White Stone Day (19 page)

a subject which must remain quiet. So beastly, and so necessary. Yet
in the case of this cunning little 141 WHITE STONE DAY witch, should
such action become necessary it would be a painful necessity as
always, yet somehow satisfying all the same . . . The silence between
Emma and the estate manager contains sufficient tension for even Mr
Lambert to take note. 'What has my daughter been doing, now? Has Emma
said something rude?' 'Not at all, sir. A perfectly lovely little
girl.' 142 25 The Hen and Hatchet, Houndsditch The day's ratting is
done, the dead rodents have been cleared away and the U–shaped
arena thoroughly whitewashed. Yet the gamblers and spectators have by
no means lost enthusiasm for the sport. This they express in various
ways, so that the room practically undulates with swearing, spitting,
sweating, biting, farting males, yapping simul– taneously like
mongrels, requiring the barmen to bellow like town criers in order to
make their way through the heaving throng. The room is a festival of
drink going down a hundred necks, whether in celebration, solace, or
the simple desire for oblivion. So popular is the Hen and Hatchet at
this time of day, it takes Fraser several minutes of crab–like
insinuation to cross the floor to the long bar, where he secures a
place for himself with the help of two sharp elbows. Leaning forward
upon the mahogany surface, he scans the company to either side with
his small, shrewd eyes, and he has no difficulty recognising the
party named Will – described by the waiter as a giant in a long
coat, with a face seemingly smashed by an omnibus. Will is nursing a
pint with a group of ratters, some of whom hold bull–dogs under
their arms, while others clutch their Skye terriers to their chests
like wet–nurses. The only dogs not asleep are the sharp–
nosed English terriers, which squirm to get loose from their neat
black leather collars, having smelled the rats in the room above.
Behind the bar, above several tiers of luminescent bottles, hangs a
bright silver collar which will be the prize in a coming match. On
either side of the trophy hang a series of worn leather collars,
stamped with the names of deceased champions and their owners. One of
these belonged to a dog named Tiny, owned by an Edmund Whitty, Esq.
The sight of it causes Fraser to smile inwardly, as a monument to his
rival's decline and fall. 'A glass of the out–and–out, my
man,' Fraser calls to the barman, affecting a working–class
accent to go with his tattered corduroy suit. In truth he needs a
drink badly, for though he has steadfastly claimed otherwise, he has
never in his life gone anywhere incognito. Fraser is not a journalist
who seeks things out for himself; rather, his skill or gift 143 WHITE
STONE DAY is the ability to synthesise and re–tell, in a
morally committed, indignant voice, what other journalists have
uncovered in the field. Adding to Fraser's discomfort is a morbid
fear of rats. While a child on the privy outside a strange cottage at
night, he once nearly sat on one, and the memory has clung to him for
life. Not until he has downed a second glass of gin does he summon
the courage to inch his way down the bar towards the gentleman in
question. But just when he takes his place beside and below the
quarry, before he can open his mouth to introduce himself, Will is
joined by a short, barrel–shaped fellow, with whom he conducts
an anxious exchange. 'That is a right sour look you have on you,
Norman. Another day gone for nothing?' It has been half a week since
the Captain's order, and Menzies the welsher is not yet located, and
the Captain takes a dim view of failure among his staff. 'The same
fecking story, so help me Christ,' says Norman, bitterly. 'At his
work they says he is taken sick; at his rooms they says he is at his
club; at his club they says he is abroad. His drinking companions
forget ever knowing the sod.' 'It is most worrying,' says Will. 'Most
worrying,' agrees Norman, signalling the barman for a large of the
usual. 'Excuse me, gentlemen,' announces an unfamiliar voice to the
right. The gentleman standing beside them is a stranger with a
Glasgow– accent and a corduroy suit. 'How do you do,
gentlemen,' he continues, smiling. 'I am instructed to present myself
to a party by the name of Will.' The eyes of the two man–bashers
narrow at once. The larger man plants his feet in the stance of a
boxer, as a precaution. 'And what might your business be with that
particular gentleman?' asks Norman. 'I am told I should speak to
Will. I am told that, through that gentleman, I might meet another
gentleman named Rodney.' Fraser executes a conspiratorial wink. A
pause follows, as Norman and Will exchange puzzled glances. Never in
their lives have they entertained such a request. Norman takes the
lead: 'And who might you be, sir? Who is it what wishes to see Mr
Rodney?' 'My name is Menzies,' replies Fraser, taking a cigar from
his pocket and lighting it, to show confidence. 'You are Mr Menzies?'
asks Will, softly. 144 THE HEN AND HATCHET, HOUNDSDITCH 'I most
assuredly am. And I have been given leave to speak to Mr Rodney by
parties on the highest level.' 'I believe you, sir,' says Norman, and
looks sternly at his associate. 'Will, did you not hear the
gentleman? Go now, and fetch Mr Rodney. Tell him Mr Menzies awaits.'
