(2011) What Lies Beneath

by Sarah Rayne

  He took the glass without speaking and went to sit on the narrow window seat beneath the porthole.

  Gil’s next words surprised him. He said, ‘You’re a good liar, Crispian.’

  This was such a clear echo of what Crispian’s father had said, that Crispian turned to stare at him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said at last.

  ‘My father told me the reason for this trip was recuperative,’ said Gil. ‘He said Sir Julius had suffered some kind of “brain fever”. That doesn’t mean a thing. It could be a cover for anything from epilepsy to plain old-fashioned dementia.’ He frowned, then in a more serious voice than Crispian had yet heard him use, said, ‘But I’ve watched Julius since we left England and I don’t much like what I’ve seen.’ He regarded Crispian over the rim of his brandy glass. ‘I’ve surprised you, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘Did you forget I’ve studied medicine for four years?’

  ‘I had forgotten for the moment,’ said Crispian. ‘But never mind. What is it you’ve seen?’

  ‘For one thing, your father has episodes of gaze palsy – an inability of the eyes to move in the same direction at the same time. At times the upper eyelids are retracted – creating a fixed downward gaze as if he’s constantly trying to examine his own lower lids. There’s also photophobia – extreme sensitivity to light. He shies from almost all forms of light, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There could be any number of reasons for those symptoms,’ said Gil. ‘I haven’t the experience to know. It could simply be poor eyesight. He’s perfectly rational for a large part of the time, but then a mental confusion seems to come down. Almost as if a curtain’s lowered. Time seems to blur for him, as well – as if he loses whole segments of it.’ He paused to sip his brandy. ‘What’s really wrong with him? And don’t ask for my opinion, because I’m a disgraced, three-quarters trained medical student so I’m not venturing a diagnosis.’

  Crispian paused, then in an expressionless voice said, ‘He’s in the final stages of syphilis.’

  Syphilis. The word came out softly but it was almost as if something in the small, too-warm cabin recoiled.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Gil, staring at him. ‘Syphilis. The roué’s disease. I should have thought of it – I always heard he was a bit of a rip in his younger days, your father.’

  ‘Apparently it can end in destroying the brain as much as the body – that’s what’s happening to him now,’ said Crispian. ‘Your father thinks he probably contracted it years ago and that it’s been undiagnosed until now.’

  ‘He’s kept it hidden?’

  ‘Yes. Your father also said it’s a disease that can lie dormant for years, but that it nearly always comes back.’

  ‘It does. I saw quite a number of cases when I was working on the wards at Guy’s. We used to get a lot of sailors coming in for treatment so I learned quite a bit about it. And I remember a lecture – some German scientist came up with a drug a few years ago. If I hadn’t drunk so much tonight I’d remember his name.’ He frowned, clearly searching his memory. ‘Ehrlich, that’s it. Paul Ehrlich. He called his drug— I’ll remember that in a minute, as well. Why does alcohol fog the brain? I know it was hailed as a miracle cure at the time – a “magic bullet”, they called it. Salvarsan, that’s the name. I don’t think it’s been very widely used. The mercury cure is still what most doctors try.’ A glint of flippancy showed. ‘A night with Venus and a lifetime with Mercury,’ he said. ‘That’s the old saying. But even mercury’s only a temporary cure.’

  ‘Your father said the mercury cure wasn’t worth trying,’ said Crispian. ‘He said the disease has progressed too far, and it’s a painful cure anyway.’

  ‘God, yes, it is. Even those hardened old sailors used to scream and beg the nurses to stop. But, Crispian, if my father said mercury wasn’t worth trying, you can trust his judgement. He’s a dry old stick, but he does know medicine.’ He paused again. ‘Not everyone dies from syphilis, but once it does get its claws in, it eats its way through flesh and nerve and brain tissue and . . . Julius is definitely in the final stage? The tertiary stage?’

  ‘Yes.’ Crispian remembered Gil’s father using this term. ‘He said it’s progressed to neurosyphilis.’

  ‘Dear God,’ said Gil. ‘Did he explain what that entailed?’

