The Glass of Time

by Michael Cox

  I am almost ashamed now to admit my brazenness, but I deliberately held myself back from the others and, in a moment or two, I heard the tap of Mr Gorst’s walking-stick just behind me.

  As he drew level, I continued to maintain the silly pretence of not seeing him; but just as he was about to move ahead of me, I put out a hesitant greeting, as if I had not quite recognized him. On hearing my words, he stopped and turned his face towards me.

  He greeted me with every appearance of satisfaction, smiling as he spoke – such a warm, engaging smile – and gently tipped his hat. Hearing this exchange, Uncle James and the others had stopped a little way from the foot of the steps to look back. I said something stupidly inconsequential to Mr Gorst that I cannot now even remember, and prepared to go down to join my family. Susanna, I could see, was all of a giggle, whilst Mamma – looking first at me, and then at Susanna – was wearing a rather cross expression.

  Uncle James, eyeing the rolling clouds suspiciously, called to me to hurry along, or we would all be soaked – our ox-sledges being stationed a little way down the road (Susanna had wished to make the precipitous return descent to Funchal by toboggan, but this had been sternly forbidden by Uncle James). I made a hurried good-bye to Mr Gorst; but, as I took my first step, he stopped me to ask if we planned any further excursions. I told him that we were to go to Camacha the following day.

  He said that Camacha was a delightful spot, and that he often walked over to it. Then he wished me good-day and strode off down the steps at a brisk pace, bowing to Uncle James and the others as he passed, before disappearing into the mist.

  I find, to my consternation, that this incident – commonplace and trivial though it was – has stayed in my head all day; and now, as I commit the memory of it to my journal, I see even less moment in it. A chance encounter. An exchange of conventional pleasantries. Nothing more. He cannot find me as interesting as I find him. Why, indeed, should I be interesting to Mr Edwin Gorst? Nothing in his face – in those eyes – betrays such a thing, I am sure, and of course I am glad of it; for I am promised to Cousin Fergus; and there is an end to the matter.

  20

  In Which Mr Vyse Bares His Teeth

  I

  Mr Vyse Speaks Frankly

  ON THE morning after receiving Mr Thornhaugh’s package, I sought out Charlie Skinner.

  ‘Will you do something for me, Charlie?’ I asked.

  He jumped up from his chair, threw his shoulders back, and saluted.

  ‘Awaiting orders, miss.’

  In five minutes he returned, swinging a bunch of keys, which he handed to me, saluted once again, and went on his way, whistling.

  On one of my morning expeditions about the house, I had come upon a narrow stone staircase leading from the lower regions to a bare-boarded passage at the rear of my Lady’s apartments. Dark and vaulted, it led out through a narrow curtained arch to the Picture Gallery. Halfway along this passage was a low doorway, on the other side of which a closet, used for the storage of travelling trunks, hat boxes, and the like, gave access to my Lady’s sitting-room.

  I knew from Sukie that the door from this closet into the passage had been locked for some years past. She could not tell me the whereabouts of the key, but thought that Charlie Skinner – the fount of all knowledge on such matters – might know, as indeed it proved.

  After leaving Charlie, I made my way up to the passage and soon found a rusting key on the bunch he had given me that fitted the lock. With some difficulty, I eventually got the door to open on its creaking hinges, and I entered the closet, locking the door behind me.

  On either side of the interior door were two small round windows filled with pale-yellow glass. These offered a good view of the room beyond and, by opening the door slightly, I judged that I would be able to hear anything that was said within.

  I was about to leave when the door to the sitting-room opened and my Lady came in, followed by Mr Vyse.

  At first, they remained out of earshot, both standing by the far window talking quietly, with their backs towards me; but then my Lady, her face exhibiting an extreme state of apprehension, went to her chair by the fire, only a few feet from the closet door, where she was soon joined by Mr Vyse.

  So stand with me now, to see and hear what passed between Lady Tansor and Mr Armitage Vyse on that crisp winter morning.

  Notice, first, the wild look in my Lady’s eyes. I have seen it before, many times, when the night-terrors have banished sleep.

