I sniffed at this. The Desert Fathers didn’t have rules, I told him. (He frowned at my mention of the Desert Fathers, but I ignored him and continued ranting.) The Desert Fathers found their own ways to God through prayer and intuition. I told him that that was what I wanted to learn about. I didn’t want to read about Romans and Corinthians. I wanted to read about our own home-grown saints. Like St Cuthbert, who would sneak out of the monastery in the middle of the night, wade into the sea and pray with the rhythm of the waves until the sun came up. Or St Columba who would sail to the remotest islands in his quest for solitude. Or St Brigit, the glorious mother of Kildare, who healed fallen women of their pregnant state. (I nearly broke into tears when I mentioned St Brigit. Where was she when Janie needed her? Crickshaw saw me become upset and put his hand on my shoulder, but I shook it off.) These were people who knew about passion. They knew about instinct. They listened to God with their hearts and not their brains.
Crickshaw remained calm and replied that all these saints I mentioned were scholars once too. Everything they learned, they learned from the bible. The bible was our primary source, he reiterated. All knowledge stems from there and no other book would do.
Well, I don’t care about the bible . ‘Sayings’ is my bible. ‘Sayings’ is my primary source. I grabbed the book this evening before turning in, opened it at a random page and this is what I read:
’A brother was leaving the world and, though he gave his goods to the poor, he kept some for his own use. He went to Antony, but when Antony learned what he had done he told him: ‘If you want to be a monk, then go to the village, buy some meat, hang it on your naked body and walk back here.’ The brother did as he was told, and as he walked back to the cave, dogs and birds followed him and tore at his body. He came back to Antony and showed him his torn body. Then Antony said, ‘Those who renounce the world but want to keep something for themselves are attacked in that way by demons and torn in pieces.’’
There are no better words to describe how I feel. My soul, my whole being, has been torn to shreds. Janie’s death is the consequence of ignoring God’s call. I know what I need to do now and I can not postpone it any longer. Tomorrow I shall leave. I shall go to the wilderness, give myself over completely to the will of God and be reborn as someone else. I will take nothing with me, other than some clothes and the money I need in order to reach my destination. Even my book, my worthy and beloved book, which has taught me much and has given me such consolation through my many trials, I shall leave behind. As Evagrius once said: ‘I shall leave behind all, even the word which commands me to leave behind all.’
11. In Cumberland
Billings decided to spend some time in the Lake District before returning to London. It took him four hours to travel from Whithorn to Kendal and he spent those hours pondering all he had learned on the Isle. A disturbing notion had occurred to him a few days ago while he read the newspaper article about Lochrane. Could Sebastian Forrester and Brendan Lochrane be one and the same? There were some parallels in their respective stories and the dates seemed to fit. He thought back to the day he visited Lochrane in his cell and tried to summon the image of the man’s face to his mind. There was something about Brendan’s eyes which looked familiar, he remembered now, and a feeling of dread came over him. What a tragedy it would be if his notion turned out to be true! Could this glorious, young titan – the hero of his youth, the man he had loved and envied in equal measures, the first object of his waking desires – really have turned into a pathetic old wretch in the space of ten years? The thought of this was too disturbing to contemplate!
Billings made his way to Wildman Street when he alighted at the station in Kendal. Mr Forrester had given him the business card of Mr Edmund Pringle, the private detective he had hired ten years ago to find Sebastian.
Pringle had his offices above a tea room which, according to the chatty proprietor, had recently opened to cater for the booming tourist industry and which prided itself in being the only place in the whole of Kendal to sell postcards. Indeed, Billings did see an impressive display of prints and photographs of the Lakes behind the counter when he entered.
Billings climbed the stairs to the first floor and knocked on the door with Pringle’s name sign stuck on it. There was no reply, but he could clearly hear someone snoring inside. He knocked again, louder this time. Still there was no reply. The door was unlocked so he opened it slightly and poked his head into the room.
“Mr Pringle?” he called out.
A fat, middle-aged man with large side whiskers and a balding head lay draped over an armchair, sleeping. His jaw had dropped open and his eyeglasses had fallen out of place, and were now resting precariously on his chins.
“Mr Pringle?” Billings repeated, louder.
Pringle jolted awake and looked at Billings with a shocked expression on his face.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Billings from the Metropolitan Police. I’d like to speak to you, if I may.”
Pringle still didn’t reply and remained looking at his visitor, alarmed and confused.
“It’s about a case you handled ten years ago.”
“A case? Ten years ago?”
“A missing person case. Sebastian Forrester.”
Pringle finally sat up and put his eyeglasses back on his face. “Did you say the Metropolitan Police?” he asked, straightening his collar, tucking in his shirt and brushing the hair on the side of his head.
“Yes.”
“Scotland Yard?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never been visited by a Scotland Yard inspector before,” he said with a touch of alarm. “What is it precisely you want from me?”
“Do you remember Mr Frederick Forrester?”
“Mr Frederick Forrester? Yes, I seem to remember his name.”
“He employed you ten years ago to find his son who went missing in this area.”
“Oh, yes. I remember now. A young tourist who came for the lakes. Killed himself, didn’t he?”
