by Ewan Lawrie
After his ritual of assent, John Bill seized the ball, drew back the length of his arm and let fly at the skittles. It must have taken a throw of some skill, and an unerring eye, to cause the bolus to miss so completely, not only on the first pass but on all subsequent journeys through the pins until it came to rest against the pole.
‘Bad luck, John! A farthing every one down, ho?’
The silent giant moved his head in the lateral plane, and held up a single gnarled finger as knotted as a branch.
‘A penny?’ Maccabi’s eyes were wide. ‘Gladly, John, on your head be it!’
Maccabi’s shy was a delicate thing, the wooden ball passed through clean, carved a parabola in the air beyond the box and – returning at such an angle as to make the square of pins a rhombus – struck a glancing blow at a pin on the point of the arrangement. It toppled slowly and fell at right angles, knocking down some four skittles.
John Bill’s carved mouth turned up slightly at one corner before he began his nod and eye-rolls. Taking the wooden ball between thumb and forefinger, he gave it the merest push towards the skittles. It struck just one, which rocked from side to side like a staggering drunk before clattering into another, causing that to strike still another and so on until all five remaining were rolling in the box. The tall figure twitched up the corner of his mouth once more and held his forefinger up.
It was a pleasure to see Maccabi fumbling in his pockets for the penny. I noticed the tailor, too, had been fascinated by the game as he had left off his sizing of my figure. I looked down at him.
‘Of course, you know what they call this game, Salomons?’
He set to again with his pins and chalk, shaking his head. ‘No, sir, indeed I don’t.’
I told him, ‘It’s known as De’il Among the Tailors. Perhaps it should be the other way about?’
Several pins fell from his lips and were lost between the coarsely fitted floorboards. The tailor assured me I would be in possession of a gentleman’s wardrobe within a week and, as he had taken a pattern of my feet and various measurements below the knee, he also assured me of footwear to complement it. The man gathered his materials and scuttled out into the night like a cockroach startled by the sudden lifting of a carpet.
I looked over at Maccabi, hunched over a second tankard of porter. John Bill had put my retainer so far out of countenance that I considered revising my plan to knock down the inn, should I become its owner.
‘Come, Maccabi. Are we ever to reach Gibbous House, or have you some further nonsense to keep me here?’
‘By your leave, Mr Moffat, we have one more call to make. It were better done before visiting the house.’
‘Well, let’s on with it, man.’
His eyes darted to one side and he looked over my shoulder as he spoke. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Moffat, but in truth we cannot take possession today.’
‘Why not? It is mine by right even now, is it not?’
‘Most assuredly it is. The tide, however, will keep us from it.’
‘Tide? You’re babbling, Maccabi.’
‘Sir, we must needs visit Lindisfarne and the Reverend Ezekiel Harbinger of the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin.’
‘And for why? What has this to do with me?’
Regrettably, some of his smug self-confidence returned as he said, ‘You were counselled to read the papers, Mr Moffat. The journey is unavoidable, I fear, and we must make haste if the causeway is to be open for our crossing.’
My watch showed a quarter before four. Maccabi intimated that the tide would be in before seven. I strode out of the door and we boarded the carriage; the horse looked as miserable as only a stabled beast can when left to the bitter elements. When I questioned Maccabi’s liberal application of the whip to the nag’s back, I was informed that the journey was seventeen miles.
The road north was poor as we took not the turnpike, but a road more used to the farmer’s cart and his labourers’ feet. My faithful retainer eyed me, averting his gaze when it caught mine. Several times he seemed on the point of putting an uncomfortable question, but immediately thought better of it. It gladdened my heart that he seemed to be grasping the true nature of our relative stations at last.
When I had enjoyed his silence and discomfiture for some two hours, we reached three cottages and a church beside a sheep farm, which the man informed me was named Beal. We turned onto the causeway road and after two further miles the phaeton rolled onto the muddied logs of the causeway. The North Sea nibbled at the edges of the primitive crossing and I asked him if he thought we were in time to complete it.
He thought for a moment and then enquired whether I could swim.
Chapter Eight
Complete the crossing we did, although the nag pulling us stepped high and skittish as the waves lapped at his cannon bones. Maccabi’s silence allowed me to ponder something that had perplexed me since his unexpected arrival at The Olde Cross. How had he known I would try to avoid his reception? Why was it in his or Brown’s interest that I should take up my inheritance? I realised that I had been careless in not reading every pen scratch on the papers presented to me and had missed the opportunity to quiz the notary on the peculiar wording of Coble’s will. Regret at my own arrogance was of no use. Plainly, I would have to dissemble, pretend to the servant that he had my confidence as I took up residence in my new home.
The Northumbrian coast north of the mouth of the River Aln is as wild and bleak as any place in England, but never in my life had I seen so desolate a landscape as that on the island of Lindisfarne. Maccabi told me the lands were once populated by monks. What had possessed them to retreat to such a place? I would as soon have seen the face of the Devil than the Almighty in the raging of the sea on the rocks. It was already quite dark as the carriage rolled wearily to a stop, as if it were as exhausted as the horse.
