The House on Vesper Sands

by Paraic O?Donnell

  Gideon took care with his words, not altogether certain that he did. ‘I believe so, sir.’

  ‘Then we need say no more, I think. We need say no more. But what about you, Bliss? You did not brick up your house, did you? You flung open all the windows and the doors, so that anyone might wander in.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right, sir. I have been too trusting, I fear.’

  ‘I meant no slight. There is no great satisfaction in the alternative, I assure you. And one day soon, I am sure, one of those who wanders in will make a home for herself. And why would she not? You have no great surfeit of common sense, for all your Cambridge education, and you have the constitution of a consumptive poet. But you are an agreeable young fellow, on the whole, with something very like decency in you. Others will come, Bliss. You must try not to cling to shadows.’

  Gideon hung his head.

  ‘But I am wasting my breath, I know. There has never been any talking to you where that girl is concerned. Go and find her, then. Mrs Cornish has promised us a bit of breakfast, when I have finished playing the undertaker. We will talk more then. Go and find her, Bliss. We may expect another visitor, as like as not. Maybe more than one. We must be watchful now. Go and find her. Stay near her, while you can. One way or another, this will all be over soon.’

  The house was larger than it first appeared. Gideon lost his way frequently among its dim passageways and shuttered rooms, or found that he had looked in the same place twice: a disused parlour, where an abandoned bureau was strewn with damp furs; a billiard room, where he tripped and clutched at a shrouded harpsichord, scattering sheet music and spilling peacock feathers from a crusted ewer.

  By the time he heard a clock strike nine, he had hardly covered even the whole of the ground floor. It might take him half the day to search the house, never mind the whole of the grounds. He tried to think as she might, or at least, to imagine what she might do. For she had certain habits, after all, even if it was impossible to know her mind. He had been lurching from one sepulchral room to the next, but it occurred to him that Miss Tatton was not drawn to such places. She had no fear of the dark, certainly, but neither did it seem to hold any fascination for her. She lingered by windows, when she was at ease, watching the changes in the weather, the light on the water. She was drawn to the air and the elements, to brightness.

  Descending a small flight of steps, he found himself in another gloomy hallway. But a doorway at its far end disclosed a spill of light, thin and rain-grey. Raising his face in the musty air he caught a faint ribbon of cold.

  He knocked gently when he came to the door. ‘Hello?’ He waited. ‘Hello? Forgive me, it is Sergeant Bliss. I hope I do not intrude.’

  There was silence. He edged into the room, taking care not to disturb the door.

  ‘Hello?’ he said again, but no one answered. Gideon wandered in, blinking in the unaccustomed daylight, and looked about him in fascination. Unlike the others he had entered, this room appeared to be in frequent use. Indeed, it was so richly furnished, and held such a variety of objects, that it was difficult to tell just what use it was put to. It seemed to serve as a study, since there was a bureau on which a great quantity of books and papers were heaped, and a number of mismatched bookcases were likewise filled. But it did duty, too, as a music room – a great honey-hued violoncello was propped up by a music stand – and as a laboratory of some kind. A bench before a window was arrayed with polished instruments, and glass-fronted cabinets held a profusion of minerals and crystals – amethyst and azurite and bright knuckles of quartz – alongside meticulously labelled animal bones, glossy ranks of beetles and countless moths and butterflies.

  Gideon had stooped to examine a moth – an enchanting thing with primrose-yellow wings – when a small noise startled him. He straightened, retreating briskly from the cabinet. It would not do to be found rootling about in what must be Lady Ada’s private study when even Miss Tatton had been warned against it. He stood for a moment in apprehensive silence.

  The noise came again – a shuddering creak – and a small movement caught his eye. The French doors were unlocked, and had swung a little way open in the freshening air. They looked out over a dank lawn and a sombre procession of yew trees. In the distance, half hidden beyond a decline, a weathered summerhouse could be seen. It would be quiet there, with views of the sea, and it occurred to him that he ought to look there next.

