by Basil Copper
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 Thwaites were being turned onto 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 three hundred pounds, 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.
"That 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 business!" retorted Mr. Sharsted, exasperated beyond measure. "Mind what I say...."
He looked wildly about for the door through which he had entered.
"That is your last word?" said Mr. Gingold again. One look at the money-lender'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 coldblooded. 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 recover 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. He would not have expected it of Gingold; it was not like him to meddle in other people's affairs. If he was so fond of the poor and needy he could well afford to advance the family some money himself to tide them over their difficulties.
His brain seething with these confused and angry thoughts, Mr. Sharsted, panting and dishevelled, now found himself on a worn stone platform where Mr. Gingold was putting the key into an ancient wooden lock.
"My workshop," he explained, with a shy smile to Mr. Sharsted, who felt his tension eased away by this drop in the emotional atmosphere. Looking through an old, nearly triangular window in front of him, Mr. Sharsted could see that they were in a small, turreted superstructure which towered a good twenty feet over the main roof of the house. There was a sprawl of unfamiliar alleys at the foot of the steep overhang of the building, as far as he could make out through the grimy panes.
"There is a staircase down the outside," explained Mr. Gingold, opening the door. "It will lead you down the other side of the hill and cut over half a mile off your journey.''
The money-lender felt a sudden rush of relief at this. He had come almost to fear this deceptively mild and quiet old man who, though he said little and threatened not at all, had begun to exude a faint air of menace to Mr. Sharsted's now overheated imagination.
"But first," said Mr. Gingold, taking the other man's arm in a surprisingly powerful grip. "I want to show you something else—and this really has been seen by very few people indeed."
Mr. Sharsted looked at the other quickly, but could read nothing in Mr. Gingold's enigmatic blue eyes. He was surprised to find a similar, though smaller chamber to the one they had just left. There was another table, another shaft ascending to a domed cupola in the ceiling, and a further arrangement of wheels and tubes.
"This camera obscura," said Mr. Gingold, "is a very rare model, to be sure. In fact, I believe there are only three in existence today and one of those is in Northern Italy.''
Mr. Sharsted cleared his throat and made a noncommittal reply.
"I felt sure you would like to see this before you leave," said Mr. Gingold softly. "You are quite sure you won't change your mind?" he added, almost inaudibly as he bent to the levers. "About Mrs. Thwaites, I mean?"
Sharsted felt another sudden spurt of anger, but kept his feelings under control.
"I'm sorry," he began.
"No matter," said Mr. Gingold regretfully.''I only wanted to make sure, before we had a look at this." He laid his hand with infinite tenderness on Mr. Sharsted's shoulder as he drew him forward.
He pressed the lever and Mr. Sharsted almost cried out with the suddenness of the vision. He was God; the world was spread out before him in a crazy pattern, or at least the segment of it representing the part of the town surrounding the house in which he stood. He viewed it from a great height, as a man might from an aeroplane; though nothing was quite in perspective. The picture was of enormous clarity; it was like looking into an old cheval glass which had a faint distorting quality.
There was something oblique and elliptical about the sprawl of alleys and roads that spread about the foot of the hill. The shadows were mauve and violet and the extremes of the picture were still tinged with the blood red of the dying sun. It was an appalling, cataclysmic vision and Mr. Sharsted was shattered; he felt suspended in space and almost cried out at the dizziness of the height. When Mr. Gingold twirled the wheel and the picture slowly began to revolve, Mr. Sharsted did cry out and had to clutch at the back of a chair to prevent himself from falling.
He was perturbed, too, as he caught a glimpse of a big, white building in the foreground of the picture.
"I thought that was the old Corn Exchange," he said in bewilderment. "Surely that burned down before the last war?"
"Eigh
," said Mr. Gingold, as though he hadn't heard.
"It doesn't matter," said Mr. Sharsted, who now felt quite confused and ill. It must be the combination of the sherry and the enormous height at which he was viewing the vision in the camera obscura. It was a demoniacal toy and he shrank away from the figure of Mr. Gingold, which looked somewhat sinister in the blood-red and mauve light reflected from the image in the polished table surface.
