The Unbelievers (22 page)

Who goes on trial and takes their risks in the bearpit of the High Court?

Is it the man who saved my life? Is it the woman I have come to regard as a lover and a friend?

Antonia stood waiting for his answer. The canary fluttered and twittered in its cage. Her dressing gown fell open, revealing the golden, rounded figure to which her silk undergarment clung, and the magnificent décolletage which rose from it. He thought of the horrors which Antonia had suffered because of the Duke, her mother dying in agony on the floor after being cast off by him.

Whatever choice he made would be an appalling breach of loyalty. He wished the decision could be taken away from him. There was no way that was going to happen, but he could at least defer it until he had reported to Burgess.

“I won't be taking things any further for the moment, Antonia. But don't leave town – you may be required as a witness. And thank you for your candour.”

Parish business meant that Arthur couldn't get away from Dalcorn until the afternoon following Josephine's distressing visit. First he was called out to see a servant at Dalcorn House who complained that the Devil was tempting her to steal. A clear case of underemployment making space for evil, he thought, reflecting on his brother's refusal to take up residence at Dalcorn House and give the idle army of servants something to do. Then he had to conduct the funeral for a shale miner who'd been killed in a small underground explosion. The man hadn't been a member of the church, and hadn't even gone to the Free Church chapel, but the law said that he had to be buried by the Church of Scotland, so that was that. Arthur rushed through both occasions, imagining all the while that his brother might be perpetrating fresh outrages against Josephine.

At last he was able to get away. He discreetly slipped the little pistol which he'd withdrawn from the gun room at Dalcorn House into his pocket. Since Frederick's death, with its clear implication that the brothers were being murdered in turn, he'd carried the gun every time he had to leave the manse. He'd never fired a weapon in his life, but he assumed that if he just pointed it and pulled the trigger he might wound his assailant. And, if necessary, he could use it to reinforce his arguments to George.

Of course, he'd be reasonable, as befitted a Christian. His first aim must be to make George appreciate the gross error of his ways and repent, opening his heart to regenerating grace. The best outcome would be that George realised that he had committed a grave wrong against Josephine and resolved voluntarily to seek amendment of life. The arguments of reason, faith and decency might suffice.

But what would he do if George showed no sign of penitence? That was altogether more difficult. He could threaten George with the fires of a Hell that neither of them believed in any more. He could plead to George's sense of the honour of the family, if George had retained some sense of that through his fog of spiritualism and lust. But, ultimately, the pistol represented the final possibility, the threatened or actual use of force.

Arthur was resolute as the servant admitted him to Rock House. His success in preventing his brother from committing any further evil against Josephine, and his determination to punish George tenfold for any sin against her, were his tests as a man. At last he'd been presented with a truly chivalric challenge, and he would not fail.

He did pause, though, when he saw a Paisley-patterned shawl hanging on a coathook in the lobby. It looked remarkably like a shawl he'd seen Josephine wear when she went out driving in the Ducal open carriage, before she had adopted mourning dress. Could it mean that Josephine was here? Or, more likely, had his blackguard brother stolen it from Josephine's house as some perverted lover's token? Or was he allowing his imagination to run too far ahead of himself about what was, after all, a relatively common pattern of shawl or scarf which had probably belonged to George's late wife? That must surely be it – George's sick conviction that his late wife was still spiritually resident in the house must have made him reluctant to discard or put away this remnant of her physical presence.

There was no sign of another visitor when Arthur was shown into George's studio, bright with the early spring sunlight which streamed through the skylight and the French windows. His brother was in a chaotic state of semi-undress – shirt-sleeves rolled up and waistcoat undone – and the wooden boxes, lenses, and glass plates of various cameras were strewn over the table along with a claret bottle and a teapot, but he knew this to be nothing unusual. If only, thought Arthur, George had a lens to look into his own soul.

George looked up.

“Hello there, Arthur. Nice of you to drop by.”

Arthur stood just inside the door, his hat in his hands, grateful that his clerical collar gave his neck an imposing stiffness, keeping his chin erect even if he felt an inner fear at confronting his brother.

“George,” he said, “I have come on the gravest business.”

“Dearie me, Arthur, you do look a bit serious. Come and sit down. Tea? A glass of claret?”

“George, I prefer to stand.”

“A bit odd, Arthur, if you don't mind me saying so. What's on your mind?”

“I need to speak to you very seriously about Josephine.”

George looked dreamily towards the skylight.

“Ah, dear sweet Josephine. You know, when Matilda passed over I thought I might never love a woman again, except in the purely spiritual realm. Now I find that Josephine is giving me reason to hope that I might love again in this earthly, physical existence.”

