The Distant Hours (61 page)

You’re being fanciful
, I told myself sternly.
There is no one here but you and the walls
. But that was half my problem. These weren’t just any walls, these were the stones of Milderhurst Castle, beneath whose skin the distant hours were whispering, watching. The further into the room I went, the more aware I was of a strange, heavy feeling. A depth of aloneness – loneliness, almost – cloaking me. It was the dark, of course, my recent interaction with Saffy, Juniper’s melancholy story.

But this was my one and only opportunity to see Raymond Blythe’s notebooks. I had only a single hour, and then Percy Blythe would be back to collect me. Chances were, I wouldn’t be permitted a second visit to the muniment room, so it was as well to pay close attention now. I made a mental checklist as I walked: wooden filing cabinets lining both walls; above them – I lifted the lamp to see – maps and architectural plans of all vintages. A little further along was hung a collection of tiny framed daguerreotypes.

It was a series of portraits, the same woman in each: in one she was reclined along a chaise longue in a state of some déshabillé, in the others she was facing the camera directly, Edgar Allan Poe-style, dressed in a high-necked Victorian collar. I leaned closer, brought my lamp high to observe the face within the bronze, blowing once to scatter some of the layered dust. I felt an odd coldness creep up my spine as the face was revealed. She was beautiful, but in a vaguely nightmarish way. Smooth lips; perfect, poreless skin stretched taut along high cheekbones; teeth large and polished. I held the lamp near enough to read the name engraved in cursive writing at the bottom of the picture:
Muriel Blythe
. Raymond’s first wife, the twins’ mother.

How strange that all her portraits had been relegated to the muniment room. Had it been the result of Raymond Blythe’s grief, I wondered, or the jealous decree of his second wife? Whatever the case, and although I can’t say what made me so pleased to do it, I shifted the lamp then, casting her back into darkness. There wasn’t time to explore each and every hollow of the room. I resolved to find Raymond Blythe’s notebooks, absorb as much from them as I could in the hour allotted, then leave behind this strange, stale place. I held the lamp before me and kept on walking.

But then the pictures on the walls gave way to shelves, stretching from floor to ceiling, and despite myself I slowed. It was like being inside a treasure trove; all manner of items had been stacked along them: books – lots of books – vases and Chinese porcelain, and even crystal jugs. Precious things, from what I could tell, not junk or detritus. What they were doing, languishing on shelves in the muniment room, I could not begin to guess.

Beyond them was something interesting enough to make me stop: a collection of forty or fifty boxes, all of the same size, covered in pretty paper – floral for the most part. There were little labels on some of them and I went close enough to read one:
Heart Reclaimed
:
a novel by Seraphina Blythe
. I lifted the lid and peeked inside: a stack of paper with typewritten text all over it, a manuscript. I remembered Mum telling me that the Blythes had all been writers, all except Percy. I held the lamp higher so that I could take in the entire collection of boxes, smiling in wonder. These were Saffy’s stories. She was so prolific. It oppressed me, in some way, to see them all huddled down here together: stories and dreams, people and places invested at one time with great energy and industry, only to be left in the dark over years to turn back into dust. Another label read
Marriage to Matthew de Courcy
. The publisher in me couldn’t help it: I lifted the lid and pulled the papers from inside. This one didn’t contain a manuscript, though; it was a collection of assorted papers – research, I supposed. Old sketches – wedding dresses, floral arrangements – newspaper clippings describing various society weddings, scribbled notes as to orders of service, and then, further down, a 1924 notice of the engagement of Seraphina Grace Blythe and Matthew John de Courcy.

I set the papers down. This was research, but not for a novel. This box contained the planning for Saffy’s own wedding that never was. I put the lid back on and stepped away, guilty suddenly for my intrusion. It struck me then that every item in this room was the remnant of a bigger story, the lamps, the vases, the books, the duffel bag, Saffy’s floral boxes. The muniment room was a tomb, just like those in ancient times. A pharaoh’s dark, cool tomb where precious things went to be forgotten.

By the time I reached the table at the very end, I felt as if I’d walked a marathon through Alice’s Wonderland. It was a surprise, then, when I turned around, to see that the swaying light bulb, the door – carefully propped open with a wooden box – was only forty-five feet or so behind me. I found the notebooks just where Percy had said they’d be and, just as she’d said, piled into boxes, as if someone had walked along Raymond Blythe’s study shelves and desk, swept everything in together, then left them here. I understood that there were other concerns during the war; nonetheless, it seemed odd that neither of the twins had found time to return in the decades since. Raymond Blythe’s notebooks, his journals and letters, deserved to be on display in a library somewhere, protected and valued, available for scholars to access for many years to come. Percy, in particular, I’d have thought, with her keen eye to posterity would have sought to protect her father’s legacy.

I set my lamp at the back of the desk, far enough away so that I wouldn’t accidentally knock it, and slid the boxes from beneath the table, lifting them one by one onto the chair and rummaging until I found the journals spanning 1916 to 1920. Raymond Blythe had helpfully labelled each with the year, and it didn’t take long before I had 1917 spread out before me. I took my notebook from my bag and began jotting down anything I could think of that might be helpful for the article. Every so often I paused, just so that I could appreciate again that these were actually his journals, that this looping script, these ideas and sentiments, had originated with the great man himself.

Can I possibly convey here, with only words at my disposal, the incredible moment when I turned that fateful page and sensed a shift in the scrawl beneath my fingers? The handwriting was heavier, more purposeful, the script looked to have been written faster: lines and lines, filling each page, and when I bent closer, began to decipher the rough scrawl, I realized, with a thrill that started deep inside my heart, that this was the first draft of the
Mud Man
. Seventy-five years later, I was witnessing the birth of a classic.

