The Meaning of Night

by Michael Cox

  Yet there were still so many unanswered questions, still so much to know. I read Mr Carteret’s words over a second time, and then a third. Late into the night I sat, re-reading, thinking, wondering.

  I appeared to myself like a man in a dream who rushes headlong, heart fit to burst, towards some eternally receding end; the faster I ran towards my goal, the more it remained tantalizingly out of reach, always just within sight, but never attainable. Yet again, I had been shown a fragment of the whole; but the greater truth, of which the Deposition was a part, was still hidden from me.

  The truth? It is always the truth we seek, is it not? A conformity with known fact, or with some agreed standard, or with what experience tells us is the inescapable nature of existence. But there is something beyond the merely ‘true’. What we commonly call ‘true’ – that ‘A’ equals ‘B’, or that Death waits quietly for us all – is often but a shadow or replica of something greater. Only when this shadow-truth conjoins with meaning, and above all with meaning experienced, do we see the substance itself, the Truth of truth. I had no doubt that Mr Carteret’s words had been those of a truthful man; yet still they were but portions of an elusive entireness.

  I was sensible, of course, that I now possessed something that considerably advanced my claim to be Lord Tansor’s heir; but I had seen enough clever barristers at work to know that Mr Carteret’s Deposition was susceptible to serious legal objection, and so could not allow myself to believe that it provided in itself the final, incontestable validation that I had been seeking for so long. In the first place, the original documents from which Mr Carteret had quoted could not now be produced; they had been in his bag when he had been attacked. How, then, could it be proved that these letters had actually existed, and that the words cited by Mr Carteret were accurate and truthful, and had not been his own invention? His character and known probity might argue against such an assertion; but a lawyer who knew his business could still make much of the inherent doubt. Or it might be argued that Mr Carteret had produced his Deposition at my behest. I had made a little progress through this document coming into my hands; and, as far as my own position was concerned, the Deposition offered valuable circumstantial corroboration of what had been written in my foster-mother’s journals. But it was not sufficient.

  Though I knew at last what Mr Carteret had wished to tell me, and what he had been carrying in the gamekeeper’s bag, another terrible certainty had also risen up out of the mists of doubt and speculation and taken solid form. The reason for his anxious look as he had sat in the tap-room of the George Hotel awaiting my arrival was now clear: he had feared for his safety, and perhaps even for his life, at the hands of the person who, he believed, had set a watcher upon him.

  What a clod I had been! It had only been necessary to ask one question to prise out the truth: Cui bono?*

  Suppose someone comes by chance into possession of information which, if publicly known, would disbar another person from realizing an expected inheritance of immense worth. Suppose, further, that this second person is a man of overweening ambition, and also conscienceless in the pursuit of his interests. Would not such a man feel it imperative to secure this information, so that it might be put beyond human knowledge once and for all, and so secure his inheritance? Only one person stood to gain from acquiring the documents that Mr Carteret had been carrying in his bag. Only one. Who had Mr Carteret himself named as having pried into Lord Tansor’s private affairs, and as being guilty of worse, though unspecified, transgressions? Who had also shown an eager interest in the papers of the first Lady Tansor? Who desired to know what Mr Carteret knew? And at whose implied instigation had a watch been set on him?

  Phoebus Daunt was that person; and by possessing himself of Lady Tansor’s incriminating correspondence, he had no doubt thought to deny the lost heir, if he was still alive, of ever claiming his birthright. But premeditated murder? Was even Daunt capable of that?

  I closed my eyes and saw again poor Mr Carteret’s face, beaten and bloody. And in that moment I knew, with instinctive certainty, who had done it. Those terrible injuries constituted the violent signature of Josiah Pluckrose, seen first on the face of Mary Baker’s sister, Agnes, and more recently, if I was not very much mistaken, on that of Lewis Pettingale. Pluckrose, for certain, acting on the orders of Phoebus Daunt, had first kept watch on Mr Carteret, and had then attacked him as he entered Evenwood Park through the Western Gates. I saw it all clearly and distinctly in my mind. Whether the intention had been to murder Mr Carteret, or merely to steal his bag, might still be an open question. Of the identity of the perpetrators, however, I now had no doubt.

