The Dark Clue (39 page)

I had just started to read her account of an evening at Almack's, and was so utterly engrossed in it that I had forgotten where I really was, or my purpose in being there, when I suddenly became conscious that I was no longer alone. I looked up: Mr. Kingsett was standing in the doorway. I could not clearly see his face, for my eyes had grown accustomed to the lamplight, and could not immediately adjust to the gloom beyond, but his stance – stock-still, one hand on the handle – was that of a man who had supposed he was entering an empty room, and was flabbergasted to find that it was already occupied. I told myself again that – unless his wife had been lying – he must have expected me to be there; and said, as easily I could:

‘Good afternoon.'

He did not reply, but after staring at me for a few seconds more suddenly closed the door behind him, took a newspaper from the table, and settled himself in a chair by the fireplace. His posture suggested that he was reading, but it was plainly too dark for him to do so.

‘You will strain your eyes, Mr. Kingsett,' I said – sounding, I hoped, good-humoured, but not over-familiar. ‘Why don't you ring for someone to light the lamps?'

Again, he said nothing; so I went on:

‘Would you like me to do it for you?'

Surely, I thought, he
must
answer me now – but he merely went on with his charade of reading, and showed no sign of even having heard me.

I was determined not to be intimidated, and forced myself back to work; but I felt so unnerved by Mr. Kingsett's presence, and so slighted by his behaviour towards me, that I found it almost impossible to concentrate. All at once,
this
had become the real world again, and Caro's – which before had seemed merely a romantic version of my own, like a particularly enchanting stage-set – now appeared as alien and perplexing as China or Japan. Several times, as I reached the end of a sentence, I realized I had taken in barely a word of it, and had to start again.

I had struggled through three or four letters in this way, and was beginning to wonder whether there was any point in continuing, when, as I turned a page, my eye fell upon the words ‘Turner's Gallery'. I looked again, to make sure I had not made a mistake, and then – my excitement suddenly returning – copied the reference into my notebook:

All in all, my dear, I think you may count yourself fortunate to be
there
and not
here.
The only
evenement
of note that I'm sorry you missed – for I think you would have enjoyed it – was the opening of Turner's Gallery, which was splendid indeed. Never have I seen so many magnificent works by one man, in one place. The effect on walking in was rather like seeing all the members of a particularly handsome family – of whom you have previously only met two aunts and a younger son – gathered together in a single room. And there was the
grand genie
himself, the father of them all, darting about like a songless bird, presenting his favourites to the guests.

Sur ce sujet-là -
I was startled to learn from Mr. Perrin, whom we met on our way out, that Turner's own mother died, not a week ago, in Bethlem Hospital. Turner is always taciturn (save, so you tell me, when he is in his cups!), and in hindsight it did strike me that perhaps he had been even quieter on that occasion than usual, but you would certainly never have supposed from his manner or his appearance that he had recently suffered such a grievous blow.

When I had finished, I turned back to note the date – 21st April, 1804 – and then set my pencil down to continue reading. As I did so I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye, and, turning slightly, saw Mr. Kingsett getting up from his chair. I fervently hoped that he was going to leave again; but instead he took a cigar from a box on the table, lit it, and then started deliberately towards me. I affected not to notice, and pretended to be getting on with my work; but when he came to a halt at my shoulder I could no longer ignore him, and glanced up.

He was standing with his back half towards me, one hand in his pocket, the other languidly holding his cigar, as if he had simply decided to stroll over and look out of the window, and was completely unaware that his vantage point was no more than six inches away from another human being. I could not think what to do: it seemed preposterous to continue acting as if he weren't there, and yet if I spoke to him, and he again refused to acknowledge me, I should feel even more embarrassed than I did now. It
was only when I felt my eyes starting to smart from his cigar smoke that I decided I must say something: to have remained silent would have been tacitly to accept his violation of the normal social rules, and so put myself beyond their protection.

‘Would you like me to move?' I said. ‘I fear I am in your way here.'

