The Devil's Mask

by Christopher Wakling

  At some point I had let go of Lilly’s hand. I glanced at her to check how she was enjoying the reading and saw that she was already looking at me. Beyond Lilly, I made out the profiles of her sister and mother, both of whom were looking to the stage – Abigail with a wry smirk, Mrs Alexander disapprovingly, her mouth more than usually pursed. It appeared that past them Heston Alexander, whose chin had dropped to his chest, was asleep.

  My walk out to Long Ashton, those scrawny children, my premonition about the washed-up body and the initials. The shock! A coffee sack thrust over my head. A carriage climbing a hill, building sites, the long, long drop. Dock duties and death. The sense I’d strayed somewhere I shouldn’t have, and the revelation, once my misstep had been pointed out, that I was the sort to flee from consequences so swiftly. Was I driven by curiosity and nothing else? How easily my obligation to Carthy had been brushed aside. What mattered more, deep down, was Lilly’s white throat and her tinkling silly laughter, and the coffee stain on Mary’s apron and the heft of her hip beneath it. Coffee! Too much, and not enough sleep, and a father and brothers I could not reach, and now this complication of a girl in her widow-like dress with her awkwardness and assuredness and her words, words, words, which were somehow wrapping me up safe and belittling me at the same time.

  The poet’s recital ended. I was careful to keep my applause short. There was much waving and sidestepping and nodding in recognition from Mrs Alexander and her daughters as they worked their way through the other audience members and out into the foyer. Between them they seemed to know everyone. Heston followed behind with me, yawning and stretching and saying, ‘Marvellous, poetical,’ and clapping me on the back before adding, ‘though of course I can’t claim to have a trained ear.’

  ‘The verses were original.’

  ‘Hmm? Absolutely. Certainly she gave me an appetite. Lord! I could eat, and dinner awaits!’

  Heston attempted to steer his wife towards the door, but Mrs Alexander held firm on the carpet with a mincing smile, indicating that she and her daughters were in conversation with a man whose moustache, I noticed, was the colour of egg-yolk. Heston cast around for somebody of his own to accost, beckoning me as he homed in on Lloyd Sutherland, the new owner of the recital rooms no less, who was himself holding forth amongst a group which included … the poetess. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself face to face with the woman. My prospective father-in-law appeared either to have forgotten her already, or considered her unworthy of including in his interruption; he opted instead to compliment the new owner on his purchase of so important a civic space, then asked him directly when he expected to see a return on his investment.

  The poetess looked away with a feline lack of concern.

  I shuffled from foot to foot.

  Heston Alexander, perhaps sensing his faux pas, eventually offered his hand to the young woman and explained confidentially, ‘This young man is also prone to a bit of art, you know! Pictures, etcetera.’ His work done, he turned back to Sutherland and asked with what other entertainments he intended to improve the city.

  I felt the colour rising in my cheeks.

  ‘You paint?’ the young woman murmured.

  I offered my hand and managed a stilted, ‘Inigo Bright.’

  ‘What sort of paintings do you make, Mr Bright?’

  ‘No. I don’t paint. Mr Alexander was mistaken in referring to my doodlings as art. Simple ink drawings are my limit.’

  The woman laughed openly. Her eyes were too close together, her nose too big in her face. Yet the slash of mouth beneath it …

  ‘What sort of quill do you prefer?’

  ‘Quill?’

  ‘Yes. For drawing. Don’t pretend you’re not troubled by the choice. It must matter more to an artist than it does to a writer, and I’m obsessive about these things. My father gave me a stock of hawk feathers last Christmas. I’m still using them. You can hold a finer point on a hawk’s outer wing feather than is even possible with crow. The issue I have is that I’m left-handed. There are far fewer right-winged feathers of any bird for sale, and I’m particular about curvature; the quill absolutely has to fit properly in my hand. I tried a swan’s feather once, but found it overrated.’

  Was this in earnest? There was glitter in those close-set eyes. Unsure whether or not they were mocking me, I mumbled something about how gulls’ wing-feathers were unusually straight, and possessed a longevity which few other quills could match.

