Tom All-Alone's (7 page)

When he gets to his feet a moment later, Charles is intrigued but not unduly surprised to observe that Tulkinghorn has no
intention of discussing the letters with him any further; he seems, indeed, solely concerned to show him off the premises with all dispatch. But when they reach the door of the chamber, he appears to change his mind, and turns to Charles with what passes, with him, for a smile.

‘Perhaps it would interest you to see my little collection? The top of the house is let off now in sets of chambers, but I still keep the lower floors, where the coolness of the temperature and the dryness of the atmosphere are ideally suited for my purpose.'

It could hardly be more contrary to what Charles was expecting, but nonetheless he accepts with alacrity. Tulkinghorn leads him down towards the ground floor, but stops on the half-landing by a door that is so cleverly concealed by the veins and swirls of faked marbled paintwork you could pass it by nine times out of ten and never even notice. He lights a candle and the two of them make their way down a spiral stone staircase to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion. The stairs are dark, and the candle throws the lawyer's enormous, quivering shadow against the curve of the wall. But strange though it seems, the air brightens as they descend, and when they reach the foot of the staircase, Charles sees why. He's in a small hexagonal chamber that opens into another, much larger room, lit from above by a huge conical dome of yellow glass with a stone rose in its centre. They must be at least two floors below ground, but the room ahead of him is double-height, with a catacomb of corridors opening away from him in all directions. The architecture is astounding, but even that retreats into insignificance compared with what it holds. It is like some
augmentum ad absurdum
of Charles' own former lodgings – objects stud every surface, every wall, every shelf, as well as every passage and alcove within view. It is, quite simply,
the largest and most extraordinary collection of classical statuary Charles has ever seen. Not even his beloved British Museum can rival this. Stone, marble, terracotta, alabaster – every texture, every colour from pearly ivory to a rich polished black. Funerary urns and a statue of Apollo, horn-eared gods and a snake-haired Medusa, busts of ancient emperors and fragments of vase, heads in profile, heads in relief, tiny broken details mounted on plaques, and perfectly intact slabs of huge architectural frieze. Tulkinghorn eyes his visitor with a quiet but obvious satisfaction.

‘Most of the best Greek and Roman sculpture is in here,' he says, as if casually, ‘but I think Egypt is your own preference?'

Charles has no preference of the kind, but he has no objection to seeing what else his host is prepared to show him. Tulkinghon leads him towards the dome, and he sees now that this space is not a room at all, but a gallery round another, lower chamber that opens now beneath him, half-plunged in darkness, and dominated by a huge stone trough, throned on pillars and deeply carved with symbols and runes. No – not runes, thinks Charles, leaning over the balustrade as his eyes adjust to the light. Not runes but
hieroglyphs
, and it's not a trough but a sarcophagus – an enormous, perfectly preserved Egyptian sarcophagus. He starts and turns to Tulkinghorn, remembering suddenly where he has seen this before.

‘But this is—'

‘The sarcophagus of Pharaoh Seti I. Indeed.'

‘But you said—'

‘That I was given the amulet. That is quite true, but we are speaking of two distinct occasions. The sarcophagus had to be paid for.'

‘May I go down?'

‘Of course. You will find the stairs in the corner over there.'

