by Xan Brooks
He says, “My Lord, an honour” and hears something flop and resettle in the syrup-brown water of the ornamental pond.
The ninth Earl of Hertford responds with a vague smile and an unfocused gaze. He says, “I think of you as Pluto. The emissary from the Department of War Casualties. Prince of the underworld. And one day I suppose you shall come for me too.”
Sir William tries a laugh. He says, “Only the Almighty Himself would dare to take on such a task.”
“One of our statues bears the likeness of Pluto. Is it this one? Is it that one? Raine,” he says, “which of these statues bears the likeness of Pluto?”
The butler says, “One moment please, my Lord. Let me ascertain.”
Sir William draws up a chair and plucks a crease from his trousers. He does wish the butler would provide a jug of water; his mouth is dreadfully dried out from the drive. Yet it is apparent that Raine is now intent on appraising the statues, and there are quite a number of statues so it may take him some time. Sir William clears his throat and says, “Lord Hertford.”
“One day I suppose you shall come for me too.”
“Lord Hertford, I am grateful for your agreeing to receive me and I do apologise for having to trouble you at home. As I have mentioned, my visit concerns the unfortunate demise of a gentleman in your care, one Daniel Calder. Hopefully this need not take up very much of your time.”
When the Earl dips his head, Sir William takes it as his sign to continue. He explains that ordinarily he would have processed the paperwork himself and the entire matter would have ended there. It is simply that on this occasion the issue was first raised by a member of the public – a scoutmaster, no less – and the complaint had landed on the desk of a junior clerk who was new to the role and unaware of the details of this particular case. The clerk then took it upon himself to make a grand song and dance about it. The first thing he did was to contact the Home Office, which in turn called Sir William, who in turn marched down to the junior clerk’s desk to discover the boy busily drafting letters to all four widows explaining that, despite being listed as dead, their husbands were gadding about in Epping Forest as recently as two Sundays ago. Had Sir William arrived half an hour later, well, jig up, game over.
This monologue has taxed his parched larynx. He concludes, “I did so hope I should not have to involve you, Lord Hertford. But this is precisely the situation we have been so mindful to avoid.”
Implacably, the Earl sifts all this information. “Dear me,” he says. “You have embroiled yourself in the proverbial pickle.”
By this stage the butler has returned from his errand. “If you’ll excuse me, my Lord. I believe it to be that statue over there.”
“Which one?”
“There, my Lord. Perhaps ten paces.”
“And the likeness? Is it especially striking?”
“I beg your pardon, my Lord.”
“Does the statue of Pluto resemble our guest?”
Raine appears to give this question his deepest consideration. Finally he says, “My Lord, I do not believe that I can honestly say.”
Again something stirs and splashes in the ornamental pond. Lord Hertford says, “Quite so, quite so” and reluctantly turns his gaze back to the man in the chair. He says, “I dare say we should be rather disappointed in you. There is no denying that a delicate situation has been somewhat handled with thumbs. Still, I remain satisfied that the department is functioning to the best of its ability in what must be trying circumstances. I suggest we put this incident behind us and move onward, ever onward.”
With a jolt of alarm, Sir William realises that Lord Hertford feels that he has now had his say and therefore considers the meeting concluded. He says, “Ah, thank you, my Lord, that’s very generous, of course. But we do need to ensure that provisions are in place to prevent something like this from occurring again. In fact, I would argue this is the very least we should do.”
He sees a look of faint strain cross Lord Hertford’s sandy features, but presses on regardless. “I feel this request is not entirely unreasonable. Of course, in sanctioning and supporting the Grantwood Foundation we are also implicitly condoning the more – shall we say? – shadowy side of its charitable enterprise. However, we are only able to do this for as long as it remains, as it were, in the shadows. If you recall, Lord Hertford, we did have an agreement. The gentlemen were to remain on the grounds at all times.”
To the butler, the Earl says, “I rather think the department objects to our helping the heroes.”
“Not at all, perish the thought,” Sir William returns. “If Grantwood is willing to provide sanctuary for the few poor souls who have felt unable to reclaim their place in society, then we applaud you for it. It is a noble endeavour.”
Lord Hertford accepts the compliment with a gracious incline of his head.
“However,” he continues. “However. You must understand that we need to avoid reaching the point where the department is forced to deny all prior knowledge of this unorthodox arrangement. Or worse, a situation in which we find ourselves accused of participating in a systematic cover-up, no matter how noble the intentions behind it. Furthermore, I must point out that if this latest incident had been drawn to the attention of the press . . .” He draws a hand across his brow. The brutal weather has quite sapped his resources. He really does think the butler might have offered to pour him some water.
“Calamity,” Lord Hertford suggests. “Headless chickens running hither and thither.”
Sir William nods. “And then I’m afraid there is the related matter. The scoutmaster’s accusation of public indecency.”
Stationed at the Earl’s shoulder, Raine interjects. “Sir William,” he says. “Lord Hertford would prefer not to be troubled with related matters. The daily management of the Grantwood Foundation in fact falls to the viscount, his Lordship’s son. Such has been the case for these past several years.”
“Forgive me. Then perhaps I might presently speak with the viscount as well.”
