The Kings of Eternity (22 page)

All the novels were marked by torn strips of newspaper.

Next, Forbes reached into his bag and pulled out a dozen much fatter hardbacks - the collected works, to date, of Daniel Langham. These, too, were book-marked.

“I read the novels of your grandfather, Jonathon Langham, after reviewing your own books for my paper. I wondered if there would be any similarities: themes, settings, etc - I thought it would be an interesting literary exercise. I must admit that I didn’t expect to discover quite what I did.”

Forbes picked up a Jonathon Langham novel entitled
The Sacrifice of Fools
. He turned to a page marked with a torn strip of newspaper. “For instance, this passage. Let me read it out.” He raised the book and glanced across at Langham.

“‘There comes a time in life when the wise man will assess all that has gone before and adjust his circumstances accordingly; he will, if his wisdom is equal to the task, realise that his individuality is but a condition of prior experience, and attempt to discern those influences so as to be in control of his present and his future.’“

Forbes paused there. “Interesting, if a little overwritten.” From the pile of Daniel Langham novels he selected
The Treachery of Time
.

He opened the book and began reading: “‘Mallory realised that he had to take stock of all that had gone before and adjust his circumstances accordingly. He understood that his individuality was a condition of prior experience. It was his duty to discern those influences and so control his future.’“ He stopped reading and stared at Langham. “Don’t you agree that those two passage are remarkably similar, Mr Langham?”

Langham found his voice. “Are you accusing me of plagiarism?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. But I am interested in your explanation.”

Langham nodded. He told himself that he was in no danger from this scurrilous hack. “Of course I read my grandfather’s work many years ago. I was in the habit of keeping an extensive commonplace book - I must have noted down the passage, and then inadvertently, years later, used it as my own.”

Forbes nodded. “There are rather a lot of similarities between your novels and those of your grandfather,” he commented. He tapped the pile of old novels before him, indicating the slips of paper bristling from the stack.

Langham gestured. “I read everything he wrote and made extensive notes,” he said.

Forbes stood up suddenly and moved to the rail of the patio. He pulled a big white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and proceeded to swab his neck and face.

Langham noticed that the mug of water still stood, untouched, on the table.

“What happened to your grandfather?” Forbes asked, still mopping his sweat.

“I beg your pardon?” Langham asked, his pulse increasing.

“I said, Mr Langham, what happened to your grandfather?”

He was glad that Forbes was staring in the other direction and could not see how he had coloured. He almost snatched up the water and drank it down.

“What do you mean, happened?”

“It is true that Jonathon Langham disappeared sometime around 1948?”

“I was always given to understand that he left the country for South America,” Langham said. “Nothing was ever heard of him again.”

Forbes resumed his seat in a business-like manner. He pulled his spiral-bound note-book from his breast pocket and spent several long minutes consulting his tiny, crabbed handwriting.

He looked up. “Have you ever read the novels of an English writer very popular in the fifties, Mr Langham, a writer called Christopher Cartwright?”

Christ, but the bastard had done his homework. “I may have done, way back.”

“But you can’t remember them?”

“I don’t recall every damned book I’ve ever read,” he snapped.

Forbes nodded. He replaced his note-book, then leaned over the obstacle of his stomach and delved once again into his hold-all.

He produced half a dozen Christopher Cartwright hardbacks, all of them marked with slips of paper. No wonder Forbes laboured like a pack-horse under the weight of the bag, Langham thought; he had an entire damned library in there.

He felt his mouth go very dry.

“Last year I read all Cartwright’s novels,” Forbes said. “And lo and behold, I found an amazing coincidence. I discovered that Cartwright, too, borrowed rather freely from the works of your grandfather. Similar lines are used, though altered, themes repeated, even from time to time characters crop up in Cartwright’s books that first appeared in Langham’s. I checked again in your own books, and though I detected no straight liftings or borrowings, I noticed common themes and concerns, a penchant for faded colonial settings and third world venues.”

“Many writers set novels in all of the above,” Langham said. “What are you trying to prove?”

