Michael Cox - The Meaning of Night

‘May I ask, Mr Glapthorn, whether your parents are still living?’

‘My mother is dead,’ I replied. ‘I never knew my father.’

I said the words without thinking, then instantly reflected on the singularity of my situation. For whom did I speak? For the orphaned Edward Glyver, with a dead mother and a father who had died before he was born? Or Edward Glapthorn, whom I had conjured into existence on learning the truth about my birth, and who was the possessor of two fathers and two mothers? Or the future Edward Duport, whose mother was indeed dead, but whose father still lived and breathed, here, in this great house, not a quarter of a mile from where we now were?

‘I am sorry for you, truly,’ she said. ‘Every child needs a father’s guiding presence.’

‘Not every father, perhaps,’ I observed, thinking of the execrable Captain Glyver, ‘can be considered fit for such a task. But I believe, Miss Carteret, from my brief acquaintance with him, that you may count yourself fortunate that yours was exceptional in that regard.’

‘But then some children, perhaps, are unworthy of their parents.’

She had turned her face away, and I saw her raise her hand to her face.

‘Miss Carteret, forgive me, is anything the matter?’

‘Nothing is the matter, I assure you.’ But she continued to look out into the darkness with unseeing eyes, her hand resting against her cheek. I saw that she was suffering, and so I thought I would make another attempt at encouraging her to give expression to her anguish.

‘Will you allow me to observe, Miss Carteret, as someone who has your interests most sincerely at heart, that grief should not be denied. It is—’

But I was unable to finish my clumsy peroration, for she instantly turned an affronted face upon me.

‘Do not presume, sir, to lecture me on grief. I will take no lessons on that subject from any person, least of all from someone who is little more than a stranger to me and mine!’

I attempted to apologize for my forwardness; but she silenced me with another terrible look, followed by some further strong words, which together induced me to sit back, somewhat nonplussed, and to hold my tongue for the remainder of our journey.

In this awkward state, we turned in through the Plantation and drew up at last before the Dower House. As the landau came to a halt, I observed that her face had once again reverted to its accustomed look of passionless abstraction. Without saying a word, or even bestowing the slightest glance in my direction, she slowly removed the rug from her lap and, assisted by John Brine, descended from the vehicle.

‘Thank you, John,’ she said. ‘That will be all for tonight.’ Then she turned her head and looked at me, with infinite sadness in her eyes.

‘I believe that my father was right,’ she said, almost in a whisper. She seemed to be looking straight through me, as if talking to some unseen distant presence. ‘We shall be judged for what we do. And so, there is no hope for me.’

I watched her walk the short distance to the house. She stood for a moment beneath the portico lamp, and I longed for her to turn and retrace her steps; but then I saw Mrs Rowthorn open the front door, and say a few words to her that I could not catch, whereupon she instantly picked up her skirts and ran inside.

*[‘On the threshold’. Ed. ]

*[The bells of the church opposite Newgate Prison, which tolled to announce impending executions. Ed. ]

†[Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin (1805–71), a former watchmaker from Blois who became one of the greatest stage magicians of the nineteenth century. Ed. ]

‡[William Calcraft (1800–79), the most prolific of all English executioners, who carried out over four hundred hangings between 1829 and 1874. Ed. ]

§[Slang term for hangman. Ed. ]

*[The Temple was finally demolished in 1919, by which time it was virtually a ruin. Ed. ]

*[A friction match. Ed. ]

*[A hired hand. Ed. ]

*[Audrey was the country wench wooed by Touchstone in Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Ed.]

*[On 28 June 1838. Ed. ]

26

Gradatim vincimus *

I accosted John Brine in the stable-yard, as he was unhitching the horses from the landau.

‘Brine, I have found something.’

He said nothing in reply, but looked at me in that dour, threatening way of his.

Reaching into my pocket, I held out the little square of leather that I had discovered in the Temple. He took it from me, and began to examine it by the light over the tack-room door.

‘James Earl,’ he said. ‘Gamekeeper here some years past. May I ask, sir, where you found this?’

‘In the Temple,’ I answered, eyeing him closely. ‘Not a much-frequented place, I think.’

‘Not since the youngster died.’

‘Youngster?’

‘His Lordship’s only boy, Master Henry. He went up there on his pony. He would not be told, that boy, and his Lordship could do nothing but indulge him. It was his birthday, you see, and the pony had been his father’s gift.’

‘And can you tell me what happened?’

He thought for a moment, and then nodded me towards the open door of the tack-room.

‘Perhaps you’d like to wait in there, sir,’ he said as he led the horses away to their stalls. A few minutes later he returned. There was still a distrusting look about him, but he appeared inclined to resume his story.

‘There’d been a hard frost. We’d ridden all over the Park …’

‘Excuse me,’ I interjected, ‘do you mean that you accompanied the boy?’

‘I was only a lad myself, and my old father, who was his Lordship’s groom, was ill that day and said I should go with them instead – the boy and his Lordship – to make sure all was well. But after we came down through the woods, the boy took off on his own. Headstrong, you see, like his mother.

‘Well, we set off after him, of course, but my horse picked up a stone and I couldn’t keep up. He’d taken the path that goes up to the Temple – you’ve seen it yourself, sir: steep, uneven, dangerous, even for an experienced horseman. And, as I say, there’d been a hard frost. His Lordship dismounted, and called the boy back. But that was a mistake, for as he tried to turn the pony round, the beast slipped, and threw the boy off. I never thought to see that man cry, and I ain’t seen it since. But cry he did, most dreadful to behold, and I don’t ever want to hear such a sound again. It fair tore your heart out, with the poor little chap lying there at his feet so pale and still.

‘And so they buried him, Lord Tansor’s only boy, and since that day his Lordship has never set foot in the Temple, and few others go up there.’

‘But someone has been there,’ I said, ‘and recently. Someone who knows a good deal more about the attack on Mr Carteret than we do.’

I did not know how far I could trust the man; but then I thought how he had taken it upon himself to go to London, on Mary Baker’s behalf, to search for news concerning her sister, the doomed Mrs Agnes Pluckrose. That action spoke of a generous and courageous spirit, and, with Mr Carteret dead, there might be a question as to how he would earn his daily bread; and so, having already recognized the need to find a means of informing myself on the doings of Evenwood and its residents, I decided to risk taking Brine into my confidence a little.

‘Brine, I believe you to be an honest man, and a faithful servant to your former master. But you have no master now, and Miss Carteret’s future, I venture to say, is far from certain. My acquaintance with your late master was short, but I know him to have been an excellent gentleman who did not deserve his fate. More than this, his death has thrown the outcome of our business together into jeopardy, and that must be rectified. I cannot say more on this point. But will you now trust me and help me, as you are able, to seek out those responsible for this dreadful act, and in so doing assist me to conclude the matter that brought me here?’