Charles has, on the face of it, no obvious reason to be so sceptical about such an unexpected and well-paid commission, but sceptical he is, and even more so now. He’s always had an excellent instinct for a lie, and his time in the Detective has done nothing to dull it. And what that instinct is telling him now is that a man like Tulkinghorn would never deign to deal personally with such a mundane affair, even for a client as consequential as Cremorne. The fact that he is so doing—and that even such a trivial matter as the delivery of supposedly insignificant letters cannot be delegated—is as eloquent, to Charles’s mind, as Tulkinghorn is taciturn. Charles, of course, did not see what we saw, and cannot know what we know, but he’s certain all the same that there’s something the old lawyer is not telling him. But what that is, and how deep it goes, even we cannot yet fully imagine.
Lincoln’s Inn Fields looks particularly beautiful this morning, the trees frosty against a brilliant blue sky, and somewhere among the branches, a blackbird singing. Charles presents himself as before, and as before he is shown upstairs, though progress is somewhat impeded by a little group of people in the hallway, gathered around a wizened and vociferous old man in a chair and a black skull-cap, attended by a lean female with a thin and wasted face. An angry altercation breaking out at just that moment, Charles leaves Knox to clear the house of such undesirable riff-raff and makes his own way upstairs. He arrives, as a result, rather sooner than his host seems to have anticipated, since Mr Tulkinghorn is not at his desk—is, in fact, still in a little ante-room Charles did not notice on his first visit, and from which come voices and the smell of fine tobacco. Charles catches sight—so briefly it is no more than an impression—of three men sitting round a table, and a fourth, older, grey-haired, standing upright with his back to the door. A moment later Tulkinghorn appears, closes the door firmly behind him, and moves, rather quickly for him, back to his wonted position of state behind the desk.
“Good morning, Mr Maddox.”
“Mr Tulkinghorn.”
As before, the lawyer takes the ring of keys from his waistcoat-pocket and unlocks the desk drawer. As before, the papers are placed on a plain brown sleeve. Two sheets. Tulkinghorn hands them to Charles.
“This arrived six weeks ago, the other some three months before that. As you will see, our anonymous correspondent seems to be lacking in either imagination or vocabulary. Or, indeed, both. It does not seem to me that they add a great deal to the evidence already at your disposal, but here they are.”
There is, indeed, a dogged persistence in the content of the letters:
I naw what yow did
You cannot hide from me
Yow sins will find ee out
I will make yow pay
“You were going to ask about the envelopes?”
“I have put enquiries in hand. I am not hopeful, but if they can be found, I will have them sent to you.”
Tulkinghorn is about to close the drawer again when he notices that Charles is eyeing the strange black paperweight.
“Such curios interest you?” he says, as if casually, picking it up and holding it towards Charles in the palm of his small dry hand.
Charles reaches out and takes the object. “It’s Egyptian, I think? Obsidian?”
The old man raises an eyebrow. “Indeed. It came from a mummy discovered by Giovanni Belzoni in the Valley of the Kings. Some high-ranking official, buried with his master. I saw the body unwrapped before my very eyes. Some of my noble clients have a taste for the macabre, and such evenings are, I believe, becoming rather fashionable. This amulet was found among the linens. I was taken with it, and my client was good enough to present it to me. A small token of recognition for many years of loyal service. Of course, there are some who condemn such acts as sacrilegious—even accursed—but that, I am sure you will agree, is mere ignorance and uncouth superstition.”
If he did but know it, this hard, dark artefact is a rather interesting metaphor for its equally impenetrable owner. Tulkinghorn may not understand exactly what role it played, but if such things interest you, you can see these selfsame fingers in the British Museum, which is where—by a circuitous route that need not concern us—this object now finds itself. And as the label on the case will tell you, these long thin fingers were a tool of the embalmer, designed to hold the incisions closed after the organs were removed, so keeping malign forces at bay, and the body intact for all eternity. Whatever his view of the possibility of an afterlife (and if he has one, he keeps it as private as his opinions on every other matter of note), this is a role Mr Tulkinghorn would have appreciated, and one in which he is, in his own field, unsurpassed.
