The thirteenth tale (14 page)

At last they came to the end of the fields and the house was in
sight. But instead of making directly for it they turned toward the slopes of
the deer park. They wanted to play. When they had pushed the pram to the top of
the longest slope with their indefatigable energy, they set it in position.
They lifted out the baby and put it on the ground, and Adeline heaved herself
into the carriage. Chin on knees, holding on to the sides, she was white-faced.
At a signal from her eyes, Emmeline gave the pram the most powerful push she
could manage.

At first the pram went slowly. The ground was rough, and the
slope, up here, was slight. But then the pram picked up speed. The black
carriage flashed in the late sun as the wheels turned. Faster and faster, until
the spokes became a blur and then not even a blur. The incline became steeper,
and the bumps in the ground caused the pram to shake from side to side and
threaten to take off.

A noise filled the air.

‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!“

Adeline, shrieking with pleasure as the pram hurtled downhill,
shaking her bones and rattling her senses.

Suddenly it was clear what was going to happen.

One of the wheels struck against a piece of rock sticking out
from the soil. There was a spark as metal screeched against stone, and the pram
suddenly was speeding not downhill but through the air, flying into the sun,
wheels upward. It traced a serene curve against the blue of the sky, until the
moment when the ground heaved up violently to snatch it, and there came the
sickening sound of something breaking. After the echo of Adeline’s exhilaration
reverberating in the sky, everything was suddenly very quiet.

Emmeline ran down the hill. The wheel facing the sky was buckled
and half wrenched off; the other was still turning, slowly, all its urgency
lost.

A white arm extended from the crushed cavity of the black
carriage and rested at a strange angle on the stony ground. On the hand were
purple bramble stains and thistle scratches.

Emmeline knelt. Inside the crushed cavity of the carriage, all
was dark.

But there was movement. A pair of green eyes staring back.

‘Voom!“ she said, and she smiled.

The game was over. It was time to go home.

Aside from the story itself, Miss Winter spoke little in our
meetings. In the early days I used to say “How are you?” on arriving in the
library, but she said only, “Fine. How are you?” with a bad-tempered edge to
her voice as though I was a fool for asking. I never answered her question, and
she didn’t expect me to, so the exchanges soon came to an end. I would sidle
in, exactly a minute early, take my place in the chair on the other side of the
fire and take my notebook out of my bag. Then, with no preamble at all, she
would pick up her story wherever she had left off. The end of these sessions
was not governed by the clock. Sometimes Miss Winter would speak until she
reached a natural break at the end of an episode. She would pronounce the last
words, and the cessation of her voice had a finality about it that was
unmistakable. It was followed by a silence as unambiguous as the white space at
the end of a chapter. I would make a last note in my book, close the cover, gather
my things together and take my leave. At other times, though, she would break
off unexpectedly, in the middle of a scene, sometimes in the middle of a
sentence, and I would look up to see her white face tightly drawn into a mask
of endurance. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked, the first time I saw her
like this. But she just closed her eyes and gestured for me to go. When she
finished telling me the story of Merrily and the perambulator, I put my pencil
and notebook into my bag and, standing up, said, “I shall be going away for a
few days.”

‘No.“ She was severe.

‘I’m afraid I must. I was only expecting to be here for a few
days initially, and I’ve been here for over a week. I don’t have enough things
with me for a prolonged stay.“

‘Maurice can take you to town to buy whatever you need.“

‘I need my books…“

She gestured at her library shelves.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

‘Miss Lea, you seem to think that we have all the time in the
world. Perhaps you do, but let me remind you, I am a busy woman. I do not want
to hear any more talk of going away. Let that be the end of it.“

I bit my lip and for a moment felt cowed. But I rallied.
“Remember our agreement? Three true things? I need to do some checking.”

She hesitated. “You don’t believe me?”

I ignored her question. “Three true things that I could check.
You gave me your word.”

Her lips tightened in anger, but she concurred.

‘You may leave on Monday. Three days. No more. Maurice will take
you to the station.“

I was in the middle of writing up the story of Merrily and the
perambulator when there came a knock at my door. It was not time for dinner, so
I was surprised; Judith had never interrupted my work before.

‘Would you come to the drawing room?“ she asked. ”Dr. Clifton is
here. He would like a word with you.“

As I entered the room, the man I had already seen arriving at
the house rose to his feet. I am no good at shaking hands, so I was glad when
he seemed to decide not to offer me his, but it left us at a loss to find some
other way to start.

‘You are Miss Winter’s biographer, I understand?“

‘I’m not sure.“

‘Not sure?“

‘If she is telling me the truth, then I am her biographer.
Otherwise I am just an amanuensis.“

‘Hmm.“ He paused. ”Does it matter?“

‘To whom?“ To you.

I didn’t know, but I knew his question was impertinent, so I
didn’t answer it.

‘You are Miss Winter’s doctor, I suppose?“ I am.

‘Why have you asked to see me?“

‘It is Miss Winter, actually, who has asked me to see you. She
wants me to make sure you are fully aware of her state of health.“ I see.

With unflinching, scientific clarity, he proceeded to his
explanation. In a few words he told me the name of the illness that was killing
her, the symptoms she suffered, the degree of her pain and the hours of the day
at which it was most and least effectively masked by the drugs. He mentioned a
number of other conditions she suffered from, serious enough in themselves to
kill her, except that the other disease was going to get there first. And he
set out, as far as he was able, the likely progression of the illness, the need
to ration the increases in dosage in order to have something in reserve for
later, when, as he put it, she would really need it.

