Gibbous House

by Ewan Lawrie

  The still-ambulatory of the two seemed little moved by his brother’s fate, as far as I could tell. His cap was rolled tightly in his fists and he worked his jaw energetically, but of his strange dialect he uttered not a word. I did not feel obliged to console the fellow, but I did want the cadaver removed from the pond, so I asked, ‘Is he for burial on the parish, then?’

  The jaw continued its exercise, until Miss Pardoner used her own to more communicative purpose:

  ‘It may not be a matter for the coroner, but perhaps we might send for the constable at Bamburgh, Mr Moffat?’

  ‘And pray tell, whom would we despatch on such a vital mission?’ was my counter.

  ‘I think Maccabi would be pleased to go, if I were to ask him.’

  ‘I shall tell him, Miss Pardoner. I shall tell him.’

  Maccabi departed with no good grace atop an equine specimen quite as poor as the one that had dragged us both round half of Northumberland.

  Miss Pardoner escorted Cullis vivendum and me to the rear of the property via the strange windowless wall to the servants’ entrance on the far side. While one Cullis rested in relative peace among the croaking and quacking, the other was left in the care of Mrs Gonderthwaite in the kitchen, although it still seemed as unlikely a source of provender as before. Miss Pardoner and I passed through the kitchen into the servants’ quarters.

  ‘Perhaps I could show you these apartments, Mr Moffat?’ She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Are you so well acquainted with them?’ I raised an eyebrow of my own.

  ‘No more than I care to be, sir.’

  I bade her lead on.

  There were rooms right and left off a corridor leading to the building’s end. The first door on my right I knew to be Mrs Gonderthwaite’s, and I merely put my head around the door to satisfy myself that it contained neither malkin, broomstick nor cauldron. We continued to look into the rooms on the right hand. In contrast with the lunatic accumulation of artefacts and furnishing in the rest of the house, these rooms had merely devoted themselves to the accretion of years of dust and dirt.

  The fifth door down was that of Maccabi’s recent habitation; on opening the door I saw the cleanliness of it for myself. This, and the meticulous order of the room, I had been expecting. What I had not expected was the sight of Miss Pardoner’s teal-blue skirts of the previous day folded neatly on the cot. Her look was frank and I might easily have been convinced of the truth of her words, claiming that Mr Maccabi was quite the hand with a needle and thread, were I as big a dolt as she thought me.

  ‘I wonder he did not offer to tailor my wardrobe himself,’ I said.

  We left Maccabi’s room in silence, but not before I had skewed a picture frame or two and dishevelled the immaculate bedclothes. I derived some satisfaction from this until I caught sight of Miss Pardoner’s crooked smile.

  The door rattled in its frame behind me. There were two more doors on the right-hand wall; the corresponding doors on the opposite wall were not in themselves opposing doors. Again, the unknown architect’s mania for the asymmetrical was in evidence. I tried the door on the left-hand wall nearest that of Maccabi. It was locked, with a serviceable enough mechanism, since my furious boot did not render the room any more accessible.

  ‘Perhaps I should summon Mrs Gonderthwaite... or at least fetch a key from her?’

  It was a most reasonable suggestion.

  ‘It will wait for another day.’ I limped along the corridor toward the kitchen.

  It took all of my self-control not to laugh aloud at the flushed face of Mrs Gonderthwaite as she attempted to repair her déshabillé. Cullis’s reaction to his brother’s timely reminder of his own mortality had obviously encouraged him to affirm his own vitality in the time-honoured way. For all the woman’s ethereality, it seemed she still had a taste for carnal pursuits.

  More restraint still was required when I espied the colour the scene and its implications had brought to young Ellen Pardoner’s face. Turning to Cullis, I enquired what tasks he performed on the estate. After Miss Pardoner’s interpretation, it was no great surprise that, amongst other things, he carried out the duties of ostler. This accounted to some degree for the parlous state of the two horses that I had thus far seen.

