The moneylender’s sallow face brightened momentarily as he thought of his increasing prosperity, but then he frowned again as he remembered the purpose of his errand. Gingold must be made to toe the line, he told himself, as he set out over the last half-mile of his journey.
If he couldn’t raise the necessary cash, there must be many valuables in that rambling old house of his which he could sell and realize on. As Mr Sharsted forged his way deeper into this forgotten corner of the town, the sun, which was already low in the sky, seemed to have already set, the light was so constricted by the maze of small courts and alleys into which he had plunged. He was panting again when he came at last, abruptly, to a large green door, set crookedly at the top of a flight of time-worn steps.
He stood arrested for a moment or two, one hand grasping the old balustrade, even his mean soul uplifted momentarily by the sight of the smoky haze of the town below, tilted beneath the yellow sky. Everything seemed to be set awry upon this hill, so that the very horizon rushed slanting across the far distance, giving the spectator a feeling of vertigo. A bell pealed faintly as he seized an iron scrollwork pull set into a metal rose alongside the front door. The moneylender’s thoughts were turned to irritation again; everything about Mr Gingold was peculiar, he felt. Even the fittings of his household were things one never saw elsewhere.
Though this might be an advantage if he ever gained control of Mr Gingold’s assets and had need to sell the property; there must be a lot of valuable stuff in this old house he had never seen, he mused. Which was another reason he felt it strange that the old man was unable to pay his dues; he must have a great deal of money, if not in cash, in property, one way or another.
He found it difficult to realize why Mr Gingold kept hedging over a matter of three hundred pounds; he could easily sell the old place and go to live in a more attractive part of town in a modern, well-appointed villa and still keep his antiquarian interests. Mr Sharsted sighed. Still, it was none of his business. All he was concerned with was the matter of the money; he had been kept waiting long enough, and he wouldn’t be fobbed off any longer. Gingold had got to settle by Monday, or he’d make things unpleasant for him.
Mr Sharsted’s thin lips tightened in an ugly manner as he mused on, oblivious of the sunset staining the upper storeys of the old houses and dyeing the mean streets below the hill a rich carmine. He pulled the bell again impatiently, and this time the door was opened almost immediately.
Mr Gingold was a very tall, white-haired man with a gentle, almost apologetic manner. He stood slightly stooping in the doorway, blinking as though astonished at the sunlight, half afraid it would fade him if he allowed too much of it to absorb him.
His clothes, which were of good quality and cut, were untidy and sagged loosely on his big frame; they seemed washed out in the bright light of the sun and appeared to Mr Sharsted to be all of a part with the man himself; indeed, Mr Gingold was rinsed to a pale, insipid shade by the sunshine, so that his white hair and face and clothing ran into one another and, somehow, the different aspects of the picture became blurred and indeterminate.
To Mr Sharsted he bore the aspect of an old photograph which had never been properly fixed and had turned brown and faded with time. Mr Sharsted thought he might blow away with the breeze that had started up, but Mr Gingold merely smiled shyly and said, ‘Oh, there you are, Sharsted. Come on in,’ as though he had been expecting him all the time.
Surprisingly, Mr Gingold’s eyes were of a marvellous shade of blue and they made his whole face come vividly alive, fighting and challenging the overall neutral tints of his clothing and features. He led the way into a cavernous hall. Mr Sharsted followed cautiously, his eyes adjusting with difficulty to the cool gloom of the interior. With courteous, old-world motions Mr Gingold beckoned him forward.
The two men ascended a finely carved staircase, whose balustrades, convoluted and serpentine, seemed to writhe sinuously upwards into the darkness.
‘My business will only take a moment,’ protested Sharsted, anxious to present his ultimatum and depart. But Mr Gingold merely continued to ascend the staircase.
‘Come along, come along,’ he said gently, as though he hadn’t heard Mr Sharsted’s expostulation. ‘You must take a glass of wine with me. I have so few visitors . . .’
