The Inquisitor E-Book

Hugh Walpole

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Walpole wrote horror novels that tended to be more psychological than supernatural, with mysticism underlying thoughtfulness. The Inquisitor is a murder thriller set in a haunted village. This novel will leave a mark with horror lovers.

Leseprobe

Contents

PREFATORY LETTER

PART I

BOANERGES

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

PART II

PERFORMANCE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

INTERLUDE

PART III

MICHAEL FURZE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

PREFATORY LETTER

London, 1935

My dear Robert,

Whenever I have in the past written a dedicatory letter to a novel, I have been reproached by my friends who tell me that it is a very old-fashioned and otiose thing to do. Whether that be so or not, I see little harm in it, especially if one wishes, as I do in the present instance, to make a certain point clear.

First I would like to acknowledge with what extreme pleasure I dedicate this book to you; modesty forbids my mentioning in public the reasons of my gratitude to you. You well know what they are.

There is something, however, that I have been wanting for many years to say, and this is, I feel, a fair opportunity. The Inquisitor is the fourth of a series of stories about a cathedral town that I have called Polchester. The three that precede it are, The Cathedral, Harmer John and The Old Ladies. The fact that I have written these novels about a cathedral city has persuaded a number of critics, friendly and otherwise, that I have been attempting to rival that wonderful portrayer of Victorian life in a cathedral city–Anthony Trollope. I had, you scarcely need to be told, never any thought of such absurd rivalry. Had I the genius to create characters so masterfully actual as the Bishop, Mr. Slope and Mrs. Proudie, I would wear my hat at an angle and challenge with confidence all the present realists of the English novel. In truth, the aim of my four cathedral novels has been exactly opposite from that of the creator of Barchester, and their ancestor, if they have one, is the author of The Scarlet Letter and The House of the Seven Gables.

These four novels of mine are, of deliberate purpose, novels of event. There are in the course of them murders, suicides, abductions, riots–not that I would have Polchester supposed to be a town of violence, far otherwise, but there have been in its history, as in the history of all towns, moments of drama, even of melodrama. And these I have deliberately chosen as illustrations of my one continuous theme. In fact, I would hold my breath and declare most dangerously that I am not afraid of melodrama. I think that possibly the contemporary English novel is written too frequently in undertones. Many of the cleverer novelists in England at this present instant seem to myself to talk in whispers. I do not defend melodrama, nor do I think that these cathedral novels of mine are melodramatic, but their violences are deliberate and the scenes at the close of this present novel are true history.

With every good wish,

Yours, dear Robert,

HUGH WALPOLE

PART I

BOANERGES

CHAPTER I

ANOTHER CITIZEN–THE CATHEDRAL IS FILLED–THE CATHEDRAL IS EMPTY

The thin papery sky of the early autumn afternoon was torn, and the eye of the sun, pale but piercing, looked through and down. The eye’s gaze travelled on a shaft of light to the very centre of the town. A little scornful, very arrogant, it surveyed the scene. The Cathedral had chimed at three, and at once the bells began with their accustomed melody to ring for Evensong. The town, bathed in a smoky haze, clustered about and around the Cathedral, Cathedral Green and Arden Gate, dropping through the High Street, then lower to the Market-place, then sharply over the Rock to Seatown that bordered the river. Slowly up, beyond the river, sloped the quiet autumn fields to the hills that spread, like dun cloths, to the sea. For the moment, while the sun’s eye gazed its last on that afternoon, the huddled town, the long fields, the wide band of sea caught a pale glow of light, looking up to the sun with the timidity of a girl reassured by her lover’s unexpected attentions.

Men lolling in Riverside Street said: ‘There’s the sun!’

