The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  There was no help for it now, so I told him my name and the simple truth: that I had come up to meet Mr Carteret on a matter of business; that he had invited me to stay on for a day or so; and that it had only been on my arrival at the Dower House, the previous day, that I had learned the terrible news.

  We exchanged the usual pieties, dwelled a little on the iniquity of men, and discussed the likelihood of the attackers being apprehended.

  ‘This must not stand,’ he said, shaking his head slowly, ‘indeed, it must not. These wretches will certainly be discovered, I have no doubt on that score. Such a crime cannot stay hidden. God sees all – and so do men’s neighbours, I have found. Lord Tansor is placing an advertisement in the Mercury, offering a substantial reward for any information that leads to a successful prosecution. That, I think, may loosen a few tongues. Such atrocities are common, I believe, in London, but not here; no, not here.’

  ‘It is in the power of every hand to destroy us,’ I said.

  A smile broke across his broad face.

  ‘Sir Thomas Browne!’ he cried, with evident delight. ‘“And we are beholding unto everyone we meet he doth not kill us.” There is always something in good Sir Thomas – a kind of sortes Homericae.* I often use him thus. Open him anywhere, and wisdom pours from his page.’

  We stood in silent contemplation of the coffin for a moment or two. Then he turned to me again.

  ‘Will you join me in a prayer, Mr Glapthorn?’ he asked.

  Mirabile dictu! Behold me now, kneeling beside the coffin of Mr Paul Carteret, with the Reverend Achilles Daunt, the father of my enemy, at my right hand, intoning a prayer for the peace of the poor victim’s soul, and swift retribution to be visited on the heads of his murderers – to which last sentiment I was only too happy to add my ‘Amen’.

  We rose and went out once more into the courtyard.

  ‘Shall we walk back together?’ he asked, and so we set off.

  ‘You are not a complete stranger to me, Dr Daunt,’ I said, as we were descending the Chapel steps. ‘I have had occasion to consult your great catalogue,* and am delighted, on that score alone, to have made your acquaintance.’

  ‘You have an interest in such things, then?’ he asked with a sudden eagerness.

  And so I began to reel him in, just as I had done with Mr Tredgold. It was the bibliophilic temperament, you see; its possessors constitute a kind of freemasonry, ever disposed to treat those blessed with a similar passion for books as if they were blood brothers. It did not take me long to demonstrate my familiarity both with the study of books in general, and with the character of the Duport Collection in particular. By the time we had begun to ascend the slope back towards the South Gates, we were in deep discussion on whether the 1472 Macrobius (Venice: N. Jenson), or the 1772 folio of Cripo’s Conjuracion de Catalina (Madrid: J. Ibarra), with its rare signed binding by Richard Wier, was the most perfect example of the typographer’s art in the collection.

  He spoke at length, too, of Mr Carteret, whom Dr Daunt had known since first coming to Evenwood as Rector. After Lord Tansor had volunteered his secretary’s services as the Rector’s assistant in the preparation of the great catalogue, their acquaintance had deepened into friendship. Mr Carteret had been especially helpful with regard to the manuscript holdings, which, though not extensive in comparison with the printed books, contained several important items.

  ‘He was not a trained scholar,’ said Dr Daunt, ‘but he was extremely well informed on the manuscripts acquired by his Lordship’s grandfather, and had already prepared some commendably accurate descriptions and summaries, which spared me a great deal of labour.’

  By now we had reached the point at which the path to the Dower House led off the main carriage-road.

  ‘Perhaps, Mr Glapthorn, if you have no duties that you need to attend to, you might wish to take some tea at the Rectory this afternoon? My own collection is modest, but there are one or two items that I think will interest you. I would invite you for a spot of breakfast now, but I have to call on my neighbour, Dr Stark, at Blatherwycke, and then go on to Peterborough. But I shall be back in good time for tea. Shall we say three o’clock?’

  *[‘May he rest [in peace]’. Ed.]

  *[John Snetzler (1710–85), the German-born organ builder to George III. Ed.]

