It is unlovely, this work of knowing, and it is hard. Every instant of it is an effort she feels has emptied her. But it continues, for how long she has no idea, glutting her so impossibly with feeling that she finds she can no longer locate herself in her own thoughts. Whatever is left of her is simply waiting, powerless and vacant, either to possess itself again or to vanish entirely.
Then it is over, and she is back on the shore. She staggers, her hands on her knees. The need for air torches her lungs. She thinks she will vomit. She wants, very deeply, to lie down. What steadies her, finally, and holds her upright, is the same luminous simplicity that drew her in. She is stupefied with weariness, but the thing she has done burns in her, like a filament in a bulb. She understands it only a little, but she feels certain of what she has glimpsed. There was no miracle or cataclysm, just a pushing aside of the last nothing where something needed to be.
She struggles to focus, and wonders dimly how it is possible to feel such exhaustion while dreaming. Out on the water, the thicket of whiteness is beginning to disperse. The other swans have lost interest, their ferocity no longer drawn by infelicities of scent or colouring. For a moment, Clara struggles even to identify the creature she has touched. Then she catches its signature: a ragged hollow at the base of its neck, and a bruised meekness, still, in the way it holds itself in the water. It is moving among the others now, nervous but unmolested.
Clara is anxious still, feeling a surge of panic when another bird, in a quick and fluid movement, dips its bill between the folded wings of the one she now thinks of as hers. But the other swan only snatches something away, a wad of sodden leaves that lodged there during the confrontation. It is an act of grooming, a small kindness.
For a while, it is almost silent. The swans return to their former disposition, their postures staid and downcast. They spread out in soft movements on the dark water, their poised glyphs alliterating among the dashes and ellipses of moonlight. Following no pattern that Clara can discern, they drift unhurriedly among each other, animated by such slight impulses that they seem almost without purpose.
She watches them for a long time, though she is shivering violently now and struggling to remain alert. It is growing light when she catches the first splash and flutter. At first, she thinks she has imagined it, but before long she sees it again. A single swan pushes itself proud of the surface and seems to test its wings, holding them tautly outstretched before refolding them. With a tattoo of quick pulses, it scatters the wetness from its wings, then seems to settle again. Soon, these movements are answered elsewhere on the lake as another swan repeats the sequence: the languorous splaying, the staccato beating of wings.
It is spreading among them, the idea of flight, taking hold as a fire does, gathering intensity until the first of the swans is compelled to leave the water. It hauls itself aloft with a rapid slicing of its wings, climbing stiffly as another bird finds its wake, shadowing it as they cross the grey fringe of the mere. Soon, the violet stillness is thronged with pale forms, keeping close to the water as they leave, passing out of sight in mirrored pairs and triplets.
Clara does not catch the new swan as it departs. It is among them, that is all she knows, and nothing marks it out. She sinks to her knees among the reeds, knowing that she cannot hold even that position for long, that she must allow herself to rest. She remembers, as the sky above her empties, that there was a question, that it was something about roses. There was something else too, something water-dark and older than words. She strains for it, for its particular shape and strangeness, but it slips from her thoughts, as if it is too delicate to be grasped.
When she looks for the girl, her likeness, she is gone. Clara searches the shoreline, straining to catch some small movement, but the morning is greying with approaching rain. In the distance, the pale grass folds under the wind, and she can no longer tell the water from the sky.
Five
The Crouch brothers seemed little changed.
They had waited in the stable yard as Eustace had instructed. The house overlooked it on three sides, allowing him to watch them at leisure before he emerged. They would see that they were placed at a disadvantage, of course, would feel themselves observed. That too was as he intended. He wanted them to understand their position, to be in no doubt.
They were less alike, if anything, than he remembered. Each had settled into his form, and they carried themselves with the candid laxity of men at the end of their middle years. John’s heaviness, in maturity, had taken on a mournful emphasis. He could put himself to some use still, Eustace imagined, but a watchful idleness came easiest to him. He lounged against Gull’s car, while Abel patrolled restlessly nearby.
The elder brother took care over his clothes, if not over his person. He smoked almost incessantly, and his gaunt face was sallow enough to appear sickly. He wore one of the suede jackets that seemed now to be in fashion, and beneath it a knitted garment with a high neck. None of it had come cheaply, Eustace guessed, but the whole gave him the appearance of a mildly threatening entertainer.
Though they had learned with age to give some gloss of subterfuge to it, both studied their surroundings with practised thoroughness. John surveyed the exterior of the house by means of squinting glances, his gaze skimming the roofline and the brickwork, alighting here and there on some fixture that caught his interest. Abel was less drawn to such details, but seemed taken with the scale of the place. He sauntered around the perimeter of the yard, pausing at the gate to frame a view out over the parkland, pacing carefully backwards from the west wing to take its measure in side elevation, halting only when his heel collided with an old iron boot scraper. He turned to inspect this, testing it on the soles of his own shoes. He was hunched over it still when Eustace chose to make his entrance.