Billings was taken aback by that blatant remark, even though it was a theory which he had himself once entertained. “Well, it appears he didn’t,” he said. “Mr and Mrs Forrester have received a letter.”
“From him?”
“Or someone claiming to be him. I’ve re-opened the case and was wondering whether I could discuss it with you.”
“Why, certainly! Certainly you may!” He suddenly sounded relieved and enthusiastic. “It is a great honour to be asked to help out someone from Scotland Yard. Come in, please, Mr... um...”
“Billings,” the detective said as he entered the office and pulled a chair from behind the desk.
“I assure you, I shall do everything in my power to assist you. Now let me get his file.” Pringle got up and rushed excitedly towards the filing cabinet. “Mr Forrester was a banker, was he not?” he asked as he searched through his files. “And his son a divinities student?”
“You have a good memory, Mr Pringle.”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said, giggling like a girl. “I’ve always had a great memory. The mother used to call me a walking encyclopaedia. Ah, here it is.” He pulled out a file and returned to his seat. “Mr Forrester must be quite an important man for the Yard to be involved,” he said, sitting back down on the couch.
“This is not an official investigation.”
“Oh.” Pringle sounded disappointed.
“Mr Forrester is a personal friend of mine. I’m doing this as a favour.”
“I see.”
“Mr Forrester received a letter from somebody in Oxford claiming to be his son. When he went to Oxford to meet him, he vanished again. I have compared the handwriting from the letter he received with that of letters he had written before and they matched, so I am now working under the supposition that Sebastian Forrester is still alive.”
“Quite plausible,” Pringle agreed. “After all, no body has been found.”
“The last place we know him to have stayed at is the L
akeside Hotel on the banks of Lake Windermere.”
“That’s right,” said Pringle, looking at the reports on his lap. “That’s what it says here.”
“What I would like to determine, with your assistance, is what became of him when he left the hotel.”
“Well, let us see.” Pringle started reading his report. “He checked into the hotel on the 19th of March, 1880. He looked pensive and subdued, according to Mr Tavistock, the hotelier, and according to Mr Forrester that had at the time been his normal disposition. On the morning of the 22nd, Sebastian Forrester told Mr Tavistock that he was going to take a trip on a steamer and would be back late, to which Mr Tavistock replied that there probably weren’t any steamers sailing yet as it wasn’t quite the season for it, but that he hoped he’d have a nice day anyway and that he’d tell the cook to prepare a cold supper for him for when he returned. Unfortunately Sebastian Forrester didn’t return that night, nor indeed any other night. He disappeared, leaving all his clothes and luggage behind him in the room and his bill unpaid.”
“Do we know anything of his movements on that day?”
“Yes, indeed we do, Mr Billings. I did make inquiries and it turns out that a steamer did cruise the lake on that day and the captain confirmed Sebastian Forrester was on it. It was easy for the captain to recognize him, because he only had three passengers on that particular trip: Sebastian Forrester, a mother and her daughter. The mother and daughter were local people. She sold flowers to tourists while her daughter was left on the bank to stare with awe and wonder at the steamers which cruised the lake. It had apparently been a long cherished desire of the little girl to sail on one of those boats herself, and upon hearing this, Sebastian Forrester treated the girl and her mother to a trip. I don’t know if any of this is significant, but it seems to have moved the old Mr Forrester when I told him about it so I made a note of it in my records.”
Pringle looked up proudly. “I pay attention to this sort of thing, you see?” he continued. “In a case like this, when a young man deserts his family, there are often personal histories which one doesn’t like to pry into, but which can reveal a lot, so I always like to record people’s reactions when I report my findings.”
“Do you know where he got off?” Billings asked.
“Yes, I do. According to the captain he got off in Ambleside, at the north end of the lake. The mother and daughter remained on the boat and returned to Bowness. The captain asked him whether he wanted to be picked up again later in the day, but he said no, which the captain thought peculiar as Mr Forrester wasn’t carrying any bags or even wearing a coat. I have two more pages in this report, would you like me to carry on?”
“Please do.”
“You can see that I have been thorough,” Pringle said, smiling proudly as he turned the page. “He was spotted walking down Bog Lane by the minister of Brathay Church, who spoke to him briefly and said he looked glum and distracted. Bog Lane goes right through the fells all the way to Coniston Water, but I’m afraid this is where the trail ends. There were no further identifications of Sebastian by any of the other people I spoke to.”
“So what do you think became of him?”
“Well, Bog Lane is a long road. It was a little past three when he got off at Ambleside and it starts getting dark at around half past five in March. Where would he have slept? Remember, he had no coat and wasn’t carrying anything to keep him warm. There is an inn quite far down the road, the Drunken Duck, which lies in Barngates, but he wasn’t spotted there either. The Drunken Duck is a tavern for local farmers and farmhands and a young gentleman like that would most certainly have stood out. So my conclusion is that he must’ve left the road altogether and either headed into the woods or returned to the lakeside.”
“Why would he head into the woods?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t wish to be seen by anyone.”
“Why would he wish not to be seen?”
