Gorhambury checked his list to discover only one absentee, a junior scientist from the North Tower whose no-show would surprise nobody who knew her. Mrs Banter he announced without mishap; with her natural hauteur she would have been on everyone’s list.
As the last guests entered, the door behind Sir Veronal opened to admit Lady Imogen, stunning in a crimson dress with a light jewelled tiara in her hair, followed by a boy in a grey suit. The actress had never played with so many extras on such a lavish set. For the moment she had no desire to go off-script – an easy scene, maybe, but so uplifting to hold centre stage in such a set piece. With a half-smile, radiant but subtle, she hinted at welcome.
Sir Veronal stepped forward and extended his arms, the almost balletic fluency of the movement at odds with his age. ‘Townsfolk of Rotherweird, Lady Slickstone and I give this modest party to thank you for the opportunity to resurrect our manor house. I hope we have repaid your trust.’
Orelia watched Snorkel wince at Sir Veronal’s choice of words. ‘Our’ and ‘repaid’ – there was subtext here. The voice rang clear, more mellifluous than she remembered it. ‘Be so kind to give us your names – we will try to talk to you all.’ Sir Veronal turned to his supporting cast. ‘Nunc est bibendum!’ he added.
He might as well have waved a wand. Waiters launched themselves with silver salvers, musicians struck up. The Blue Lagoons loosened whatever inhibitions remained, and the volume upped to loud in moments – party time.
Rodney surveyed the guests with contempt. They so lacked his master’s class. He shuddered to think what their children would be like. He hailed a passing waiter. ‘Get me a sausage and one of those blue things, and be sharp about it.’
Outside, unseen, a lithe hooded figure with a backpack vaulted the perimeter wall through a small gap in the field of the security cameras and slipped into a remote corner of the garden.
*
Rhombus Smith did not do parties. They made his dimples ache, grinning at people he barely knew or understood. The Rotherweird history on view intrigued him more than the imported masterpieces. Were the fireplaces original? What of the panelling? And if original, who had been the first owner? What had condemned this architectural gem to purdah for centuries? Then there was the strange feature high above the fireplace: the initials HG rubbed into GW. Layers on layers, that was the trouble with history – once you disturbed the surface . . .
His fellow guests intrigued him too, for festival unmasked them. Drifters drifted, content with free drinks and small talk. The driven pursued agendas. Snobs swivelled their necks like periscopes in search of worthier company. The unhappy imbibed at pace. Peacocks (and peahens) displayed. There remained the unclassifiables: take Strimmer, dressed like a mourner and waiting for others to come to him, yet apparently on edge. Why? he wondered.
One of the unhappy, clutching his third Blue Lagoon, approached. ‘Evening, Rhombus.’
‘Fanguin . . .’
‘School – all well?’
‘You’re sorely missed.’
‘Take me back . . . please.’
‘Not in my gift, sadly, but English Lit is full of private tutors for whom things come right in the end.’
‘Not for tutors teaching newts and amoebae.’
‘Nature is understudied at Rothwerweird School thanks to the Mayor’s low view of countrysiders. I’d support you behind the scenes.’
Fanguin swayed slightly. Someone believed in him. ‘You’re a sport, Rhombus,’ he gulped before rushing off to canvas the suggestion with his wife, who tartly replied that alcoholics did not thrive in the teaching profession, so first things first.
Another unclassifiable joined the Headmaster: Professor Bolitho, who had cultivated a beard for the occasion, with Oblong in tow.
‘Call this a cocktail?’ protested the Head of the South Tower, scowling into his drink as if it were stale milk.
‘A Blue Lagoon,’ replied Oblong, displaying a schoolmasterly tendency to inform when no information was needed.
‘I know what it bloody well is. I expected more verve.’
‘Vesey is Professor of Mixology as well as Astronomy,’ explained Rhombus Smith.
Bolitho clapped Oblong on the shoulder. ‘Come to the South Tower at six tomorrow and I’ll show you a true cocktail.’ Bolitho pointed at their host. ‘See how he swoops.’
