by Basil Copper
Arkwright leaned forward in the chair. ‘And the results?’
‘Completely successful. I will show you some of the records here which you may peruse. Needless to say, the identities of patients will not be divulged. But I can assure you that patients I treated some fifteen years ago are alive and well and looking remarkably young for their real ages. You realise, of course, that enormous sums of money are involved. Other clinics and institutions would do anything to get hold of our formulae. That is why we have to observe absolute secrecy.’
‘How will the change take place?’
‘Very gradually, of course. About a year, in most cases. The hair will slowly turn black, or to its original colour. In bald patients, the hair grows naturally again. As they regress, wrinkles disappear, the skin becomes smooth and elastic and eventually a man or woman of about thirty emerges. Though I am afraid that some patients have had to change their identities and perhaps move to another town or even country. Some have abandoned old wives and taken young girls to their beds.’ He shrugged. ‘Regrettable, but I cannot help that.’
‘Of course not. When will we start?’
‘In two or three days, when you have settled down. I deal with only one patient at a time as the treatment takes up all the resources of the clinic. In the meantime I will show you to my private quarters, where an excellent dinner awaits us.’
III
Arkwright returned to England some while later, after his intensive course of treatment, still a little sceptical, despite the Professor’s assurances. He had spent a considerable sum of money, but that did not bother him at all. Despite all the documentary and photographic evidence the staff at the clinic had supplied him with, he was impatient to see tangible results, though he had been assured countless times that they would be slow in coming. However, the prognosis in his case, after exhaustive medical tests, was positive.
Sure enough, over a month later Arkwright began to notice a slight darkening of the hair at the side of his head, while a certain stiffness in his limbs, which had persisted for some years, was disappearing.
Though inwardly excited, it was still too early for him to assess the progress of the treatment, but he quietly made plans to retreat to an isolated house he owned in the West Country, where the metamorphosis, if indeed it did happen, would be unnoticed by friends and colleagues.
There would be problems, he realised, if he suddenly reappeared in the world with an appearance akin to that of his own son, if he had ever had one. He would meet those contingencies in due course. So far as his literary career was concerned, his publishers had been using old publicity photographs for many years, so that would not present a problem.
And in any case, many of his old friends and colleagues had died off as the years had passed and he had no living relatives. He had not realised this sort of situation would arise, and he had to carefully think out a plan of campaign. In the meantime he revelled in returning strength and ability, and once again he was busy at his writing desk, where the rattle of his portable typewriter was heard at ever-increasing periods as various plot points came to him.
He retained his present house and staff and would keep in touch by telephone when he reached his secondary home. He had already made arrangements to have his important correspondence sent on. A month later he was installed in his new quarters, where he had a permanent housekeeper and a gardener. Later, he would move to a hotel and change quarters from time to time until the transformation was complete. Beyond that, he had nothing worked out.
After the year was up, he looked in the mirror of his hotel room on the South Coast and saw a vigorous young man of about thirty looking back at him. His new life had begun.
IV
Dr Poole, busy examining specimens under the microscope in the clinic in Lausanne, was suddenly interrupted by a sharp exclamation from Professor Voss, who was studying various documents at his desk on the other side of the laboratory.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Come and look at this.’
Poole crossed to peer over his colleague’s shoulder at the national newspapers spread out before the Professor. Large headings on most of the front pages gave the startling news of the sudden death of the great author, Joshua Arkwright, during a tennis match in Cannes. While Poole sat down at the desk to study the reports with increasing sadness, Voss crossed to the far corner of the huge room and dialled the international operator. He was engaged in a long conversation in English before putting down the receiver. He came back rubbing his hands.
‘This is tragic indeed,’ Poole observed.
Voss sat down in his big padded chair and said nothing for a long moment. ‘Well, he had six good years, my dear Poole. In that time he penned half a dozen wonderful books, had children by two different women, and was currently engaged to a beautiful girl of eighteen.’
Poole stared at him open-mouthed.
‘Not a bad record,’ Voss went on, ‘considering that his real age was ninety-two.’
‘But what actually happened?’ Poole asked. ‘It gives few details here, merely listing all his achievements during his lifetime.’
Voss gave him a grim smile. ‘He was playing several tennis matches under the blazing sun!’
Poole was thunderstruck. ‘But surely you warned him about overexertion?’
Voss nodded. ‘Naturally. But I can understand why this happened. He was a vigorous young man in the prime of life. I have been speaking to the pathologist who carried out the autopsy. His body had been returned for burial in England, of course, as you have just read.’ He stared at Poole, with a cynical expression on his face. ‘His heart was absolutely withered, if I may use a non-medical term. Of course he was warned. This is something we must look at for the future.’
He gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘After all, I am myself a hundred and five years old, am I not? But I know how to behave sensibly.’ He shrugged. ‘The exuberance of youth! There lies the danger...’
