by Michael Cox
And then she turned, and began walking back towards the house, leaving me to follow her. Just as I caught up with her, a tall thin gentleman with a lugubrious expression, and wearing trousers that appeared to belong to a much shorter person, appeared on the path that led from the gate-house through the Plantation. He bowed obsequiously on seeing Miss Carteret. At once her demeanour changed.
‘Mr Gutteridge,’ she whispered, keeping her eyes on the visitor. ‘The undertaker. I’m afraid we must continue our conversation another time. Good-morning, Mr Glapthorn.’
And with that she left me.
For the next hour or so, I passed the time by making an exploration of the Park, and considering, as I walked, my last conversation with Miss Carteret.
I naturally regretted having discomposed her during this time of mourning; but her late father had bound Mr Tredgold to strict confidentiality, and I, as Mr Tredgold’s agent, was subject to the same obligation. Yet I was forced to acknowledge that duty was even now under threat from desire, and I did not know whether I would have the strength to refuse her again. Like a half-conscious somnambulist, I felt I was stumbling towards – I knew not what; and, compounding this sudden wilful folly, all my once-sincere intentions towards Bella were being driven from my mind, so blinded was I by Miss Carteret’s beauty, and so deaf to the quiet urgings of conscience.
I had taken a branch of the main carriage-road that led towards the Temple of the Winds, the Grecian folly built by Lord Tansor’s great-grandfather in 1726. From here, I made my way up through the woods that formed the western boundary of the Park, and then descended again, through silent ranks of oak and ash and fluttering showers of leaves, to emerge before the West Front of the great house.
The sight of its walls and towers wrenched me back to the task in hand. If I achieved my purpose, then this wondrous place would be mine by right of succession. I could not allow what might be only a temporary infatuation to lure me from the path on which my feet had been set. What though Miss Carteret was beautiful? Bella was beautiful, and kind, and clever, and as affectionate a companion as any man could wish for. I knew nothing of Miss Emily Carteret, except that she was proud and self-possessed, and that her heart might already belong to another. But Bella I knew to be open-hearted, and warm, and devoted to me alone. What had I to do with cold Miss Carteret? I concluded that I had suffered from some temporary perturbation of the emotional faculties, brought about by the terrible death of Mr Carteret. After standing for some time contemplating my situation, I began to believe that I had reasoned myself out of my silly fancy, as a fool in love will sometimes do. And so I set off back to the Dower House, certain that when I next saw Miss Carteret, the spell she had cast would have been broken by brisk walking and fresh October air.
Inspector George Gully, accompanied by a constable, was waiting for me in the drawing-room. I settled myself in an arm-chair and took out a cigar.
The interrogation, though lengthy, was not of the subtlest, and the Inspector seemed satisfied with the perfectly truthful account – truthful, that is, as far as it went – that I gave him of my meeting with Mr Carteret in Stamford.
‘You have been most obliging, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said at last, closing his note-book. ‘I do not think, you being a stranger hereabouts, that we shall need to trouble you further. But if we do have occasion to speak to you again—’
‘Of course.’ I handed him a card carrying the address of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr.
‘Just the ticket, sir. Thank you. As I said, merely a precaution. We won’t be intruding on you further, I’m sure. We’ll be on to these rogues soon enough, you mark my words.’
‘You believe them to be local, then?’
‘Not a doubt of it,’ replied the Inspector. ‘Not the first such outrage in this vicinity of late, I regret to say, though the first fatality. But we already have our suspicions … I shall say no more.’
He gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘You see what we are made of here in the Shires!’
‘Well, Inspector,’ I said, getting to my feet, ‘I shall report to my principal that, in my opinion, the investigation could not be in better hands. And if there is anything further I can do to assist your enquiries, please do not hesitate to inform me. And now, if you will excuse me.’
This oaf would never discover who killed Mr Paul Carteret. His death was bound up with a far greater mystery, which was beyond the ability of Inspector George Gully and his minions to unravel.
*[‘The scene of the crime’. Ed.]
*[The phrase is from Macbeth, IV. iii.210. Ed.]
