The Dark Clue

by James Wilson

  What I had taken for rocks was, in fact, an enormous dragon.

  I blinked, and looked again. It was unmistakable: there was its blunt head (which only a moment before I had seen as a huge crag), the mouth pulled open by the weight of the jaw, surveying the town below; behind it lay the spikes and folds and billows of the curled body.

  I knew it was not a dragon; and yet I knew, in the same instant, that it was, and that I must defeat it.

  I clambered to the very top, over its rough pitted skin, the bony spines of its wings, and stood there shivering. After a minute or two, the rim of the sun appeared to my right, streaking the sky with violent orange, As its first feeble rays spread along the valley, they caught the facade of a house on the other side of the river – no more than a speck of white at this distance – which I knew from its position must be Farnley Hall. A few minutes later it was gone again, lost behind a haze of vapour rising from the sodden ground. Soon the whole scene was covered in a brilliant diaphanous mist, through which blotches of brown and yellow and green appeared – pure colour, detached from any object; and I knew with absolute certainty that Turner must have stood here on such a morning as this, and taken from nature those very effects which his critics thought most unnatural.

  I looked down at my feet. No scales. No wings. No talons. I was standing on rock.

  I laughed with relief.

  The landlord of the Black Bull made a passable job of cleaning and drying my clothes. His wife mended a tear in my sleeve.

  At breakfast I asked the girl about the horn-blower.

  ‘Oh, that’s John, sir,’ she said, giggling. ‘Does that every mornin’, when ‘e knocks off t’night shift. Tell them’s “as work to go to it’s time to get up.’

  I was at Farnley by 11.00; but when I explained my business to the old man at the lodge he sucked his gums and shook his head. ‘Tha can try, sir. But I’ve ‘eeard as t’mester’s bahn abroad today.’

  It was a blow; but there was nothing to be gained by turning back now, when I had already come so far. There was always the chance that the old man was mistaken, or that, at the least, Mr. Fawkes would be able to spare me half an hour before he left; and I set off down the drive at a brisk pace.

  But I had not been going five minutes before I saw, coming towards me, a black carriage and pair. Perhaps it is only a visitor, I told myself; but even as I did so I had to admit that the evidence of my own eyes gainsaid me, for there was something in the easy movement of the horses and the relaxed attitude of the driver that made it clear they were on home ground. The carriage slowed as it drew near; and then – when I had stepped out of the way to let it pass – halted beside me. A square-jawed man of about sixty, with wavy white hair, lowered the window and looked out.

  ‘And you’re Mr. Hartright, I’ll be bound,’ he said.

  ‘Mr. Fawkes?’

  He nodded. ‘I had your note, sir,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘And should have replied, had I known where you were putting up. The damnable fact is I have to go to London today.’

  ‘I ought to have stayed a few days longer, then, and seen you there,’ I said.

  He laughed, and opened the door. ‘If you’d care to come with me to Arthington, we can talk on the way, and afterwards Hayes can take you back to Otley, or where you will. That, I’m afraid, is the best I can offer you.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ I said, setting my foot on the step, and preparing to seat myself opposite him. As I entered, however, I saw the place was already taken by a thin, bilious-looking manservant, who shrank away from me as nervously as if I were a leper. He looked anxiously at Mr. Fawkes.

  ‘Shall I sit with Hayes, sir?’

  ‘If you’d be so good, Vicary.’

  The man bolted through the door on the other side, and stood buttoning his coat and drawing on his gloves against the weather. Mr. Fawkes knocked on the glass, and held up his watch.

  ‘If you please, Vicary.’

  The man scuttled up on to the driver’s seat.

  ‘I fear I’m an uneasy traveller,’ said Mr. Fawkes, as the carriage set off again with a lurch. ‘I never much relish going from home, and always fancy a wheel will break, or one of the horses will cast a shoe, or we’ll be set upon by brigands.’ His face broke into a frank smile, making him appear the very image of the bluff good-hearted Englishman – until you saw that it did not reach his eyes, which remained guarded and full of shadow, as if life had indeed taught him to expect the worst. ‘So I always leave early, and generally end by having to wait half an hour at the station, which vexes the servants dreadfully.’ He laughed, and wagged a finger at me. ‘But you, at least, should be satisfied, for it means we shall have longer together.’

