White Stone Day

By
the same author

The
Fiend in Human

WHITE
STONE DAY

JOHN
MACLACHLAN GRAY

Random
House Canada

Copyright
© 2005 John MacLachlan Gray

All
rights reserved under International and Pan–American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher,
except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Published in 2005 by Random House Canada, a division of Random House
of Canada Limited, in the United Kingdom by Century and in the United
States by St. Martin's Press. Distributed in Canada by Random House
of Canada Limited.

www.randomhouse.ca
Random House Canada and colophon are trademarks.

Library
and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Gray, John, 1946–
White stone day / John MacLachlan Gray. ISBN 0–679–31174–2
I. Title. PS8563.R411W45 2005 C813'.54 C2005–904916–2
Printed and bound in the United States of America 1098765432 1

For
Beverlee

I
have a fairy by my side Which says 1 must not sleep, When once in
pain 1 loudly cried It said 'You must not weep.' If, full of mirth, I
smile and grin, It says 'You must not laugh'; When once I wished to
drink some gin, It said 'You must not quaff.' 'What may I do?' at
length I cried, Tired of the painful task. The fairy quietly replied,
And said 'You must not ask.'

–
Lewis
Carroll, Aged 13

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter
One

Crouch
Manor, Chester Wolds, Oxfordshire, 1

Chapter
Two

Whitechapel,
London 7

Chapter
Three

The
Alhambra Baths, Endell Street 10

Chapter
Four

Crouch
Manor 22

Chapter
Five

Fleet
Street, west of Ludgate 28

Chapter
Six

Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire 35

Chapter
Seven

Plant's
Inn 40

Chapter
Eight

5
Buckingham Gate 44

Chapter
Nine

Plant's
Inn 53

Chapter
Ten

Eastcheap 56

Chapter
Eleven

The
Falcon 60

Chapter
Twelve

The
Pith and Paradox 63

Chapter
Thirteen

Bissett
Grange 75

Chapter
Fourteen

Crouch
Manor 83

Chapter
Fifteen

Millbank
Prison 86

Chapter
Sixteen

New
Scotland Yard, off Parliament Street 92

Chapter
Seventeen

The
Alhambra Baths 95

Chapter
Eighteen

Crouch
Manor 102

Chapter
Nineteen

The
Hen and Hatchet, Houndsditch 108

Chapter
Twenty

Crouch
Manor 112

Chapter
Twenty–One

The
Hen and Hatchet 116

Chapter
Twenty–Two

The
Hen and Hatchet 125

Chapter
Twenty–Three

The
Falcon 128

Chapter
Twenty–Four

Bissett
Grange 131

Chapter
Twenty–Five

The
Hen and Hatchet 143

Chapter
Twenty–Six

Crouch
Manor 146

Chapter
Twenty–Seven

Plant's
Inn 148

Chapter
Twenty–Eight

Bissett
Grange 154

Chapter
Twenty–Nine

The
Pith and Paradox 156

Chapter
Thirty

Bissett
Grange 161

Chapter
Thirty–One

Machpelah
Square, Mesopotamia 163

Chapter
Thirty–Two

Bissett
Grange 164

Chapter
Thirty–Three

Machpelah
Square 173

Chapter
Thirty–Four

Crouch
Manor 182

Chapter
Thirty–Five

Crouch
Manor 185

Chapter
Thirty–Six

The
Thames 187

Chapter
Thirty–Seven

Bissett
Grange 190

Chapter
Thirty–Eight

The
Thames 191

Chapter
Thirty–Nine

Bissett
Grange 193

Chapter
Forty

Crouch
Manor 195

Chapter
Forty–One

Iffley
Lock, Oxfordshire 203

Chapter
Forty–Two

Town
of Oxford 212

Chapter
Forty–Three

The
Roland Stones 214

Chapter
Forty–Four

Town
of Oxford 217

Chapter
Forty–Five

St
Ambrose College, Oxford 224

Chapter
Forty–Six

Bissett
Grange 232

Chapter
Forty–Seven

Town
of Oxford 244

Chapter
Forty–Fight

Bissett
Grange 248

Chapter
Forty–Nine

The
Roland Stones 252

Chapter
Fifty

Bissett
Grange 259

Chapter
Fifty–One

The
Wood 273

Chapter
Fifty–Two

Bissett
Grange 274

Chapter
Fifty–Three

Bissett
Grange 278

Chapter
Fifty–Four

The
Alhambra Baths 281

Epilogue
285

Acknowledgements
I could not have completed this book without the advice and support
of Anne Collins, Hope Dellon, Helen Heller and Oliver Johnson. Many
thanks to Dr John Hughes, whose discourse abounds with historical
oddities. I am, above all, beholden to Charles Dodgson (Lewis
Carroll), whose life and work inspired this entirely fictional
account.