23
Materfamilias*
Half an hour later, at a little before three o’clock, I presented myself as arranged at the Rectory, where Dr Daunt received me in his study. We passed a pleasant hour or so, perusing his extensive collection of biblical and theological texts. This is not a field in which I have any great expertise, and I was content to let the Rector pick out volumes of particular rarity or importance, and expatiate on them at some length, occasionally contributing a comment or two of my own, where I could. Then a first edition of Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress (Ponder, 1678) caught my eye.
‘Ah, Bunyan!’ I cried, seizing on the volume. ‘I read him often as a child.’
‘Did you, though?’ said Dr Daunt, with evident approval. ‘I applaud your young taste, Mr Glapthorn. I never could get my son to like the book, though I would read it to him when he was a boy. I fear that allegory held no appeal for him.’ He sighed. ‘But he was an imaginative child – and I suppose he is imaginative still, though now it is in what I may call a professional capacity.’
‘I think Mr Carteret mentioned to me that your son was born in the North?’
Dr Daunt seemed disposed to talk, and I was eager to let him. ‘Yes, indeed. I had taken a living in Lancashire on my marriage – my first marriage, I mean. I am sorry to say that my dear wife – my first wife, you understand – was taken from us soon after Phoebus was born.’
He sighed again and turned away, and I saw him glance up at a small portrait in oils that hung in an alcove between the bookshelves. It showed a slight, fragile figure in a pale mauve gown and a neat cap, with misty blue eyes and clusters of airy curls at her neck. It was plain enough that his love for his first wife was still strong. Clearing his throat and brushing down his beard, he was about to speak again when the door opened, and a tall figure in rustling black silk swept into the room.
‘Oh! Forgive me, Achilles, I was not aware that we had a visitor.’
‘My dear,’ said Dr Daunt, with the air of someone who has been caught in a guilty act, ‘may I introduce Mr Edward Glapthorn?’
She gazed at me imperiously, and held out her hand. I think that she was expecting me to kiss it humbly, like a queen’s; but instead I touched the ends of her outstretched fingers in the briefest of gestures, and bowed stiffly.
‘I am honoured to meet you, Mrs Daunt,’ I said, and withdrew a few steps.
Well, she was a deuced handsome woman, I will say that. I could easily see how her good looks, together with a spirited and capable character, would have made it – let us not say easy, but perhaps less difficult for Dr Daunt, in his grief at the loss of his first wife, and entombed alive as he had been in Millhead, to succumb to her charms. She had brought life and hope to that dismal place, and I supposed he had been glad of it. But he had never loved her; that was plain.
‘Mr Glapthorn,’ the Rector ventured, ‘is staying at the Dower House.’
‘Indeed,’ came the frosty reply. ‘Are you a friend of the Carterets, Mr Glapthorn?’
‘I came up from London to see Mr Carteret on a matter of business,’ I replied, intending to dispense as little information concerning my visit as possible. She had seated herself next to her husband, placing her hand protectively over his, whilst we spoke about the shocking events of recent days, and how the placid community of Evenwood had been riven by what had happened to their well-liked neighbour.
‘Mr Paul
Carteret was my second cousin,’ intoned Mrs Daunt, ‘and so, naturally, this terrible crime affects me particularly closely—’
‘Not, perhaps, as closely as his daughter,’
I interjected. She shot me a look that was intended no doubt to crush my impudence.
‘One must of course suppose that Miss Emily Carteret feels the loss of her father deeply, especially under such dreadful circumstances. Do you know Miss Carteret?’
‘We have only recently met.’
She smiled and nodded, as if to signify her complete comprehension of the matter.
‘And do you work in some professional capacity, Mr Glapthorn?’
‘I am a private scholar.’
‘A private scholar? How interesting. And is that a line of business?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said just now that you had come to see Mr Carteret on a matter of business.’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘In a manner of speaking. I see.’
Dr Daunt, looking a little uncomfortable, then broke in.
‘Mr Glapthorn has been so kind as to compliment me on my bibliographic labours, my dear. It is always pleasant for us poor scholars to receive the approval of a discriminating intellect.’
He was looking at me, in anticipation, I supposed, of some pertinent remark or other; but before I could say anything, Mrs Daunt had spoken again.