When he gets to his feet a moment later Charles is intrigued but not unduly surprised to observe that Tulkinghorn has no intention of discussing the letters with him any further; he seems, indeed, solely concerned to show him off the premises with all dispatch. But when they reach the door of the chamber the lawyer appears to change his mind, and turns to Charles with what passes, with him, for a smile.
“Perhaps it would interest you to see my little collection? The top of the house is let off now in sets of chambers, but I still keep the lower floors, where the coolness of the temperature and the dryness of the atmosphere are ideally suited for my purpose.”
It could hardly be more contrary to what Charles was expecting, but nonetheless he accepts with alacrity. Tulkinghorn leads him down towards the ground floor, but stops on the half landing by a door that is so cleverly concealed by the veins and swirls of faked marbled paintwork you could pass it by nine times out of ten, and never even notice. He lights a candle and the two of them make their way down a spiral stone staircase to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion. The stairs are dark, and the candle throws the lawyer’s enormous, quivering shadow against the curve of the wall. But strange though it seems, the air brightens as they descend, and when they reach the foot of the staircase Charles sees why. He’s in a small hexagonal chamber that opens into another, much larger room, lit from above by a huge conical dome of yellow glass with a stone rose in its centre. They must be at least two floors below ground, but the room ahead of him is double-height, with a catacomb of corridors opening away from him in all directions. The architecture is astounding, but even that retreats into insignificance compared with what it holds. It is like some augmentum ad absurdum of Charles’s own former lodgings—objects stud every surface, every wall, every shelf, as well as every passage and alcove within view. It is, quite simply, the largest and most extraordinary collection of classical statuary Charles has ever seen. Not even his beloved British Museum can rival this. Stone, marble, terracotta, alabaster—every texture, every colour from pearly ivory to a rich polished black. Funerary urns and a statue of Apollo, horn-eared gods and a snake-haired Medusa, busts of ancient emperors and fragments of vase, heads in profile, heads in relief, tiny broken details mounted on plaques, and perfectly intact slabs of huge architectural frieze. Tulkinghorn eyes his visitor with a quiet but obvious satisfaction.
“Most of the best Greek and Roman sculpture is in here,” he says, as if casually, “but I think Egypt is your own preference?”
Charles has no preference of the kind, but he has no objection to seeing what else his host is prepared to show him. Tulkinghorn leads him towards the dome, and he sees now that this space is not a room at all, but a gallery round another, lower chamber that opens now beneath him, half plunged in darkness, and dominated by a huge stone trough, throned on pillars and deeply carved with symbols and runes. No—not runes, thinks Charles, leaning over the balustrade as his eyes adjust to the light. Not runes but hieroglyphs, and it’s not a trough but a sarcophagus—an enormous, perfectly preserved Egyptian sarcophagus. He starts and turns to Tulkinghorn, remembering suddenly where he has seen this before.
“But this is—”
“The sarcophagus of Pharaoh Seti the First. Indeed.”
“But you said—”
“That I was given the amulet. That is quite tru
e, but we are speaking of two distinct occasions. The sarcophagus had to be paid for.”
“May I go down?”
“Of course. You will find the stairs in the corner over there.”
