18th April
Three weeks since I wrote to Butler-Parry and still no reply.
Cum Hedera super terram: a much-needed distraction. Without my leave she loosened her hair, so I punished her by making her braid it tight, then I twisted it round my wrist. In delicto I yanked harder. She bared her teeth like an alley cat.
Later
I’ve discovered another parallel with her namesake, the plant Hedera: a strong and delectable power of suction.
19th April
At last a note from Butler-P.’s steward explaining his master’s silence! He’s on a fishing trip in Norway, thus I may not expect a reply until the middle of July! Frustrating, but also a huge relief. I’d been imagining all sorts of reasons for his silence, mostly involving that snake Jacobs. I must be patient. The Book will be found.
Cum Hedera in nocte. Bene.
27th July
Surely Butler-Parry is back from Norway? Why still no reply?
I must be patient. The past three months have passed agreeably enough. My monograph is proceeding well, and with daily connection my health is fully restored. No more dreams.
28th July
Cum illa bis, sed non bene; illa habet mensam.
10th August
At last a reply from Butler-Parry! I write in high excitement at the railway station. I’ll miss my little Hedera, but it’s a relief to escape Wake’s End. All those females fouling the air with their yeasty stink.
13th August
Momentous day: PYETT IS FOUND!
I write this at Marsham Hall with the precious parchment before me on the desk. Pyett will prove a coy mistress, very hard to read, but already she is yielding riches. It will take months to lay bare all her secrets. I can scarcely wait.
This will make my name. Everything for which I have toiled shall be mine: the respect and envy of my peers, the admiration of the public. What renders my discovery even sweeter is that I’ve made it at the perfect time, when my clerical and household problems are cheaply resolved and my health restored. A blessed, blessed day.
10th September
Returned in triumph to Wake’s End. I thought I was fatigued, but having resorted to my little Hedera I feel invigorated and refreshed.
Tomorrow is Friday. On Monday I shall go up to London and buy the new edition of the lexicon of Middle English. I know it’s irrational, but when I begin my translation I must have a pristine lexicon to hand, not that much-thumbed copy from my ’Varsity days.
Of course I could have had the new volume sent here; but what if Jacobs or one of his ilk chanced to learn of my order? Why risk tipping him off that I’ve found Pyett, when I can go to London myself and collect the volume sub rosa? (And if that means I can make a celebratory detour to Piccadilly, so much the better.)
The stage is set for my great labour to begin. Deo volente, nothing can stop me now.
Maud closed the notebook and replaced it in Father’s desk. The house was silent, the servants not yet about. She went to stand at the window.
A misty, overcast dawn. This part of the grounds was still sunk in shadow. To her left, dank willows overhung the Lode. She followed it to the dark corner where the stream met the black wall of the yew hedge. She pictured the Lode flowing beyond it into Harrow Dyke, then into the River Lark, then the Ouse, and on to the sea.
Put not your faith in men, she thought. That out there is all you can trust: that hedge and that wet grass. Those dripping trees.
As if it were happening to someone else, she observed the pieces of her past – Maman, Father, herself – rearranging to make a different pattern.
She saw her childhood peel off and float away like a piece of waterweed in the Lode.
Saturday remained overcast, and that night there was a storm. It was still raining in the morning, but by Sunday evening the rain had stopped and Wake’s End was blanketed in fog. Despite this, Father took his weekly tribute of flowers to Maman’s grave as usual, having forgotten to do so before morning service.
On Monday he didn’t come down to breakfast, as he’d caught a chill in the fog. His trip to London was therefore postponed. A few days later, Maud learned from reading his notebook that he hadn’t cancelled London because of a chill.
It was because he’d found the Doom.
From the Private Notebook of Edmund Stearne
16th September
Why did this have to happen now? It’s too vexing. Almost as if some malicious will were out to spoil my success before it’s even begun.