‘My husband’s catalogue has been widely approved, by some of the most eminent authorities,’ she said, intimating no doubt that my own praise of Dr Daunt’s labours was poor enough by comparison. ‘And have you published anything in the bibliographical line yourself, Mr Glapthorn?’
Of course I had to admit that I had not.
‘My husband’s son is also a published author,’ she continued. ‘He is, as you may know, a poet of some distinction. He has always had a remarkable gift for literary expression, has he not, Achilles?’
The Rector smiled helplessly.
‘Of course, his genius was immediately discerned by Lord Tansor, who has been like a second father to Phoebus. Achilles, I’m sure Mr Glapthorn would be interested to see Phoebus’s new volume. The reviews have been most gratifying, you know,’ she said, watching her husband as he walked over to his desk to pick up the latest production from the pen of P. Rainsford Daunt – Penelope: A Tragedy, in Verse.
I dutifully flicked through the volume, stopping occasionally to read a line or two, and nodding as if in sage appreciation of the beauties contained therein. It was, of course, stuffed full of his usual hectic and overblown versifying.
‘Remarkable,’ I said, ‘quite remarkable. Your son has several such volumes to his credit, I believe?’
‘Indeed he has,’ replied Mrs Daunt. ‘And they have all been extremely well received. Achilles, fetch Mr Glapthorn that copy of the New Monthly …’
‘Pray don’t trouble yourself, Dr Daunt,’ I said hastily. ‘I believe that I have read the article in question. What a thing, though, to have a poet in the family! Of course, his celebrity precedes him, and I confess that I was hoping to have the pleasure of meeting your son while I was in Northamptonshire.’
‘I’m afraid he is away. Phoebus enjoys the particular confidence of my noble relative,’ said Mrs Daunt. ‘His Lordship, having been a little unwell of late, has asked Phoebus to undertake a business engagement on his behalf.’
‘It will be a great shock for your son when he learns of the attack on Mr Carteret,’ I said.
‘It will most certainly prostrate him,’ replied Mrs Daunt, with solemn emphasis. ‘His is a most feeling and compassionate nature, and of course he has known Mr Carteret, and his daughter, since he was a little boy.’
After a moment or two’s silence, I turned to the Rector.
‘I suppose, Dr Daunt, that your son’s rise in the world now precludes him from following in your footsteps?’
It was a mischievous question, I own, but it was intended for his wife, not for him; and indeed, before he had time to speak, Mrs Daunt was already answering it.
‘Our lot here is an extremely fortunate one. We are not rich, but we live in the hand of a most loving and generous master.’
‘You allude to God, perhaps?’
‘I allude, Mr Glapthorn, to the beneficence bestowed on us by Lord Tansor. If Phoebus had no other prospects, then I am sure the Church would be a most suitable channel for his talents. But of course he has great prospects, very great prospects, both as an author and …’ She hesitated for a moment. I looked at her, eyebrows raised in expectation. But before she could resume, there was a knock at the door and a maid entered with a tray of tea things.
This fortuitous diversion allowed Mrs Daunt quickly to change the subject, and, as she poured out and passed around the tea, she began to ask me a number of questions about myself – had I lived in London all my life? Was I a Cambridge man, like her step-son? Was this my first visit to Evenwood? How long had I known Mr Carteret? Was I a member of the Roxburghe Club, like her husband, and had I known the late Mr Dibdin,* whom they had often had the honour of entertaining at Evenwood? I answered all her questions politely, but as briefly as I could. Of course she perceived my evasion, and countered by throwing out still more questions. So we continued in our dance – Dr Daunt sitting all the while in silence. Then she asked me whether I had inspected the great house. I told her that I had visited the Chapel briefly that morning, to pay my respects to Mr Carteret, but that I hoped to enjoy a fuller acquaintance with Lord Tansor’s residence in the very near future.
‘But you must at least see the Library before you go,’ cried Dr Daunt suddenly.
‘I’m afraid I must return to London tomorrow.’
‘But we could go now, if that would be convenient.’