  ‘It affects the brain,’ said Crispian in an expressionless voice. ‘There might be personality changes. But whatever happens, he’ll end as a helpless maniac, probably more or less paralysed.’

  ‘General paralysis of the insane,’ said Gil, staring at him. ‘Oh, Crispian, I’m so very sorry. The poor sod. Has he got chancres? The sores?’

  ‘Some. He covers them up with scarves and gloves. His face was marked a while ago – blisters and sores – but they seem to have healed. For the moment, at any rate.’

  ‘Does Jamie know the truth?’ said Gil, suddenly.

  ‘I used your father’s term, “brain fever”, to Jamie,’ said Crispian. ‘He doesn’t know the truth, but he knows my father might be dangerous; that he has to be watched at all times. I had to tell him that much, because I needed an ally.’

  ‘And as well as Jamie you got an ally you didn’t bargain for with me,’ said Gil. ‘Well, even with an incomplete medical training I might be of some use.’

  ‘I wonder if that’s what your father had in mind,’ said Crispian, and Gil grinned.

  ‘More likely he wanted me out of England because of the hasty exit I had to make from Guy’s.’

  ‘Why did you have to make a hasty exit?’

  ‘Do I have to say?’

  ‘Perhaps better not,’ said Crispian, a bit too quickly.

  ‘How much does Julius himself know?’

  ‘He hasn’t been told he’s got syphilis. But he’s no fool.’

  ‘Does he know he’s dying?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And so,’ said Gil thoughtfully, ‘you’ve brought him all these thousands of miles to die. Is that in case it gets out that the head of Cadences Bank is gradually becoming helplessly insane?’

  ‘Yes. If it becomes known, investors might take their money out. I don’t suppose Cadences would actually crash, but it could be seriously harmed. That would mean people’s lives would be affected – not just employees but people with small life savings.’

  ‘Always that touch of noblesse oblige,’ said Gil, lightly.

  ‘Don’t be so cynical.’

  ‘But Cadences is strong enough to survive a few lost investors, surely? It’s been going long enough.’

  ‘It’s not an easy time for any banking organization,’ said Crispian.

  ‘Ah. The Germans trying to corner everything they can,’ said Gil. ‘Aided by Austro-Hungary half the time.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve surprised you again, haven’t I? You’re thinking I’m not altogether the irresponsible shallow wastrel you thought me, and you’re wondering if you should revise your opinion.’ Before Crispian could think how to respond to this, he said, ‘Is Julius likely to die while we’re at sea?’

  ‘Your father thought he probably only had a few weeks left. He said the deterioration had become rapid over the last six months. And I suppose once it reaches the brain—’

  ‘So,’ said Gil, his eyes bright and a faint flush across his cheekbones, ‘for a few hours of pleasure with a handful of women, he’s ended up with a filthy bone-nibbling, flesh-destroying disease that sends its victims scuttling into the shadows so no one will see its repulsive pawmarks. God, it’s enough to make a man give up fucking for life. And don’t make that prudish face, Crispian, because I know damn well there’s nothing prudish about you.’ In the glow from the cabin’s lamp his eyes had a curious luminous quality like a cat’s: Crispian could see the tiny golden flecks in the deeper brown. Neither of them spoke, then Gil put out a hand to Crispian.

  Crispian’s heart was beating like a steam-hammer, but after a moment, he moved away, ignoring the hand, not even looking at Gil. He managed to say, ‘Gil, you d
o know I’m not—’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ said Gil harshly. They looked at one another, then Gil said very quietly, ‘Do you know, I believe I’m drunker than I thought. I’ll go to my cabin and try to sleep it off.’ He turned away and went quickly out.

  Crispian listened to his footsteps dying away. His mind was in turmoil and he had to make a massive effort not to go after Gil. But somehow he forced away the desire to do so. This journey was for his father, who was going to die. It was for keeping Julius as safe and comfortable as they could manage, and it was also to protect Cadences and all its staff and investors. Nothing else should matter. Hell, thought Crispian, nothing else does matter.