At the St. Leath Hotel on Pol Hill beyond the town, windows stole a glimmering shade. In Canon’s Yard the old houses with their twisted shapes and crooked chimneys grinned, for an instant, like toothless old men. It was market day and in the Market-place the huddled sheep, the wide-eyed cows, the barking dogs, the farmers, the old women were mistily gold-lit as with a divine dust. The frock-coated statue at the top of Orange Street was illuminated at the nose; in the yard of the old ‘Bull’ a weary maid rubbed her eyes; Hattaway, the architect, standing in the door of Bennett’s bookshop, looked up to the sky and smiled; two of the old ladies of 10 Norman Row, starting out for their walk, said together: ‘Why, there’s the sun!’; Mr. Stephen Furze, alone in his cobwebby room, saw the sun strike ladders of light through the air and shook his head at them; young ‘Penny’ Marlowe, arranging chrysanthemums in the drawing-room at St. James’s Rectory, smiled mysteriously as though surprised in a secret.

The King Harry Tower caught the light, then seemed, with a proud gesture of disdain, to toss it away.

The eye of the sun, having seen everything, withdrew.

Mists were rising from the river.

The Reverend Peter Gaselee, young and ardent, was crossing the Cathedral Green to Evensong. Half-way over he was stopped by a bent figure, shoulders wrapped in a grey shawl, hat shabby and shapeless, that said in a sharp and piercing voice: ‘Ah, Mr. Gaselee–Sun came out for a moment but it’s gone in again.’ Peter Gaselee was annoyed by this interruption, for he was in a hurry and old Mr. Mordaunt was a fool. However, it was his policy to be agreeable to everyone–it was also the obligation of his cloth. So he said brightly:

‘Ah, Mr. Mordaunt–been sketching?’

‘Yes, I have. I’ve stopped now because the light’s too bad. If the sun had stayed I’d have had half an hour more.’ He drew his grey shawl closer about his shoulders. ‘Like to see what I’ve been doing?’

‘Delighted,’ Gaselee said, but thought–‘Silly old ass–always must be showing his mad sketches to everyone.’ His fine thin nose twitched as it always did when he was irritated, but his smile was genial as the old man, with a trembling hand, drew out a sketch-book.

‘There–the light’s bad. But you can see it all right, I daresay.’ He opened the book and showed, his fingers tapping against the paper, a double-page drawing. Gaselee flattered himself that he had a fine knowledge of the Arts. He and old Ronder, and possibly Hattaway, were the only men, he told himself, who cared for such things in Polchester.

There was no doubt that old Mordaunt could draw. The Cathedral rose from the paper like a living thing, the King Harry Tower like the proud head of a triumphant giant.

‘Those lines in King Harry look like teeth,’ he said, for he must say something.

‘Well, they do sometimes. In certain lights.’

‘And who’s that standing in the West Door?’

The old man peered more closely. ‘Oh, you see someone there, do you? So did I. But there wasn’t anyone there really. At least I don’t think so.’

‘He’s too large for life anyway.’

‘Yes, long and thin and black. That’s how I saw him.’

‘How do you mean–you saw him–if there wasn’t anyone there?’

The old man began eagerly: ‘Oh well, light does strange things. But I’ve often thought I’ve seen him. Very thin, in black. He never moves even when the light changes.’

‘Shadows, I suppose.’

‘Yes, shadows.’

Gaselee smiled and nodded his head. ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Mordaunt. I must be getting on. Going to Evensong.’

‘Good day to you, Mr. Gaselee. I must be getting on too. Yes, I must. Good day to you.’

Gaselee walked on. He passed in at the West Door.

Old Mordaunt drew his shawl very closely about him indeed and slip-slopped along, hugging the sketch-book closely to him, the sketch-book that was more to him than wife or child or any human being.

Gaselee walked rapidly through the nave and up into the choir. He found his favourite seat, the end one but two on the left towards the altar, knelt down and prayed, then settled himself with comfort and looked about him.

The lights were lit because of the duskiness of the afternoon; the curtains had not been drawn and he could see, beyond the misty candlelight that hovered, like a benediction, over the choir-seats, into the dark colours of the nave. A deep, comforting silence, made more peaceful by the distant rhythm of the bells, brooded at the heart of the building. A choir-boy was moving in and out of the seats arranging the service-papers.

