The Meaning of Night (65 page)

had his reasons for employing me. ‘You are right,’ I said brightly. ‘He did.’

‘But this is not a situation that can continue indefinitely.’ He regarded me

somewhat threateningly. ‘If Mr Tredgold – Heaven forbid – should fail to recover, then

certain steps will have to be taken concerning the constitution of the firm. In that sad

eventuality, Mr Glapthorn, it may prove necessary, regretfully, to dispense with your

services, given your then redundant association with the Senior Partner. Perhaps I need

say no more.’ On this friendly note, the interview was swiftly terminated.

That night I drank heavily, compounding my folly by succumbing to the

temptation of my bottle of Dalby’s.? In my dreams I saw Evenwood, but not as I had

dreamed of it as a child, nor as I had seen it in the clear light of day; but at some future

time when a great catastrophe had laid waste its former plenteousness and toppled its

soaring towers. Only the Mausoleum remained intact amidst the disfiguration and

desolation. I saw myself standing once more before the loculus containing the tomb of

Laura Tansor, and beating my hands against the slate slab until they bled, desperate to

gain access to where she lay; but the slab remains immovable and I turn away to see Lord

Tansor, perfectly attired as ever and smiling, standing in the gloom beside me. He speaks:

What do you know? Nothing

What have you achieved? Nothing

Who are you? Nobody.

And then he throws his head back and laughs until I can stand no more. I reach

into my pocket, take out a long knife secreted therein, and plunge it into his heart. When I

wake, I am drenched in sweat and my hands will not stop shaking.

Then, as dawn breaks, I believe I understand what Mr Carteret had wanted to tell

me.

Sursum Corda. The words themselves were of no significance. But what they

were graven upon was. For not only did the slab of slate that carried these words shut out

the living from the abode of the dead: it also shut in the truth.

38:

Confessio amantis?

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Long days followed, of uncertainty and near despair, interspersed with periods of

fevered elation. Was I right, or was I wrong? Did what I had dreamed of finding lie

within the tomb of the woman who had given me life, or had I become a deluded

obsessionist? And how could I prove my conviction, except by an act of the grossest

violation? Backwards and forwards, round and round, hither and thither, my mental

turmoil increased. One moment I was triumphantly sure of my ground, the next

prostrated by confusion. Abandoning both food and exercise, and resorting more and

more to my drops, I lay on my bed trapped in the coils of hideous nightmares, oblivious

to both the coming of night and the breaking of the day.

I continued thus until my bottle of Dalby’s stood empty by my bed. Incapable as I

then was of going out to procure some more, I subsided into a state of stuporous vacancy

until I was roused by the gentle prodding of Mrs Grainger, who, finding me in this

alarming condition and believing I was in the throes of death, had called upon the

assistance of my neighbour, Fordyce Jukes, who now stood behind her scratching his

head.

‘This is rum,’ I heard him say, ‘very rum indeed.’

‘Is the gentleman dead, sir?’ asked Mrs Grainger plaintively.

‘Dead?’ said Jukes with a contemptuous click of his fingers. ‘Dead? Why of

course he’s not dead, woman. Can’t you see he’s breathing? Is there food here? No? Well

run and get some. And some strong ale. Be quick now, or we’ll all have died before you

get back.’

‘Should I bring a doctor, sir?’

‘Doctor?’ Jukes appeared to consider the question at some length. ‘No,’ he said at

last. ‘No need for a doctor. No need at all. Come along, come along!’

Though I could see and hear quite clearly, I found I was unable to speak or to

move either my head or my limbs, and I remained in this curious suspended state for

some time. It seemed that Jukes had left my bedside, for I could hear the familiar

creaking of the floor-boards in the sitting-room. Then, some time later, though whether

hours or minutes I cannot say, I began to find strength returning and turned my head to

look about me.

On the table beside my bed stood an empty plate, with the remains of a chop and a

half-eaten potato; beside it was a tankard of ale, partially consumed. Of either Mrs

Grainger or Jukes there was no sign.

I concluded that food had been obtained for and partaken by me, and that I had

then fallen asleep, though I had no memory of doing either. Slowly, I pulled myself out

of bed and, on unsteady feet, dragged myself to the door that led to my sitting-room.

‘Mr Glapthorn, sir, so pleased to see you feeling better! Let me assist you.’

Jukes, who had been sitting in my chair reading a copy of The Times, sprang to

his feet and ushered me over to where he had been sitting.

‘That’s it, take my arm, sir, take my arm. There we are. Goodness me, what a

scrape you got yourself in, Mr Glapthorn. I’ll tell you what, sir: you appear to have

stepped up to death’s very front door, sir. But all’s well now. Food and rest was what you

needed, and what you must take great care to provide yourself with in the future – if I

may be so bold. I’ve been sitting with you since yesterday. Oh no, sir —.’ He held up his

hand and shook his head from side to side in grinning admonishment as I attempted to

speak. ‘Pray don’t say a word. It would be like your good self to thank me for my trouble,

but I beg to insist that you will do nothing of the sort. Trouble? Why what possible

trouble have I been put to? None whatsoever, I assure you. A fellow-toiler in the

Tredgold vineyard, and neighbour to boot, taken ill? Why, only one course of action

possible. Pleasure and the satisfaction of a duty done are ample, though undeserved,

reward for the little I have been able to do. And so, Mr Glapthorn, if you are feeling

better, I shall leave you to your recuperation, but on the strict understanding – strict,

mind! – that you will take better care yourself hereafter, and that you will allow me to

call again tomorrow morning to see how you are.’

And then, having set a cushion at my back, placed a rug over my legs, and thrown

a log on the fire, he made a low bow and sidled away, leaving me aghast at the situation I

had awoken to find myself in.

