The Clockmaker's Daughter

by Kate Morton

  She took up a walnut cigarette box from the table and offered one to Leonard. He accepted and waited while she deftly teased a flame from the silver lighter. She lit her own and exhaled, waving her hand through the smoke. ‘I expect you would like me to say that the summer of 1862 feels like yesterday. Well, it doesn’t. It feels like a different country. Strange, isn’t it? When I think of Edward telling me stories as a child, I can smell the moist muddy air of our attic in Hampstead. But to think back to that summer is like looking through a telescope at a distant star. I see myself from the outside only.’

  ‘You were here then? At Birchwood Manor?’

  ‘I was thirteen years old. My mother was going to the Continent to stay with friends and had proposed to send me to my grandparents at Beechworth. Edward invited me to accompany him and the others instead. I was excited to be within their orbit.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘It was summer, and hot, and the first couple of weeks were spent as you might imagine: boating, picnicking, painting and walking. They all sat up late into the night telling stories and arguing over the scientific, artistic and philosophical theories of the day.’

  ‘But then?’

  Her gaze met his directly. ‘As you know, Mr Gilbert, it all fell apart.’

  ‘Edward’s fiancée was killed.’

  ‘Fanny Brown, yes.’

  ‘And the intruder stole the Radcliffe Blue pendant.’

  ‘You’ve done your research.’

  ‘There were a number of articles in the Newspaper Library.’

  ‘I should expect so. Fanny Brown’s death was widely reported.’

  ‘And yet, from what I saw, it appeared that there was even more speculation as to the whereabouts of the Radcliffe Blue diamond.’

  ‘Poor Fanny. She was a nice enough girl, but prone to being overshadowed – in life and, as you point out, in death. I hope you are not asking me to account for the obsessions of the tabloid-reading public, Mr Gilbert?’

  ‘Not at all. In fact, I’m far more interested in the reactions of the people who knew Frances Brown. While the rest of the world appears to have been fascinated by the events, I noticed that the correspondence of Edward’s friends and colleagues, of Thurston Holmes, and Felix and Adele Bernard, is all but silent on the matter. It’s almost as if it didn’t happen.’

  Did he imagine the slight flicker of recognition in her eyes?

  ‘It was a terrible day, Mr Gilbert. I shouldn’t think it would come as a surprise that those unfortunate enough to bear witness would choose not to dwell on it afterwards.’

  She regarded him steadily over her cigarette. What she said was reasonable, but Leonard couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that. There was something unnatural about their reticence. It wasn’t simply an absence of conversation about the day in question; to read the letters of the others immediately afterwards, it was as if Edward Radcliffe and Frances Brown had never existed. And it wasn’t until after Edward Radcliffe’s death that his ghost crept back into the correspondence of Thurston Holmes.

  There was something he was missing about the friendship between the two of them, and not just after Frances Brown was killed. Leonard thought back to his visit to the Holmes archive in York: he had noticed an earlier change in tenor in the letters between the two young men. The long, unrestrained conversations discussing art, philosophy and life that they had exchanged frequently after they met in 1858 had dried up in early 1862, becoming brief, perfunctory and formal. Something had happened between them, he was sure of it.

  Lucy frowned when he asked that very question, before saying, ‘I do remember Edward coming home hot under the collar one morning – it must have been around then, because it was before his second exhibition. His knuckles were grazed and his shirt was torn.’

  ‘He’d been in a fight?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me the details but I saw Thurston Holmes later that week and he had a big purple bruise around his eye.’

  ‘What did they fight over?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I didn’t give it much thought at the time. They were often at odds, even when they were good friends. Thurston was competitive and vain. A bull, a peacock, a rooster – take your pick. He could be charming and generous, and as the older of the two he introduced Edward to a number of influential people. He was proud of Edward, I think. He enjoyed the kudos of having such a dynamic, talented young friend. They attracted a lot of attention when they were together, the way they dressed, their loose shirts and scarfs, their wild hair and free attitudes. But Thurston Holmes was the sort of person who needed to be the friend on top. He did not take it well when Edward began to receive more acclaim than he did. Have you ever noticed, Mr Gilbert, that it’s friends like that who have a habit of becoming one’s most fiercely committed adversaries?’

