The Dark Clue (53 page)

I nodded.

‘You are a sensitive man, Mr. Hartright' – from the way she said it, you would have thought it was as evident and incontrovertible as the colour of my eyes – ‘and sensitive people are sometimes alarmed by what happens when I enter the trance state. So let me explain. My physical body will still be here, but someone else will be controlling it. Most probably it will be one of my guides from the Other Side – Running Deer, or Mops. Just talk to her as you would to a friend. You may find it strange at first, but to her it will seem perfectly normal, I promise you. And as for me: whatever you see or hear, I shall not even be aware of
it – so don't imagine that something is amiss, and I need help. Just allow things to take their course, and at the right moment I shall return.'

She waited for me to respond. I hesitated; and then – realizing that there was no point in being here at all if I did not at least pretend to assent to the reality of the spiritual world – nodded again.

‘Very well. Have you brought anything with you that belonged to him, or is connected with him in any way? That sometimes helps.'

I knew this to be a usual request; and had anticipated it by slipping the old paintbrush Gudgeon had given me into my pocket before setting out. But now I hesitated. It was a clue – a large clue. Should I risk giving so much away?

She must have noticed my uncertainty; for she said: ‘Please give it to me.'

I handed it to her, vowing to reveal nothing more.

‘Thank you.'

She held it in both hands, gently running her fingers over the shaft. After a few moments, as if to concentrate better, she shut her eyes. The older woman, I noticed, was watching her closely, occasionally casting a warning glance in my direction that said:
Say nothing.
After a minute or more Mrs. Mast began to slump and nod, like a traveller falling asleep on a train. As if this were a signal, her mother got up, and, moving so quietly I could scarcely hear her, turned off the lamps and sat down again next to her daughter. The only light now came from the dying embers in the grate, and from where I was sitting the two women were no more than a blotchy silhouette.

Almost at once Mrs. Mast started to babble. To begin with it was just a torrent of groans and nonsense words, as if she were talking in her sleep; but then she began to twitch quite violently, and I heard snippets of two female voices which – though they indisputably came from her mouth – were nothing like hers at all.

You-

My-

The Turk -

I help -

Not her -

And then Mrs. Mast's head dropped suddenly against her mother's shoulder. And one of the voices said, quite clearly:

‘There.
'Er's
gone.
'Er
didn't even know what tha wants.
I
knows.'

It sounded like a girl, eleven or twelve perhaps. Not American. From the north somewhere, I thought – Yorkshire or Lancashire, maybe – though some of the words had a kind of guttural thickness that seemed slightly foreign. The effect was so strange that I shivered despite myself.

‘Go on, then,' whispered the old woman. ‘Ask her something.'

Why could I not speak? What was I afraid of?

‘Go
on,'
hissed the old woman.

‘Who are you?' I said.

‘Mops,' replied the voice.

‘And why are you talking to me?'

‘I goes. For ‘er.'

‘Who is
she?'

‘Tha knows. Mrs. Wosser. Wossername. Mast. I goes and finds ‘em for ‘er. She thinks it's
'er,
or one o' t'others, but it's awlus me.'

‘Find the
spirits,
you mean?'

‘Ay, tha's it.' Her tone was surprised, as if she'd supposed it was too obvious to need pointing out.

Tha. ‘Er. Awlus.
Where had I heard those words recently?

‘Why are you there?'

‘Wha', this side?'

‘Yes.'

‘Ay ay I drownded.'

Drownded.

That was it. The mad old woman in Otley, talking about her childhood friend.

I was drenched and cold with sweat. I said:

‘What happened to you? Did someone -?'

‘Drownded.' She sounded impatient, as if the subject were distasteful to her. ‘I drownded.'

‘Is Mops your real name?' I could not remember what the friend was called, but thought I should know it if I heard it.

‘Mops. Mobs. Meg.'

Meg. And now it came to me: the friend had been
Mary.
Close – so close it was hard to believe it was mere coincidence – but not the same.

