‘You want us to come the heavy?’
‘If necessary.’
‘No, I mean heavy. With proper equipment.’
‘Again, if necessary. You are professionals. I shall leave the question of tools to your judgement.’
‘Right,’ said Abel. ‘But again – if he’s all that, your visitor. If he’s beyond the beyond, or whatever. What the fuck good is it going to do, us coming the heavy?’
Eustace looked down and massaged his temples. ‘It is a fair question,’ he said eventually. ‘I can only explain it in this way. Certain things may happen here whose nature is hidden from you. You will see their effects, but not the events themselves. Do you follow?’
They said nothing.
‘Be that as it may,’ Eustace continued. ‘Much will happen that is of the ordinary kind. What takes place in the world is of the world. Certain rules have no exceptions.’
‘Meaning they ain’t bulletproof.’
‘Under most circumstances, no.’
John nodded slowly as he considered this. ‘Looks like there might be a niche for our services,’ he said.
Eustace rose and dusted himself off. ‘I had hoped you would see it in those terms.’
Abel looked around the cellar as they made ready to leave. ‘You mind if I ask you something?’
Eustace paused and turned to him.
‘You talked about this other lot who been around all this time. You were pushing forty last time we saw you, and that was what – twenty-odd years ago? You don’t look much more than forty-five now. What’s your secret? Special cream, is it?’
Eustace did not immediately reply. ‘There must be no trace,’ he said at length. ‘When you dispose of the car, of the man’s possessions, nothing must be left behind. Come, we have work to do.’
He led them towards the stairs.
Six
Clara pauses outside the library. From within, she hears voices. The woman’s she has come to know only in recent days. She has heard it everywhere about the house, though she and its owner have not yet been introduced. It is low and unrushed; sweetened somehow, if not quite sweet. Mr Crowe’s is languorous but not, she thinks, intimate – her own silence makes Clara alert to the speech of others, even if it is not intended for her hearing. He is reading, perhaps, or reciting something, while the woman speaks only occasionally, in comment or reply.
Clara hesitates. Though she is often in the library, she would not usually think of interrupting Mr Crowe while he is there. It is silently understood by everyone in the house that he must not be disturbed while he is at work. Even Eustace is forbidden from doing so. Still, he can hardly be at work, surely, and at the same time conversing with this lady.
She raises her hand to knock. It does not come easily to her, entering a room where people are in conversation. She thinks of her writing table, and of the music box she keeps there. It was a gift, she thinks, though she no longer remembers from whom. It is a pretty thing, of bronze work and painted porcelain, and she has come to treasure it especially. It plays a Fauré melody, and there is something comforting in its sweet, declining sadness, in the halting pirouettes of the winged dancer. She longs for it now, for that comfort. The changes in the house have unsettled her, disturbing even her dreams. She longs for it, but knows it is a weakness. She must do this, even if she finds it disagreeable. There is something in the library that she needs.
She knocks quietly but firmly, taking care that she will not be mistaken for Eustace, whose company Mr Crowe seems lately to be avoiding. Eustace’s knock is regular and unmistakable; three quarter-note beats, the intervals metronomic and unvarying. Clara gives hers a gentler pattern – five taps in a loosely decaying sequence – and chooses a place low down on the door, too low for a grown man.
Mr Crowe pauses in his monologue, then murmurs something in a speculative tone. There is a gentle surge of laughter, followed by a silence. When the door is opened, Clara looks up, her face prepared and contrite.
‘Why, hello there, little one.’ It is the woman whose voice she heard. She is wearing a fine evening gown of lucent, jade-like satin and seems to be adjusting it at her shoulder. ‘What’s the matter? Are you lost?’
Clara shakes her head. Reluctantly, because she had meant it for Mr Crowe, she shows the woman the card on which she has written her rather terse note of apology. She has not taken the time over it that she usually would.
Please excuse me. Something I need. On shelf near Racine.
The woman peers at her message. She is more intrigued, Clara thinks, by the piece of paper than by the words themselves. ‘How very interesting,’ she says. ‘Is it a game?’
