by Simon Raven
‘Interesting, all that,’ said Jeremy, as Fielding and he made their way towards Wilton’s for dinner; ‘but I don’t know that we’ve heard much to our purpose.’
‘Glastonbury might have asked us to dine with him,’ grouched Fielding: ‘after all, I was in his Squadron. His Second-in-Command at that.’
‘We’ll do much better at Wilton’s than at any club, even that upper-class sanctuary of Giles’.’
‘How do you know?’ grated Fielding. ‘You don’t belong to any clubs. And you won’t, after that squalid fiasco in Australia. What do you know about the food in clubs?’
‘All right,’ said Jeremy equably, ‘shall we dine at yours? The Thackeray, isn’t it?’
‘No. Wilton’s.’
‘It’ll cost four times as much as the Thackeray.’
‘It’ll be four times better,’ said Fielding; ‘and you’re so rich you can pay for both of us.’
‘All right,’ said Jeremy. ‘No need for hints – even one as delicate and subtle as that. I should have paid anyway.’
‘Sorry,’ said Fielding, feeling rather grimy: ‘what was that you said about how we didn’t hear anything to our purpose from Giles?’
‘Just that. That we heard nothing to our purpose.’
‘But we did. St-Girons. That’s the place which the Constable told Giles that Raisley gave as his Poste Restante address.’
‘“St-Girons or something of the sort”, as I remember.’
‘Military façon de parler,’ Fielding said. ‘Regular officers learn very early in their careers never to be too precise in stating details in case someone blames them if they’ve got it wrong. St-Girons. Forget “the something of the sort”. St-Girons – a totally unimportant place but with a rather memorable and charming name. That’s why it stuck in the Constable’s head. And in Giles’ as well, for all these years.’
‘And what if it did?’
‘Come, Jeremy. St-Girons is not far from St-Bertrand-de-Comminges and Barbazon. The inference is clear. Raisley had remembered his summer holiday with his old chum, Hyphen, and was spending his leave – months and months of it, we hear – going over the ground again.’
Carmilla and Piero decided that the best way they could tackle Ullacote was simply to go there accompanied by Auntie Flo, who had been an old racing crony of Raisley Conyngham and could therefore announce, without impropriety, that she had been passing through Timberscombe with her friends and had taken the opportunity to call. Only the plot was that she would not be announcing this to Raisley himself, who was back at school teaching, but to whomsoever happened to be taking care of the place in his absence. It would be interesting to establish who, at present, this was, and what sort of state the house and stables were now in; and they could at least hope (on the strength of Auntie Flo’s taste for racing) for a good look at the horses.
‘Raisley’s Private Trainer,’ said Auntie Flo, as they all set out from Sandy Lodge (HQ for the operation), ‘used to be a pathetic drunk called Jack Lamprey, who, however, was a marvellous hand with the horses. But now Jack is dead, and Gat-toothed Jenny, his Head Lass, has gone away, and God alone knows who’ll be there.’
The answer was chilling. They were greeted by Abel Thynne, a former Head Lad, whom Raisley Conyngham had kept in his employment, until now he was well past three score years and ten, because he (Raisley) believed in rewarding loyal service. Abel remembered Auntie Flo from race meetings long ago and was happy to show them whatever they wanted to see. The house itself was in tolerable condition, kept up by a Scottish couple who minded their business and nobody else’s, under the nominal supervision of Abel, who had advanced with the years to the status of Honorary Factor. The stables, however, were desolate. The deserted stalls dripped and gaped: the yard was fouled by plastic bags and broken bottles: even the bell had been borne away, by one of the departing stable lads. For all the lads and lassies had gone now; the horses, they were told by Abel, had been sent for keeping to Prideau Glastonbury in Herefordshire, where the stallion, Lover Pie, who had been Master Marius Stern’s favourite when he worked there briefly the previous spring, was sick nearly to death. There were no plans for bringing any of the horses back to Ullacote. ‘If only Miss Jenny would return,’ said Abel; ‘but she is now in service to my Lord Canteloupe in Wiltshire, and he will make her a kind master for all his proud ways.’
