I wanted to shake him roughly to wake him, question him, force him to remember. But, when I looked at him
again, I saw a fragile, old, old man, only clinging on to this world, this life, by a frail skein, already half-adrift, like a kite up in the clouds of some other future. I could no more have broken into his sleep than into that of a baby. But I determined that later, after the festivities of the day were over, I would talk to him again, probe gently, try and tease awake some memory, some scrap for me to grasp.
In the peace and quietness of that calm room, I too closed my eyes and slept a little, like another old, tired man, and woke with some embarrassment as Lady Quincebridge came in to find us, followed by the rest of the party; and so we began to celebrate Christmas, I doing my best to conceal my increasing fever and sickness, and enjoy what I could of the feasting and entertainment, the happy company.
I succeeded until evening, when I collapsed again, this time more seriously. A doctor was sent for, and I was helped by two of the servants to my bed, and for many days I was wretchedly ill, tossing with a fever, and blinding headache, slipping down and down into the dark, swirling waters of delirium time and time again, unsure even who or where I was. I was attended to and nursed with great devotion and, weak and wretched as I was, could only accept gratefully.
The last time I remembered being in this room, a very old man had been huddled in a chair beside the fire.
Now, I was that old man, or felt like one, and I sat there, the rug tucked warmly about my legs. But the room was not cold, and a little thin sunshine even shone in through the windows. I could see trails of white cloud stretched across a pale, watery sky.
‘Is there anything you would like? You have only to ask me.’
Lady Quincebridge sat nearby, half turned to me, half to look out of the window, a piece of embroidery resting on her lap.
I had no idea how long I had slept – I had been sleeping on and off for days, my sense of time had become blurred. But I remembered coming down the stairs that morning, helped by Weston, for the first time since I had been taken ill on Christmas Day. Even that small effort had exhausted me, but the doctor who had been attending me had insisted that I was ready to make the first move out of the sick room. ‘Illness can become a habit, and feed upon itself,’ he had said. ‘You are past the worst and embarked on the road to recovery. We shall have you take it step by step.’
It was extremely pleasant, I thought, to sit here in this quiet room again, weak, light-headed, but knowing that from now I would gradually become stronger.
Lady Quincebridge smiled. ‘You are looking better. You are with us again.’
‘Yes.’ She was right, for I had been wandering in some confused, shadowy limbo of illness and fever, out of touch with the reality of my surroundings.
‘It seems that I have been absent for some time,’ I said.
‘Over two weeks. Christmas is long past.’
‘Christmas.’ I scarcely remembered it. But the old man who had muttered my own name was vividly before my eyes and I wanted to ask her about him – I presumed he was Sir Lionel’s father. I wanted to ask if it would be possible to talk to him again, and I realised that my interest in things was returning, for until now I could not have cared a straw for myself, my past, my name, anything that had been so preoccupying me.
But first, looking at her, I said, ‘When we met on the train that dark afternoon, you told me that you were anxious for my safety, that you had had some kind of premonition.’
‘Indeed yes.’
‘But how? Why?’
‘I do not know where these things come from, Mr Monmouth, I have never understood, never enquired. I have learned to trust them. Ever since I was a child, I have been sometimes subject to overwhelmingly powerful intuitions. I have been with a person, and known, for example, that they were soon to die – that is the worst of all. It is as though there is a clear voice that speaks in my head, and, at the same time, a shadow falls over me – and over them. I grow cold, I am afraid. Or else it is that I am urgently aware of some danger. I see dark shapes, formless but quite clear – it is rare nowadays. But I have been right so often, I have, learned to listen, and to respect them. When I met you that
day, I had almost forgotten these experiences, it had not happened to me for several years. But I knew – you were in some danger – you were …’
‘To die?’
‘No. No, it was not that. But I felt afraid – and there was something – evil, harmful … some dark and dreadful thing – I could not tell what.’
For a while I was silent, gradually, slowly, because of my, own weakness, trying to trace back to my arrival in London and remember all of the things I had seen or sensed, to recall the warnings I had received from Beamish, Votable, Dancer, as well as everything I had learned at Alton, about Conrad Vane.
At last I looked up. Her eyes were on my face. I began to talk.
Outside the windows, the clouds massed together and the sun went behind them, the morning room grew darker. Rain spattered lightly on the windows.
Lady Quincebridge listened without interrupting me, sewing the petals of some pale blue flower on her embroidery. The fire sank down, but she did not get up to attend to it.
From the hall, the clock struck twelve.
I finished my story with the inscription in the Prayer Book, and told her what slight but definite flickers of memory it woke deep within me, whenever I read or even so much as thought about it.
I closed my eyes, suddenly giddy and exhausted again by the effort of talking and concentrating my mind for so long. I heard Lady Quincebridge move out of the room and, after a few moments, return with Weston. A tray was set down beside me.
‘Here is a little brandy and water – it will revive you.’
When I leaned forward to take it, my hand trembled, and she hastened over to lift the glass for me. But, after sipping it, I felt better and able to talk a little again.
‘I had begun to feel that everywhere I went was a haunted place, and to wonder why I had such ill luck. I had never experienced these things in other countries – why was it in England that I felt observed, followed?’
‘Perhaps – it has nothing to do with the places themselves – or not altogether,’ she said.
‘No. I have thought of that – that it is I who am haunted –
I
who disturb these ghosts by my presence, no matter where I am,
I
who am being pursued. The things I have seen and heard and sensed have not been accidental, I am sure of it. They are deliberate – meant.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You believe me? You have not said that you think me mistaken? Or mad?’
