Sovay (21 page)

CHAPTER
22

S
ovay wandered from one room to the other. Fires burned in the grates of the sitting room and bedroom and both were well lit with lamps. The furnishings were in the baronial manner, with dark oak wainscoting and heavy furniture. A large ebony armoire stood in one corner of the bedroom and the washstand was inlaid with onyx and carved from marble. Sovay had not seen a maid or servant, but the water in the ewer was warm.

The bed was hung with pale green silk, the valance and counterpane embroidered with little knots of flowers. The bed was made up with the finest linen and the goose-down mattress looked extremely comfortable, but Sovay was not feeling in the least bit tired. She prowled from room to room, unable to settle. She wondered where Hugh was, and at the absence of their host, or of any other guests.

However much she fought against it, a sense of menace, vague, but all-pervading, began to seep into her soul. Despite the lamps and the blaze in the hearth, shadows seemed to gather around her. She eyed the tall armoire. She had read enough novels to know that if something, or someone, was lurking, they would be in there. Then she saw a glimmer of white in the corner. Fear caught at her throat and then she laughed in a strangled gasp. She must not let nursery terrors get the better of her. The ‘ghost’ was merely her own reflection in the cheval glass.

She used the armoire for its proper purpose and put her clothes away, then sat in an ornately carved chair by the fire. Still she could not settle. It would be better to do something than stay here with her imaginings. She decided to go and find Hugh.

She opened the door a crack and peered out. The stairway outside was well lit with lanterns set into the wall. She proceeded cautiously up to the next landing. There was a door there, just like hers. There was no answer when she knocked and whispered Hugh’s name and when she tried the handle the door was locked. She went on up the stairs, thinking that he might be on the next landing.

Here, she was faced with a choice to go left or right. To the left, behind a heavy curtain, lay the entrance to another long gallery, disappearing towards some dark, distant turret and not worth her exploration. To the right stood a tall oak door. To her surprise, this one was not locked. She lifted the latch and slipped into a large room, the length and width of the Octagon that lay beneath it. Sovay recognised immediately that she was in a laboratory, much bigger and grander than her father’s at Compton. The room was hot, heated by a brick-built furnace; its surround held a large crucible and a copper still. The oppressive atmosphere was permeated by a sharply pungent, chemical smell, underlain by something sweetish and unpleasant.

The room was illuminated by moonlight streaming through a high plate-glass window which spanned one wall. A huge magnifying instrument stood ready to catch the rays of the sun. An array of microscopes and other instruments stood on a wide, handsome desk, their brass gleaming in the light from outside. Various other larger pieces of equipment were scattered about, one of which Sovay took to be a friction machine, but again much larger than any one that she had ever seen.

Shelves set into the walls held ranks of coloured glass bottles which contained liquids and chemicals. A zinc-topped table was set out for experiments with apparatus for distillation, glass jars and spherical containers all very much larger than any her father used. A wooden bench stood parallel with drains down each side and stout leather straps and buckles dangling from it. There was a shape underneath the discoloured covering sheet. Sovay approached reluctantly, the unpleasant smell growing stronger as she lifted a corner of the coarse, grey linen. The table held a partially dissected cadaver. She dropped the cover quickly after catching a glimpse of grey and yellow flesh laced with blue and red veins and arteries. The thin, sweetish smell of the pickling alcohol did little to disguise the overwhelming stench of decay. A buckled strap snagged in her skirt as she stepped away and she wondered, briefly, as to their purpose. Then the realisation came upon her. Only the living required restraint.

Sovay was not tempted to investigate what other hideous secrets the laboratory might contain, but her retreat towards the door was halted by the sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. It was too late to escape. She looked for somewhere to hide and prayed that there was space enough for her behind a curtained-off alcove at the side of the room. More guests had arrived, or perhaps they had been here all the time. Thursley was large enough for platoons to be billeted and kept secret, one from the other. She hid herself just in time. The door opened and the thick, aromatic scent of cigar smoke added itself to the general pungency of the room.

‘Gentlemen, welcome to my laboratory.’ Dysart’s voice was close. ‘I would be grateful if you did not touch anything,’ he added, as murmurs of wonder and words of appreciation added themselves to the sound of movement about the room. ‘For your own safety. Many of the chemicals are dangerous, poisonous and highly corrosive. Some of the instruments are delicate and many are irreplaceable.’

As they moved away from her hiding place, Sovay risked a peek through a crack in the curtains. Six or seven men, some of them in uniform, stood grouped around the bench.