Clara shakes her head. She had not planned this. The woman does not know about her, and she has no means of explaining that is not somehow humiliating. She begins to wish she had not knocked. Mr Crowe arrives then at the woman’s shoulder, wearing a velvet dressing gown. He has a book in one hand and, in the other, a capacious glass of some amber liquid. His expression, to Clara’s relief, is one of bemusement, not of irritation.
‘This little girl has a message for us,’ the woman says. ‘Something about racing.’
‘Racine, you dreadful ninny,’ says Mr Crowe. ‘This is Clara, and she needs something from the shelf near Racine. Come in, Clara, darling. This is Arabella. She is very charming, generally, but I’m afraid the dessert wine has rather encumbered her abilities.’
‘How dare you,’ says Arabella, though she does not seem in the least indignant. ‘Delighted to meet you, Clara. Shall I guess how old you are? You look terribly grown-up.’
Mr Crowe leans towards her and whispers something, most of which Clara hears.
Arabella presses both hands to her mouth. ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Nonsense,’ Mr Crowe says, returning to the armchair by the fire that he has evidently been occupying. ‘Clara is entirely contented, and certainly not in need of sympathy. She is, though I hesitate to draw attention to it, a rather gifted child. Oh, yes. She will not thank me for saying so – look how pained she appears already – but it is Clara, you know, who is the true artist. Next to her, I am no better than the commonest of hacks.’
Arabella seems briefly taken aback. ‘Is she – I didn’t realise that you had—’
He laughs. ‘No, no. Clara is not mine. None of my mistakes has had quite so delightful an issue. But she has been with us for what seems an eternity – have you not, my darling? We could scarcely imagine life without her.’
Clara smiles as politely as she can. It is true enough, she supposes, though she hardly ever thinks of it. They have been here for so long, the three of them, that the fact of it seems immutable. Still, she does not think of Mr Crowe as she does Eustace. Their bond is no less real, but they are each content, for much of the time, not to encroach on the other’s solitude, and neither suffers greatly for want of the other’s company. She wonders how well Arabella has come to know him, and whether she imagines that he would find her absence unthinkable.
Arabella studies her carefully. ‘Yes, I’m sure she’s a treasure,’ she says. ‘Children, I suppose, are a comfort I have learned to do without.’
‘How lamentable,’ says Mr Crowe. ‘Clara, we must persuade Arabella of her error.’
Clara regards him doubtfully.
‘Yes, yes. You shall dazzle her with your talents. And then, as your reward, you may take whatever it is that you so urgently require from the shelf near Racine. Here, come and sit at the desk. You may use my pen. It belonged to Shelley, you know. A fine chap, if a little wanting in composure. Used to go without shoelaces, half the time. And while he was at Eton, he once destroyed a willow tree with gunpowder, an achievement some would say he never surpassed. At any rate, he once found himself in need of certain favours.’
Clara complies uneasily, perching at the edge of Mr Crowe’s large and sumptuous chair. The pen is certainly a beautiful object. It is made, she thinks, of finely carved bone, with an elega
nt gold nib, but it is far from comfortable to hold and she is fearful of damaging it. She dips it in the ink and makes a few preliminary scratches on the blotter.
‘Splendid,’ says Mr Crowe. ‘Now, then. Arabella, would you be kind enough to choose a book from the shelves?’
Arabella seems sceptical. ‘I’m sure Clara would prefer to find whatever it is she’s looking for and be on her way.’
‘Nonsense,’ he replies. ‘We’ve been shut up in here for days, woman. We have a visitor and we must make an effort. Come now, your first book, if you please.’
She approaches the nearest wall of shelves with visible reluctance. ‘This is absurd,’ she says. ‘You might at least tell me the object of this game. What sort of book am I supposed to look for?’