Mr Sharsted looked about him curiously; he had never been in this part of the house. Usually, Mr Gingold received occasional callers in a big, cluttered room on the ground floor. This afternoon, for some reason known only to himself, he had chosen to show Mr Sharsted another part of his domain. Mr Sharsted thought that perhaps Mr Gingold intended to settle the matter of his repayments. This might be where he transacted business, perhaps kept his money. His thin fingers twitched with nervous excitement.
They continued to ascend what seemed to the moneylender to be enormous distances. The staircase still unwound in front of their measured progress. From the little light which filtered in through rounded windows, Sharsted caught occasional glimpses of objects that aroused his professional curiosity and acquisitive sense. Here a large oil painting swung into view round the bend of the stair; in the necessarily brief glance that Mr Sharsted caught, he could have sworn it was a Poussin.
A moment later, a large sideboard laden with porcelain slid by the corner of his eye. He stumbled on the stair as he glanced back over his shoulder and in so doing, almost missed a rare suit of Genoese armour which stood concealed in a niche set back from the staircase. The moneylender had reached a state of confused bewilderment when at length Mr Gingold flung aside a large mahogany door, high up in the house, and motioned him forward.
Mr Gingold must be a wealthy man and could easily realise enormous amounts on any one of the objets d’art Sharsted had seen; why then, thought the latter, did he find it necessary to borrow so frequently, and why was it so difficult to obtain repayment? With interest, the sum owed Sharsted had now risen to a considerable figure; Mr Gingold must be a compulsive buyer of rare items. Allied to the general shabbiness of the house as seen by the casual visitor, it must mean that his collector’s instinct would refuse to allow him to part with anything once bought, which had made him run himself into debt. The moneylender’s lips tightened again; well, he must be made to settle his debts, like anyone else.
If not, perhaps Sharsted could force him to part with something – porcelain, a picture – that could be made to realise a handsome profit on the deal. Business was business, and Gingold could not expect him to wait for ever. His musings were interrupted by a query from his host and Sharsted muttered an apology as he saw that Mr Gingold was waiting, one hand on the neck of a heavy silver and crystal decanter.
‘Yes, yes, a sherry, thank you,’ he murmured in confusion, moving awkwardly. The light was so bad in this place that he felt it difficult to focus his eyes, and objects had a habit of shifting and billowing as though seen under water. Mr Sharsted was forced to wear tinted spectacles, as his eyes had been weak from childhood. They made these apartments seem twice as dark as they might be. But though Mr Sharsted squinted over the top of his lenses as Mr Gingold poured the sherry, he still could not make out objects clearly. He really would have to consult his oculist soon, if this trouble continued.
His voice sounded hollow to his own ears as he ventured a commonplace when Mr Gingold handed him the glass. He sat down gingerly on a ladderback chair indicated to him by Mr Gingold, and sipped at the amber liquid in a hesitant fashion. It tasted uncommonly good, but this unexpected hospitality was putting him on a wrong footing with Gingold. He must assert himself and broach the subject of his business. But he felt a curious reluctance and merely sat on in embarrassed silence, one hand round the stem of his goblet, listening to the soothing tick of an old clock, which was the only thing which broke the silence.
He saw now that he was in a large apartment, expensively furnished, which must be high up in the house, under the eaves. Hardly a sound from outside penetrated the windows, which were hung with thick blue-velvet c
urtains; the parquet floor was covered with exquisitely worked Chinese rugs and the room was apparently divided in half by heavy velvet curtaining to match those which masked the windows.
Mr Gingold said little, but sat at a large mahogany table, tapping his sherry glass with his long fingers; his bright blue eyes looked with mild interest at Mr Sharsted as they spoke of everyday matters. At last Mr Sharsted was moved to broach the object of his visit. He spoke of the long-outstanding sum which he had advanced to Mr Gingold, of the continued applications for settlement and of the necessity of securing early payment. Strangely, as Mr Sharsted progressed, his voice began to stammer and eventually he was at a loss for words; normally, as working-class people in the town had reason to know, he was brusque, businesslike, and ruthless. He never hesitated to distrain on debtor’s goods, or to evict if necessary and that he was the object of universal hatred in the outside world, bothered him not in the slightest.