  And then, as I further traced the logical course of my inferences and deductions, I began to conceive the possibility that I, too, might be in danger, if Daunt were to discover that Edward Glapthorn, the representative of Tredgold, Tredgold & Orr, was none other than Edward Glyver, the lost heir. For something told me that the game was afoot; that my enemy was even now trying to seek out his old schoolfellow, and for only one purpose that I could divine. Edward Glyver alive was a perpetual threat. Edward Glyver dead made all secure.

  Yet though he should seek through all the world for Edward Glyver, where could he be found? There was no one now at Sandchurch who could tell him. No letters were directed to him from there any more. He might look in the Post-office Directory for him, but in vain. He would not be there. No door-plate, and no headstone either, bore his name. He has vanished from the earth. And yet he lives and breathes in me! I am Edward Glapthorn, who was Edward Glyver, who will be Edward Duport. Oh Phoebus, light of the age! How will you catch this phantom, this wraith, who is now one man, now another? He is here; he is there; he is nowhere. He is behind you.

  But I have another advantage. Though he does not yet know me, I know him. I have become his father’s friend, and may walk through the front door of his house at any time I please – as I did only recently. I am invisible to my enemy, as he walks to his Club, or strolls through the Park at Evenwood of an evening. Only think, mighty Phoebus, what this means! The man who sits opposite you when you take the train back from the country: does he have a familiar look? There is something about him, perhaps, that stirs your memory; but only for a moment. You return to reading your news-paper, and do not see that his eye is fixed upon you. He is nothing to you, another traveller merely; but you should be more careful. There is a fog tonight, the streets are deserted; no one will hear you cry out. For where is your shield, where your armour, against a man whom you cannot see, whom you cannot name, whom you do not know? I find myself laughing out loud, laughing so much that the tears roll down my face.

  And when the laughter stops, I see clearly where all this will end. But who will be the hunter, and who the hunted?

  *[‘Seek the truth’. Ed.]

  *[‘Lift up your hearts’. From the Latin Eucharist. Ed.]

  *[A maxim of the tribune Lucius Cassius Longinus, quoted by Cicero, meaning ‘For whose benefit?’, often used to point a finger at someone who stands to gain most from a crime. Ed.]

  PART THE FIFTH

  The Meaning of Night

  1853–1855

  Our knowledge doth but show us our ignorance.

  Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), xxvii,

  ‘Of Curiosity in Knowledge’

  35

  Credula res amor est*

  Mr Carteret’s Deposition had opened a window on many things that had previously been hidden from my view, providing important corroboration of what was recorded in my foster-mother’s journals, as well as valuable circumstantial detail concerning the actions taken by Lady Tansor, and their far-reaching consequences. But I knew in my heart that the letters taken from Mr Carteret’s bag would never now be recovered; and that, without them, my case was still not unanswerable. I considered that it might be possible that other documents had survived of a similar character; but even granting this possibility, how could they now be found? I came to the forlorn conclusion that I was as far fro
m my goal as ever, whilst Daunt’s position grew ever stronger.

  I subsided into one of my glooms. But then, three days later, a note came from Lizzie Brine, delivered to me by messenger, informing me that Miss Carteret and her friend, Mademoiselle Buisson, would be visiting the National Gallery on the following Monday afternoon, the 14th of November. My spirits instantly revived and, on the day in question, at just after two o’clock, I walked over to Trafalgar-square and stationed myself at the foot of the Gallery’s steps.

  At a little before half-past two, I saw her emerge into the autumn sunlight, with her friend at her side. They began to descend the steps as I, with an air of complete nonchalance, started to ascend them.

  ‘Miss Carteret! What an extraordinary coincidence!’

  She made me no reply, and for several moments not a scintilla of recognition was discernible in her expression. Instead, she stood regarding me through her round spectacles as though I were a complete stranger, until at last her companion spoke up.