'Certainly,' replies Will. As Will pushes his way through the crowd
to another room, Fraser orders another gin. On inspiration, and in a
most extraordinary departure, he requests a glass for Norman as well.
'Most kind of you, Mr Menzies. To your health, sir.' Norman raises
his glass, displaying a row of brown teeth. 'Mr Rodney is an
extraordinary individual, I am told,' says Fraser, thinking to
capitalise upon the goodwill he has secured for the price of a drink.
'Indeed so,' replies Norman. 'I have never known anyone like him.' 'I
am told that he is a party with unique knowledge of the lower depths
of London.' 'That is also very true, sir,' replies Norman. 'It were
his home for much of his life.' In the mind of the correspondent for
Dodd's, headers appear in coloured lights: Born in the Sewers of
London. Bred for a life of Crime . . . By this time Will has returned
with one hand in his coat pocket. 'Well now, gentlemen,' he says.
'Will,' says Norman, 'have you been after speaking to Rodney?' 'I
have,' nods the larger man. 'Then please introduce him to Mr Menzies
without delay.' So saying, Norman takes a sudden grip of Fraser's
waistband and pulls smartly – whereupon, in a surprisingly deft
movement for such a large man, Will produces a sleek, wriggling,
furry object and inserts it straight down the front of the trousers;
in almost the same motion, he lifts Fraser into the air, barges
through the crowd to the arena, and tosses him over the railing,
where an eager crowd gathers to see what follows. 'Do you see, Will?
He is dancing! Do you think it is the highland fling?' 'Aye, Norman.
And he makes the sound of the bagpipes as well.' Crushed against the
arena railing, dog–owners break into peals of laughter,
awakening their animals, who join in with barking until the room is
ringing with merriment, and squeaking as well. 145 26 Crouch Manor,
Chester Wolds, Oxfordshire It is late at night – or, to be
precise, very early morning, and the house is long asleep. Lydia
listens to the big clock in the parlour, which she never hears at any
other time, and turns her head to the window. Outside, a cold sliver
of a moon appears to impale the top of the tree on the front lawn.
Lydia's sister is likewise awake, excepting that, having no window
next to her bed (the result of a coin–toss upon their arrival),
her eyes remain closed. Imagining there to be a set of windows behind
her eyelids, she dreams up stories that might explain the curious
events of the previous evening: the name Eliza; the announcement that
sent Mr Boltbyn into a swoon; the water spilled on her mother; the
warning from the unfriendly gentleman. Surely these events must be
connected in some way, if only because they all happened in the same
evening, involved the same people, and had the same peculiar quality
. . . 'Emma? Are you awake?' 'When you ask me that, Lydia, it always
wakes me up.' 'So you are awake.' 'I am. What is it you want?' 'The
man who was cross with you on the verandah?' 'How odd! Do you know, I
was thinking about him just now.' 'He is quite odd. I think he would
make a capital hedgehog – do you think? For Mr Boltbyn's
story.' 'Do you mean with his wire hair sticking up?' 'Yes, that and
. . . and his form in general.' 'Do you know, Lydia, that precise
thought occurred to me as he spoke.' 'Why was he cross with you,
Emma? Was it something you said?' 'No. I think it was something I
saw.' 'Oh? What could that have been?' 'I'm not certain what it was,
but it was all very queer. Would you like to go and see for
yourself?' 'Will there be danger?' 'Mortal danger.' 'Oh, splendid!'
146 CROUCH MANOR, CHESTER WOLDS, OXFORDSHIRE 'For one thing, we could
be seen. For it will have to be done by daylight.' 'Why?' 'Which do
you mean, Lydia – why will there be danger, or why must it be
in daylight?' 'Both, I expect. After all, the duke as good as said we
had the run of the house.' 'That is what I told the hedgehog. It made
him cross. I don't think he likes children much, and he certainly
doesn't want us exploring.' 'Should we ask Mr Boltbyn's opinion?' 'Mr
Boltbyn is unwell, as you saw. Best not upset him.'

147
27 Plant's Inn Whitty awakens in pain, for the bone of his cheek is
mashed upon an unyielding surface: a familiar circumstance of late.
