Midnight is a Place (6 page)

Almost immediately the door opened, and a bent old man entered, carrying a tray of breakfast. Lucas was surprised to see him there; normally he was employed out of doors as a yard man and log carrier. It was believed that long ago he had been the butler, in old Sir Quincy's day, until he had taken to drink. His name was Gabriel Towzer.

He came in very slowly and carefully. From somewhere—Lucas could not imagine where—he had managed to find a number of silver dishes and had carefully arranged them on the tray; they were somewhat dented and battered, but lovingly polished until they shone like satin. There was a silver porringer, containing the same oatmeal-and-treacle mixture that had been served to Lucas, a silver mug of milk, a silver plate with slices of brown bread and butter, a withered apple in a silver fingerbowl, even a torn but clean napkin in a silver ring.

Gabriel's fingers were black with silver polish, and so was the front of his ancient baize apron.

"There!" he said proudly, setting down the tray. Then he came round to stand in front of Anna-Marie.

"Be you really little Missie Murgatroyd?"

He knelt down and put his hands on either side of her face—leaving black marks—and carefully tilted it up. "Yes!" he said after a long, grave scrutiny. "You've a look of the old man, owd Sir Quincy, an' a touch o' the young one, young Mas'r Denzil, too; ah! 'tis a comfort to have ye back among us, Missie, even if there was broke hearts as'll never be mended now."

"I don't understand," said Anna-Marie in French. "What is the matter with the old man?"

"She speaks no English," Lucas explained to old Mr. Towzer.

"Eh, my! That I should see the day when a granddaughter of owd Sir Quincy couldn't pass the time o' day with Gabriel Towzer," the old man said mournfully.

"Say to him, 'How do you do,'" instructed Lucas. "That is the proper thing to say to a person in England when you first meet them."

"
Quoi?
I cannot say it." Anna-Marie seemed inclined to resent Lucas's suggestion, but then, on a sudden change of impulse, she turned to the old man and said, "'Owdoo eeyu doo?"

"Spoken just like young Mas'r Denzil!" he said triumphantly. "Just like his own self! Now eat your breakfast, do, Missie, afore it gets cold."

"Bah! What is this lump of earth?" inquired Anna-Marie, inspecting the porridge. "It looks like stuff they mend holes with. I cannot eat it."

"Try it. It's not so bad," Lucas advised. "You might as well. You won't get anything else."

"Be quiet, you!" She turned on him in a sudden flash of fury. "I do not need you to order me. You do not like me, I know, and I do not at all like you. Go away! You are a great ugly boy, of no use at all, and I do not want you in my room."

Fortunately at that moment Mrs. Gourd returned, so Lucas was able to take his departure.

What a spoiled brat, was his main conclusion about Anna-Marie, apart from the continuing bitter regret that she was not older, that she was not a boy, that she was so hopelessly unsuited to be his friend or companion. Anyway a few days in Midnight Court would soon knock the vapors out of the self-willed little thing. Pampered and coddled all her life, no doubt. Well, no one would pay much regard to her whimsies here; she'd have to learn to stand on her own feet.

He dismissed her from his mind.

Bounding along the corridor, he cleared the back stairs in a couple of leaps and entered his schoolroom.

Mr. Oakapple had arrived already and stood at the window, with his back to the dull room, staring out. Beyond him, a greenish-white frosty sweep of landscape went smoothly up to meet the luminous pale early-morning sky.

"Right: to work then," said Mr. Oakapple, turning with a sigh when he heard the click of the door.

"I—I'm sorry I'm late, sir. Mrs. Gourd wanted me—"

The tutor accepted Lucas's excuse with a nod and gestured him toward the desk. "Simple and compound interest. Followed by quadratic equations. Then principle parts of Latin verbs."

"Oh, but sir—"

"Well?"

"You did say you'd tell me about Anna-Marie."

After the words had left him, Lucas had a sudden feeling of—what was it, a kind of guilt? As if he were stealing a mean march on the child, whom he did not even like, by employing her as a pretext to get off lessons for half an hour. But why should he feel guilty? He had been as friendly to her as he could. It was she who had been rude and hostile. Anyway there was no reason why he should not ask about her history; what harm could that do?

