by Michael Cox
I felt sick and uneasy. A surfeit of gin-punch, and too many cigars, no doubt. Though I was exhausted, my mind was unquiet, harassed with commotion, and sleep seemed impossible. Tomorrow I would return to London, no wiser concerning the nature of Mr Carteret’s discovery than when I came to Northamptonshire, but certain that it had brought about his death. And if the Tansor succession was at the heart of the business, then this could mean that I, too, was caught up in the plot that had led to his murder.
I tried to force myself to think of other things – of Bella, and what she would be doing. Tonight, I knew, there was to have been a dinner at Blithe Lodge for one of the most distinguished members of The Academy, the Earl of B—. The best silver would be out, and Mrs D would be resplendent in garnet and pearls, and sporting the remarkable peacock-feathered headdress that she always wore on such occasions, as signifying her supreme position in the body politic of The Academy. I imagined Bella wearing her blue silk dress, her favourite Castellani necklace* encircling her wonderful neck, a wreath of white artificial rose-buds nestling in her abundant black hair. The company would ask her to play and sing, and of course she would charm every man there. Some would even half believe they were in love with her.
I closed my eyes, but still the sleep that I craved eluded me. I remained in this state for perhaps an hour, half awake, half dozing, until the striking of the gate-house clock roused me. Now fully alert, and as far from sleep as ever, I was considering what to do with myself when my ears caught a strange sound. I thought perhaps it might be the wind, but on looking out of the window again, I could see that the branches of the trees in the Plantation were barely moving. Silence descended once more, but in a few moments it came again – an urgent whimpering, such as I have heard dogs make in their sleep.
I rose and put my boots on. Candle in hand, I opened the door.
The passage outside my room was dark, the house deathly silent. To my right was the main stair-case leading down to the vestibule; ahead, the passage ran almost the length of the house. On my left I made out two doors, leading, I presumed, to rooms that, like mine, overlooked the front lawn; another room opposite – which I later learned was Mr Carteret’s study – clearly gave onto the gardens at the rear. As I proceeded slowly down the passage, I saw that, at the far end, it made a turn to the right, towards the back of the house.
For a few moments I stood listening intently, but there was no sound to be heard, and so I began to retrace my steps a little more rapidly. To prevent the flickering flame from being extinguished, I cupped my hand around the candle, which immediately produced huge shadow-fingers that slid silently across the walls and doors on either side as I passed. Then, as I reached the second of the doors on the front side of the house, I heard it again, like a soft, involuntary moan. Placing the candle-holder on the floor, I kneeled down, my boots creaking slightly. The key-hole had a little brass cover but it was fixed fast; and so I put my ear to the door.
Silence. I waited, hardly daring to draw breath. What was that? A rustling noise, like a silken garment falling to the floor; a moment later, I began to catch what sounded like fragments of a whispered conversation. I strained to hear what was being said, pressing my ear closer to the door, and squinting my eyes in concentration; but I could make nothing out until—
‘Mais il est mort. Mort!’*
No longer a whisper, but an anguished cry – her cry! Then, tenderly urgent, came the reply from another voice:
‘Sois calme, mon ange! Personne ne sait.’†
Again the conversation subsided to a whisper on both sides, and only occasionally, when one or the other of the speakers raised their voice a little, was I able to catch more than a word or two.
‘Il ne devrait pas s’être produit…’
‘Qu’a-t-il dit? …’
‘Qu’est-ce que je pourrais faire? … Je ne pourrais pas lui dire la vérité …’
‘Mais que fera-t-il?…’
‘ Il dit qu’il le trouvera …’
‘Mon Dieu, qu’est-ce que c’est que ça’?’*
In moving my position a little way, to ease the cramp in my leg, I had knocked over the candle-holder, putting out the flame in the process. Instantly, I heard footsteps inside the room hurrying towards the door. There was no time to return to my own room, and so, hastily gathering up the candle-holder, I ran as quickly as I could back down the passage, reaching the point at the far end where it turned sharply towards the rear part of the house just as the door opened.
I could not see them, but I imagined two frightened faces peering out, and anxiously looking up and down the passage. At length, I heard the door being closed, and a few moments later I ventured my head round the angle of the wall to confirm that the coast was clear.
