Kingsley Amis - Dear Illusion - Selected Stories

The carriage mounted a crest in the road and these agreeable feelings were soon dissipated. We had come to the edge of the chalky upland that forms most of the county and entered a region of clay and rock. Some half a mile off stood a tall house of grey stone mantled with ivy and of a design that even at this distance seemed ill contrived. To one side of it lay a plantation of trees with foliage of a deep, almost bluish hue uncommon in England; on the other there wound a stream or small river. I knew at once that the house was our destination, and as soon as a curve in the stream brought the murky, weed-clogged flood close to the road, saw the force of its name. A moment later I was almost spilled from my seat by the wild shying of the pair of cobs that drew the wagonette. The cause was not far to seek — a human figure of indescribable menace lurking in the hedgerow. I caught a glimpse of a hairy fist shaken, of rotten teeth bared in a snarl, no more, but I would have been sure that it was Black Ralph I had seen even if the Spaniard’s dark eye had not fixed me with a sufficiently eloquent look.

Darkwater Hall was no more prepossessing at close quarters. Weathering showed it to be not of recent erection, but its bulging windows and squat chimneys belonged to no period or style I had ever encountered. The interior was comparatively conventional. Carlos took me to a more than adequate bedroom and quickly fetched me ample hot water, so I was able to make a very tolerable change and go to greet my hosts in renewed spirits.

With his fresh complexion, steady eye and open, unassuming manner, Sir Harry Fairfax was one of the finest types of English country gentlemen. I judged him to be about thirty years old. His brother Miles resembled him in age and nothing else, a sallow, sneering young man probably addicted to cigarettes and strong waters. From neither brother did I obtain what I had hoped the meeting would furnish, some clue or indication, something that would force out of the subconsciousness of my mind whatever it was that had stirred there when I heard the name of Fairfax; reference books had proved useless. For the moment, the memory stayed buried.

As before, I had no time to ponder the point, for my hostess, a stery in a gown of azure velvet that showed off the brilliance of her eyes, steered me towards the fifth member of the party. Him I identified as an Army man (from the set of his shoulders) who had served some years in the tropics (from his deep tan), but whose career had not prospered (from his disappointed air), and was somewhat tickled to hear him introduced as Captain Bradshaw of the Assam Light Horse. No one who had failed to gain his majority by the age of forty-five, which I estimated Bradshaw to have reached, could be called a successful soldier. I hid a smile at the thought of the ‘Excellent, Watson!’ which a well-known voice might have breathed into my ear, had its owner been present, and took to conversation.

‘I was a sort of soldier myself when I was a youngster,’ said I.

‘Oh yes? Where did you serve?’

‘Afghanistan.’

‘You saw some action there, I take it.’

‘Not the sort that a fighting soldier sees, but enough. I was wounded and at last invalided out.’

‘What infernal luck.’

‘You’re on leave, no doubt.’

‘Awaiting retirement,’ said Bradshaw in a tone as dejected as his bearing.

Miles Fairfax now cocked his unkempt head at me. ‘Welcome to Darkwater Hall, Dr Watson. Life here may strike you as a trifle dull and rustic after the bustle and polish of London, but believe me, it has its points of interest.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I presume you’re a medical doctor, not one who professes law or divinity?’

‘Medicine’s my trade, yes.’

‘Then the following fact, omitted by my brother when he introduced us, might amuse you. Although unlike in every possible way, he and I are twins.’

‘That’s not so surprising,’ said I. ‘Many pairs of twins are no more alike than ordinary brothers and sisters, and we know how they can differ.’

‘Assuredly,’ said he at his most sarcastic. ‘Is it true, Doctor, that twins can be born several or even many hours apart?’

‘It is.’

‘Not so in our case — eh, Harry? Twenty minutes was all that separated our respective arrivals in this world. But it was enough.’

His sister-in-law put a gently restraining hand on his arm, but the fellow shook it off with a roughness that, had it been my place to do so, I should have considered correcting. I was now morally certain he was intoxicated.

‘Yes,’ he went on with a growl, ‘twenty minutes settled the disposal of the baronetcy, the house, the estate, the money. God’s will, what?’

‘At least, Mr Fairfax,’ said I, ‘it’s evident you’re a good loser.’

That shot went home, and it silenced him for a while, but I was relieved when Carlos announced dinner, thus effecting a change of scene and mood. It proved to be a change not wholly for the better, in that the spacious room in which I now found myself was dominated by a most outlandish carving or relief occupying the section of wall above the fireplace. It was of some dark wood and I could not be sure what it portrayed, except that in one corner a human figure, half naked, was being bound to a post by others wearing hooded robes, while further off I thought I saw a scaffold. All in all, it made an unequivocally distasteful impression upon me. The fare, however, was palatable enough, and the service most adroit and pleasant, provided by Carlos and a young woman I learned was his wife, named Dolores. With her raven hair, creamy skin and deep brown eyes she was in striking contrast to her mistress, but female beauty takes many forms.

I was in the midst of recounting, at the baronet’s invitation, the full facts of the strange affair at Stoke Moran, when Lady Fairfax gave an abrupt gasp and raised her hands to her throat. I followed her horrified gaze and spied, through a gap in the curtains, a face I had seen for a moment earlier that day, a face once more contorted with malice.

‘Black Ralph! At the window!’ I cried, and jumped up from my chair. Bradshaw was already on his feet, standing between the lady and the point where the intruder had appeared. Sir Harry and I had left the house within seconds, but, though we searched thoroughly the nearer part of the grounds, we returned empty-handed, much to Miles’s scoffing amusement. Some time later, my host contrived to disengage me from the rest of the company, having imputed to me a desire to be shown the contents of his gun-room. He enjoyed some friendly amusement at my expense when I cautioned him to stay away from the windows there until I had drawn the curtains over them.

‘Do you imagine that Black Ralph has come back with a Gatling gun?’ he asked with a smile.

‘I imagine nothing, Sir Harry. I go by what I see and hear’, and I told him of my earlier sighting of that villainous creature.

He was quite unmoved, attributing these visitations to the idle curiosity of a simpleton. ‘I am at no risk, Doctor,’ he ended firmly.

‘Lady Fairfax thinks differently.’

‘That’s her way. She watches over me with a care that would sometimes befit a mother more than a wife. Such matters will be resolved with the arrival of our first child.’

‘Is that happy event in positive prospect?’

‘Not as yet.’

Rather abruptly, he thrust into my hands a pair of antique duelling-pistols that had resided in a glass case, and inquired my opinion of them. I made what reply I could, as also when he passed me an early revolver from the time of Waterloo. After a moment he began to speak of his brother.

‘Visitors are always apt to bring out the worst in him. I fancy he sees himself through their eyes and dislikes the sight. A man with no occupation, no interest in country pursuits — except shooting, at which he excels — and yet too indolent to make a move. Poor, poor Miles, the prisoner of his own nature, as we all are! And poor Bradshaw too.’