At one point in the course of our conversation, I mentioned that several of my more adventurous journeys had followed the paths pioneered by Conrad Vane and described by him in his travel journals. At the mention of Vane’s name, Ludgate paused, fork to mouth, and gave me a penetrating stare, and I noticed also that a silence had fallen briefly at the head of the table where Sir Lionel was sitting.
When the general talk resumed, I asked Ludgate quietly if he knew anything of Vane.
‘Only what is – common knowledge,’ he said guardedly, lifting his glass.
‘And that is?’
He waved a hand. ‘Oh, rumour, conjecture merely.’
‘But of an unpleasant nature?’
‘Somewhat.’
‘So I have discovered. I have been delving into his life and past – I had thought of writing some sort of study of the man – of Vane, the traveller, the explorer, that is.’
‘But?’
‘I have been rather deterred. And other matters of keener personal interest have begun to preoccupy my attention.’
‘That would seem to be as well. No good ever seems to have come to anyone from too close a contact with Vane and his affairs.’
‘But the man is dead.’
‘Indeed.’
‘You have personal knowledge?’
‘Oh no, no. As I said – there is rumour, I have heard tales. One remembers this and that.’
After which he changed the subject firmly and began to question me about my boyhood in Kenya, a country with which he told me his father had had connections, and the slight ruffle in the surface of the conversation was smoothed over again.
It was as enjoyable and impressive an evening as I had ever spent in my life, the food excellent, the setting resplendent, the atmosphere convivial and festive. Before dinner, we had been visited by a party of young carol singers, who had come in from the murky, dismal night to stand around the tree and entertain us, and the children of the house party, at least a dozen of them, had all, save for the infants, been allowed to join us. The light of their sweet faces, their bright eyes, their air of excitement and anticipation, had filled me with a tenderness and yearning I had never before known, and, looking at them, I longed for my own family, and to have a place in which I could belong, and those I could call my own and dear to me – such sentiments did the old words and sacred Christmas tunes stir within me.
So enjoyable was the time, and so thoroughly was I swept up into the company, and so overawed by the occasion, the setting, and my own presence in the house, that I was able to ignore any reminders that I was unwell; from time to time during dinner I had felt my skin burn, at others I shivered and longed to creep close to the fire. I
drank little wine, and in all suffered a general feeling of malaise, but I was able to ignore it until the very end of the evening, when I rose to make my way to bed. There were only the resident family and two other house guests left and it was past midnight. As I stood up I experienced a violent giddiness, which caused me to stagger, and at the same moment, my skull felt as if it had been split open by an axe blow. I found myself seated again, with Sir Lionel gripping my arm, but I tried to make light of the incident pleading extreme tiredness, and in the end persuaded him that a calm night’s sleep would restore me completely.
I was not confident that this would be so, however, and, alone in my room, gave way to a shivering fit and dosed myself with whisky before getting gratefully into my bed.
That night, I tossed, now as if I lay on burning coals, now on rivers of ice, and my sleep was broken and jagged by nightmares, full of fleeting, horrible images all jumbled together. Then, abruptly, I woke, and all was still, I half came to my senses, and as I did so saw that the fire that had been burning in the bedroom hearth when I retired was still glowing a little at its heart. My head ached, my mouth was dry, and there was a rawness in my chest, as if it were full of rusty filings that grated when I breathed.
And then, for a few, tantalising seconds, I remembered everything. I was a small child again, lying in bed in a room with a few lighted coals in the grate. I was ill, my head ached, my chest was painful as I breathed. And beside me, on a low chair drawn up close to the bed, sat – sat someone, whose face I had just seen in my dream, as clearly as if she had just been here.
But now she was gone, and I was no longer a child, safe in my familiar bed, being nursed and watched over, I was alone in a strange house, wretchedly unwell. I could have wept with frustration, and wanted to run back into the safe arms of my dream.
I turned on the lamp.
‘James Monmouth, his, to remember Old Nan.’
I reached for the small black Prayer Book that lay on the table close by, and after contemplating the inscription for some time, which gave me a strange feeling of contentment I could not explain, I began to turn the pages, reading here and there at random, and realised that every now and again the words were so familiar that I had them by heart – though when and how I had learned them I did not recall. At last, though still feeling ill, I fell into a more peaceful sleep, and awoke, weak but in some measure restored, to the sound of the bells of Christmas morning.
Breakfast was brought to me, together with a message from Lady Quincebridge which enquired after my health and insisted that I need not venture down at all unless I felt quite fit. But, although weak, I thought that my fever seemed to have burned itself out during the night, and I determined that I could not miss the festivities of the day, or be a miserable guest. I managed to eat a little, and drank copious quantities of tea, after which I felt greatly restored.
I saw now that my room had a view of the park, which stretched away, beyond the formal lawns at the back of the house. It was a bright day, but a mist wreathed between the lower trunks of the avenues of trees, out of which rose the ghostly bodies of deer and cattle. But the sun was coming up and, as I watched, the mist began to dissolve and float away, and I could see the landscape in all its beauty, as it undulated towards a ha-ha, and rose gently on the other side. The lake I could just glimpse, steely in the early morning light, and as I looked a flight of duck flew over and skimmed down onto it.
Between the trees a broad path crossed the grass, with another, narrower, winding in a more leisurely fashion around the parameters, and I was anxious, if I felt strong enough, to walk there soon. For I had fallen in love with Pyre, the handsome house and its grounds; it was a good
place, which seemed to have no sinister or hostile shades within or without, and I blessed my good fortune at meeting with Lady Quincebridge by such chance on the train to Alton. My fears, the strange and unnerving events of the past weeks, were fading from my mind; I did not feel that I must turn my head and look behind me everywhere I went, and no longer dwelt constantly, to the disturbance of my peace of mind, on the thought of whatever poor creatures, real or imagined, had followed and haunted me.