Back in my room, I immediately sat down and wrote out as much of the conversation between Miss Carteret and her friend as I could remember. Like a scholar working on fragments of some ancient text, I sought to fill in the lacunae to make sense of what I had heard, but without success; my incomplete and disconnected transcriptions – set out above – refused to yield up their secrets. Convinced now that I was seeing mystery and conspiracy where there was none, I walked to the window to look out once again on the moonlit garden.
Miss Carteret, Miss Carteret! I was completely, preposterously, bewitched by my beautiful cousin, though I hated myself for the absurdity of it all. It had happened in two days – only two days! It was mere infatuation, I told myself yet again. Forget her. You have Bella, who is everything you could want or need. Why expend precious time on this cold thing, time that ought to be given to the accomplishment of your great enterprise?
But whoever heeds the voice of reason when love whispers, softly persuasive, in the other ear?
I was awoken early by Mrs Rowthorn knocking at my door with a tray of breakfast, as I had requested.
On descending to the vestibule half an hour later, I looked into the dining-room, and then into the two reception rooms at the front of the house; but there was no sign of either Miss Carteret or her friend, Mademoiselle Buisson. A little French clock on the mantel-piece was chiming half past seven as I opened the front door, and stepped out into a cold, dull morning.
I was drawing deeply on my first cigar of the day, in the hope that strong tobacco would have the required stimulative effect on my sluggish faculties, when Brine brought my horse round from the stable-yard. He wished me a safe journey, and I asked whether he had seen Miss Carteret that morning.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Not this morning. She gave orders to my sister that she would be late coming down, and that she was not to be disturbed.’
‘Please give Miss Carteret my compliments.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘You have the address safe that I gave you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
I mounted up, and was riding off under the dark echoing arch of the Scottish gate-house when I reined in my mount. Turning the horse, I galloped back into the Park.
Pushing on up the long incline, and through the avenue of oaks at its summit, I pulled up and looked down across the misty river to where Evenwood lay.
It was a day of lead-grey louring cloud, with a cold east wind sighing through the leafless trees; yet even on such a day, my heart was captivated by the beauty of the house – this place of desire and delights. When would the day come that I would enter it as Master, and my feet stand secure within its gates at last?
As I passed the Rectory, I saw Dr and Mrs Daunt, arm in arm, walking up the lane from the church. On seeing me, the Rector stopped and raised his hat in salute, which gesture I returned in kind. His wife, however, immediately disengaged her arm, and walked off alone down the lane.
In another moment I had left Evenwood, and Miss Emily Carteret, behind.
After a cold, damp ride, I turned into the High Street in Stamford at a little before nine o’clock. Returning my nag to the ostler at the George, I then arranged with the hall-porter for my bags to be carried across to
the Town Station in time for the next train to Peterborough. The ride had cleared my head, lightened my mood, and sharpened my appetite; and so, having an hour in hand, I cheerily ordered up chops, bacon, and eggs, and a pot of strong coffee, and settled myself in a box by the fire in one of the public rooms to read the daily news-papers until it was time to stroll over to the station.
It wanted ten minutes to the time that the train was due to arrive when, as I was walking into the first-class waiting-room, something that Dr Daunt had said on our walk back from the Library returned to me. He had been speaking of an early ambition of his son’s to follow a career in the law, in emulation of his closest friend at Cambridge. I had given no further thought to the Rector’s words; but now, standing in the waiting-room of the Town Station in Stamford, they returned with a strange force.
Now, I am a great believer in the instinctive powers – the ability to reach at truth without the aid of reason or deliberation. Mine are particularly acute; they have served me well, and I have learned to trust them whenever they have manifested their presence. You never know where they may lead you. Here was a case in point. I cannot say why, but I was instantly seized with the notion that I must find out the name of this companion of Daunt’s at the University. Acting on this impulse, therefore, I immediately changed my plans and, after consulting my Bradshaw,* resolved upon a diversion to Cambridge.
By now the train for Yarmouth, which I was to take as far as Ely, had arrived. I was on the point of picking up my bag, when one of the tap-room servants from the George came puffing up to me, and thrust a thick envelope, almost a small package, into my hand.