  ‘But why is he still here?’ she asks plaintively, as Mr Vyse – unsmiling for once – falls wearily on to the sofa opposite her. ‘He knows. He must know.’

  ‘Pray don’t concern yourself,’ drawls Mr Vyse. ‘He doesn’t know. It’s nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ she exclaims. ‘How can it be nothing?’

  ‘It’s sheer chance that he’s here at this time. No more, no less.’

  ‘But how can you be so sure?’

  ‘I’m told that his father is seriously ill, and that he’s been given permission by his superiors to remain in Northamptonshire for a little longer. You should not make more of this than it is, and must trust my judgment in the matter. You do trust me, don’t you, my Lady?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she replies. ‘You’ve been a great comfort and support to me since the colonel’s death; and of course I shall always be obligated to you for your unfailing loyalty to the memory of my dearest Phoebus. I simply wish to be sure that we are in no danger of discovery. Gully has a certain reputation, I believe.’

  ‘Pshaw! Reputation! King Minnow!’ answers Mr Vyse, with ebullient disdain. ‘A mere boy.’

  ‘But he’s with Wraxall, another man of some reputation in these matters. You know how his uncle never believed – well, I need hardly say more. And now we learn that he has letters from Slake to my father. Perhaps they contain things from which it might be possible to deduce—’

  Mr Vyse interrupts her impatiently.

  ‘The letters to your father may be something or nothing – the latter, if you want my opinion; for if this correspondence with your father contained anything of weight, why did Slake never bring it to public attention? Rest easy, my Lady. All is well. All shall be well.’

  ‘If only I could—’

  ‘Listen to me.’

  He leans forward, resting both hands on his stick.

  ‘You must put all your worries aside. I am here to make everything right. Your interests are my paramount concern, and you may rely on me, as I hope I’ve demonstrated, with respect to our recent little problem, to take action – any action – should it become necessary.’

  She does not answer him, but looks down at her hands, folded in her lap.

  ‘You live too much in the past, my Lady,’ Mr Vyse goes on, reprovingly. ‘Regarding Wraxall and his uncle, I’ve advised you before that you must not dwell on the circumstances of your father’s – ahem – sad demise. Remember: the truth of the matter is known only to our two selves. Slake was an incorrigible busybody; but he’s dead and gone, and, with him, all possibility of discovery. Think: he could never bring forward any proof to support his suspicions. For where is it? Where is the palpable evidence to connect you to the business? There is none. Words on paper can kill in these matters, my Lady, but you have assured me many times, have you not, that there are no words on paper concerning the matter – nothing committed to that deadly medium – that might condemn you.

  ‘As for the old woman, I can only assure you, once again, that you – we – are safe. Gully has nothing. He’ll soon forget her, if he hasn’t already done so. There will always be corpses enough in the Thames – excuse my frankness – to keep him occupied. Besides, the trail is as cold as the weather, the son is a simpleton, and Yapp knows better than to cross me.’

  He pauses, and audibly draws breath.

  ‘The girl, however, is another matter.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ my Lady asks, patently astonished by his words. ‘Are you referring to Alice?’

  At the mention of my name, my stomach begins to churn. Has Mr Vyse found me out?
<
br />   ‘I’m aware – how shall I put this? – of a new, and rather surprising, familiarity that has lately grown up between you and Miss Esperanza Gorst,’ says Mr Vyse, pronouncing each syllable of my Christian name with slow, malicious relish. ‘I agreed, somewhat against my better judgment, that the girl should become your companion; but I would not approve of any closer connexion. That would be distinctly dangerous. Who knows what might be let slip? You understand me?’

  ‘You’ll recall, Armitage,’ she replies, a little tartly, ‘that – on your advice – I obtained a satisfactory reference from Miss Gainsborough as to Alice’s character, and that we were ourselves able to confirm the truth of what she told us about her upbringing. I have every confidence that she is who she claims to be, and no reason whatsoever to doubt her.’

  ‘Really, my Lady, what an innocent you are!’ cries Mr Vyse, with a cynical chuckle. ‘You think these things cannot be arranged?’