“Indisposed,” Lord Hertford remarks. “Off gallivanting.”
Some subtle shift in the Earl’s posture informs Sir William that he risks outstaying his welcome. Lord Hertford is a genius at conferring favour and then withdrawing it. He has shot down harrumphing statesmen with a single stony aside; doused revolutionary firebrands with a half-turn of his shoulder. The head of the Department of War Casualties is no match for him.
Making one last effort, Sir William says, “Lord Hertford, I believe we have managed to keep a lid on this scandal. God knows the Loughton constabulary has no desire to make mischief. However, we do require some assurance that this was an isolated incident and that it will not be repeated. Moreover, the department would like to be informed of what has become of the unfortunate gentleman.”
Lord Hertford is bemused. He looks to the butler for assistance.
“He is referring to the Lion, my Lord. To the late Mr Calder.”
“Oh ho,” chuckles the Earl. “Of course, Pluto wants to know what became of the body.”
Raine says, “Sir William can rest easy that the body rests easy. But Sir William should also be aware that my Lord has been unwell these past months. I fear that this interrogation carries with it the risk of exhausting him further.”
Sitting parched in the sun, Sir William dutifully rejoins that he is extremely sorry to hear it. He does hope that the ailment is a minor one.
“Merely the fatigues of age,” says Lord Hertford, directing his words more to Raine than to his guest. “Old Pluto will have to wait a little longer to claim me.”
One last time, the creature in the pond rolls itself on the surface. Sir William supposes the pond must contain carp, but the water has reduced to a thick brown broth which keeps its occupants hidden. He does not like this sunken garden. He is already braced for the long journey home.
He says, “Upo
n my arrival, a most extraordinary sight. I witnessed a North African camel, just as bold as you please.”
The Earl looks straight through him with his milky stare. At his back the pond-water kisses the stone sides and settles again.
Raine says, “The camel is one of the viscount’s recent acquisitions.”
“But why?” says Sir William. “Whatever for?”
The audience complete, Lord Hertford proceeds to organise his features into a benevolent smile. “What an abundance of questions you have brought with you today. We have scarcely begun to address one when back you come to jolly us with another.” He chuckles indulgently. “It occurs to me this is a sign of the times. Everybody is asking questions these days. I propose fewer questions and more statements of intent.”
He remains beside the pond as Raine leads the guest on the reverse trip through the house and to his car outside on the gravel drive. He does not move a muscle. He is as tranquil as the statues; as still as standing water. A horsefly swoops in to alight on one white-cottoned knee. A dragonfly brushes a wing against his bright breast. It seems to him that the butler has been gone for merely an instant and yet look, here he is, magically reappeared. He announces, “My Lord, I believe it is time for your nap.”
With a confidence born of practice, Raine stoops to gather the ninth Earl of Hertford, who entered his sixty-second year last December and is suffering with cancerous tumours. The butler places his left arm under his Lordship’s thighs and his right against his Lordship’s back and he lifts him so gently that the motion barely ripples the man’s tumbledown yellow hair.
As though retrieving the thread of a sentence already in motion, he says, “Of course the progressive agenda is forced to contend with doubters and nay-sayers. It is always easier to ask questions than provide statements of intent.”
“Indeed, my Lord.”
“While all around grey little men say it can’t be done or that it should never be done. They ask ‘Why?’ and ‘How?’ when what they are really saying is ‘No, God forbid’ and ‘Please, not on your nelly’.”
“That is very true, my Lord.”
Locked in tender embrace, Raine and the Earl come out of the sunlight and into the house’s marbled cool. They arrive at the hall in which two grandfather clocks are locked in endless dispute over each passing hour. And here the butler repositions the Earl in his arms and prepares to ascend to the upper floor.
Lord Hertford says, “Some men will say no and cast about for reasons to fail. Other men act and fashion the world in their image.”
“Indeed, my Lord.” His knees buckle only slightly as he takes the stairs.
“It is my fate to find myself drawn to the men who say yes. To the Alexanders and Hannibals. Heroes of that stripe.”
Inside the main bedroom, the butler sets the Earl upon his four-poster Queen Anne and draws the curtains across the three mullioned windows. Lord Hertford’s arms lie folded across his brilliant tennis whites. His eyes have hooked shut; he might be unconscious already. He says, “The impossible is impossible until the very moment it is not. It is my fate to be drawn to the nation’s Alexanders.”
Raine says, “Very good, my Lord,” and pulls the door to at his back.
18
The storm arrives at half-past noon. Black clouds spill upwards against the pale sky. Lightning clangs in time with the thunder. Two inches of rain are dumped in the space of an hour. The River Avon has burst its banks. The Wiltshire water meadows have gone to swamp. They’re up to their ankles in the village of Britford. They’re up to their waists in Charlton-All-Saints.
The Eastleigh locomotive recommences its crawl through the sodden green woodland. Salisbury is at its back and Gillingham somewhere up ahead, but the going is slow because the conditions are bad. The conductor explains that the delay is principally due to a pair of trees on the line. The trees blew down earlier, he says, but it has been a devil of a job clearing all of the branches, and as a result the service is backed up; you know how it is. The conductor advises that they simply sit tight, stretch out, they’ll get there when they get there.