‘I have replicated the experiments of the radical Joseph Priestley and the distinguished French scientist, Lavoisier, who recently perished at the guillotine,’ Dysart addressed them. ‘I have proved to my satisfaction that the element, oxygen, is necessary to life. Further, I have proved that we are no different to the animals in this.’ He rested his hands on one of the giant bell jars, easily big enough to contain a human child. ‘Thus life is sustained, but how is it generated? This is the question, sirs, to which I now address myself. We live in an age when Reason reigns supreme. It is time to discard ancient superstitions, blind belief in some mysterious divinity whose existence cannot be proven. I have dissected many a corpse, gentlemen, some still warm, and have never found the seat of the soul. No, I have come to believe the secret lies elsewhere. Watch and I will demonstrate.’

Dysart moved towards a complicated array of delicate devices and began to turn a wheel, slowly at first then faster and faster. As the rotations increased, the mechanisms began to whirr and whirl. The room was filled with a low humming, then there was a sharp crack. Some of the audience uttered audible cries of alarm and stepped back as a crooked violet flash, like miniature lightning, leapt across the space between one machine and another.

‘Electricity, sirs, electricity! It is the very spark and force of life!’ The sparking began to die as he let the turning wheel wind down. ‘Could one garner enough of it, it might even be possible to
re
animate that which is no longer living. To that end, I have connected this mechanism to the top of the tower so that I may use the power of lightning to prove my theory. But I have not brought you here to merely witness demonstrations, or to talk of science. I show you this in illustration only. I have brought you to Thursley so that we might act together to reanimate the moribund body politic which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is as dead and stinking as the corpse beneath this sheet. We must act as that bolt of lightning: to bring new life, to create a new creature, one never seen before, and one entirely within our power. We must act to disperse those who stand guard over that which is dead; then we must drive away the carrion dogs of revolution that even now sniff after the carcass. What better way could there be than to turn each upon the other?’

He gave a conspiratorial grin. When he laughed, the others joined in.

‘The fuses are set, gentlemen. After tomorrow you will return to your places, within the country, within government, ready to take over after the conflagration.’

He held out his hand to the globe before him and they watched entranced as the room was filled with violet and blue light. Threads of lightning extended from his fingers and played within the sphere.

Excited conversation broke out among the group as they left to make their way down the stairs. Sovay stayed in her hiding place until all sound had died away except for the occasional fizzing splutter and spark from the infernal machine. So their host
was
in residence, but only to his friends, it seemed. Their conspiracy was every bit as dastardly as Oldfield had predicted. She should find Hugh and tell him, but he could be anywhere within this vast building. That would have to wait until morning. It would be better not to wander the abbey in darkness. Who knew what other horrors it might contain?

CHAPTER
2
3

S
ovay stole back to the sanctuary of her room. Once there, she shut the door behind her and prepared for bed. She changed into her nightdress quickly and blew out all the lamps. That done, she climbed under the covers and pulled them over her head.

She woke from oppressive dreams, fighting for breath. Something was squatting on her chest, crushing the life out of her . . . She was all in a sweat, lying with the covers wound tightly about her, half in and out of the bed. She rose and lit the lamp, determined not to close her eyes again.

She must have slept, despite her intention, for when she next opened her eyes it was morning. A girl had drawn her curtains and was pouring water into the basin.

She turned as she heard Sovay stirring. It was Lydia. Sovay struggled to sit up, amazed to see her here. She had never intended to bring the girl with her, but had forgotten how determined Lydia could be.

‘How did you get here?’

‘Lady B came to call you early this morning. I told her you’d already gone, but had left me behind by some oversight.’

Lydia’s smirk of triumph faded as Sovay leapt out of bed and seized her by the arms.

‘You cannot stay here, Lydia.’

‘But who will attend you? Lady B’s brought your dress and everything. Don’t you want to see it. It’s –’

‘No. I do not want to see it. I want you to go. Immediately.’

Lydia’s face threatened tears. ‘If you’d rather Lady Bingham’s maid –’

‘It’s not that. If you stay, you could be in very great danger.’

‘What danger?’

‘I cannot say, but I believe it is so.’

‘All right.’ Lydia dabbed at her nose. ‘I’ll get your things ready, and I’ll go. Mr Hugh called when you were sleeping. Says to meet him in the Blue Room when you’re ready. Says you’ll know where it is.’

Sovay washed and dressed quickly and descended the stairs to the Octagon. Daylight revealed the full majesty of the place. The sun streamed through the tall, stained-glass windows setting the dull stone slabs at the centre of the Octagon to shine like a great, jewelled shield. She walked along the same gallery as last night. The light warmed the pale stone of the vaulted ceiling to apricot and emphasised the delicate carving and interlocking patterns. To the left of her, ran a cloister, with a fountain at the centre. A big black bird flew down, perched on the edge of the carved basin and dipped to sip water with its long curved beak. As if aware of her presence, it looked up suddenly, head on one side, and regarded her with a beady, dark eye.