  ‘Seagulls. Really?’

  ‘Yes, they’re like goose, but better. They flex well, yet they’re strong.’

  ‘Well. I’ll try gull next then.’

  She was serious, no doubt about it; I heard myself offering to make a gift to the woman of one of my – Carthy’s in fact – gull feather quills to try out.

  ‘That’s a kind offer. I’ll take it up on one condition – that you show me how they have worked for you.’ Her eyes were still amusedly bright but their gaze was more penetrating than before. ‘Let me see some of these drawings you’ve made.’

  ‘I couldn’t impose …’

  Somebody had arrived at my side. It was Lilly. While I introduced my fiancée, the poetess looked her over as dispassionately as she had regarded her audience. A pause followed, in which I was unable to look squarely at either woman. Instead, I was distracted by the chandelier flickering above our heads. As I stared at it, one of its flames puttered out. The poetess eventually broke the silence. ‘Mr Bright was just agreeing to show me some of his art,’ she confided.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lilly. She pressed her hands together and stuck out her chin. ‘I’ve seen a sample already. It’s lovely. He has a … fine touch.’

  Immediately, I launched into a conversation about – of all things – the new science of gas lighting which I’d recently read about. More reliable than oil lamps, less smoke. I indicated the chandelier. Better than candles. Less easily blown out.

  ‘How fascinating,’ said Edie.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Lilly uncertainly.

  ‘Where shall I visit to inspect your work?’ the poetess asked me. ‘And receive my gift, of course.’

  I mumbled Carthy’s address, conscious that Lilly was wavering beside me. I offered her my arm. The shadow of a smile played on Edie’s lips, but her eyes remained flatly serious. She thrust out her hand. To take it, I had to let go of Lilly again. I did so. The poetess’s grip was cool and firm and the muscles in her thin forearm worked in the sliver of exposed wrist as she shook my hand. I backed away with Lilly. Gulls’ feathers, gas lamps, gifts. I flinched again from the memory of myself.

  Twenty-four

  Carthy did not favour Thunderbolts. He preferred to take tea in Corn Street instead, declaring the brew there more refined, the service more courteous, and the company altogether more edifying. I knew this was a ruse to allow me a bolt-hole away from my lodgings and workplace, both of which were, after all, set squarely beneath his roof. So when, the morning after Edie’s reading, my coffee bowl leapt to the smack of a newspaper thumped down upon the table over which I was hunched, I looked up expecting to see Mary – who had grown altogether more direct with me of late – and not my employer’s looming face. I had never seen those eyebrows as fiercely dipped, or his brow as furrowed.

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Read it!’ Carthy fairly shouted.

  I looked at the folded page of newsprint. Carthy had scratched a square in ink around a paragraph of text which, with its familiar tone of gleeful despair, proclaimed further corruption in the city. A lawyer, this time, stood accused of misappropriating client funds. It took a second before Carthy’s name hit home, and my first impulse, on making the connection, was to laugh out loud.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s no joke!’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I – we – stand accused just as it says. While you were out yesterday, I received the news first hand. Bullivant’s boy delivered the letter in person.’

  Again I fought th
e urge to smile. ‘But … Bullivant! It’s transparent. His grudge is common knowledge.’

  David Bullivant had invested in the Hopewell, a ship which sank while returning from the Indies that spring. The merchant’s share in the lost vessel was uninsured; pressed for funds, he’d taken a gamble. In subsequently casting around for somebody to blame for this ill fortune, Bullivant had instructed Carthy to investigate the possibility of suing his partners. He alleged that they had been responsible for overloading the ship, but we could find no evidence of this. Not liking our advice, the man had refused to pay for it. Now, it seemed, he was claiming we’d stolen the money he’d advanced us on account.

  Carthy dragged a three-legged stool out from under the table and sat down heavily. He knotted his fingers together forcefully enough to raise tendons in the backs of his hands.