Page after page I turned, scanning the text, devouring it, delighting in the small changes as I compared what was written with my memories of the published text. At length, I reached the end, and although I knew I shouldn’t, I laid my open palm across the final page, closed my eyes, and focused on the pen marks beneath my skin.

And that was when I felt it: the small ridge running down the side of the page, about an inch from the outer margin. Something had been tucked between the journal’s leather cover and its final page. I turned over, and there it was, a stiff piece of paper with scalloped serrations around the rim, the sort found in an expensive correspondence set. It had been folded in half.

Was there ever any chance I wasn’t going to open it? I doubt it. I didn’t have a very good track record with leaving letters unread, and the moment I saw it something began to caper beneath my skin. I felt eyes upon me, eyes in the dark, urging me to look inside.

It was neatly handwritten but faded, and I had to hold it close to the lamp to make out the words. It picked up mid-sentence, a single sheet in a longer letter:

I turned it over but there was nothing further. I searched the notebook for the rest. Flicked back through the pages, even held it by the spine and shook it very carefully. Nothing.

But what could it mean? Which similarities? Which other story? What consequences? And who had seen fit to deliver such a warning?

A shuffling in the corridor. I sat stone-still, listening. Someone was coming. My heart hammered in my chest; the letter shook between my fingertips.

A split second of indecision, then I stuffed it inside my notebook and pressed the cover flat. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Percy Blythe and her cane silhouetted in the doorway.

How I made it back to the farmhouse I cannot tell you; I don’t remember a second of the walk. Presumably I managed to say farewell to Saffy and Percy, then stumble back down the hill without doing myself bodily harm. I was in a daze, completely unaware of anything that took place between leaving the castle and arriving back at my room; I couldn’t stop thinking about the contents of the letter, the letter I had stolen. I needed to speak to someone immediately. If I were reading its contents correctly – and the wording wasn’t especially complicated – someone had accused Raymond Blythe of plagiarism. Who was this mystery person, and to which earlier story were they referring? Whoever it was had specified having read Raymond Blythe’s manuscript, which meant that they’d read the story and written the letter before the book was published in 1918; that fact narrowed the possibilities but was still no real help. I didn’t have a clue as to whom the manuscript might have been sent to. Well, I had a clue: I work in publishing, I knew it would have been read by editors, proofreaders, a few trusted friends. But those were general terms; I needed names, dates, specifics before I could ascertain how seriously I should take the letter’s claims. For if they were true, if Raymond Blythe had misappropriated the story of the Mud Man, the ramifications were enormous.

It was the sort of discovery scholars and historians – convalescent fathers in Barnes – dreamed of, a career-making scoop, yet all I felt was nauseated. I didn’t want it to be true, I longed for it to be some sort of joke, a misunderstanding even. My own past, my love of books and reading, was inextricably linked with Raymond Blythe’s
Mud Man.
To accept that it had never been his story, that he had pinched it from somewhere else, that it didn’t have its roots in the fertile soil of Milderhurst Castle, was not only the breaking apart of a literary legend, it was a brutal, personal blow.

Be that as it may, I
had
found the letter, and I
was
being paid to write about Raymond Blythe’s composition, specifically the origins, of the
Mud Man
. I couldn’t just ignore a claim of plagiarism because I didn’t like it. Particularly when it seemed to explain so much of Raymond Blythe’s reticence about discussing his inspiration.

I needed help, and I knew just the person to give it to me. Back at the farmhouse, I avoided Mrs Bird and made a bee-line for my room. I’d picked up the telephone receiver before I’d even sat down. My fingers tripped over themselves in their rush to dial Herbert’s number.

The phone rang out.

‘No!’ I grouched at the receiver. It stared back blankly.

I waited impatiently, then tried again, listened and listened to the faraway lonely ring. I chewed my nails and read my notes and tried again, with no more satisfaction. I even considered calling my dad, stopped only by fears of what the excitement might do to his heart. And that’s when my gaze fell upon Adam Gilbert’s name on the original interview transcript.

I dialled, I waited; no answer. I tried again.

The click of someone picking up. ‘Hello, Mrs Button speaking.’

I could have wept with joy. ‘This is Edith Burchill. I’m ringing to speak with Adam Gilbert.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Burchill. Mr Gilbert’s gone up to London for a hospital appointment.’

‘Oh.’ A trembly deflation rather than a word.

‘He’s due back in the next day or two. I could leave a message and have him telephone you when he returns at the end of the week, if you’d like?’

‘No,’ I said; it was too late, I needed help now – and yet, it was better than nothing. ‘Yes, all right. Thank you. If you could let him know that it’s rather important. That I think I might have stumbled on something related to the mystery we were discussing recently.’

I spent the rest of the evening staring at the letter, scribbling indecipherable patterns in my notebook, and dialling Herbert’s number; listening to the phantom voices trapped inside that empty phone line. At eleven o’clock I accepted finally that it was too late to continue stalking Herbert’s empty house; that, for now at any rate, I was alone with my problem.

As I headed for the castle next morning, exhausted and bleary-eyed, I felt as if I’d spent the night tumbling through the wash. I had the letter concealed within the inside pocket of my jacket and I kept slipping my hand in to check it was still there; I can’t explain why exactly, but as I left my room I’d been compelled to retrieve it, to tuck it away safely and carry it on my person. To leave the letter behind on the desk was unthinkable, somehow. It wasn’t a rational decision; it wasn’t through fear that someone else might happen upon it during the day. It was a strange and burning conviction that the letter belonged with me, that it had presented itself to me, that we were attached in some way now and I had been entrusted with unravelling its secrets.