‘God, how depressing,’ said Auntie Flo, as they drove back along the coast road from Minehead to Bridgwater and Burnham. ‘Poor old Abel. Nothing to do but die. The heart has gone out of the place. Whatever you may think of Raisley, up to the end of last summer he kept some beautiful hurdlers and steeplechasers.’
‘I think an ill wind is blowing over Ullacote,’ said Piero Caspar. ‘Sicilians have a keen nose for an ill wind.’
‘If Raisley smells it he may turn vengeful,’ said Carmilla.
‘He must have smelt it by now.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Carmilla, ‘we may find the germ of his revenge in what Fielding was telling us, that Raisley had persuaded Marius “to keep his options open” and not to tell Tessa that they are in fact half-brother and -sister.’
‘There can only be an evil connection between Marius and Tessa,’ said Piero, ‘if Marius is required to go again to your sister. For if he goes, Tessa will be there with her; and then –’
‘– I think it will be some time before it is decided,’ said Carmilla, ‘decided, that is, whether Thea is to be submitted to child-bearing again. A lot will depend on whether Canteloupe likes the baby girl of which Flo delivered her at the New Year. If he does, he may abandon the idea of having a son manufactured for him.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Piero, ‘if we are to fight Raisley Conyngham, we need to know wherein he is strong and wherein he is vulnerable. As you have said, Carmilla, the clue may lie in the Languedoc.’
‘Why?’ Carmilla said.
‘That was your feeling, you said.’
‘I’m not sure it was well based. Just an early impression, which I was perhaps too quick to pass on.’
‘An early impression, I dare say,’ said Piero, ‘but one that has surely been reinforced since we have learned of his obsession with that terrain…as reported to you and me by Miss Jesty Hyphen in her account of the summer they spent there together among the dead Cathars.’
‘That summer was a long time ago,’ Carmilla said.
‘Obsessions linger a long time, Miss Carmilla.’
‘Granted. We shall still need to know much more than we know yet before we can start seeking for his secrets in the Languedoc with any confidence. Now, that curious figure, his father – should we not try to find out more about him?’
‘A flaneur. And an antiquary who in fact prompted Raisley’s interest in St-Bertrand-de-Comminges…but casually and almost en passant. I do not think any investigation of the father will help us further.’
‘Possibly not,’ said Carmilla. ‘But I shall wish to learn much more than I’ve learned yet about Raisley’s interest in the Languedoc before I shall be happy to start trying to find a scent there.’
‘And yet a few days ago you seemed practically certain.’
‘A first impression, as I’ve just said. I now wish to be much better informed before I commit our time and energy – and money – in that quarter. After all…I am meant to be writing a book.’
‘We all look forward to it,’ said Auntie Flo. ‘Marius was talking to me about it only the other day – he is very intrigued by your subject. I only hope he is still here to enjoy it when it is published.’
‘Come, come,’ said Carmilla. ‘Raisley may be a threat to Marius, a moral threat, in the long term. But you sound as if you expect him to drag Marius down into hell-fire at any moment – like the devils and Don Juan.’
‘Something of the kind,’ said Auntie Flo; ‘not quite so theatrical, perhaps, but just as final. You seem to be losing your urgency in this matter, Carmilla. As I understand it, it was you who first organized the hunt.’
‘And convened the huntsmen in my house,’ added Piero. ‘You make me seem like Artemis.’
‘Yes.
Thou that makest day of night,
Goddess, excellently bright.
Our guide, our leader,’ said Piero. ‘Our light, our hope.’
‘Please keep this thing in proper perspective, Piero. Of course we must follow where the clues lead; but there is no need to be precipitant – to be childish and hysterical.’
‘Raisley Conyngham,’ said Auntie Flo, ‘is and has long been a rich man, as the Apocrypha has it, “furnished with ability”. He is efficient, competent, commanding when he needs to be. Why do you think he has allowed his stable to sink, almost overnight, into ruin? Do you really suppose he could not have prevented this? That it has been brought about by an ill wind against which he is powerless?’
Piero and Carmilla were silent now. The old woman, sitting in the co-driver’s seat, turned on them both. It was as though her mouth stretched the entire width of her face, one half of it speaking to Carmilla, to whom she now presented her left profile, the other half, separately, to Piero in the back, towards whom her right profile thrust and stabbed from her twisted neck.
