White Stone Day (31 page)

ground with a soft groan, whereupon the men of the 2nd Infantry
Division go to work. 265 WHITE STONE DAY 'I hear a carriage,' says
Lydia to the falcon with the limp, as they exit the conservatory. 'So
you do, Miss Lydia. It is heading down the elm–way, I think.'
Whitty accompanies the children to an architectural mish–mash
of Greek, Gothic and Grimm, with its pillars and its grand carriage–
sweep, and an elaborate flower–bed growing in the centre like a
monstrous wedding–cake. The air is clean and silent after the
rain–shower, though the sky is still dark with cloud. 'There,
ladies – do you see the light in the front door? No doubt it is
a welcome sight, when one has been wandering through the chilly
night.' 'You just rhymed, sir,' says Emma. 'Did I?' 'You did. But it
does not scan.' 'Alas,' he replies. 'Nor does the light of the house
seem welcoming at present,' adds Lydia. 'Not to me at least.' 'I am
certain your mother will be frantic about you.' T doubt that,'
replies Emma. 'Mother likes to sleep late.' Whitty rings the bell,
repeatedly and with emphasis. At length, an iron latch is unbolted,
the heavy front door opens, and a uniformed footman appears –
whose face is familiar and whose livery appears to have been darned
in several places. 'A very good morning to you young ladies,' says
the footman with a bow. 'Please enter, for your governess has been
asking for you.' He now turns to Whitty, and with less warmth: 'Are
you expected?' Whitty, recognising the accent, thinks, Of course: the
footman from Buckingham Gate, the night of the seance, seemingly ages
ago. 'I am Edmund Whitty of The Falcon, sir. These two young ladies
became lost. They requested my assistance in returning them to the
residence.' 'And how did you happen to be at their service –
this being a private estate?' Whitty is about to reply when a small
shriek is heard from within the house. Ob, merciful Heaven! Praise
God! Miss Pouch appears in the doorway, very vexed and red in the
face, having gone upstairs to wake the girls only to find two empty
beds. 'Is this your mother, Miss Emma?' asks the correspondent. 266
BISSET GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE 'Not in the least, sir. It is our
governess. Come along, Lydia.' Lydia, however, does not reply; in
fact, she has turned her back to the house, and is staring down at
the carriage–sweep . . . 'Sir, I am grateful to you,' says Miss
Pouch to the correspondent. 'Think nothing of it, madam. Please
oblige me by taking these two young ladies inside, and by giving them
a hot drink.' 'No, Miss Pouch, we wish to see Mother at once,' says
Emma, and it is not a request but a command. As the two girls follow
their governess to the staircase, Lydia whispers to her sister: 'Did
you see? There is a man lying in the flower– bed. At least I
think it is a man.' 'Who could it be, Lydia?' 'I could not tell, for
I saw only a hand and part of an arm.' 'Perhaps he fell asleep.' 'If
he fell asleep, why would there be blood?' 'Perhaps he hurt himself.
Perhaps he stumbled and fell.' 'Now that we have seen to the
children,' says Whitty to the footman, 'I request an audience with
the Duke of Danbury.' 'Do you indeed, sir?' 'I do. Here is my
invitation.' The footman takes the card and reads it. 'This
invitation is for luncheon. You are about five hours early.' 'It is
something I have been looking forward to. The excitement was too much
for me.' 'His Grace does not accept visitors this early in the
morning.' 'His Grace will see me nonetheless,' says Whitty, in a
nobbish accent at least as convincing as the footman's. 'Present him
with my card, will you?' Reaching into a breast pocket, he removes
the terrible photograph he has carried next to his heart for far too
long, and hands it over. The footman looks at it and lifts one
eyebrow. 'Very well, sir. I shall speak to the duke. You will remain
here until I return.' Seated at her dressing–table, Birdie
paints the outline of her lips and eyes with a tiny red brush, and
refreshes her fragrance with cologne water. She has been summonsed
(once it was a plea, or a poem) to join his Grace in his apartments
for breakfast. The more she reflects upon the whole affair, the
queerer it seems. Why is she more attractive to him when she covers
her face, and why 267 WHITE STONE DAY has his devotion evaporated
since those queer photographs – as though that was what he was
after, all along? Though this inchoate sense that she is on
treacherous ground keeps her in a perpetual state of anxiety, she has
managed to refrain from the medicine that was so much a part of her
marriage. Fully alert and on edge, she starts audibly when Lydia
bursts into the room, followed by her sister. To Birdie they are a
sight – her darling urchins, nightgowns covered with mud, hair
clinging to their cheeks and shoulders, cheeks flushed with
excitement. Emma steps up to her mother and solemnly holds Birdie's
face in both hands so that their eyes are no more than six inches
apart, and in low, measured tones, proceeds to tell Birdie the most