  ‘I prepared Bullivant’s fee note myself,’ I explained. ‘He hasn’t yet settled it. Should anyone take a moment to inspect the file, they will see that he stands in debt to Carthy and Co., not the other way around.’ My words were ineffectual as flakes of snow swirling seawards. I went on regardless. ‘We informed him repeatedly –’

  Carthy lowered his head. ‘No, no, no,’ he said.

  ‘But –’

  ‘Where were you yesterday?’

  ‘Nobody will take this seriously!’

  ‘Why were you not at work?’

  ‘It’s a stunt. He’s been put up to it.’

  ‘Of course he’s been put up to it! I know that!’ Carthy’s knuckles bulged. ‘Don’t be so literal-minded, Inigo! I asked you a question.’

  To feel protective of my mentor was a reversal of Copernican profundity: I could not hoist its implications on board immediately. Better, instead, to concentrate on the injustice at hand than add further to Carthy’s concerns. Taking responsibility in this way would be exactly what he would want. If Carthy knew I had been threatened he would not let the matter lie, and I had determined to do just that.

  ‘Dead ends,’ I said. ‘I was chasing down the last leads in the Dock Company investigation. The books need balancing, monies are owed, we know as much. There’s nothing untoward about the Belsize, not that I can see, at any rate. I was engaged in confirming that yesterday.’

  Carthy’s hands had stopped working at one another. He looked away from me and said, ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes. And I imagine we should inform Mr Orton. He asked for a written report: I’ll have you a draft today.’

  Mary now arrived at the table to take Carthy’s order. She bent to wipe down the table before asking what he wanted to drink. Her hand was red, her forearm pink; the cloth worked hard circles around the fretted oak tabletop, and her hip brushed against my shoulder as she raised herself upright. She was suddenly infuriating. I barked, ‘Tea!’ and waved away her nod at my empty cup. Her hip knocked my arm more forcefully when she spun to go. Carthy studied me as my thumb traced cloth-wiped circles across the black wood tabletop.

  ‘So you’re also of the opinion that this clumsy attempt to besmirch our name is connected to the case,’ he said.

  I protested: ‘I didn’t make such a connection.’

  ‘You should have. Because that’s what this is.’

  ‘No. Bullivant is of no interest to Orton.’

  Carthy shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  I went on. ‘I’ve not seen his name connected to the WTC.’

  Carthy’s thumb and fingers spread out to grip and knead his temples. They then slid inwards again, running across the grain of his eyebrows, which bristled like cat fur stroked backwards. He appeared more resigned than angry, disappointed by a shallowness he’d perceived in me. This stung, but I could say nothing. I saw full well that the WTC might seek to undermine Carthy & Co. via an unconnected third party, but I didn’t want to admit as much, because doing so would mean acknowledging the wider web of my concerns. I hung my head. Carthy would be outraged if he heard I had been accosted. Far from retreating on the WTC and the Belsize, he’d raise a stink.

  Carthy spoke patiently. ‘Of course he’s not on the WTC’s books, Inigo. An overt link is the last thing the Company’s members would want. But – in this town especially – everything’s intertwined. Tell me you understand that, please.’

  Mary arrived with Carthy’s bowl of tea. The waitress was standing close to me again. When she bent forward with the milk jug, I could not help but notice the heaviness of her chest. That bare forearm, too, braced against the tabletop. She stood up and wiped her hand against her apron and I looked away. The babble of customers dropped for a moment; I fancied I could hear Mary exhale. I looked up to see her … looking back at me. Her tongue appeared to be pressed into her cheek. ‘Enough!’ I growled. ‘For God’s sake. We’re talking here, Mary. Leave us be!’ Without rushing, the waitress walked away. I concentrated on the window, trying to gather sensible thoughts. It had begun to rain outside; the frontage opposite the coffee house had darkened oppressively; it seemed the sky had lowered itself like a lid upon the rooftops. The two of us sat in silence in the gathering gloom. Of course I understood the intertwining Carthy was pointing to, and the real likely motive behind Bullivant’s claim. Like the rain, spearing down now, greasing the cobbles, it was irrefutable. But as my chances of denying the connection receded, I found myself all the more compelled to stick to my guns.