‘Don’t you understand?’ she screeched. ‘The ill wind comes from Raisley himself. He has cursed his stable, part of his own possessions, in order that the curse may spread to those that worked and were happy there. “The Bailey has borne the bell away.” The curse has claimed that poor sot Jack already. The gallant stallion, Lover Pie, is dying, so Abel tells us. And when will it claim Marius, who was happy there, grooming Lover Pie, in the spring?’
After a time, Carmilla said in a small voice:
‘Surely…it is Raisley’s wish to possess and use Marius, not to curse him?’
‘Possess? Use? Curse? Where is the difference, Carmilla? If Raisley wishes to do the first and the second, why should he balk at the third? Perhaps he must do the third to prove his power and make it total.’
Not wishing to disturb Tessa or Marius by obtruding themselves on the school, or (for that matter) to risk the anger or curiosity of Raisley Conyngham, Fielding and Jeremy had decided to conduct their enquiries through Jeremy’s father, Lord Luffham of Whereham (Peter Morrison as had been) who had been a governor of the school for some years now and had lately been honoured by enthronement and ‘gowning’ before the Masters and the Sixth Form.
‘Since you ask,’ said Luffham, sitting at dinner under Orpen’s portrait of his father, ‘I have never heard anything against Raisley Conyngham. He has the name of a brilliant teacher, and there has been no breath of scandal against him in all my time as a governor.’
‘But you didn’t like him when you met him at your “gowning”, Father,’ Jeremy said.
‘No. I thought him specious and mannered. I think he is too rich for his position. A teacher of the classics has no business owning racehorses.’
They were interrupted by the ‘Chamberlain’, an old family servant.
‘I have just thought, my lord,’ said the Chamberlain to Lord Luffham of Whereham, ‘that since you have ceded the property to Master Jeremy and are here only by his invitation, Master Jeremy should sit at the head of the table, where you are now, and you should sit under the portrait of your late wife, where he is now. Would you like me to change your places?’
‘You must not interrupt, Chamberlain,’ said Jeremy calmly, ‘or I shall have to ask you to leave the room. My father and I prefer to sit as we are.’
Deeply hurt, the Chamberlain came from ‘at ease’ to ‘attention’ in his position against the wall.
‘Did you ever hear anything,’ said Fielding to Luffham, ‘of Conyngham’s sabbatical year?’
‘Plenty,’ said Luffham. ‘I was against it. But most of my colleagues considered that Marcian College was honouring Conyngham, and through Conyngham the school, by offering to assist his research. So I let them have their way. If I remember rightly, Conyngham was released from May ’75 to September ’76…without pay but without loss of place or seniority. A very long time, I should have thought, for a mature man to waste on a mere piece of academic research.’
‘Come, Peter,’ said Fielding: ‘let’s not be philistine about this.’
‘Very well, Fielding. Let us not be philistine,’ said Luffham of Whereham. ‘Let us just say that no one on the Governing Body had any very clear idea of what this research was about, that at the end of the fifteen months off which he spent on it we are still no clearer, and that after a further six years not one word of it has been published.’
‘That is what happens with research,’ said Jeremy. ‘It is very seldom published, and then only after many years, and more often than not it is never even done at all.’
‘Mr Raisley Conyngham did his all right,’ said the Chamberlain from the wall.
‘What do you know about it, Chamberlain?’ Jeremy said.
‘Since I’ve been told by you not to interrupt, Master Jeremy,’ said the Chamberlain pettishly, ‘I had better hold my tongue.’
‘You have already interrupted. What do you know about Conyngham’s research? What could you possibly know?’
‘I was Lord Canteloupe’s servant, sir, as you may know, when he was still plain Captain Detterling of Hamilton’s Horse.’
‘Yes, we do know. What has that to do with it?’
‘Captain Detterling does not forget old companions, sir. He writes from time to time. So does his friend, Major Glastonbury. We was all three in India, you see, me as the servant, when Captain Detterling and Major Glastonbury (Lieutenant-Colonel ’e was then, just for a time) were working in Intelligence just after the war.’3
’The less said about all that the better for all concerned,’ said Luffham, smiling slyly. ‘Not a wholesome period in British History.’