‘Meg?' I said, in case I had mistaken her.

‘I'm a good lass, I am,' she said, as if she hadn't understood. ‘I can ‘elp tha. I know what tha wants.'

It was maddening, but there was no point pursuing it. I gritted my teeth. ‘What do I want?'

‘Tha wants
‘e.'

This sounded like a ploy to draw me out further, so – remembering my resolution – I said nothing, but waited for her to continue.

‘I sees . . . canvas,' she said uncertainly, at length. ‘I sees paint…'

And so would anyone,
I thought,
who had first seen a brush.

‘I sees a name … the beginnin' of a name … I think i's a “T”.'

I started; but then told myself it was not such a wonder – ‘T' is a common enough letter, and there is a reasonable chance that at least one part of an English name will start with it.

‘I' that right?'

‘Maybe,' I said.

‘Or is i'… is i'… “
J
”? Ay, I think tha's i'! “J”. An' then “O”. No, “E”.'

I started again; and this time could not stop myself blurting out: ‘Jenkinson!'

‘Ay,' she said (though what ‘she' was, exactly, I still could not say), ‘“Jen” summat, all right. Oh, but ‘old ‘ard.'

‘What is it?'

‘Sssh!' A pause; then, puzzled:
T
tha' tha, or ‘e?'

‘What?'

‘That “Jen”? Tha name, or ‘is?'

I could not answer. After a moment she said:

‘I'm a' felted.'

And then I seemed again to be half-hearing a distant conversation between her and somebody else. But this time the other voice was a man's, gruff and short.

Eerily, I have to confess, as I imagine Turner's.

I forced myself not to reflect on where I was, or what I was doing; but merely to hear and remember what they were saying, like a scientist or a reporter, without judging it. But try as I might, I could still only pick out fragments:

Slippin'

Taste

Why won't -?

Appre'end

‘O?

Windsor Usurp

Aloud (allowed?)

A moment's hesitation. Then the girl's voice:

‘There's no call for tha'.'

I could hear her clearly enough now, but the indignant tone suggested she was still talking to somebody else.

‘Ask him,' I said. ‘Ask him -'

‘Wha'?' she snapped irritably.

‘Ask him his occupation.'

A pause. Then:

‘P … p … pain …'

Painter.
But again, of course, the brush had effectively told
her
that.

‘In what medium?'

‘Mrs. Mrs. Wosser -'

I shook with frustration. ‘What kind of paint?'

‘Oi.. . oi.. .'

‘Is that all?' Silence.

‘Ask him to name one of his pictures.'

‘See … see …'

‘See what?'

‘No!
See!'

‘Oh,
seal
Waves, you mean? Water?'

‘Ay … ay … war. Wa'er. Wa'ercolour.'

I saw I must take another approach, or risk losing my mind altogether. I said:

‘Lu.'

She seemed to wait for me to continue. When I didn't, she said:

‘Wha tha mean?'

‘Did he know a woman called Lu?'

‘Mm.' There was a kind of frowning puzzlement in her voice, as if she were struggling to make sense of something – an impression strangely belied by the placid vacancy of Mrs.
Mast's face. ‘By t'river?'

‘Yes.'

There was a murmur I couldn't make out, and then a giggle.

‘What is it?' I said.

“E says
Wa'erloo.'

She laughed again. It took me a second to see why. Then an odd spasm – half fear, half exaltation – passed through me: for surely there was something unmistakably Turnerish about this reply? It could just be coincidence, of course; or it could be that Mrs. Mast was an exceptionally gifted fraud, who had guessed whom I was trying to contact, and had sufficient knowledge of him to make his ‘spirit' speak in Napoleonic puns, and refer repeatedly to water – but at that instant, for the first time, I believed I really might be communicating with him.

The thought of it – the hope of it – made me reckless.

‘Is it true – is it true,' I said – for a moment forgetting entirely about Mrs. Mast and her mother – ‘that he bound her, and placed a hood over her head?'

Silence.

‘What does he say?'