‘Well, any sort,’ says Mr Crowe. ‘That’s the point, you see. Ah, but wait. We must be somewhat fair to poor Clara. There are manuals of animal husbandry and God knows what else. I’m afraid I have accepted rather too many job lots from booksellers in my time. Let us confine it, at least, to things of quality. Any novel, then, or book of poetry. Essays if you must, but strictly belles-lettres. Oh, and plays, of course. Nothing by Ibsen, mind you, lest the poor girl become too despondent even to hold the pen steady.’
Arabella wanders along the rows of books. It is a very large collection, and might easily seem bewildering. The volumes, for the most part, are handsome and finely bound, their spines lavishly inlaid or lettered in austere gilt. Though some belong to sets and form imposing and uniform arrays, they are arranged according to no particular order or system, and Arabella has almost nothing to guide her. ‘What about the language?’ she says. ‘Quite a few of these are in French.’
‘Well, indeed,’ Mr Crowe says. ‘And some are in Italian. Some are in Greek, for that matter, which is all to the good. Any language, damn it. Isn’t that right, Clara?’
Clara widens her eyes.
‘Well, any civilised language,’ Mr Crowe concedes. ‘Nothing in German, for instance. Clara has never taken to German, which is much to her credit. It is as if a language had been assembled by a fanatical collector of consonants. There now, you have made your first selection. Let me see, what have we here?’
Arabella passes him a distinguished-looking book with a simple spine of walnut-coloured leather.
‘Ah, Troilus and Criseyde. A marvellous choice. Chaucer, among his other distinctions, is the only poet to have been ransomed by an English king. Oh, yes. The French had taken him at Reims, the bastards, and Edward the Third forked out sixteen pounds, I think it was, to have him sprung. This was thirteen-sixty-odd, mind you, so sixteen pounds would have bought you a decent pub. Of course, he was worth every penny. But I digress. Clara, if you would, please – the first two lines will do, but feel free to carry on if you are so inclined.’
It is a parlour game he has called on her to play before. It began at dinner one evening, when he became irate with one of the guests, a member of parliament who beseeched him to ‘do something’ with his memoir. In his annoyance, Mr Crowe misquoted the opening lines of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh and Clara, to his great amusement, transcribed the first stanza on a napkin from memory.
She had not given much thought, before then, to this ability. It is something that comes easily to her. She is soothed, she finds, by the arrangement of words and characters on a page, by the fine details of their alignment and positions, paying attention even to the composition of the typeface. There are features, in an array of type – the way a serif nestles against a neighbouring stem, the peculiar interplay of proximity and balance – that are as distinct and recognisable as a person’s face, as handsome or as plain. It is these qualities that Clara sees first in each page she reads, hoarding them without effort before she has even made sense of the words. There is no great labour in retrieving images from this store. It is a matter of selecting among treasures. Even so, it is not a feat that she enjoys performing for the amusement of others. It is a private act, and somehow an intimate one.
Clara sighs and begins to write.
The double sorwe of Troilus to tellen,
That was the king Priamus sone of Troye.
Mr Crowe peers at the page and claps. ‘Brava, Clara! Brava. Look, Arabella, and see for yourself how accurate she is.’
Arabella looks from the book to what Clara has written. ‘Jesus,’ she says, then catches herself. ‘I mean, good lord. And how old is – how old are you, exactly, Clara?’
Clara is about to write something in answer, but hesitates.
‘Oh, we never trouble ourselves about such things,’ says Mr Crowe. ‘What does a child’s age matter, after all, unless she wishes to marry or come into an inheritance? Your next selection, please, Arabella. Shall we say three, altogether?’
Clara smiles weakly. Arabella is enjoying the game now, and scans the shelves eagerly. She returns after only a minute or two, carrying a book with a drab blue dust jacket. The title on the spine, Clara can see, runs from bottom to top in the French style. Mr Crowe takes it from her and looks it over.
‘Zola?’ he says. ‘That miserable drudge? Thérèse Raquin, God help us. Have you bothered with this one, Clara? You have not? I cannot say that I blame you, child. It is an unmitigated misery from start to finish. J’accuse, indeed. It was this cheerless lackey who ought to have been shipped off to Devil’s Island instead of Dreyfus. But never mind. Take Zola back, Arabella, and let us try something else. And don’t be afraid to make it something else in French.’ Arabella duly returns with an edition of Madame Bovary, primly bound in teal cloth. Clara picks up the pen again.
