The Ghost Writer (5 page)

E
DMUND'S NAME WAS NOT CONNECTED WITH THE
tragedy. He was sent immediately abroad, where he remained for some months until his father resolved to settle all outstanding differences between them by dying of apoplexy. At first, his conscience troubled him sorely, but like other young men of wealth and title he learned to subdue it through the strenuous pursuit of pleasure, until everything about him was once again pleasant and agreeable. Eleanor's face, overlaid by so many others, faded from his memory, until he had only the vaguest recollection of her appearance. By the time of his fortieth birthday, she had not crossed his mind for years.

He would have counted himself the most fortunate of men, were it not for a certain restlessness, a—not precisely boredom, but a feeling that the world had lost something of its charm. Often, of late, he had found himself neglecting the manifest delights of his gallery in favour of the empty wall, as if by sheer intensity of scrutiny he could divine, beneath the faint sheen of panelled oak, those lineaments of face and form which yet eluded him. Such was his absorption in this pursuit that he would wake, as it were, to find that upwards of an hour had vanished, leaving him restless and unsettled, incapable of responding to the voluptuousness all about him, seeking only to escape from gallery and house alike and lose himself in the great city, walking away the hours until it came time to return and dress for his evening engagements.

S
O IT WAS, ON THE AFTERNOON IN QUESTION, THAT
Lord Edmund emerged from his front door, turned, as was his invariable custom, left into Cheyne Walk, and set off mechanically towards Royal Hospital Road, vaguely intending to stroll up Ebury Street and take a turn around Green Park. It was a bright, clear, spring day; a light breeze, cool and invigorating, ruffled the surface of the river. Still brooding on—he knew not exactly what—he had almost reached his turning when his attention was caught by a solitary figure on the other side of the Embankment, some fifty paces ahead of him and moving in the same direction. A tall, slender, female figure, evidently youthful to judge from a certain sinuous freedom of movement, clad in what appeared to be a soft pale gown, trimmed with dark blue or purple, and crowned by—plain even at this distance—an extraordinary cloud—no other phrase would do for it—an extraordinary cloud of auburn hair which seemed to swirl and float about her as she moved.

Not, it must be admitted, for the first time in such a circumstance, Lord Edmund abandoned his intended route and quickened his pace along the Embankment, meaning to come up with the young woman on his side of the road and then—see what might be made to follow. But despite his best efforts, and without any visible acceleration on her part, the distance between them unaccountably refused to diminish. She betrayed not the slightest awareness of his interest; such was the abundance of the auburn cloud that he could not tell where her attention was directed, but she certainly had not turned her head towards him. She maintained, to all appearances, the same easy, sinuous, unselfconscious gait, and yet by the time they passed Chelsea Bridge he was stumbling between a rapid walk and an undignified trot; flushed, overheated, and altogether captivated. So they continued all the way along Grosvenor Road to Vauxhall Bridge, onto which, to his surprise, she turned, proceeding across the river at the same deceptive pace, still so surrounded by the radiant cloud of hair that despite the altered angle of vision he could see nothing of her face.

Lord Edmund now crossed over, and made his way in turn onto the bridge, noting as he did so that the tide was very low. To his perplexity and dismay, he saw that the distance between himself and his quarry had, if anything, increased. Had they been alone, he would have broken into a run, but there were other persons on the bridge, and, indignity aside, the spectacle of a gentleman in hot pursuit of an unaccompanied young lady might lead to worse humiliations. Yet, even hastening as fast as he dared, he could see all too plainly that his cause would soon be lost. He was not half-way over, yet there was her dwindling figure almost at the far side; he absolutely could not reconcile her unhurried rhythm of movement to the speed with which she was now eluding him. And what on earth could prompt her to turn, as her choice of descent began to indicate, in the direction of Lambeth, surely a most unsuitable destination for one such as her?