  I instructed Cullis to show me the stables, and as he made his way outside without too much delay I inferred that his inability to communicate in any civilised language did not preclude his understanding of it. Miss Pardoner made as if to accompany us, but I waved her away, saying, ‘I think we will come to some understanding, Cullis and I, regarding communication. There is nothing he might say which I might wish to understand, and should he lose his facility to understand my wishes – well, I shall beat him, of course.’

  Evidently the cook felt only passion for the fellow, and not love, as this declaration provoked not the slightest reaction from the ghostly presence. Not so Miss Pardoner; the high colour returned to her face and I fancied I detected a little shortness of breath. Perhaps I should have allowed her to accompany us, after all.

  The stables were set away from the rear of the west wing. The kindest thing to say would have been that they were in no worse repair than the gatehouse. The building itself housed a long row of twelve stalls, the half of which were not in possession of a door to close. Stone-built, the mortar in the walls had long since turned to dust, and so the stables resembled a remarkable feat of dry-stone wallwork, but not one that could be trusted to hold up the roof for much longer. The roof consisted of more hole than slate: the feeble whinnies emerging from behind the few stalls still capable of being secured bore testimony to its permeability.

  Cullis opened the door to the first occupied stall. Filthy straw covered little of the dirt floor, and a roan bag of bones covered most of it. It appeared that the two horses put to work in recent days were the most fit. This specimen looked a scant cough from the knacker’s. The ostler carefully closed the stall door as if frightened that too vigourous treatment would cause it to crumble on the hinge. Moving to the next door, he was equally ginger in his handling of it, pausing only to say something which I took to be ‘foal’.

  The door swung wide to reveal a recently come to term mare and something that should by rights have earned the name abomination and not foal. The thing, to my eye, was no more than two hours old, still sticky-slick with birthing fluids. It lay next to its dam, which from time to time flailed with hind legs to push the beast away. It managed to keep one of the heads out of harm’s way, the other was bloodied and as dim of eye as the stuffed exhibits in the house.

  Cullis’s head nodded vigourously after I instructed him to be rid of the abomination instanter. I wondered that he had not already done so, but perhaps such gumption was not common among the local population. The man showed me a further four horses in varying states of neglect. Quizzing the fellow as to the reason for such negligence returned no communication meaningful to me, therefore I told him in no uncertain terms that I expected such beasts as could be saved to be both fed by him and attended by the veterinary. For good measure I added that I expected to save the payment for disposal of the abomination and any horse beyond salvation, since Cullis could see to it himself. He held out a hand. I placed a small silver coin in it, and resolved to discuss the estate’s arrangements for my living allowance with the dwarf when he stirred from his chambers.

  Turning from the stables, I skirted the feline-occupied west wing. The smell was discernible from without, no doubt permitted to befoul the air by the quantity of broken window glass. Most confounding was the near immaculate state of the roof. I noted one slate hanging askew: there must have been several thousand comprising the roof. The lead looked new. Two doors let into the rear wall of this wing, each was warped, rotted and sealed by a padlocked chain, with a bar athwart the door itself. Naturally, I peered through one of the windows, but there was little to see through the grime and the cat that leaped – hissing – at the pane of glass unnerved me somewhat.

  At the gable end of the
wing a blank and featureless expanse of red brick soared to the roof: it made one dizzy to look at it. The corners of the wall where the brick met the sandstone of the rest of the building were most jarring. To the front elevation, the west wing appeared more presentable, though the architect’s devotion to asymmetry was served here by thirteen identical windows that ran along the front. These did anything but mirror the hodge-podge of designs of the east wing’s variegated glaziery, which numbered at least sixteen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was a fine day and I regretted the absence of any suitable mounts for Ellen Pardoner to ride out upon. I let out a sigh, turned to the front door and swung the grinning monkey’s head with some venom, expecting that Mrs Gonderthwaite would appear eventually. The door, however, opened almost immediately. Miss Pardoner offered a sketch of a courtesy which I returned with a bare nod, whilst I wondered if there were anything which she did that was not informed by a most knowing irony.