Nothing could have been more to my liking, and so I eagerly assented to the proposal. We quickly finished our tea, and Mrs Daunt rose to leave.
‘Good-bye, Mr Glapthorn. I do hope we shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon. Perhaps when you next visit Evenwood, Fate will look more kindly on us and allow us to introduce you to my step-son.’
I said that that would be a pleasure which, I hoped, would not be long deferred.
She had drawn herself up to her full height and I found myself gazing into her grey eyes. How old was she now? Fifty-three or fifty-four?* I could not remember. Whatever her age, she still had about her a fascinating look of practised coquetry. I began to see how she had managed matters with Lord Tansor in respect of her step-son: her undeniable beauty and charm, in concert with her commanding personality, had no doubt been deployed to the full on his behalf. As she looked at me with those winning eyes – it was but for the most fleeting of moments – I felt sure that she had divined that, in some way that she could not yet comprehend, I was a threat to her prosperous condition, and to that of her precious Phoebus. In short, she disliked and distrusted me, as I did her.
Left to ourselves once more, Dr Daunt and I reverted to an earlier discussion concerning the Neoplatonic philosophy, with particular reference to Taylor the Platonist’s† translations of Plotinus and Proclus. The Rector was discoursing on Taylor’s paraphrastic rendering of Porphyry’s De antro nympharum,‡ which led us on to other equally engaging topics concerning the theologies of the ancient world, a subject in which each of us professed both interest and expertise.
‘Mr Glapthorn,’ said Dr Daunt at length. ‘I wonder whether I might ask a favour of you?’
‘By all means,’ I returned. ‘Name it.’
‘It is just this. Though I am an admirer of Mr Taylor in general, his philological and linguistic skills do not always match his enthusiastic advocacy of these important subjects. His translation of Iamblichus is a case in point. I have therefore presumed to prepare a new rendering of the De mysteriis,* the first part of which is to be published in the Classical Journal.† The piece is now in proof and is being looked over by my friend, Professor Lucian Slake, of Barnack. Perhaps you are familiar with Pr
ofessor Slake’s work on Euhemerus?‡ The Professor’s knowledge of Iamblichus is sound, but not so complete, I think, as yours. The favour that I would wish very much to ask of you, therefore, is this: would you do me the greatest kindness by agreeing to cast your eye also over the proofs, before the piece goes to press?’
Now this, I thought, was an opportunity to establish a closer relationship with Dr Daunt, which, in turn, might eventually open up an advantageous position with respect to his son. I therefore told him that I would be pleased and honoured to review the work; and so it was settled that Dr Daunt would immediately send word to Professor Slake, asking him to direct the proofs to me at the George Hotel before my departure for London.
‘And now,’ he said brightly, ‘let us be off.’
The collection of books assembled by William Duport, the 23rd Baron Tansor, soon after the Revolution in France, bore comparison with the libraries established by the 2nd Earl Spencer at Althorp, and by the 3rd Duke of Roxburghe. The 23rd Baron had inherited some three thousand volumes, assembled haphazardly by his forebears over the centuries. Shortly after succeeding to the title, he added to this stock by acquiring the entire library of a Hungarian nobleman – around five thousand items, and particularly notable for containing many hundreds of the first printed editions of the Greek and Roman Classics, as well as many outstanding examples of the de luxe printers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, such as Baskerville and Foulis. He then set about augmenting his collection by methodical – and occasionally unconventional – means, travelling widely in order to seek out early editions of those Classical authors that had eluded Count Laczkó, and gathering along the way a large number of early Bibles, fifteeners,* and – a particular interest of his – examples of Early English literature. By the time of his death, in 1799, the collection had grown to over forty thousand volumes.
The original library at Evenwood had been housed in a dark and rather damp chamber of the Elizabethan period, on the north side of the building, which was soon overflowing with his Lordship’s acquisitions. And so in, 1792, as I have previously described, Lord Tansor wisely determined to refurbish the large ballroom on the West Front, with its famous ceiling by Verrio, into a place fit to hold his rapidly growing collection. The work took but twelve months to complete, at enormous expense, and in the summer of 1793 the books amassed to that date were transferred to their present home, where they were soon joined by many thousands more.