1

Crouch
Manor, Chester Wolds, Oxfordshire

Ye
golden hours of Life's young spring, Of innocence, of love and truth!
Bright, beyond all imagining, Thou fairy–dream of youth!

'Very
well, ladies, shall we begin?'

'Please,
let's do,' says the smaller girl, pushing strands of wayward hair
from her eyes with two small hands.

'Very
well,' says her sister, who is slightly older and slightly more
ladylike.

The
Reverend William Leffington Boltbyn straightens his waistcoat,
inhales with feigned gravity, and begins. Before him, the two members
of his audience lean forward as though drawn by a string, four lovely
eyes limpid with anticipation.

'As
you might recall (especially Miss Emma, as our protagonist du jour),
it was late afternoon, an hour not unlike the present, when the light
grows long and the verdant lawns here at Crouch Manor take on a
peculiar luminosity . . .' He withdraws his watch from his vest
pocket and inspects the instrument carefully. 'About five–twenty–two,
I should think,' he says, placing the watch face–up upon his
knee.

Whispers
Lydia to Emma: 'If he continues describing things I shall lose
interest.'

'Be
patient,' replies Emma. 'Mr Boltbyn needs to set the scene.' The
vicar resumes. 'Having undertaken a seemingly endless game of
croquet, which followed a seemingly endless hour of moral
instruction, Emma was beginning to get sulky and bored . . .'

'That
cannot be,' objects the older girl. T am quite fond of croquet.'
'Very well, let us say that Emma was bored with the moral
instruction, though not with the game. In the case of her governess,
however, it was the reverse – while she disliked croquet, Miss
Pouch never tired of moral instruction.'

'Miss
Pouch does not address the ball in the proper manner,' says Emma.
'One cannot strike it properly without parting one's legs.' Oh,
Emma,' sighs Lydia. 'You are always causing a person to lose the
thread.'

Emma
turns to her sister and out darts a small pink tongue. The vicar
continues: 'After a characteristically feeble attempt to strike the
ball, and becoming overcome as a consequence by heat–
exhaustion, Miss Pouch collapsed in a swoon upon the blanket. Now it
was Emma's turn – and wouldn't you know, she roqued her
governess's ball!'

'Oh
yes, Mr Boltbyn, that would be splendid!' cries Lydia.

With
a wink to the little girl, the vicar carries on. 'Emma's blue croquet
ball now rested in contiguity with the red, presenting Miss Pouch's
spirited opponent with an opportunity to avenge any number of
slights.'

'A
roque is a perfectly legitimate play, you know,' says Emma.

'Quite
so. Reassured that a roque is a legal manoeuvre, casting an
apologetic glance in the direction of her sleeping governess, whose
jaw had slackened something like a trout's . . .'

Ha,
ha! Both girls laugh aloud. Lydia widens her eyes and moves her lips
in the manner of a fish.

'Emma
placed her tiny left foot atop her ball, lifted her mallet in a wide
arc, and swung just as hard as ever she could, thereby to dispatch
Miss Pouch's ball to a distant location, out of play – Crack!'

'Crack!'
echoes Lydia.

'But
wait! Imagine Emma's astonishment as the red ball sped away as though
shot from a cannon – tearing across the lawn, ripping through a
bed of sweet william and bouncing down the hill, only to disappear in
the shadows of Adderleigh Forest!'

'Oh,
Emma,' says the younger girl. 'You hit it too hard.' 'Indeed, it is
not the first time your sister has underestimated her strength, with
awkward results. To make things worse, when she crossed the lawn to
retrieve the red ball – it was nowhere to be seen!

And
what do you say to that, Miss Emma?'

'I
suppose I should say that it is very singular.'