‘I dare say not, my lord. What I’m leading up to is that Major Glastonbury has a cousin called Prideau Glastonbury who was at Cambridge with Mr Raisley Conyngham; and so Major Glastonbury came to know Mr Conyngham along of his cousin Prideau. Well, some years ago, 1975, Major Glastonbury sent me a Christmas card. Regimental card it was, though of course the poor old bloody regiment was long dead by then, with the old Skull and Crossbones on the front and inside a print of some young buck in the mess kit worn in the year of Waterloo. Anyway, Major Glastonbury had put two cards in the envelope by mistake. The first said “To the Great Teetotaller” – that was what Captain Detterling and he used to call me because I never drank – and was, of course, for me. The second said “To Raisley with Best Wishes for your grave crawl under the Pyrenees. Seriously, you cunning bastard, if you do come up with anything worthwhile, don’t waste it. Black Tombs can spew Red Gold – but not on the academic market. G G.”’
‘What did you do with that card, Corporal?’ said Fielding, using the rank the man had carried as Detterling’s servant, the time when Fielding had known him best.
‘Kept it, Major Fielding. Otherwise I’d never have remembered all that, now would I? I like to look at my Christmas cards from old friends from time to time, and though that one wasn’t strictly for me, I’ve always enjoyed it. Poetic, you see. Black Tombs can spew Red Gold – I often wonder what the Major meant.’
‘Whatever Major Glastonbury meant,’ said Carmilla to Fielding Gray, Jeremy Morrison and Piero Caspar in her rooms in Lancaster College, Cambridge (where she had called a meeting to decide on future action), ‘I still can’t be confident that it warrants a journey to the Languedoc. It was a flippant message – a joke.’
‘To Giles Glastonbury,’ said Fielding, ‘everything was a joke.’
‘I simply don’t trust it,’ Carmilla said. ‘“Black Tombs can spew Red Gold.” Night Nursery stuff – a Tale at Bedtime.’
‘I simply adore it,’ said Piero. ‘But then we Sicilians take Night Nursery stuff more seriously than you Anglo-Saxons.’
‘You didn’t have a Night Nursery,’ said Jeremy in a rather malicious way (one queen putting down another), ‘in your family hutch in
the slums of Syracuse.’
‘But we had plenty of stories at bedtime,’ Piero said. ‘People crowding round one’s little cradle – a handy fruit box – to tell tales and give one a tickle.’
‘Frivolous,’ said Carmilla. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘Oh, but I am,’ Piero said. ‘We combine the frivolous with the serious in a way that you, Miss Carmilla, would never understand. In Sicily a hideous history of emasculation, for example, is seldom told to one without a tweak of one’s little penis. Ghosts, to take another example: they are eminently comic as well as horrible, so we combine horror and comedy in telling of them. Or look at the catacombs in Palermo: full of grand, purple cardinals hanging grotesquely from hooks.’
‘That Christmas card does at least suggest a line on Raisley,’ said Fielding. ‘Jeremy’s father was no help – he was adamant on the man’s respectability and pooh-poohed everything to do with his research; but this sabbatical year as described by Glastonbury – “a grave crawl under the Pyrenees”, a search for the “Red Gold” which may be spewed forth by “Black Tombs” – it does suggest an exciting and mysterious journey into hidden places; it does convey a whiff of simmering lava.’
‘What does Jeremy say?’ said Carmilla: ‘Jeremy, the man of bardic vision, the man who was briefly Virgil.’
‘Don’t mock,’ Jeremy said.
Carmilla winced but did not apologize. ‘What do you think of this trail?’ she said.
‘You say,’ said Jeremy, ‘that Miss Jesty Hyphen was full of Raisley’s passion for Cathars in 1951. We also know Raisley went again into Cathar country, for months at a time while on bought and illicit furlough from the Depot of the Blue Mowbrays between 1956 and 1958. And yet again, we know that he went once more in 1975 and stayed until the spring or summer of 1976. What puzzles me is why he didn’t go at all for nearly twenty years, between leaving the Blue Mowbrays and taking his sabbatical leave from the school.’
