Mrs Midnight and Other Stories

by Oliver, Reggie

  Only one thing remains to tell. At the Dean’s funeral in the Cathedral some weeks later it was noticed that, though the widow was present, Dean Coombe’s daughter, Leonora was not. However, as the congregation were leaving the Cathedral after the service, they heard a cry in the air above them. Looking up they saw a tiny figure on the south tower of the west front. It appeared to be that of a woman waving her arms in the air. Some of the more sharp sighted among the crowd recognised the figure as that of Miss Leonora Coombe.

  In horrified impotence they watched as Leonora mounted the battlements of the tower and hurled herself off it onto the flagstone path at the base of the Cathedral. Her skirts billowed out during the fall but did nothing to break it, and, as she descended all the rooks in the elms of the close seemed to rise as one and set up their hoarse cries of ‘kaa, kaa, kaa’.

  When Leonora hit the ground her head was shattered, and the only mercy of it was that she had died instantly.

  Later, in recalling this final episode of the tragedy, several witnesses quoted to me, as if compelled by some inner voice, those final words of the 137th psalm:

  ‘Happy shall he be that taketh thy children and dasheth them against the stones.’

  IV

  A silence followed the reading, one of those silences which demonstrates that the audience has been deeply involved, albeit somewhat reluctantly where Corcoran was concerned, in what had been read. He felt oddly drained by the experience. It was old age, he told himself; he was not used to late nights. He gave courteous thanks to Parsons the reader, and Carter-Benson, the organiser and left hurriedly. As he drove up the Banbury Road to his little house in North Oxford, he noted that there was a cloudless sky and a full moon. He found it hard to rid himself of the feeling that it had all been meant, and that A.C. Lincoln had spoken to him that night.

  In the Spring vacation the Giacometti Crucifixion came to St Paul’s College and was dedicated in the chapel at a pompous ceremony attended by various dignitaries including Sir Bromley Larsen himself. Dr Corcoran was also present to observe proceedings with a critical eye.

  The service was at noon, and afterwards, it being a fine day, there were drinks in the Fellow’s Garden before a lavish buffet lunch which had been laid out in Hall. Professor Drew, the Master, was at his most magisterially amiable; even his wife Barbara smiled. (Only she knew that she was about to be elevated to the House of Lords.) If there was a slight shadow cast over this ‘establishment junket’, as Corcoran rather cynically called it, it had to do with the Crucifixion itself.

  The Burne-Jones tapestry had been removed on the Master’s instructions, and the plain wall behind the altar had been revealed. Many thought that the building lost a certain warmth as a result, but this was to be expected. What did come as a surprise was the strange oblong leaden plate which had been let into the wall directly behind the altar and about five foot above the ground. On it a simple inscription had been incised:

  A.C. LINCOLN 1852-1934

  It was clear that Lincoln’s body was entombed behind this plaque. This came as a surprise to all who assumed that he had been buried beneath the elaborately inscribed marble slab in the ante-chapel. Researches in the college archives revealed that Lincoln himself had made these arrangements before his death and at the same time it was discovered that the Burne-Jones tapestry had been bought and given to the college as a perpetual gift by Lincoln himself. The object therefore could not, as the Master had hoped, be sold for an extravagant sum to Andrew Lloyd-Webber.

  Even the Master had to admit that the presence of Lincoln’s sepulchre directly behind the Giacometti was an unwelcome distraction, not as bad as the Burne-Jones would have been, certainly, but still considerable.

  As for the Crucifixion itself, Corcoran had to admit that it had a certain power. Giacometti’s characteristically elongated and corrugated figure was spread-eagled onto a plain cross of tubular steel, the head with its knifelike profile dropping down to one side, the crown of thorns subtly indicated by a few sharp excrescences emerging from the top of the head. It was a searing image of suffering and degradation, but, thought Corcoran, it had little to say about humanity, or the greatness of sacrifice. Corcoran knew this to be a rather old-fashioned view so he kept it to himself, even from Bigby the chaplain who was very happy that day. For once he was very nearly the centre of attention.

  As Corcoran strolled about the Fellow’s Garden among the well dressed people sipping glasses of the college’s best Cliquot, he heard one of the junior fellows murmur to another that the Giacometti did rather remind him of ‘a stick insect nailed to a drain pipe’. A stick insect! Of course! Corcoran made a note of the simile. It was in many ways an unjust comparison. Corcoran knew that, but there was enough validity in it for him to take it up without compunction as a weapon in the battle he was going to wage.

  Then he saw the Master waving at him and beckoning him over to a small huddle of people that included the master’s wife, Barbara and Sir Bromley Larsen.

  Sir Bromley was a man of legendary wealth, but he could have easily passed unrecognised in a crowd. He had a bald, egg-shaped head and small undistinguished features. He must have been in his mid to late forties, but his age seemed as indeterminate as his features. A thin, fixed smile was on his face.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Corcoran,’ said the Master. ‘Sir Bromley was saying how he remembers you when he was at St Paul’s. You were Dean at the time, weren’t you? In charge of disciplinary matters?’