Today was tedious as only damp Sundays can be, and the most tedious part was having dinner with Maud. I told her to order it for five and escaped soon after, citing the flowers for Dorothy as my excuse. The rain had stopped but the churchyard was shrouded in fog. Despite it, and being reluctant to return home, I decided to make a circuit around the church. I wish to God I hadn’t. Then I would never have found it.
A murky afternoon. The birds had settled to roost and the yew trees were utterly still. That’s what I dislike about fog: one moment there’s nothing, the next there’s something – and never any warning. As I took the path that skirted the tower, I diverted myself by reflecting that in Pyett’s time this graveyard wouldn’t have been nearly so quiet. It would have been raucous with pedlars and livestock, perhaps even a cockfight; and of course no headstones, only the churchyard cross. Its mutilated stump still stands to the left of the south porch opposite the family vault.
But I’m prevaricating. In the fog, the north end of the churchyard was even less appealing than usual, and in one corner the workmen had flung their refuse. Amid a tangle of brambles and wet grass, I made out a dreary pile of whitewashed planks. It was the cladding which had been torn from the chancel arch to make way for the plasterers; presumably the workmen had left it here to await burning.
I hesitated, for the path would only take me nearer the refuse. But that wasn’t the whole reason for my reluctance to go on. I didn’t like the feel of the place. Beyond the churchyard wall the dead reeds in North Fen stood as pale as bone. Behind me I heard rustling, and glimpsed some creature slipping into the fog; I think it was a stoat. Its movements were furtive, and left a disagreeable impression.
That was when I saw it. An eye in the grass, peering at me. For an instant my heart misgave me and I had the strangest sensation of guilt; as if I’d been caught committing some crime, and the eye had seen me do it. On looking closer, I perceived that in fact the eye was crudely painted on one of the whitewashed planks. It was round, with a black pupil and yellow-brown iris tinged with red. It stared at me with a knowing leer that I found indescribably repulsive.
What happened next I can’t clearly recall or understand. I know that I caught a strong marshy whiff from the fen, and in my fancy – though at the time it seemed as real as the ground beneath my feet – I perceived greenish water with something long trailing in it; whether hair or weeds, I couldn’t tell. The next moment the image was gone, for a magpie lit on to the planks and startled me with its ugly chatter.
Shooing away the bird, I admonished myself aloud for my foolishness: ‘Edmund, if you can be startled by a bird and a piece of wood, you are in greater need of rest than you had supposed!’ However, I was uncomfortably aware that my sole reason for speaking aloud was to make light of my alarm – and that in this I only half succeeded.
Then it occurred to me that the painted eye might be of some antiquity. My historian’s curiosity aroused, I forced my way through the brambles towards it. Stooping over the plank, I caught a sharp smell of wet lime. I drew out my handkerchief and dabbed at the wood, for some reason choosing a spot adjacent to, but not quite touching, the eye. My handkerchief came away soiled with lime; and there on the plank I perceived that I’d uncovered part of the head to which the eye belonged. The head was a swampy green and covered in spikes or perhaps scales, those at the top being outlined in red, as if lit from behind by flames.
I knew then, and I know now, that what I have found is of very great age. In
fact, I would stake my reputation on its being mediæval.
A cursory glance revealed that other planks in the pile also bore patches of green, yellow or black pigment, where the rain had rinsed off the whitewash. From this I surmised that the painting must be of considerable size, extending across several planks.
What an astonishing turn of events. In our ignorance, we on the parish council had decreed that the chancel’s unsightly cladding must be torn down. How wrong we were. To judge from what I found this evening, those very planks comprise some sort of mediæval panel painting.
Presumably some time after it was created, the work fell foul of the iconoclasts of the Reformation, who whitewashed it into oblivion. And there it has remained, undisturbed for four centuries. Had it not been for last night’s storm, the sexton would have made a bonfire of the whole thing, and no one would have been any the wiser.
