"Show us round first," she said plaintively. "The luggage can wait. I want to see everything. Don't tell me that is the kitchen through there?"
"Of course it isn't," I said. "It's an old basement kitchen. We don't use any of this."
The thing was, I had never intended to show them the house from this angle. It was the wrong way round. If they had arrived on Monday I should have been waiting for them on the steps by the porch, with the curtains drawn back, the windows open, everything ready. The boys, excited, were already scampering up the stairs.
"Which is our room?" they shouted. "Where are we to sleep?"
Oh God, I thought, give me patience. I turned to Vita, who was watching me with a smile.
"I'm sorry, darling," I said, "but honestly..."
"Honestly what?" she said. "I'm as excited as they are. What are you fussing about?"
What indeed! I thought, with total inconsequence, how much better organized this would have been if Roger Kylmerth, as steward, had been showing Isolda Carminowe the layout of some manor house.
"Nothing," I said, "come on..."
The first thing Vita noticed when we reached the modern kitchen on the first floor was the debris of my supper on the table. The remains of fried eggs and sausages, the frying-pan not cleaned, standing on one corner of the table, the electric light still on.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "Did you have a cooked breakfast before your walk? That's new for you!"
"I was hungry," I said. "Ignore the mess, Mrs. Collins will clear all that. Come through to the front."
I hurried past her to the music-room, drawing curtains, throwing back shutters, and then across the hall to the small dining-room and the library beyond. The piece de resistance, the view from the end window, was blotted out by the mizzling rain.
"It looks different," I said, "on a fine day."
"It's lovely," said Vita. "I didn't think your Professor had such taste. It would be better with that divan against the wall and cushions on the window-seat, but that's easily done."
"Well, this completes the ground floor," I said. "Come upstairs."
I felt like a house-agent trying to flog a difficult let, as the boys raced ahead up the stairs, calling to each other from the rooms, while Vita and I followed. Everything had already changed, the silence and the peace had gone, henceforth it would be only this, the take-over of something I had shared, as it were, in secret, not only with Magnus and his dead parents in the immediate past, but with Roger Kylmerth six hundred years ago.
The tour of the first floor finished, the sweat of unloading all the luggage began, and it was nearly half-past eight when the job was done, and Mrs. Collins arrived on her bicycle to take charge of the situation, greeting Vita and the boys with genuine delight. Everyone disappeared into the kitchen. I went upstairs and ran the bath, wishing I could lie in it and drown.
It must have been half an hour later that Vita wandered into the bedroom. "Well, thank God for her," she said. "I shan't have to do a thing, she's extremely efficient. And must be sixty at least. I can relax."
"What do you mean, relax?" I called from the bathroom.
"I imagined something young and skittish, when you tried to put me off from coming down," she said. She came into the bathroom as I was rubbing myself with the towel. "I don't trust your Professor an inch, but at least I'm satisfied on that account. Now you're all cleaned up you can kiss me again, and then run me a bath. I've been driving for seven hours and I'm dead to the world."
So was I, but in another sense. I was dead to her world. I might move about in it, mechanically, listening with half an ear as she peeled off her clothes and flung them on the bed, put on a wrapper, spread her lotions and creams on the dressing-table, chatting all the while about the drive down, the day in London, happenings in New York, her brother's business affairs, a dozen things that formed the pattern of her life, our life; but none of them concerned me. It was like hearing background music on the radio. I wanted to recapture the lost night and the darkness, the wind blowing down the valley, the sound of the sea breaking on the shore below Polpey farm, and the expression in Isolda's eyes as she looked out of that painted wagon at Bodrugan.
"... And if they do amalgamate it wouldn't be before the fall anyway, nor would it affect your job."
"No."
Response was automatic to the rise and fall of her voice, and suddenly she wheeled round, her face a mask of cream under the turban she always wore in the bath, and said, "You haven't been listening to a word I said!"
The change of tone shocked me to attention. "Yes, I have," I told her.
"What, then? What have I been talking about?" she challenged.