Once the place had blazed with crimson and gold, paintings of extravagant colour on the walls, marble pavements, the windows shining in the pageantry of coloured glass. Behind him to the left was the Black Bishop’s Tomb, the Tomb itself made of a solid block of dark-blue stone, the figure of the Bishop carved in black marble.... Ah, there is Mrs. Braund, wife of the Archdeacon, stout, comfortable, and a strange lady with her. There would be very few people to-day.

A thick-set man came stamping along, head up as though he commanded the place, Lampiron, the sculptor–but he never would show his work to anybody–a rude man of whom Gaselee was secretly afraid....

The bells stopped. The organ began. The procession came in. Only Canons Dale and Moffit to-day–Dale, young, thin, with a face like a hawk, old Moffit hobbling along on a stick.

‘Dearly beloved brethren...’ The service began.

After a while Gaselee lost himself in reminiscence.

Although he was only twenty-eight he seemed to himself to have led already a life of surpassing interest and excitement. He was to himself a figure of quite extraordinary interest. Everything that happened to him was wonderful, although not so wonderful as the things that were going to happen to him.

The first thing that astonished him was that he had been able to do so much for himself. Nothing could have been more ordinary than his parentage, his birthplace. His father had been rector of a Wiltshire parish, miles from anywhere, lost in rolling down and country lane. He had been the only child, and his parents had, from the very first, thought him exceptional. His mother had adored him and he had for her all the condescending love of a favoured only child. His father was a saint, an old stout man now with dishevelled white hair, a passion for gardening, for cricket, for dogs and the people of his village. Gaselee felt for him a stern protective affection, the feeling that one has for someone who knows nothing about life, who may be taken in by anyone or anything, who is so simple as to be not altogether sane. When people spoke to Gaselee of his father and said that he was one of God’s saints and a very merry man, adored by his people, Gaselee agreed, but with an implication that it was kind and generous of them to say so.... Dear old man...

From a very early age his parents had been astonished at their son’s ability to express himself, for they themselves had never found words easy. They wondered, too, at his appetite for reading, at the things that he knew and, as he grew older, they listened with loving attention to his opinions about everything. He told them, affectionately, how old-fashioned they were, and they agreed absolutely with his opinion.

Because they were poor they could not send him to one of the larger public schools. He went to Taunton.

He did very well there, though not brilliantly. He knew a little of everything and was popular because he behaved to everybody as they would wish him to behave. He made no very close relationships because he never gave himself completely to anybody. He had no time for that because he was so busy organizing his own progress. This with one exception. Much to his own surprise and even to his chagrin he developed a passion for a boy called Radcliffe. He was not accustomed to passion and it made him uncomfortable. He could not help himself. Charlie Radcliffe was a quiet, good-natured boy with nothing at all remarkable about him. He could be of no use to Gaselee in any way. At first he returned Gaselee’s friendship; then he quietly withdrew, giving no reasons. This was the greatest trouble in Gaselee’s school life. He was baffled and bewildered by it. Everything else went well and he won an Exhibition at Jesus College, Cambridge. At Cambridge he lived carefully–he never threw money about. He rowed for his College, was popular exactly as he had been at school and made no close friends. He went to a Clergy Training College at Drymouth and did well there too. Then he had a curacy near Exeter; two years ago he became curate of St. James’s, Polchester, whose Rector was the Reverend Richard Marlowe.

He had come to Polchester because he felt that it was a good stepping-stone for him. Bishop Kendon was an old man now but famous in the world for his books, his energy, his strength of character. Many remarkable men had been at Polchester–Bishop Purcell, Archdeacon Brandon, Wistons of Pybus St. Anthony. The Pybus living was famous for its incumbents, the majority of whom had been moved to great preferment.

During his two years in Polchester he had, he was sure, made a real mark. He was popular, considered intelligent, and as a preacher increasingly in demand. He was an excellent preacher, modern, easy, well informed, sometimes eloquent, always sensible. He took part in many of the town’s activities, played golf, sang with an agreeable light tenor, was considered better-read than anyone in the town save old Canon Ronder.