  *[A form of divination that consisted of taking the first passage from Homer, or, later, Virgil, that the eye fell upon as an indication of future events. The Bible was also so used. Ed.]

  * [Bibliotheca Duportiana. A Descriptive Catalogue of the Library Established by William Perceval Duport, 23rd Baron Tansor, by the Reverend A.B. Daunt, MA (Cantab). With an Annotated Hand-list of Manuscripts in the Duport Collection by P.A.B. Carteret (privately printed, 4 vols, 1841). Ed.]

  22

  Locus delicti*

  After leaving Dr Daunt, I was admitted to the Dower House by Mrs Rowthorn. As I was ambling towards the stair-case, I noticed that one of the doors leading off the vestibule was ajar.

  Now, I cannot resist a half-opened door – just as I am unable to stop myself from peeping into a lighted and uncurtained window as I pass it on a dark night. The desired privacy proclaimed by a deliberately closed door I can respect; but not if it is half open. That, for me, is an invitation that I will always accept. This one was especially tempting, for I knew that it must lead into the room in which Miss Carteret had been playing the piano-forte the previous evening.

  I continued on my way, but waited on the first-floor landing for a moment or two until I was sure that the housekeeper had returned to the lower regions of the house, then quickly descended the stairs again, and entered the room.

  The atmosphere was close, heavy, and silent. The instrument I had heard – a fine Broadwood six-octave grand – stood before the far window. On it, opened, as if ready to be played, was a piece of music: an Étude by Chopin. I turned over the pages, but it was not the piece that I had heard the night before. I looked about me. The pale blinds had been drawn down, and through them the morning sun cast a muted silver light about the room. My eye picked out three or four dark-velvet ottomans and matching chairs, with coloured cushions of Berlin-work scattered upon them; the walls, hung with a rich red self-patterned wall-paper, were covered with a profusion of portraits, prints, and silhouettes. A number of round tables, covered in chenille cloths and laden with a variety of japanned and papier-mâché boxes, pottery ornaments, and bronze figurines, were placed here and there amongst the chairs and ottomans, whilst above the fireplace, to the right of the door, hung an umbrageous seventeenth-century depiction of Evenwood.

  The comfortable but unremarkable character of the room left me feeling a little cheated until I noticed, lying under the piano-forte, two or three half-torn sheets of music, which appeared to have been violently ripped out of a larger compilation. I walked over to the instrument, and bent down to pick up the remnants.

  ‘Do you play, Mr Glapthorn?’

  Miss Emily Carteret stood in the doorway, looking at me as I was picking up the ripped sheets to place them on the piano-stool.

  ‘Not as well as you, I fear,’ I said, truthfully, though the note sounded false, a pathetic attempt at gallantry. But my words had an effect on her nonetheless, for she began to look at me with a strange concentration of expression, as if she were waiting for me to confess some mean action.

  ‘You heard me playing last evening, I suppose. I hope I did not disturb you.’

  ‘Not in the least. I found it extremely affecting. A most satisfying accompaniment to the close contemplation of a twilit garden.’

  I meant her to know that I had not only heard her playing, but had also witnessed the rendezvous with her lover in the Plantation; but she simply remarked, in a flat, vacant tone, that I did not give the impression of possessing a contemplative disposition.

  I immediately regretted the cynical tone that I had adopted, for I saw now that her face was drawn, with dark rings around the eyes that betokened long hours of sleep
lessness. Her manner had less of the frigidity of our first encounter, although I remained wary of the way that her eyes slowly but constantly scrutinized my person with judicial intensity, like a prosecuting counsel cross-examining a hostile witness. But the burden of her grief was now apparent. She was human, after all; and what could have prepared her for this, the senseless slaughter of her father? It was not in her nature to speak her misery – I saw that clearly; but the o’er-fraught heart* must somehow find expression, or it will break.

  She picked up the torn pieces of music that I had placed on the piano-stool.

  ‘A favourite piece of my father’s,’ she said, though offering no explanation as to why the sheets had been spoiled in this way. ‘Are you an admirer of Chopin, Mr Glapthorn?’

