White Stone Day (10 page)

The
Falcon Sala throws his copy of Dodd's onto the floor, pulls out his
shirt–tail and proceeds to clean his monocle. 'Most
distressing, Edmund. How can Eraser have turned you into such a
tragic buffoon?' Lowering his copy of the Telegraph, Mr Cream nods
agreement, with an expression indicating that he does not find
Whitty's humiliation distressing in the least. 'Not so great a
mystery as all that,' Whitty snaps. 'When an enemy is supplied with
damaging information, anyone can appear ridiculous.' Sala notes how
fatigue and anxiety mar the symmetry of his friend's dyspeptically
handsome features. 'Having written a paid advertisement for the
institute,' continues the correspondent, 'it is hardly surprising
that Fraser has been handed a full account of the event. The mystery
in my mind is – who supplied them with the name of Willows?'
'Clearly your original source betrayed you,' offers Mr Cream, a bit
too smoothly. 'I find it highly unlikely that the American would
engineer such a baroque attack on a strange Englishman,' replies
Whitty, thinking, And pay him £ij for the pleasure. 'Obviously
a third source exists, who knew everything.' 'So many sources,' says
Sala, shaking his beard. 'So much tattling. Does nobody keep anything
to himself?' The source of the name Willows is in this office, thinks
Whitty. Someone who has been at it for some time. Someone within
earshot. 'I don't suppose you might consider that the psychic is
genuine,' wonders Cream. 'That is beyond your conceptual purview,
seemingly.' Whitty resists the urge to lunge horizontally and plunge
a quill straight into his plump neck. 'Indeed, Mr Cream, it is
possible. Just as it is possible that my streak of ill–fortune
occurred because I failed to spit and make the sign of the cross upon
seeing a black cat.' 'Did you really, Edmund?' Sala enquires. 'Don't
talk rot, Algy.' 60 THE FALCON 'In any case, Mr Cream does have a
point. We must not forget the possibility that the dead speak from
the beyond.' 'People are credulous baboons,1 replies Whitty. And yet,
he thinks, what is one to make of this? I did not live as you think I
lived. I did not die as you think I died. Those two sentences burn in
his mind like drops of vitriol. Cream cannot resist prodding the
wound. 'Given Mr Whitty's record of late, we should not be surprised
that the project is a fiasco.' 'Be quiet, Mr Cream,' retorts the
editor. T am sick and tired of you.' The discussion is abruptly ended
by the clamorous arrival of a pimpled lout in a tattered wool
uniform, with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. 'What the devil
do you want, Sammy?' growls the editor. 'Is it too much to expect a
subordinate to knock before entering?' 'Begging your pardon,
governor, a message for Mr Whitty.' Sammy approaches the
correspondent with an envelope, tripping over a stool. 'Might as well
have a horse in the office,' the editor grumbles. Using Sala's brass
letter–opener, Whitty slits the envelope and comes up with a
second envelope, of thick Manila paper, addressed as follows: SOLELY
FOR THE EYES OF EDMUND WHITTY, ESQ,. 'This might prove interesting,'
he says, as he draws out a photograph from the second envelope . . .
'I say, Edmund, what is it? You look as though you have seen –
I did not say ghost, out of respect for your sceptical frame of
mind.' Sala reaches for the photograph; Whitty snatches it from his
grasp, turns, and leaves the room without uttering a word. With the
mechanical gait of a sleep–walker Whitty steps out of the
building onto Ingester Square, where he pauses in the inadequate
shelter of the only tree in the vicinity – nearly dead, yet not
quite ready for the fire. He pauses with no destination in mind, and
for no reason in particular he examines the bark of this enduring
plant . . . He sits on the bench, insensible to the moisture soaking
the seat of his trousers. He holds the square envelope out in front
of him as though it were about to explode. Blackmail, for certain –
but to what end? To extort money from a 61 WHITE STONE DAY journalist
on his uppers? Or to bar further enquiries into the circumstances of
David's life and death? In either case, the sender has made his
point. The photograph is of the type which has been imported from
France and sold on Holywell Street since the invention of the
daguerreotype. Such photographs commonly depict a naked woman of a
certain type, in a tawdry attempt at a luxurious setting. The most
expensive feature a gentleman in a similar state. This picture is
infinitely worse. It is impossible that it could be an impostor. What
actor could counterfeit the small, crescent–shaped birthmark on