Just after ten, I went down. My head was still sore, my limbs aching, but I was sure I could manage to enjoy this Christmas day.
To my surprise, instead of lively excitement and bustle, I heard no sound save my own footsteps, the house was hushed and seemed quite deserted.
In the Hall, Weston met me, and told me that the party had gone to church.
‘Lady Quincebridge was adamant you should not try and join them, sir, in view of your state of health. She particularly asked me to say that you should rest in beside the fire. They will be back by noon.’
‘Thank you. Everyone is being very kind. I have nothing more than a touch of some ague – I shall be perfectly well again directly.’
‘There is a good fire in the morning room then, sir, and you will find
old
Mr Quincebridge there.’
He went cheerfully away.
For a little while, I stood, looking at the tree, enjoying its spread and stature, and the brightness of its decorations. All was peaceful and serene, and I felt as secure and safe as I believe a man may ever feel. The house, or at least this part of it, might be quiet, and I almost alone, and yet I felt somehow enfolded and protected by an atmosphere that was wholly benign, partly because of the influence of the season of Christmas itself, but more, because love and
warmth, generosity and openness, welcome and friendship, were settled there and I felt had long been so, so that they were part of the very fabric of the place, in the bricks and stone and panelling and furnishings, in the very air itself.
I turned and went across the hall to the morning room. It was light, airy, handsome, with cream-painted shutters folded back from the tall windows that overlooked a rose garden at the side of the house, and pale, sea-green walls on which hung rows of drawings and pastels. A huge brass bowl of holly stood on a central table, and the fire crackled with freshly laid sticks and logs.
And beside the fire, settled so deep in a wing chair that at first I did not see he was there at all, was the gentleman I took to be
old
Mr Quincebridge.
He appeared to be asleep. He was enfolded in a large tartan blanket which was pulled up almost to his chin, and his eyes were closed. I went quietly into the room, and then paused, unwilling to disturb him, and remained looking out of the window, at the bare, pruned twigs of the rose bushes. The clock ticked softly, the fire sputtered every so often, but otherwise all was silent. I rather envied him his peaceful situation. He had not appeared either at tea or dinner on Christmas Eve and I wondered if he lived at Pyre or had been brought over only this morning.
‘Take a seat, my dear sir, take a seat.’
His eyes were now huge and alert, gleaming from out of the parchment-coloured skull. His long legs stuck out from beneath the rug, and, together with his stick-like arms and etiolated neck, they gave him the appearance of a grasshopper folded up into the chair. He had two or three small tufts of white hair sprouting up like thistledown on a dandelion clock, enormous ears and taut, stretched skin.
I went to shake the hand he extended to me. It was like shaking a bunch of long, thin bones. He was colourless, and almost transparent, and desiccated, but in the bright eyes
and the raised blue veins at his neck and temple and wrist I saw that the thread of life still beat steadily.
‘Take a seat, sir.’
I did so, pulling the chair opposite to him closer to the fire. His voice was surprisingly strong, his eyes steady on my face.
‘It is Christmas Day,’ he said.
‘It is indeed – may I wish you the best compliments of the season? I am told that the rest of the party are at church and I feel I should have been with them, but I had a touch of chill last night and Lady Quincebridge insisted I should remain by the fire.’
‘You are not a neighbour.
I
have never seen you.’
‘No, sir, I am a mere acquaintance – though I would hope to be able to call myself a friend, as I have been offered the hand of friendship so readily.’
‘This is my son’s house. Lionel. He is my only son, though I had others.’ He spoke matter-of-factly, as though he were too old, and long past whatever sadness there might once have been.
‘It is a fine house. I admire it very much.’
He did not reply, and I saw that his eyes were closed again. He seemed to have gone instantly to sleep, in the way only the very old and the very young do, in the midst of a sentence or a stream of thought. I leaned back, still feeling that my illness, whatever it might be, was hovering in the wings just out of sight, and likely to return viciously at any moment. But it was soothing to sit here, without any disturbance or anxiety, in the old man’s company. A tray of coffee was brought and I waited, wondering what to do, but, in the end, poured my own, as quietly as I could. I was drinking it, and looking at a delicate drawing of a girl in a pony-cart, when he woke again as abruptly as he had slept.
‘Monmouth,’ said old Mr Quincebridge. ‘Monmouth. I knew a Monmouth.’
I leaned forwards.
‘Where? Did I? I wonder. Monmouth.’
‘If you were to remember anything, I should like to hear it. I …’
‘Yes, yes. I would be obliged if you would pour me a cup of tea.’
‘It is coffee. Shall I ring for tea?’
‘No, no, no.’ He shuffled a little, rummaged his legs about.
‘If there is anything …’
‘It is Christmas Day,’ he said again.
I was desperate for him to return to the subject of my name.
‘I am particularly anxious to discover anything about my family,’ I said. ‘I know nothing – I was sent to Africa, to a guardian at the age of five, I presume after the death of my parents, and I have only recently returned from many years – all my adult life – lived abroad, but I am certain there must be those who remember – who can give me some clue as to my parentage, know the place from which I came.’
‘All dead,’ he said, slipping down into the folds of his rug again.
‘Dead?’ How could he know? What did he mean?
‘I am ninety-four.’ His eyes were closing again. He muttered my name in a vague, puzzled way once or twice, and then slept.
I sat on opposite to him, my head aching again, and with a burning soreness behind my eyes, thinking, thinking, turning over what he had said in my mind. He was ninety-four. Sir Lionel had been at Alton, and I was aware that English families tended to keep to tradition in such matters. If old Mr Quincebridge had been at the school, surely he would have been almost a contemporary of Vane? And therefore also of George Edward Pallantire Monmouth of Kittiscar.