  The very moment I crossed the threshold, the professor appeared from behind the trompe l’oeil like a mischievous sprite. He halloed us cheerily from the head of the staircase and waved, savouring the opportunity, most likely, to look down upon us. Taking the stairs with his peculiar scuttling gait, he held up a hand to hold me fast in the vestibule. As his tiny limbs skittered to a halt on the parquet of the floor, he said, ‘Mr Moffat, would you be so kind as to attend me once more in the library? I think perhaps you have a question or two about your situation. I shall do my utmost to answer them as fully as ever I can.’

  ‘I would not be so kind, Professor: I prefer that you attend me in whatever place I choose. The library will suit me as well as any.’

  The professor accepted this with little outward damage to his equanimity.

  ‘Quite so, Mr Moffat, I forget myself.’

  But I thought perhaps that he did not and I caught the briefest glimpse once more of the corrupt and evil gnome I believed him to be.

  ‘You will excuse us, Miss Pardoner,’ I said as I turned to that lady.

  ‘It seems I must,’ she replied.

  I was disappointed to see that she seemed unperturbed by the prospect, and we abandoned her in the vestibule among the vertiginously piled furniture.

  This time I led the professor through the dining room, hearing the familiar snick snack of his dainty feet on the flooring. The debris of breakfast yet remained on the table. In the next room, the stuffed menagerie proved more sinister than I had previously thought: one corner at the far end of the room appeared to be dedicated to a collection of the most fantastical chimerae. The unknown taxidermist had created vile corruptions and combinations of fowl, fish and fauna. For seasoning there were one or two examples of the kind of abomination I had seen in the stables. I had read that certain collectors in Bavaria had a taste for such pieces; many purchasers actually believed them exemplars of formerly living beasts.

  ‘A little Germanic for my taste, Professor. And so much effort to create such – unconvincing monsters, don’t you agree?’ I asked him.

  ‘Much – in science as in creation – is unlikely, Mr Moffat,’ he replied.

  We passed into the room with the picture-covered walls, where again the queasy feeling forced me onward quickly. In the room containing the geological specimens I picked up a beautiful milky stone and pocketed it. It was the largest opal I had ever seen. I turned to read the expression on the professor’s face, but there was none. The vivarium was filled with the sounds of its diurnal occupants. Intent as I was on reaching the library, I did not peer too closely at the vitrines as I passed them, although I had the impression of unnatural forms moving behind them. Thankfully in the library itself, the hubbub made by the slithering and the rubbing of insect legs was inaudible.

  I poured the professor and myself some of the almost excellent sherry, and lifted my glass.

  ‘To purgatory,’ I said.

  ‘Too kind,’ the man replied.

  The glasses drained, he held his upward expectantly and, as a good host should, I obliged him by filling it.

  ‘Ssssssssoo, what can I tell you, Mr Moffat? What is it you wish to know?’

  I could not get used to his accent, the serpentine hiss of his sibilants, the constant confusion of the v and w sounds. At times I felt it verged on self-parody and that he was having a joke at my expense.

  There were a number of questions I could have put to him concerning the run-down and ill-cared-for appearance of the estate. I might even have asked him for a calculation of the estate’s worth and probable income. Instead, I asked, ‘What is the Collection? What is its purpose?’

  The little man nodded and it seemed there was a gleam of respect in his eye, as though this were the very question he would have asked, were he in my position. Unfortunately, his answer was as enigmatic as so much else in the house. ‘It’s purpose is: to remain, to be studied, to be treasured. To add to the sum of knowledge. What nobler purpose could there be?’

  This was twaddle of the lowest order.

  ‘But its value, Jedermann, its value?’

  ‘Priceless, Mr Moffat, priceless – as all knowledge must be.’

  It being too much of an effort to reach down and throttle him, I contented myself with enquiring angrily, ‘Professor, what I have so far seen is a motley assemblage of furnishings, objets d’art and mystère, geological specimens, preposterous exemplars of taxidermy and the devil knows what creatures. What possible motive is there to call such a thing a collection?’