"I thought you'd like to see this one," said Mr. Gingold in that same maddening, insipid voice. "It's really special, isn't it? Quite the best of the two. You can see all sorts of things that are normally hidden."
As he spoke there appeared on the screen two old buildings which Mr. Sharsted was sure had been destroyed during the war; in fact Mr. Sharsted was certain that a public garden and car park had now been erected on the site. His mouth suddenly became dry; he was not sure whether he had drunk too much sherry or the heat of the day had been too much for him.
He had been about to make a sharp remark that the sale of the camera obscura would liquidate Mr. Gingold's debt, but he felt sure this would not be a wise comment to make at this juncture. He felt faint, his brow went hot and cold, and Mr. Gingold was at his side in an instant.
Mr. Sharsted became aware that the picture had faded from the table and that the day was rapidly turning to dusk outside the dusty windows.
"I really must be going," he said with feeble desperation, trying to free himself from Mr. Gingold's quietly persistent grip.
"Certainly, Mr. Sharsted," said his host. "This way." He led him without ceremony over to a small oval doorway in a corner of the far wall.
"Just go down the stairs. It will bring you onto the street. Please slam the bottom door—it will lock itself." As he spoke, he opened the door and Mr. Sharsted saw a flight of clean, dry stone steps leading downwards. Light still flooded in from windows'set in the circular walls. Mr. Gingold did not offer his hand and Mr. Sharsted stood rather awkwardly, holding the door ajar.
"Until Monday, then," he said. Mr. Gingold flatly ignored this. "Good-night, Mr. Gingold," said the money-lender with nervous haste, anxious to be gone.
"Good-bye, Mr. Sharsted," said Mr. Gingold with kind finality.
Mr. Sharsted almost thrust himself through the door and nervously fled down the staircase, mentally cursing himself for all sorts of a fool. His feet beat a rapid tattoo that echoed eerily up and down the old tower. Fortunately, there was still plenty of light; this would be a nasty place in the dark. He slowed his pace after a few moments and thought bitterly of the way he had allowed old Gingold to gain the ascendancy over him; and what an impertinence of the man to interfere in the matter of the Thwaites woman. He would see what sort of man Mr. Sharsted was when Monday came and the eviction went according to plan. Monday would also be a day of reckoning for Mr. Gingold—it was a day which they would both remember and Mr. Sharsted felt himself quite looking forward to it. He quickened his pace again, and presently found himself confronted by a thick oak door.
It gave beneath his hand as he lifted the big, well-oiled catch and the next moment he was in a high-walled alley leading to the street. The door slammed hollowly behind him and he breathed in the cool evening air with a sigh of relief. He jammed his hard hat back onto his head and strode out over the cobbles, as though to affirm the solidity of the outside world.
Once in the street, which seemed somewhat unfamiliar to him, he hesitated which way to go and then set off to the right. He remembered that Mr. Gingold had told him that this way took him over the other side of the hill; he had never been in this part of the town and the walk would do him good.
The sun had quite gone and a thin sliver of moon was showing in the early evening sky. There seemed few people about and when, ten minutes later, Mr. Sharsted came out into a large square which had five or six roads leading off it, he determined to ask the correct way back to his part of the town. With luck he could catch a tram, for he had now had enough of walking for one day.
There was a large, smoke-grimed chapel on a corner of this square and as Mr. Sharsted passed it, he caught a glimpse of a board with gold-painted letters. Ninian's Revivalist Brotherhood, it said. The date, in flaked gold paint, was 1925. Mr. Sharsted walked on and selected the most important of the roads which faced him. It was getting quite dark and the lamps had not yet been lit on this part of the hill. As he went farther down, the buildings closed in about his head, and the lights of the town below disappeared.
Mr. Sharsted felt lost and a little forlorn. Due, no doubt, to the faintly incredible atmosphere of Mr. Gingold's big house. He determined to ask the next passer-by for the right direction, but for the moment he couldn't see anyone about; the absence of street lights also bothered him. The municipal authorities must have overlooked this section when they switched on at dusk, unless it came under the jurisdiction of another body.
Mr. Sharsted was musing in this manner when he turned the corner of a narrow street and came out opposite a large, white building that looked familiar. For years Mr. Sharsted had had a picture of it on the yearly calendar sent by a local tradesman, which used to hang in his office. He gazed at its facade with mounting bewilderment as he approached. The title: Corn
Exchange winked back dully in the moonlight as he got near enough to make out the lettering.
