The Dark Clue (32 page)

As though in response, a girl – so white, so dazzlingly white I could not look at her – rose from the lake; and I knew (though how, I cannot say, for no voice spoke) that she had been summoned to accuse her murderer.

I waited. I felt sick. I could not move.

She pointed at me.

As she did so, the Last Trump sounded.

I woke – I half-woke – in my room at the Black Bull. I could still hear the horn: it was coming, quite distinctly, from outside. I
went to the window and peered out, but it was quite dark, and I could see nothing. I lit the lamp, and looked at my watch. It was just past five. I had slept for little more than ninety minutes.

I returned to bed and lay down; but still the horn sounded, and in my fuddled condition I could not rid myself of the idea – even as, in some part of my brain, I recognized it as ridiculous – that it was calling me. Knowing I should not sleep again, I got up after a few minutes, and dressed, and went down into the street.

I cannot account for my behaviour during the next hour, save by saying that it was as if I were simultaneously awake and asleep. My waking self knew that I was in Otley; that the storm had blown itself out overnight, leaving the cobbles wet and shiny, and tearing great rents in the clouds, through which appeared a scattering of stars; that this was the cause of the shimmering black expanse I saw before me; and that the noise I heard was made by a mortal agent, who almost certainly did not even know I existed, and was blowing his horn for some rational reason (though I could not guess what it was) that had nothing to do with me at all. And yet, at the same time, I was still in my dream; and the black expanse was the dark lake; and the horn was speaking to me alone, and drawing me, for good or ill, towards my destiny.

I could not see the pied piper; but I could hear him clearly enough, making his way through a tangle of small streets to the east. As I set off in pursuit, lights appeared in bedroom windows to either side of me, as if to confirm that I had chosen the right direction, and to show me the path ahead. After a few minutes, however, I realized that the sound of the horn was growing fainter; and when, at length, I came out in a broad thoroughfare, it had become so distant that I could no longer say with any certainty where it was coming from, or whether I must go left or right to follow it. My waking voice said:
You have lost him; go back to bed
; but to my dreaming self it seemed evident that the horn had brought me here for a purpose (for there are no accidents in the world of dreams), and I at once looked about to see if I could discover what it might be.

Before me, in the middle of the road, was a tall column like a maypole; beyond that, the louring, inescapable blackness of the Chevin. And as I looked at it – saw the knife-sharp line of its
ridge; and the jumble of rocks at the top, as grim and ugly as a clot of blood – I was suddenly seized by the overwhelming conviction that I must climb it. If I could but conquer that darkness, my confusion would evaporate, and I should at last be able to see clearly.

The first mile or so – past a gasworks, and a tannery, and through an orderly little orchard, where the trees stood as still and uniform as soldiers – was easy enough; but with every pace the Chevin bulked larger and more fearful; and when at length I reached the bottom, and saw nothing but an apparently unrelieved wall of rock and scrub, I wondered if the task I had undertaken was, after all, impossible. My waking self (conscious that in a few hours I must present myself at Farnley Hall, and that I should not cut a very respectable figure if my eyes were bleary from lack of sleep, and my clothes torn and mud-stained) was all for giving up; but the hero of my dream – for whom the greatness of the obstacles to be overcome merely demonstrated the importance of the quest – would not hear of it. After a minute or two I found a narrow gap between two overgrown bushes, and saw a jagged black scar scored into the hillside above it; and concluded that this must be a path.

And so, indeed, it was, for perhaps two hundred slippery yards; but then, as the slope grew rapidly steeper, it became little more than a muddy waterfall, with last night's rain still trickling down its miry face. I hauled myself up, clutching at tufts of gorse and bramble, and feeling for rocks with my feet, until the incline eased again, and I was able to walk (arms outstretched for balance, and gingerly testing the ground with every step, in case it suddenly slid away from under me) for a hundred yards more, to the next waterfall, where I had to begin my struggle with rocks and tufts afresh.

I cannot say how long I continued in this manner, climbing and slithering, climbing and slithering; but at length the going underfoot seemed to become easier, and a cold wind started to finger my sweating face. I dimly saw, not a quarter of a mile away, the tops of three or four stunted misshapen trees jutting above the ridge; and I knew that they must be on the other side, and that I was approaching the summit. And then, without further warning, I was there, and upon the rocks.

They were larger than I had imagined, and blacker – for the dawn had just begun to lighten the sky, and they towered above me in chaotic silhouette. My first response, on seeing them this near, and realizing their size, was to wonder at the tremendous force that had placed them there; for they seemed to have been strewn along the crest as carelessly and easily as pebbles thrown by a child. But it was not this that made me pause and tremble – rather a curious, disturbed jolt of recognition. It took me but a moment to identify the cause:

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.