  ‘In general, I prefer the music of earlier times – the elder Bach, for instance; but I attended Monsieur Chopin’s concert at Lord Falmouth’s …’

  ‘July ’forty-eight,’ she broke in. ‘But I was there, too!’

  At this, I recounted how I had found myself in London in the summer of that year, soon after taking up residence in Camberwell, and had happened to see an advertisement for the recital. The coincidence of our both being present that evening to hear the maestro play produced a distinct change in her. Her look softened somewhat, and as we talked about our separate recollections of the evening, a faint smile would occasionally moderate the severity of her expression.

  ‘Miss Carteret,’ I said softly, as I was taking my leave, ‘I hope you will not think it presumptuous of me if I beg you – once more – to see me as a friend, for I truly wish to be so. You have told me that you neither want nor need my sympathy, but I fear I must presume to give it to you, whether you will or no. Please will you let me?’

  She said nothing, but at least she did not rebuff me, as formerly; and so, emboldened, I pressed on.

  ‘I have despatched my report to Mr Tredgold, and so shall return to Stamford this evening, and take train to London tomorrow. But, if I may, I hope you will allow me to return for your father’s funeral. I shall not, of course, presume on your hospitality …’

  ‘Of course you may return, Mr Glapthorn,’ she interrupted, ‘and I shall not hear of your staying anywhere tonight but here. You will forgive me, I hope, for being so cold with you before. It is my nature, I fear, to let very few people into my confidence. To my disadvantage, I have nothing of my father’s outgoing nature.’

  I thanked her for her generosity, and then we spoke a little further of the arrangements that had been put in hand. The inquest was to take place on the following Monday in Easton, the nearest town to Evenwood, under Mr Rickman Godlee, coroner for the district; the interment, at St Michael’s and All Angels, would be tomorrow week.

  ‘By the way, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, ‘I am required to speak with some police-officers from Peterborough this afternoon. I have already indicated to the authorities that you would be happy to put yourself at their disposal. I trust that you do not object?’

  I replied that, naturally, as the representative of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, and perhaps as the last person to have seen her father alive, I would do everything possible to assist those responsible for identifying Mr Carteret’s assailants.

  She expressed her gratitude, and informed me that the officers would be arriving at two o’clock, if that would be convenient for me. As this would still give me an hour before I was due at the Rectory, I said that I would return at the appointed time and turned to go.

  ‘I hope, Miss Carteret,’ I said at the door, ‘that you have friends hereabouts, and that you will not be too much alone in the coming days?’

  ‘Friends? Of course. But I do not mind being alone. I grew up more or less on my own – after my poor sister died. Solitude holds no terrors for me, I can assure you.’

  ‘And you are fortunate to have good neighbours, too, I think?’

  ‘You are referring to Dr and Mrs Daunt, perhaps?’

  I briefly recounted my meeting with the Rector, and my decidedly favourable impressions of that gentleman.

  ‘Dr Daunt is certainly a good neighbour,’ she said. ‘I could wish for no better.’

  ‘And Mr Phoebus Daunt must be a welcome addition to any society,’ I continued, as disingenuously as I could, for I was determined that my liking for Miss Carteret would not deflect me from learning as much as I could about my enemy.

  ‘Are you acquainted with Mr Phoebus Daunt?’

  Her mouth perceptibly tightened, and I noticed that she passed her hand over her forehead as she spoke, though her eyes held me fast in their gaze.

  ‘His literary reputation precedes him,’ I replied. ‘Who has not read and admired Ithaca?’

  ‘Do you mock my distinguished neighbour, Mr Glapthorn?’

  I sought, but could not quite find, something in her face that would confirm that her literary estimation of P. Rainsford Daunt coincided with my own.

  ‘Not at all. It is a very great thing to be a poet, and to be able to write so much poetry at a time is surely enviable.’ ‘Now I know that you are being unkind.’

  She looked me straight in the eye, and then she laughed – a clear spontaneous laugh, which instantly produced a similar response in me. The action briefly transformed her face into something even more wonderful, and for a moment or two she stood swaying from side to side in a most charming, child-like manner. Then she sought to check herself, looking away slightly, and affecting to tidy up some flower petals that had fallen from a display on a nearby table-top.