"Oh, very well. Sir Randolph didn't seem to have any objection to my telling you the history of how he came to own the factory; in fact he was surprised you didn't know it already," Mr. Oakapple conceded. (In fact, Sir Randolph, gray-faced and red-eyed after a long night spent drinking brandy, had growled, "Tell the boy what you please, and the two of you can spend the day at Jericho for all I care!")

"How did he come to own it, then?"

Lucas did not quite see how the history of the factory could be connected with that of Anna-Marie, but anything was preferable to a morning of compound interest and Latin principle parts.

"Can't we go into the park while you tell me?" he suggested with a flash of inspiration, as Mr. Oakapple turned regretfully from the view. "Just for a few minutes? It's such a fine morning. And there aren't many."

This was true. For two hundred and fifty days out of three hundred and sixty-five, according to local lore, cloud or fog hung low over Blastburn, Grimside, Midnight Park, and Grydale Moor. And during his year of residence there, Lucas had seen no reason to doubt the theory. Today was a rare and beautiful change.

"As you wish!" Surprised but not unwilling, the tutor put on his hat while Lucas quickly found a jacket, and the two of them went out into air like iced nectar. They walked over the crisp grass, leaving a trail of black footprints behind them as they crossed the gentle saucer of land which encircled Midnight Court. From the top of the ridge they could look west, back at the house whose gables were just beginning to catch the first rays of the rising sun, or east, into the smoke-filled valley where the city of Blastburn lay wrapped in the foggy reek from its chimneys.

Lucas had asked no questions while they walked, content to enjoy the clear morning, sniff the keen air, feel the frosted grass crunch under his feet, and make the most of this unusual respite from lessons. He felt, too, an unaccustomed sympathy toward Mr. Oakapple—unspoken but somehow comfortable.

When they stood at the park's highest point, the tutor began of his own accord: "As you probably know, some twenty years ago, when your guardian was younger, he belonged to an extremely dashing and notorious sporting club known as the Devil's Roustabouts."

The tutor's measured manner held neither admiration or disapproval.

"What sort of things did they do?"

Lucas had not known this; indeed, he had never heard of the Devil's Roustabouts.

"Oh—they used to give very wild parties, wager large sums of money on anything from horse races to whether the king would take coffee or tea with his breakfast next day, and they fought duels on the slightest provocation."

Lucas longed to ask Mr. Oakapple if it was true that he, too, had fought a duel, but did not like to interrupt.

"One of your guardian's greatest friends at that time was a very much younger man, Denzil Murgatroyd, whose father, Sir Quincy, was the owner of this house, not to mention a great deal of land on which coal had been found and mined, making him one of the richest men in England.

"Denzil Murgatroyd had not been trained for any profession, but was considered very brilliant, even as a lad; while still at college he constructed a scientific instrument for measuring the depth of potholes; he had discovered several new stars, had a beautiful singing voice, and had composed an opera which was performed before the king. Also, he had devised the carpet-manufacturing process which brought Sir Quincy Murgatroyd's mill to the forefront of the industry and greatly enlarged the family fortune."

"What happened then?"

"Denzil Murgatroyd was only twenty when he left college. He met your guardian—who, as I have said, was a much older man, about forty then—made fast friends with him, abandoned all his scientific pursuits, and led a life devoted to sport, betting, gambling, and doing his best to shock all the more respectable part of society. The two friends were inseparable, outvying each other in their wild escapades. It was your guardian who smuggled an alligator into the House of Lords; Denzil Murgatroyd had himself flown up on a kite to the cross at the top of St Paul's, and attached a small carpet there; Sir Randolph introduced ten Glasgow sailors into the Court of St. James's as the Bey of Tunis and his suite, and had them entertained at the palace for a week before the imposture was discovered, for no one could understand a word they said; Denzil hired a gang of workmen to remove the Monument to the Fire of London from its place and lay it across the Derby racecourse just before the race was due to be run; however I will not weary you with further tales of their goings-on. Besides, it might put ideas into your head."

Lucas would very much have liked to hear more, but the tutor sounded so disapproving that he did not suggest it and asked instead, "What happened about the factory?"

"Denzil's father, old Sir Quincy, violently objected to his son's friendship with your guardian, and to his association with the Devil's Roustabouts. He wanted Denzil to live at home and pay attention to the family business. Several times he threatened to disinherit Denzil if he did not break off the connection." Mr. Oakapple sighed.