He is beginning to view the act of waking as a cruel motif. Where the
deuce is he now? Ah, yes. The rear snug at Plant's – dark but
for a few dim embers in the fireplace. Though he cannot immediately
bring to mind the circumstance of his arrival, it is clear that he
has fallen asleep while drinking. Should that be the case, it is a
depressing thing that he has not been awakened by whomever remained
at table – or, if left on his own, assisted from the premises
by the barman, placed in a cab with the address of his club, and sent
on his way. Heartless, just to leave a man like this . . . Hello.
Someone is seated at the end of the table. To judge by the shape and
the dimensions of the shadow, it is not the Captain. Nor is it
Inspector Salmon, nor a man–basher of one kind or another. This
is a different shape, that of a member of the fairer sex. It is Mrs
Plant. Momentarily he is suffused with pleasure at the sight of her –
and relief, that she is not gone from him for ever. On the other
hand, she must now be faced. A discernible chill radiates from the
figure opposite, distinguishable from the clammy coolness of the room
itself. As his vision adjusts, he thinks he can make out her green
eyes, which nearly glow in the dark. 'How do you do, madam?' he says,
glad that he succeeded in trading in the Captain's cock–chafer
for a different, if second–hand, replacement. 'Well, don't you
have a bluster on you, Mr Whitty. Gone for weeks and you march in
like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, and there I was thinking you
went over to the Mollies Club.' Whitty bridles at the mention of that
notorious establishment for inverts, shut down during the last
century after a scandal whose nature escapes him for the moment. What
does she mean by it? 'The Mollies Club, madam?' 'Heard of it have
you?' 'Indeed I have but . . .' 'Perhaps the Mollies Club is where
they should have looked when your disappearance was the talk of
London.' 148 PLANT'S INN 'I am at a loss as to your meaning, Mrs
Plant. Yet I am very glad to see you at last, and delighted to see
you looking so well . . .' His mouth continues to operate along these
lines while his mind scurries about for scraps of information.
Meanwhile, his eyes become distracted by her copper hair, some of
which has turned ruby in the light of the coals as though lit by
stained glass, while the skin of her forehead and neck glows in the
way of the moon. He notes the colour of heat splashed upon her
cheekbones, an ardour which he has experienced before at first hand,
at close quarters – if rarely, and upon conditions of secrecy
that might better suit relations between a Frenchman and his
mistress. 'Tell me, Mr Whitty, did you study Greek in your fancy
school?' 'And Latin, for most of the school day. At Eton we learned
little, but we learned it accurately. May I ask about your sudden
interest in my education?' 'You are not a sailor, nor a man of the
theatre, and you are certainly no athlete.' 'I make no claim to any
physical capacity, madam. I am primarily a spiritual being.' 'I have
often wondered what you are, sir. Recently I have wondered what
circumstance necessitated that you should become what you are. Many
blame public schools such as Eton.' 'True, and I was poorly served at
Oxford as well – monstrously served, if the truth be known. A
matter I prefer not to discuss in the presence of a lady.' 'Indeed,
sir, the presence of a lady must have been a rarity in your case.' He
has no intention of discussing his expulsion from St Ambrose College,
nor does he intend to thrash out the events of recent weeks and
months. Where the devil is she headed with this? 'Mr Whitty, have you
fallen asleep again?' 'No, madam. I was thinking.' 'Might one ask if
the condition is beyond your control?' 'The human condition, you
mean? Or do you refer to certain indulgences to which I am
occasionally prone? If I could control either, madam, I assure you
that I would do so.' 'I am not familiar with it beyond mention in the
sensational press. Are you apt to become violent?' 'Far from it,
madam. Unlike most Christians, I do not do to others as I suspect
they would do to me.' 'I have heard that the condition runs in
families.' 149 WHITE STONE DAY 'I beg your pardon?' Does she mean to
bring up the matter of the brother, he wonders? By now, all of London
surely knows of the rumours around his death – does all London
know about the photo– graph as well? 'I beg your pardon, madam,
but what aspect of my family do you mean?' 'I mean to say that many
hold it to run in the blood.' 'Blood, madam?' 'Your affliction.' My
affliction? Certainly that is one way of putting it, thinks Whitty.
When a member of the family descends to the level depicted in the
photograph, the name itself is stained by implication, a suspicion
that the corruption, like syphilis, may infect the entire family.