‘You put me in mind of other times,’ he called out as he crossed the yard. ‘That scraper has not been used since we last staged a hunt.’
John prised his haunches from the car on seeing him, but Abel did not immediately turn around. He made a show of working something from his sole.
‘Italian, these are,’ he said, looking up at length. ‘Can’t seem to keep them clean.’
‘Business is good?’ Eustace said.
‘We’re doing all right,’ Abel said. He scanned what could be seen of the house and grounds. ‘Up to a point.’
‘Who’s the big man, then?’ said John. ‘Duke of something? You never explained last time.’
Last time. When he had called on them last, the circumstances had been of his own making. His old life, by then, was already behind him, but he had not left it in the manner he might have chosen. There had been some unpleasantness, of a kind that might have given certain people cause to seek him out. The brothers had taken measures to make that difficult. They had provided certain documents, enlisted the aid of certain parties. They had allowed him to put his mind at rest.
‘Mr Crowe is a gentleman of private means.’
‘Well, excuse me. And you, you’re the butler?’
‘I perform many functions,’ Eustace replied. ‘And the arrangement we spoke of – if it interests you, you will answer to me.’
‘It interests us,’ John said.
‘Yeah,’ said Abel. ‘No offence. You didn’t exactly go into detail, though. About the arrangement.’
‘We are attending to a number of matters,’ Eustace said. ‘Some of them are of a delicate nature, some less so. We wish to retain the services of professional men, men who are accustomed to the unpleasant necessities that occasionally arise in business.’
The brothers looked at each other, and then at Eustace.
‘How unpleasant, exactly?’ Abel said. ‘You want someone to disappear?’
He gave a curt nod.
‘Where is he now? It is a he, I’m assuming?’
Eustace inclined his head briefly, indicating the car.
John glanced behind him. ‘The motor?’
‘No doubt you have certain associates,�
�� Eustace said. ‘They are thorough in their work, I take it?’
‘Very thorough.’
‘Good. They must also be very discreet.’ Eustace paused. ‘We expect that everyone who acts for us will exercise the utmost discretion.’
‘Goes without saying,’ Abel said. ‘The motor and the, er, contents we can take care of tomorrow. You won’t have to worry about them no more.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Eustace said. He allowed a moment to pass.
‘You mentioned a number of matters,’ said Abel.
‘Indeed.’ Eustace looked up. It would be November soon. The swifts were gone from the eaves, and the air was sharpened with the first of the true cold. ‘But please, let us discuss this further in the warmth. In this weather, I begin to feel my age.’
Entering by the stable yard door, he led them to a room near the kitchens that served as his office. It was from here that he oversaw the running of the household, though this function was somewhat diminished; Mr Crowe was content, these days, to live in a lesser style than he had once demanded. As he showed them in, they came upon Clara. She was at his desk, absorbed in a drawing. It was not unusual, but today he might have thought to lock the door. These two would have some business here, if only for a short while, but he intended to keep them as much apart from her as he could.
Her eyes, when she looked up, were smeared and tender, shadowed by some recent distress. She showed alarm, too, at the presence of the men behind him. Clara was an undemanding child. When she was not at her writing or her books, she roamed the house and grounds in contented solitude. She cherished her habits, though, and disliked any disturbance in her surroundings. She stood, tugging her sleeve across her eyes, and began gathering her papers.
‘Your little girl?’ Abel asked.
‘As much as anyone’s,’ Eustace said. ‘No, Clara. There is no need. We will find somewhere else to converse. Is something the matter?’
She lowered her eyes to the drawing on the desk. When Eustace approached, he could make no immediate sense of it. It showed a rough nest, in some deep hollow of reeds. It was strewn with rags and feathers, but was otherwise empty. He looked at her in bewilderment, then laid his hand across the table, palm upwards.
‘Clara?’ he said. ‘What is it, child? Has something happened?’
She glanced at the men behind him, then shook her head. Whatever it was that troubled her, she would not reveal more while they were here. With her forefinger, Clara traced a quick sequence of shapes on his palm, the rudiments of letters. It was something she resorted to when there was some confidence that would not wait, or when her words were intended only for him.
Who?
Eustace clasped her hand briefly as he turned away.
‘Abel and John Crouch, Clara. These men will be doing some work about the place. You have seen how wild the gardens have grown.’
Clara regarded them carefully as she considered this. Then, as if something had occurred to her, she took up her pen and a clean sheet of paper. Working quickly, studying them in shy glances, she produced a raw but skilful ink drawing. She slid it across the desk, indicating with a slight smile that she intended it as a gift. Abel looked it over without comment, though he gave Clara herself a look of careful appraisal. John was more taken with it, spreading it on the desk in wonderment, tracing his own outline with a blunt fingertip.
The brothers were roughly rendered, their faces shown in shadow under straw hats. But she had caught their postures and proportions, and they were recognisable enough. John was shown lazing at the foot of an old, spreading apple tree. Abel stood some distance off, loosely clutching some bladed implement. With his other hand, he shielded his eyes from the sun and stared, either at the viewer of the picture or out across the garden at something unseen.