I was clearing my things out of the wardrobe in the bedroom, so that she could take over. "You were saying something about Joe's firm," I answered, "a merger of some sort. Sorry, darling, I'll be out of your way in a minute."
She seized the hanger bearing a flannel suit, my best, out of my hand, and hurled it on the floor.
"I don't want you out of the way," she said, her voice rising to a pitch I dreaded. "I want you here and now, giving me your full attention, instead of standing there like a tailor's dummy. What on earth's the matter with you? I might be talking to someone in another world."
She was so right. I knew it was no use counter-attacking; I must grovel, and let her tide of perfectly justifiable irritation pass over my head.
"Darling," I said, sitting down on the bed and pulling her beside me, "let's not start the day wrong. You're tired, I'm tired; if we start arguing we'll wear ourselves out and spoil things for the boys. If I am vague and inattentive, you must blame it on exhaustion. I took that walk in the rain because I couldn't sleep, and instead of pulling me together it seems to have slowed me up."
"Of all the idiotic things to do... You might have known... And anyway, why couldn't you sleep?"
"Forget it, forget it, forget it."
I rose from the bed, seized armfuls of clothes and bore them through to the dressing-room, kicking the door to with my foot. She did not follow me. I heard her turn the taps off and get into the bath, slopping the water so that some of it ran into the overflow.
The morning drifted on. Vita did not appear. I opened the bedroom door very softly just before one, and she was fast asleep on the bed, so I closed it again and lunched downstairs alone with the boys. They chatted away, perfectly content with a "yes" or "perhaps" from me, invariably undemanding when Vita was absent. It continued to rain steadily, and there was no question of cricket or the beach, so I drove them into Fowey and let them loose to buy ice-creams, peppermint rock, western paperbacks and jigsaw puzzles.
The rain petered out about four, giving place to a lusterless sky and a pallid, constipated sun, but this was enough for the boys, who rushed on to the Town Quay and demanded to be water-borne. Anything to please, and postpone the moment of return, so I hired a small boat, powered by an outboard engine, and we chug-chugged up and down the harbor, the boys snatching at passing flotsam as we bobbed about, all of us soaked to the skin.
We arrived home about six o'clock, and the children rushed to sit down to the enormous spread of tea that the thoughtful Mrs. Collins had provided for them. I staggered into the library to pour myself a stiff whiskey, only to find a revitalized Vita in possession, smiling, the furniture all moved around, the morning mood, thank heaven, a thing of the past.
"You know, darling," she said, "I think I'm going to like it here. Already it's beginning to look like home."
I collapsed into an armchair, drink in hand, and watched through half-closed eyes as she pottered about the room rearranging Mrs. Collins's brave efforts with the hydrangeas. My strategy henceforth would be to applaud everything, or, when occasion demanded silence, to stay mute, play each moment as it came by ear.
I was on my second whiskey, and off my guard, when the boys burst into the library.
"Hi, Dick," shouted Teddy, "what's this horrible thing?"
He had got the embryo monke
y in its jar. I leaped to my feet. "Christ!" I said. "What the hell have you been up to?" I seized the jar from his hand and made for the door. I remembered only that when I had gone out from the lab in the small hours, after taking my second dose, I hadn't pocketed the key but had left it in the lock.
"We weren't doing anything," said Teddy, aggrieved, "we were only looking through the empty rooms below." He turned to Vita. "There's a little dark room full of bottles, just like the stinks lab at school. Come and look, Mom, quick--there's something else in one of the jars like a dead kitten..."
I was out of the library in a flash, and down the small stairway in the hall leading to the basement. The door of the lab was wide open, and the light was on. I looked quickly around. Nothing had been touched except the jar holding the monkey. I switched off the light and stepped into the passage, locking the door behind me and pocketing the key. As I did so the boys came running through the old kitchen, Vita at their heels. She looked concerned.
"What did they do?" she asked. "Have they broken something?"
"Luckily, no," I said. "It was my fault for leaving the door unlocked."
She was peering over my shoulder down the passage. "What is through there anyway?" she asked. "That object Teddy brought up looked perfectly ghastly."