  ‘But why? If she has lied about her identity, then who is she, and what purpose could she have in coming here?’

  He does not reply, but sits back and taps the end of his stick rapidly against the leg of the sofa, as an irritated cat might twitch its tail.

  ‘That, I confess, is unknown to me,’ he says at last, adding ominously, ‘as yet.’

  ‘So you frighten me with nothing but unsubstantiated suspicions?’

  Her consternation is now visibly transforming into anger.

  ‘No, not entirely unsubstantiated. Shillito is sure that she must be related to the man he met on Madeira. He believes, in fact, that she may be the man’s daughter.’

  My Lady throws her head back, and laughs derisively.

  ‘Well, that’s an accusation, to be sure! Related to a man your friend met twenty years ago! Have you forgotten that she’s an orphan, who never knew her parents? Even if Mr Shillito is right, where’s the harm?’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ he replies. ‘But that harm may come of it must be seriously considered, the risks assessed, and appropriate action taken. It is always best to expect the worst. I speak from experience.’

  ‘But I still fail to understand how—’

  ‘Then allow me to explain. Shillito is certain that he’d known this man Gorst before being introduced to him on Madeira. Unfortunately, he is still unable to bring to mind the circumstances of their previous acquaintance, but is sure – and this is the point, my Lady – that he did not then go by the name of Gorst.’

  ‘Really, Armitage, this is preposterous! Mr Shillito could be mistaken; and what does it matter to us if this man once went by another name, any more than that Alice might be his daughter?’

  ‘Well,’ says Mr Vyse, in a most chillingly significant manner, ‘that rather depends on who the man was.’

  My Lady shakes her head vigorously.

  ‘No, no, this won’t do. I have a keen instinct for these things. It has never failed me yet. There’s no harm in Alice, none at all. She is a most innocent, sweet-natured young woman, who has proved herself both loyal and considerate. There’s no guile in her, no deceit.’

  ‘What of Wraxall’s invitation? Did she not keep that from you?’

  My Lady is momentarily taken aback, but soon recovers herself.

  ‘A venial oversight. She meant nothing by it. You are wrong in this, Armitage, although it’s true that I have indeed grown very fond of her, to the extent that I now regard her, in every way, as a friend; yes – don’t smile in that maddening way – a friend, although of course there are certain matters that I shall never be free to discuss with her, which I regret, but cannot help. You will please oblige me in this, Armitage, and speak no more on the subject. I hope that’s clear?’

  She fixes him with her queenly eye – the Lady Tansor of old.

  ‘Perfectly,’ says Mr Vyse, with another little tap of his stick. I cannot see his face, but I imagine the word has been accompanied by one of his most ingratiating smiles.

  They sit for a moment, saying nothing; but then Mr Vyse leans forward once more, and places a long, well-scrubbed hand on hers.

  ‘May I ask, my Lady, whether you have given further consideration to the matter we discussed during our ride out in the barouche?’

  ‘Please don’t press me on that, Armitage. I cannot give you an answer yet – and certainly not the answer you want.’

  She withdraws her hand from his, rises from her chair, and walks back over to the window, where she stands looking out across the frost-dusted park. Mr Vyse, his long legs stretched out towards the fire, remains on the sofa, swinging his stick to and fro.

  ‘You will permit me to observe,’ he says, most sinisterly, ‘that you gave me a degree of encouragement, without which I would not have raised the matter so soon. You will also acknowledge, I am sure, that I have shown exemplary patience.’

  He is now standing immediately behind my Lady, blocking her from my view. Tall though she is, he is a head taller, and – drawn up now to his full height – he cuts a most menacing figure; but my Lady remains silent.

  ‘Let me put it another way.’

  His icy tone makes me shudder. The wolf is baring his teeth.

  ‘There is a debt to be paid. A considerable debt.’

  ‘I promised nothing.’

  She moves away a little, but still does not look at him.