Ill Met by Daylight
It was late morning when Grant left St. Ulric’s Church. He had come down there on an architectural project two months earlier, and now, on this bright spring day, he had dropped into a bar almost opposite for a pre-lunch drink. As he sipped his goblet of chilled house white he had a clear view through one of the front windows across the road and to the church beyond. That was when he first saw the old man. He wore dark clothes, and the architect thought for a moment that it was the sexton, a somewhat lugubrious character he had spoken to earlier in the morning, but then he realized he was mistaken.
The man’s dark clothes had nothing about them appertaining to the church. In fact, now that Grant saw him more clearly, he looked like a tramp, for the watcher could have sworn the old man’s overcoat was tied together with string. He was acting in a most peculiar manner, which had first attracted Grant’s attention.
He swayed slightly, as if drunk, and though Grant, oblivious of the animated chatter of the occupants of the bar, shifted slightly to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, he kept it averted. Then he suddenly darted into the church entrance, so perhaps he was connected with St. Ulric’s after all, Grant thought.
“Something else, sir?”
The white-coated barman was at his elbow.
“Yes, same again, please. By the way, do you know that old chap hovering about opposite?”
The barman looked puzzled.
“I don’t see anyone, sir.”
Grant turned his attention back to the church entrance but the man had gone, no doubt ’round the main body of the building. There was a public footpath there.
He gave a short laugh.
“It’s nothing important. An old chap was there just now.”
The barman nodded, glancing at the former’s leather case, which he had propped against the table leg.
“Ah, you’ll be Mr. Grant, sir. Doing the survey of the church for Mr. Brough. Staying at The Bull, I believe.”
Grant nodded. Brough was the rector.
&n
bsp; “You seem to know a lot about me.”
The barman smiled.
“It’s a small place. And Mr. Brough enjoys a drink here from time to time. He spoke about you when you first came.”
After Grant had returned to The Bull, where he had taken a room for the duration of his work on the church—it would be a long commission, for the building was in a very poor state, particularly so far as the foundations went—he had lunch and then found a corner of the coffee lounge and checked his latest notes and drawings. This occupied him for over an hour and afterward he decided to take a walk ’round the village in order to stretch his legs. He passed the old timbered post office on his way ’round and on impulse, seeing a phone booth outside, went in and dialed his fiancée, Sally, in London, to let her know how things were going. Then he returned to The Bull and continued working on his notes in the now deserted lounge.
Presently there was a pleasant interruption to his labors when a shadow fell across his drawings and the bulky form of the rector, the Reverend Charles Brough, materialized. A good-looking man in his early fifties, his black hair flecked with grey, he had established a good rapport with Grant and the latter had enjoyed the hospitality of Brough and his much younger wife at the rectory, a mellow 18th-century building the other side of the churchyard.
Grant, using his privilege as a guest at the hotel, quickly ordered the visitor a glass of sherry and the two men were soon engrossed in facts and figures regarding the renovation work on the church.
“Of course, you do realize it will be a very expensive job,” the architect pointed out. “A good deal of under-pinning of the buttresses on the north side of the building, where water has been penetrating for years and some of the paneling and other interior fitments are showing signs of dry rot, to say nothing of woodworm.”
The rector smiled briefly, raising his glass in salute.
“I don’t think that will be too big a problem, Mr. Grant. The Diocese has promised us half a million pounds and we have a large-scale restoration fund underway.”
Grant nodded.
“Oh, but you haven’t taken my fees into account.”
The rector gave a dry chuckle before continuing.
“Now that you have been on the spot and gone into all the details how long do you think the work will take? We have an excellent firm of church restorers, and though they have only undertaken what you might call running repairs in the past, they will be glad of this major commission in these difficult times.”
Grant pursed his lips, putting down his sherry glass and tidying up his papers.
“According to the requirements you’ve laid down and the preliminary figures I’ve arrived at, around two years for the complete restoration. Perhaps a little longer. My associates will, of course, check the work thoroughly as it proceeds. And naturally I shall still have overall control.”
Brough gave him an approving glance.
“That’s about what the church council thought. I’ll let them know your provisional findings at the council meeting next Monday evening. You’ll be present, of course, and perhaps you’d like to have dinner at the rectory afterwards.”
Grant thanked Brough for his invitation and the two men rose.
“I must get back to the church,” the rector said.
“I’ll come with you,” Grant replied. “I have to take some more measurements and make further inspection before writing my notes this evening.”
The two men fell into step as they crossed the road towards St. Ulric’s, engaging in small talk, when Grant caught sight out of the corner of his eye a black-clad figure walking among the gravestones in the churchyard. He was too late to see clearly, and the man—for he was certain of the gender—had disappeared along the footpath by the time they reached the worn lych-gate.
“Did you see who that was?” Grant asked.
The rector glanced around.
“I didn’t notice anybody. This is a public footpath, as you know. Something to do with the Lord of the Manor in medieval times, who gave the land for the building of the church, while retaining a public right of way. A great eccentric, according to old records.”