Charles heads round the gallery to the far side, but when he gets there he finds himself unexpectedly confounded. He knows this is where the stairs are supposed to be (and he is, as we know, rather better than most at finding his way), but when he turns the final corner by a niche containing a life-size statue of Pan, he finds himself face to face with – himself: a life-size reflection of himself. The glass is slightly convex, and the mirror so cleverly sited and angled that it makes the room seem at least twice its real size. It also serves, very effectively, as a blind alley, an optical illusion that can only be designed to lead the inexperienced visitor astray. What sort of man could possibly—? Charles turns and looks backs to the other side of the gallery. Tulkinghorn is still standing there. Standing and watching. A curious expression on his face – his customary sardonic superiority, yes, but something else as well, which in another man might suggest a barely suppressed excitement. The combination is unsettling, and Charles is struck suddenly by the conviction that more than half of the lawyer's pleasure in this exquisite collection lies in the power it affords him to withhold that pleasure from everyone else. Even – or perhaps especially – those he ostensibly brings to see it. He has not merely constructed this astonishing gallery, and at unimaginable expense, but contrived every stratagem at his disposal to deceive the eye: light, shadow, looking-glass,
trompe l'oeil.
Indeed, as Charles now realizes, this space that seems designed for display has actually been created for another purpose altogether. An enfilade of architectural subterfuges that bestows with one hand what it conceals with the other. There are, unquestionably, incomparable treasures here, but not so many as the eye believes it can see – some are mere illusions, others tantalizing glimpses forever out of reach. Charles looks slowly about him, re-adjusting his mental map, and attempting to penetrate beyond the dazzle
of remarkable objects to the bones of the building that must lie behind. Tulkinghorn is the Daedalus of this labyrinth, and no one understands its secrets better than the man who made it. He feels, surely and uncomfortably, that his host is toying with him, much as Thunder does with the mice behind the
skirting-boards
, when the weather is wet and there is nothing better to do. It takes a few minutes, but he eventually realizes that the catacomb effect is nothing but a spectacular sleight of hand: four of the six narrow passageways that appear to lead off the gallery are only mirrored alcoves. There is only one way in, which means there can be only one way down.

‘I congratulate you,' says Tulkinghorn, when Charles emerges eventually beneath him. ‘Many visitors never negotiate that particular little puzzle. Even the more astute take rather longer than you did. You will find a lit candle in the small niche on the right-hand side. If you hold it carefully inside the sarcophagus, you will be able to appreciate fully the translucent quality of the stone. There are also, as you will see, some signs remaining of blue inlay, but sadly the alabaster has not aged well.'

His tone is almost cordial, as if Charles has passed some obscure initiation.

‘It is extraordinary, Mr Tulkinghorn. The whole collection. Quite extraordinary.'

The lawyer inclines his head. ‘I am gratified you think so. But I am afraid I will have to draw your exploration of it to a rather abrupt conclusion. I have a luncheon engagement with a baronet, and I cannot keep him waiting.'

Charles arrives home just in time to be too late for his own lunch, but Molly scrapes together the remains of the boiled beef and greens, and he elects to take his plate into his 
great-uncle's
room and sit with him while he eats. The slight graze to Maddox's cheek has all but healed and – to Charles' relief – he seems to retain no memory at all of how he came by it. Though if Abel has anything to say on the matter, it's doubtful Maddox will ever move much beyond these four walls again. He is quiet today, but Charles has not the experience yet to know the difference between the quiet of composure, and the quiet of catatonia. His eye-glass and his watch are ready to his hand, though he has not yet picked up either of them; but perhaps he just needs something to stimulate his curiosity.

Charles finishes his meat and puts the plate on the floor beside him, then takes the Cremorne letters from the inside of his jacket.

‘Do you have a moment, Uncle Maddox?'

The old man eyes him, rather warily.

‘I have just acquired a new case, that I would like to consult you about.'

It may be the magic word ‘case', or perhaps it's something in Charles' tone, but Maddox is suddenly alert.

‘What's that? Speak up, boy, I can't hear what you're saying through all that mumble.'

‘I have a new case, Uncle. A problematic one. I wanted to ask your help.'

‘Go on, then, get on with it. I dare say you've got all the facts in the wrong order, just like you used to in the old days. Always went at a problem like a bull at a gate. All over the place. Hopeless.'

It might strike you that this runs rather counter to Maddox's last expressed views on the self-same subject, and it may not be a coincidence that the old man's tone is rather shrill. Charles edges forward in his seat, trying not to mind.

‘The client has been receiving letters—'

‘Letters? What sort of letters?'

‘Offensive letters. Anonymous letters. My task is to find out who sent them. That alone will be difficult enough, given how little I have to go on, but I'm convinced there's more to it than what I've been—'

Maddox doesn't appear to be listening. ‘Is that them there?'

Charles hands them over. The old man's hands are trembling slightly, but his mind suddenly seems completely steady. He picks up his eye-glass and looks first at one letter, and then another, turning them over carefully several times. But then, to Charles' horror, he takes one and flattens it against his face, breathing heavily. Charles tries to seize it, but Maddox will not let it go, and the two of them struggle, the flimsy sheet crumpling and tearing between their fists.

‘Uncle – please—'

‘What do you think you're doing? Let go of me, you fool!'

