The Dark Clue (28 page)

‘And the rummy thing is, after that, I never saw the old man again.'

My mouth was dry; I could hear my own heartbeat throbbing in my ears; I was filled with that strange tumbling excitement you feel when your wildest intimation suddenly becomes a certainty. Hargreaves must have seen the effect he had had, for he concluded by exhaling dramatically, and sitting back with a triumphant glint in his eye, as much as to say:
There! What did I tell you?

‘Well,' I said, still striving to sound nonchalant, even if my glowing cheeks betrayed me. ‘That was tasty enough, I suppose.' I got up, squinting at the clock above the bar counter.

‘Worth another pot?' he said quickly.

I hesitated, and then laughed and said:

‘Oh, why not? But you'll drink it alone; for I must off home.'

It was while we were waiting for the barmaid that Hargreaves suddenly leaned over and tugged my sleeve.

‘I'll tell you what,' he said, looking round to see that we were not overheard. ‘The funniest thing. Fair turned my stomach. One time, we was nearly at the south bank, and Turner looking in the water as usual, when he suddenly points to something and says: “Over there! Row over there!” “What is it?” I says; for I couldn't see nothing; but he just says: “Row! Row!” And he takes out his little book, and starts to sketch something, frantic like, as if all of a sudden it's just going to vanish away.'

Hargreaves looked about him again; and when he turned back to me there was such disquiet in his eyes that I realized he was telling me this not for gain, but to unburden himself.

‘I didn't see what it was until my oar struck it, Mr. Jenkinson. So help me, it was a body – a poor girl, couldn't have been more than sixteen, as'd drowned herself. And there was Turner, lost to the world, drawing her face.'

XXV

From the private notebook of Walter Hartright,
7th October, 185–

Others may read a journal.

No-one must read this.

What is a man who slips like mercury between the fingers, who is never where you think to find him, who goes abroad under an assumed name and a borrowed identity?

A man who never marries; and maintains no household; and even in those places where he hides from the world has secret chambers in which to conceal himself still more completely?

A man who consorts with whores in stinking taverns? A man who responds to seeing a corpse not with some pious exclamation of pity, but by taking out his notebook and drawing it?

He is a genius.

Last night, for the first time in my life, I was like mercury.

I have never been so free.

Leaving the White Post I might have -

What?

Gone anywhere. Done anything. Walked to the docks, and taken passage for Java. Returned to Maiden Lane and found a girl, and enjoyed her in the alley where she stood. No-one could have said: That was Walter Hartright. No-one could have blamed me. No-one could have blamed
me.

Gravity held me by a thread. At any moment I might have snapped it, and drifted away altogether.

But I let it draw me homeward, as a child draws a kite.

Until I reached Piccadilly. And the Marston Rooms.

I did not seek her.

But I did not send her away.

I had set down my journal. I was so tired I had lost all sense of time. I was watching a drunk man lurching towards the door.

She said: ‘A penny for your thoughts.'

I turned. She was perhaps twenty-five, wearing a close-fitting blue dress and crinoline. She had thick fair hair pinned loosely
over the nape of her neck. She smelt of musk.

‘What are you about?' she said.

I smiled, and weighed the open journal in my hand.

‘What, are you an author, then?'

I said nothing.

‘Must be lonely work, being an author. I expect you feel like a bit of company, don't you, sometimes?'

I nodded.

‘That's good,' she said, sitting beside me. ‘I'm fond of company, too.' She leaned close. She was warm. I smelt the hot biscuit tang of powder on her cheeks.

‘You going to buy me a drink, then?'

I jerked my head at the waiter.

‘I like champagne,' she said. ‘It makes me gay.'

The drunk man had finally stumbled into the street. Through the window, I saw a woman in a wide-brimmed hat accosting him.

‘I'm Louise,' said my companion. She pouted teasingly, and gave a little nod that invited me to tell her
my
name.

I said nothing, but merely looked at her and smiled.