I immediately threw off the rug and stumbled over to my work-table. Everything

appeared to be exactly as I remembered it; nothing had been moved, I was sure of that.

The pen still lay across an unfinished letter – to Dr Shakeshaft on the merits of various

English translations of Paracelsus? – precisely where I’d left it; the papers tied up in their

labelled stacks appeared undisturbed; and the spines of my mother’s journals, each one a

familiar old friend, were still ranged in the strictly undeviating line in which I always

took care to leave them To the cabinet next, containing all my notes and indexed

abstracts: nothing out of place, and each drawer shut tight shut. I let out a little sigh of

relief.

And yet the thought of Jukes having the liberty of my room continued to rankle,

and I began to examine everything again with redoubled care, looking for any sign that he

had been through my papers or other possessions. But then I checked myself. Odious as

Jukes was, I knew that Mr Tredgold trusted him, so why should I not do the same? These

sudden baseless suspicions to which I was prey only served to cloud my judgement, and

divert me from my true goal. Thus did I argue myself out of unreason, though I

determined that Fordyce Jukes should never be given an opportunity to enter my rooms

again. To this end, when he knocked on my door the next morning, as promised, I did not

open it to him, but simply told him through the keyhole that I was much improved (which

I was) and that I did not require his assistance.

I ventured out the next day for the first time in more than a week, to take a

restorative dinner at the Albion Tavern. The following morning I thought I would look in

at Tredgolds, and so, at a little after half-past eight, I locked my door and walked through

the rain to Paternoster-row.

As I entered the clerks’ room, young Birtles, the office boy, came running across

and thrust a letter into my hand. ‘This came in the last post yesterday, sir.’ I did not

recognize the handwriting; and so, having nothing better to do, I went upstairs to my

room to read it.

To my complete surprise it was from Miss Rowena Tredgold, expressing the

hope, in somewhat drawn-out terms, that circumstances would allow me to pay another

visit to Canterbury at my earliest convenience. It concluded by saying that this invitation

had been sent at the express request of her brother, Mr Christopher Tredgold. Deducing

from this that my employer’s condition had improved significantly, I joyously sent off an

immediate acceptance.

A few days later I was admitted once again to Marden House and shown into the

room where I had first met Dr Jonathan Tredgold.

Miss Rowena Tredgold sat, unsmiling, in an uncomfortable looking high-backed

chair set near an ugly black-marble fireplace, the cavernous opening of which yawned

darkly cold. On a low table, drawn up close to her knees, was a tumbler of barley-water.

Beside it lay a sealed envelope. The heavy curtains in the window behind her were

partially drawn, and what remained of the soft declining light of late afternoon struggled

into the room through a slash of grimy glass.

I began, naturally, by asking how her brother fared.

‘I am grateful to you for your concern, Mr Glapthorn. It has been a terrible time,

but I am glad to say that he is much better than he was, thank you. He knows us, and has

been sitting up. And we are thankful that he can speak a few words now.’ She spoke in a

lingering, staccato manner, carefully enunciating every syllable, which produced the odd

impression that she was mentally examining each word for impropriety before it was

spoken.

‘There is hope, then, that there will be further improvements?’

‘There is hope.’

‘Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, after a short expectant pause. ‘Would you say that my

brother, Mr Christopher Tredgold, was a good man?’

Though taken back a little by the question, I replied immediately: ‘That would

certainly be my opinion. I do not think there can be any other.’

‘You are right. He is a good man. And would you say that he was an honourable

man?’

‘Unhesitatingly.’

‘You are right again. He is an honourable man. Goodness and honour are two

words that perfectly describe my brother.’

She said this in a way that seemed to suggest that I had in fact taken precisely the

opposite view.

‘But there are many people in this world who are neither good nor honourable,

and who take advantage of those who regard these virtues as the unalterable foundation

of their moral character.’

I could only agree with her.

‘Well, then, I am glad we are of one view. I wish you to remain steady in that

view, Mr Glapthorn, and remember always what kind of man my brother is. If he has

erred, it is because he has been placed in an intolerable position by those who do not

aspire, and who never will aspire, to the high ideals of conduct and character that have

distinguished all my brother’s dealings, both personal and professional.’

I confess that I had no idea what the woman was talking about, but I smiled in a

conciliatory way that I hoped would convey my complete comprehension of the matter.

‘Mr Glapthorn, I have here a letter’ – she gestured towards the sealed envelope –

‘written by my brother the night before he was taken ill. It is addressed to you. However,

before I give it to you, my brother has asked me to preface his words with some of my

own. Do I have your permission?’

‘By all means. May I ask first, Miss Tredgold, if you have read your brother’s

letter?’

‘I have not.’

‘But I may presume, I suppose, that it contains matters of a confidential nature?’

‘I think you may presume so.’

‘And are you yourself a party to any of those confidences?’

‘I am merely my brother’s agent, Mr Glapthorn. If he were well, then you may

take it that he would be communicating these matters to you himself. However, there is

one subject on which I have been honoured with his confidence. It is on this subject that

he has asked me to speak to you prior to your reading his letter. Before I do so, I hope I

may depend on your absolute discretion, as you may depend on mine?’

I gave her my word that I would never divulge what was imparted to me, and

begged her to proceed.

‘You may wish to know first,’ she began, ‘that the firm of which my brother is

now the Senior Partner was established by my great-grandfather, Mr Jonas Tredgold, and

a junior associate, Mr Meredith Orr, in the year 1767. In due course, my late father, Mr

Anson Tredgold, joined the firm, which then became known as Tredgold, Tredgold &

Orr, a name which it has since retained, along with a reputation second to none amongst

London solicitors.