  The malignant look reappeared once more. ‘Why, Mr Moffat, it has been collected, has it not?’

  ‘By whom? And how?’

  ‘Perhaps you would rather not know?’

  I dashed his glass from his lips and he leaped back nimbly as it shattered at his feet. This time I did seize him by his shirt-front and lifted his face to mine. ‘How much? How much can I expect per annum, you weasel?’

  ‘If you set me down, I shall show you the accounts, Mr Moffat.’

  I released my grip and he landed gracefully, more was the pity. His shoulders rocked from side to side as he scampered over to the very last rack of shelves in the library’s corner. Using the lip of each shelf, rather in the manner of a monkey, he clambered to the very highest of them and seized in a fist a prodigiously sized ledger. He jumped to the floor and landed as nimbly as he’d climbed.

  He proffered the ledger to me. It was bound in cracked and stained leather; I laid the weighty tome on one of the low tables nearby. I opened it at random to the entry for the week beginning 13th December 182_. Long columns of neat and rounded figures culminated in totals possessing too few digits to offer me encouragement. I flicked the yellowed pages until it lay open at the beginning of the current year. It seemed as though the ledger had been annotated with the express purpose of obscuring the destinations of outgoings and the sources of income.

  ‘Jedermann, a summary if you please.’

  It was not a tale pleasing to the ear or the pocket. There were tenant farmers, there were sheep, there was the public house in Seahouses and very little more which produced an income. Furthermore, there were endless purchases of ‘sundry goods and portable property’. It was a desperate state of affairs.

  ‘We shall have to sell what we can,’ I said.

  ‘We cannot sell anything, Mr Moffat. Those are the terms of the trust.’

  I kicked the low table and the ledger fell to the floor cracking the spine, the book an apt metaphor for the broken-down house.

  The professor bent, admittedly not far, and retrieved the ledger. I had already turned my back upon him and was perusing the nearest rack of shelves. Once more I was struck by the random arrangement. There had been no catalogue made of these tomes. If anything, the books stood on the shelves with less care for their content or origin than those on the shelves in the professor’s own chamber.

  The row that met my eye contained an older copy of Malleus Maleficarum than mine own, standing at the left-hand end of the shelf. To its right was a sumpt
uously bound copy of Hume’s Essays, Moral and Political – the next book was a work by John Dee, the Elizabethan alchemist. Cheek by jowl with this stood a book with something in the Arabic script upon the spine. A tag of paper protruded from between its pages, I withdrew it. It appeared to be a translation of the book’s title: The Polished Book on Experimental Ophthalmology by Ibn Al Nafis.

  Dropping the scrap to the floor, my finger traced the spines of works sacred and profane, ancient and modern, until my eye at last stopped upon a book bound in cordovan leather, blackened with age and the touch of many fingers. The cover bore the symbol on the sign of the Coble Inn. It was a small volume of a size to slip into a pocket. The title on the spine read Secrets of the Rosy Cross. I noted the name of the author was Septimus Coble. I remembered discussions of Elizabeth’s star gazer in the Edinburgh asylum, and therefore, out of I know not what sentiment, placed only this lighter tome in my coat.

  At this point the library door opened with a clamour not usually associated with such places of placid learning. A breathless Miss Pardoner informed me that Maccabi had returned and would speak with me if it were not inconvenient. I toyed with inconveniencing the man, but had to admit to myself that, one day, the vice of curiosity might be my undoing. Therefore I followed Miss Pardoner out of the library, the professor tip-tapping behind in arthropod syncopation. As we were leaving the nightmare picture gallery, the professor tugged at my sleeve and whispered, ‘There is nothing to worry about: as above, so below.’

  I shook off the demented gnome’s hand and hurried to meet Maccabi.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My retainer stood erect and soldier-like amidst the furniture in the vestibule, something I noted with a certain satisfaction. I hailed him. ‘Well met, Maccabi. What news? Are the forces of law on their way?’

  He shifted from foot to foot. ‘Yes. That is, well, a constable is on his way, having instructed the drayman to transport him hither.’