowly.

‘I am neither. I am drawing tutor to Mr Farrow’s two daughters, and he has also commissioned me to produce a series of paintings of his house.’

Simmons gave me a wry look. ‘You want to watch your back.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘What I say.’ Ned Simmons crouched by his canvas bag, taking advantage of the unexpected grounding to select a small chisel.

‘Mr Simmons,’ I tried, feeling that I was getting nowhere, ‘if I assure you that I am not acting for Mr Farrow, that in fact he knows nothing of my attempts to track down Gideon Waring, and that my interest is simply that of an aspiring artist who feels the greatest admiration for another’s skill – would you consider telling me what you know? Chiefly, whether you know of Mr Waring’s current whereabouts?’

Straightening with the tool he had chosen, Simmons looked at me sternly. ‘Mr Farrow won’t know of this? Nor even that you’ve spoken to me here?’

‘He shall not,’ I assured him.

‘Then – I shall tell you this.’ He still seemed anxious to overcome severe doubt before proceeding; he looked me up and down, rubbed his chin, peered into my face. ‘Promise, mind?’

‘I promise!’

‘Then – if I have your word – I can tell you that Gideon Waring went from here to Chichester, to take up work at the cathedral there. Whether he’s still there or not, I’ve no way of knowing.’ He moved back towards the ladder; about to ascend, he turned to add: ‘That’s all I can tell you. Anything else, you’ll have to get from him. Good day.’

In Eastbourne, I had little to do but wait.

As I wished to forestall any suggestion that I might stay at my grandmother’s home, I took the precaution, before reporting there, of finding alternative lodging. Securing a room in a boarding house near the railway station, I paid in advance for two nights, hoping that would suffice. In any case, I had no intention of staying longer.

Three Sussex Esplanade proved to be part of a prosperous terrace facing the sea: a three-storey house, with steps up to the front door, which had a polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. A maid answered the door; on introducing myself, I was shown into a sitting room. Here I was joined by the resident nurse, a capable-looking person with quiet, assured movements, who impressed on me that I had arrived not a moment too soon.

‘You must prepare yourself for the worst,’ she told me gravely. ‘Your great-aunt cannot last for more than a day or so.’

No one here, other than the solicitor, knew that
Mrs Newbold was in fact my grandmother; I offered no correction. It had suited her, and now it suited me, to pretend that our relationship was farther removed.

With hushed footsteps, this kindly nurse led me into the sick room; the invalid lay there in semi-darkness, the curtains being closed.

‘It is Charlotte,’ I told her. ‘Charlotte Agnew.’

Her eyelids fluttered half open. I had no way of knowing if she recognized me. It was many years since I had seen her face, and I could not now assume an affection I did not feel.

‘I am sure she is aware of your presence,’ said the nurse, ‘and is comforted by it, even if she cannot speak.’

As soon as was decently possible, I excused myself. Telling the nurse that I would return later, I escaped to the seafront and the gaiety of the holiday-makers who thronged there.

Outside in the air, I found that I was hungry after my train journey, and ordered a meal in a small eating-house on the promenade. Unaccustomed to eating alone in public, I did not linger. Leaving, I bought a copy of
The Times
from a news vendor, thinking that I might find a seat in one of the esplanade shelters, or even hire a deckchair, and sit reading for a while. I spent an hour or so in this fashion, enjoying the novelty of having both time and money to spend. Mr Farrow paid me eighty pounds a year, and as all my needs were met at Fourwinds, and I rarely left the place, I had no real demands on my income; indeed, I was in the fortunate position of not having to concern myself with money. It occurred to me now that I might
look in the shops for presents to take back for Juliana and Marianne; even, if I wished, I could buy something for myself.

Finding a bench that had only one other occupant, I sat reading my newspaper until I felt my senses muzzed by sleep. This was most unlike me; the break with routine seemed to be affecting me strangely. Collecting bag and newspaper, I walked slowly along the promenade, occasionally diverted by the antics of swimmers or by children and dogs playing on the beach. Soon I found that the rhythmic plash and sigh of the waves, and the high scream of gulls, had lulled me into a peculiarly ruminative state of mind.