Arthur felt he could strangle his brother there and then. Earthly, physical love with Josephine? How could this monster who had caused her so much grief even dare to mention his brutal desire for physical love with her? He struggled to maintain his composure, but as he spoke he was aware that his voice sounded shrill.

“George, you have done a great wrong to Josephine. I have come here to ask you to repent, and to promise before me and Our Lord that you will offer no further offence to her.”

George simply looked perplexed. The meeting wasn't following the script which Arthur had crafted so carefully in his head.

“Offence? Steady on, Arthur. I can't say that I follow you.”

“Do you need me to spell it out? To speak of the unspeakable?”

“Well, I suppose you'd better, old chap, or else I won't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.”

“George, please, at least have the decency to yourself and to me to speak the truth. Did you visit Josephine at the dower-cottage yesterday afternoon?”

“Well, yes, actually, I did, though I can't see that that's any concern of yours.”

“And what happened when you were there?”

“We conversed, Arthur. Oh, and we took tea. I really can't see that you could be offended by that.”

Arthur tried to steel his voice, and pitch it half-an-octave lower, but it only sounded as if it was breaking.

“George, as we stand in the awful presence of the Almighty I urge you, for the sake of your eternal soul, to tell the truth. What happened between you and Josephine?”

George stood up.

“Look, Arthur, it's been a terrible strain on everyone. First William and then Frederick. I can't say it's been good for my nerves either. But do try and pull yourself together. Sit down. Have a drink.”

“No, George, I insist you tell me the truth. Did you, with gross indecency, assault Josephine in the dower-cottage yesterday afternoon?”

George's perplexity was hardened with an edge of anger.

“No, of course not.”

What do I do, thought Arthur. What possible influence can I have on a man who flatly denies the truth?

“You're saying that you laid no hand on her?”

“That's right, Arthur. I honestly don't know what's got into you today.”

“And you said nothing to her about marriage, or about her coming to live with you at Rock House?”

George stood closer and touched Arthur on the arm.

“I really do think you'd better sit down. There's something I want to tell you.”

“No, George. I choose to stand.”

“All right then. But please just listen for a moment. I'm sorry that I'm going to have to say something which may upset you.”

The truth, or at least part of it, at last, thought Arthur. George continued.

“I have an understanding with Josephine, Arthur. She's been rather adrift since William died, and I'm afraid Frederick was a tad beastly to her. I've also been feeling rather lost – I know Matilda is still with me in spirit but I've been feeling that it's time for me to move on too. The fear that death is stalking the family has spurred things on somewhat for me. I don't need to tell you that Josephine is a damned attractive woman, and still of childbearing age, given the right sire.

“We've grown close over the past couple of months. There's a sort of comfort that perhaps only two widowed people can give to each other. The long and the short of it is, Arthur, that we've decided to get married once Josephine's out of mourning. If we're spared.”

“No!” Arthur felt tears welling up, and a constriction at the back of his throat.

“I'm sorry, Arthur. I'd hoped to be able to tell you at a more opportune time. I know you're rather sweet on Josephine – it's been plain for everyone to see. But we think this is the right thing for us, and for the family.”

“No! You're lying!”

“I know it's a disappointment to you, Arthur, but you've always been a generous soul and I'm sure you'll be the first to wish us well, once you're used to the idea.” He grasped Arthur in a loose embrace. “Friends?”

In the split second before his inhibitions could engage Arthur shoved his brother, hard, away from him. George stumbled, looking back over his shoulder, and then there was a sharp crack as his head struck the edge of the table. He fell inert on the floor.

Arthur knelt down. His brother was still breathing and his eyes were still open, though they didn't appear to be focussing. George gave a low groan with every breath.

Get help, said a voice in Arthur's head. Call the servants and get help. But a subtler voice spoke too – leave him. Whether he or Josephine spoke truly, your brother tried to steal her from you. If Josephine spoke truly, he is justly punished for his evil to her. If George spoke truly, he has confessed that he wants to take her from you. Run away, and leave his fate to the wise judgement of God.

Arthur stood up, opened the French windows, and ran.

The beefsteak and Burgundy at Professor Boyd's house tasted like hard-tack and brackish water in Allerdyce's mouth. The Speculative Society was to be treated tonight to an exhibition of spiritualism by one of Boyd's latest finds – the ‘Seer of Brora', Mrs Flora MacIver. There's a spirit here right enough, thought Allerdyce. It's Sergeant Hector McGillivray standing behind me in his prison chains, as real as Banquo's ghost.

He tried to get through dinner with as little conversation a possible. Normally he'd have been a leading spokesman for rational scepticism, but tonight he didn't feel he had either the energy or the certainty to argue about anything. It was a relief when dinner was over and they were led through to Boyd's drawing room, where Mrs MacIver's spirit cabinet had been set up.