  ‘Bullivant’s an ass. You know that better than anyone: it was your advice he refused to take. This assault is entirely within the ambit of the man’s character, or lack of one. He’s clutching at straws as he drowns.’

  ‘It’s unlike you to speak to someone in that manner.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You were rude to the serving girl. Why? It betrays something.’

  I felt an uncomfortable heat gather within my chest. I reached to my brow and looked down, attempting to shield my face from view as the warmth wound itself up my neck. I had to say something … anything … to regain my footing within the conversation.

  ‘Rude? I was straightforward. We’re talking. She was loitering. It’s the truth!’

  The look Carthy gave me, eyebrows furrowed, a forced smile, straddled incredulity and disappointment. ‘I see,’ Carthy repeated. ‘So your counsel would be to scale down the Dock Company investigation –’

  ‘Which is what the client asked us to do!’ I interrupted.

  ‘– and debunk Bullivant’s posturing as something entirely unconnected –’

  ‘Squeal conspiracy instead and it will just appear that we have something to hide!’

  Carthy drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I hear you,’ he said softly. ‘But no. The Dock Company investigation goes on. We must dig deeper. If you prefer to concentrate upon your other cases, I will see to the matter myself. But you will assist me in issuing defamation proceedings against Bullivant. We must contact the news-sheet with a rebuttal forthwith. We cannot sit still here; we must attack.’

  I rocked back on my stool hard enough to feel its joints creak. Outside, the rain was bouncing knee high now, raising a mist which helped veil the buildings just a few paces opposite. A similar fog had found its way between me and my mentor. It was apparent in the self-conscious manner with which Carthy was now inspecting his pocket-watch. Too closely; I sensed he was not really reading the time, but using the gesture to declare the conversation over.

  Guilt swept through me. I rocked forward, but Carthy snapped the pocket-watch shut.

  ‘So –’ I began.

  But Carthy immediately cut in. ‘I must return home. Anne … has a … performance which she … has asked me …’ He waved a hand as if to imply that the details were unimportant, manifestly unconcerned whether or not I believed him, which made me all the more intent upon pretending that I did.

  ‘Yes, yes. Little Anne,’ I said softly. ‘Her performance will transfix us all. I must not hold you back.’

  *

  When I was a boy I accidentally injured Phantom, one of Father’s lurchers. Th
e dog was a favourite. He allowed it to sleep upstairs on the end of his bed. I was roughhousing with it on the landing one morning, and slipped in my bare-stockinged feet upon the polished floorboards, plunging myself and the lurcher down a flight of stairs. The dog broke my fall – and a back leg. My father nursed it back to health, but Phantom never quite trusted me again. It didn’t run away from my approach, much less snap at me, but from that moment it exhibited an … increased awareness, visible in the occasional shiver which ran across its shoulders when it sensed I was close by, and in the way it tracked me around the room with a wary eye, and the eighth of an inch its haunches would drop in the instant before I stroked its back. I feared a similar gap had opened up between myself and Carthy, and determined to do all I could to broach it.

  Twenty-five

  A note had arrived for me while we were in the coffee shop. It wasn’t one of Lilly’s; her cards are a distinctive peach colour, never mind their scent. My next thought was of the poetess, Edie Dyer. But no, the spidery handwriting belonged to my youngest brother, Sebastian.

  Come home, the script read.

  I set off without bothering to search for an umbrella, and slogged up the hill in the rain. My hair was matted with sweat by the time I made Bright House. My coat and hat were sodden, my boots filthy. I kicked them off at the door and left damp footprints across the tiles as I made my way to the music room. For a moment I stood outside the door listening. There was no pattern to my brother’s playing; it was just so many notes strung together around pauses. I entered the room. I skirted the pianoforte and Sebastian looked up at me and smiled bleakly and did not stop playing, which irked me: had I rushed up the hill through the rain for no reason?