He turned and looked at me with a kind of incredulous scowl, as if I had said something unimaginably offensive. Then, without a word, he leant his head close to mine – so close, indeed, that I was forced to crane my neck to avoid our cheeks touching – and studiedly started to read what I had written in my notebook.

I felt for a moment I must be dreaming: such astonishing conduct, in the library of a house to which I had been invited as a guest, was quite outside my experience, and seemed totally inexplicable. I wondered for a moment if he was simply exceedingly drunk, but – although he stank of tobacco – I could not detect the faintest smell of wine on his breath; and his rudeness had none of the casual bluster of a drunkard about it, but seemed rather glacially precise and calculated. And that made it all the more frightening: for drunkenness, at least, is the devil you know, and there is a certain predictability to its effects, and to the kind of chaos it may bring; but if a sober man were prepared to act so outrageously, there was no telling what else he might do.

This is worse, I suddenly thought, than being at Haste's: for here I have no chance of escape, and no assets with which to bargain, and no possibility of redress if I am insulted further. And that realization made me bold: for I knew, with utter certainty, that I must assert myself now, or lose all hope of restraining him.

I took up my notebook and closed it.

He breathed in sharply, but said nothing, and did not look at me. The hand holding the cigar trembled slightly, shaking a cylinder of ash on to the pile of letters. He returned the cigar to his mouth, and then reached down unhurriedly to pick up the notebook.

I reached it before he did, and laid my hand on top of it.

Now, for the first time, he looked me in the face. I met his gaze steadily. I should, I know, have been afraid, but the instant I saw his pig-nose and weak mouth and the expression in his eyes – quite rational, but puzzled and uncertain – I knew that my will
was stronger than his. After a moment, he turned away, and walked slowly from the room – trying to salvage his dignity by affecting a weary nonchalance that said:
I don't care: your notebook isn't worth the trouble of getting it.

But I knew my victory was only temporary. I still had no idea what his motive might be, but it was inconceivable that, having created such a battle-line between us, he could now simply retreat from it. He would think twice, I imagined, before choosing to challenge me again directly, but would look for any opportunity to spite me when I could not defend myself. This meant, in all probability, that he would wait until I had left, and then remove or destroy the papers, or merely instruct the servants not to admit me again. I wondered briefly whether I might persuade Mrs. Kingsett to let me do as Haste had, and take the letters with me; but her husband would certainly forbid it, since part of his mysterious purpose had clearly been to keep them, and me, in this room, even though our presence here plainly infuriated him. And if I encouraged her to defy him, I should only end by making matters worse between them, and so adding to her misery.

For a moment, I lost sight of Turner and Walter altogether, and could think only of my struggle with Mr. Kingsett, and of how utterly intolerable (I was astonished by the savagery of my feelings on this point) defeat would be. And all at once, I knew what I must do: I must remain here for as long as necessary, and not go until I had finished.

I took out my watch: it was just past three. I looked at the two drawers, trying to estimate how long it would take me to work through them. With only the most cursory reading of the contents, I decided, perhaps two hours each. Allow a further two hours – more or less, depending on exactly what I found – to copy down any relevant references. That would take me till after nine. The Kingsetts dined, I imagined, at about seven, and would certainly expect me to leave by then; but if Mr. Kingsett could disregard convention, then so could I – and I solemnly promised myself that I would not move unless Mrs. Kingsett personally asked me to do so, or else I were physically ejected.

There was no time to reflect on this plan – I must just act on it, without delay. I skimmed the rest of Caro's letters – painfully conscious of the delights I was forced to pass over in my single-minded
quest – and, finding no further mention of Turner, tied them up again, set them to one side, and picked out another bundle. This time, though, not only could I not discover the identity of the writer, but – so crabbed and cryptic was the hand – I could barely even make out one word in three. I started trying to tease out the meaning by using the characters in words I recognized as a model for deciphering the rest, but I soon realized this was a luxury I could not afford, and quickly gathered the sheets together again to re-tie them.

