by A. S. Byatt
“I’m a busy man. My wife’s ill. What do you want?”
Cropper moved towards him and thought of asking if he could come in; Sir George raised his gun a little. Cropper stopped in the yard. He wore a loose and elegant black silk and wool jacket over charcoal grey flannels and a cream silk shirt. He was thin, he was sinewy; he bore a faint resemblance to the film Virginians, poised like cats in corrals, ready to jump this way or that, or to draw.
“I am, I think I may safely say, the leading expert in the world on Randolph Henry Ash. Sources have led me to believe that you may be in possession of some documentation by him—say a letter, say a draft of something—”
“Sources?”
“Roundabout sources. These things always become known, sooner or later. Now, Sir George, I represent—I curate—the largest collection of the manuscript writings of R. H. Ash in the world—”
“Look, Professor, I’m not interested. I don’t know anything about this Ash and I don’t propose to start—”
“My sources—”
“And I don’t like English things being bought up by foreigners.”
“A document to do, perhaps, with your illustrious ancestress, Christabel LaMotte?”
“Not illustrious. Not my ancestress. Inaccurate on both counts. Go away.”
“If I could just come in for a moment or two and discuss the matter—simply to know for scholarly purposes what you might or might not have—”
“I don’t want any more scholars in this house. I don’t want any interference. I have work to do.”
“You don’t deny that you have something—”
“I don’t say anything. It’s none of your business. Get off my land. Poor little fairy poet. Leave her alone.”
Sir George took a stolid step or two forwards. Cropper elegantly raised his elegant hands; his crocodile-skin belt shifted a little like a gun-belt on his lean hips.
“Don’t shoot. I’ll go. I never trouble the truly reluctant. Let me say this to you, though. Have you any idea of how much such a piece of writing—if it existed—would be worth?”
“Worth?”
“In money. In money, Sir George.”
A blank.
“For instance one letter from Ash—simply fixing a sitting with a portrait-painter—recently went for £500 at Sotheby’s. Went to me, of course. It is our rather too frank boast that we don’t have a library precept from the university budget, Sir George, we simply have a cheque book. Now if you had more than one letter—or a poem—”
“Go on then—”
“Say twelve long letters—or twenty little ones with not much in—you’d be handsomely into six figures and maybe more. Six figures in pounds sterling. I observe your splendid home needs a lot of upkeep.”
“Letters by the fairy poet?”
“By Randolph Henry Ash.”
Sir George’s red brow creased with thought.
“And if you had these letters you’d take ’em off—”
“And preserve them in Harmony City and make them accessible to all scholars of all nations. They would join their fellows in perfect conditions—air pressure, humidity, light—our conditions of keeping and viewing are the best in the world.”
“English things should stay in England in my view.”
“Understandable. An admirable sentiment. But in these days of microfilm and photocopying—how relevant is sentiment?”
Sir George made one or two convulsive movements with the shotgun, perhaps a product of thought. Cropper, his keen eyes on Sir George’s, kept his hands rather absurdly in the air, and smiled, a darkly vulpine smile, not anxious, but watchful.
“If you tell me, Sir George, that I am wholly mistaken in supposing you have discovered any significant new manuscripts—any manuscripts at all—you must simply say so and I shall leave instantly. Though I hope you will take my card—it may be that a closer look at any old letters of Christabel LaMotte’s—any old diaries, any old account books—may turn up something by Ash. If you are in any doubt about the nature of any manuscript at all, I should be only too happy to give an opinion—an unprejudiced opinion—as to its provenance and worth. And worth.”
“I don’t know.” Sir George retreated into bull-faced squireish idiocy; Cropper could see his eyes calculating, and in that moment knew for certain that there was something, and that Sir George could lay his hands on it.
“May I hand you my card without being blasted?”
“I suppose so. I suppose you can. Mind you, I don’t say it’s any use, I don’t say …”
“You say nothing. You are unprejudiced. I understand perfectly.”