  Leonard made a note of this insight into the friendship between the two artists. The firmness with which it was imparted explained his invitation here today. Lucy had told him in the graveyard that Holmes’s accounts of Edward could not be trusted; that she would have to set the record straight, ‘lest you publish more lies’. And here it was: she had wanted Leonard to know that Holmes had an agenda, that he was a jealous friend eager to elevate himself.

  But Leonard wasn’t convinced that professional envy alone explained the falling out between the two men. Radcliffe’s star was on the rise during 1861 and 1862, but the exhibition that made his name hadn’t taken place until April of the latter year, and correspondence between the men had cooled much earlier than that. Leonard suspected that there had been something else at play and he had a good idea of what it might have been. ‘Edward started using a new model in mid-1861, didn’t he?’ He feigned nonchalance, but even as he broached the subject an echo of his recent dreams assailed him and he felt his face warm; he couldn’t meet Lucy’s gaze, pretending to focus on his notes instead. ‘Lily Millington? I think that was her name?’

  Despite his best intentions he had betrayed himself, for there was a suspicious note to Lucy’s voice when she said, ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘From what I’ve read, the Magenta Brotherhood were a tight-knit group. They shared their ideas and influences, their secrets, their houses, even their models. Both Edward and Thurston Holmes painted Diana Barker, and all three of them painted Adele Winterson. But Lily Millington appears only in Edward’s paintings. It struck me as unusual and I wondered why. I could only think of two possibilities: either the others hadn’t wished to paint her, or Edward had objected to sharing.’

  Taking her cane, Lucy stood and slowly crossed the rug to stop near the window overlooking the street. Light was still filtering in through the glass, but it had shifted since Leonard arrived and her profile was now in shadow. ‘That intersection up there where the lanes meet is called the crossroads. A medieval cross used to stand at its centre. It was lost during the Reformation, when Elizabeth’s men stormed through the region, destroying the trappings of Catholicism, the churches and the religious art – the priests, too, when they could catch them. Now only the base of the cross remains. And its name, of course, passed through time. It is remarkable, is it not, Mr Gilbert, that a name, a simple word, is all that remains of such traumatic historical events. Things that happened right here to real people at another point in time. I think about the past every time I walk through the crossroads. I think about the church, and the priests who hid, and the soldiers who came to find and kill them. I think about guilt and forgiveness. Do you ever concern yourself with such matters?’

  She was being evasive, avoiding his question about Lily Millington. Yet not for the first time, Leonard had the sneaking sense that she could somehow see inside him. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. The word stuck in his throat and he coughed to clear it.

  ‘Yes, I should imagine one would, having been to war. I don’t usually go in for advice-giving, Mr Gilbert, but I have lived a long time and I have learned that one must forgive oneself the past or else the journey into the f
uture becomes unbearable.’

  Leonard felt a wash of shame-tinged surprise. It was a lucky guess, that’s all. She didn’t know his past. As she’d said, most men who had been to war had seen and done things that they would just as soon forget. He refused to let himself be thrown. Nonetheless, his voice was shakier than he’d have liked when he continued: ‘I have an extract from a letter that Edward wrote to your cousin Hamish in August 1861. I wonder if I could read it to you, Miss Radcliffe?’