The Church of Saint Mary the Virgin seemed to me a strange name for an Anglican institution, but the building itself betrayed no extravagant popery in its architecture. It was a simple rectangle, with a tower rather than a spire. It was raining again, and I was mightily relieved that the church doors were not locked, though they were heavy with the rain. There were few candles, the pews were simple and void of hassocks or cushions and the stone flags bore the wet footprints of the recently prayerful, although the church appeared empty.
Naturally, several of the stained-glass windows limned the eponymous Virgin, but the light was so poor as to prevent the discernment of anything more than dark pools of colour. I never set foot in a place of religion without feeling a certain distaste. For want of anything better to do, I approached the lectern at the front of the nave and looked at the heavy Bible. It was open at Matthew 12:40. The verse was marked;
‘For as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the whale, so will the Son of Man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth’
I slammed the Bible shut, never having cared much for the opinion of revenue men. Besides, there was little in the Holy Writ that I cared for, of course. A thin, ascetic figure in a cassock emerged from the vestry.
‘One should not treat any book thus, much less the word of God, sir.’ The good-humoured nature of the voice robbed it of reproof, but I found myself apologising nonetheless.
‘I have ever been clumsy, Reverend... or is it Father?’
Once again Maccabi became a passive observer, not deigning to introduce this strange cove but instead studying some stone-carved New Testament admonition.
‘As you please, sir, though I am vicar of this parish. I am Ezekiel Harbinger, but you may call me Ezekiel, if you so desire.’
With a dark look at the d____ fellow Maccabi, I made myself known to the vicar.
‘Oh, at last you have come! May I suggest we conduct our business in the more comfortable accommodations of the vicarage?’
He laughed and I felt the rage in me. I thanked the stars above that I had learned to curb my passions, or at least to wait for the opportunity to gr
atify them in safety and leisure. Maccabi and I followed the vicar through the vestry and out of a mean wooden door. The vicarage itself was John Constable’s idea of a countryman’s cottage and, I thought, just as authentic.
‘Somewhat more recent than the church, your home, Ezekiel?’
To his credit his face acquired a little colour. ‘It was built a few years ago, thanks to the magnanimity of your late benefactor, Mr Moffat.’
On opening the door we found ourselves immediately in a parlour, where we were not alone. A young woman of perhaps eighteen years stood demurely in the clothes of a lady’s companion or governess. Her colour and embonpoint hinted at pleasure at some future time, while her demeanour in-sisted such time would not be soon. She gave a curtsey as Harbinger announced her name as Ellen Pardoner. Harbinger bade we visitors sit and despatched the girl to bring sherry and seed cake.
The vicar of St Mary the Virgin eyed me closely, as if character could be read from outward appearance. Maccabi continued as mute as John Bill, averting his gaze as Miss Pardoner delivered his libation. I would soon have been quite out of temper had not Harbinger finally cleared his throat and begun. ‘Ah... Mr Moffat, with inheritance comes oft responsibilities; particular duties, if you will.’
I interrupted the man with some heat. ‘I’ll not be gulled of money by idle promises of salvation hereafter, so if you have me here to beg my indulgence I’ll gladly disappoint you, sir.’
Again, the corpse’s face took a little colour. ‘Oh, dear me, no... don’t think... No, it’s quite another matter, sir.’
Maccabi interjected, in a voice replete with annoyance and misery in equal measure. ‘For the love of God – Tell him!’ And then he stared once more off towards the vicar’s bookcases.
Harbinger held out a hand to the young woman. ‘Ellen Pardoner is a ward of the estate, at least until she reaches majority. As such she is... ’
I smiled at him and finished his utterance for him. ‘A most particular duty that falls to me, I think.’
Maccabi dropped his glass, spilling sherry on the floorboards.
Both Maccabi and I were reluctant to impose on the churchman’s hospitality. I failed to see any practical disposition of the vicarage’s two bedrooms between three gentle-men and the young woman. Harbinger, though, was in-sistent. He proposed overnighting himself in the vestry, as he had done in the past, and I proposed that I stay there myself, wishing neither to be closely accommodated with my servant nor interrupted again by the devotions of the devout. Once posited, this plan was accepted. I noted with interest the admixture of distress and delight at the arrangement on Maccabi’s features. One could only surmise as to its cause.
At midnight I was in the cramped room of the vestry, under vestments that hung from hooks in the absence of an armoire. Also deficient was any kind of strongbox: the church’s entire collection of plate was in a brass-bound chest, whose key was conveniently in the padlock. It turned easily, but the hasp was not so compliant.
The plate itself was a disappointment, tarnished and thin. I contented myself by removing the communion chalice and filling it from one of the bottles of red wine, neatly stacked on the floor in the corner. It was no fine vintage, rather something bottled in a wooden outbuilding on a Breton farm, rough as the callouses on the grape-picker’s hands. Perhaps in consubstantiation the flavour would improve, but I doubted it.
Once again my mind returned to John Brown’s behaviour earlier in the day. He had seemed most desirous of at once confirming and yet not confirming my identity as Alasdair Moffat. How could he possibly know anything of Alasdair Moffat’s antecedents? Swilling the wine in the communion chalice, I thought back on the peculiar circumstances of Alasdair Moffat’s death and resurrection in me.