extraordinary tale she has ever heard in her life: about a room with
barred windows and a name on the wall, and a grave, and white stones,
and a falcon, and a hedgehog, and a glasshouse, and a girl by the
name of Eliza . . . 'My dear Emma, I have not the faintest notion
what you are telling me. Have you become frightened by one of Mr
Boltbyn's stories?' 'No, Mother, it is true, every bit. I tell you
because we cannot understand the meaning of it by ourselves. Because
we are too young. That is why you must come and see it. The falcon
said you must. He said you would understand what it means, and would
know what to do.' 'What is it that you and your falcon wish me to see
in the glass house? For I am expected shortly.' 'The angels in the
roof. Especially Eliza. He said we should show you. And then I want
you to see the grave with the white stones.' 'The house is called a
conservatory,' corrects Lydia, standing a few steps back. 'He said
that it is urgent that you should know what is happening at Bissett
Grange,' she adds. A week ago, Birdie would have sent her daughters
out of the room with an admonition to confine their stories to the
nursery, that she was engaged in adult business and that they should
speak to Miss Pouch. Yet she is struck by the unusual gravity upon
both their faces, suggesting that this is not just one of Mr
Boltbyn's fantastic games. Glancing upward, she wonders what Harry
will do or say when she fails to arrive. Part of her has begun to
dread the duke's summons, and knows that the association will bring
her nothing but misery in the end; yet another part cannot resist
him, caught in the desire of the moment, content to remain at Bissett
Grange until she is wrinkled and old and he turns her out. For in her
heart she knows her place, knows that she 268 BISSET GRANGE,
OXFORDSHIRE is not a lady and never will be. She is Euphemia Root of
Upper Clodding and he is his Grace the Duke of Danbury. So they were
born and so they will die, no matter what takes place in–between.
Emma's insistent tone of voice returns her attention to the dressing–
table and her fantastic tale. 'The falcon's name is Mr Whitty. He is
a newspaperman, and he said you must see and know everything. He said
it is a matter of the utmost urgency.' 'Utmost urgency,' reiterates
Lydia, with the word utmost an octave above its neighbours. 'And
then,' continues Emma, 'I shall tell you all about Eliza, and about
the hedgehog, and all about the white stones, and show you as well.
That is what the falcon said I should do.' 'Very well, my dears. I
have never heard such a story in my life, but I concede defeat. Let
us go to the conservatory and see your angels. And let us see your
hedgehog, if need be. And on the way, you can tell me about the white
stones.' Whitty follows the footman's coat–tail down the red
carpet, past the twin staircases and along the hallway. The latter is
filled with hothouse plants, imparting an earthy, jungle–like
quality to the atmosphere, as though Bissett Grange were peopled with
jaguars and anacondas. They pass a series of oil portraits depicting
generations of male Danburys, each seated in the same substantial
chair, silently demanding of the viewer: 'And who do you think you
are?' At the end of the central hall he is conducted into a queer,
many–sided room whose tall windows overlook the lawns all the
way to the Roland Stones and beyond, as though the entire county
existed for the benefit of the person seated in this room. The
recipient of this honour is presently standing, or rather posing, in
profile by the fire, with his left forefinger thrust into the pocket
of his waistcoat while the right gently strokes his side–whisker.
A long silence ensues, which Whitty is reluctant to break, for the
room is most interesting. 'You are early,' says the duke, at last.
'Not by my watch,' Whitty replies. 'I shall have it looked at.'
Eyebrows raised, the duke turns to look at the speaker – or
rather, to look through him. 'So you are Mr Whitty, the journalist. I
believe you went under another moniker when we met at Buckingham
Gate. Pray, take a seat and accept a glass of brandy.' 'I believe I
shall remain standing. And no brandy, thank you.' 269 WHITE STONE DAY
'That comes as a shock, sir. I shall wager that this is the first
occasion in many years on which Edmund Whitty has failed to accept a
free drink.' Whitty inspects the Duke of Danbury's immaculate coat
and velvet waistcoat, while fending off the horrifying urge to defer.
He notes that the reddish hair has been artfully combed to conceal a
spreading bald pate: there is nothing noble about a man who will
consent to such a manoeuvre. 'Your Grace has examined the photograph,
I trust?' he says, affecting casual interest. 'Indeed, sir, it was I
who had it sent to you, through my agent Mr Lush, following that
remarkable encounter with the spirit of your brother.' 'What were you
attempting to achieve by it?' 'I wished to spare you, Mr Whitty. And
to spare David's memory as well.' 'Most considerate of you. In what
way was I spared by possessing an obscene photograph of my brother?'