The Mercedes slipped back through Lincoln faster than it had come out. Cropper considered, and rejected, the idea of calling on Maud Bailey at this point. He thought about Christabel LaMotte. Somewhere in the Stant Collection—for which he had a loving and near-photographic recall, once activated—was something about Christabel LaMotte. What was it?
Maud was crossing Lincoln Market Square between the stalls. She was bumped into, with a heavy thud, by Sir George, in an unexpected suit, tight and greenish-brown. He put out a hand and seized her sleeve.
“Do you know,” he cried loudly, “young woman, do you know how much an electric wheelchair might cost? Or a stairlift, perhaps you can price that?”
“No,” said Maud.
“Perhaps you should find out. I’ve just been to see my solicitor, who has a low opinion of you, Maud Bailey, a low opinion.”
“I’m not sure what—”
“Don’t look so mimsy and mild. Six figures or more, that’s what he said, that sly cowboy in his Merc. And you said never a word of that, oh no, butter wouldn’t melt in your cold little mouth, would it?”
“You mean, the letters …”
“Norfolk Baileys have never given a damn about Seal Court. The old Sir George built it to spite them and in my opinion they’d be pleased to see it crack up as it will do pretty soon. But an electric wheelchair, young woman, you should have thought of that.”
Maud’s mind whirled. A cowboy in a Merc, why not the National Health, what would become of the letters, where was blissfully ignorant Leonora, wandering between the market stalls selecting saucers?
“I’m sorry. I had no idea of their value. I knew they must have some, of course. I thought they should stay where they were. Where Christabel left them—”
“My Joan is alive. She’s dead.”
“Of course. I see that.”
“Of course, I see that,” mimicking. “No, you don’t. My solicitor thinks you’ve got some idea of benefiting yourself—in your career, that is, or even selling them on. Relying on my ignorance, d’you see?”
“You’ve got it wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
Leonora emerged from between banked flowers darkly smelling and a rack of leather jackets embellished with death’s-heads.
“Are you being harassed, darling?” she enquired. And then cried, “Oh, it’s the savage woodsman with the gun.”
“You,” said Sir George, purply. He was kneading and twisting Maud’s sleeve. “There are Americans cropping up everywhere. You’re all in it together.”
“In what?” enquired Leonora. “Is it a war? Is it an international incident? Are you being threatened, Maud?”
She advanced on Sir George, towering above him, flowing with generous indignation.
Maud, who prided herself on her rationality under stress, was trying to decide whether she most feared Sir George’s rage or Leonora’s inopportune discovery of the concealment of the letters. She decided Sir George was a lost cause, whereas Leonora, if hurt, or feeling betrayed, might be terrible. This did not help her to think what to say. Leonora took hold of Sir George’s wiry little fist with her own long strong hands.
“Leave hold of my friend or I’ll call the police.”
“It won’t be you needing their services, it’ll be me. Trespassers. Thieves. Nasty vultures.”
“He means harpi
es, but he’s not educated.”
“Leonora, please.”
“I’m waiting for an explanation, Miss Bailey.”
“Not here, not now, Oh please.”
“What does he want explaining, Maud?”
“Nothing important. Oh, surely you can see this isn’t the moment, Sir George?”
“I can indeed. Take your hands off me, you vulgar woman, go away. I hope I never see either of you again.”
Sir George turned smartly, parted the small crowd that had gathered, and hurried away.
Leonora said, “What does he want explaining, Maud?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“You certainly will. I’m intrigued.”
Maud felt near to complete despair. She wished she was anywhere but here and now. She thought of Yorkshire, the white light on the Thomasine Foss, the sulphurous stones and glimpsed ammonites at the Boggle Hole.
A jingling warder, her black face severe, gestured at pale Paola.
“Phone,” she said. “For Ash editors.”
Paola followed the sound of keys and the solid jacketed hips down carpeted tunnels to a telephone at a security point which the Ash Factory was allowed, as a great favour, to use in emergency.