David's thigh, or the scar from a fractured collarbone after falling
from a horse, or the crow's–feet at the corner of his eyes from
rowing in the summer sun? Or the lazy smile which Edmund had seen
spread slowly over David's face whenever he contemplated his own
handsome reflection in a glass? The female in the picture cannot have
attained her twelfth year. Monstrous. The oriental wallpaper in the
background tells him nothing, for it is a favourite with the fast set
in both Paris and London. He slips the photograph back into the
envelope and into his coat pocket. Why does he not simply destroy the
thing, rip it to shreds, throw it in the putrid Thames where it
belongs? Because, even were this the only photograph taken, there
might be hundreds of duplicates, ready to be sold beneath the
counters of bookshops all over the city. What might he be compelled
to do, in order to prevent this from happening? Watched by the
gargoyles across the square, slouched atop the Church of England,
Whitty rises abruptly to his feet – too abruptly, for he has to
extend one hand to steady himself on the bench, only to cut it on an
exposed nail. A bitter oath escapes his throat, directed at various
kinds of pain, and he exits Ingester Square at a run, howling aloud,
mouth agape, unable to contain himself in the most miserable hour of
his life. 62 12 The Pith and Paradox He needs a drink desperately,
yet Plant's is out of the question. He decides to calm his nerves in
an appalling den near the Embankment, called the Pith and Paradox. It
is filled with hoodlums for hire. Whitty is acquainted with its
proprietor, a woman of fifty who takes the name Madame Geneva, whose
celebrated breasts spill over the counter like tipped bowls of
tapioca. When not serving acrid glasses of doctored gin at tuppence a
glass, or paying tuppence for a stolen coat worth a guinea, the good
woman performs Tarot readings for local judies, bludgers and
gonolphs, as though their futures were not sufficiently obvious
already. The moment Whitty enters the Pith and Paradox, it is clear
that a change of radical proportions has taken place: an unfamiliar
cleanliness and orderliness, a dearth of vomit. The floorboards are
no longer carpeted with sawdust, sodden with expectoration, but
instead have been swept clean. Nor does the diseased hag–bag at
the end of the bar cackle over her gin at the top of her voice, but
maintains an almost decorous state of inebriation. 'Mr Whitty,' comes
a familiar, welcome, yet unexpected voice. 'I have not seen you in
some time.' Here in Madame Geneva's establishment, in front of the
bottles stands Miss Phoebe Owler, in a dress of green velvet, as
sharp and as pretty and as verboten as ever. Phoebe Owler –
who, as a girl of fifteen, sorely tested the limits of his
discretion. Indeed, continues to do so to a maddening degree, for she
appears not a day older to him six years later; in truth, his vision
of her will remain when she is a crone of forty. A wave of feeling
breaks over him, that combination of sadness and desire which attends
an unconsummated relation with a young woman; in which the better
part of one's nature prevailed in return for years of yearning and
regret. 'A pleasure to see you as always, Miss Owler. Though I had
hoped to see you at the Comedy by now, taking a fifth curtain–call
before a delirious audience.' 'You would not have seen it anyway. You
were not at the Albert Saloon where I played several parts. Nor were
you at the Theatre Royal 63 WHITE STONE DAY when I played three
matinees as Miss Clayton's understudy.' 'Alas, I was on assignment in
Prussia.' Whitty has never been to Prussia; fact is, he lacked the
price of a theatre ticket. 'Given your success, to what do we owe
your presence at the Pith and Paradox?' 'To my employer. Mr Banks
acquired the establishment and has entrusted its management to me.'
'And has this advancement cured you of your stage–sickness?'
'Of course not. Yet I am sufficiently experienced to know that, in
the long run, it is impossible to make a living in the theatre.' 'And
what of the short run?' 'In the short run, one might as well enter
prostitution directly.' Her eyes flash in that way he likes, indeed,
he pursued the topic purely in the hope of seeing her defy him. For a
moment she has caused him to forget his current catastrophe –
but now it pours back, all of it, and he is in disarray. Fortunately,
his drinking habits remain consistent. 'An extremely large spiced
gin, if you please, Miss Phoebe, with hot water and plenty of sugar
to bring out the flavour.' 'In a spot of trouble are you, Mr Whitty?
When you are in trouble you generally pile on the sugar.' 'Nothing
that won't be over in a week, at which time I hope to be dead.'