The image fitted: Sir Veronal, the predatory bird in his gilded cage, shaking all hands but picking targets for closer attention with care – but for what? Rhombus Smith watched and realised that Sir Veronal was swooping on history, starting with Orelia Roc, assistant in the town’s only antique shop.
‘Miss Roc.’
‘Sir Veronal.’
‘You were admiring my Holbein.’ The young nobleman in the portrait wore a crimson tunic and an expression of mild superiority. ‘As I might have looked, had I lived then. Talking of provenance, what about my purchase?’
‘School excavations.’
‘Were they together or apart?’
‘Together.’
‘In a container?’
‘Loose in rotten sacking.’
She spoke so spontaneously that Sir Veronal accepted the answers as true, or at least honest, and moved on to a heavily built man with an almost square head, a goatee beard and piggy eyes. He wore official costume, finely cut but entirely black save for a cream shirt and a red sash. He held a glass of water with a slice of lemon, a faintly comical mix of the puritan and the extrovert.
‘Gurney Thomes?’
‘I am he.’
Sir Veronal smiled. At last he had a guest who expected more deference than he gave – but his hopes of progress were soon
dashed.
‘Master of the Guild of Apothecaries?’
‘That is so.’
‘You work with the North Tower.’
‘Indeed we do.’
‘I have an interest in the sciences.’
‘This is always gratifying.’
Oblong, the only historian on view, became Sir Veronal’s next choice for prolonged attention, intercepted as he hunted for a refill. Sir Veronal beckoned to Rodney and the boy ambled over. Everything about him was precocious – his way of talking, his height, his patrician looks, his confidence. Oblong preferred children open to influence, but this boy’s presence had something he could not place.
‘Rodney, this is Mr Oblong, your Form Master, as from next week.’
‘It’s a privilege to meet you, sir. My father considered a private tutor, but we decided that class culture would have its moments –
in the right hands.’ The boy’s tone wavered between sycophancy and insolence.
Sir Veronal took control. ‘I need a private word with our local historian.’
Rodney offered a shallow bow and moved on.
‘I’m only a modern historian.’
‘The seeds of the present lie in the past. You can’t study 1800 and leave alone what precedes it.’
‘I suppose that depends on the rules.’
Sir Veronal picked up a candelabrum. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
Oblong obediently followed him up to the balcony and through the door behind. Shadows danced along the passage wall. Etchings, pen-and-ink drawings and a single painting flickered into view, the subjects all grotesque. Sir Veronal stopped by the painting, which featured a witch surrounded by a menagerie of monsters.
‘All Goya, but this is the treasure – a long-lost “black painting” taken from the plaster walls of Goya’s house and transferred to canvas. The other fourteen are in the Prado.’
After a descent and several turnings they emerged in the library, a square room with high round windows and oak shelves filled with antiquarian books. Oblong noted the fine marquetry desk, in period with many of the books, a room stocked with forbidden fruit – or was it literature, rather than history? Or, he belatedly asked himself, can that line ever be effectively drawn? Sir Veronal lit another candelabrum – he appeared to dislike the gas light; candl
ed sconces projected from the shelves at intervals. A snuffer lay on the mantelpiece.
He shimmied up a ladder with a sprightliness belying his age, lighting candles as he went, before handing down a small, leatherbound volume.
‘Marlowe’s Faust of 1592 – it’s based on the German Faustbuch. Next door Goethe’s Faust – the first edition of 1808 and the second of 1829, the last version that Goethe himself edited. For all the flaws, it’s the greatest play written: Paradise is dull; Hell is exciting, but at a price.’
Sir Veronal descended and ushered Oblong up the ladder. A Shakespeare first folio stood between the Goethe volumes and the complete works of Dante.
Sir Veronal listed other delights. ‘Moving right – Webster’s The Tragedy of the Dutchesse of Malfy and The White Devil printed by Nicholas Oakes. He also printed the “pied bull” quarto of King Lear, which I do not have . . . yet.’
And so it went on until Sir Veronal came to the point. ‘I have one glaring absentee: a History of Rotherweird.’ Sir Veronal’s face came closer. ‘I see only two reasons why these people hide their past. Treasure they wish to keep, or a danger they wish to avoid –
or perhaps both.’ Sir Veronal paused. ‘I am generous to those who help me.’