The auburn cloud vanished from sight, and a bitter desolation, sharper and more painful than any emotion he could recall, overwhelmed him. No; it was not to be borne; he must and would see her face, would speak to her. He looked wildly around for a hansom, but there was none in sight. Heedless of curious glances, he began to run. As he crossed the farther bank of the river, he thought—no, he was certain—he saw her disappearing into Vauxhall Walk. Thus began a chase which drew him further and further into noisome lanes and unfamiliar alleys, lured ever onwards by what was surely a flash of pale muslin, a swirl of bright hair floating like flame upon the unwholesome air, but always deceived until at last, winded, footsore, and defeated, he found himself leaning against a blank wall at the end of a dim, cobbled cul-de-sac. As the pounding in his ears subsided, he became aware of an uncanny stillness around him. There was not the faintest sight or sound of any inhabitant, not even the distant barking of a dog; the ragged crowds through which he had lately forced his way might have been a hundred miles off. The doors and windows along both sides of the alley were barred and shuttered; all but one, on closer inspection: a dingy shopfront above whose recessed doorway hung the triple symbol of the pawnbrokers trade.

Wearily, he pushed himself upright and made his way towards the shopfront, hoping at least to secure a cab, and perhaps find something palatable to quench his thirst. His footsteps rang loudly on the cobbles; the silence was really quite uncanny. Coming up to the shop window, he saw that it was so heavily layered with grime as to be entirely opaque. The door, however, stood slightly ajar. He pushed, expecting the stillness to be broken by the scrape of a lintel or the jangling of a bell, but it swung smoothly and noiselessly open.

He paused, irresolute at the threshold, willing his eyes to penetrate the gloom within. In the light from the open door he could discern the outlines of chairs and tables and other articles of furniture crowded and heaped high, one upon the other, so as to fill both sides of the room, leaving only a narrow central passageway receding into darkness. Scents of ancient timbers and musty fabrics, of decaying paper and chill metal, of dust and rot and mould, floated about him. It was not as he had imagined a pawnbrokers shop should be; there was no counter, no sign of a proprietor; only the heaped and crowded furniture and the artificial passage, scarce wide enough to admit him, into whose Stygian depths he continued vainly to peer. Lord Edmund was, of course, a man accustomed to command; in his natural surroundings it would never have occurred to him that his smallest wish would not be instantly and silently gratified, with scarce need of utterance on his part. But this was not Cheyne Walk, nor Napier Hall, nor even one of those more boisterous parts of town where gold could buy the service of any man—or woman. He stood mute, incapable either of advance or retreat, unmanned by darkness and silence.

How long he remained thus he could not tell, but a light began to glow dimly at the far end of the passage, or tunnel, as he perceived in the brightening gleam, for the aperture was not only framed but roofed over by the heaped furniture. Like a man under mesmeric compulsion, Lord Edmund found himself drawn into and along the passageway, which extended a surprising distance, given the mean proportions of shopfront and alley. As he emerged from the confinement of the tunnel, he was at first dazzled by the light of a single lantern held aloft by a motionless figure a few paces off to his left.

"Pray step forward, sir," said a grave, unexpectedly cultivated voice, "and let me know how I may be of service to you."

The figure resolved itself into a man of indeterminate age, somewhat below Lord Edmund's height, and slighter of figure, clean shaven, clothed in a plain dark suit like a manservant's. The lamplight fell upon a long, pale, melancholy face, indefinably wasted as if by prolonged illness or suffering, the eyes shadowed beneath a high forehead, the nose thin and aquiline, the lips almost bloodless. It was evident, despite the encircling gloom, that the man posed no threat to his lordship, who was about to inquire after hansom cabs and refreshments when his attention was caught by a large rectangular structure, a little to his right and taller than himself. As if anticipating a request, the proprietor—for who else could he be?—bore the lantern towards it, making, as he went, some adjustment which caused the light to brighten further. Lord Edmund, following, saw that the object was in fact a canvas, resting upon a frame; indeed a picture at least six feet in height. As the light came full upon it he caught his breath.

It was not like any picture he had ever seen, for the illusion of seeing
through
the frame, exactly as one looks through an open window to the view beyond, was, in the lamplight, absolute. He was staring at, or rather into, a woodland pool surrounded by dense foliage, and from this pool, with arms outstretched towards him, was emerging a marvellous naked woman of that preternatural beauty he had long despaired of encountering. Still more marvellously, her hair, though damp from recent immersion in the translucent waters that swirled about her waist, and thus falling dense about her shoulders rather than floating like flame upon the air, was of the exact, miraculous shade he had but lately pursued and lost. Whether this was the very same woman he could not tell; that she was
the
woman he had so long sought he had not the shadow of a doubt. Her expression seemed, at first glance, solemn and spiritual; but subtly endowed with the faintest of smiles, a hint of tender mockery, almost of invitation. He felt that he could gaze for ever into the fathomless depths of those dark eyes, upon the light caught in the minute droplets of water clinging to her lustrous flesh—but surely she breathed? Was that not a faint pulse in the delicate blue vein at her throat? Aroused, entranced, and altogether forgetful of his situation, even of the silent presence bearing the lamp, he stepped forward to claim his prize—and found himself confronted by unintelligible swirls and textures of pigment. He stepped back, and the miracle repeated itself; approached once more, and again the vision dissolved before his eyes.