Charles heads round the gallery to the far side, but when he gets there he finds himself unexpectedly confounded. He knows this is where the stairs are supposed to be (and he is, as we know, rather better than most at finding his way), but when he turns the final corner by a niche containing a life-sized statue of Pan, he finds himself face-to-face with—himself: a life-sized reflection of himself. The glass is slightly convex, and the mirror so cleverly sited and angled that it makes the room seem at least twice its real size. It also serves, very effectively, as a blind alley, an optical illusion that can only be designed to lead the inexperienced visitor astray. What sort of man could possibly—? Charles turns and looks back to the other side of the gallery. Tulkinghorn is still standing there. Standing and watching. A curious expression on his face—his customary sardonic superiority, yes, but something else as well, which in another man might suggest a barely suppressed excitement. The combination is unsettling, and Charles is struck suddenly by the conviction that more than half of the lawyer’s pleasure in this exquisite collection lies in the power it affords him to withhold that pleasure from everyone else. Even—or perhaps especially—those he ostensibly brings to see it. He has not merely constructed this astonishing gallery, and at unimaginable expense, but contrived every stratagem at his disposal to deceive the eye: light, shadow, looking-glass, trompe-l’oeil. Indeed, as Charles now realises, this space that seems designed for display has actually been created for another purpose altogether. An enfilade of architectural subterfuges that bestows with one hand, what it conceals with the other. There are, unquestionably, incomparable treasures here, but not so many as the eye believes it can see—some are mere illusions, others tantalising glimpses forever out of reach. Charles looks slowly about him, re-adjusting his mental map, and attempting to penetrate beyond the dazzle of remarkable objects to the bones of the building that must lie behind. Tulkinghorn is the Daedalus of this labyrinth, and no-one understands its secrets better than the man who made it. He feels, surely and uncomfortably, that his host is toying with him, much as Thunder does with the mice behind the skirting-boards, when the weather is wet and there is nothing better to do. It takes a few minutes, but he eventually realises that the catacomb effect is nothing but a spectacular sleight of hand: Four of the six narrow passage-ways that appear to lead off the gallery are only mirrored alcoves. There is only one way in, which means there can be only one way down.
“I congratulate you,” says Tulkinghorn, when Charles emerges eventually beneath him. “Many visitors never negotiate that particular little puzzle. Even the more astute take rather longer than you did. You will find a lit candle in the small niche on the right-hand side. If you hold it carefully inside the sarcophagus you will be able to appreciate fully the translucent quality of the stone. There are also, as you will see, some signs remaining of blue inlay, but sadly the alabaster has not aged well.”
His tone is almost cordial, as if Charles has passed some obscure initiation.
“It is extraordinary, Mr Tulkinghorn. The whole collection. Quite extraordinary.”
The lawyer inclines his head. “I am gratified you think so. But I am afraid I will have to draw your exploration of it to a rather abrupt conclusion. I have a luncheon engagement with a baronet, and I cannot keep him waiting.”
Charles arrives home just in time to be too late for his own lunch, but Molly scrapes together the remains of the boiled beef and greens, and he elects to take his plate into his great-uncle’s room and sit with him while he eats. The slight graze to his cheek has all but healed and—to Charles’s relief—Maddox seems to retain no memory at all of how he came by it. Though if Abel has anything to say on the matter, it’s doubtful Maddox will ever move much beyond these four walls again. He is quiet today, but Charles has not the experience yet to know the difference between the quiet of composure, and the quiet of catatonia. His eye-glass and his watch are ready to his hand, though he has not yet picked up either of them; but perhaps he just needs something to stimulate his curiosity. Charles finishes his meat and puts the plate on the floor beside him, then takes the Cremorne letters from the inside of his jacket.
“Do you have a moment, Uncle Maddox?”
The old man eyes him, rather warily.
“I have just acquired a new case, that I would like to consult you about.”
It may be the magic word case, or perhaps it’s something in Charles’s tone, but Maddox is suddenly alert.
“What’s that? Speak up, boy, I can’t hear what you’re saying through all that mumble.”
“I have a new case, Uncle. A problematic one. I wanted to ask your help.”
“Go on, then, get on with it. I dare say you’ve got all the facts in the wrong order, just like you used to in the old days. Always went at a problem like a bull at a gate. All over the place. Hopeless.”
It might strike you that this runs rather counter to Maddox’s last expressed views on the selfsame subject, and it may not be a coincidence that the old man’s tone is rather shrill. Charles edges forward in his seat, trying not to mind.
“The client has been receiving letters—”
“Letters? What sort of letters?”