She found Hugh waiting for her. He had already breakfasted.

Sovay spooned some oatmeal into a dish and poured herself a cup of coffee.

‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.

‘Tolerably,’ she replied, ‘considering what I had seen.’

She told him about Dysart’s laboratory and the men who had been with him.

‘There were military men there, you say?’ Hugh poured himself more coffee from the silver coffee pot.

Sovay nodded.

‘They probably have command of their own regiments. We are at war with France. Troops have been dispatched to Holland and Belgium. The Fleet is busy in the Caribbean and the Mediterranean.’ He paused, his face grave. ‘Dysart only has to have the backing of a couple of regiments on his side for this coup d’état to work. Even if their efforts fail, think about how much blood will be shed in the attempt.’ Hugh put his cup down. ‘We must stop it. Tonight. It is our only chance.’ Hugh took Sovay’s hands in his and looked into her eyes. ‘Whatever happens, we must be equal to it. You did good work last night. Now, I am going to find out who these conspirators are, and I must speak to Oldfield as soon as he gets here, and Virgil. But remember,’ his grip tightened, ‘we trust no one. Only each other.’

‘What shall I do?’ Sovay asked.

‘Play the innocent lady guest. Go for a stroll in the grounds. Seek out that spiderous woman, Lady Bingham. Above all, use those sharp eyes and keep your ears open.’

Sovay let herself out by a little postern door and followed a gravel path through a rustic archway that led to a flight of steps and down on to a broad sweep of lawn.

She set off across the expanse, holding up her skirts a little to avoid the dampness of the grass. The lawn suddenly ended in a precipitous drop. Far below lay a large pool. Sedge and reed grew round the borders, but the dark stillness of the water indicated great depth. She startled a little at the sudden loud call of a moorhen. Its cry was answered by another, although no living creature disturbed the black, mirror surface of the lake. Wooded ground rose away from the water on three sides with trees overhanging the banks. Although the lake was only perhaps a hundred yards from the house, it seemed remote and mysterious, as though she had come across some bottomless tarn deep in the wooded isolation of the hills.

Through a grove of tall pines, she could see the domed roof of a round building. The hidden aspect and odd shape gave it an air of strangeness. Sovay set off, determined to discover what it might be. She found a walkway, flanked by high hedges of dusty yew. She followed the twists and turns, rather in the manner of a maze, and found herself standing in front of a temple.

The squat, circular building of straw-coloured stone stood on a stepped platform and was surrounded by a covered colonnade of Doric columns. It was set into a steep hillside, as artificial and foreign to the landscape as the building itself. The rocky slope rose steep, punctuated by tall, dark cypress and slender poplar. Sovay guessed it was meant to emulate some Arcadian scene, or a Tuscan hillside of the kind glimpsed over the shoulder of one of Dysart’s Renaissance Madonnas.

It was hard to tell if the building had been constructed to gratify some extravagant fancy or whether it served a real purpose. Impressive double doors sheathed in bronze, each side embossed with a head of Medusa, marked the entrance. Sovay turned the twisted circular handles but the doors were locked. She stepped back and looked up at the decorative frieze which ran along the space between the roof and the top of the colonnade. The carving appeared weather worn, as though stolen from some actual pagan temple, the stone deprived of detail, sucked by the elements until it was almost impossible to tell exactly what was represented. As Sovay studied the forms, decayed faces seemed to leer down and she saw figures, half human, half animal, writhing together, centaurs and satyrs, engaged in some profane dance. Their eroded quality contrasted strongly with the carving set above the entrance; here the large curving horns of the great god Pan had a sharp-edged clarity, as if hewn recently. The curls hanging from his bearded chin were crisply sculpted. The narrow, slanted eyes, glaring down from either side of his broad nose, appeared disconcertingly lifelike above his jeering, goat-like grin.

The day was bright but it was cold in the shadow of the building. Sovay shivered as though some dark bird of ill omen had flown over her grave. As if summoned by her thought, two of the great birds that seemed to haunt the place alighted in the tops of the tall pine trees with a loud cawing and flapping of wings. One solitary black feather floated down to her. Sovay picked it up and turned back to the abbey. She had done enough exploring for one day.

The path she took led her back to a walled garden in the north-east quadrant of the building. Sovay stepped between the carefully tended beds towards the long northern wing. Suddenly, a flash of colour in an upper storey caught her eye. A woman wearing a vibrant orange wig was hurrying along a vaulted corridor above the long gallery. Sovay doubted there could be two hairpieces the same violent shade in all of London, or the surrounding counties. It had to be Mother Pierce. What was she doing here? Sovay quickened her own step, determined to find out.