Whitty drains the glass in a single swallow. 'Would you care for
another?' 'Yes, please.' 'Is there anything I can do?' For a moment
their eyes remain locked together. Phoebe has a knack for this sort
of teasing. He can barely constrain himself from leaping over the
bar, dropping to his knees and proposing marriage, followed by
emigration to Canada. 'No, Miss Phoebe, I am afraid this is a beast I
must wrestle on my own.' With another gin down the neck and a pinch
of medicinal snuff up the nose, he totters out of the Pith and
Paradox, only to freeze at the door, in a mild panic. He is about to
venture into enemy territory. He is about to be blackmailed –
possibly by the one he intends to visit. What if he were held hostage
– or murdered by the blasted Irish, with the envelope and its
obscene contents in his coat pocket? With that in mind, he returns to
the bar. 'Pardon me, Miss Owler, might I be so bold as to tender a
small request?' 'Your requests are always welcome, Mr Whitty. You
know that.' 64 THE PITH AND PARADOX 'Here is an envelope I wish to
put in your safe–keeping. It contains a letter from my mother,
from her death–bed, a document of great sentimental value. If I
do not return within a fortnight, feel free to burn it. Should I
return for it, I shall pay you 5 shillings.' 'Ten shillings.' 'Six
shillings.' 'Seven shillings,' replies Phoebe. Having done her duty
by the establishment, she accepts the envelope, leans over the bar,
and kisses him softly upon the cheek. Whitty wishes she wouldn't do
that. The arthritic carriage lurches unevenly up Titchfield Street
onto Piccadilly, only to become entrapped by the omnibuses, whose
sheer multiplicity approximates a series of moving walls. Naturally,
their teams of horses emit what amounts to a steady deluge of turd,
transforming a street named for the skirt of a woman into a stable.
Meanwhile the stone facades of the surrounding buildings create a
veritable cauldron of steaming excrement, while intensifying the
harsh clatter of horseshoes, the crack of whips, and the oaths of
drivers. Without the dreadful envelope, Whitty feels as though he is
rid of a canker. He rests his head upon the rotting pillow, slick
from the pomade of a thousand heads, and reviews his position. The
significance of David's death six and a half years ago would be lost
on a Londoner today. Thanks to Crimea, the death of an eldest has now
become common; parlours all over England feature portraits of dead
young men in medieval armour, attended by allegorical women.
Photographers have accrued fortunes taking portraits of corpses,
framed by locks of their hair. That was not so when David died. At
that time, only rarely did a young man of good family achieve an
untimely death: by fever, a fall from a horse – or, in the case
of his brother, by drowning while boating on the Thames. Accidental
death (to say nothing of suicide) was not tragic or heroic, it was
unpleasant and embarrassing, to be discussed in whispers. Hence,
lacking a public forum in which to express their grief, the rather,
mother and brother responded according to individual temperament:
Father chose the path of financial ruin; Mother chose the path of
sickliness; and Edmund chose the path of dissolution and trouble.
Today, Sir Richard Whitty resides in California, Mrs Whitty resides
in Marylebone Cemetery, David Whitty lies beside his mother, and
brother Edmund sits in a stinking carriage, on his way to the house
65 WHITE STONE DAY of a blackmailer who threatens to pulverise the
remaining shreds of the Whitty reputation. He rests his gloved hands
upon his walking–stick and his chin upon his hands, and peers
through the curtain, at the sudden greenery of St Charles Square;
wisps of fog (ghosts of the Stuarts perhaps) catch onto the branches
of plane trees, like swathes of cotton, or bearded heads –
severed, then dissolved into mist. Whitty pounds upon the door with
his stick until his arm aches, to no avail, then tries the handle
which might as well be welded to the door. Clearly, visitors are not
expected at 5 Buckingham Gate. Returning to the courtyard, he
proceeds to a corner of the house and descends a set of crumbling
steps to the trade entrance, whose wooden door has gone to rot. Two
kicks with his boot and he is inside. He stoops to enter, not to
crack his head on the ancient stone lintel. As a precaution against a
meat cleaver welcome, he hollers a hearty and nonsensical Halloo! Is
anyone there? into the darkness, as though it were the customary
thing for a visitor to kick the tradesman's door down, on a visit.
Reassured by a lack of response, he proceeds down a short hallway
into the kitchen – deserted, slippery underfoot, heavy with the
odour of sheep fat and the eerie silence of disuse. The cast–iron
range, set within its predecessor – an ancient open hearth with
hooks dangling above – is barely warm to the touch; in front of
the stove sits the coal–hod, three–quarters filled,
suggesting that the stove was lit this morning. The meat–table,
invisible beneath a cloak of insects the colour of syrup, contains
what seems to be the remains of a joint of boiled mutton. In a corner
of the room, a rat awaits its turn at the spoils; when Whitty
threatens the animal with his stick, it backs away but does not flee.
Clearly, the pantry has been vacated abruptly and unexpectedly. One
shelf is piled high with dried soups, pots of beans, grains, as well
as the iron black–stone with which Irishmen prepare their dry,
tasteless oat– cakes. The next shelf is empty, save for a
single bottle with the label of Charleson's; the drawer below gapes
open like a toothless jaw. Whitty concludes that the Irish have left
the house, along with every drop to drink in the pantry and every
piece of silver in the drawer – only to be expected. Even so,