“Paola Fonseca.”
“Are you the editor of The Collected Poems of Randolph Henry Ash?”
“His assistant.”
“I have been told I should speak to a Professor Blackadder. My name is Byng. I am a solicitor. I am speaking on behalf of a client, who would like to enquire about the—well—the market price of certain—certain—possible manuscripts.”
“Possible, Mr Byng?”
“My client is very unclear. Are you sure I can’t speak directly to Professor Blackadder?”
“I’ll fetch him. It’s a long walk. You must be patient.”
Blackadder spoke to Mr Byng. He came back to the Ash Factory white and sharp and in a state of highly irritated excitement.
“Some fool wants a valuation of an unspecified number of letters from Ash to an unspecified woman. I said, are there five or fifteen, or twenty. Byng said he didn’t know, but was instructed to say in the region of fifty or so. Long ones, he said, not dentist’s appointments and thank yous. Wouldn’t name his client. I said how could I set a price on something potentially so important, sight unseen. I’ve always hated that phrase, haven’t you, Paola, sight unseen, it’s a tautology or something near, it simply means unseen, doesn’t it? So Mr Byng says he believes there is already an offer in the region of six large figures. An English offer, I asked, and Byng said no, not necessarily. That sod Cropper has been there, wherever it is. I said, may I know where you’re talking from, and he said Tuck Lane Chambers, Lincoln. I said, can I see the damn things, and Byng said his client was very opposed to being disturbed, very irascible. Now what do you make of that? I get the impression if I made a guesstimate of a generous kind, I might just be allowed a look. But if I do that, we’ll never get the funds to back the guess, not if that sod Cropper’s involved with his bottomless cheque book and Mr Byng’s client is already asking questions about money and not about scholarly value.
“I tell you what, Paola, all this has something to do with the funny behaviour of Roland Michell and his visits to that Dr Bailey in Lincoln. Now what has young Roland been up to? Where, for that matter, is he? Wait till I get a word with him.…”
“Roland?”
“No. Who is that. Is that Maud Bailey?”
“This is Paola Fonseca. I don’t sound remotely like Maud Bailey. Val, I have to speak to Roland, it’s urgent.”
“I’m not surprised, he doesn’t go into the library any more, he sits here writing.…”
“Is he there now?”
“Always so urgent, you and Maud Bailey.”
“What is this about Maud Bailey?”
“She’s a telephone heavy breather.”
“Val, is he there? I’m in an open corridor, I can’t hang on long, you know about these silly phones—”
“I’ll get him.”
“Roland, this is Paola. You’re in big trouble. Blackadder’s in a fearful rage. He’s looking for you.”
“He can’t have looked far. I’m here. Getting on with my article.”
“You don’t understand. Listen—I don’t know if this means anything to you. He had a call from someone called Byng, wanting to price a collection of about fifty letters from Ash to a woman.”
“What woman?”
“Byng didn’t say. Blackadder thinks he knows. He thinks you know too. He thinks you’re up to things behind his back. He says you’re treacherous—Roland, are you there?”
“Yes. I’m thinking. It’s terribly nice of you to phone, Paola. I don’t know why you bothered, but it’s nice.”
“I hate noise, that’s why.”
“Noise?”
“Uh-huh. If you come in he’ll roar. And roar and roar. It makes me sick to the stomach. I hate shouting. Also, I’m quite fond of you.
“That’s nice of you. I hate shouting too. I hate Cropper. I hate the Ash Factory. I wish I was anywhere but here, I wish I could disappear off the face of the earth.”
“A fellowship in Auckland or Yerevan.”
“A hole in the ground, more like. Tell him you don’t know where I am. And thanks.”
“Val seems cross.”
“That’s endemic. That’s one reason I hate shouting. It’s mostly my fault.”
“Guard’s coming back. I’m going. Look after yourself.”
“Thanks for everything.”