  ‘True. However, the debt remains. You have drawn heavily on me, my Lady, and I must – I will – be reimbursed. Yet see how forbearing I can be! Your wish is granted. I shan’t press you further – for the moment. But let us understand each other. You have secured your continuing prosperity and position through me, at no little personal risk. It would pain me greatly if – certain matters, as you so delicately put it – became known, to deprive you of what you presently enjoy. You have so much to lose, my Lady, so much. But come, let us be friends again. No more unpleasantness. The air is cleared, and now I shall leave you to your thoughts.’

  He begins to walk towards the door, humming quietly to himself, then turns, and makes her a little bow.

  ‘Until this evening.’

  When he has gone, my Lady runs to her bed-chamber, slamming the door behind her.

  BACK IN MY own room, I read over my shorthand notes of the conversation between my Lady and Mr Vyse.

  From what I had just heard, I was satisfied that they had colluded in the murder of Mrs Kraus, although I still could not guess why such a dreadful act had been necessary. I saw, too, what my Lady must be suffering in her private moments, from the weight of guilt, the constant fear of discovery, and – confirming Mr Perseus’s suspicions of Mr Vyse – the prospect of ruin if she did not give in to her accomplice’s obvious desire to marry her, in return for services rendered.

  Another certainty was also beginning to form in my mind: that the death of my Lady’s father twenty years earlier was in some way linked to the murder of Mrs Kraus. ‘The truth of the matter is known only to our two selves,’ Mr Vyse had assured my Lady. But what was that truth, and what part had she played in it?

  The significance of Mr Shillito’s belief that he had once known my father under another name also eluded me. Mr Shillito might be mistaken; but what did it mean if he was not? Although I could not say why, this question caused me great uneasiness, and only served to increase my already intense desire to learn more about my father.

  AFTER DINNER THAT evening, I retired early, to ponder these matters further, and to write up my Book of Secrets; I also wrote a letter to Madame, informing her of what I had overheard, which I intended to take over to the Prouts the next afternoon.

  It was late by the time I laid down my pen, but I was not yet ready for sleep, being eager to finish reading the transliterations I had made from my mother’s journal.

  Return with me again, then, to a former time, and to sunnier climes, exchanging the English winter of 1876 for the sunny island of Madeira twenty years earlier.

  II

  Scandal in Madeira

  A FEW DAYS after first meeting Edwin Gorst at Mr Murchison’s reception, my mother, accompanied by her sister and her uncle, made an excursion to Ca
macha to visit Mr William Lambton, one of the principal wine growers on Madeira.

  They left Funchal early in the morning, arriving at their destination in time for breakfast, after which my mother settled herself with a book in a small wooden garden-house situated in the extensive grounds of Mr Lambton’s quinta. She had hardly done so when she heard the sound of a stick tapping on the flinty surface of the adjoining lane, indicating the presence of some passer-by. Then there was silence. Whoever was there had stopped, just beyond the gate.

  She waited, expecting to hear that the traveller had continued on his way; but no sound came. Impelled, it seems, by some keen instinct, she stole quietly to the gate, opened it, and looked out.

  She was greeted by the smiling face of Mr Edwin Gorst. As she later recorded in her journal:

  We exchanged greetings, and I enquired why he had made the long climb to Camacha on such a hot morning.

  He walked a good deal, he replied, as the exertion calmed his spirits. Then he spoke these thrilling words: ‘It was, I must now confess, the chance of seeing you, Miss Blantyre, that impelled me to come up here on such a day.’

  Those were his very words; and, as I write them now, I experience again the sensation that I felt on first hearing them from his lips; for I saw that he was no longer smiling; the tone of pleasant banter had quite melted away, replaced by one of deep seriousness and unspoken significance.

  That moment was, to me, wonderful, both for its utter, intoxicating unexpectedness and – yes! I confess it – because I knew in my heart that it had been most eagerly desired. Yet I was fearful of it also, truly so, for I felt – as I feel again now – a dangerous fascination stirring within me, like a cord of many-skeined silk, beautiful to behold, but deadly, slowly coiling around my heart. For we were still little more than strangers. Whence, then, the cause of this sudden, heart-shaking tumult, which made me so restless and dissatisfied, yet so eager to live over that delicious moment again and again, driving out all thought of duty to what I am, and to what I must be?