Authors: Charles Palliser
‘I don’t know.’
‘To dare all like that, that is the incomparably great adventure of life. That is how one knows one
is
alive. Otherwise one is dead without being buried.’
As he spoke those words he kept his gaze fixed on Austin who now nodded slowly.
‘Did Hollingrake realize what he was being invited to participate in?’ I asked.
The old gentleman turned and stared at me in delight as if I had invented a new twist to the game. Then he swung round to address my friend: ‘What do you say, Fickling? You’re playing him so you should understand him better than Courtine and I. Did you know that what you were getting involved in would result in a man being butchered?’
Austin replied in a leaden voice: ‘Yes, I did know. Though I somehow made myself not know it.’
‘Then play the part you’ve undertaken, man!’ The old man growled. Then in an instant he became the young officer again and said contemptuously: ‘
Just do what I tell you and you need have nothing to do with the deed itself
.’
Austin stared at him like a rabbit before a snake.
‘
One way or another
,’ the young officer continued, ‘
his account must be closed
.’
‘His account must be closed,’ I repeated, and glanced at Austin who was still gazing at his tormentor. ‘That is a curious phrase.’
Slowly Austin nodded his head.
‘What is the plot?’ I demanded. They both turned to look at me.
‘Oh no,’ the old gentleman cried. ‘You’re to be kept in the dark for the moment. But I promise you, you’re going to find out very soon!’
At that moment the big grandfather clock in the corner of the room made a noise as if it were clearing its throat and then ponderously struck the first quarter.
Our host looked at Austin.
‘Can that be right?’ Austin exclaimed and pulled out his watch.
‘No, that clock is fast,’ Mr Stonex said. ‘I don’t know why, for all the other clocks in the house keep time well.’
Austin turned to me: ‘What time do you believe it is?’
I took out my timepiece: ‘A minute or two before five.’
‘That’s what my watch says.’ He turned to the old gentleman. ‘I’m anxious not to miss the whole of Evensong. Courtine has not heard the organ and this will be his last chance since it’s to be out of commission from tonight.’
‘Then you may leave at half-past five and still catch the end of it,’ our host said. Then he raised a hand and lowered his voice. ‘It’s now half-past ten on the fatal morning. I’m the kitchen-boy.’ At those words he seemed to shrink, to become even younger than the officer he had just been playing, and into his eyes came a look of frightened simplicity. He suddenly hammered on the table so that the crockery jumped. ‘Without warning there is a thundering at the street-door.’ As the servant-boy, he started at the noise and then made his way timidly towards the door.
As he reached it he straightened his back and was the officer again. I was becoming more interested in the narrator than in the story he was telling for I could not reconcile this flamboyant, expansive individual with the lonely miser Quitregard had described.
‘
Boy, where are my soldiers?
’
He cringed and stammered: ‘
In the kitchen, please your Honour.
’
‘
Summon them
.’
As the boy he scuttled to the other door. Then he turned and seemed to grow larger and fatter, and shuffled into the room with a slightly hang-dog air, wiping his mouth with one hand and then tugging at his forelock. ‘
At your pleasure, sir
.’ In some extraordinary way he conjured up a companion, smaller than himself but just as drunk.
The officer barked: ‘
Where is the third man?
’
The soldier turned to his invisible companion, shrugged, and then said: ‘
He is posted at the back-gate, your Worship, as your Worship ordered
.’
‘
Very well. Now listen carefully, men. A Royalist army is approaching and is about to attack our positions
.’
‘That is an invention?’ I asked.
‘A complete fabrication,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘But such an army has been created by rumour and is therefore likely to be believed.’ Then he went on: ‘
We have no hope of holding the town and will withdraw immediately to a village a few miles away which controls the only nearby bridge across the river. If we can hold it, then Parliament has a good chance of taking Thurchester back. The village is called Compton Monachorum
.’ The old gentleman paused and turned to gaze at me significantly.
‘Where the Dean’s manor-house was!’ I cried.