Roland went out. He felt wholly helpless and desperate. Telling himself that any intelligent man in his position should have foreseen these possible developments made things worse, not better. He had been emotionally wholly convinced that the letters would remain his private secret, until he chose to reveal it, until he knew the end of the story, until—until he knew what Randolph Ash would have wanted done. Val asked him where he was going, and he didn’t answer. He went along Putney High Street in search of an unvandalised telephone box. He went into an Indian grocery and provided himself with a telephone card and a stack of change. He walked over Putney Bridge and into Fulham, where he found a cardphone box that had to be functioning because it had a long queue. He waited. Two people, a black man and a white woman, exhausted their cards. Another white woman played some complicated trick on the phone box with her car keys and talked interminably. Roland and his co-queuers looked at each other and began to circle the box like hyenas, threatening eye-contact and then occasionally slapping the glass with casual palms. When, finally, looking neither to right nor left, the woman flounced out, Roland’s predecessors were courteously brief. He was not unhappy in the queue. No one knew where he was.
He got through.
“Maud?”
“She isn’t available right now. Can I take a message?”
“No. It doesn’t matter. I’m in a call-box. When will she be back?”
“She isn’t exactly away. She’s bathing.”
“It’s kind of urgent. There’s a queue behind me.”
“Maud. I was just calling her. Will you hang on, please, until I see what she— Maud.”
When would they tap on the glass?
“She’s just coming. Who shall I say?”
“It doesn’t matter. If she’s coming.”
He imagined Maud, wet, in a white towel. Who was the American? Must be Leonora. Had Maud said anything to Leonora. Could she say anything to him, in front of Leonora …?
“Hullo? Maud Bailey speaking.”
“Maud. At last. Maud. This is Roland. I’m in a call-box. There are disasters—”
“Indeed there are. We’ve got to talk. Leonora, do you mind if I just take the phone to the bedroom? This call is sort of private.” A gap. A reconnection. “Roland, Mortimer Cropper came.”
“A solicitor telephoned Blackadder.”
“Sir George made a horrid scene at me in Lincoln. About electric wheelchairs. He needs money.�
��
“It was his solicitor. Is he very cross?”
“Furious. It didn’t help him seeing Leonora.”
“Have you told her?”
“No. But I can’t go on without her guessing. Every day makes it worse.”
“They will see us in a bad light. Cropper, Blackadder, Leonora.”
“Listen—speaking of Leonora—she’s found out the next stage. Christabel went to the family in Brittany. There was a cousin who wrote poems. A French scholar has them, she wrote to Leonora. She stayed some time. It might cover the suicide. No one knew where she was.”
“I wish no one knew where I was. I’ve actually run away from being sent for by Blackadder.”
“I tried to phone you. I don’t know if she told you. It didn’t sound as if she would. I don’t even know what we are or were trying to do. How did we ever hope to keep it from C and B?”
“And Leonora. We didn’t—after we knew all we could find out. We just needed time. It is our Quest.”
“I do know. That isn’t how they’re going to see it.”
“I wish I could disappear.”
“You keep saying that. So do I. Living with Leonora’s bad enough, without Sir George and all that—”
“Is it really?” He found himself voluptuously discarding a vision of Leonora, whom he had never seen, unwrapping the imagined white towel. Maud lowered her voice.
“I keep thinking of what we said to each other, about empty beds, at the Foss.”
“So do I. And about the white light on the stone. And the sun at the Boggle Hole.”
“We knew where we were, there. We should just disappear. Like Christabel.”
“You mean, go to Brittany?”
“Not precisely. At least. After all. Why not?”
“I’ve got no money.”
“I have. And a car. And good French.”
“So is mine.”
“They wouldn’t know where we were.”
“Not even Leonora?”
“Not if I lied to her. She thinks I’ve got a secret lover. She’s got a romantic soul. It would be an awful lie, to go off with her information and betray her.”
“Does she know Cropper and Blackadder?”
“Not to speak to. Nor who you are. Not even your name.”