"Who is she?" he inquired in a tone of wonder, more of himself than of his companion.

"Seraphina," replied the sombre voice at his back. The lamp silently approached and descended, illuminating a small bronze plate set into the base of the frame and engraved with that name in plain italic lettering.

"And—in life?" asked his lordship, still unable to take his eyes from the picture.

"There I cannot help you, sir."

"But surely she must...who then is the artist?"

"There too, sir, I am unable to enlighten you, save that I understand him to be deceased, and this to have been his only finished work."

"Then how ... pray tell me, is it for sale?"

Lord Edmund had meant to pursue his inquiries further before raising the matter of purchase, but anxiety and impatience, a dread that he might not after all take possession of his hearts desire, had overmastered him.

"It is, sir."

"And—the price?"

"Twelve guineas, sir."

His lordships jaw dropped in astonishment. He knew full well the dangers of judging a work by artificial light, but here was no question of authenticity, only an anonymous miracle of brushwork; had the man said twelve thousand, he would have called for an emissary to secure a draft from his bankers by return.

"Twelve guineas!" he repeated incredulously. "You are sure...? That is to say, yes, I will take it. Now, if you please; in fact I have that sum about me." Lord Edmund was not one of those noblemen who count it an indignity to bear the currency of the realm upon their person; he took, rather, the view that an adventurous spirit never knew when a little gold might not come in handy.

"Very good, sir. If you would care to step this way, perhaps you will allow me to offer you some refreshment whilst I make the necessary arrangements."

Scarcely able to drag his gaze away from the picture, Lord Edmund reluctantly allowed the man to conduct him, not via the passage through which he had entered, but in the opposite direction, over what he vaguely perceived to be a flagged stone floor, past various shrouded objects, down another corridor and into a small office, into which a little natural light was filtering by way of a dusty pane. There were, of course, a dozen, a hundred more questions to be put, but somehow he found himself alone, settled in a chair with a glass of brandy in his hand before he had done more than—at his own insistence—complete the transaction and take possession of his receipt. In a remarkably short time, as it seemed to him, his reverie was disturbed, not by the proprietor, but by a man of coarser aspect entering via the street door—it seemed that the establishment spanned the entire distance between one lane and the next—to inform him that his purchase was secured and ready for conveyance. Lord Edmund looked out through the other door, whence the proprietor had left him; called several times, but received no answer. The silence remained unbroken; no trace of light appeared in the darkness of the corridor. He called once more, took a few ineffectual steps into the gloom, retreated, and gave it up. He had the picture safe, that was the main thing, and would return to satisfy his curiosity on the morrow.

O
N THE WAY HOME, HOWEVER
, L
ORD
E
DMUND WAS BESET
by fear that the picture might prove a disappointment, or worse, a complete delusion, for the strangeness of the afternoons experiences did not fully manifest itself until they were jogging briskly along the Albert Embankment. It was only by an extreme effort of will that he restrained himself from signalling the cabman to stop, that he might tear the wrappings from the picture in full view of the street. By degrees he grew calmer, though he could not entirely rid himself of the sensation of having stumbled through a dream and back into the waking world, and it was with a pounding heart and a swimming sensation about his head that he watched the parcel transferred from the cabman's care into the gloved hands of his own servants. He had already resolved that, if he were not deceived, none but he would ever set eyes upon Seraphina again; she would be his, and his alone. Accordingly, he directed his men to hang the picture, still in its wrapping, in the place of honour at the head of his gallery, and withdraw, leaving him in sole possession—but of what? With trembling fingers he tore at the intervening knots, but was forced to employ a knife, in terror lest a slip of the hand should damage the picture. He was near fainting as he drew away the last of the wrappings and stepped away from the canvas.