  ‘Emilie, ma chère, est-ce que tu vas me présenter à ce monsieur?’*

  Only with these words did her features relax. Turning to Mademoiselle Buisson she introduced me as, ‘Mr Edward Glapthorn, the gentleman I told you about’. Then, more deliberately, ‘Mr Glapthorn has spent some time in Paris, and is a fluent French speaker.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mademoiselle Buisson, raising her eyebrows in a singularly charming way, ‘then we shall be unable to talk about him without his knowing what we say.’

  Her English was perfectly expressed and enunciated, with barely a trace of a Gallic accent. With fetching, girlish volubility, she expressed herself delighted to make my acquaintance, and began at once, as if we already knew each other, to describe some of the exhibits they had seen, with a breathless enthusiasm that was most engaging. Mrs Rowthorn had told me that she was of an age with Miss Carteret, but she had a simple unaffected prettiness about her which made her seem younger. They made odd companions, certainly; Mademoiselle Buisson was animated, expressive, and forthcoming, dressed gaily à la mode, and displaying a natural exuberance of spirit. Miss Carteret, sombre and stately in her mourning black, stood silently watchful, like a tolerant older sister, as her companion flittered and giggled. Yet it was impossible not to sense the closeness of their connexion – the way that Mademoiselle Buisson would turn to her friend as she made a particular point and place her hand on Miss Carteret’s arm, with that same unthinking familiarity that I had seen her display at Evenwood after the funeral; the little complicit glances, eye meeting eye, speaking of confidences shared, and secrets kept safe.

  ‘May I ask how long you will be staying in London, Miss Carteret?’

  ‘With such prescience as you possess, Mr Glapthorn,’ she replied, ‘I imagine you can answer that question for yourself.’

  ‘Prescience? What can you mean?’

  ‘You wish me to suppose, then, that meeting you here is coincidental?’

  ‘You may suppose what you wish,’ I said, as genially as I could, ‘or, if you cannot accept the fact of coincidence, perhaps you would be more comfortable with the notion of Fate.’

  At this, she managed a contrite little smile, and asked to be excused for her ill humour.

  ‘Your kind note of acceptance to my father’s interment was received,’ she went on, ‘but we were disappointed not to have observed you amongst the company.’

  ‘I am afraid I was a little late in arriving. I paid my respects to your father – as my firm’s representative, as well as in a personal capacity – after the carriages had departed; and then, having an urgent engagement here in town, and not wishing to intrude on you or your family, I returned immediately.’

  ‘We were hoping to receive you at the Dower House again,’ she said, taking off her glasses and placing them in her reticule. ‘You were expected, you know. But you had your own reasons for not coming, I dare say.’

  ‘I did not wish to intrude, as I said.’

  ‘As you said. But you put yourself to a great deal of trouble on our account in travelling all the way to Northamptonshire only to return immediately. I hope you met your engagement?’

  ‘It was no trouble, I assure you.’

  ‘You are kind to say so, Mr Glapthorn. And now, if you will excuse us. Perhaps coincidence – or Fate – will arrange for our paths to cross again.’

  Mademoiselle Buisson gave me a curtsey and a smile; but Miss Carteret merely inclined her head a little, in the way that I had seen her do to Daunt, and passed on down the steps.

  Of course, I could not allow them to go and so, feigning a sudden disinclination to spend such an uncommonly fine November day looking at dull pictures, requested the honour of accompanying them a little way, if they were proceeding on foot. Mademoiselle announced brightly that they had thought of walking down to Green-park, which I agreed was a capital prospect on such an afternoon.

  ‘Then come with us, by all means, Mr Glapthorn!’ cried Mademoiselle. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Emily?’

  ‘I do not mind, if you do not, and if Mr Glapthorn has nothing better to do,’ came the reply.

  ‘Then it is settled,’ said her friend, clapping her hands. ‘How delightful!’

  And so off we set together across the Square, Miss Carteret on my right hand, Mademoiselle Buisson on my left.

  Once in the open spaces of the Park, Miss Carteret’s earlier irritation seemed to lessen. Little by little, we began to speak of things other than the late tragic events at Evenwood, and by the end of the afternoon, with the sun beginning to decline, we were talking openly and easily, as if we had all been old friends.