While wanting to impress his new mentor, Oblong did not want to go the way of Robert Flask. He shrugged uncomfortably as Sir Veronal resumed his attack.
‘How can a historian live here for six months and know nothing of the town’s history?’ The grey-green eyes bored into Oblong. Sir Veronal changed tack. ‘What of your predecessor?’
‘Mr Flask was dismissed.’
‘How curious – why?’
‘He did what you’re asking me to do.’
‘And what did he discover?’
Oblong regretted it as soon as he spoke, but he felt intimidated. ‘Something in Lost Acre Lane – but I don’t know what.’
‘How did you find that out? From whom?’
‘I forget, Sir Veronal – a comment in the pub, behind my back.’ Oblong heard the lack of conviction in his voice, but he could not get Fanguin into further trouble.
Inwardly Sir Veronal’s pleasure at the indirect vindication of his acquisition of The Journeyman’s Gist curdled with his irritation at the historian’s priggish respect for the rules. Oblong clearly knew
more.
‘You can’t offer me a morsel and then withdraw the plate,’ said Sir Veronal gently, although Oblong caught frustration, even menace, as he was ushered back to the Great Hall without ceremony. Politely packaged, the message was blunt: unless and until you open up, you’re unworthy of these treasures.
*
Orelia had watched Sir Veronal head up the staircase with Oblong. A good spy would follow. She did not get far.
‘Orelia, my dear!’
Orelia had never seen her aunt look so merry. She glowed in a new dress as bedecked with sequins as the rest of her was with jewellery and was regaling a silent Gorhambury who, by contrast, looked like an undertaker. Her aunt gestured flamboyantly at her niece. ‘Doesn’t she look splendid? The moral is: a good trade gets its just desserts. She induced the sale; I upped the price.’
Was it the Blue Lagoons or the headiness of the occasion, or was she merely basking in reflected glory? Whatever the reason, warmth peeped through. For once Mrs Banter appeared proud of her niece.
Eventually Orelia negotiated her own release as Rhombus Smith generously rescued Gorhambury. She ascended to the gallery, nonchalantly examined a painting and slipped through the doorway. She paused halfway down the passage; here disturbing pictures spoke of miscegenation and pain, fine for a museum, but a grim taste for the home of a man with the money to choose.
‘I thought I saw someone slip in,’ said a male voice behind her, footsteps following.
‘Libraries are for enquiring minds,’ muttered an authoritative voice from the opposite direction – Sir Veronal’s, she guessed. The new historian had apparently disappointed him.
She seized a nearby candle and took the only escape route, a back stairwell that curled up into the dark; it was uncarpeted, incongruous in the prevailing ostentation, and cordoned off by a purple rope as thick as her arm. She skipped over the rope and went up, pausing around the first bend, hands cupped round the candle flame, for fear that the creaking steps would betray her.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Veronal, we were checking for intruders.’
‘Nothing so exciting,’ replied Sir Veronal.
Voices and footsteps faded away. Candlelight danced along the walls. Once out of sight of the passage, this insignificant back stairway testified to neglect, doubtless how the Manor had been before the sale: panelling cracked, the boards grey-orange with dust, cobwebbed beams, and windowless. She turned six times, enough to pull a good cork, before emerging on a landing where the neglect continued. Sir Veronal’s roofers had been here, but not the painters or other craftsmen, and she could see why: with low ceilings, mean rooms and meaner windows it was more a roof space than a top floor. She could only stand in the central passage. A crude fold-up trestle table held a chipped saucer and a half-burnt candle, which she lit. With a candle in each hand and her bag wedged beneath her arm, she wandered on.
In the last room a sizeable pockmarked grey tube hugged the wainscot. She discarded her initial thought of piping – the floor had no basins or radiators – and crouched down. She bent her fingers round, and the cylinder moved. At one end she found a handle, not easy to see, some way in. She pulled, and with effort it gave way – a lid, in effect – and from inside she extracted a wrap of material, over six feet high and much longer. The tapestry unrolled like a carpet, its colours untouched by dust, wear, damp or even, it seemed, time.