‘What is this?’
‘Beg pardon, sir, hall-porter says this has been directed to you.’
Ah, I thought. The proofs of Dr Daunt’s translation of Iamblichus. They had been forwarded to me, as arranged, by Professor Slake. I had quite forgotten about them. As it was necessary for me to board the train immediately, I had no time to reprimand the stupid red-faced fellow for the hotel’s failure to give me the package earlier; and so I brushed him aside without a word, stuffed the proofs into my greatcoat pocket, and managed to take my seat just as the station-master was blowing his whistle.
To my consternation, the carriage that I had chosen was crowded almost to capacity, and I spent a most uncomfortable two and a quarter hours wedged between a stout and exceedingly truculent lady, a basket containing a spaniel puppy set precariously on her knees, and a fidgeting boy of about thirteen (much interested in the puppy), with my bag lying between my feet on account of the racks being full.
I disembarked, to my great relief, in Ely, and managed to catch a connecting train to Cambridge with seconds to spare. Arriving at my destination at last, I took a cab into the town, and was set down before the gates of St Catharine’s College.
*[Literally, ‘under the rose’ – i.e. secretly, in secret. Ed.]
†[A case or trunk adapted for the roof of a coach or carriage. Ed.]
*[The Italian jeweller Fortunato Pio Castellani (1793–1865), who specialized in making pieces that emulated the work of the ancient Etruscan goldsmiths. Ed.]
*[‘But he is dead. Dead!’ Ed.]
†[‘Be calm, my angel! No one knows’. Ed.]
*[‘It should not have happened…’
‘What did he say? …’
‘What could I do? … I could not tell him the truth …’
‘But what will he do? …’
‘He says that he will find him …’
‘My God, what was that?’ Ed.]
*[One of the monthly Railway Guides published by George Bradshaw (1801–53), the first volume of which, in what were to become their familiar yellow wrappers, was published in December 1841. Ed.]
28
Spectemur agendo*
In the year 1846, through the good offices of my former travelling companion, Mr Bryce Furnivall, of the British Museum, I had begun a correspondence with Dr Simeon Shakeshaft, a Fellow of St Catharine’s College, who was an authority on the literature of alchemy, in which I had developed a strong interest while studying at Heidelberg. We had continued to correspond, and Dr Shakeshaft had been instrumental in helping me assemble a small library of alchemical and hermetic texts. This gentleman, like the Rector of Evenwood, was a member of the Roxburghe Club, and I had recalled Dr Daunt mentioning that this mutual acquaintance had known his son during the latter’s time at King’s College.† Dr Shakeshaft had recently written to me, at my accommodation address, on the subject of Barrett’s Magus,‡ a curious compendium of occult lore which I had wished to acquire; and so, as we had not yet had occasion to meet face to face, I would have the satisfaction of killing two birds with one stone. Dr Shakeshaft’s set was at the far end of the charming three-sided, red-brick court that forms the principal feature of St Catharine’s. Having ascended a narrow stair-case to the first floor, I was welcomed most cordially into Dr Shakeshaft’s book-lined study. We talked for some time about a number of subjects of common interest, and my host brought out several superb items from his own collection of hermetic writings for my inspection. This was most pleasant, and it was a relief to expend mental energy on topics of such absorbing fascination after the difficult events of the past few days.
It was with some unwillingness, therefore, that I wrenched myself back to my purpose, and introduced the subject of Phoebus Daunt.
‘Did Mr Daunt have a wide circle of acquaintance in his College?’ I asked, as casually as I could.
Dr Shakeshaft pursed his lips in an effort to remember.
‘Hmm. I would not say wide. He was not popular amongst the sporting men, and, as I remember, most of his friends, such as they were, came from other Houses.’
‘Was there any particular friend or companion that you can recall?’ was my next question. This time the response was instantaneous.
‘Indeed there was. A Trinity man. They were very close, always going about together. I entertained them both myself – young Daunt’s father and I, you know, are old friends. But wait a moment.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Yes, now I remember. There was some trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
‘Not involving Daunt. The other gentleman. Young Pettingale.’