Mrs Kemp is unimpressed. As soon as the conductor has slid the door closed, she says, “Get there when we get there. Ever so helpful, I’m sure.”
Jim Ferguson leaves off fussing with his pipe. “Let him be, why don’t you? It’s not his fault, poor bugger.”
“We are in imminent danger. That is the point I am making.”
But Mr Ferguson will not be drawn. He says, “Well, you’ve made it already. You keep on bloody making it.”
There are five passengers inside the first-class compartment. The narrow space is thick with smoke. Perched at the window, facing the direction of travel, garrulous Mrs Kemp dominates the conversation to the point where it cannot truly be counted as a conversation at all. First she drew murmurous Mr Carmody into her drama of missed connections and thunderbolts. Then she snared the bulky Scot, Jim Ferguson, whose impatience with her mounts with every suck on his pipe. Now she glances across, seeking to inveigle the remaining two gentlemen. But here she suspects she has her work cut out. The quiet, smiling young fellow will not meet her gaze, while the last occupant – a dilapidated old chap with a high bony forehead – has spent the past hour or so in a state of deep slumber. The old man’s snores are so noisy and varied they make Jim Ferguson laugh.
The rain slaps the glass. The trees shake their plumage. “All I am saying,” Mrs Kemp continues, “is that if two trees can topple, then others can too. And was it this gusty when the first trees came down? Well now, you see, I don’t think it was. And that is why I’m saying we’re in imminent danger.”
“My dear woman,” says Mr Carmody, “either you feel that we should not be running late, or you feel we should abandon ship altogether. I would venture that you need to choose between these complaints. You cannot have them both running in tandem.”
Ferguson says, “Buggered if I’m abandoning ship. Have you noticed how cold it is out there?”
“Language,” says Mrs Kemp. “And for goodness sake, will you stop laughing at the gentleman. He can’t help his breathing, poor soul. I dare say you sound much the same when you’re sleeping.”
“Not like that, I don’t.”
“Well. Well. Even so.”
“Not like bloody that.”
“Now then,” puts in Mr Carmody, “let us all make an effort to finish this journey as friends.”
At this point the smiling young man shakes himself from his daydreams. “A-ha,” he mutters. “We’re moving again.”
The carriage noses through the woods. The old man grunts and resumes his snoring. But Mrs Kemp is only briefly cowed. She keeps her counsel for a tense two minutes, after which she abruptly announces that if a third tree came down it would smash straight through the roof. Try as she might, she can’t shake the thought of all those trees overhead, either side of the train, bent by the wind, on the brink of losing their balance. If one came down now, it would shatter the compartment; they would be dead in an instant. Jim Ferguson rejoins that at this precise moment he might almost welcome it and Mrs Kemp says, “Oh yes, very amusing, I’m sure. Let’s see if you feel differently when a tree crashes through that roof.”
“My dear woman,” says Mr Carmody, and at this the young passenger grins distractedly around the compartment and says, “Oh fucking hell, so much talking today.”
“Language.”
“Get your pal to stop snoring,” Mr Ferguson says. “Then we might leave off talking.”
“Will you ever let that poor gentleman be? Or at the very least, put out your pipe, or open the window. It’s your smoke that has caused it. Your smoke makes him snore.”
“Open a window? Arseholes to that.”
Seated over by the door, the young man offers a brief, barking volley of laughter before falling silent again. He is still in no rush to join the conversati
on. The three travellers regard the young man with some interest.
“He smiles and laughs because he’s nervous,” Mrs Kemp explains. “It stands to reason, what with the wind and the trees. Isn’t that right, sir? You’re just as anxious about this as I am.”
“He’s not getting involved. I like that about him.” Ferguson reaches across to cuff the man’s shoulder. He says, “You got the right idea, just pay the lady no mind,” and the man starts and grins and says, “Oh Christ, here we go.”
Mrs Kemp says, “I also wonder whether he is not slightly deaf.”
The train picks up speed and there comes a sudden break in the woodland – barely enough to reveal a drenched, rolling field and a small cluster of habitations – before the foliage rears back and the window goes dark. That cluster of buildings: it could have been the outskirts of Dinton, or Timsbury. It could have been Brigadoon.
Mr Carmody says, “One thing to point out about our young travelling companion. You do realise he passes himself off as a spiritualist.”
“A spiritualist. Fancy.”
“This man,” he says, extending a finger, “this man has become quite the sensation of late. They call him the Magus, or perhaps he calls himself that. He performs at village halls, private homes. Small venues are best. They suit his hand-skills”
“Any good?” asks Ferguson.
Carmody smiles. “His spiritualism, I’m afraid, is not quite up to snuff. Anyone with sense can see through his act in minutes. Also the man lacks confidence and authority. Maybe, dare I say, he lacks sensitivity too. People aren’t minded to trust him and without the trust of an audience, well, your success will be limited. But never mind that. He has another string to his bow.”
While the passengers’ focus is now on the young man, the young man himself gives no sign that he’s heard. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and resettles his rump against the green upholstery. Outside, the wet woodland crawls incessantly by.