'Madam, I assure you that my reticence on the subject is but the
normal consideration a gentleman extends to a lady.' 'Sod your
consideration, Mr Whitty, I want to know the truth.' Mrs Abigail
Plant watches the elegant, dissipated figure at the far end of the
table with her stomach in the usual knot. Having reached her present
position in life, she has no more intent to marry than a released
convict might wish to construct a new cell for himself. As a
consequence, she has no moral claim upon any gentleman with whom she
might maintain an association; if he requires heirs, he is free to
seek elsewhere. And yet, upon the sixth day, did God not declare that
He did not wish loneliness on anyone? This alone might account for
her uneasy attachment to Edmund Whitty, whom she loves, with whom she
sins, of whom she then repents, about whom she then makes confession;
for it is not easy to discard one's religion. This is especially true
when in a foreign country, where sin and forgive, spoken in one's
native language, provide comfort far beyond their literal meaning. Se
do bheath' a Mhuire, ata lan de ghrasta, ta an Tiarna leat. Is
beannaitbe thu idir mna agus is beannaithe toradb do bhruinne . . .
Now the war within her breast has found a new battleground: Mr
Whitty's purported sexual inversion; odious and unnatural if true,
depicted with obscene relish by his colleagues in journalism –
led, of course, by Mr Fraser. At first she scoffed at the very idea,
with her memories to defend him. But memories fade, and then came his
weeks 150 PLANT'S INN of absence from her establishment and her bed,
followed by reports of his frequency at the Alhambra Baths. With no
competing explanation, she lies awake at night with a bad stomach,
wondering: Is he done with her, then? And if he is, why does it
matter? The truth will make you free, or perhaps not. Either way she
must know, so that she may determine her course with open eyes.
Pride, is it? At the same time, she has known this gentleman long
enough to understand that a direct question will rarely produce the
truth, especially when it concerns an intimate matter. Taking a
generous swallow of her whiskey, Mrs Plant sets the glass sharply
upon the table, rises from her chair and straightens her bodice.
Whitty knows this gesture – it indicates a decision taken. Is
she about to strike him with the coal–scuttle? Should he
protect his head? Closing his eyes, he hears the rustle of her
skirts; now he can detect her lavender soap, the warm musk of her
Irish whiskey, and herself. When he dares open his eyes, she is
seated directly across from him, well within his customary zone of
comfort. He would return to a state of feigned unconsciousness, but
it is too late. Her eyes have already drawn him in. As though
responding to the pull of gravity he inclines forward, while at that
same instant she chooses to do the same. When a woman and a man kiss
on the mouth, especially after a long absence, in that moment no
other thought is possible – unless somebody is feigning a
sentiment he does not feel. Not true in this case. Their lips touch
ever so lightly, in the way that a thirsty man attenuates the
pleasure of that first sip of cold water. Now they go deeper, mouths
slightly open, lips moving slowly and softly together, a sensation
felt by both, controlled by neither, an electric magnetism that
operates by its own rules. 'Let your hair go,' he whispers into her
ear. She looses the fastening and it all rushes down in a torrent of
sudden tresses, heavy and radiant over her shoulders and arms and
bosom, and she draws his face up to her own with her hands and kisses
him with all her strength, throbbing from head to toe. A woman
possesses more layers than does a man, both in mind and dress.
Whitty's fingers struggle with a wide variety of tiny buttons and
hooks, attached at maddeningly close intervals and unexpected
locations. His hands tremble from the unaccustomed assault upon his
nerves while she laughs teasingly in his ear, until at last he can
feel her 151 WHITE STONE DAY flesh with his hands and explore the
unseen mystery of her soft woman's body. Lacking the patience and the
breath to undertake the journey upstairs, they remain in the rear
snug – and to how much better use do they now employ the long
table than ever before in its long, battered, gin–soaked life!
And when they are done they lie together upon the table at which the
most published minds in England have debated and dissected the issues
of the day, two dishevelled, tender, subtle bodies, refuting every
argument, every position, every postulate, in the way that a master
of chess vanquishes a table of opponents in a single move. 'I
congratulate you, sir.' 'For what, madam?' 'For having refuted your
critics.' 'What are they saying now?' 'You don't know?' 'Upon my
soul, madam, state your meaning and be done with it.' 'Mr Whitty,
they say that you are a pouf.' 'What on earth do you mean?' 'A nancy
boy. A marjory. A mollie. A practitioner of Socratic love.' 'The
devil you say!' 'The devil I do say!' Here Whitty's mind experiences
a kind of seizure, for he feels the enormity of the charge even more
keenly than she does – and to think this monstrous assumption
has gone unrefuted for weeks. The deuce! 'I'll warrant that Fraser
has something to do with it,' he says, having regained the power of
speech. 'True, but the others were eager to take up the charge.'