  ‘I must tell you, Mr Glapthorn, what perhaps you already know, that I grew up with Mr Daunt, and that it is very cruel of you to deride the literary efforts of my childhood companion.’

  ‘Oh, I do not deride them, Miss Carteret,’ I replied. ‘I do not pay them any heed at all.’

  By now she appeared to have collected herself, and turned from the table to hold out her hand.

  ‘Well, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, ‘perhaps we shall be friends after all. I do not know how you have made me laugh at such a time as this, but I am glad you have done so, though I must caution you not to underestimate Mr Daunt. He is exceptional in many ways – and not a little like you.’

  ‘Like me? How so?’

  ‘For one thing, he is determined to make his mark on the world – as, I believe, from our brief acquaintance, that you are also. For another, I think he would make a dangerous enemy – as you would.’

  ‘Well, then,’ I replied, ‘I must be sure to keep my opinions concerning his literary productions to myself. It would never do to antagonize so dangerous a man.’

  I could not help delivering these words in a swaggering manner, which I immediately regretted when I saw the smile fade from Miss Carteret’s face.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have warned you. I know him well, as well as anyone, I think, and I say again that he is not a man to be crossed. But perhaps you already know the gentleman as well as his works?’

  Of course I lied, and said that I had not yet had the pleasure of meeting him in person, but that I hoped to rectify this as soon as possible.

  She moved towards the window to raise up the blind. ‘It is such a beautiful morning,’ she said. ‘Shall we take a turn round the garden?’

  And so round we went, several times, at first in silence but then, in answer to my questions, she began to speak of her childhood at Evenwood, and of how she had once become lost in the great house, and thought she would never be found again; then, at my gentle prompting, she told me something of the terrible day that her sister died, which she recalled even now in all its heart-breaking detail, though she had only been four years old when they brought the bedraggled little body back to the Dower House. She fell silent again, the painful memory of that loss no doubt compounding the grief that she felt at the brutal slaying of her father. So, to change the subject, I asked her about her time abroad, and how she had liked Paris, and because she said that she adored the French language, I suggested that we should converse in that t
ongue, which we proceeded to do until, somewhat overawed by her fluency, I stumbled over a word, and she laughed at my embarrassment.

  ‘I see you are not used to being laughed at, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said. ‘I suspect few people get the better of you, and when they do, you take it hard. Is it not so?’

  I admitted that she was right in general, but that, with regard to my spoken French, I humbly deferred to her superior proficiency, and – which was true – was happy to be laughed at. At length, after we had taken several turns of the garden, we sat down to rest on a little stone bench, where we remained, saying nothing, for some minutes.

  The autumn sun was warm on our faces, and when I turned to speak to her I saw that her eyes were closed. How exquisitely beautiful she was! She had left her spectacles in the house, and her pale skin, framed and intensified by the stark black of her hair, was bathed in the clear October light, bestowing on it a strangely numinous, unearthly quality. She sat perfectly still, her head tilted upwards, her lips slightly parted. It was the most enchanting composition, and I wished so much to have my camera to capture the fleeting moment, and fix it for ever. Then she opened her eyes, and looked straight at me.

  ‘Your business with my father,’ she said. ‘Are you at liberty to say what it concerned?’

  ‘I’m afraid that must remain confidential.’

  ‘Do you not trust me?’ she asked.

  There was a hard look in her eye that matched her tone of voice. I struggled to find a suitable answer, but could only prevaricate.

  ‘Miss Carteret, it is not a question of trust between you and me, but between my employer and myself.’

  She thought for a moment and then stood up, blocking out the sun.

  ‘Well, then,’ she declared, ‘there is nothing more to be said. I had begun to hope that we might perhaps become friends, but without trust —’

  ‘I assure you, Miss Carteret,’ I began, but she held up her hand to stop me from speaking further.

  ‘No assurances, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, with terrible emphasis. ‘I do not care for assurances. They are given all too lightly, I find.’