He did not acknowledge my remark but an expression of slow-witted concentration spread over his features. ‘
What are we to do about his Worship the Dean, sir?
’
‘
We are taking him with us as a bargaining counter.
’
I turned to him: ‘Is what you are describing derived from the manuscript you have been looking for?’
‘Yes. Except that that gives only an account of what the kitchen-boy saw. A witness does not always understand what he is seeing and in this case he most certainly did not.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I interrupted. ‘I don’t take your point at all. The whole of our system of justice is based on the assumption that witnesses can fairly report what they have seen.’
‘I don’t dispute that,’ the old gentleman replied tartly. ‘What I do insist is that they frequently misinterpret it. I have used my intelligence and my knowledge of what came later to work out what really happened. Watch and judge. While the three soldiers stayed in this room, the boy slipped out to find his master.’
With long silent strides he stalked to the door, glancing fearfully over his shoulder at us once or twice. Then he straightened and said to me: ‘Outside the study he finds you in a state of blue funk. You have overheard everything – as you were intended to – and you understand that your life and that of your wife and children hang by a thread. But how can you escape and take them to a safe place? To reach the back-door you must pass through this room which is full of soldiers. And even if you could get to the back-door, there is the guard at the gate into the Close.’
He pulled open the door and we went into the hall.
‘At that moment there is a tapping at the window. You open it.’
I hesitated and he repeated the cue: ‘You open it.’
I mimed opening the casements of the window, noticing that they were actually nailed down. I remembered what Quitregard had said about the elaborate precautions the old gentleman had taken against being burgled.
‘There is Hollingrake on the other side of the window,’ our host said briskly, nodding at Austin to bring him into the action. ‘He is wearing a tall hat and a bright red surcoat with a high collar. You are filled with joy at the sight of him. Instantly, all your distrust of him is laid aside. How quickly we forget the wrongs we have inflicted on others when we need their aid! You beg him for help in escaping and Hollingrake tells you he has come for that very reason.’ He paused and waited for Austin to speak. My friend, however, stood glowering back at him. Unabashed, the old gentleman went on: ‘Hollingrake climbs in through the window and tells you something you are very pleased to hear.’ He paused but Austin failed to respond to his cue.
‘He tells you he has a project for your escape. He points out that the guard at the back-gate has just allowed him to pass and will not think to stop him as he leaves. You see immediately what the Treasurer means so Hollingrake gives you his very distinctive hat and coat, and he and the boy help you to clamber out through the window. The last thing that crosses your mind is to wonder what are the heavy objects in the pockets of the coat. The boy watches you hurrying out of the back-gate past the unsuspecting soldier. Less than half a minute later he sees me – the officer – and the soldiers hurry out of the house and run after you. We were waiting for you!’
‘And I have fallen into the trap!’ I said grimly.
‘About two minutes after that the boy hears gun-shots. He runs into the Close and finds you lying on the ground surrounded by soldiers at the door into the Cloisters. A number of townspeople are standing nearby looking on in horror. I am searching the pockets of your greatcoat and – shame and dismay! – I pull out a number of large jewels and small pieces of the Cathedral’s gold plate. I can’t believe my eyes. I show them to the townspeople and they recognize them and are horrified. You’re lying there unable to speak but witnessing your disgrace as you bleed to death.’
‘Poor Freeth,’ I found myself saying. Whatever he had or had not done in his life, this ignominious and unjust death deserved sympathy. To lie there with his life’s blood pouring from him and know that he would be remembered as nothing but a cowardly thief.
The old gentleman smiled. ‘Even the kitchen-boy who was the chief witness did not understand what really happened.’
‘But there are other accounts which differ from that one,’ I protested and told him of the antiquarian’s letter. ‘Pepperdine’s eyewitness claimed that Freeth saw soldiers pillaging the Library and rushed across to stop them. So he died like a valiant scholar defending his books.’
My host uttered a high-pitched laugh of derision. ‘Stuff and nonsense! Why, you cannot even see the Library from this house.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Come, I will show you. The dining-room has the best view of the Close, so if you cannot see it from there you can be certain you cannot see it from any other room.’