  ‘I was Dean, but I can’t say I recall . . .’

  ‘Bromley was telling me how you nearly had him sent down,’ said the Master. ‘What was it for, then? Some drunken prank, eh?’ Sir Bromley said nothing. He merely went on smiling, primly, smugly.

  ‘I really don’t remember,’ said Corcoran, but just after he had said it, he did recollect an incident involving Larsen. It was nothing to do with drink, though; he had an idea that it concerned a forged signature on a cheque.

  ‘Dr Corcoran here doesn’t approve of our new acquisition,’ said Barbara, gleaming triumphantly. ‘Do you, George?’

  The Master looked rather embarrassed by his wife’s intervention; but Sir Bromley seemed pleased.

  ‘On the contrary, Mrs Drew,’ said Corcoran suavely, ‘I have always maintained that the Giacometti is a remarkable work of art,’ then turning to Sir Bromley, ‘how did you acquire it, I wonder?’

  Sir Bromley appeared slightly troubled by the question. The Master, becoming aware of this said: ‘Aha! Luncheon beckons, I believe!’—and everyone began to move towards the Hall.

  Before the end of the previous term Corcoran had made a point of befriending Carter-Benson, so it was quite natural that he should drop him an amusing e-mail about the ceremony he had witnessed. He mentioned the removal of the tapestry and the finding of Lincoln’s burial place. He used the word ‘desecration’ in connection with it, lightly but in such a way as to show that he was not altogether in jest. He also mentioned the stick-insect jibe. The result was altogether as he had wished. Carter-Benson e-mailed back full of indignation, saying that it was a violation of Lincoln’s heritage and of the beauty of the chapel. Carter-Benson, being one of the college chapel’s few regular undergraduate attendees, considered that he had a right to his strong views. He said, moreover, that ‘something must be done about this desecration’. Corcoran wrote back counselling caution, but not dismissing Carter-Benson’s call to action. He felt that he had lit the blue touch paper and could now retire to a safe distance and watch what followed.

  V

  There were times when Professor Drew wished that he was the Headmaster of a secondary school rather than the Master of an Oxford college. In that case, he told his wife Barbara, or Baroness Drew of Oswestry, as she was now styled, he could have called everyone together and said something like this:

  ‘I have been extremely disappointed to hear that there are some people in this college who seem to think it smart and clever to refer to the new benefaction to the chapel as �
��the stick insect”. This is not only a stupidly philistine reaction to a great work of art, it is also deeply disrespectful to a powerful religious symbol, and very ungrateful to one of the college’s most generous benefactors. There have also been a number of leaflets and notices pinned up throughout the college bearing the legend: “Swat the Stick-Insect”. Anyone caught displaying or distributing this leaflet will be sent down; anyone using the word “stick-insect” will be severely punished.’

  ‘But I can’t say that, dammit, more’s the pity,’ said Drew. ‘I can’t say or do anything. Even the dons occasionally refer to it as “the S.I.” ’

  ‘That reactionary old bastard Dr Corcoran is at the bottom of this,’ said Barbara.

  ‘No, Babs, honestly. I know he was against it, but he hasn’t said a word since it was installed.’

  ‘Not to you, maybe. But I bet he’s been spreading the poison around. The man’s a devious fascist: don’t underestimate him. Can’t you at least have Carter-Benson sent down?’

  ‘Babs, you know, I have absolutely no jurisdiction over disciplinary matters. That’s for the Dean. Anyway, we only know that Carter-Benson has written a letter of protest to the Oxford Mail which he was, I suppose, entitled to do. We have no absolute proof that he is behind the leaflets.’

  ‘Do something! You have to fight fire with fire,’ said Lady Drew. Her husband did not quite know what she meant by this, and neither did she. She was, after all, a politician.

  One evening, as Corcoran was going to dine in Hall, the porter handed him a note from Lady Drew. It was a somewhat curt invitation to him to have a drink with her at the Master’s Lodging after dinner. He was intrigued, so told the porter to convey his acceptance to her. Then, before going in to Hall, he met Carter-Benson and had a few minutes’ conversation with him.

  It was a fine May evening and when dinner was over Corcoran felt rather disinclined to spend it in the company of Lady Drew, whom he had never cared for. A casual observer might have attributed this dislike to a number of obvious dissimilarities between the two of them: unlike him she was feminist, New Labour, vegetarian, atheist, and dyed her hair a curious shade of dark red. As it happened, none of these mattered much to Corcoran who positively enjoyed the company of those he disagreed with. But Corcoran was a historian and though he doubted that the study of history could teach one anything useful except a decent academic discipline; his lifelong study of the politics of Ancient Greece had led him to one absolute conviction: that the pursuit of power was corrosive and those who dedicated their lives to it were not to be trusted. For that reason Corcoran did not object to the Master nearly as much as he did to his wife. Professor Conrad Drew was a vain man who liked power but mainly for the sensible reason that it provided him with agreeable trappings and privileges. He preferred it when people bent to his will, but he did not become frantic if they didn’t. His wife was hewn from a much harder rock.