Nous étions à l’Étude, quand le Proviseur entra, suivi d’un nouveau habillé en bourgeois et d’un garçon de classe qui portait un grand pupitre. Ceux qui dormaient se réveillèrent, et chacun se leva comme surpris dans son travail.
Arabella again adjudicates, checking what Clara has written against the printed words. ‘I’m afraid I only have school French,’ she says. ‘But it seems to be word for word. It really is quite extraordinary.’
‘Indeed it is. We really ought to think about putting her in some sort of travelling circus. I am teasing you, my darling. We would never think of it. In any case, no one in the dispiriting age we now live in would pay to see it, unless you performed the feat while a man threw knives at you. Which is an interesting thought, is it not? But let us continue. Only one challenge remains, and then you may claim your prize. Onwards, Arabella.’
This time, Arabella again allows herself some leisure to deliberate. She pauses now and then as something catches her interest, laying her finger on the spine of a volume before changing her mind and moving on. At last, she takes something from an upper shelf. It is a heavy book, and clearly very old. It is bound in calfskin that age has stained and darkened to something like the colour of rosewood. The simple gilt title on its spine has been worn to an almost illegible faintness.
Mr Crowe accepts it from Arabella with unusual solemnity. ‘We ought really to be wearing gloves,’ he says. ‘But to hell with it. It is not a museum, after all. And the gloves were off when these treacherous grave robbers got into the publishing business, I assure you of that. Old Bill’s plays, Clara. The First Folio, as the dust mites and Casaubons insist on calling it. Do you know what they pay for these editions at auction nowadays? A fine choice, Arabella, and a fitting end to our evening’s entertainment. But I fear you have missed your last chance to topple our champion. She has trodden this ground many times.’
Clara, in fact, has already taken up the pen and begun to write. She did so the moment Arabella took the book from the shelf. She pushes the page towards them with a slight smile. She cannot help but feel a little triumphant.
A tempeſtuous noiſe of Thunder and Lightning heard: Enter a
Ship-maſter, and a Boteſwaine.
‘Flawless, my dear,’ says Mr Crowe. ‘And look, Arabella, how she forms the long s. It is so much more pleasing in its italic form, don’t you think? But come now,
Clara. This is merely a stage direction. At least give us one of the choice cuts. Never mind the first page. You have earned the right to take your pick. Then, I promise you, you may claim your reward without hindrance.’
Clara sits back and folds her arms. She considers screwing up the page and running from the room. Then she glances at it, the thing she came for. Against the gloomy rank of leather spines, its soft lustre is unmistakable. If she leaves without it, she will hardly sleep tonight. She will have no choice but to come back tomorrow, when she may be forced to endure all this again.
She dips the nib and glares at Mr Crowe. She writes swiftly, then, and without hesitation.
But this rough magick
I here abjure: and, when I have requir’d
Some heavenly musick, (which even now I do,)
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And, deeper than did ever plummet sound
I’ll drown my book.
She pushes the page aside and stands up, refusing even to look as they read what she has written.
Mr Crowe laughs then. It is a low and brief sound with no great amusement in it. ‘Well chosen, Clara. Well chosen. Drown my book, indeed. You may be forgiven the urge. We have tried your patience, have we not?’
Clara meets his eyes for a moment, but makes no other sign.
‘Go on, then,’ he says. ‘Take it, whatever it is. I trust you are not depriving me of something priceless.’
Clara walks with slow purpose to the shelf and takes down the opera glasses. She has coveted them for as long as she can remember. They are exquisitely made, their richly polished brass inlaid with lustrous mother-of-pearl. She has often held them for the simple pleasure of turning them over in her hands, examining the opulent iridescence of the nacre, watching as the delicate skeins of lavender and turquoise interleave and vanish. She still finds them marvellous, but wants them now for a rather more practical purpose.
The Maker of Swans Page 6