I remembered the name from the accounts given to me by John and Lizzie Brine of the dinner given by Lord Tansor, following which Mr Carteret had accused his daughter of secretly encouraging the attentions of Phoebus Daunt. He had been Daunt’s guest on that occasion, and they had been driven to Evenwood by Josiah Pluckrose.
‘May I ask, if you are able to tell me, the nature of the trouble you speak of?’
‘Ah,’ replied Shakeshaft, ‘you’d best talk to Maunder.’
And so I did. Jacob Maunder, DD, of Trinity College, occupied a splendid ground-floor set in Great Court, with a fine view of Nevile’s Fountain. Tall and stooping, with a lazy curling smile and a sardonic eye, he had occupied the position of Senior Proctor in the University for a period that coincided with Phoebus Daunt’s time at King’s College. The duties of a Proctor are of a disciplinary nature, and consequently expose the holders of this office to the more sordid and unpleasant propensities of those in statu pupillari.* ‘When you perambulate the streets at night,’ as the Provost of King’s, Dr Okes, once memorably remarked to one of their number, ‘you rarely see the constellation Virgo.’ The post also required a stout heart, as the unfortunate Wale had famously discovered when he was pursued by a mob of undergraduates from the Senate House to the gates of his College.†
I could not imagine Jacob Maunder fleeing in the face of intimidation. He appeared to me fully to deserve his reputation, described to me in brief by Dr Shakeshaft, as a stern and unyielding upholder of University statute and procedure, and a less than merciful judge of the follies of youth. Did he, I asked, handing him a note of recommendation from Shakeshaft, recollect a gentleman by the name of Pettingale?
‘This is a little irregular, Mr …’
‘Glyver.’ I felt no qualms ab
out using the name by which Dr Shakeshaft knew me.
‘Quite. I see here that Dr Shakeshaft speaks very highly of you. Were you up at the University yourself?’
I told him that I had done my studying in Germany, at which he looked up from his perusal of Shakeshaft’s note.
‘Heidelberg? Why, then, you will know Professor Pfannenschmidt, I dare say.’
Of course I knew Johannes Pfannenschmidt, with whom I had spent many a wonderful hour in deep conversation concerning the religious mysteries of the Ancients. This acknowledgement of an acquaintance with the Herr Professor produced a visible mitigation of Dr Maunder’s raptorial demeanour, and appeared to remove any lingering scruples that he had concerning the propriety of answering my enquiry.
‘Pettingale. Yes, I recollect that gentleman. And his friend.’
‘Mr Phoebus Daunt?’
‘The same. My old friend’s son.’
‘Dr Shakeshaft mentioned some trouble concerning Mr Pettingale. It would assist me greatly, in the prosecution of a highly confidential matter, if you were able to inform me, in a little more detail, of its nature and consequences.’
‘Nicely put, Mr Glyver,’ he said. ‘I will not enquire further into your reasons for seeking this information. But insofar as the matter, in its general outline, is one of public record, I am willing to give you some account of the business.
‘I first came across Mr Lewis Pettingale when I apprehended him in a house of ill-fame – a not uncommon occurrence, I am afraid to say, amongst the undergraduate population of this University. Youth can be a little lax in point of moral resolve.’ He smiled. ‘He was disciplined, of course, and put on notice that, if it happened again, he would be rusticated.* But the affair that Dr Shakeshaft has in mind was altogether more serious, though its conclusion appeared to exonerate Mr Pettingale of any taint of guilt or censure.
‘It began, from my point of view, when I was called upon, in my capacity as Senior Proctor, by a police inspector from London who wished to question Mr Pettingale in connexion with a serious case of forgery. It appears that the young man had gone to a firm of London solicitors – Pentecost & Vizard, as I recall – for assistance in the matter of an outstanding debt. He had taken with him a promissory note for the amount of one hundred pounds, signed by a Mr Leonard Verdant. The solicitors undertook to write to this Mr Verdant forthwith, and demand payment of the sum in question, on pain of legal proceedings immediately being taken out against him. Within twenty-four hours, a messenger had appeared at the solicitors’ office with the outstanding debt in cash, and a request from Mr Verdant for a signed receipt.