As I did so, something struck me: most of the dates on them were within a few days of those on Caro's letters. And almost in the same moment, I understood why: people had only written to her at length, of course, when she – or they – had been away from home. The contents of these drawers – like the negative of a photographic image, or the fossilized marks made by some vanished ancient creature – were the impressions left by
absence.

This realization made me almost weep with frustration; for if these were only the leavings of Lady Meesden's life, how much more would I have been able to learn had I had the foresight to come here two months ago, and actually talked to her? Even as it was, thanks to Mr. Kingsett, I could not get the best from them, but must rush through at breakneck speed, picking out only the most obvious points.

For an instant, I felt close to despair; but then I rallied myself, and went on.

The next few hours are more or less undifferentiated in my recollection – an unbroken pattern of ink and paper and dust, and sore fingers, and sorer eyes – in which almost any moment might stand for them all.

With, that is, one solitary exception. I had completed my search of the first drawer, and had just taken another bundle (the last, as it turned out) from the second, when I heard Mr. and Mrs. Kingsett talking together in the hall. I could not make out what they said, but there was a kind of suppressed urgency in their voices that might, you imagined, suddenly break free of all restraint, and erupt into angry shouting. I could not but suppose that I was the subject of their conversation, and that at any second one or both of them might enter and oblige me to stop, but I willed myself to keep going.

It was not, as it happened, as hard as it might have been; for something about the new package immediately excited my interest. It was tied in a brittle black mourning ribbon – only the few notes from her husband enjoyed the same distinction – and beneath the knot someone (presumably Lady Meesden herself) had slipped a card with the name ‘O'Donnell' on it. At the top was the torn and stained manuscript of a short play called
The Man of Taste
– among whose
dramatis personae,
I was intrigued to see, was a ‘Mr. Over-turner'. Beneath that were perhaps fifteen long letters, written in the same strong, clear hand. The first, I saw – with a small thrill that not even my present circumstances could entirely dampen – was dated 1799, which made it the oldest document I had so far discovered. It began: ‘Sweet dearest Kit', and was signed ‘Your doting Richard'.

I hesitated – but only, I must confess, for an instant: for surely, if Lady Meesden had not wanted the letters to be found, she would not have kept them; and neither she nor her lover would come to much harm by my looking at them now. Before I had read more than a sentence, however, the door opened, and Mrs. Kingsett came in. As she moved into the lamplight, I saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and wet, and she was dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief.

‘We are about to dine,' she said. She sounded hoarse, and could no longer even attempt a smile. ‘Will you join us?'

‘I'm afraid', I said, ‘that I've already inconvenienced you and your husband enough.'

She did not try to gainsay me. ‘But it's late. You must be tired.'

‘A little. But I shall soon be done.'

‘Would you not be better to come back tomorrow?'

Her voice wavered ominously. She seemed on the brink of breaking down altogether. Hoping to deflect her, I laughed, and said as lightly as I could:

‘Two hours. And then, I promise, you will be rid of me for ever.'

She stared at me, as if she had exhausted all her resources, and was at a loss to know what to do next. And then her expression changed from stupefaction to fear, and – as if drawn by some unseen force – she looked towards the door. And in that gesture I suddenly thought I saw the ugly explanation of her husband's behaviour.

He was punishing her. Punishing her for creating a life in which he had no part, and protecting herself from him too effectively. Her complete indifference had reduced him (as he saw it) to no more than a cipher in his own household, robbing him even of the power to wound her. Now, at last, fate had taken his part, delivering the blow he had been incapable of inflicting himself, and leaving her, at the same time, hurt, vulnerable, and deprived of her most formidable ally. This was his chance of revenge, and he had seized it with relish. Hence his insistence that I should be in the library, and his manner towards me. By humiliating
me,
he was humiliating
her;
by demonstrating
my
powerlessness, he was exposing
hers.