  A darkness, outside. Quick and oblique, it crossed the flagstones. Then the man whose shadow it was.

  ‘Well, well.’ The man was dressed in black, with the poor light at his back. He did not remove his hat, and his face was in shadow. Gideon stared, but he could not bring his senses to bear.

  ‘There you are at last,’ the man said, stepping inside. He nodded ruefully as he surveyed the room, as if it were a place he remembered with fondness. He approached a cabinet, caressing its frame with gloved fingertips. ‘Do you remember your taxonomy?’

  Gideon thought to speak, but the words had not yet formed.

  ‘That is Gonepteryx rhamni,’ the man said, tapping the glass. ‘The primrose-yellow specimen. The brimstone butterfly. Is it not delightful? Our friend Linnaeus designated it Papilio rhamni, having granted only a single genus to all the butterflies and moths. We may scoff at him now, having added a great many rooms to his mansion, but before him we all dossed in a cowshed. You have kept up your reading, I trust, in the natural sciences? Or have the doctors of Selwyn College grown intolerant of such things?’

  Gideon shook his head feebly. ‘Uncle?’

  ‘I am glad to see you, boy. I was not certain that I would again.’

  ‘But you are living, sir.’ Gideon was conscious of appearing foolish, yet he could find no other words. ‘You are not dead.’

  ‘You have gained some mastery of logic at Cambridge, I see. It is a comfort to me.’ His uncle smiled then, and it so altered his appearance that Gideon was quite disconcerted. He could not recall that he had ever seen him do so before. ‘Forgive me, nephew. It was my habit, always, to be severe with you. There were reasons, but I fear I was mistaken in those. I’m afraid I have been a good deal mistaken. I will try to account for it all, if there is time.’

  Gideon lowered his head for a moment. ‘I should be glad to hear all you have to tell me, uncle. But I am glad above all to find that you are well. Inspector Cutter will be pleased too, I am sure. You remember Inspector Cutter, who shared lodgings with you in Frith-street?’

  ‘Indeed. You fell in with Cutter, then, when you found me gone?’

  ‘I hoped to find Miss Tatton with his help. And we did find her, uncle. She is here with us. It was from Miss Tatton that I first heard the dreadful news. She would have been overjoyed, I’m sure, to know that you are safe. But I’m afraid you may find that – uncle, a great deal has happened since I last saw you. A great deal is still happening, in fact.’

  Neuilly inclined his head sadly. ‘Yes, nephew. We have much to discuss, I think. But perhaps it may wait until we have joined the rest of the company. I am anxious to see Miss Tatton, though I expect she is no longer quite as I remember her. We have met, all of us, at a melancholy hour, and I fear there is worse to come. Each of us holds pieces, I think, of the puzzle that confronts us, and each of us will have a part in what remains to be done.’

  Neuilly swayed for a moment, as if in exhaustion. He put out a hand to steady himself, upsetting a framed specimen that had been set apart from the others. Gideon caught it as it tumbled and returned it carefully to its place.

  ‘The ghost moth,’ his uncle said, touching the frame. ‘Hepialus humuli. This is the female, of course, as her yellow forewings attest. She is a prettier thing, in life, than this rather drab specimen suggests.’

  Gideon put out his hand, then checked himself. Neuilly seemed much changed, but he felt a deference still that was not easily overcome. ‘Uncle, are you quite well? Can I aid you?’

  ‘You are kind, my boy. Kinder than I deserve. I will last the day, I imag
ine. You need not concern yourself. Where is Miss Tatton? She is the one we must look to now.’

  ‘I have been looking for her, uncle. I do my best to keep watch over her, but I’m afraid she has a tendency to wander. It is one of the peculiarities of her condition, and it is worse when something unsettles her.’

  ‘Has something happened to unsettle her?’

  Gideon looked away for a moment in discomfort. ‘Since you are here, uncle, I take it that you know whose house this is?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, nephew. I came here to find him. Has he arrived yet?’

  ‘Last night, sir.’