“That reminds me,” Grant continued. “I saw an old chap in shabby black clothes acting rather queerly near the church this morning. I wondered if you knew anything about him.”
The rector shook his head.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
He gave a short laugh.
“We have all sorts of funny people around here. Eccentrics, harmless village idiot types. There are gypsies in the woods too, though they have no right to be there. Many of them use the footpath that runs down to a sort of small suburb to the north of the church. Several streets bisected by a stream. Most picturesque. You ought to take a look some time.”
“I will,” Grant promised him.
The two men were at the church porch now and Brough extended his hand.
“You’re going into the church and I’m going to do some work in my study at the rectory. Shall I see you over the weekend?”
Grant gave the other an expression of mock regret.
“I’m going up to London to see my fiancée in the morning and shan’t be back until Sunday evening.”
The rector broke into a smile, revealing strong, square teeth.
“Ah, journeys end in lovers’ meetings,” he said jocularly.
Grant smiled too.
“Something like that.”
He watched the powerful figure striding away down the brick path, but as he turned to go into the church something arrested his attention. Instead, he went across the sloping turf between the gravestones to where he had previously seen the dark form. He walked aimlessly, desultorily reading the worn inscriptions. They were mostly old tombstones here, with an occasional vault for some more prestigious local, he supposed. One in particular caught his eye. Principally because there was a fresh posy of spring flowers tied with string, lying on the damp grass. He glanced from it to the black letter inscription on the worn stone, half obscured by the inroads of ivy.
He read: JEDEDIAH BRIGGS. CALLED TO GLORY APRIL 30TH, 1770. Underneath was a rather puzzling inscription in much smaller letters: GREAT THOUGH IT IS TO LIE IN DARKNESS, EVEN MORE GLORIOUS IS IT TO WALK ABROAD AT THE NOONTIDE HOUR.
A curious sentiment, the architect thought, and during various church commissions carried out in his career, Grant had never seen a stranger. Even more bizarre, to his mind, was that the inscription carried no date of birth. He would ask the rector about it when they met on Monday. He supposed now that the figure he had seen might have left the rustic bouquet at the graveside; possibly some descendent of the deceased person, though over two hundred years was a long time to continue leaving such tokens. However, as he turned back to the church and his immediate concerns, the matter was swiftly erased from his mind.
***
Grant took an early train to London the next morning and passed a pleasant weekend with his fiancée. But there was some indefinable cloud that was hovering at the edge of his consciousness that he could not wholly shake off all the time that he was away from the village and his commission at St. Ulric’s. Even Sally had noticed it and though she was too tactful to question him directly, he passed it off by speaking of the problems with the church foundations, which were causing some difficulties. It was nothing the rector had said nor had it to do directly with the church, but the somewhat moving image of the simple bunch of wild flowers lying on the grave, that recurred from time to time.
But when he caught the 9:30 train at Charing Cross on Sunday night all these relatively trivial matters were forgotten, and he and Sally parted amid laughter and suppressed tears on the girl’s part. Meanwhile, he had promised to have her down to stay at The Bull soon, and it was with a lighter heart that he sat down in a corner of the crowded carriage to read one of the quality Sunday papers, which passed the first stage of the journey agreeably. Unfortunately he had to change trains once and the second stopped at every station so th
at when he finally arrived at his destination it had turned eleven o’clock.
It was a somewhat misty evening with the smell of damp earth and the faint fret of the distant stream in his ears as he hurried to the telephone booth to ring Sally to let her know of his safe arrival. There were few street lamps, and dark patches of shadow obscured the road at intervals while a watery moon gave little light, but Grant could have sworn that someone was keeping pace with him at the other side of the road. No one else had got out at the station and he had passed no one on his way down the street, though it was possible that some railway employee had just finished his duties and was making his own way home.
There was a gritting sound in the roadside gravel that fretted at his nerves and he stopped twice to see if the unknown pedestrian would reveal himself, but each time all was still apart from the faint rustle of the wind in the roadside trees and the far off murmur of the stream, now partly blotted out by the encroaching houses. The cheerful lights of The Bull were now showing ahead and once he had made his call and Sally’s reassuring voice was in his ears, things fell into perspective so that when the dark form of a villager passed by the phone booth a minute or two later, the explanation was simple. Darkness, wind, and imagination had combined to present a very different picture. He rang off with a light heart and entered the welcoming vestibule of the hotel with a clear mind for the tasks of the following morning.
Grant slept well and after an excellent breakfast in the crowded dining room, he collected his equipment and then set out for the church. The day was overcast and dark clouds were rolling in from the west, but fortunately it was dry, as he intended to make further examinations of the exterior buttresses which had caused him some previous concern. The soil was sandy there and might create some problems with the underpinning. Grant was a very meticulous man, noted for the high quality of his work, and he did not want the builders to run into unexpected difficulties when they were on site.