"I dare say," I answered. "It happens that this house belongs to a professor of biophysics, and he uses the small room behind there as a laboratory. If I ever catch either of the boys near that room again there'll be murder!"
They stalked off, muttering, and Vita turned to me. "I must say," she said, "I think it's rather extraordinary of the Professor to keep a room like that, with all sorts of scientific things in it, and not make certain it's kept properly locked."
"Now don't you start," I said. "I am responsible to Magnus, and I can assure you it won't happen again. If you had only come next week instead of turning up this morning at an unearthly hour, when nobody expected you, it would never have happened."
She stared at me, startled. "Why, you're shaking!" she said. "Anyone would think there were explosives in there."
"Perhaps there are," I said. "Anyway, let's hope those kids have learned their lesson."
I switched off the basement lights and walked upstairs. I was shaking, and small wonder. A nightmare of possibilities crowded my mind. They might have opened the bottles containing the drug, they might have poured the contents into the medicine-glass, they might even have emptied the bottles into the sink. I must never again let that key out of my sight. I kept touching it in my pocket. Perhaps I could get in impression made of it, and keep both; it would be safer. I went into the music-room and stood there, staring at nothing, thrusting my fingertip into the little hole in the key.
Vita had gone upstairs to the bedroom. Presently, I heard the tell-tale click of the telephone from the bell in the hall. It meant she was speaking from the extension upstairs. I went and washed my hands in the downstairs lavatory, and then wandered into the library. I could still hear Vita talking from the bedroom overhead. Listening to conversations on the telephone is not a habit of mine, but now some furtive instinct made me cross to the instrument in the library and pick up the receiver.
"... So I just don't know what to make of it," Vita was saying. "I've never heard him speak sharply to the boys before. They're quite upset. He doesn't look awfully well. Very hollow-eyed. He says he's been sleeping badly."
"High time you got down there," came the answer. I recognized the drawl; it was her friend Diana. "A husband on the loose is a husband on the prowl, I've told you so before. I've had experience with Bill."
"Oh, Bill," said Vita. "We all know Bill can't be trusted out of your sight. Well, I don't know... Let's hope it will be fine and we can all be out a lot. I believe he's arranged to hire some boat."
"That sounds healthy enough."
"Yes... Well, let's hope that Professor of his hasn't been putting Dick up to something. I don't trust that man. Never have, and never will. And I know he dislikes me."
"I can guess why that is," laughed Diana.
"Oh, don't be idiotic. He may be like that, but Dick certainly isn't. Very much the reverse."
"Maybe that's his attraction for the Professor," said Diana.
I replaced the receiver very gently. The trouble was, with women, they had one-track minds, and to their narrow view everything male, be it man, dog, fish or slug, pursued but a single course, and that the dreary road to copulation. I sometimes wondered if they ever thought of anything else.
Vita and her friend Diana nattered on for at least another fifteen minutes, and when she came downstairs, fortified by feminine advice, she made no reference to my scene in the basement, but, humming gaily and wearing an apron of bizarre design--it looked as if it had apples and serpents all over it--set about cooking us steaks for supper heaped about with parsley butter.
"Early bed for all," she announced as the boys, heavy-eyed and silent, yawned their way through the meal--the seven-hour journey in the car and the jaunt in the harbor was catching up with them. After supper she installed herself on the sofa in the library, and set about mending the rents in my trousers torn in the valley. I sat down at Magnus's desk murmuring something about unpaid bills, but in reality looking once again through the Lay Subsidy Roll for Tywardreath Parish for 1327. Julian Polpey was there, Henry Trefrengy, Geoffrey Lampetho. The names had meant nothing when I first read through the list, but they could have registered unconsciously in my mind. The figures might still be phantom figures that I had followed to the valley, passing the farms that still bore their names today.
I noticed an unopened letter on my desk. It was the one the postman had given me that morning; in my flurry at the family's arrival I had laid it down. It was just a scrap, typewritten, from the research student in London.