  The Master’s Lodging at St Paul’s was situated east of the chapel, one end of which formed part of its garden wall. Giacometti’s crucified Christ therefore had his back to the Lodging, shielded from it, not only by three feet of seventeenth-century masonry, but a dense clump of rhododendron bushes which bordered the lawn.

  Lady Drew opened the door to Corcoran.

  ‘Hello, George. Do come in. D’you mind if I call you George? And you must call me Barbara.’ Corcoran shook hands with her. He was under no illusion that this invitation to use first name terms was not a power play. ‘Conrad sends his apologies. He’s been called away to some wretched meeting or other.’ The suggestion that her invitation had not been intended all along to be to a tête-à-tête was absurd. Corcoran permitted himself a smile. She ushered him into the library which had a fine bay window view over the garden towards the east wall of the chapel.

  ‘Do help yourself to port over there. Or there’s one of Conrad’s rather fine single malts. I’m afraid I’m going to stick to my herb tea if you don’t mind.’

  Without comment Corcoran walked over to the sideboard and helped himself to a small Glen Gowdie which he diluted with an equal amount of Evian water. He would wait for her to make the first move.

  After a few anodyne exchanges about the weather and university affairs, Lady Drew put on her concerned face and asked him how he had been ‘getting on’ since his wife died. Corcoran, who was passionately private about such things, gave the blandest possible response to her intrusion. He suspected that she had wanted to open up an area of vulnerability in him. Lady Drew did not appear deterred by his defensiveness.

  ‘I mean you’re eating properly and everything, are you?’

  Corcoran smiled. ‘Do I look undernourished?’

  Having been defeated in the preliminary skirmish, Lady Drew decided to press home her main attack.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I thought you and I might have a quiet word about this Giacometti business.’ Corcoran took a sip of his whisky and drifted in the direction of the bay window. ‘I think this silly hoo-ha about it being put in the chapel has gone on long enough, don’t you?’

  ‘Some people feel strongly about it.’

  ‘You for example. You haven’t exactly made a secret of your opposition.’

  ‘Unlike some, I am a regular attendant at chapel services. I suppose that gives me some right to express my views.’

  ‘I’m not saying you haven’t a right to your opinions. We are all entitled to them provided we act responsibly.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of acting irresponsibly, Lady Drew?’

  ‘Barbara, please. No of course not. But there’s Carter-Benson and that ridiculous A.C. Lincoln Society. I know they’re at the bottom of this. Now you are connected with it. All I am asking you to do—’

  ‘Barbara, let’s not argue about all this. It really is far too nice an evening for that sort of thing. Your garden is looking perfectly charming.’

  There was a short pause, during which Lady Drew reconciled herself to the fact that Corcoran was as good a conversational tactician as he was. She smiled politely.

  ‘I redesigned it myself,’ she said. ‘The previous incumbent had put in the most appalling rockery which looked positively 1950s.’

  ‘Well, I must say you’ve done a splendid job.’

  Lady Drew was not immune to flattery. She joined Corcoran at the window to reappraise her triumph.

  ‘I take a Zen approach to gardening,’ she said.

  ‘So I see,’ said Corcoran. Lady Drew looked at him sharply. Like most people who are clever but have no sense of humour, she was always on the look out for the possibility of being mocked. Corcoran’s face was a bland mask. She returned to her contemplation of the garden.

  ‘What I am saying, George, is that I have no objection to the A.C. Lincoln so long as it remains a dining club where little boys can get disgustingly drunk once or twice a year—it’s always the men who like that sort of thing, I notice, never the women—but when Lincoln is invoked as a kind of icon to exert pressure against anything progressive in this college I—Good God! What on earth is that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There! In front of the rhododendron bushes just below the chapel window. Can’t you see it?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid not. What is it?’

  ‘A sort of figure. Human, I suppose, only it looks more like a giant insect—you must be able to see it!’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Mind you my eyes are not what they were, and in the fading light—’

  ‘There! There! Look, it’s waving its arms about.’

  ‘No. Sorry! No joy. All I can see is the rhododendrons.’

  ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you telling me you can’t see it at all?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘That—thing with long thin legs and arms that’s sort of weaving about in front of the bushes. It looks—Well, it looks a bit like the Giacometti figure on the crucifix. It looks as if it’s got off the cross and is wandering ab
out in my garden, dammit.’

  ‘That’s quite impossible.’

  ‘I know it’s impossible, George! Don’t patronise me! Don’t tell me what I already know. All I’m saying is that is what I am seeing. Are you sure you can’t see anything?’

  ‘Quite sure. Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Barbara. I’ll go out into the garden and take a closer look. You say it’s just below the east window?’

  ‘No! Don’t go!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘All right! Go! Go and see for yourself.’

  After he had made a thorough inspection of the bushes in front of the chapel, Corcoran returned to report that he had found nothing untoward.

  ‘Can you still see it?’ he asked.

  ‘No. It’s gone.’

  ‘I wonder what it could have been.’

  ‘I have no idea. Look, would you mind? I’m rather tired and I have an awfully busy day tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve been overdoing it. Feeling a bit run down?’