Eustace took them down to the cellar. He would not have been inclined, at the best of times, to conduct these two around the finest rooms of the house. As it was, Mr Crowe would be entertaining Arabella, in what fashion he could hardly guess at from one hour to the next. It was not the time for those introductions.
He left the lights off, guiding them down the rough steps by the light of a single candle. They were ill at ease in the cellar, he could see, and not inclined by instinct or habit to be led into such a place. They talked to distract him from their discomfort, or to put it from their own minds.
‘How many bottles, would you say?’ John asked, ducking his head to pass under an archway.
‘Some thousands,’ Eustace said. ‘I keep the tally in a logbook.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Abel. ‘We weren’t getting any ideas.’
They followed him into a low, vaulted chamber where cured meats were hung. The shapes suspended in its recesses were looming and obscure. Eustace set the candle down and gestured to a long bench, taking his own seat in an ancient, straw-cushioned rocking chair.
Abel sat down warily, peering into the surrounding darkness. ‘Get a lot of spiders down here, do you?’
John looked on in amusement. ‘Hates spiders, he does. You should see him when there’s a big one.’
Eustace waited until they had settled themselves. ‘We expect some visitors,’ he said at length.
‘I can see that,’ Abel said.
‘We shall be entertaining them, of course, but that was not my meaning. The guests we expect will not be entirely welcome.’
‘Undesirables,’ John said. ‘We can help you with that.’
‘Yeah,’ said Abel. ‘Providing they ain’t of the uniformed variety.’
‘We are taking care to avoid attention of that kind,’ Eustace said. ‘No, these will be men of breeding. One of them, at least, is a scholar of some distinction.’
They looked at him with frank scepticism. ‘Come again,’ said Abel. ‘You mean, like a professor?’
‘Like that,’ said Eustace. ‘He is much else besides, but I am telling you how he will appear.’
‘This professor,’ said John. ‘Very dangerous, is he?’
Eustace sighed and leaned back. ‘You are amused,’ he said. ‘You think, perhaps, that I brought you here for some entertainment?’
The brothers shared a brief look, and John raised his hands, his fingers spread in contrition.
‘Very well,’ Eustace said, appraising their faces. ‘I will tell you what I can, and you must make of it what you will. Remember, though, that my need is for professional men, for men who approach their work with seriousness.’
Neither of the two spoke. If they saw any cause for amusement now, they kept it from their faces.
‘In my master’s profession,’ Eustace continued, ‘he has relied on a peculiar gift. There have been others like him, but only a handful remain. I am no judge of these things, but I have heard it said that none of the others could ever match him. Be that as it may, in using these gifts of his, Mr Crowe and those like him have been given great licence, but they have not acted entirely without restraint. Certain limits were placed on them by the – what might one call it? – by the order to which they belonged.’
‘Order?’ Abel said. ‘What, like monks or something?’
‘Like monks?’ Eustace considered this. ‘No, not like monks. I meant only that this order has survived for a long time. How long exactly I do not know. Centuries, at least. And it has grown powerful.’
‘Vampires, then?’ John said eagerly. ‘Like that film with what’s-his-name?’
‘What?’ Eustace looked upward and let out a long sigh. ‘No, nothing like that. They are very much of this world, but they have – how can I explain it? They are gifted in the arts, let us say. Not in the ordinary way, but so much so that others seek them out. It is a service of an uncommon kind, and those who seek it do so secretly. It does not come cheaply.
‘They live well, and very much as they please, as long as they stay within the limits I mentioned. If they do not – if they break certain rules – this professor, as you call him, is the one they must answer to. He is not gifted as they ar
e, but has some power over them that I do not fully understand. In any case, his authority is absolute.
‘I know how all this must sound to you. It sounded just as outlandish to me once. But I ask you to accept it, and to accept that I have seen with my own eyes what this man, this professor, is prepared to do to those who refuse to be bound by the rules. You are men of the world, and you have seen a great deal, but nothing in your experience has prepared you for this.
‘Is he dangerous? Yes, he is dangerous. He is more dangerous than anyone else you will ever encounter. We are by no means defenceless, and we will not sit idly. We will take steps to ready ourselves for what is coming, but you can help us only if you accept my word in all this. If you do not – if you have the slightest doubt – then there is nothing further for us to discuss.’
For a long time, the Crouch brothers said nothing. Eustace simply waited. He did not expect them to believe all he had said, or even to understand it. They would decide, perhaps, that he had spent too long in this place, serving the whims of an unseen master with only a mute child for company. They might not be entirely wrong.
‘We get the idea,’ said John at last.
‘Yeah,’ Abel said. ‘Benefit of the doubt, and all that. But here’s what I don’t understand.’
‘Go on.’
‘This professor. If he’s like you said – dangerous and powerful and all that. What did you bring us here for? What are we supposed to do, cast a spell or something?’
‘We are taking some elementary precautions,’ Eustace said. ‘To ensure our security.’
The Maker of Swans Page 5