12th Feb’y ’38
Sir John,
I am obliged to return to the issue raised in my earlier letter. I am armed with certain facts which I am prepared to make publicly known if we cannot reach an accommodation. I recommend your early attention to my requirements.
I remain etc., etc.,
Joslyn Esguard
‘What were the facts, eh, Mr Jarrett? Queen Victoria was born on the twenty-fourth of May, 1819. That puts her conception at late August or early September, 1818. We know from the records that the Duke and Duchess were in residence at Kensington Palace during that period. We also know that the Duke visited his mother, who was dying, virtually daily, at Kew, leaving the Duchess to occupy her time … as she saw fit.’
‘But not with Joslyn Esguard.’
‘Not if my theory is correct, no. Yet clearly he knew something. The threat implicit in the letter is a scarcely veiled one. We shall never know for certain, alas.’
‘Because of the fire at Gaunt’s Chase in which Joslyn Esguard lost his life, five days before Victoria’s coronation.’
‘Yes. And four months after he wrote that letter. All of which is consistent with Barrington Esguard’s claim that his brother was murdered. But if the fire was some sort of cover-up it was undeniably effective. The letter didn’t take me anywhere along the haemophilia road. Instead, I found myself diverted by Milo down the unrelated byway of Marian Esguard’s possible role as a photographic pioneer. It promised to make my book still more commercially viable, I can’t deny, which is why I pursued it as far as I could. Royal scandal and Regency feminism sounded like a winning combination to me. But I simply hit another brick wall. Milo had no evidence to back up the family legend, and I was unable to unearth any beyond a single tantalizing document.’
‘What was it?’
‘Another letter, written by Marian Esguard to her father, Dr Thomas Freeman, in the spring of 1817. I found it in the archives of the Chichester Infirmary, where Dr Freeman worked, addressed to him there rather than at the Freeman residence, which is odd in itself.’ By now Quisden-Neve was once more burrowing through his files. ‘Here we are. Marian had a more elegant hand than her husband, no question.’
Even in the form of a photocopy, a letter written by Marian Esguard carried with it a magical charge. I sat down and slowly read it through and, as I did so, I realized it had a significance that Quisden-Neve couldn’t possibly appreciate.
Gaunt’s Chase,
Sunday 20th April 1817
My dear Papa,
I shall burst with excitement if I do not tell you how much I have accomplished in the realm of scientific inquiry I have dubbed heliogenesis. I could not have made such progress without your assistance as my secret pharmaceutical supplier. The results, enhanced by the fine spring weather we have enjoyed here of late, have been quite, quite extraordinary, and I shall send you a sample, if you do not think it too indiscreet of me, as soon as I have one that will satisfy your exacting aesthetic standards. Hyposulphite of ammonia is the key. But the world beyond the door it unlocks is one I had never thought to see. The principle was purely a mental construction. The practice is real and true and visible. You will be astonished, as I already am. I hope you will also be a little proud. I shall write again soon.
Ever your loving daughter,
Marian
‘Did Milo Esguard ever see this letter?’ I asked when I’d finished.
‘Sadly, no. He died before I came across it.’
‘So he couldn’t have told Eris about it?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Quisden-Neve retrieved the letter from me and slipped it back into the file. ‘I’m always on the qui vive for rival researchers, Mr Jarrett. In this case, I’m happy to say nobody had got there before me. Only you and I are at all likely to be aware of what Marian Esguard wrote to her father in April 1817.’
By the time I left Bibliomaufry, Quisden-Neve having insisted I finish the bottle of Pomerol with him, it was too late to visit Saffron House, as I’d originally intended, so I booked into a hotel in the middle of Bath and phoned Daphne from there. I was excited by the contents of Marian’s letter. To me it seemed inconceivable that Eris could have imagined an encounter with Dr Freeman that was clearly as close to the truth as it could be without having, in some sense at least, shared a genuine experience of Marian’s. For some reason I wouldn’t have cared to analyse, I wanted to prove Daphne wrong. I wanted to prove Eris wasn’t deluded. I wanted Marian as well as her.