“E don' say nowt.'

I wanted to beg. I wanted to plead for my sanity. Only by a great effort of will did I stop myself.

‘What of Sandycombe Lodge, then?' I said. ‘Why did he design the basement so?'

Silence. I took a deep breath.

‘Very well,' I said. ‘One question. One question only. What does he know of a man who calls himself Simpson?'

There was no response. I waited, resolving to say nothing more. As I did so, an image drifted into my mind, so suddenly and powerfully that it was as if someone had placed it there directly.

A Turner picture.
Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus.

But I was not merely watching the scene, I was a part of it. Everything moved before me – the jeering figures on the ship, the horses bearing the sun into the sky, the giant clutching his eyeless face in agony.

I whispered: ‘Are you there?'

Still nothing. Just an unbroken silence, that seemed to grow deeper and more final by the second.

Remembering Mrs. Mast's injunction at the beginning, I did not move or interfere. But as the minutes passed I could not help wondering if this were entirely normal. And when at length the old woman – who up until now had remained calm and still – suddenly shifted in her chair, and looked (or so it appeared in the darkness) into her daughter's face, I concluded that something must be wrong.

And then, without warning, it happened. From less than a foot in front of me, the man's voice spoke again. No more than a whisper, this time, and only three words – but they were absolutely clear:

'Leave me be!'

I somehow found the strength to sit there quietly as Mrs. Mast returned to consciousness, grunting and muttering as before, and her mother relit the lamps, and the familiar shapes and colours of this world once again formed before my eyes. I contrived to answer politely when she asked if the seance had been helpful, and to offer to pay, and to find two guineas when she told me she did not charge, but would accept a contribution from those she had assisted, in order that she might be able to further her work, and bring consolation to those who mourned.

But once outside I began to weep – to sob and quake and wail uncontrollably, so that people looked strangely at me, and stepped off the pavement to avoid me.

I have no pride left. Tomorrow I shall go to see Ruskin.

Friday

Record.

Just record.

I take a cab to Denmark Hill. ‘Young Mr. Ruskin is not at home. You will find him working at the National Gallery.'

Another cab, to Trafalgar Square. A half-deaf functionary, who at first affects not to understand me. Then he sees murder in my eyes, and conducts me to the basement.

It is dark and humid and close. The walls are lined with boxes, piled two or three high. In the feeble glow of the two gas-lights I
can see that behind them the plaster is stained with mould and moisture.

Ruskin sits at a table, working by the light of a single oil-lamp. Before him are stacks of notebooks, hundreds of them – mildewed, tattered, frayed into holes, eaten away by damp and mice. He is painstakingly unbinding one of them, and does not pay us any attention as we enter.

‘Mr. Hartright,' grumbles the functionary.

Ruskin raises his head. The blue eyes are as brilliant as ever, but he is pale with tiredness. He stares into my face for a moment – fails to recognize it – looks at the functionary for an explanation.

But the functionary is already leaving. Closing the door.

The biography of Turner,' I say. T came to see you about it, a few months ago.'

‘Ah, yes, yes, of course.' He half-rises, leans across the table, touches my hand. ‘How are you?'

I say nothing, and he does not press me. He slumps back in his seat, his eyes already returning to his work.

‘You said I might talk to you again, when I had gone further.'

He nods without looking at me. He lifts a page from the open notebook, carefully blows the dust from it, and lays it on a sheet of clean writing-paper. I can see nothing of it but a disc of radiant orange dissolving in darkness, but it is enough to jolt me. To shame me.

‘Why are you not at home, preparing for Christmas, like the rest of the world?' he says, taking out another page and peering at it.

I have not the energy to ask him the same question. ‘I am desperate.'

He sighs. ‘I cannot say I am entirely surprised.'

‘No. You warned me.'

‘Did I?'

There are two other chairs. I clutch the back of one of them, hoping he will invite me to sit down.

'Sometimes,'
I say, ‘
we may deceive ourselves into thinking we are capable of some great task which is beyond us.'