The duke takes the photograph in question from the mantel, holds it
to the light with thumb and forefinger, and turns to Whitty with an
expression of bemused regret. 'Whether or not you give credit to such
phenomena as we both witnessed, your brother's utterances upon that
occasion were all too true. David did not die as he was said to have
died, nor did he live as he was thought to have lived.' 'Please
continue, your Grace. You interest me.' 'David Whitty was my friend –
perhaps my only friend while at Oxford, for in my position one
chooses one's intimates with care. We rowed on the same eight. He was
a founding member of the photo– graphic club, sponsored by this
estate. And he excelled at the medium, sir, not even Mr Boltbyn could
match his ability – in all ways but one.' 'Was his flaw
technical or aesthetic?' 'Neither, sir. It was moral. It is with the
most profound regret that I tell you that your brother acquired an
enthusiasm for the kind of photography associated with the French and
sold under the counter at bookstores on Holywell Street. It became a
material obsession with him – to the point where he sought to
appear in such photographs. To that end he perfected an ingenious
technique involving an apparatus beneath his foot – a
remarkable achievement, if only it had been applied to a different
result.' 270 BISSET GRANGE, OXFORDSHIRE A shrewd customer, thinks
Whitty, who knows that the most successful lie is that which snuggles
close to the truth. 'If I understand you correctly, you are saying
that my brother took this picture himself}'' 'Indeed he did, and many
worse as well – long destroyed, I am thankful to say.
Eventually, of course, word spread as word always will in a college,
until it seemed that exposure and ruin were in plain sight. It was
only a matter of time. That was why your brother chose to do what he
did.' 'So you suggest that my brother's death was not an accident?'
'That is so, sir, and it pains me to tell you. Nonetheless, though he
stood a ruined man, a man given over to degeneration – a
commitment with no provision for escape – your brother remained
my friend. Though I could not save him from his fate, I could rescue
his name from permanent ignominy. I therefore contrived a scenario,
at some personal risk, which would cause the world to make a
determination of accidental death. If I could not save David's life,
I could save his family's good name.' 'A gripping narrative, sir. My
compliments to you. And yet, as anyone who reads the newspapers is
aware, the sin of suicide makes capital cover for a death of another
sort.' 'What the devil do you mean by that?' Danbury's eyes continue
to look through him, but not in the same way; the emptiness has taken
on the quality of twin pistols. The acidic flush of sudden anger that
arises in Whitty at this moment is as much directed towards his
instinctive acquiescence to class as to the elegant fiend himself.
Though he does not remember having produced it from his pocket, he
suddenly seems to be pointing a pistol at the man – the Adams
which belonged to Corporal Weeks. 'Good heavens,' says the duke, more
offended than alarmed. 'What the devil are you doing with my pistol?'
'I intend to shoot you, sir. When a party murders one's brother it
seems the most obvious thing to do.' 'Murdered your brother? Wherever
did you get that idea?' 'The wonderful thing about a lie is its
capacity to reveal the truth. The young man in the picture you hold
in your hand is indeed David Whitty, who possessed unusual
intelligence and spirit, and was much admired – yes, by himself
as well. The young woman is named Eliza, beloved by the gentleman who
employs me. Eliza was not yet born at the time of my brother's death,
sir. Which facts, you understand, 271 WHITE STONE DAY establish the
creator of the picture, and the liar as to its contents, as the fiend
who murdered both.' The duke laughs. Whitty has never heard laughter
so lacking in mirth. 'You are ridiculous, sir. Not only is your
conclusion preposterous, it is the word of a degenerate scribbler –
attempting, no doubt for money, to blacken one of the great names of
Britain.' With a quick, efficient motion of the wrist, the duke
tosses the photograph into the fire. 'There, sir. Where is your story
now?' The correspondent makes no effort to rescue the photograph –
indeed, he is very glad to be rid of it. In silence, the two men
watch the border turn brown, until gradually a similar brown blot
appears in the centre of the photograph, in the space separating the
brother and Eliza; the blot expands quickly until it consumes the
both of them, then yellow flames appear through the blackened hole,
and David and Eliza are gone, and all is gone. 'What do you intend to
do now, Mr Whitty? Shoot me and hang for murder?' 'You are a
remarkable man, sir. You take living girls and turn them to dead
pictures. Then they become windows for your conservatory, where
flowers are grown to die. Your whole house reeks of death. You
disgust me, sir – as I believe you disgusted my brother. Did