As he set off down the passage, Austin almost shouted: ‘What are you doing? You can’t go in there! You can’t mean the dining-room!’
Mr Stonex looked at him with unruffled calm. ‘Indeed I most certainly do mean that room.’
‘You must mean the study,’ Austin protested.
‘I most assuredly do not.’ He smiled at me. ‘That looks out onto the street.’
‘That was the Dean’s study?’ I asked, indicating a door behind us.
He nodded.
‘Could I see it? I wish to put to the test your hypothesis that the Dean heard the officer saying he had orders to capture and very probably to kill him.’
‘Very willingly,’ he said and reached into one of his pockets. ‘That room is always kept locked.’ An expression of dismay appeared on his features. ‘Unfortunately I find I don’t have my keys to hand. I could, however, go upstairs and fetch them if it would give you pleasure.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of permitting you to go to so much trouble,’ I said, somewhat surprised, for I recalled young Quitregard saying he carried his keys on a chain at all times.
With a careless shrug as if it were a matter of complete indifference to him, he turned and led us along the passage and down a couple of stairs. Then he opened a door and ushered us into the dining-room. It was large but low and dark with only a dim source of light at the opposite extremity. The walls were lined with oak panelling and a long table occupied the centre for almost its full length. Standing at the end of the table closest to the window was a single candle in a stick, still burning but almost extinguished. I looked out of the window and found that the Cathedral was directly in front of us, vast and blocking out almost everything.
Far along the length of the Cathedral in the thick twilight, I could just make out part of the Library which was visible beyond the point where the Chapter House projected.
‘The door into the Library is too far to the left to be seen. The Chapter House hides it,’ said the old gentleman at my shoulder.
I had to admit that he was right. I looked round the Close and noticed that I could just see one of Austin’s upper windows. It must be the sitting-room, I realized.
At that moment the candle on the table guttered and went out.
Our host lit the gas in a wall-bracket and as the light flared up, a portrait nearby caught my gaze. Seeing me looking at it, he said: ‘That is my father as a young man.’
The figure was a youth wearing costume dating from the turn of the century. The face was delicate, even feminine, conveying a sense of the sitter’s love of pleasure and at the same time, with the lips drawn back slightly from the teeth like a snarling animal, his defiance of anyone who stood in his way. I believed at that moment that I saw, despite the difference in age, a resemblance to the face of my host.
‘He was a handsome man,’ I said.
‘He certainly broke many a young lady’s heart,’ the old gentleman said with a laugh. ‘He had a very wild youth and got himself into many scrapes. He fought several duels with outraged brothers and sweethearts and he very nearly reduced his inheritance to nothing. But he reformed just in time and made a good marriage and settled down to life in his father’s bank. Unfortunately he died young – the penalty he paid for his earlier dissipation.’
‘Do you remember him?’
He nodded. ‘I was very young when he died but I have many memories of him. He was always full of merriment. While he was alive this house was filled with bustling servants and music, and there were guests in beautiful dresses, lights, parties, cards and dinners. Handsome carriages came and went all day and until late at night.’
He shook his head and I wondered how his life, which had started with so much conviviality and warmth, had shrunk to this – one solitary old man in a big empty house with nothing but memories and stories of the distant past. I suddenly felt very cold.
Our host led us back to the houseplace where he urged us to be seated again. I said good-humouredly: ‘My sole objection has been removed and I have to concede that your version of the Dean’s murder is very plausible.’
‘I don’t know why you use that word,’ the old gentleman said. ‘Freeth was not murdered – he was executed. His death was necessary in order to prevent a greater loss of life.’
‘It can never be right to assess a man’s life so pragmatically,’ I protested, looking at Austin for support. He merely shook his head as if declining to express a view.
‘That is a religious position which deals in moral absolutes,’ the old man replied with complete dispassion. ‘I take the humanistic view that there is always a calculus of human interests in which the benefit of many may be purchased at the expense of the few.’