'Blast!' 'Try to remain calm, sir. You are trembling and it is
beginning to worry me. One might think you were accused of murder or
theft.' 'The stigma is far greater, madam. The Miss Grundys have
taken up the cause and will have no satisfaction until some prominent
wretch is crucified for it. Then they will move on to the next vice
that catches their fancy.' 'Did I not say that I acquit you of the
charge?' 'Perhaps, madam. But I am dismayed that you gave it credence
in the first place.' 'You are not steady, Mr Whitty – indeed, I
should say that you are a 152 PLANT'S INN distinctly wobbly
individual. I never know what to expect from you, and expect I never
shall.' 'I concede the point, madam. I never know what to expect of
myself.' She presses her lips onto his. Silence follows. 'The room is
grown chilly, sir. Let us undertake your defence in the upstairs
room.' 153 28 Bissett Grange The girls have planned the expedition
carefully – eluding the attentions of Miss Pouch by affecting a
need to visit the water closet. 'What do you see, Lydia?' They crouch
inside the front door while Lydia (having the sharper eye) scans the
vicinity for signs of movement. 'It is safe I think,' she says, voice
quivering with excitement. 'Which stair should we take?' 'Either one,
but we must crouch at the top while we reconnoitre.' 'Agreed. Shall
we proceed?' 'Let's.' With a delicious sense of exposure they dash
across the front hall and up the left staircase (Emma goes first,
being the faster runner), then up a second staircase, then into a
spare room which looks very like a nursery. Lydia is somewhat
disappointed. 'It is only a bedroom.' Emma has to agree. In daylight,
the room looks entirely different – a perfectly sensible room
for a servant, or a visitor taken in out of pity. 'Come with me,' she
says, 'and feel the wall.' Next the bed, Emma takes Lydia's hand, and
traces with her fingers the name indented in the plaster: Eliza. 'Who
is Eliza?' asks Lydia. 'I don't know. Now let us go to the room next
door.' As with the bedroom, the door is unlocked – for the duke
to order a room locked would be to question his own authority. Thanks
to the time of day, when she peers inside this time, Emma confronts a
darkness which, though deep, is not absolute. At first she thinks it
might be a bathroom, for she can make out the gleam of white
porcelain; or perhaps it is a laundry where bed–linens are
washed – excepting that there are no hampers. As her eyes
adjust she can make out the shapes she has never seen before: A
medical apparatus? A small pump? Having superior night–time
vision, Lydia makes her way to the opposite side of the room, where
she stands beside a kind of bookcase. 'What is over there, Lydia? I
can't see.' 'I am not sure,' says Lydia, who disappears into the
gloom, then 154 BISSETT GRANGE emerges holding two pieces of paper.
'Look,' she says. 'Do you suppose this is Eliza?' Emma looks at the
naked girl in the photograph and it is as though she is in front of a
mirror – not a real mirror of course, but the mirror of her
poem, in which the girl in the glass is like her and not like her at
the same time. The second photograph confounds her utterly, for it is
like a portrait of a ghost, shadows – shaped like a human
being, yet shredded by some overwhelming light. Unaccountably, it
looks familiar. 'Emma,' whispers Lydia. 'There is somebody coming, I
think it is the hedgehog.' And so it is. 'Good evening, ladies,' Lush
says, remaining as calm as he can, for he did not expect two of them.
'And what is it that has taken you upstairs upon this particular
occasion?' 'Curiosity, sir, nothing more,' says Emma, holding up the
two photographs for inspection. Lush examines them, and is greatly
relieved that the second is so poorly focused. 'These photographs are
the duke's private property,' he says. 'To be frank, ladies, I am
shocked by your impudence.' 'We were to have the run of the house,
you know,' Emma says. T thought you knew that.' 'That is true,' Lydia
agrees. 'He said it at the big dinner.' Lush would like to strangle
them both immediately, if such a thing were physically possible. But
at this age they can be quite strong and very quick, and should they
escape he will have tipped his hand disastrously. For it is a fact
that the imp named Emma has been on the mind of the estate manager,
ever since they spoke on the portico. Quite apart from the danger she
presents to his future she reminds him of other young women, in his
youth, the disdain in their eyes when they would find themselves in
his presence, their carefully hidden hostility – a sentiment he
has returned ever since, with interest. . . 'Excuse me, sir, but I
think Mr Boltbyn is expecting us,' Lydia says, once the flinty