  But his emotions were still scalding through his entire body, and they were so strong they frightened him. I can’t feel like this about another man, he thought, I simply can’t. He forced his mind to recall girls he had known at Oxford – nice girls who were the sisters or cousins of friends and could be taken to lunch and with whom one might venture a daring kiss on the cheek. And there had been other girls who took it as a matter of course that things would go well beyond a chaste kiss or a respectful guiding arm. They worked in bars or clubs, those girls, and thought it ever so exciting to be smuggled into an undergraduate’s room. They giggled a good deal, and although they did not precisely expect to be paid hard cash for the liberties they allowed, it was usually understood that some kind of generous gift would be forthcoming. Crispian had known several such girls and he had enjoyed his experiences with them very much. That was how it should be. It should not be this dangerous excitement, this pulsating desire because another man’s hand had lain against your own for a few moments, or because glowing dark brown eyes, filled with secret promise, had stared into yours.

  Chapter 11

  London, 1912

  Serena thought it was curious how one secret could bring about another. She and the Flaggs and Dr Martlet had kept the knowledge of Julius’s insanity from the world for years – far longer than Crispian or anyone else had suspected. At first the attacks had been of quite short duration; Dr Martlet had talked about overwork and brain fever, and been reassuring. He had kept Julius docile with various draughts and potions at those times. Serena had agreed to it all, relieved to have the decisions made for her, but she had found it deeply distressing to see Julius, usually so vigorous and energetic, sitting meekly in a chair, staring vacantly at nothing.

  The room at the top of the house had been Dr Martlet’s suggestion; the spells of confusion were becoming more pronounced, he had said in the summer of 1910. It was possible they might spiral into violence. Serena had reluctantly agreed.

  During the periods when Julius had to be locked inside the appalling room, Dr Martlet called at the house every day – sometimes twice a day. Mrs Flagg set meals on a tray, which Flagg carried upstairs. Serena knew quite well that without Dr Martlet and the Flaggs, Julius’s condition would certainly have been known earlier. Crispian would have known, and Colm. The bank . . . She had never known a great deal about the running of Cadences – it had never been expected that she would – but it did not take much logic to see that investors in Cadences would be uneasy if they were aware its head had sometimes to be locked away for fear he injure himself. Even so, Julius had never displayed violence towards anyone until the night Crispian came home.

  ‘I’m that sorry, madam,’ Flagg said, challenged as to how Julius had got out of the room. ‘Like I told Mr Crispian, the only thing I can think is that he finagled a key out of the workman when the lock was put in. He might do that, you know. He might have gone along to have a word with the man, friendly like, and the man, not knowing any different, would give him an extra key.’

  ‘Yes, that’s possible. It’s not your fault, Flagg.’

  After that attack, Serena stayed in bed for several days, pleading a bilious turn. In fact, she genuinely felt sick and on the third morning she had to rush to the water closet just off her bedroom, where she was violently ill. When the same thing happened the following morning and the one after that, a faint alarm stirred within her mind, but she managed to dismiss it and hid the bouts of sickness from Dora and Mrs Flagg.

  But by then she was aware of another symptom – or, not a symptom exactly, more of an omission. She counted up the days, a small frown creasing her brow. One week after Julius’s attack she should have felt the familiar ache in her womb; it should have been necessary to make use of the discreet padding arrangements kept in the bottom drawer of her dressing table. But she had not needed them and she still did not. Also, a swollen tenderness was starting to be apparent in her breasts, a feeling she remembered from the months before Crispian’s birth.

  It could not be that, it could not. She counted up the weeks again, this time using her diary to be sure, but the result was the same. Then she reminded herself she was forty-two and this was surely nothing more than the start of that last watershed of a female’s life, the process that signalled the ending of child-bearing years. But the memory of Julius ramming into her body, brutally and convulsively that night, was still with her.

  ‘I’m afraid there can be no doubt,’ said Dr Martlet, four weeks later, having performed the hateful intrusive examination. ‘You’re going to have a child, Lady Cadence.’ He sounded stern but he also sounded deeply sad, as if he thought he should have been able to prevent this.

  ‘Are you quite sure about it?’ asked Serena.