Forbes’ sweat-soaked face remained expressionless. “Oh, I’m trying to prove nothing, Mr Langham. I’m merely very intrigued indeed at the connection between these three writers. If I wish to do your life, then I feel that I need to get to the bottom of the mystery.”

“I think you’ll be disappointed,” Langham said. “There’s no mystery at all. Writers are influenced by other writers, and pay homage in their books. I think you’ll find that this is what happened here.”

Forbes was staring at him. He slipped his note-book from his pocket again, consulted it, then looked up.

“Another mystery, Mr Langham, is what happened to Christopher Cartwright.”

Langham smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t be the slightest help on that matter.”

“Are you familiar with Cartwright’s story? He was a popular and critically respected author in the fifties, wrote novels set in South America and Africa. Media interest was intense. Who was this man? Even his publishers had never met him - not even his agent. He wrote a book a year from ‘49 to ‘60, and then nothing more. Nothing was heard from him ever again.”

Forbes paused, then said, “Do you think the dates significant?”

“What do you mean?”

“In ‘48 your grandfather Jonathon disappears, and a year later the mysterious Christopher Cartwright appears as if from nowhere with his first novel.”

“Have you ever heard of coincidence, Forbes?”

“But it’s a very odd coincidence, especially as Cartwright’s books have certain textual similarities in common with those of your grandfather.” He leaned forward, elbows planted on knees, and stared at Langham. “Do you see what I’m driving at?”

“I don’t, but no doubt you’re going to tell me.”

Forbes nodded. “It struck me as entirely possible that what might explain your grandfather’s disappearance in ‘48, and the publication of Cartwright’s first book a year later, is that Jonathon Langham and Christopher Cartwright were one and the same man.”

Langham allowed the seconds to elapse. At last he said, “If that is so, then it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“And another intriguing thing,” Forbes said, “is what happened to Cartwright after his disappearance in 1960? If indeed Cartwright was your grandfather, then is it possible that he staged a second disappearance and perhaps, who knows, emerged elsewhere and wrote other books?”

Langham looked at his watch. “It’s after three, Mr Forbes, I really do have to start work.”

Forbes nodded. “Far be it from me to keep a writer from his muse,” he said. “I hope you’ll give what I’ve said a little thought. Should you have any information you think I might find enlightening, I’ll be around again to talk.”

He replaced the books in his hold-all, stood and hoisted the crammed bag onto his shoulder. He nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

Langham, remaining seated, watched Forbes as he negotiated the steps from the patio. The man turned and waved, and then disappeared from sight around the corner of the villa.

Langham moved to the sofa and sat down. He knew he would be unable to work this afternoon - he would attempt to clear his mind and make the necessary corrections to today’s work later this evening. Forbes’ investigation had rattled him.

The man knew more than was comfortable. He knew so much, in fact, that he seemed to be hinting at the truth. Perhaps it was time to move on again, he thought. Leave Kallithéa and assume another identity, start a new life somewhere far removed from here. The prospect appealed.

But Caroline, he thought? What of Caroline?

He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and found himself rubbing the smooth surface of the warm, amber oval. If it were not for the reassurance of the mereth, he thought, he might even wonder if Forbes were a Vark...

Chapter Ten

London and Cranley Grange, March, 1935

On the second Tuesday of March 1935 I took a taxi up to Harley Street and climbed the stairs to the clinic for what seemed like the thousandth time. I was sure that I would remember every detail of the place for years to come: the iron-stoned steps, the white-painted mock Doric columns, the brass plate beside the big, maroon door. The sight of any one of these things now fills me with melancholy.

My father was sitting up in bed, my book open on his lap; he looked more like a patient convalescing than someone given only days to live.

He gestured to the novel. “Almost finished, Jonathon. Enjoying it tremendously. Can’t think of a better way to-” He stopped, then, and not because he had lost the thread of his thoughts.

I pretended not to have heard him. “I saw Carla in a play last night,” I said. “A hilarious farce.” I talked him through it, beefing up the comic situations.

He tapped the cover of my novel. “I’ve been thinking, Jonathon. It must be wonderful.”