With Ronder he had made a strong alliance and here there was something genuine and real. Although the old man was seventy-five, disgracefully stout and exceedingly lazy, he had a mind that delighted young Gaselee’s–sharp, cynical, brilliantly instructed, keen as a dagger. Gaselee’s two years had been very happy and successful ones. He had a right to be pleased.

He realized that the time of the anthem had arrived. He looked at a printed sheet that had been laid in front of him and murmured, ‘Another of Doggett’s experiments.’ It was like Doggett to write a new anthem and perform it for the first time at an ordinary daily Evensong when there would be no audience.

Some people said Doggett had genius, and Gaselee, who loved music and knew when it was good, thought that he might have, but the man was so silent, so retiring, did so little for himself and his future–a little mousy man with a large round head and a face like an egg, who seemed not to care whether one liked his music or no. Gaselee had been kind to him, but Doggett didn’t seem to know it.

This was a setting of a poem of Christina Rossetti’s.

Gaselee read the poem:

Love is the key of life and death, Of hidden heavenly mystery: Of all Christ is, of all He saith, Love is the key.

As three times to His Saint He saith, He saith to me, He saith to thee, Breathing His Grace-conferring Breath: ‘Lovest thou Me?’

Ah, Lord, I have such feeble faith, Such feeble hope to comfort me: But love it is, is strong as death, And I love Thee.

The second verse was sung by a boy unaccompanied.

‘That’s young Klitch, the son of the man with the curiosity shop,’ Gaselee reflected. In the third verse seven bars were repeated, reminding him a little of the close of the adagio in Mozart’s ‘Jupiter’ symphony. ‘I’ll tell Doggett that. I bet he never thought of it. There’s something ridiculous,’ he thought, ‘in an ugly little boy whispering into space “Lovest thou Me?” even though–’ Then something pulled him up as sharply as though his face had been struck.

Deep shame held him. They were kneeling and he buried his hands and prayed. It was his soul that had risen from some deep chasm where too often it was hid, and clearly, quietly, faced him. For he cared for beauty and all lovely things, goodness and high conduct and the nobility of man. He believed in God, but life was for ever offering him alternatives, pride and wit and self-advancement and the good opinion of his fellows. Soon, very soon, when he was walking through the lighted town to his lodgings, the world would surge back again–‘Because Christina was a poet, because a boy sang unaccompanied, because Doggett is a musician, I was sentimentally moved as old stout Mrs. Braund has been moved. A boy sang, a poet wrote, a musician played, and I believed in God....’

But the mood had not quite passed. His eyes were closed behind his hands, but it seemed to him that the Cathedral slowly filled. The great empty spaces of the nave had been cold, but through the West Door they crowded in, hundreds upon hundreds, silently. They formed now a serried mass, flowing out into St. Margaret’s Chapel, into King Henry’s Chapel, under the shields of Henry V. and Warwick the King-Maker, over the ledger-stones of the Priors, beside the tomb of Henry Quair, the Franciscan friar, with its trefoil canopy, into the Lady Chapel with its carvings of angels, into the King’s Chapel with the lovely ‘Virgin and Children’ windows, into the North-east Transept where is the tomb of the Saxon bishop Wilfred, along the South Aisle that has the tombs of Prior Edward of Barpledon and the great Bishop Holcroft, into the Chapel of All Angels where the famous Emily, daughter of the Earl of Glebeshire, lover of the poor, heroine of the battle of Drymouth, lies, yes, up into the King Harry Tower, down into the Norman Crypt, and, at last, behind him, crowded about the Tomb of the Black Bishop itself, like a mist from the sea, an invasion, an army, a mighty breathing, watching, waiting multitude.

The fantasy was so strong that he scarcely dared to raise his eyes, and when at last he glanced about him, piercing the wavering light of the candles, he still could not be entirely resolved. In his ears and in his eyes there was a conviction of a pressing multitude and he felt that thousands of eyes were bent upon himself.