In fact, he felt it to be an asset; his reputation in business affairs preceded him, as it were, and acted as an incentive to prompt repayment. If people were fool enough to be poor or to run into debt and couldn’t meet their dues, well then, let them; it was all grist to his mill and he could not be expected to run his business on a lot of sentimental nonsense. He felt more irritated with Mr Gingold than he need have been, for his money was obviously safe; but what continued to baffle him was the man’s gentle docility, his obvious wealth, and his reluctance to settle his debts.
Something of this must have eventually permeated his conversation, for Mr Gingold shifted in his seat, made no comment whatever on Mr Sharsted’s pressing demands and only said, in another of his softly spoken sentences, ‘Do have another sherry, Mr Sharsted.’
The moneylender felt all the strength going out of him as he weakly assented. He leaned back on his comfortable chair with a swimming head and allowed the second glass to be pressed into his hand, the thread of his discourse completely lost. He mentally cursed himself for a dithering fool and tried to concentrate, but Mr Gingold’s benevolent smile, the curious way the objects in the room shifted and wavered in the heat haze; the general gloom and the discreet curtaining, came more and more to weigh on and oppress his spirits.
So it was with something like relief that Sharsted saw his host rise from the table. He had not changed the topic, but continued to speak as though Mr Sharsted had never mentioned money to him at all; he merely ignored the whole situation and with an enthusiasm Sharsted found difficult to share, murmured soothingly on about Chinese wall paintings, a subject of which Mr Sharsted knew nothing.
He found his eyes closing and with an effort opened them again. Mr Gingold was saying, ‘I think this will interest you, Mr Sharsted. Come along . . .’
His host had moved forward and the moneylender, following him down the room, saw that the large expanse of velvet curtaining was in motion. The two men walked through the parted curtains, which closed behind them, and Mr Sharsted then saw that they were in a semicircular chamber.
This room was, if anything, even dimmer than the one they had just left. But the moneylender’s interest began to revive; his head felt clearer and he took in a large circular table, some brass wheels and levers which winked in the gloom, and a long shaft which went up to the ceiling.
‘This has almost become an obsession with me,’ murmured Mr Gingold, as though apologizing to his guest. ‘You are aware of the principles of the camera obscura, Mr Sharsted?’
The moneylender pondered slowly, reaching back into memory. ‘Some sort of Victorian toy, isn’t it?’ he said at length. Mr Gingold looked pained, but the expression of his voice did not change.
‘Hardly that, Mr Sharsted,’ he rejoined. ‘A most fascinating pursuit. Few people of my acquaintance have been here and seen what you are going to see.’
He motioned to the shafting, which passed up through a louvre in the ceiling.
‘These controls are coupled to the system of lenses and prisms on the roof. As you will see, the hidden camera, as the Victorian scientists came to call it, gathers a panorama of the town below and transmits it here on to the viewing table. An absorbing study, one’s fellow man, don’t you think? I spend many hours up here.’
Mr Sharsted had never heard Mr Gingold in such a talkative mood and now that the wretchedness which had assailed him earlier had disappeared, he felt more suited to tackle him about his debts. First, he would humour him by feigning interest in his stupid toy. But Mr Sharsted had to admit, almost with a gasp of surprise, that Mr Gingold’s obsession had a valid cause.
For suddenly, as Mr Gingold moved his hand upon the lever, the room was flooded with light of a blinding clarity and the moneylender saw why gloom was a necessity in this chamber. Presumably, a shutter over the camera obscura slid away upon the rooftop and almost at the same moment, a panel in the ceiling opened to admit a shaft of light directed upon the table before them.
In a second of God-like vision, Mr Sharsted saw a panorama of part of the old town spread out before him in superbly natural colour. Here were the quaint, cobbled streets dropping to the valley, with the blue hills beyond; factory chimneys smoked in the early evening air; people went about their business in half a hundred roads; distant traffic went noiselessly on its way; once, even, a great white bird soared across the field of vision, so apparently close that Mr Sharsted started back from the table.