  And he was right; for, in the end, despite everything, I did not fare so badly. The circumstances of our meeting deprived me of the chance to see the pictures at Farnley, of course; but – by way of compensation – they seemed to have a strangely galvanic effect on Mr. Fawkes. Confined within the swaying carriage, and keenly sensible of the pressure of time, he told me more in fifty minutes than he would have done in as many hours surrounded by the distractions of a busy household. My only difficulty was that the constant motion, and the necessity of letting him speak without interruption (for the smallest pause might cost me a vital piece of information) made it hard for me to keep adequate notes.

  So here, as well as I can remember them, are the most important parts of our conversation:

  HF: I wish to God now I’d paid him more heed, Mr. Hartright; but you know what boys are. I cared precious little for art, I fear, and far too much for foolishness and pleasure – with the result that my early memories of him are mostly of the fun and frolic and shooting we enjoyed together. [A sweeping gesture of the hand, indicating the moors]

  WH: Was he a keen sportsman, then?

  HF: Keen, if not entirely accurate. [Laughs] He once contrived – Lord knows how – to bring down a cuckoo. We taunted him mercilessly for weeks afterwards, but he took it in good part. Indeed, he was often the first to allude to it, and tell the story against himself.

  I don’t know what others have said to you of his temper and disposition, but in our hours of relaxation together I always found him as kindly-minded a man, and as capable of every kind of fun and enjoyment, as any that I ever knew.

  [There – I was right – the official line.]

  WH: Was he well liked by the servants?

  [HF shrugs. Plainly considers it a strange question. At length:]

  HF: They may have thought him a little eccentric.

  WH: Do you remember a girl called Mary Gallimore?

  HF: No. Why? Did she complain of him?

  WH: She said he insulted her once in his room.

  HF: Insulted? You mean …?

  WH: Called her a fool.

  [HF laughs.]

  HF: He hated to be walked in on when he was working.

  WH: Why?

  HF: There’s nothing very mysterious about it. He liked to work alone, that’s all. Perhaps he feared people would think him odd, for his mode of painting was, undeniably, strange.

  WH: Can you describe it?

  HF: I can, as it happens; for I was once lucky enough to see it. [Wonderful! – at last!] One morning, at breakfast, my father challenged Turner to make him a drawing that would give some idea of the size of a man-of-war. Turner chuckled, and turned to me, and said: ‘Come along Hawkey, and we will see what we can do for Papa.’

  And for the next three hours I sat and watched him. At first you would have supposed he was mad; for he began by pouring wet paint on to the paper till it was saturated, and then he tore and scratched and scrabbled at it in a kind of frenzy – ripping the surface with his thumbnail, which he kept long for the purpose – and the whole thing was utter chaos. But then, as if by magic, the ship gradually took shape; and by luncheon time it was complete, every rope and spar and gunport perfect, and we carried it downstairs in triumph, and Turner said: ‘Here we are! A First-
Rate Taking on Stores!’

  WH: He had no model to work from?

  HF: None.

  WH: Then how…?

  HF: I’ve often asked myself that question; and the conclusion I’ve come to is that it was an unusual faculty of the brain. Just as some musicians can repeat a piece from memory after hearing it once, so he could retain an image. And then, of course, he refined his gift still further by constantly drawing and taking notes on everything he saw – so that when he stood before that piece of paper, all he had to do was move the colours about until they resembled the picture already printed on his mind.

  WH: Not magic, then?