  She did not turn back towards him, but neither did she try to stop him. Leonard began to read. ‘“I have found her, a woman of such striking beauty that my hand aches to put pen to paper. I long to capture all that I see and feel when I look upon her face, and yet at once I cannot bear to start. For how can I hope to do her justice? There is a nobility to her bearing, not of birth perhaps but of nature. She does not primp and appeal; indeed, it is her very openness, the way she has of meeting one’s attention rather than averting her eyes. There is a sureness – a pride even – to the set of her lips, that is breathtaking. She is breathtaking. Now that I have seen her, anyone else would be an imposter. She is truth; truth is beauty; and beauty is divine.”’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘That’s Edward. I would know his voice anywhere.’ She turned and came slowly back to her chair to sit down, and Leonard was surprised to notice a sheen of moisture on her cheeks. ‘I remember the night that he met her. He had been at the theatre and he came home in a daze. We all knew something was afoot. He told us everything in a rush, and then he went straight to his studio in the garden and started to sketch. He worked compulsively and did not stop for days. He didn’t eat or sleep or speak to anyone. He filled pages and pages of his notebook with her image.’

  ‘He was in love with her.’

  ‘I was going to tell you, Mr Gilbert, that my brother was an obsessive person. That he always behaved that way when he met a new model, or discovered a new technique, or had a new idea. And it would have been true.’ Her hand fluttered onto the armrest of the chair. ‘And false. For it was different with Lily Millington, and everyone could see it from the start. I could see it, Thurston saw it, and poor old Fanny Brown saw it, too. Edward loved Lily Millington with a madness that boded ill, and that summer, here at Birchwood, it all came to a head.’

  ‘So, Lily Millington was here. I thought she must have been, but there’s no mention of her. Not in anyone’s letters or diaries, and not in the newspapers either.’

  ‘Have you read the police reports, Mr Gilbert? I expect they keep such things.’

  ‘Are you saying that they’ll tell a different story?’

  ‘Mr Gilbert, my dear man, you were a soldier in the Great War. You know better than most that the account served up by the papers for public consumption often bears little relation to the truth. Fanny’s father was a powerful man. He was very keen that there should be no suggestion in the press that his daughter had been supplanted in Edward’s affections.’

  Connections were lighting up in Leonard’s mind. Edward had loved Lily Millington. It wasn’t the death of Frances Brown that broke his heart and sent him spiralling out of control; it was the loss of Lily. But what had happened to her? ‘If she and Edward were in love, why did he end up alone? How did he lose her?’ Lucy had suggested that the police reports would refer specifically to Lily Millington’s presence at Birchwood Manor on the night of the robbery and murder … Suddenly Leonard realised: ‘Lily Millington was involved in the robbery. She betrayed him – that’s what drove Edward mad.’

  A dark look came upon Lucy’s face and Leonard was immediately doused with regret. In the moment of comprehension, he had forgotten that it was her brother they were discussing. He had sounded almost gleeful. ‘Miss Radcliffe, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘how insensitive of me.’

  ‘Not at all. But I am growing tired, Mr Gilbert.’

  Leonard glanced at the clock and saw, with a sinking heart, that he had overstayed his invitation. ‘Of course. I won’t take up any more of your time. I’ll seek out the police reports as you suggest. I’m certain they’ll shed further light upon the subject.’

  ‘There are very few certainties in this world, Mr Gilbert, but I will tell you something I know: the truth depends on who it is that’s telling the story.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As he strolled back through the village, along the quiet road with its ragged verge, Leonard pondered Lucy Radcliffe. He was confident that he had never met a woman – another person – quite like her. It was clear that she was very bright. Age had not dimmed her fascination for all areas of intellectual enquiry; her interests were wide and varied; her ability to retain and process complex information evidently remarkable. She had been wry, too, and self-critical. He had liked her.

  He had also felt sorry for her. He had asked, as he was packing up to leave, about her school, and a look of deep regret had come upon her face. ‘I had such high hopes, Mr Gilbert, but it was too soon. I knew that compromise would be necessary; that in order to attract sufficient students I would have to concede to certain parental expectations. I had thought I would be able to honour my promise to shape the girls into “young ladies” whilst also instilling in them a love of learning.’ She had smiled. ‘I don’t think I flatter myself that there were some whom I started along a road they might otherwise not have found. But there was rather more singing and sewing than I’d envisaged.’