I smiled. “What? Living in Greece?” The novel was about an expatriate writer living on a Greek island.

“No, you know what I mean. Doing what you do for a living. Writing.”

“Well... it’s lonely, badly paid, and you don’t have holidays,” I said.

He managed a laugh. “But you leave something to posterity. You’re remembered. Your works live on.”

“The greats live on. The rest of us are pulped.”

He reached out and took my hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Don’t do yourself down, Jonathon. You’re a good writer. You write about what’s important. What’s in here. I believe in the emotions you write about, because I know that you believe in them. Your work is tremendously affecting.”

He had always said he enjoyed my work, but never quite so articulately, or so passionately. “That means a lot to me,” I murmured.

He still had my hand in his. Now he gripped it tighter. “The terrible thing about dying, Jonathon, is not so much the knowledge that one day I won’t be around to experience anything any more...”

He was staring at me, no hint of emotion in his expression. He had always avoided talking about his death, never even hinting at the subject. I was uneasy with this sudden candour, not knowing quite how to respond.

I said the first thing that came into my head. “I would have thought that... that would be the worst thing.”

He smiled. “I’ve had a good life. I’ve experienced a lot. Oh, I might not have travelled, and I can’t say I’ve had an adventurous life. But I’ve done what I’ve wanted to do. I have no real regrets.”

I wanted to ask why he was not terrified by the prospect of death: surely the end of one’s existence was the most terrifying notion imaginable?

I held my tongue.

“Then what?” I asked.

He squeezed my hand. “The most terrifying thing is the thought that I won’t be remembered. That I’ll be forgotten.”

I hurried to reassure him on that score. “I’ll remember you, and so will your friends.”

He was shaking his head, sadly. “Of course you will, but for how long? Memory is a fragile thing. In time, memories fade. And when you pass on, who’ll remember me then, and who’ll remember you when your loved ones have grown and passed on, too? That’s the terrible thing, Jonathon. Existence is so fleeting, and most of us leave no mark, only fading memories. Entire generations, millions of us, like fire-flies in the face of eternity.”

His eloquence brought tears to my eyes.

He laughed. “But you, Jonathon, you’re different.” He knocked on the cover of the book, as if asking to be admitted. “You commit your life, what’s important in your life - your thoughts and beliefs - to novels, and your books will be read when you’re long gone and forgotten. You’ve achieved your own kind of immortality, and that’s no small feat.”

I wanted to tell him that we were all mortal, and the passing of one’s thoughts from one generation to the next, and beyond, while commendable, was no compensation for an eternity of non-existence.

But he had obviously thought about his little speech, and I could hardly bring myself to counter it with cynicism. Later I realised that he was passing through what is known as the brightening, that period of increased vitality immediately preceding death, the sudden flaring of a spent candle before it finally fails.

I left him at five, with my book open on his lap, and thought of him and his words as I walked along a rain-soaked Harley Street and came to Oxford Street. I found a phone box and, on impulse, called Carla.

I knew she had an hour or two before she had to be at the theatre. I would ask if I could call around for a while; in the mood I was in, I might even try to sit through the play for a second time if it meant we could dine together afterwards.

The dial tone rang and rang, and I was about to replace the receiver when she answered.

“Oh, Jonathon.”

“I’ve just been to see my father. Can I come round for an hour before you leave?”

She hesitated, then said, “Yes, of course. How long will you be?”

“I’ll walk, so about twenty minutes.”

“Very well. I’ll see you then.”

I replaced the receiver and looked out of the phone box. The rain, light a minute ago, was now lashing down and raising liquid crowns on the tarmac of the road. I would be soaked if I walked to Carla’s, and I could imagine her expression if I entered dripping water all over her new hall carpet.

I hailed a taxi instead, and a minute later was heading through the twilight streets towards Belgravia.

My father’s little speech about posterity had depressed me. Each one of us has an innate hankering after what we don’t possess: the ‘grass is greener’ syndrome. To be told that one’s achievements are what another finds desirable or commendable serves only to point up one’s own dissatisfaction with one’s lot.