A remarkable discovery indeed, and one in which as an historian I ought to be keenly interested. Why, then, as I stooped over the thing in the grass, was I so very reluctant to examine it further? Why was I tempted instead to turn over the plank that bore the offending eye, so that it might not be found by others? In short, why did I want to hide it, in the hope that it would be consigned to the fire?
It was an ignoble impulse, and of course I didn’t turn over the plank. Much as I dislike the thing – and I do quite unaccountably detest it – the thought that so important a discovery might be permanently lost was abhorrent to me. Indeed, perceiving that water from a yew tree was dripping on to the very plank which bore the eye, I grasped it by one end and shifted it out of harm’s way.
But that was as much as I would do. Not for an instant was I tempted to summon the sexton and show him what I’d found. Nor did I have the slightest desire to claim the discovery as my own, or associate myself with it in any way. Indeed I half-hoped that it might not be found. At any rate, I turned my back on the wretched pile and headed home.
Later
It’s now nearly midnight, and despite a glass of brandy and water I remain out of sorts. The fog hasn’t lifted. I can see nothing beyond the window.
It seems an ironic twist of Fate that I should be the one to chance upon that thing. And it hasn’t escaped me that it was I who argued most strongly for the chancel’s restoration, and contributed half the funds. I brought about the very work that led to the painting’s discovery. So in a sense, I have caused it to be found.
Of course, one must remember that it has not yet been found. If old Farrow or one of the workmen happens to notice it tomorrow, then well and good. If not, I shall say no more about it. It has nothing to do with me. I shall leave it to God to decide.
But I do rather wish that I hadn’t touched it.
17th September
What a disagreeable fuss. Old Farrow did notice the eye, and he duly summoned the rector and Miss B. They’re all of a twitter, and would be calling the thing a miracle if they weren’t afraid of being thought unacceptably High.
Of course they sent for me, and I duly feigned amazement. I told them that despite the painting’s undoubted historical importance, I was far too busy to attend to it myself and I advised them to contact the Society of Antiquaries in London. And O malign Fate, whom should the Society send to make an inspection, but that oily little Hebrew Jacobs.
How he revelled in it, rubbing his hands in glee at my ‘misfortune’ at having missed making the discovery myself. Well, let him gloat. He’s busy arranging to have the planks conveyed to London for restoration. The sooner the better, and may they never return.
I’m writing this in some discomfort, as I’ve scratched my hand. It happened in the churchyard when I was pushing through the brambles, or perhaps when I was moving the plank. It’s not serious, merely an unpleasant reminder. But it almost feels as if I’ve been bitten.
Which is perfectly ridiculous, and plainly the result of a constitution strained by overwork. Nothing a brisk walk, a hearty dinner and a little calomel and laudanum won’t overcome.
20th September
Such a brouhaha over that wretched painting – and all engendered by Jacobs, who is thoroughly enjoying what he vulgarly calls ‘the limelight’. No doubt he is responsible for the advent of that man from the local newspaper in Ely, as well as people from The Times, the Telegraph and the rest; they’ve descended on the village like crows on a carcase. I have instructed the servants to admit no one save close acquaintances, but this has prompted a ridiculous rumour that I’m sulking because I wasn’t the one to discover the painting. Well, so be it. The devil take the lot of them.
The scratch on my hand remains irksome. If it doesn’t improve soon, I shall send for Grayson.
24th September
Much better. My hand is improving and the fuss over the painting has subsided; or rather, it has re-located to London, where restoration is expected to take many months.
At last peace has returned, and I may begin work on Pyett. One bonus of this whole affair is that it has thrown Jacobs et al. completely off her scent. I was therefore able to order my new Lexicon of Middle English via Hibble, rather than travelling up to London myself. I received it this morning, and plan to start work tomorrow. Translation first, that shouldn’t take long. Then the real prize: the exegesis.
28th September
Something annoying has happened – and on my birthday, too.