Mr. Sharsted's bewilderment changed to distinct unease as he thought frantically that he had already seen this building once before this evening, in the image captured by the lens of Mr. Gingold's second camera obscura. And he knew, with numbing certainty, that the old Corn Exchange had burned down in the late thirties. He swallowed heavily, and hurried on; there was something devilishly wrong, unless he were the victim of an optical illusion engendered by the violence of his thoughts, the unaccustomed walking he had done that day, and the two glasses of sherry.
He had the uncomfortable feeling that Mr. Gingold might be watching him at that very moment, on the table of his camera obscura, and at the thought a cold sweat burst out on his forehead. He sent himself forward at a smart trot and had soon left the Corn Exchange far behind. In the distance he heard the sharp clopping and the grating rattle of a horse and cart, but as he gained the entrance of an alley, he was disappointed to see its shadow disappear round the corner into the next road. He still could not see any people about and again had difficulty in fixing his position in relation to the town.
He set off once more, with a show of determination he was far from feeling, and five minutes later arrived in the middle of a square which was already familiar to him. There was a chapel on the corner and Mr. Sharsted read for the second time that evening the legend: Ninian's Revivalist Brotherhood.
He stamped his foot in anger. He had walked quite three miles and had been fool enough to describe a complete circle; here he was, not five minutes from Gingold's house, where he had set out, nearly an hour before. He pulled out his watch at this and was surprised to find it was only a quarter past six, though he could have sworn this was the time he had left Gingold. Though it could have been a quarter past five; he hardly knew what he was doing this afternoon. He shook it to make sure it was still going and then replaced it in his pocket.
His feet beat the pavement in his fury as he ran down the length of the square. This time he wouldn't make the same silly mistake. He unhesitatingly chose a large, well-kept metalled road that ran fair and square in the direction he knew must take him back to the centre of the town. He found himself humming a little tune under his breath. As he turned the next corner, his confidence increased.
Lights burned brightly on every hand; the authorities must have realized their mistake and finally switched on. But again he was mistaken; there was a little cart parked at the side of the road, with a horse in the shafts. An old man mounted a ladder set against a lamp post and Mr. Sharsted saw the thin blue flame in the gloom and then the mellow blossoming of the gas lamp.
Now he felt irritated again; what an incredibly archaic part of the town old Gingold lived in. It
would just suit him. Gas lamps! And what a system of lighting them; Sharsted thought this method had gone out with the Ark. Nevertheless, he was most polite.
"Good-evening," he said, and the figure at the top of the lamp post stirred uneasily. The face was in deep shadow.
"Good-evening, sir," the lamplighter said in a muffled voice. He started climbing down.
"Could you direct me to the town centre?" said Mr. Sharsted with simulated confidence. He took a couple of paces forward and was then arrested with shock. There was a strange, sickly stench which reminded him of something he was unable to place. Really, the drains in this place were terrible; he certainly would have to write to the town hall about this backward part of the locality.
The lamplighter had descended to the ground now and he put something down in the back of his cart; the horse shifted uneasily and again Mr. Sharsted caught the charnel stench, sickly-sweet on the summer air.
"This is the town centre as far as I know, sir," said the lamplighter. As he spoke he stepped forward, and the pale lamplight fell onto his face, which had been in shadow before. Mr. Sharsted no longer waited to ask for any more directions but set off down the road at breakneck speed, not sure whether the green pallor of the man's face was due to a terrible suspicion or to the green-tinted glasses he wore.
What he was certain of was that something like a mass of writhing worms projected below the man's cap, where his hair would normally have been. Mr. Sharsted hadn't waited to find out if this Medusa-like supposition was correct; beneath his hideous fear burned a savage anger at Gingold, whom somehow he suspected to be at the back of all these troubles. Mr. Sharsted fervently hoped that he might soon wake to find himself at home in bed, ready to begin the day that had ended so ignominiously at Gingold's, but even as he formulated the thought, he knew this was reality. This cold moonlight, the hard pavement, his frantic flight, and the breath rasping and sobbing in his throat.