  HF: [Laughing] It seemed magic, that’s all I meant, to a young man. On another occasion – I must have been twelve or thirteen – I remember him calling me to the window to see a thunderstorm. It was rolling and sweeping and shafting its lightning out over the Chevin; and he was saying, ‘Isn’t it grand, Hawkey? Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it sublime?’ and all the time making notes of its form and colour on the back of a letter. I suggested some better drawing-block, but he said: ‘No, this does very well.’ Presently, when it was finished, he said: ‘There, Hawkey! In two years you will see this again, and call it Hannibal Crossing the Alps.’

  And so I did. He had remembered it so exactly that he could reproduce every last detail.

  [Perhaps why we see the same motives again and again in his work? Once they were rooted in his mind he could not expunge them?]

  HF: My father, I believe it’s fair to say, was Turner’s closest friend while he lived; and after he died Turner couldn’t mention his name without the tears coming into his eyes. It’s for that reason, I think, that he never came back here in later years, even though he was often enough invited. As a result, I only saw him on my infrequent visits to London; but up to the very last time, about a year before his death, he was always the same to me – addressing me by my boy name, and showing me the greatest kindness, as if in doing so he could continue to express his attachment to my father, and his glowing recollections of his ‘auld lang syne’ here.

  [The official line again.]

  Yes, but that does not mean it is untrue.

  Who is more likely to describe Turner accurately? A man who knew and loved him for fifty years; or one who glimpsed him once or twice in moments of weakness?

  I have seen dragons where there are only rocks.

  One more night at the Black Bull, to purify myself of my folly.

  And then, tomorrow, home.

  XXXI

  Letter from Walter Hartright to Marian Halcombe,

  22nd October, 185–

  Limmeridge,

  Sunday

  My dear Marian,

  You were right – I confess it (and when were you ever not?) – this was for the best. The quest for Turner had temporarily disordered my mind somewhat, and to be here with my darlings is the best cure possible. I feared they would not know me – that I should not know myself in the gentle light and domestic calm of Limmeridge, but would mope about the house like a spectre at the feast, carrying my darkness with me. But the darkness is gone, and the spectre with it. I am truly myself again – even Florence is happy now, and as sweet and natural with me as if I had never been away!

  As for Turner: I am painfully conscious of how much time I have wasted chasing shadows – and of all that, in consequence, remains undone. (I torment myself at night sometimes, imagining what Lady Eastlake would say. Is this all you have discovered, Mr. Hartright, in almost five months? That Turner was a strange man?) It chastens me that I must therefore accept your offer – but accept it I do, with a grateful heart, and the certain knowledge that man never had a truer or a more generous sister. You promise to write to me regularly with your discoveries; I, for my part, swear to treat them as judiciously and dispassionately as a palaeontologist treats the bones of a dinosaur. Like his extinct titan, mine shall be resurrected on the basis of facts alone. No more unruly imagination!

  Your devoted brother,

  Walter

  Book Two

  XXXII

  From the journal of Marian Halcombe,

  October/November 185–

  Monday

  Nothing.

  Tuesday

  Letter from Walter. Sat down to answer it, but could not find the tone. At length overcome by such lassitude I could not keep my eyes open.

  Tomorrow.

  Wednesday

  Another blank day. Tomorrow I must begin my work.

  Thursday

  This afternoon, at last, I found the courage to call. Or perhaps it was not courage, but merely foolishness; for I had finally persuaded myself, after a good deal of self-interrogation before the looking-glass, that I could carry off an interview without betraying either myself or Walter. Some part of me, I think, must have known all along that I was deceiving myself – it was Elizabeth Eastlake, after all, who drew from young Mrs. Ruskin the secrets of her unhappy marriage; and it was ludicrous to suppose that so penetrating a mind would have much difficulty in uncovering my misery; but without this pitiful little sop to my amour propre I should probably not have been able to force myself to go at all.

  It was not long before I got my come-uppance.

  ‘Marian!’ she said, taking both my hands in hers. ‘What a great pleasure! Tell me you are here on serious business.’

  ‘I am, as it happens.’