"Professor Lane thought you might like this note on Sir John Carminowe," it read. "He was the second son of Sir Roger Carminowe of Carminowe. Enrolled in the military 1323. Became a knight 1324. Summoned to attend Great Council at Westminster. Appointed Keeper of Tremerton and Restormel castles 27 April 1331, and on October 12th of the same year keeper of the King's forests, parks, woods and warrens, etc., and of the King's game in the county of Cornwall, so that he had to answer yearly for the profit of the pannage and herbage within the said forests, parks and woods, by the hand of the steward there, and deputy keepers under him."
The student had written in brackets, "Copied from Calendar of Fine Rolls 5th year Edward III." He had added a further note beneath, "24 October. Patent Rolls, for same year (1331), mentions a license for Joanna, late wife of Henry de Champernoune, tenant-in-chief, to marry whomsoever she will of the King's allegiance. Pay fine of 10 marks."
So... Sir John had got what he wanted and Otto Bodrugan had lost, while Joanna, in anticipation of Sir John's wife dying, had a marriage license handy in some bottom drawer. I filed the paper with the Lay Subsidy Roll, and getting up from the desk went to the bookshelves, where I remembered seeing the numerous volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, legacy of Commander Lane. I pulled out Volume 8, and turned to Edward III.
Vita stretched herself on the sofa, yawning, her repeated sighs following one another in swift succession. "Well, I don't know about you," she said, "but I'm off to bed."
"I'll be up in a moment," I told her.
"Still hard at work for your Professor?" she asked. "Take that volume to the light, you'll ruin your eyes."
I did not answer.
"Edward III (1312-1377), king of England, eldest son of Edward II and Isabella of France, was born at Windsor on 13 November 1312... On 13 January 1327 parliament recognized him as king, and he was crowned on the 29th of the same month. For the next four years Isabella and her paramour Mortimer governed in his name, though nominally his guardian was Henry, Earl of Lancaster. In the summer of 1327 he took part in an abortive campaign against the Scots, and was married to Philippa at York on 24 January 1328. On 15 June 1330 his eldest child, Edward the Black Prince, was born
."
Nothing there about a rebellion. But here was the clue.
"Soon after, Edward made a successful effort to throw off his degrading dependence on his mother and Mortimer. In October 1330 he entered Nottingham Castle by night, through a subterranean passage, and took Mortimer prisoner. On 29 November the execution of the favorite at Tyburn completed the young king's emancipation. Edward discreetly drew a veil over his mother's relations with Mortimer, and treated her with every respect. There is no truth in the stories that henceforth he kept her in honorable confinement, but her political influence was at an end."
Bodrugan's too, what he possessed in Cornwall. Sir John, only a year later appointed Keeper of Tremerton and Restormel castles, a good King's man, was in command, with Roger, playing it safe, imposing silence on his valley friends, the October night forgotten. I wondered what had happened after that meeting at Polpey's farm when Isolda risked so much to warn her lover; whether Bodrugan, brooding on what might-have-been, returned to his estates and thought about his love, and whether she, when her husband Oliver was absent, met him perhaps in secret. I had been standing beside them both less than twenty-four hours ago. Six centuries ago...
I put the volume back on the shelf, switched off the lights and went upstairs. Vita was already in bed, the curtains pulled back so that when she sat up she could look through the wide windows to the sea.
"This room is heaven," she said. "Imagine what it will be like with a full moon. Darling, I'm going to love it here, I promise you, and it's so wonderful to be together again."
I stood for a moment at the window, staring out across the bay. Roger, from his sleeping-quarters above the original kitchen, had the same dark expanse of sea and sky for company, and as I turned away, towards the bed, I remembered Magnus's mocking remark on the telephone the day before, "I was only about to suggest, dear boy, that moving between two worlds can act as stimulant." It was not true--in fact, the contrary.
11
The next day being Sunday, Vita announced her intention over breakfast of taking the boys to church. She did this sort of thing from time to time during the holidays. Two or three weeks would go by with never a mention of devotional duty, and then suddenly, without giving any reason, and generally when they were otherwise happily employed, she would burst into their room saying, "Come on, now, I'll give you just five minutes to get ready."
The House on the Strand Page 13