The Meaning of Night (39 page)

assist those responsible for identifying Mr Carteret’s assailants.

She expressed her gratitude, and informed me that the officers would be arriving

in an hour, if that would be convenient for me. As this would still give me an hour before

I was due at the Rectory, I said I would return at the appointed time and turned to go.

‘I hope, Miss Carteret,’ I said at the door, ‘that you have friends hereabouts and

that you will not be too much alone in the coming days?’

‘Friends? Of course. But I do not mind being alone. I grew up more or less on my

own – after my poor sister died. Solitude holds no terrors for me, I can assure you.’

‘And you are fortunate to have good neighbours too, I think?’

‘You are referring to Dr and Mrs Daunt, perhaps?’

I briefly recounted my meeting with the Rector, and my decidedly favourable

impressions of that gentleman.

‘Dr Daunt is certainly a good neighbour,’ she said. ‘I could wish for no better.’

‘And Mr Phoebus Daunt must be a welcome addition to any society,’ I continued,

as disingenuously as I could, for I was determined that my liking for Miss Carteret would

not deflect me from learning as much as I could about my enemy.

‘Are you acquainted with Mr Phoebus Daunt?’

Her mouth perceptibly tightened, and I noticed that she passed her hand over her

forehead as she spoke, though her eyes held me fast in their gaze.

‘His literary reputation precedes him,’ I replied. ‘Who has not read and admired

Ithaca?’

‘Do you mock my distinguished neighbour, Mr Glapthorn?’ I sought, but could

not quite find, something in her face that would confirm that her literary estimation of P.

Rainsford Daunt coincided with my own.

‘Not at all. It is a very great thing to be a poet, and to be able to write so much

poetry at a time is surely enviable.’

‘Now I know you are being unkind.’

She looked me straight in the eye, and then she laughed – a clear spontaneous

laugh, which instantly produced a similar response in me. The action briefly transformed

her face into something even more wonderful, and for a moment or two she had stood

swaying from side to side in a most charming childlike manner. Then she sought to check

herself, looking away slightly and affecting to tidy up some flower petals that had fallen

from a display on a nearby table-top.

‘I must tell you, Mr Glapthorn, what perhaps you already know, that I grew up

with Phoebus Daunt, and that it is very cruel of you to deride the literary efforts of my

childhood companion.’

‘Oh, I do not deride them, Miss Carteret,’ says I. ‘I do not pay them any heed at

all.’

By now she appeared to have collected herself and turned from the table to hold

out her hand.

‘Well, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, ‘perhaps we shall be friends after all. I do not

know how you have made me laugh at such a time as this, but I am glad you have done

so, though I must caution you not to underestimate Phoebus. He is exceptional in many

ways – and not a little like you.’

‘Like me? How so?’

‘For one thing, he is determined to make his mark on the world – as I believe,

from our brief acquaintance, that you also are. For another, I think he would make a

dangerous enemy.’

‘Well, then,’ I replied, ‘I must be sure to keep my opinions concerning his literary

productions to myself. It would never do to antagonize so dangerous a man.’

I could not help delivering these words in a swaggering manner, which I

immediately regretted when I saw the smile fade from Miss Carteret’s face.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have warned you. I know him well, as well as anyone, I think,

and I say again that he is not a man to be crossed. But perhaps you already know the

gentleman as well as his works?’

Of course I lied and said that I had not yet had the pleasure of meeting him in

person, but that I hoped to rectify this as soon as possible.

She moved towards the window to raise up the blind. ‘It is such a beautiful

morning,’ she said. ‘Shall we take a turn round the garden?’

And so round we went, several times, at first in silence but then, in answer to my

questions, she began to speak of her childhood at Evenwood and of how she once became

lost in the great house and thought she would never be found; then, at my gentle

prompting, she told me something of the terrible day her sister died, which she recalled

even now in all its heart-breaking detail, though she had only been five years old when

they brought the bedraggled little body back to the Dower House. She fell silent again,

the painful memory of that loss no doubt compounding the grief she felt at the brutal

slaying of her father. So, to change the subject, I asked her about her time abroad and

how she had liked Paris, and because she said she adored the French language I suggested

we should converse in that tongue, which we proceeded to do until, somewhat overawed

by her fluency, I stumbled over a word and she laughed at my embarrassment.

‘I see you are not used to being laughed at, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said. ‘I suspect

few people get the better of you, and when they do, you take it hard. Is it not so?’

I admitted that she was right in general, but that, with regard to my spoken

French, I humbly deferred to her superior proficiency and – which was true – was happy

to be laughed at. At length, after we had taken several turns of the garden, we sat down to

rest on a little stone bench, where we remained, saying nothing, for some minutes.

The sun was warm on our faces, and when I turned to speak to her I saw that her

eyes were closed. How exquisitely beautiful she was! She had left her spectacles in the

house, and her pale skin, framed and intensified by the stark black of her hair, was bathed

in the full clear light of the November sun, bestowing on it a strangely numinous,

unearthly quality. She sat perfectly still, her head tilted upwards, her lips slightly parted.

It was the most enchanting composition, and I wished so much to have my camera to

capture the fleeing moment, and fix it forever. Then she opened her eyes and looked

straight at me.

‘Your business with my father,’ she said, ‘are you at liberty to say what it

concerned?’

‘I’m afraid that must remain confidential.’

‘Do you not trust me?’ she asked.

There was a hard look in her eye that matched her tone of voice. I struggled to

find a suitable answer, but could only prevaricate.

‘Miss Carteret, it is not a question of trust between you and I, but between my

employer and myself.’

She thought for a moment and then stood up, blocking out the sun.