  She gave a gratified nod. ‘Stokes, I am not at home.’ She touched my arm and began leading me towards the boudoir. ‘I was bracing myself for Mrs. Madison, or any one of a hundred other doughty matrons.’ She waved, in passing, towards the drawing-room table. ‘What do you think of my aide-conversation?’

  I turned and saw a small unframed picture of a Madonna and child lying on a folded cloth. It was badly cracked and faded, but you could still see the graceful line of the Virgin’s neck and the sweet simplicity of her expression.

  ‘Filippino Lippi,’ said Lady Eastlake. ‘It came back from Italy with us. I shall be sorry when it goes to the Gallery, for it’s been a social godsend. The dullest woman will coo at it for minutes on end, and then embark on an animated monologue about babies.’

  I felt I was expected to make an amusing riposte; but my poor tired brain stubbornly refused to produce one. Lady Eastlake affected not to notice, and busied herself with clearing a pile of papers from a chair; but as soon as we were sitting down she looked at me steadily and said:

  ‘Are you quite well, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said – aware, as I did so, that my words had a kind of leaden sluggishness that belied their meaning. ‘And you?’

  ‘Oh, yes! – I’ve been very blessed. Two months of mountains and buildings and pictures, and not a single dinner or at-home to irk us. But one tires eventually of all the dirt and the corruption. So it’s a second blessing to come back again, and find oneself once more in a place where things are tolerably well ordered.’ She smiled; but her eyes, never straying from my face, seemed to pin me to my seat, denying me the freedom to speak.

  ‘And what of your brother?’ she went on after a moment.

  ‘He … he …’ My voice was calm enough – I had rehearsed this speech again and again, to give it just the right air of nonchalance – but I could feel my traitor cheeks starting to burn, which flustered me, and caused me to lose my way. I quickly recovered myself; but it was clear from her unwavering gaze that Lady Eastlake had not missed my confusion.

  ‘He has had to return to Cumberland for a few weeks,’ I said.

  She nodded, as if she knew it already, and understood the reason without my having to say it.

  ‘I confess I did feel some anxiety about him – about both of you – while I was away. I couldn’t help wondering if, after all, it was perhaps not a kindness to have asked him to undertake this book.’

  ‘Oh no! You mustn’t think that!’ I said. ‘He . . . he . . . he’s very happy!’ It was so obviously a lie (for I could not look her in the eye, and my tongu
e rebelled, and made me stutter) that I thought she must challenge me; but she only said:

  ‘Well, I am glad to hear it. But I fear it may have demanded more than either of you suspected. No man should be separated from his family for months at a time, if it can be helped – even the best of them finds it unsettling. And there is undoubtedly – I should probably have warned your brother of this more clearly, but I did not want to prejudice him – there is undoubtedly something disturbing about Turner. There are few people who could come close to the details of his life, and not be affected by them.’

  She paused. I wanted to deny it, but it would have been as unavailing as trying to halt an advancing army by throwing sticks.

  ‘Has that been your brother’s experience?’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps. A little.’

  She nodded again. ‘Whom has he spoken to so far?’

  I told her. She was silent for a while; and then, as it became clear that I had finished, a faint look of puzzlement crossed her face.

  ‘No-one else?’

  ‘Not so far as I know.’

  Should I say more? Should I tell her the truth: that I could not be certain, because I had still not dared to ask Walter what he had done, or whom he had seen, on the evening of our visit to Sandy-combe Lodge? I had hoped (or half-hoped and half-dreaded) that he might volunteer it; but since he had not done so, I would not force him into a position where he must either lie to me, or else tell me something he would sooner I did not know.

  ‘And what of you, Marian?’ she said. Her voice was so soft and solicitous, so removed from its usual bantering tone, that I knew at once she must somehow have looked into my very soul, and seen the desolation there. And suddenly it seemed to me that further pretence was futile – I had resisted as best I could, but the citadel had fallen, and all that remained was to surrender, and confess the secrets she had already guessed. Surely, indeed, it would be a blessed relief to do so – to share the burden of my wretchedness with another human being, and not merely with an insensible book?