  ‘And is Cutter holding him? Does he know the nature of his crimes? That man has a reckoning before him.’

  ‘Uncle, will you not take a seat for a moment? You have suffered a good deal, I fear. The rest can wait until we join the others, but I’m afraid there is something I must tell you about Lord Strythe.’

  The cabman could take them no further than the main gates, since these were made fast by a chain. They might go in on foot, he said, since the wicket gate stood open, but he could not say if they would find anyone at home. A madwoman lived here, people said, or had at one time. It was his own belief that the place had been shut up for years.

  Octavia looked about her while Georgie took down the bags and settled the fare. It was only a little past nine in the morning, yet the weather had so darkened the day that it might easily have been taken for dusk. The hail had given way for now to a desultory sleet, but it was carried by a restless, slicing wind. The Strythe estate had a forbidding look. A high stone wall and a gloomy mass of elms hid it from the lane. The house itself could not be seen.

  Above the gate rose an arch of wrought iron, choked in places with ivy. It had a mournful appearance now, but might once have seemed imposing. From its apex hung a yard or so of coarse rope, whipping idly in the wind.

  When he had paid the cabman, Georgie thumped lightly at the frame of the coach to send him on his way. ‘Lord, sister,’ he said, clapping his hands against the cold. ‘What a purgatory you have brought us to. If this is where an earl must come paddling, I am quite content to be a third lieutenant for ever more.’

  But Octavia was not listening. She hesitated, uncertain for a moment of what she saw, then advanced slowly towards the gate.

  ‘Now, then,’ Georgie went on, occupying himself with the luggage. ‘You must put up this umbrella before we go any further. It was not made for a lady, but I daresay you will manage it easily enough. I’d hold it myself if it weren’t for the bags.’

  Octavia said nothing. She stared, raising a hand absently to the gate. Under her gloved fingers, the iron was solid and cold.

  ‘You would not think much of that sleet, it not being heavy, but it is the very kind that will give you a mortal dose before you have gone a hundred yards.’

  ‘Georgie,’ she said softly. He fell silent and followed her gaze. She felt a peculiar urge to stop him, to keep him from seeing.

  But did he see? Could he?

  ‘Lord above, sister.’

  The girl was watching them from a little way beyond the gate. She was a frail creature, and profoundly pale. Though she wore only a thin and shabby nightgown, she seemed quite untroubled by the cold. But it was not that. That was not the strangest thing.

  ‘Miss Tatton?’ Octavia gripped the bars, thrusting her face between them so that nothing should obstruct her view. It must be her, surely. It could only be her. ‘Angie? Is that you? I came for you, came to find you. Mrs Campion told me about you. And Neuilly, the man who cared for you? He asked me to come.’

  If the girl had heard her, she gave no sign of it. She stood for a moment longer, solemn and unperturbed, and it was only as she turned away that Octavia was sure of what she had seen. She was no longer whole, this girl. Her right arm, from just below her shoulder. Her right leg, beneath the hem of her gown. They had faded, almost to nothing. Only a vitreous faintness remained, like isinglass in warm water.

  ‘Lord above, sister,’ said Georgie again.

  Angie crossed the bleak gardens towards a ramshackle summerhouse that could be seen in the distance. She was silent and swift, seeming hardly to touch the ground. Octavia watched her for as long as she could, but the weather made her uncertain. She lost sight of her for a time, then glimpsed her again, or so she imagined. But perhaps it was only the wind among the dead leaves, or some illusory thing that she herself had conjured from the rain.

  Lady Ada was out of temper. She had been quite at ease, the inspector said, when they had gone to view her brother’s remains, and had afterwards announced her intention to bathe in seaweed, a practice she recommended. She had not expected to receive another visitor, however, and her mood had darkened considerably since she was given word of the new arrival. She was pacing about the drawing room when Gideon entered with his uncle, marking each turn with a brisk percussion of her cane. He had cleared his throat a number of times when Cutter did him the kindness of making the announcement.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Lady Ada said, scarcely glancing at the visitor. ‘Never mind that now. I have suffered quite enough in the way of disturbances. Let him take his seat until I am somewhat restored. Someone ring for Mrs Cornish. I must have whisky, before I perish. And some suet pudding.’