‘Well, then,’ she said, ‘there is nothing more to be said. I had begun to hope that

we might perhaps become friends, but without trust — ’

‘I assure you, Miss Carteret,’ I began, but she held up her hand to stop me from

speaking further.

‘No assurances, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, with terrible emphasis. ‘I do not care for

assurances. They are given all too lightly, I find.’

And then she turned and began walking back towards the house, leaving me to

follow her. Just as I caught up with her, a tall thin gentleman with a lugubrious

expression, and wearing trousers that appeared to belong to a much shorter person,

appeared on the path that led from the gate-house through the plantation. He bowed

obsequiously on seeing Miss Carteret. At once her demeanour changed.

‘Mr Gutteridge,’ she whispered, keeping her eyes on the visitor. ‘The undertaker.

I’m afraid we must continue our conversation another time. Good morning, Mr

Glapthorn.’

And with that she left me.

For the next hour or so, I passed the time by making an exploration of the Park

and considering, as I walked, my last conversation with Miss Carteret.

I naturally regretted having discomposed her during this time of mourning; but

her late father had bound Mr Tredgold to strict confidentiality, and I, as Mr Tredgold’s

agent, was subject to the same obligation. Yet I was forced to acknowledge that duty was

even now under threat from desire, and I did not know if I would have the strength to

refuse her again. I did not stop to ask why Miss Carteret had been so visibly angered by

my insistence on observing the professional proprieties. If I had been myself, I might

have further wondered what, other than mere politeness or natural curiosity, could have

caused such displeasure as she had shown. But I was not myself. Like a half-conscious

somnambulist, I was stumbling towards I knew not what; and, to compound this sudden

wilful folly, all my once sincere intentions towards Bella, were being driven from my

mind, so blinded was I by Miss Carteret’s beauty, and so deaf to the quiet urgings of

conscience.

I had taken a branch of the main carriage-road that led towards the Temple of the

Winds, the Grecian folly built by Lord Tansor’s great-grandfather in 1726. From here, I

made my way up through the woods that formed the western boundary of the Park, and

then descended again, through silent ranks of oak and ash and fluttering showers of

leaves, to emerge before the West Front of the great house.

The sight of the house wrenched me back to the task in hand. If I achieved my

purpose, then this wondrous place would be mine by right of succession. I could not let

what might only be a temporary, and unreciprocated, infatuation to lure me from the path

on which my feet had been set. What though Miss Carteret was beautiful? Bella was

beautiful, and kind, and clever, and as affectionate a companion as any man could wish

for. I knew nothing of Miss Emily Carteret, except that she was proud and self-possessed,

and that her heart might already belong to another. But Bella I knew to be open-hearted,

and warm, and devoted to me alone. What had I to do with cold Miss Carteret? Surely I

had suffered from some temporary fever of the brain, which fresh September air and

brisk walking had now banished. Thinking I had reasoned myself out of my unadmitted

passion, as a fool in love will sometimes do, I set off back to the Dower House.

Inspector George Gully and an accompanying constable were waiting for me in

the drawing-room. I settled myself in an arm-chair and took out a cigar.

The interrogation, though lengthy, was not of the subtlest, and the Inspector

seemed satisfied with the perfectly truthful account – truthful, that is, as far as it went –

that I gave him of my meeting with Mr Carteret in Stamford.

‘You have been most obliging, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said at last, closing his

note-book. ‘I do not think, you being a stranger hereabouts, that we shall need to trouble

you further. But if we do have occasion to speak to you again ––’

‘Of course.’ I handed him a card carrying the address of Tredgold, Tredgold &

Orr.

‘Just the ticket, sir. Thank you. As I said, merely a precaution. We won’t be

intruding on you further, I’m sure. We’ll be on to these rogues soon enough, you mark

my words.’

‘You believe them to be local, then?’

‘Not a doubt of it,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Not the first such outrage in this

vicinity of late, I regret to say, though the first fatality. But we already have our

suspicions . . . I shall say no more.’

He gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘You see what we are made of in the

counties!’

‘Well, inspector,’ I said, getting to my feet, ‘I shall report to my principal that, in

my opinion, the investigation could not be in better hands. And if there is anything

further I can do to assist your enquiries, please do not hesitate to inform me. And now, if

you will excuse me.’

This oaf would never discover who killed Mr Paul Carteret. His death was bound

up with a far greater mystery, which was beyond the ability of Inspector George Gully

and his minions to unravel.

23:

Materfamilias?

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At the appointed time, I presented myself at the Rectory, where Dr Daunt

received me in his study. We passed a pleasant hour or so perusing his extensive

collection of biblical and theological texts. This is not a field in which I have any great

expertise, and I was content to let the Rector pick out volumes of particular rarity or

importance and expatiate on them at some length, occasionally contributing a comment

or two of my own, where I could. Then a first edition of Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress

(Ponder, 1678) caught my eye.

‘Ah, Bunyan!’ I cried, seizing on the volume. ‘I read him often as a child.’

‘Did you, though?’ said Dr Daunt, with evident approval. ‘I applaud your young

taste, Mr Glapthorn. I never could get my son to like the book, though I read it to him

often when he was a boy. I fear allegory held no appeal for him.’ He sighed. ‘But he was

an imaginative boy – and I suppose he is imaginative still, though now it is in what I may

call a professional capacity.’

‘I think Mr Carteret mentioned to me that your son was born in the North?’ Dr

Daunt seem disposed to talk, and I was eager to let him.

‘Yes, indeed. I had taken a living in Lancashire on my marriage – my first

marriage, I mean. I am sorry to say that my dear wife – my first wife, you understand –

was taken from us soon after Phoebus was born.’