  As she spoke about the school and its students, it had occurred to Leonard that the house bore very little sign of them. All indication that schoolgirls had once filed through the halls en route to class had been erased, and one would be hard pressed to imagine Birchwood Manor anything other than a nineteenth-century artist’s country home. In fact, with all of Radcliffe’s furnishings and fittings still in place, entering the house felt to Leonard like stepping back in time.

  When he’d said as much to Lucy, she mused in reply, ‘A logical impossibility, of course, time travel: how can one ever be in two places “at the same time”? The phrase itself is a paradox. In this universe, at any rate …’ Not wanting to be drawn into another scientific debate, Leonard had asked how long the school had been closed. ‘Oh, decades now. It died with the Queen, in 1901. There was an accident, a most unfortunate event, a couple of years before. A young girl drowned in the river during a school picnic, and one by one the other students were withdrawn. With no new enrolments to take their place, well … one had little choice but to accept the reality. The death of a student is never good for business.’

  Lucy had a frankness that appealed to Leonard. She was forthcoming and interesting, and yet, as he reflected on the conversation, he had a distinct feeling that she’d shared nothing more with him than she’d intended. There was only one moment in their interview when he’d sensed that the mask had slipped. Something niggled at Leonard in the way she had described the events of 1862. It struck him now that she’d sounded almost guilty when she spoke of Frances Brown’s death and her brother’s consequent decline. There had been that odd crossroads tangent, too, in which she’d reflected on guilt and the need to forgive oneself, impressing upon Leonard his need to do the same.

  But Lucy Radcliffe had been a child in 1862 and, from the way she’d told it, a spectator rather than a participant in the summertime antics of her brother’s brilliant and beautiful friends. There had been a robbery, a priceless gem had been stolen, and Frances Brown had been killed in the process. Lily Millington, the model with whom Edward Radcliffe had been in love, had disappeared. Apparently, police reports from the time would suggest that she’d acted with the thief. Lucy’s beloved brother had never recovered. Leonard could understand Lucy suffering grief and a feeling of general regret, but not guilt. She had no more pulled the trigger that killed Miss Brown than Leonard had been responsible for the piece of flying shrapnel that killed Tom.

  Do you believe in ghosts, Mr Gilbert?

  Leonard had thought carefully before answering. I believe that a person can find himself
haunted. Now, as he contemplated her evident but irrational guilt, Leonard realised suddenly what she’d meant: that, despite her talk of folk tales and mysterious spirit lights in windows, she hadn’t been speaking about spooks in the shadows after all. She had been asking whether Leonard was haunted by Tom in the same way that she was haunted by Edward. She had recognised in him a kindred spirit, a fellow sufferer: the guilt of the sibling survivor.

  As he passed The Swan, and Dog appeared from somewhere to fall into panting step beside him, Leonard took a small rectangular card from his pocket and thumbed its well-worn edge. He’d met the woman who gave it to him at a party several years before, back when he was still living in London in the bedsit above the train line. She’d been set up in the corner of a room at the back of the house, sitting behind a round table with a purple velvet cloth covering it and some sort of board game laid out across its top. The sight of her, with a brightly beaded scarf wrapped around her head, had been enough to make him stare. And then there were the five party guests sitting at the table with her, all of them holding hands around the circle, their eyes closed as they listened to her muttering. Leonard had stopped and leaned against the doorway, watching through the haze of smoke.

  All of a sudden, the woman’s eyes had snapped open and fixed on him. ‘You,’ she’d said, pointing a long red talon as the others at the table turned to take him in. ‘There’s someone here for you.’

  He’d ignored her then, but her words and the intensity of her stare had stayed with him, and later, when he found himself leaving the party at the same time she did, he’d offered to carry her awkwardly shaped carpet bag down the four flights of stairs. When they reached the ground and he bade her goodnight, she’d taken the card from her pocket and handed it to him.