  Gideon looked helplessly to his uncle, who dismissed the indignity with a benign look. He made his way unobtrusively to a chair.

  ‘Where is Angela?’ Lady Ada demanded, striking the floor with her cane. ‘That is what I should like to know. Why haven’t you found her yet, Sergeant? You have little else to occupy you, goodness knows.’

  Gideon could not look her in the eye. ‘I have been doing my utmost, madam, but it is no easy matter. I shall resume the search shortly, but I have in fact been otherwise occupied. My uncle has come, and he has much of importance to tell us.’

  ‘Has he, indeed? What has any of it to do with me?’

  Here Cutter intervened. ‘Madam, I hoped I had made matters plain to you. We are now concerned with a serious crime. With a number of serious crimes. We have reason to believe that Miss Tatton was the victim of such a crime.’

  ‘If I may, Inspector.’ It was Neuilly who spoke. ‘If it puts Her Ladyship’s mind at rest, I believe Miss Tatton will soon return of her own accord.’

  Lady Ada stared at him for a moment. ‘And who are you to be venturing an opinion? You look like a clergyman of some poor sort. Is that what you are?’

  ‘Forgive me, madam,’ said Neuilly, rising. ‘Allow me to—’

  ‘No, never mind all that. I have no patience for pleasantries at the best of times. Keep your seat, and out with it.’

  ‘I am Herbert Neuilly, madam. I was a clergyman, yes, and of a poor sort. You are right about that. But that life is behind me, I think. I knew Miss Tatton before she came to this. I cared for her, in my ministry, and for others like her. I did what I could to keep them from harm.’

  ‘What kind of harm?’

  ‘From harm of a common sort, in part. She was an orphan work girl, and faced all that such young women must face. But it was not only that. I knew her to be gifted in an uncommon way. To be marked out.’

  Lady Ada greeted this with a strange silence. She turned after a moment to the window. ‘The wreck will be disturbed,’ she remarked, as if to herself. ‘After a long spell of calm, it often appears that the sands will smother it entirely, then a storm comes and one wakes to find it exposed again almost to its keel. So, you see it too.’

  Neuilly hesitated. He was not sure if it was him she addressed. ‘The wreck, madam?’

  ‘No, not the wreck.’ She turned to him again. ‘The brightness.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Neuilly. ‘How remarkable. I so seldom encounter others like me. Yes, madam, I see it. And you? When did you first become aware of it?’

  ‘As a child. At what age I don’t recall. I suppose it was there from the first, but in early childhood one thinks nothing out of the ordinary. I used to see them in the streets. In peop
le’s houses, disappearing below stairs. It was more common in the lower orders, I found, which rather upsets one’s way of thinking. And it seemed to be girls, always, though perhaps it was only that the girls came to my notice.’

  ‘Such has been my experience,’ Neuilly agreed. ‘And I have seen a good many in my time.’

  ‘But none quite like this one, I expect.’

  ‘No, madam.’ Neuilly lowered his head. ‘None quite like this one.’

  Gideon looked on, only faintly comprehending, but did not venture to speak. Cutter felt no such inhibition. ‘What is this now?’ he said. ‘You might think of the ordinary mortals present.’

  ‘Forgive me, Inspector,’ Neuilly said. ‘I have been so long in the habit of keeping these things hidden that I forget when I am among friends. Lady Ada is speaking of an interior brightness, a brightness of the soul, though perhaps we use the Christian word in ignorance. There is more I must tell you, but first, if I may – Lady Ada, did you feel compelled to keep it hidden, this perception? I have encountered others – in spiritualist circles, among a great many charlatans – and all told stories of a similar kind. They had learned not to speak of it, in their early lives. They had been subject to derision, and much worse. Some had been cut off from their families. Some had been locked up. I hope I do not touch on a painful subject.’