Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘I see you are not used to being laughed at, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said. ‘I suspect few people get the better of you, and when they do, you take it hard. Is it not so?’

I admitted that she was right in general, but that, with regard to my spoken French, I humbly deferred to her superior proficiency, and – which was true – was happy to be laughed at. At length, after we had taken several turns of the garden, we sat down to rest on a little stone bench, where we remained, saying nothing, for some minutes.

The autumn sun was warm on our faces, and when I turned to speak to her I saw that her eyes were closed. How exquisitely beautiful she was! She had left her spectacles in the house, and her pale skin, framed and intensified by the stark black of her hair, was bathed in the clear October light, bestowing on it a strangely numinous, unearthly quality. She sat perfectly still, her head tilted upwards, her lips slightly parted. It was the most enchanting composition, and I wished so much to have my camera to capture the fleeting moment, and fix it for ever. Then she opened her eyes, and looked straight at me.

‘Your business with my father,’ she said. ‘Are you at liberty to say what it concerned?’

‘I’m afraid that must remain confidential.’

‘Do you not trust me?’ she asked.

There was a hard look in her eye that matched her tone of voice. I struggled to find a suitable answer, but could only prevaricate.

‘Miss Carteret, it is not a question of trust between you and me, but between my employer and myself.’

She thought for a moment and then stood up, blocking out the sun.

‘Well, then,’ she declared, ‘there is nothing more to be said. I had begun to hope that we might perhaps become friends, but without trust —’

‘I assure you, Miss Carteret,’ I began, but she held up her hand to stop me from speaking further.

‘No assurances, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, with terrible emphasis. ‘I do not care for assurances. They are given all too lightly, I find.’

And then she turned, and began walking back towards the house, leaving me to follow her. Just as I caught up with her, a tall thin gentleman with a lugubrious expression, and wearing trousers that appeared to belong to a much shorter person, appeared on the path that led from the gate-house through the Plantation. He bowed obsequiously on seeing Miss Carteret. At once her demeanour changed.

‘Mr Gutteridge,’ she whispered, keeping her eyes on the visitor. ‘The undertaker. I’m afraid we must continue our conversation another time. Good-morning, Mr Glapthorn.’

And with that she left me.

For the next hour or so, I passed the time by making an exploration of the Park, and considering, as I walked, my last conversation with Miss Carteret.

I naturally regretted having discomposed her during this time of mourning; but her late father had bound Mr Tredgold to strict confidentiality, and I, as Mr Tredgold’s agent, was subject to the same obligation. Yet I was forced to acknowledge that duty was even now under threat from desire, and I did not know whether I would have the strength to refuse her again. Like a half-conscious somnambulist, I felt I was stumbling towards – I knew not what; and, compounding this sudden wilful folly, all my once-sincere intentions towards Bella were being driven from my mind, so blinded was I by Miss Carteret’s beauty, and so deaf to the quiet urgings of conscience.

I had taken a branch of the main carriage-road that led towards the Temple of the Winds, the Grecian folly built by Lord Tansor’s great-grandfather in 1726. From here, I made my way up through the woods that formed the western boundary of the Park, and then descended again, through silent ranks of oak and ash and fluttering showers of leaves, to emerge before the West Front of the great house.

The sight of its walls and towers wrenched me back to the task in hand. If I achieved my purpose, then this wondrous place would be mine by right of succession. I could not allow what might be only a temporary infatuation to lure me from the path on which my feet had been set. What though Miss Carteret was beautiful? Bella was beautiful, and kind, and clever, and as affectionate a companion as any man could wish for. I knew nothing of Miss Emily Carteret, except that she was proud and self-possessed, and that her heart might already belong to another. But Bella I knew to be open-hearted, and warm, and devoted to me alone. What had I to do with cold Miss Carteret? I concluded that I had suffered from some temporary perturbation of the emotional faculties, brought about by the terrible death of Mr Carteret. After standing for some time contemplating my situation, I began to believe that I had reasoned myself out of my silly fancy, as a fool in love will sometimes do. And so I set off back to the Dower House, certain that when I next saw Miss Carteret, the spell she had cast would have been broken by brisk walking and fresh October air.

Inspector George Gully, accompanied by a constable, was waiting for me in the drawing-room. I settled myself in an arm-chair and took out a cigar.

The interrogation, though lengthy, was not of the subtlest, and the Inspector seemed satisfied with the perfectly truthful account – truthful, that is, as far as it went – that I gave him of my meeting with Mr Carteret in Stamford.

‘You have been most obliging, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said at last, closing his note-book. ‘I do not think, you being a stranger hereabouts, that we shall need to trouble you further. But if we do have occasion to speak to you again—’

‘Of course.’ I handed him a card carrying the address of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr.

‘Just the ticket, sir. Thank you. As I said, merely a precaution. We won’t be intruding on you further, I’m sure. We’ll be on to these rogues soon enough, you mark my words.’

‘You believe them to be local, then?’

‘Not a doubt of it,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Not the first such outrage in this vicinity of late, I regret to say, though the first fatality. But we already have our suspicions … I shall say no more.’

He gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘You see what we are made of here in the Shires!’

‘Well, Inspector,’ I said, getting to my feet, ‘I shall report to my principal that, in my opinion, the investigation could not be in better hands. And if there is anything further I can do to assist your enquiries, please do not hesitate to inform me. And now, if you will excuse me.’

This oaf would never discover who killed Mr Paul Carteret. His death was bound up with a far greater mystery, which was beyond the ability of Inspector George Gully and his minions to unravel.

*[‘The scene of the crime’. Ed. ]

*[The phrase is from Macbeth , IV. iii.210. Ed. ]

23

Materfamilias *

Half an hour later, at a little before three o’clock, I presented myself as arranged at the Rectory, where Dr Daunt received me in his study. We passed a pleasant hour or so, perusing his extensive collection of biblical and theological texts. This is not a field in which I have any great expertise, and I was content to let the Rector pick out volumes of particular rarity or importance, and expatiate on them at some length, occasionally contributing a comment or two of my own, where I could. Then a first edition of Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress (Ponder, 1678) caught my eye.

‘Ah, Bunyan!’ I cried, seizing on the volume. ‘I read him often as a child.’

‘Did you, though?’ said Dr Daunt, with evident approval. ‘I applaud your young taste, Mr Glapthorn. I never could get my son to like the book, though I would read it to him when he was a boy. I fear that allegory held no appeal for him.’ He sighed. ‘But he was an imaginative child – and I suppose he is imaginative still, though now it is in what I may call a professional capacity.’