Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

Though I knew at last what Mr Carteret had wished to tell me, and what he had been carrying in the gamekeeper’s bag, another terrible certainty had also risen up out of the mists of doubt and speculation and taken solid form. The reason for his anxious look as he had sat in the tap-room of the George Hotel awaiting my arrival was now clear: he had feared for his safety, and perhaps even for his life, at the hands of the person who, he believed, had set a watcher upon him.

What a clod I had been! It had only been necessary to ask one question to prise out the truth: Cui bono? *

Suppose someone comes by chance into possession of information which, if publicly known, would disbar another person from realizing an expected inheritance of immense worth. Suppose, further, that this second person is a man of overweening ambition, and also conscienceless in the pursuit of his interests. Would not such a man feel it imperative to secure this information, so that it might be put beyond human knowledge once and for all, and so secure his inheritance? Only one person stood to gain from acquiring the documents that Mr Carteret had been carrying in his bag. Only one. Who had Mr Carteret himself named as having pried into Lord Tansor’s private affairs, and as being guilty of worse, though unspecified, transgressions? Who had also shown an eager interest in the papers of the first Lady Tansor? Who desired to know what Mr Carteret knew? And at whose implied instigation had a watch been set on him?

Phoebus Daunt was that person; and by possessing himself of Lady Tansor’s incriminating correspondence, he had no doubt thought to deny the lost heir, if he was still alive, of ever claiming his birthright. But premeditated murder? Was even Daunt capable of that?

I closed my eyes and saw again poor Mr Carteret’s face, beaten and bloody. And in that moment I knew, with instinctive certainty, who had done it. Those terrible injuries constituted the violent signature of Josiah Pluckrose, seen first on the face of Mary Baker’s sister, Agnes, and more recently, if I was not very much mistaken, on that of Lewis Pettingale. Pluckrose, for certain, acting on the orders of Phoebus Daunt, had first kept watch on Mr Carteret, and had then attacked him as he entered Evenwood Park through the Western Gates. I saw it all clearly and distinctly in my mind. Whether the intention had been to murder Mr Carteret, or merely to steal his bag, might still be an open question. Of the identity of the perpetrators, however, I now had no doubt.

And then, as I further traced the logical course of my inferences and deductions, I began to conceive the possibility that I, too, might be in danger, if Daunt were to discover that Edward Glapthorn, the representative of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, was none other than Edward Glyver, the lost heir. For something told me that the game was afoot; that my enemy was even now trying to seek out his old schoolfellow, and for only one purpose that I could divine. Edward Glyver alive was a perpetual threat. Edward Glyver dead made all secure.

Yet though he should seek through all the world for Edward Glyver, where could he be found? There was no one now at Sandchurch who could tell him. No letters were directed to him from there any more. He might look in the Post-office Directory for him, but in vain. He would not be there. No door-plate, and no headstone either, bore his name. He has vanished from the earth. And yet he lives and breathes in me! I am Edward Glapthorn, who was Edward Glyver, who will be Edward Duport. Oh Phoebus, light of the age! How will you catch this phantom, this wraith, who is now one man, now another? He is here; he is there; he is nowhere. He is behind you.

But I have another advantage. Though he does not yet know me, I know him. I have become his father’s friend, and may walk through the front door of his house at any time I please – as I did only recently. I am invisible to my enemy, as he walks to his Club, or strolls through the Park at Evenwood of an evening. Only think, mighty Phoebus, what this means! The man who sits opposite you when you take the train back from the country: does he have a familiar look? There is something about him, perhaps, that stirs your memory; but only for a moment. You return to reading your news-paper, and do not see that his eye is fixed upon you. He is nothing to you, another traveller merely; but you should be more careful. There is a fog tonight, the streets are deserted; no one will hear you cry out. For where is your shield, where your armour, against a man whom you cannot see, whom you cannot name, whom you do not know? I find myself laughing out loud, laughing so much that the tears roll down my face.

And when the laughter stops, I see clearly where all this will end. But who will be the hunter, and who the hunted?

*[‘Seek the truth’. Ed. ]

*[‘Lift up your hearts’. From the Latin Eucharist. Ed. ]

*[A maxim of the tribune Lucius Cassius Longinus, quoted by Cicero, meaning ‘For whose benefit?’, often used to point a finger at someone who stands to gain most from a crime. Ed. ]

PART THE FIFTH

The Meaning of Night

1853–1855

Our knowledge doth but show us our ignorance.

Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), xxvii,

‘Of Curiosity in Knowledge’

35

Credula res amor est *

Mr Carteret’s Deposition had opened a window on many things that had previously been hidden from my view, providing important corroboration of what was recorded in my foster-mother’s journals, as well as valuable circumstantial detail concerning the actions taken by Lady Tansor, and their far-reaching consequences. But I knew in my heart that the letters taken from Mr Carteret’s bag would never now be recovered; and that, without them, my case was still not unanswerable. I considered that it might be possible that other documents had survived of a similar character; but even granting this possibility, how could they now be found? I came to the forlorn conclusion that I was as far from my goal as ever, whilst Daunt’s position grew ever stronger.

I subsided into one of my glooms. But then, three days later, a note came from Lizzie Brine, delivered to me by messenger, informing me that Miss Carteret and her friend, Mademoiselle Buisson, would be visiting the National Gallery on the following Monday afternoon, the 14th of November. My spirits instantly revived and, on the day in question, at just after two o’clock, I walked over to Trafalgar-square and stationed myself at the foot of the Gallery’s steps.

At a little before half-past two, I saw her emerge into the autumn sunlight, with her friend at her side. They began to descend the steps as I, with an air of complete nonchalance, started to ascend them.

‘Miss Carteret! What an extraordinary coincidence!’

She made me no reply, and for several moments not a scintilla of recognition was discernible in her expression. Instead, she stood regarding me through her round spectacles as though I were a complete stranger, until at last her companion spoke up.

‘Emilie, ma chère, est-ce que tu vas me présenter à ce monsieur?’ *

Only with these words did her features relax. Turning to Mademoiselle Buisson she introduced me as, ‘Mr Edward Glapthorn, the gentleman I told you about’. Then, more deliberately, ‘Mr Glapthorn has spent some time in Paris, and is a fluent French speaker.’

‘Ah,’ said Mademoiselle Buisson, raising her eyebrows in a singularly charming way, ‘then we shall be unable to talk about him without his knowing what we say.’

Her English was perfectly expressed and enunciated, with barely a trace of a Gallic accent. With fetching, girlish volubility, she expressed herself delighted to make my acquaintance, and began at once, as if we already knew each other, to describe some of the exhibits they had seen, with a breathless enthusiasm that was most engaging. Mrs Rowthorn had told me that she was of an age with Miss Carteret, but she had a simple unaffected prettiness about her which made her seem younger. They made odd companions, certainly; Mademoiselle Buisson was animated, expressive, and forthcoming, dressed gaily à la mode , and displaying a natural exuberance of spirit. Miss Carteret, sombre and stately in her mourning black, stood silently watchful, like a tolerant older sister, as her companion flittered and giggled. Yet it was impossible not to sense the closeness of their connexion – the way that Mademoiselle Buisson would turn to her friend as she made a particular point and place her hand on Miss Carteret’s arm, with that same unthinking familiarity that I had seen her display at Evenwood after the funeral; the little complicit glances, eye meeting eye, speaking of confidences shared, and secrets kept safe.