Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘It is in the power of every hand to destroy us,’ I said.

A smile broke across his broad face.

‘Sir Thomas Browne!’ he cried, with evident delight. ‘“And we are beholding unto everyone we meet he doth not kill us.” There is always something in good Sir Thomas – a kind of sortes Homericae. * I often use him thus. Open him anywhere, and wisdom pours from his page.’

We stood in silent contemplation of the coffin for a moment or two. Then he turned to me again.

‘Will you join me in a prayer, Mr Glapthorn?’ he asked.

Mirabile dictu! Behold me now, kneeling beside the coffin of Mr Paul Carteret, with the Reverend Achilles Daunt, the father of my enemy, at my right hand, intoning a prayer for the peace of the poor victim’s soul, and swift retribution to be visited on the heads of his murderers – to which last sentiment I was only too happy to add my ‘Amen’.

We rose and went out once more into the courtyard.

‘Shall we walk back together?’ he asked, and so we set off.

‘You are not a complete stranger to me, Dr Daunt,’ I said, as we were descending the Chapel steps. ‘I have had occasion to consult your great catalogue, *and am delighted, on that score alone, to have made your acquaintance.’

‘You have an interest in such things, then?’ he asked with a sudden eagerness.

And so I began to reel him in, just as I had done with Mr Tredgold. It was the bibliophilic temperament, you see; its possessors constitute a kind of freemasonry, ever disposed to treat those blessed with a similar passion for books as if they were blood brothers. It did not take me long to demonstrate my familiarity both with the study of books in general, and with the character of the Duport Collection in particular. By the time we had begun to ascend the slope back towards the South Gates, we were in deep discussion on whether the 1472 Macrobius (Venice: N. Jenson), or the 1772 folio of Cripo’s Conjuracion de Catalina (Madrid: J. Ibarra), with its rare signed binding by Richard Wier, was the most perfect example of the typographer’s art in the collection.

He spoke at length, too, of Mr Carteret, whom Dr Daunt had known since first coming to Evenwood as Rector. After Lord Tansor had volunteered his secretary’s services as the Rector’s assistant in the preparation of the great catalogue, their acquaintance had deepened into friendship. Mr Carteret had been especially helpful with regard to the manuscript holdings, which, though not extensive in comparison with the printed books, contained several important items.

‘He was not a trained scholar,’ said Dr Daunt, ‘but he was extremely well informed on the manuscripts acquired by his Lordship’s grandfather, and had already prepared some commendably accurate descriptions and summaries, which spared me a great deal of labour.’

By now we had reached the point at which the path to the Dower House led off the main carriage-road.

‘Perhaps, Mr Glapthorn, if you have no duties that you need to attend to, you might wish to take some tea at the Rectory this afternoon? My own collection is modest, but there are one or two items that I think will interest you. I would invite you for a spot of breakfast now, but I have to call on my neighbour, Dr Stark, at Blatherwycke, and then go on to Peterborough. But I shall be back in good time for tea. Shall we say three o’clock?’

*[‘May he rest [in peace]’. Ed. ]

*[John Snetzler (1710–85), the German-born organ builder to George III. Ed. ]

*[A form of divination that consisted of taking the first passage from Homer, or, later, Virgil, that the eye fell upon as an indication of future events. The Bible was also so used. Ed. ]

* [Bibliotheca Duportiana. A Descriptive Catalogue of the Library Established by William Perceval Duport, 23rd Baron Tansor, by the Reverend A.B. Daunt, MA (Cantab). With an Annotated Hand-list of Manuscripts in the Duport Collection by P.A.B. Carteret (privately printed, 4 vols, 1841). Ed. ]

22

Locus delicti *

After leaving Dr Daunt, I was admitted to the Dower House by Mrs Rowthorn. As I was ambling towards the stair-case, I noticed that one of the doors leading off the vestibule was ajar.

Now, I cannot resist a half-opened door – just as I am unable to stop myself from peeping into a lighted and uncurtained window as I pass it on a dark night. The desired privacy proclaimed by a deliberately closed door I can respect; but not if it is half open. That, for me, is an invitation that I will always accept. This one was especially tempting, for I knew that it must lead into the room in which Miss Carteret had been playing the piano-forte the previous evening.

I continued on my way, but waited on the first-floor landing for a moment or two until I was sure that the housekeeper had returned to the lower regions of the house, then quickly descended the stairs again, and entered the room.

The atmosphere was close, heavy, and silent. The instrument I had heard – a fine Broadwood six-octave grand – stood before the far window. On it, opened, as if ready to be played, was a piece of music: an Étude by Chopin. I turned over the pages, but it was not the piece that I had heard the night before. I looked about me. The pale blinds had been drawn down, and through them the morning sun cast a muted silver light about the room. My eye picked out three or four dark-velvet ottomans and matching chairs, with coloured cushions of Berlin-work scattered upon them; the walls, hung with a rich red self-patterned wall-paper, were covered with a profusion of portraits, prints, and silhouettes. A number of round tables, covered in chenille cloths and laden with a variety of japanned and papier-mâché boxes, pottery ornaments, and bronze figurines, were placed here and there amongst the chairs and ottomans, whilst above the fireplace, to the right of the door, hung an umbrageous seventeenth-century depiction of Evenwood.

The comfortable but unremarkable character of the room left me feeling a little cheated until I noticed, lying under the piano-forte, two or three half-torn sheets of music, which appeared to have been violently ripped out of a larger compilation. I walked over to the instrument, and bent down to pick up the remnants.

‘Do you play, Mr Glapthorn?’

Miss Emily Carteret stood in the doorway, looking at me as I was picking up the ripped sheets to place them on the piano-stool.

‘Not as well as you, I fear,’ I said, truthfully, though the note sounded false, a pathetic attempt at gallantry. But my words had an effect on her nonetheless, for she began to look at me with a strange concentration of expression, as if she were waiting for me to confess some mean action.

‘You heard me playing last evening, I suppose. I hope I did not disturb you.’

‘Not in the least. I found it extremely affecting. A most satisfying accompaniment to the close contemplation of a twilit garden.’

I meant her to know that I had not only heard her playing, but had also witnessed the rendezvous with her lover in the Plantation; but she simply remarked, in a flat, vacant tone, that I did not give the impression of possessing a contemplative disposition.

I immediately regretted the cynical tone that I had adopted, for I saw now that her face was drawn, with dark rings around the eyes that betokened long hours of sleeplessness. Her manner had less of the frigidity of our first encounter, although I remained wary of the way that her eyes slowly but constantly scrutinized my person with judicial intensity, like a prosecuting counsel cross-examining a hostile witness. But the burden of her grief was now apparent. She was human, after all; and what could have prepared her for this, the senseless slaughter of her father? It was not in her nature to speak her misery – I saw that clearly; but the o’er-fraught heart *must somehow find expression, or it will break.