Mr Gingold gave a dry chuckle and moved a brass wheel at his elbow. The viewpoint abruptly shifted and Mr Sharsted saw with another gasp, a sparkling vista of the estuary with a big coaling ship moving slowly out to sea. Gulls soared in the foreground and the sullen wash of the tide ringed the shore. Mr Sharsted, his errand quite forgotten, was fascinated. Half an hour must have passed, each view more enchanting than the last; from this height, the squalor of the town was quite transformed.
He was abruptly recalled to the present, however, by the latest of the views; Mr Gingold spun the control for the last time and a huddle of crumbling tenements wheeled into view. ‘The former home of Mrs Thwaites, I believe,’ said Mr Gingold mildly.
Mr Sharsted flushed and bit his lip in anger. The Thwaites business had aroused more notoriety than he had intended; the woman had borrowed a greater sum than she could afford, the interest mounted, she borrowed again; could he help it if she had a tubercular husband and three children? He had to make an example of her in order to keep his other clients in line; now there was a distraint on the furniture and the Thwaiteses were being turned on to the street. Could he help this? If only people would repay their debts all would be well; he wasn’t a philanthropic institution, he told himself angrily.
And at this reference to what was rapidly becoming a scandal in the town, all his smouldering resentment against Mr Gingold broke out afresh; enough of all these views and childish playthings. Camera obscura, indeed; if Mr Gingold did not meet his obligations like a gentleman he could sell this pretty toy to meet his debt.
He controlled himself with an effort as he turned to meet Mr Gingold’s gently ironic gaze.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Sharsted. ‘The Thwaites business is my affair, Mr Gingold. Will you please confine yourself to the matter in hand. I have had to come here again at great inconvenience; I must tell you that if the £300, representing the current instalment on our loan is not forthcoming by Monday, I shall be obliged to take legal action.’
Mr Sharsted’s cheeks were burning and his voice trembled as he pronounced these words; if he expected a violent reaction from Mr Gingold, he was disappointed. The latter merely gazed at him in mute reproach.
‘This is your last word?’ he said regretfully. ‘You will not reconsider?’
‘Certainly not,’ snapped Mr Sharsted. ‘I must have the money by Monday.’
‘You misunderstand me, Mr Sharsted,’ said Mr Gingold, still in that irritatingly mild voice. ‘I was referring to Mrs Thwaites. Must you carry on with this unnecessary and somewhat inhuman action? I would . . .’
‘Please mind your own busine
ss!’ retorted Mr Sharsted, exasperated beyond measure. ‘Mind what I say . . .’
He looked wildly round for the door through which he had entered.
‘That is your last word?’ said Mr Gingold again. One look at the moneylender’s set, white face was his mute answer.
‘Very well, then,’ said Mr Gingold, with a heavy sigh. ‘So be it. I will see you on your way.’
He moved forward again, pulling a heavy velvet cloth over the table of the camera obscura. The louvre in the ceiling closed with a barely audible rumble. To Mr Sharsted’s surprise, he found himself following his host up yet another flight of stairs; these were of stone, fringed with an iron balustrade which was cold to the touch.
His anger was now subsiding as quickly as it had come; he was already regretting losing his temper over the Thwaites business and he hadn’t intended to sound so crude and cold-blooded. What must Mr Gingold think of him? Strange how the story could have got to his ears; surprising how much information about the outside world a recluse could obtain just by sitting still.
Though, on this hill, he supposed Mr Gingold could be said to be at the centre of things. He shuddered suddenly, for the air seemed to have grown cold. Through a slit in the stone wall he could see the evening sky was already darkening. He really must be on his way; how did the old fool expect him to find his way out when they were still mounting to the very top of the house?
Mr Sharsted regretted, too, that in antagonizing Mr Gingold, he might have made it even more difficult to obtain his money; it was almost as though, in mentioning Mrs Thwaites and trying to take her part, he had been trying a form of subtle blackmail.
The Valancourt Book of Horror Stories, Volume Two Page 27