‘No, and I also think that your illness has been inevitable – that you have been under such a great strain and bearing it quite alone – you were bound to succumb to something, and perhaps it has been a good thing, it has given you pause, taken you away from this mad pursuit, this quest that had come to obsess you.’
‘I am only relieved that I was able to be here at Pyre, despite the trouble it has caused to your household, and the interruption to your lives.’
‘Perhaps that, too, was inevitable, from the moment of our meeting. When you are recovered fully, you will be very much further away from all that has happened since your arrival in England. You will be able to look to your future more clearly.’
‘My future,’ I said blankly. I had no idea what that might be. Everything I had been planning, and the book I meant to write about Conrad Vane, seemed to be part of another life altogether. I wondered if any of it would ever interest me again, my mental powers seemed so debilitated. But if not that, then what? What purpose had I? I had none, and could not imagine what the future she spoke of might possibly be.
‘You will stay here at Pyre until you are completely well. Lionel and I are quite decided about that.’
I thanked her, as it seemed I had been doing every day of my illness, very conscious that I could do nothing more.
‘And then will be time enough for you to look ahead. You have reached a cross-roads – a crisis in your life. You cannot rush forwards and risk taking the wrong path.’
I sipped the last of my brandy. I was beginning to feel drowsy again.
‘This is a good place,’ I said. ‘I have no fears – the shadows are all dispersed. Nothing touches me here.’
‘I am profoundly glad of it.’
As I drifted off to sleep, I remembered the old man and would have asked her about him now, stressed how much I wanted to see him again, to find out what he knew of the name Monmouth, but I was too tired to speak, and the thoughts became muddled up with others. I would do it later, I told myself.
Monmouth, he had muttered. I heard his feeble, creaking old voice now. Monmouth.
I slept.
At his invitation, I took to spending the evenings in Sir Lionel’s study, a shabby, comfortable room at the back of the house, booklined, with deep armchairs, and the old black labrador Fenny stretched out on the hearthrug. Here, as we drank a glass of whisky, our talk ranged over my travels and the present situation of those countries I had come to know so well, and I learned from him a great deal which had previously been unclear to me, of the ways of English life, and its politics and constitution as well as its society, of how the country worked, and of Sir Lionel’s particular branch of the criminal law. He talked of his own boyhood, much of which had been spent happily in Scotland – he was an Edinburgh man by birth, and, I sensed, still hankered after it – of his time in South Africa
and France as a soldier, of men he had known, landscapes he loved, and of his family, too. The longer I spent in his company, the more I liked and admired him. He seemed to me a man of sound and shrewd judgement, courage and a generous and contented heart.
It was he who suggested that I should begin making a formal plan of work.
‘Stay here with us for another week or two,’ he said one night, as we sat beside the flickering fire. Outside, the wind was tearing at the trees of the park, and roaring across towards the house, to beat at the windows, but in here all was safe and snug, the lamps casting deep pools on the desk and books, and on Sir Lionel’s handsome features, as he sat, legs outstretched, sucking at his pipe.
‘You are better, but your strength has been greatly depleted, you have been under strain and you are not yet up to coping with winter days and nights, alone in London in an empty house. Why not get into some routine of work here? I have always found that best, it concentrates the mind and settles one, provides a framework for thought.’
‘Yes. I confess I have done little of it, I have been my own master and fancy free – not to mention a nomad – for so long.’
‘Divide up your life and your travels, take each part separately – Africa and your boyhood there, then China and the far east – and South America – go back over the journeys in your mind, retrace your steps, remember everything you can – you have interested me as you have talked these past nights, you have an excellent recall, and a good turn of phrase, your observations are sharp. You must not let it all go to waste.’
And so I began, on the following morning. A small table was set for me in the library, a grand but, I sensed, little-used room; when Sir Lionel wanted books he either took them off to his own study, or sat with Lady Quincebridge.
The library felt slightly cold, and bleak; it faced north, and got little sun. But a fire was lit for me and, although it smoked a bit and would not burn up, I settled happily enough in a window bay, before a fresh sheaf of paper. I took down the world atlas at first and sat looking through it, setting down places and dates, going over routes and listing them. He was right: as I did so, the countries in all their individual detail and atmosphere came vividly back to me, I remembered faces, buildings, even talk, the play of light on land and water, smells. My past was not lost to me, and, in retrieving it, I began to recover my youth and some of the sense of my own identity which I had lost since arriving in England.
I worked with growing excitement and enthusiasm for several hours, and, when at last my brain was too fagged for me to continue, sat on quietly, satisfied that I was doing the right thing and had found the beginning of the path to the future.
Once or twice, as I went over the journeys I had undertaken and remembered why I had ventured to this or that remote and obscure place, the name of Conrad Vane came to my mind, but I turned away from it, for I was determined not to be misled in that direction again – though it still puzzled me that the man I had believed in and admired by every account had such another, dark side to his character. I wanted to forget the influence he had had over me, and was ashamed to have made such a grave error, albeit innocently, for so long.
But, now, I was myself, James Monmouth, these had been my journeys, and the story I intended to tell was mine alone.
For the next few days I worked peacefully and steadily in this way every morning, going to the library immediately after breakfast, as soon as Sir Lionel went off to London and his chambers, and, as he had predicted, the routine
began to settle and steady me, so that my strength grew, my head was clear, and I began to feel a new confidence in myself. The material in the pages before me was at first set down almost at random, simply as it came into my head, but I soon began to give it a shape, and to discipline my thoughts and memories to come to order. It seemed to me that I would be able to write two books, the one about my boyhood and upbringing in Africa and India, and the second, entirely about my time in the east.