‘But—'

Billy has heard the fracas from the adjoining room and appears at the door, his bright round face frowning and concerned. ‘Everything all right, Mr Charles? Only—'

‘Everything's fine, Billy,' says Charles quickly, embarrassed to be found in this ridiculous position, playing tug-of-war with an elderly man over a piece of wretched paper. ‘There's no need to worry yourself. Go down to the kitchen, would you, and ask Molly for some tea.'

‘Right you are, Mr Charles. I'll be back in a jiffy.'

When Charles turns back to Maddox, the old man's face is very red and his chest is heaving.

‘I'll thank you, Charles, to show me an appropriate degree of respect. My age, if nothing else, surely commands that much.'

It is as if a switch has been flicked – an analogy which is at least thirty years away, by the way, though the snap of a magic
lantern will do almost as well. Maddox is looking at Charles now with as clear a gaze as his nephew can ever remember.

‘I'm sorry,' he stumbles. ‘I did not intend—'

Maddox's eyes narrow. ‘No, I dare say you did not. Now, to business. These letters of yours. You have, I presume, drawn the first and most obvious conclusion?'

It's Charles' turn to redden now. ‘Yes – that is, no—'

Maddox smiles, his eyes twinkling. ‘Well, that is no more than I expected. Have you forgotten all I taught you already? Logic and observation, my boy, logic and observation.'

He smoothes the torn paper against his leg and hands it to Charles. There is no trace of a tremor now.

‘Examine this – carefully, mind – and tell me what you find.'

Charles takes the paper and stares at it.

‘Well,' he says slowly, after a few minutes. ‘The writing is not educated—'

‘Indeed.'

‘—and is in a man's hand.'

‘Indubitably.'

‘He has some cause for grievance against Sir Julius, which he clearly feels very deeply, but does not specify. Is that significant?'

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Go on.'

Charles looks up. ‘That's all. I can infer nothing more.'

Maddox smiles broadly. ‘Come, come, my lad. Surely you can deduce a little more than that? Do you not remember what I used to tell you when you were a boy? A letter is far more than a sequence of words written on a page – it is a
physical object
, and in that respect is frequently far more eloquent than its creator intended.'

Charles looks again at the letter in his hand. ‘The paper is poor, that much I can see, but that doesn't get us very far. And as for anything else—'

‘Smell it.'

Charles gapes. ‘
What
?'

His great-uncle is clearly enjoying himself. ‘Go on – smell it. It will not bite you.'

Charles brings the letter slowly to his face. It's faint at first, but as the paper brushes his nose, he pulls his head away, coughing.

‘My God, whatever that is, it's absolutely disgusting.'

‘Quite so. Absolutely nauseating, and absolutely
unmistakable
. An exceedingly unpalatable combination of cattle fat, rotting meat, and dog excrement.'

Maddox sits back in his chair, and joins his fingertips together. ‘Is it not obvious? Your culprit, my dear Charles, is a
tanner.
'

Charles' eyes widen. This man is remarkable, completely and utterly remarkable. Who else but Maddox would have even thought to put the letter to such a test? And who else but he would know how to interpret what he found?

‘Moreover,' Maddox continues, ‘the text itself is not quite so devoid of interest as you seem to believe. You stated – quite correctly – that the author of this missive is uneducated. But he is not – perhaps – as illiterate as you might assume. This word here,' he points a gnarled finger, ‘
naw
, and here
yow
—'

‘I took them as mere spelling errors.'

Maddox shakes his head. ‘I am sure you did. Because that is exactly what they would have been had you yourself written them – indeed, had almost any Englishman written them. But there is one region of this kingdom where this orthography is quite common. I had occasion, some years ago, to be employed by Sir Jonathan Evershed, at his estate at Launceston. The infant child of one of his tenant farmers had been found murdered in her cradle. The perpetrator – inconceivable as it
sounds – proved to be the family's young maidservant, a girl of no more than fourteen years. She claimed to have been incited to the deed by a gentleman in black, who came to her bed in the dead of night. She was caught in the very act of attempting to strangle another child.' His voice falters for a moment. ‘I endeavoured to persuade the magistrate that this was
prima facie
evidence of a diseased mind and that the girl was, in consequence, quite unaware of the nature, character, and consequences of the act she was committing. But I failed.'