‘Gentlemen are often shy about that,' she said. She put her head on one side and appraised me, running her tongue over her blood-red lips. ‘What about
Leo?
' she said at last, in barely more than a whisper.

‘Leo,' I heard myself say.

She spread her hand on the open page of my journal and caressed it, as if she might coax the meaning from it. ‘So, Leo, what are you writing?' When I did not reply, she suddenly seized the book and began to read at random:

‘What's this – “wallow in some low sailor's house by the river”?' She broke off, laughing. I snatched the book back.

‘You bad boy,' she said. ‘Is that what you get up to?'

The waiter came. His smile said:
I know what you're doing.
I wanted to hide my face in shame. I wanted to acknowledge his gaze, and bask in the warmth of his admiration.

‘Champagne,' I heard myself say.

‘Very good, sir.'

‘And something for yourself. Make the night go a bit sweeter.'

‘He's a gent, ain't he?' giggled the woman, catching the waiter's eye.

His smiled deepened. ‘Thank you, sir.'

When he had gone, she took my wrist in her hot fingers and leaned closer. Her breath smelled of licorice and wine.

‘I like to wallow,' she whispered.

‘I bet you do.'

How can I explain it? I cannot say it was not my voice. But it was the voice of a me whose existence I had never suspected. He must have been there always, sealed away in some blackness so profound that I had never thought to try to penetrate it. But now the shutters had been thrown open, and we could see and hear each other.

‘I know a nice place,' she said. Her lips brushed my cheek, and she whispered in my ear: ‘What would you like to do with me?'

We were poised, Leo and Walter; balanced on a pinpoint.

It's natural enough, ain't it? A man and a woman were made to give pleasure to each other
.

Think of …

You can't pretend you don't feel

You can't pretend you only want to fuck your wife
.

I could see the pulse in her throat, as if some tiny creature were trapped beneath the skin.

See? Her heart's pounding, too
.

If I go with her, I shall cease to be me.

Isn't that the point?

‘Mm?' she murmured again. ‘What would you like?' She drew my ear-lobe into her mouth, nipped it, rolled it on her tongue.

I can imagine. That is enough. I can see, and imagine
.

I must freeze this moment; I must stop time; I must hold my breath; and be as adroit as an acrobat with a pole.

I laid two sovereigns on the table, and left without another word.

XXVI

Letter from Laura Hartright to Marian Halcombe,
7th October, 185–

Darling Marian,

Walter has written me such a cold, angry letter. Why is he so cross with me? Do you know? I can think of nothing I have done, save to tell him that we miss him, and long for his return. That would never have made the old Walter angry. It would have brought him back to us. I know it would.

I am so unhappy. This morning Florrie said, ‘Why are you not pretty any more, Mama?' I could not tell her the answer: that I had lain awake half the night, crying about her father.

Am I – I can barely write this – am I losing him? Has he changed? I pray to God not. But I am so far away – I cannot touch him, or see his dear face, or hear his voice.

You are so much cleverer and wiser than I am. Please – is there anything you can do to make things well between us again?

Your affectionate sister,

Laura

XXVII

From the journal of Marian Halcombe, 9th October, 185-

This cannot go on.

God, is there to be nothing in life but gritting our teeth, and doing our duty?

XXVIII

Memorandum of a letter from Walter Hartright to
Mr. Hawkesworth Fawkes, 10th October, 185–

1. Am engaged on
Life of Turner.

2. Mr. Ruskin tells me you knew him well – would be able to give me invaluable information.

3. Will be passing close to Farnley on Thursday, and wondered if might call upon you?

4. Please forgive me for not giving you more warning. Will of course understand if unable to see me at such short notice.

XXIX

From the journal of Walter Hartright, 12th October, 185–

It is as well

It is as well I did not write ahead to tell her I was coming, for I shall not now be home tomorrow after all. What delayed me was a strange accident, into which I cannot but read some significance.

Just before we reached Leeds, there was a tremendous bang from the front of the train, and we jerked and rocked and squealed to a halt. My neighbour, a florid, grey-haired man of about fifty, wearing a brown suit and no overcoat, as if his own internal furnace were enough to keep him warm, lowered the window and looked out.