  ‘I am. I’m sorry. I should have been firmer about Sir Julius, and I should have warned you . . . The male instincts are still strongly with him, it seems. I should have warned you he might want to—’

  ‘You couldn’t have known,’ said Serena quickly, because it would be curdlingly embarrassing if he referred to the marriage act. Nor could she possibly let anyone know that Julius had forced her. Let Dr Martlet and anyone else believe this conception had happened during one of Julius’s normal spells – one of the times when he was living in the house as usual, talking to people, behaving ordinarily.

  Martlet did not press the point. He merely said, ‘I shall take very good care of you.’

  After Dora had shown him out, Serena sat by the window of her bedroom for a long time. Her mind was in turmoil. People said nowadays that the manner of a child’s conception could not influence its character.

  But what of a child fathered by a man at the height of insanity? A child conceived from out of that violent darkness.

  Entries From an Undated Journal

  There were no darknesses in Crispian’s life. I always knew that. All that lay ahead of him were good and happy things. Inherited money and property, and let’s not forget Cadences itself. I could see him very clearly indeed sitting in the bank’s famous oak-panelled boardroom, presiding over directorial meetings, issuing orders, controlling the lives of so many people. And the thing that hurt most was that he would do it so well and all those people would like and trust him. They would like him right up until he died, and probably afterwards. Whereas it’s unlikely anyone will mourn me, or even remember me after I’m dead.

  It’s a curious feeling to know so definitely when you’re going to die. There are four and a half days left to me now. One hundred and eight hours. Or have I miscounted? Dear God, have I? No, I’m right. Why I should panic so massively at the thought I might have miscalculated a few hours, I can’t think.

  I believe if I could put an end to my life now and avoid what’s ahead I’d do so, but it’s impossible and, believe me, gentle reader, I’ve checked. I’ve bloody checked every fucking possibility and there’s absolutely no way I can commit suicide . . .

  Rereading that last sentence, it amuses me to juxtapose flowery Victorian or Austen-esque phrasing with stinging obscenity. In any case, they weren’t so very prim, those Victorians, it was just that they had to appear to bow to the conventions of the day. I’ll bet Charles Dickens sometimes had to restrain himself from adding a saucy paragraph or two when he chronicled the exploits of his street women and his gangs of ruffians. And
let’s not forget H. G. Wells and his numerous liaisons and freethinking outlook, or Oscar Wilde . . .

  I’m straying from the point. I’m trying to explain, to anyone who might read this, that there’s nothing I can do to cheat the inevitable. But there’s also the fact that I haven’t entirely given up hope. I still have a tiny, absurd green shoot of belief that something will happen, that some long-odds, outside chance will rear up and come hurtling in like a deus ex machina. God in a machine, riding to my rescue? Some chance.

  God was certainly nowhere to be seen during that sea voyage, and if anyone walked with me that day the ship docked at Messina, it was the Devil . . .

  I sometimes think if any of the great actor-managers had witnessed my behaviour during that sea voyage, they would have whisked me off to their theatres there and then, and set me down on their lighted stages.

  I was good. No, dammit, I wasn’t just good, I was inspired. Believe me, David Garrick and Henry Irving had nothing on me, and as sure as God is my judge I fooled everyone. It’s extraordinary how, once you adopt a role, it starts to become part of you. I think it’s safe to say I almost became the person I was trying to portray. I wanted to become that person as well, I honestly did. I wanted to be normal. But every time I thought I might be within grasping distance the darkness would stir.

  It was with me on the day the ship put into Messina and it was one of the times when I let it have its way – one of the times when it was too strong for me.

  Messina is a very old city, but it suffered an earthquake a few years before our visit – 1908, I think it had been – and a lot of it had been rebuilt. Even so, the traces of the ancient city were still visible. There were fragments of Greek and Byzantine influences, if anyone reading this likes that kind of historical detail. And, like most cities, you can walk along a modern street with smart new buildings, then turn a corner and find yourself in an ancient cobbled square, as if you’ve stepped back three or four centuries. I’ve done that many a time in London.