“—offensive letters. Anonymous letters. My task is to find out who sent them. That alone will be difficult enough, given how little I have to go on, but I’m convinced there’s more to it than what I’ve been—”
Maddox doesn’t appear to be listening. “Is that them there?”
Charles hands them over. The old man’s hands are trembling slightly, but his mind suddenly seems completely steady. He picks up his eye-glass and looks first at one letter, and then another, turning them over carefully several times. But then, to Charles’s horror, he takes one and flattens it against his face, breathing heavily. Charles tries to seize it, but Maddox will not let it go and the two of them struggle, the flimsy sheet crumpling between their fists.
“Uncle—please—”
“What do you think you’re doing? Let go of me, you fool!”
“But—”
Billy has heard the fracas from the adjoining room and appears at the door, his bright round face frowning and concerned. “Everything all right, Mr Charles? Only—”
“Everything’s fine, Billy,” says Charles quickly, embarrassed to be found in this ridiculous position, playing tug-of-war with an elderly man over a piece of wretched paper. “There’s no need to worry yourself. Go down to the kitchen, would you, and ask Molly for some tea.”
“Right you are, Mr Charles. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
When he turns back to Maddox, the old man’s face is very red and his chest is heaving.
“I’ll thank you, Charles, to show me an appropriate degree of respect. My age, if nothing else, surely commands that much.”
It is as if a switch has been flicked—an analogy which is at least thirty years away, incidentally, though the snap of a magic lantern will do almost as well. Maddox is looking at Charles now with as clear a gaze as the younger man can ever remember.
“I’m sorry,” he stumbles, “I did not intend—”
Maddox’s eyes narrow. “No, I dare say you did not. Now, to business. These letters of yours. You have, I presume, drawn the first and most obvious conclusion?”
It’s Charles’s turn to redden now. “Yes—that is, no—”
Maddox smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Well, that is no more than I expected. Have you forgotten all I taught you already? Logic and observation, my boy, logic and observation.”
He smoothes the paper against his leg and hands it to Charles. There is no trace of a tremor now.
“Examine this—carefully, mind—and tell me what you find.”
Charles takes the paper and stares at it.
“Well,” he says slowly, after a few minutes. “Th
e writing is not educated—”
“Indeed.”
“—and is in a man’s hand.”
“Indubitably.”
“He has some cause for grievance against Sir Julius, which he clearly feels very deeply, but does not specify. Is that significant?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Go on.”
Charles looks up. “That’s all. I can infer nothing more.”
Maddox smiles broadly. “Come, come, my lad. Surely you can deduce a little more than that? Do you not remember what I used to tell you when you were a boy? A letter is far more than a sequence of words written on a page—it is a physical object, and in that respect is frequently far more eloquent than its creator intended.”
Charles looks again at the letter in his hand. “The paper is poor, that much I can see, but that doesn’t get us very far. And as for anything else—”
“Smell it.”
Charles gapes. “What?”
His great-uncle is clearly enjoying himself. “Go on—smell it. It will not bite you.”
Charles brings the letter reluctantly to his face. It’s faint at first but as the paper brushes his nose he pulls his head away, coughing.
“My God, whatever that is, it’s absolutely disgusting!”
“Quite so. Absolutely nauseating, and absolutely unmistakable. An exceedingly unpalatable combination of cattle fat, rotting meat, and dog excrement.”
Maddox sits back in his chair, and joins his fingertips together. “Is it not obvious? Your culprit, my dear Charles, is a tanner.”
Charles’s eyes widen. This man is remarkable, completely and utterly remarkable. Who else but Maddox would have even thought to put the letter to such a test? And who else but he would know how to interpret what he found?
“Moreover,” Maddox continues, “the text itself is not quite so devoid of interest as you seem to believe. You stated—quite correctly—that the author of this missive is uneducated. But he is not—perhaps—as illiterate as you might assume. This word here”—he points a gnarled finger—“naw, and here yow—”
The Solitary House (With Bonus Novels Bleak House and the Woman in White) Page 8