‘Can you see what's the matter?' I said.

‘Burst boiler,' he replied, turning back. ‘I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be here for a while. They'll need to send another engine.' And with that he leant out again, unfastened the door, and gingerly lowered himself to the ground.

I was sure this must be against company regulations, but I heard no-one remonstrating with him, and after a minute or so I took out my sketch-pad and pencil and jumped down after him – partly out of curiosity, and partly to avoid the purgatory of having to exchange grumbling platitudes with my fellow-passengers for an hour or more.

At first all I could see was a dense swirl of vapour and gritty smoke, which seemed to engulf the locomotive and half of the front carriage; but as I drew closer I could make out blurred figures hurrying about, or standing talking in little groups. Among them I saw my brown-suited companion, apparently deep in conversation with a bearded man in a round cap and white canvas trousers whom I took to be the driver. No-one seemed to have been hurt; and yet there was something undeniably awful about the scene: the flailing rods and pistons; the dreadful spouts of steam shrieking from the split boiler (it is only when they are
wounded that you see the terrible power of these brutes); the ferocity of the still-raging coals, glowing red through the fog like the mouth of hell.

Awful, but strangely beautiful, too. I took out my pencil, and started to draw.

I was so engrossed in my labours that I did not notice the approach of the man in the brown suit, until he was standing at my shoulder.

‘You're an artist?' he said, after a moment.

I nodded.

‘You put me in mind of Turner. He loved mists, and fires, and machines. You're familiar with his work?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I admire it very much.'

‘I knew him, you know,' he said. His voice sounded matter-of-fact enough, but he pushed his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet, as if his sense of self-importance, having been denied the outlet of words, must express itself in some other form. ‘I'm Elijah Nisbet.'

He clearly expected me to be impressed, and I think my ‘Oh!' contrived to suggest that I was, though in truth I had never heard his name before in my life.

‘I have some of his later paintings,' Nisbet went on. He glanced at my drawing again, and then nodded approvingly. ‘It would be a pleasure to show them to you, if you're ever near Birmingham. A professional like yourself might appreciate them better than my neighbours do.'

‘Thank you. I should like that very much.'

‘Let me give you my address.' He took the pad, and scribbled on the back. ‘There,' he said, returning it to me. ‘Now I must go and write a complaint.' He cast a speculative look towards the crippled locomotive. ‘The driver's to blame. He reported it “correct” last night, but there must have been some evidence of a flaw.'

He did not explain how he came to speak with such authority, or why it was his business to complain; and I did not ask him, for fear it would reveal that I didn't really know who he was.

It was only after he had gone that I realized I hadn't told him
my
business, either. Why had I been so secretive? Was it merely that he had connected me with Turner not as a biographer, but as a fellow-artist, and I had not wished to disabuse him?

*

The relief engine did not finally arrive for nearly two hours, with the result that I missed the train to Arthington, and arrived in Otley too late to see Mr. Fawkes. I therefore sent a note by the carrier to say that I should call on him in the morning, and have put up for the night at the Black Bull, where I write these words.

It's easy to see why Turner loved this place. If Lord Egremont's Petworth – a Renaissance palace presided over by a Renaissance prince – appealed to the classical side of his nature, then Mr. Fawkes's Farnley must have fed his hunger for the sublime. In the streets of Petworth you are aware, above everything, of the inescapable presence of the great house; in the streets of Otley – which must be approximately the same size – you are aware only of the presence of nature. The town is bounded on one side by the River Wharfe, with majestic moors rising gradually beyond it; and on the other by an enormous hill – called ‘the Chevin', according to the driver from Arthington – that seems to blot out half the western sky. The sun was setting behind it as I arrived, and I took out my notebook and did a series of quick sketches, screwing up my eyes and craning my neck to see the clutter of craggy rocks on the summit, until at length it was too dark for me to work, and I approached the inn.