The room was lit feebly for the occasion by a single red-shaded paraffin lamp on a stand by the door. Chairs had been set out in a circle, and in the middle of the circle was a table on which Allerdyce could dimly discern a book, a candlestick, and a handbell. At the far side of the circle he could see the old woman's pale and crinkled face, the shadowed light etching the lines deeper into her face so that she looked like Death personified. The rest of her was invisible – black clothing against a background of temporarily erected black curtains, the standard equipment of the music-hall supernaturalist.

He took his seat and Professor Boyd turned the light down to allow the séance to proceed in darkness. Allerdyce blessed the darkness which allowed him to endure the unobserved privacy of his inner agony while the unconvincing rattles, bangs, and appearances of phosphorescent objects proclaimed the alleged presence of the spirits summoned by the old Highland charlatan. He felt the air disturbed by what might have been a spirit, but was more likely the medium's accomplice appearing from behind the curtains.

He was sorry when Boyd stood up after the ‘spirits' had been quiet for a few minutes and ignited a bright lamp with a clear shade.

“The next experiment,” announced Professor Boyd, “is not dependent on the whims of spirits who may be shy of the light. It is a simple controlled experiment into the power of thought transference. Mrs MacIver, do you consent to be blindfolded.”

“Aye.”

“And to turn your chair so that your back is to the table and there is no prospect of your being able to see any image or object placed on the table?”

“As you please, sir.”

“Thank you. Now, Mr Allerdyce will you consent to examine this piece of black cloth, which has been folded over three times? I'd be obliged if you could hold it against the lamplight and confirm to me that no discernible light or image is able to pass through the cloth.”

Allerdyce got up and reluctantly held the cloth to the light.

“It's as you say, Boyd. Practically impenetrable.”

“Thank you, Allerdyce. Now would you tie the blindfold round Mrs MacIver's head, to exclude all possibility of her seeing anything.”

“Very well.”

He felt his hands shaking as he tied the cloth behind the old woman's black headscarf, imagining himself tying it round McGillivray's head before his execution. He fumbled the knot twice before getting it right and sitting down with relief.

“Right,” said Boyd. “I have in my hand a set of cards. Not common playing cards, but a series of distinct shapes designed precisely for experiments of this nature. To avoid any suspicion that they are in a pre-arranged sequence known to Mrs MacIver may I ask Professor McIntyre to shuffle them, if that is within his pledge as a minister of religion not to conspire with the powers of darkness. Professor McIntyre?”

“All right then.”

McIntyre shuffled the cards three times then handed them back to Boyd.

“Now,” said Boyd, “I will lay out ten cards, one at a time, on the table in front of us. As I place each card on the table I want all of you to hold that image strongly in your mind, as far as possible to the exclusion of all other thought. I will lay the first card now.”

He placed the card down. Allerdyce tried hard to hold the image in his mind – trying to think of nothing more complex than a black printed shape on a white card kept other, more painful, thoughts at bay.

The seer paused for nearly two minutes before speaking.

“A circle.”

“Correct, Mrs MacIver. I will place the second card now.”

The answer was quicker this time.

“A star.”

“How many points?”

“Five, sir.”

“Correct again, Mrs MacIver. Now for the third card.”

Allerdyce tried, again, to focus on the card but his thoughts refused to be held at bay. It was Antonia he saw this time, with her dressing gown falling alluringly open. Could she have done it? Could she have taken what, in common justice, appeared to be a richly deserved revenge on William Bothwell-Scott? Should he have arrested her already? Was he protecting her because of love, friendship or cowardice?

The medium appeared to be flustered, her head moving from side to side as if she was looking into the blackness of her veil for an answer.

“Mrs MacIver? Do you have an answer? Mrs MacIver?”

“I cannae see, sir. I don't see it clearly. It comes into view and then out again. Is it a square?”

“No, I'm sorry Mrs MacIver, it isn't. Would you like another attempt?”

The medium continued to look around for an answer, her body now rocking backwards and forwards in her chair.

“Mrs MacIver? Are you all right? Should we stop? Do you want a glass of water?”

“I cannae see, sir. There's too much confusion of energy coming from a gentleman in the room.”

“All right, we'll stop this now.”

“No, wait.” The medium sat bolt upright and appeared to be staring straight ahead of her through the thick blindfold.

“I have a clear message come into my mind, sir. It is addressed to a gentleman of uneasy conscience. It says ‘You will see a good man hanged and a wronged woman's revenge. This will be.'”

No! thought Allerdyce. Not that! Please let me not believe that that message is for me. It's all nonsense, isn't it?

But a chill sweat had already broken out on his back and his pulse was racing. He felt sick to his core. Without thinking he found himself praying to whatever unseen presence or vacuity permeated the universe.

Save my friends. Don't let them die. And for God's sake save me too.