It was true that the man then named Alasdair Moffat had educated me, and well. When I became his companion during his stay in the hospital, he used many names, totally convinced of the validity of each. I learned something of the Greeks from Socrates and Alexander, experienced the grandeur that was Rome from Martial, Trajan and Hadrian. Figures of high culture were on constant parade through the sick man’s psyche, and I learned far more than I wished about Michelangelo, James I and the Duke of Buckingham.
This chameleon’s education had been such as would have graced a Newton or any polymath, and yet the man was only six years my senior. I was of a height with him, and we were most remarkable similar in outward appearance, sufficiently so as to make one think us cousins of such consanguinity as to prohibit the relations we had in the latter days, even were we man and woman.
I spent so much time with him that, to my certain knowledge, the man known as Moffat never saw the Medical Superintendent, at least not while he was alive. When his dead, sightless eyes met those of the henchman the patients knew as the Keeper, the latter was quite unaware of their owner.
It was only a short time after the madman’s arrival in the asylum that delivery was made of the seaman’s trunk. The supervision of its delivery fell to me, as much did in dealings with the man. The rough porters who brought the trunk handed me a key on an iron chain. I gave it to Moffat, who placed it around his neck as though it were an alderman’s chain of office.
No sooner were the deliverers of the trunk away than it was opened. Without removal of the chain, Moffat knelt before it and opened it. The expression on his face was that of a man surprised at a mound of jewels, gold and coin, though I saw it contained nothing but books and parchment, and those in poor condition. Had I but known then, as I came later to learn, that many of these tomes were thought lost to the world, why then I should have made better use of that knowledge in the fullness of time.
From that moment on, we would take some work from the portmanteau library of the trunk every day, and peruse it carefully with whichever persona presented itself in Moffat’s tortured mind at the time. On the flyleaf of each and every one was inked:
Από τα βιβλία του μοφφατ
(From the Library of Moffat).
On the day of Resurrection he drew out three heavy tomes: Fama Fraternitatis, The Encyclopedia of the Brethren of Purity and Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine. One in German and two in Arabic. Would that I had known then a little more of the first two works. In contrast to other days, Moffat – for once it was he who addressed me – laid the books aside on the cot, locked his trunk, and said, ‘My Jonathan, I have been your David these long years. Wouldst thou be mine and I your Jonathan at last?’
I had endured his attentions for some three years, but never once had I achieved such transports as he himself did while using me as his catamite. This was a new development; it would surely be a novel experience for me to use him in the same manner, and I assured him I was willing.
He begged me to wear his own apparel and allow him to wear mine. I believed it was merely a spice for his jaded palate, even as he placed his chain and key around my neck. Use him I did, and with no small pleasure. In the small death after the act he smote me mightily on the crown and I knew no more.
Some hours later I awoke to see the purpled face of... whom? Moffat? Surely I was Moffat, as I wore his clothes and had his key around my neck. This other creature lay supine on the floor of the cell, the colour of his face testimony to the apoplexy that had carried him off. Stiffly, and mightily nauseous from the blow to my head, I shuffled to the door. Taking care not to move the corpse, I removed a ring of keys from what had once been my own coat, opened the door and bellowed for help. In an hour, an attendant came; I knew his face, but he saw my clothes and took no account of the physiognomy above them. This ruffian seized the keys from my hand, forced me inward and locked me in with the corpse.
I know not what period of time passed before the Keeper and his orderlies arrived. He checked the corpse and pronounced him as dead as I knew him to be. An enlightened man, he deigned to quiz me, a madman, as to what had happened.
I told him, more or less, allowing the evidence before him to define the actors and their roles. He left co
nvinced that the Largs boy had perished of a fit after assaulting Alasdair Moffat, illegitimate son of the Duke of B______.
It took me very much longer to convince him that the blow to Moffat’s head had driven out the insanity. Some three years in fact.
Chapter Nine
I awoke in Harbinger’s overstuffed armchair in the vestry. By the light of a guttering candle, I could read on my recently acquired timepiece that the hour was a little after four. The nightmare had been as ever it was, save for one small detail.
Until this occasion, my eyes would spring open at the point I looked down at the corpse’s empurpled face; a solitary drop of blood would navigate the contours of my head to splash on the sightless eyeball of the man who was no longer Moffat. This time, however, I found that the drop of blood fell on a face still more well known to me: mine own.
There were three empty bottles of the dreadful wine to greet Harbinger when he arrived a little after seven. Despite them, my disposition had neither improved nor worsened. His piping voice invited me to a kedgeree breakfast in one hour in the cottage. I was free to avail myself of the cottage’s amenities for my toilette, should I so desire. The clergyman eyed the empty bottles of wine, but said nothing. Picking up the communion chalice from the floor, I threw it to him, noting with pleasure that a few drops of the liquid splashed the white of his collar as he fumbled it.
‘Ah well, only fitting that priestly vestments be stained with the Blood of Christ, Reverend?’ For answer the vestry door slammed shut.