“Well, presumably he was up to no good, Mr Billings, otherwise why would he run away?”
“At Scotland Yard we are taught not to presume, Mr Pringle. And anyway, he was seen, wasn’t he? By the minister of Brathay Church, according to your own report.”
“We searched the woods extensively,” he continued, ignoring the detective’s retort. “I hired a number of men to comb the area but we found no evidence of his presence.”
“I’m still not clear, Mr Pringle,” Billings persisted, “why you felt you had to search the woods.”
“Well, we had to start the search somewhere.”
“It must’ve been quite an expensive operation, combing the woods.”
“Mr Forrester told me no expense was to be spared in finding his son.”
“Do you have any justification for spending such a large amount of Mr Forrester’s money?”
It had become clear to Billings that Pringle had indeed been milking the Forresters, as Mrs Forrester suspected.
“I was working on a particular theory, Mr Billings,” Pringle replied defensively.
“And what theory would that be?”
“I’ve already explained that several witnesses have confirmed that he looked distraught and that his father agreed that he was. My theory is that he came to the Lake District suffering from melancholia.”
“And you believed he committed suicide?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And hanged himself from a tree?”
“Possibly. Or otherwise he returned to the lake and drowned himself.”
“So you dragged part of the lake?”
“Indeed I did.”
“Another expensive operation, no doubt.”
“It is a lengthy and labour-intensive process, Mr Billings. It does not come cheap.” Pringle had gone red and was shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. “Excuse me, Mr Billings,” he said, as he rose from his seat and poured himself a glass of water.
There was a short pause in the interview and Billings took a few short breaths to collect himself. “Where does Bog Lane lead to?” he asked after Pringle had re-taken his seat.
“It leads to the village of Brantwood on the bank of Coniston Water, which is about seven and a half miles from Ambleside.”
“He could’ve walked that in one night.”
“Without being seen?”
“Didn’t you say it was already dark?”
“Well, yes, but...”
“It seems to me he walked through the night all the way to Brantwood. Did you make any inquiries there?”
“No, I did not.” Pringle was starting to look flushed again. “There is no reason to believe Sebastian Forrester went to Brantwood,” he explained. “He’d have checked out of the hotel and taken his belongings with him, if that had been his intention.”
“Perhaps it was a decision he made on the spur of the moment. Did you explore any other avenues?”
“Mr Forrester and I agreed to end the investigation after we dragged the lake.”
I’m not surprised, after the expense he had already incurred! thought Billings, but remained silent.
“I did keep an eye out for any noteworthy stories which appeared in any of the local newspapers,” Pringle continued. “I receive all the local papers and regularly cut out articles which might be of interest to me at some point and stick them into my scrapbook. I could show you if you like.” And without waiting for an answer he got up and pulled his scrapbook out of the bookshelf. There seemed to be an eagerness to redeem himself.
“There was one story which appeared in the Whitehaven News which interested me at the time, but I had already closed the investigation and Whitehaven lies too far outside the area in which I was looking, so I didn’t follow it up. Here’s the article.” He handed Billings the opened scrapbook. “I’m not sure why this intrigues me. Perhaps it’s just my instinct, but I do find that when two unusual occurrences happen in the same period of time, even if they seem completely unrelated, they’re usually connected.”
Gentleman’s Clothing
Found In St Bees Field
A pile of gentleman’s clothing was found in the middle of a field in the small Copeland village of St Bees. The items were discovered by Jedediah Tooke, a local shepherd, as he grazed his flock in a meadow by the Pow Beck stream. “They looked like high quality clothing to me,” said Mr Tooke. “Shirt, striped trousers, waistcoat. And smart too, not the kind of donkey jackets us wears around these parts.” The clothes, which included a pair of shoes and long cotton drawers, had been left neatly folded in the middle of the field. “He took everything off except his hat,” said Mr Tooke. “Can’t think why anyone would want to undress here. The stream is hardly deep enough to swim in.” The items of clothing are currently being held by the police and the villagers have been advised to direct any naked man wearing nothing but a hat to the local police station, where his clothes will gladly be returned to him.
“I don’t suppose you know what Sebastian Forrester was wearing at the time?” Billings asked Pringle after reading the article.
“That’s a detail I didn’t think to ask.”
Shame, Billings thought, but it didn’t surprise him.
*
After his interview, Billings returned to the Lakeside Hotel and took his nightly dose of morphine. Feeling both light-headed and clear-minded at the same time, he peered at a tourist map of the counties of Cumberland, Westmoreland and Lancashire and traced the path Sebastian might have walked. Although he thought Pringle to be a most disagreeable character, he did feel that he had the right instincts. Something also drew him to make a connection between Sebastian’s disappearance and the discovery of the abandoned gentleman’s clothing. Looking at the map, he saw that Bog Lane led to an old Roman path known as Hardknott Pass, which crossed the wild, empty fells right towards the coast. The village of St Bees, where the clothes were found, lay to the south of Whitehaven, at the edge of the Lake District, only forty-three miles from Ambleside. It seemed perfectly feasible to him that Sebastian might have walked it.
The Ornamental Hermit Page 13