‘How long?“ I asked, when his explanation came to an end.

‘I can’t tell you. Another person would have succumbed already.
Miss Winter is made of strong stuff. And since you have been here—“ He broke
off with the air of someone who finds himself inadvertently on the brink of
breaking a confidence.

‘Since I have been here… ?“

He looked at me and seemed to wonder, then made up his mind.
“Since you have been here, she seems to be managing a little better. She says
it is the anesthetic qualities of storytelling.”

I was not sure what to make of this. Before I could examine my
thoughts, the doctor was continuing. “I understand you are going away…”

‘Is that why she has asked you to speak to me?“

‘It is only that she wants you to understand that time is of the
essence.“

‘You can let her know that I understand.“

Our interview over, he held the door as I left, and as I passed
him, he addressed me once more, in an unexpected whisper. “The thirteenth tale…
? I don’t suppose…”

In his otherwise impassive face I caught a flash of the feverish
impatience of the reader.

‘She has said nothing about it,“ I said. ”Though even if she
had, I would not be at liberty to tell you.“

His eyes cooled and a tremor ran from his mouth to the corner of
his nose.

‘Good day, Miss Lea.“

‘Good day, Doctor.“

DR. AND MRS. MAUDSLEY

On my last day Miss Winter told me about Dr. and Mrs. Maudsley.

Leaving gates open and wandering into other people’s houses was
one thing, walking off with a baby in its pram was quite another. The fact that
the baby, when it was found, was discovered to be none the worse for its
temporary disappearance was beside the point. Things had got out of hand;
action was called for.

The villagers didn’t feel able to approach Charlie directly about
it. They understood that things were strange at the house, and they were half
afraid to go there. Whether it was Charlie or Isabelle or the ghost that
encouraged them to keep their distance is hard to say. Instead, they approached
Dr. Maudsley. This was not the doctor whose failure to arrive promptly may or
may not have caused the death in childbirth of Isabelle’s mother, but a new man
who had served the village for eight or nine years at this time.

Dr. Maudsley was not young, yet though he was in his middle
forties he gave the impression of youth. He was not tall, nor really very
muscular, but he had an air of vitality, of vigor about him. His legs were long
for his body and he used to stride along at a great pace, with no apparent
effort. He could walk faster than anyone, had grown used to finding himself
talking into thin air and turning to find his walking companion scurrying along
a few yards behind his back, panting with the effort of keeping up. This
physical energy was matched by a great mental liveliness. You could hear the
power of his brain in his voice, which was quiet but quick, with a facility for
finding the right words for the right person at the right time. You could see
it in his eyes: dark brown and very shiny, like a bird’s eyes, observant,
intent, with strong, neat eyebrows above.

Maudsley had a knack of spreading his energy around him—that’s
no bad thing for a doctor. His step on the path, his knock at the door, and his
patients would start feeling better already. And not least, they liked him. He
was a tonic in himself, that’s what people said. It made a difference to him
whether his patients lived or died, and when they lived, which was nearly
always, it mattered how well they lived.

Dr. Maudsley had a great love of intellectual activity. Illness
was a kind of puzzle to him, and he couldn’t rest until he’d solved it.
Patients got used to him turning up at their houses first thing in the morning
when he’d spent the night puzzling over their symptoms, to ask one more
question. And once he’d worked out a diagnosis, then there was the treatment to
resolve. He consulted the books, of course, was fully cognizant of all the
usual treatments, but he had an original mind that kept coming back to
something as simple as a sore throat from a different angle, constantly casting
about for the tiny fragment of knowledge that would enable him not only to get
rid of the sore throat but to understand the phenomenon of the sore throat in
an entirely new light. Energetic, intelligent and amiable, he was an
exceptionally good doctor and a better than average man. Though, like all men,
he had his blind spot.

The delegation of village men included the baby’s father, his
grandfather and the publican, a weary-looking fellow who didn’t like to be left
out of anything. Dr. Maudsley welcomed the trio and listened attentively as two
of the three men recounted their tale. They began with the gates left open,
went on to the vexed issue of the missing saucepans and arrived after some
minutes at the climax of their story: the kidnapping of the infant in the
perambulator.

‘They’re running wild,“ the younger Fred Jameson said finally.

‘Out of control,“ added the older Fred Jameson.

‘And what do you say?“ asked Dr. Maudsley of the third man.
Wilfred Bonner, standing to one side, had, until now, remained silent.

Mr. Bonner took his cap off and drew in a slow, whistling
breath. “Well, I’m no medical man, but it seems to me them girls is not right.”
He accompanied his words with a look full of significance, then, in case he
hadn’t got his message across, tapped his bald head, once, twice, three times.

All three men looked gravely at their shoes.

‘Leave it with me,“ said the doctor. ”I’ll speak to the family.“

And the men left. They had done their bit. It was up to the
doctor, the village elder, now.

Though he’d said he would speak to the family, what the doctor
actually did was speak to his wife.

‘I doubt they meant any harm by it,“ she said, when he had
finished telling the story. ”You know what girls are. A baby is so much more
fun to play with than a doll. They wouldn’t have hurt him. Still, they must be
told not to do it again. Poor Mary.“ And she lifted her eyes from her sewing
and turned her face to her husband.

Mrs. Maudsley was an exceedingly attractive woman. She had large
brown eyes with long lashes that curled prettily, and her dark hair that had
not a trace of gray in it was pulled back in a style of such simplicity that
only a true beauty would not be made plain by it. When she moved, her form had
a rounded, womanly grace.