But Daphne was reluctant to accept my argument. And far more interested in the name of my informant than in the issue of what the letter did or didn’t prove. ‘You were told all this by Montagu Quisden-Neve?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘Not exactly. But Eris does.’
‘No, no. You’ve got that wrong. Quisden-Neve’s never met her.’
‘Describe him to me.’
Before I’d got much further than the pink bow tie, she cut me short.
‘She does know him.’
‘How can you be sure?’
I heard Daphne give a long, thoughtful sigh. ‘God, this is difficult. I wish …’
‘What’s difficult?’
‘You’ll have to listen to the second tape, Ian. As you wanted to. As I didn’t want you to.’
‘I won’t try to talk you out of it, but why the change of heart?’
‘You’ll understand that as soon as you hear it. Until you do, I strongly advise you not to speak to Mr Quisden-Neve again.’
I couldn’t focus my thoughts on anything that night except the second tape. Daphne had refused to give me even a hint of what it contained, except that Quisden-Neve figured somewhere. I had half a mind to confront him at Bibliomaufry next morning and demand an explanation, but I kept telling myself it would be better to know what I’d be demanding an explanation of, and that meant returning to London to take delivery of the tape. Daphne had said she’d drop it round to my flat after leaving her practice. My offer to collect it had been declined. That gave my suspicious mind still more to work on. Was she afraid I might try to force the third tape out of her as well? If so, her fear was well founded. That was exactly what I felt like doing. But she was my only real ally. I couldn’t afford to alienate her. On the other hand, she couldn’t afford to have me running round endangering her professional reputation. We both had plenty to lose and lots of reasons for trusting each other, even against our better judgement.
I slept poorly, racked by dreams of Eris-as-Marian, warm and close and insatiable, my eager demon lover running on before me. It wasn’t the first time I’d had such dreams, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last – until I found her.
As early in the morning as I dared, I drove out to Bradford-on-Avon and called at Saffron House. Milo Esguard was well remembered, by residents as well as by staff, but the name Eris Moberly didn’t mean anything to anyone. Nor did my description of her. Milo received more visitors than most, apparently, despite his grouchy nature, but the only one to stick in their minds was a flamboyantly dressed bookseller from Bath. I gave up and headed back to London.
There was nothing to do at the flat but wait for Daphne to arrive and wonder what she’d meant about Quisden-Neve. He hadn’t seemed to me to have the makings of a good liar. But perhaps that just made him a better liar than most. Perhaps flint-eyed Niall was on the level, whereas the silver-tongued Quisden-Neve wasn’t. Either way, I was going to find out soon enough.
The doorbell rang just after five o’clock, and I pressed the entry button without checking it was Daphne. There wasn’t anyone else it was likely to be, after all. Yet when I opened the door of the flat and looked out it wasn’t Daphne I saw climbing the stairs towards me.
‘Amy! What …? What are you doing here?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course, but …’ She gave me a kiss, then walked past me into what I knew would look to her like a hovel. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’
‘The Easter holidays
began yesterday, Dad. Did you forget?’
‘I must have done. I … When is Easter?’
‘Next weekend. You really didn’t know?’
‘I’ve had a lot on my mind. Look, do you want some coffee?’
‘Shall I make it?’
‘All right. The kitchen’s so small you shouldn’t have any trouble finding your way round.’
In fashionably frayed jeans and a droopy black sweater Amy looked older than fourteen and older even than when I’d visited her at school two months before. Maybe I was responsible for that. Watching her put the kettle on and hunt down the coffee, the dried milk and the only two mugs there were, I had the chilling sensation that I was watching a girl I knew only slightly, the daughter of a friend perhaps, or a friend of my daughter, not the Amy I’d seen come into this world and grow and laugh and cry through all the years since.
‘It’s nice to see you,’ I said, smiling stiffly at her. ‘You should have phoned and warned me. I’d have … got some biscuits in.’