Maud gave me a present which she made herself. She observed me closely while I unwrapped it. It’s a watch-chain, woven from a braid of Dorothy’s hair. I was so repelled I could hardly keep my countenance. What possessed the girl to do this? And how? She must have cut off a lock in secret and kept it all this time; and now to have created this – when she knows how strongly I dislike mourning tokens, let alone women’s hair.
Is she merely thoughtless, or does she deliberately seek to goad me? I can’t believe it’s the latter; she is devoid of imagination and incapable of such subtlety. No, I fear she has been too much in company with Miss B., and has fallen victim to the old maid’s nauseating sentimentality. Yes, that must be it. Maud has either forgotten my dislike of mourning tokens, or else her feminine inconsistency has led her to assume that I would make an exception in the case of my own wife.
Still, it’s of no consequence, as I shan’t wear the offending article. Indeed it would be wrong to do so, as it would only encourage the girl’s morbid fancies. However, I confess that I am unsettled; and as I have been sleeping badly, I shall yet again postpone the translation. Tomorrow is Michaelmas. I shall start in the morning without fail.
As I recall, our old nurse used to warn us never to eat blackberries after Michaelmas, for by then the Devil will have spat on them. Odd how one’s memory retains such boyhood nonsense, when so much else has been consigned to oblivion.
‘THERE’S a piece in The Times about our painting,’ Maud told Father as she poured his morning tea.
‘I wasn’t aware that it belonged to us,’ he said drily.
‘I mean the parish, Father.’
‘Then you ought to say so. Inaccuracy in speech fosters inaccurate thought.’
Handing him his cup, she attended to her own. ‘According to the article, the painting shows the Last Judgement and dates from the fifteenth century. The same time as Alice Pyett.’
Without responding, he helped himself to devilled kidneys from the sideboard.
‘Apparently when fully restored, it may be the finest of its kind in England. Were there many paintings of the Last Judgement in the Middle Ages, Father?’
‘I think you know that I don’t care to discuss my work at the table, Maud. Since you’re so interested in ecclesiastical art, I suggest you consult a volume in the library and leave me to enjoy my newspaper in peace.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And in future have the goodness not to touch The Times until I’ve finished with it. You know my dislike of manhandled newsprint.’
She smiled. ‘Sorry, Father.’
He hated it when she mentio
ned the painting. That was why she did. He hated being reminded of Maman too. That was why she’d made the watch-chain. He said he’d lost it, but she knew he was lying. She’d caught the stink of burning hair coming from his study.
It was three months since she’d first read his notebook. For weeks she had raged at him in silent fury. You killed Maman and you didn’t care. You were relieved. Nothing matters to you but yourself. You don’t care about anything or anyone except your own precious needs. She had raged at herself too: for being so gullible. Those humiliating fantasies of ministering to his every wish.
At meals she would watch him with her fists in her lap. I know what you are, she told him in her head.
She had spells of breathlessness and her eczema grew worse, but she no longer wore the detested lace gloves. If the sight of her scabs disgusted him, well and good. She took a perverse pleasure in seeing him wince.
She punished Ivy too. Now and then when she was in the library she would ring for the girl and tell her to fetch a volume from a top shelf. She would observe the slow flush that crept up Ivy’s neck. Then she would snap her fingers as if she’d just remembered her mistake. ‘But of course, you can’t read. That will be all, Ivy. I’ll fetch it myself.’
In the library she found Moore and Blackthorne’s Mediæval History and looked up wall paintings.
At a time when few men knew their letters, the common people relied on their parish church for the truths of the Gospel, which were depicted on its walls in brilliant colours. The most prominent painting was usually that of the Last Judgement, with the triumphant Christ presiding over Heaven and Hell. This would be above the chancel arch, so that worshippers had it always before them; and as its message had to be understood by the dullest peasant, painters devoted less attention to the Saved in Heaven than to the torments of the Damned. Also known as a Doomsday or a Doom, surviving paintings of the Last Judgement may be seen at…
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