  Towards four o’clock we walked into Piccadilly, and the ladies waited by the kerb while I secured a hansom.

  ‘May I tell the driver where you wish to be taken?’ I asked innocently.

  She gave the address of her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent, and I handed her into the cab, followed by Mademoiselle Buisson, who smiled at me in a dreamy way as she settled herself into her seat.

  ‘Miss Carteret, it is presumptuous, I know, but will you allow me to call on you – and Mademoiselle Buisson?’

  To my surprise, she did not hesitate in her reply.

  ‘I am at home – I should say at my aunt’s home – every morning from eleven.’

  ‘May I come on Friday, then, at eleven?’ I confess that I asked the question, thinking she might invent some excuse for not being able to receive me; but instead, to my surprise, she leaned her head on one side and simply said:

  ‘Of course you may.’

  As the hansom pulled away, she pushed down the window, looked back at me, and smiled.

  A simple smile. But it sealed my fate.

  On Friday, as arranged, I called upon Miss Carteret at her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent. I was shown into a large and elegant drawing-room, where I found Miss Carteret and her friend seated together on a little sofa by the window, each apparently engrossed in reading.

  ‘Mr Glapthorn! How nice!’

  It was Mademoiselle who spoke first, jumping up to pull a small arm-chair closer to their sofa, and begging me to sit down.

  ‘We have been so dreadfully dull here this morning, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, resuming her place next to Miss Carteret, and tossing her book onto a nearby table. ‘Like two old spinsters. I declare I might have gone quite mad if you hadn’t come to see us. Emily, of course, can sit for hours on her own and never minds it; but I must have company. Don’t you love company, Mr Glapthorn?’

  ‘Only my own,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh, but that is terrible. You are as bad as Emily. And yet you were such a lively companion the other day, in the Park, was he not, Emily?’

  All through this exchange Miss Carteret had sat, book in hand, impassively regarding her friend. Then, ignoring the question, she turned towards me and took off her spectacles.

  ‘How is your employer, Mr Glapthorn?’

  ‘My employer?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Christopher Tredgold. I unders
tand from Lord Tansor that he has suffered a seizure.’

  ‘He was very poorly when I last saw him. I’m afraid I cannot say whether his condition has since improved.’

  Mademoiselle Buisson gave a little sigh and crossed her arms, as if she were piqued by the suddenly serious turn of the conversation.

  I had hoped for a warmer, less restrained, reception than this from Miss Carteret, and was unsure of what to say next.

  ‘Is your aunt at home?’ I said at last, feeling it would be polite of me to ask.

  ‘She is visiting a friend,’ Miss Carteret replied, ‘and will not return until this evening.’

  ‘Mrs Manners is a person who likes company very much,’ Mademoiselle Buisson observed, with a defiant toss of her head.

  ‘I think Mr Tredgold mentioned to me that Mrs Manners was your mother’s youngest sister?’ My employer had once spoken of Mr Carteret’s family, and of this lady, with whom Miss Carteret enjoyed a particularly close relationship.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘With whom you resided when you were in Paris?’

  ‘You are very curious about my family, Mr Glapthorn.’ The rebuke – if the remark was intended as such – was spoken in a soft, almost teasing tone, which strongly conveyed to me the notion that she was, after all, disposed to maintain the friendly relations that we had established during the course of our afternoon in Green-park. This encouraged me to take a little risk with my response.

  ‘I am curious about your family, Miss Carteret, because I am curious about you.’

  ‘That is a rather bold statement, and curious in itself. What possible interest can my dull life hold for someone such as you? For I conceive, Mr Glapthorn, that you are a person of wide experience and interests, with a certain largeness of view that I have observed before in men of strong intellect who have lived a good deal in the world on their own terms. You live by your wits – I am sure I am right to say this – and this gives you, if I may say so, a kind of feral character. Yes, you are an adventurer, Mr Glapthorn. I do not say that you can never be tamed, but I am sure you are not destined for domesticity. Don’t you agree, Marie-Madeleine?’