‘What’s going on, Dad?’ she asked, flicking her hair out of her eyes as she spooned out the coffee. ‘I mean, why are you on your own?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Has she ditched you?’
‘No.’
‘Then why isn’t she with you?’
‘Like I said. It’s complicated.’
‘Mum thinks you made her up, this … Marian. Did you?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘That’s what I said.’ The kettle boiled and she broke off to fill the mugs and hand me one. ‘Mum told me you’re seeing a shrink, though. Is that true?’
‘In a sense.’
‘Either you are or you aren’t.’
‘Then I am.’
‘You’re not making sense.’
‘Just as well I’m seeing a psychotherapist, then.’
‘I feel really shut out by this. You know?’
‘I’m sorry, Amy. I wish I could explain.’
‘You could try.’
‘I can’t. Not at the moment. There’s too much happening.’
‘Too much happening? What do you mean, Dad? Nothing’s happening. Not to you, anyway. You’re just … vegetating … in this dump … while Mum …’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s seeing another man. I’m supposed to be meeting him on Saturday. She’s really coy about it, you know? Like she’s in love. Won’t tell me anything about him. Not even his name. It’s supposed to be some big secret.’
‘Why are you telling me, then?’
‘You know why.’
‘Because you’re hoping it’s not too late for us to get back together.’
‘Well? It isn’t, is it?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’ The doorbell rang and I looked round, aware how eager I was going to sound to get off the hook. ‘That’s somebody I have to see.’
‘Who?’
‘Believe it or not, the psychotherapist your mother told you about.’
‘So it is true.’
‘Like I said. In a sense.’ I walked across to the door release and pressed it. ‘Listen, Amy, things are … difficult for me at the moment. But we could … go out one day … while you’re home.’
‘Which day?’
‘Any one.’
‘But which one?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to …’
‘Phone me?’ she asked, anger and hurt tautening her expression.
‘Yes. I’ll phone you.’
‘No you won’t.’
‘Of course I will.’
She walked across to join me by the front door and stared into my eyes, defying me to avoid her gaze. ‘What’s happening to you, Dad?’
‘Nothing you need worry about.’
‘What shall I tell Mum?’
‘Nothing.’
There was a knock at the door. I reached for the handle, but Amy got there first and held on without turning it.
‘You can still count on me when it matters, Amy.’
‘It matters now.’
‘I’ll phone. In a few days. Honest.’
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I just have.’
There was another knock at the door. Amy’s face crumpled into angry confusion. Then she seemed to reach a decision, with all her mother’s brisk expediency. ‘’Bye, Dad,’ she said in a rush, kissing me lightly on the cheek and opening the door.
‘Hello,’ said Daphne, catching sight of her.
But Amy didn’t reply. She brushed straight past her and raced off down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I watched her go in silence. And Daphne watched me. Then she stepped inside and I closed the door behind her.
‘Your daughter?’
‘You’re not a psychotherapist for nothing, are you?’
‘I won’t be one much longer if I go on like this.’
‘I take it that means you brought the tape.’
‘Yes. But we have to talk about this, Ian. Everything’s getting very … confused.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that.’
‘But I do. Quisden-Neve is quite a spanner in the works. Without him, I could continue to regard Eris’s fugues as text-book delusive experiences. Now it’s not so simple.’
‘It never was simple as far as I’m concerned. You have to face it, Daphne. Marian’s letter makes a difference.’
‘It’s not just the letter. In fact, it’s not the letter at all. Eris could have tracked that down herself. It could even have been the starting point for her fantasy.’
‘Quisden-Neve seemed certain nobody had seen it before him.’
‘Perhaps he was mistaken.’
‘He’s too experienced a researcher for that.’
‘Then he must be lying.’
‘Why should he be?’
‘Why indeed?’ Daphne moved unsteadily to the armchair and sat down, heavily clunking a set of keys onto the table in front of her. She looked much less self-controlled than the previous times we’d met. She looked, in fact, like a very worried woman. ‘Have you got anything to drink by any chance?’