Orelia had a sixth sense for objects, something more than just the eye of her trade. She was confident that the work was feminine, and of the same vintage as the house. Indeed, she could see Rotherweird Church, the Manor and what was now the North Tower, free of the clutter of buildings that now surrounded them.
Her eye settled first on the homelier scenes – a man entertaining another to lunch, two horse-drawn wagons with children, a conventional burial scene, a school class in progress. Yet she could not avoid the horrors elsewhere – a man recoiling from a telescope, eyes bleeding green and scarlet thread, as beside him a hairless monster was hunted down. Beyond a scene teemed with barred cages, perfect cubes, some empty, some housing monsters; others held a mix of man and animal or animal and bird.
She rationalised the confusing narrative as a blend of local legend and fantastical imagination.
Orelia had a camera in her bag, a habit born of her work – you never knew what you might encounter: an object to buy or an object connected to another you were trying to sell. Now she took advantage, photographing the whole in sections, moving the candles to ensure she caught the detail.
She rolled the tapestry up and replaced it, gathering herself before returning to the party.
*
A passing guest jolted Miss Trimble’s arm, spilling her drink, and moved on, oblivious.
‘Allow me.’ Gregorius Jones appeared, dabbing her sleeve with a silk handkerchief. ‘Gorgeous suit,’ he said.
Miss Trimble’s usual reaction to such a forward compliment would have been a cold shoulder or worse, but Sir Veronal’s strange welcome had given her an idea. ‘Help me, Mr Jones, what were the closing words of our host’s welcome?’
‘Nunc est bibendum – Now’s the time to . . .’ Jones paused before adding lamely, ‘Do something or other.’
Now she knew he spoke Latin and understood it, though the cause of his coyness about acknowledging that fact remained a tantalising mystery.
Orelia meanwhile resumed her watch on Sir Veronal, whose next target she foresaw.
She barely knew Marmion Finch – nobody did: a peppery recluse by general repute who made decisions on matters of arms and carvings with Roman impartiality, as had his father and grandfather before him. Even Snorkel kept a respectful d
istance from Escutcheon Place. Finch’s surname was inapposite; he was more owl than finch, eyebrows so full as to be feathered, nose hooked, and that blink – both eyes at the same time. He sporadically flicked his ear in another avian gesture. Speckled brown suit, speckled brown waistcoat, brown shoes. He stood beside Mrs Finch, a small woman wearing expensive jewellery, in her late forties or early fifties. Everyone had heard of Rotherweird’s Herald, but few had met him. His wife by contrast moved in high society and had endowed their only son with airs and graces as Finch’s heir apparent.
She hurried over to reach him before Sir Veronal.
‘Ah, it must be Miss Roc, the young woman with an eye for old things.’ Blink. Scratch. Finch smiled and clasped Orelia’s right hand with both of his. There was a beguiling quality about him.
Finch instinctively felt the same way about Orelia. He spoke with a mellow up-and-down musical voice. ‘Talking of old things, why welcome your guests in Latin? He’s not a schoolmaster. And why not a single family portrait or photograph on view?’
Orelia saw the point. The Great Hall told her no more about Sir Veronal than a museum would about its curator.
Finch’s eyes darted from masterpiece to masterpiece – a
Donatello, a Breughel the Elder, a Rembrandt, a Holbein – but all were unknown. How could any single man assemble such a remarkable collection? Finch looked at Lady Imogen. ‘And why are we here?’
‘Your chance to find out,’ whispered Orelia, as their host glided up.
‘Oh, Sir Veronal,’ gushed Mrs Finch, like Mrs Banter a member of Snorkel’s circle and therefore in thrall. Orelia caught a nuance: Marmion Finch and Mrs Finch were not well suited.
Sir Veronal ignored her and opened with a compliment. ‘I do so admire Escutcheon Place. From the style and the pilasters I would say 1600 or thereabouts, and the first significant dwelling after this one.’
‘You may admire only from the outside. So say the History Regulations.’
‘What do you keep there?’
‘I process applications for arms, refusals, postponements, appeals, challenges and designs.’
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