"But he didn't?" Lucas inquired.

"No. Young Denzil was, in fact, very fond of his father, but he was a wayward, reckless, spirited youth who could not bear to be coerced. After some months, though, he did promise to give up his membership of the club, since he was in love with a beautiful young lady, Miss Eleanora Featherstonehuff, and she refused to become engaged to him unless he did so. But he had made arrangements to attend one last meeting of the society."

"And so?"

"Denzil went to the meeting. It was held on midsummer night, in the ruins of Bellemont Priory, not far from here."

"What happened?"

"It was a very fancy affair. All twenty members of the Devils Roustabouts turned up for it; immense quantities of wine, champagne, and brandy were consumed; they had a whole orchestra playing, and dancing—and so forth." Mr. Oakapple's tone of disapproval deepened.

"I wonder what sort of food they ate?" Lucas said dreamily.

"They had a fire and roasted an ox, among other things. One of the delicacies provided was a particular kind of ginger pie, made in the village of Clutterby-le-Scroop. This pie, when taken together with wine or spirits, greatly intensifies the effect of the alcohol. The pie prepared for the party measured twenty feet across and had been specially baked in a grain hopper. All the club members had large helpings of it. They became extremely drunk."

"And?"

"A good many of them had been making fun of Denzil Murgatroyd, twitting him with the fact that he had been forced to promise to leave the club. Goaded by their taunts, and particularly by those of Sir Randolph Grimsby, he entered into a last wild wager."

"What was it?"

"Sir Randolph had been particularly free with his mockery all through the evening. And when the pie was served, he called out, 'Hey, young Denny, hey, Stargazer! Since you're so fond of your old man, don't you want to trot home and take him a helping of Clutterby Pie? It wouldn't take you very long!' At this young Denzil, who had drunk much more than was sensible, became enraged beyond bearing and shouted back, 'If I did so, I'll wager I could do it faster than you could!' 'Done!' shouted Sir Randolph. And so the bet was on."

"What did they do?"

"There are two roads from Bellemont to Midnight Park; you can go through Canby Moorside or through Mucky-under-Edge—both ways are exactly the same distance. Sir Randolph was to ride by Canby, and Denzil by Mucky: each was to carry a piece of the pie weighing a measured ten pounds, to enter Midnight Court, ascend to Sir Quincy's bedroom, leave the pie on his bedside table, and return to the gathering at the Priory. The first to return was the winner."

"What was the amount of the bet?"

"Denzil had suggested a thousand pounds, but Sir Randolph, cool as a cucumber, called out, 'Pooh! Why deal in trifles? I'll wager all that I have.' Several club members privately shrugged their shoulders at this, since it was generally known that Sir Randolph hardly had two brass farthings to rub together at the time; however Denzil, who was hardly better off since he lived on an allowance from his father which he had always spent even before it came in, shouted, 'As you wish!' So they mounted their horses and rode off in different directions."

"Who got back first?"

"Nobody had reckoned on seeing either of them again within about an hour and a half. So there was general amazement when Sir Randolph returned, his Arab mare fresh, hardly sweating, in less than sixty-five minutes; another forty minutes elapsed before Denzil galloped back, his horse heaving, badly winded, and frothing at the mouth. It was later learned that his father had woken up when he entered the bedroom and there had been a violent,
angry
scene from which Denzil had stormed out and ridden away at top speed, but too late to win his wager. In any case, he had found Sir Randolph's piece of pie already there on the bedside table when he arrived."

"What happened then?"

"Sir Randolph was waiting in the center of the circle, in the moonlit Priory ruins, when Denzil rode in on his exhausted, gasping horse. Sir Randolph looked the pair over calmly and said, 'You need to get a better nag, Denny.' Denzil jumped down, flung over the reins, and said, 'Take him, he's yours.' He stripped off his clothes, threw them over, too, and borrowed a shirt and a pair of breeches from one of the musicians; they were all rigged out in fancy dress as spooks and specters, so they had their daytime clothes with them."

"Good heavens," said Lucas, imagining the scene: the moonlit ruins; the fire, the circle of half-drunk, mocking men, the two in the center, the audience of ghosts. "Then what did Denzil do?"