‘Coffee?’
‘I meant something stronger.’
‘I’m afraid not. I just sleep here. Some nights I don’t even do that. Stocking up a drinks cabinet doesn’t seem to have crept to the top of my agenda yet. What about the coffee? My daughter made a cup and never touched it.’
‘Forget it.’ She raised a hand as if to ward something off, then let it slowly fall into her lap. ‘Listen to me, Ian. Listen carefully. If these people – Niall Esguard, Montagu Quisden-Neve – turn out to be lying, now, to you, after the event so to speak, then it has to be because they have something to hide. And that means there has to be more to this than a dissociative disorder.’
‘I’ve been trying to tell you that all along.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense.’ Shocked by how loudly she’d spoken, she fell abruptly silent. We looked at each other. Then she opened her handbag, lifted out a tape and laid it on the table.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes.’ She fumbled in her bag, produced one of her slim cigars and lit it, the flame trembling along with her fingers. Then she sat back and crossed her legs. ‘That’s it.’
‘When was it recorded?’
‘Last October. She delivered it to me at a session on …’ Daphne leaned forward to read the label on the tape. ‘The fourth of November.’
‘But you started seeing her back in …’
‘June. That’s right. Things began well and got better and better. I thought I had the case cracked.’
‘What went wrong?’
‘She went away on holiday with her husband in September. A month in Hawaii. It sounded like just what she needed to consolidate the progress she’d made over the summer. I was on holiday myself when she came back in mid-October. The fourth of November was our first session for seven w
eeks. I’d given her the tape to record any particular concerns that came into her mind during the lay-off. I never expected anything serious to crop up. I thought we were on top of it. I thought we had everything ironed out. Instead, there’d been a sudden regression. Worse than a regression, in fact. She’d jumped to another level of dissociation altogether. My first thought was that the holiday had brought her difficulties with her husband to the surface, and that she’d retreated into the Marian fantasy to avoid confronting them.’
‘What difficulties, exactly?’
‘You’re missing the point. That was my theory then. That was my best guess. But it won’t do now. It simply won’t stand up.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of Quisden-Neve.’ She rose, strode to the window and yanked it up. The woodwork squealed. Cool air and traffic noise gusted in. ‘I don’t know what to think now. I honestly don’t. What if …?’ She shook her head in dismay. ‘What if it’s all true?’
‘True? In what sense?’
‘Listen to the tape, Ian.’ She turned and looked at me. ‘Then bring it back to me. My practice, nine o’clock tomorrow, without fail. Can I have your word on that?’
‘All right. You’ve got it.’
‘Don’t act on what you hear until we’ve discussed it. Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘It’s vital you do nothing … impetuous.’
‘I won’t.’
‘But can I believe you? That’s the question. There’s something we can’t get round, isn’t there?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your love for her.’ She stepped towards me and stared into my eyes. ‘It worries me. It really does.’
‘I’m doing this because I love her.’
‘I know.’ She nodded. ‘That’s what worries me.’
* * *
When Daphne left, I stood by the window and waited until I’d seen her walk away along the street. Then I sat down in the armchair, slid the tape into the machine and pressed the play button, as relieved to be alone at last as I was eager to hear Eris’s voice once more. I wanted to be close to her, to see her and to touch her. But for the moment all I could do was listen. And for the moment that was good enough.
SIX
I’M SORRY, DAPHNE. I hoped it wouldn’t happen again, and I know you did, too. I suppose we persuaded each other we had this thing beaten. Well, we didn’t. It was just biding its time, gathering its strength maybe for when it lunged at me out of the dark. I’m talking as if it’s some kind of ravening beast, aren’t I, something outside myself? And that’s what it feels like: something I’m just … incidental to. I know you said it all came from inside me, and I’ve tried to believe that, but it doesn’t do any good. It didn’t stop it coming back and it won’t make it go away.
Caught In the Light Page 12