He was apprehensive; he was suddenly afraid. It was like a nightmare that he sometimes had of making some fearful blunder before a critical company. In his dream he realized that pause, that look of wonder and that awful certainty within himself that he had, in a moment of incautiousness, made a mistake that nothing now could undo. Slowly his eyes cleared. The Cathedral was empty save for the little gathering of human beings about him. Only, as he looked towards the altar he fancied that one high, thin figure remained, black, motionless, solitary. Then that illusion also passed. The choir was filing out, Broad the verger preceded Dale and Moffit–old Moffit, his head bent, tap-tapping with his stick.

Gaselee was himself again. On the way out he smiled at Mrs. Braund, nodded to Lampiron, and felt with pleasure the keen evening air blow about his forehead.

Now it so happened that at the moment of the singing for the first time of Mr. Doggett’s setting of Christina Rossetti’s poem, Polchester received a new citizen. The 3.45 from Drymouth steamed into Polchester Station, gave itself a little shake of appreciation and slumbrously stopped.

Out of one of the third-class carriages stepped a large stout man. The first person in Polchester to have a real conversation with this man was Mr. Herbert Klitch, who had the curiosity shop, No. 11 Norman Row.

Norman Row is a line of small and rather ancient shops and houses that abuts on Arden Gate, facing the Green and the Cathedral. Just behind this row of buildings is Canon’s Yard. Some of the houses of Norman Row date back to the sixteenth century. There are a number of shops–the Cathedral Shop that has all the postcards, the guide-books, Canon Moffit’s book on the Cathedral, cheap imitations of the knocker of the West Door, the carvings of the angels in the Lady Chapel, little replicas of Henry Quair, the Black Bishop, Bishops Wilfred and Holcroft, religious books and, most popular of all, small bronze copies of the Harmer John Memorial. Next to the Cathedral Shop is the Glebeshire Tea Shop, and next to that the Woollen Shop which is run by the Association of Glebeshire Industries. Also in Norman Row live Broad the head verger, Mr. Doggett the organist, Mrs. Coole who has a lodging-house for old ladies.

Mrs. Coole’s house is No. 10, the Cathedral Shop No. 3, Mr. Doggett’s No. 8, Mr. Klitch’s No. 11.

Herbert Klitch was a round, rosy-faced Pickwick sort of man, very jolly, not a fool, with a great affection for his wife and his boy and girl. Especially he had a passionate love of his boy, Guy, who, besides having a fine treble and being head boy in the Choir School, was a nice child with a real talent for mechanics.

As the Cathedral chimed four o’clock Klitch turned on the electric light. The shop had been dark for some time now, but Klitch had not troubled: he had been alone there, sitting in his back room, glancing out of his back window, which, through a space in the houses of Canon’s Yard, looked away on the left to fields and a thin line of graceful hills. He always said he had one of the best views in Polchester, for his back window gave him green fields on one side and the town and the drop to the Rock on the other, while the front shop commanded the whole of the Green and the Cathedral in its complete splendour.

‘The whole of Life, Nature, Commerce, Religion–and in Canon’s Yard itself the daily humours of the human animal.’ His shop, he considered, was the true centre of the town.

He was, himself, broad-minded, tolerant, looked on everyone with humour and was an enthusiastic gossip. One of his weaknesses perhaps was that he could keep nothing to himself. He knew everything about the town, what the St. Leaths were doing at the Castle, old Ronder’s present pulling of intricate strings, why Lady Mary Bassett had quarrelled with Mrs. Cronin, what Humphrey Carris had up his sleeve. Especially did all the life of the Cathedral–clerical, human, musical, official–pass under his eye. And because he had money enough, a good wife, good children, a fine digestion, and was able to laugh at his enemies, he was a happy man.

His shop was crowded with things good, bad and indifferent–furniture, pictures, suits of armour, a stuffed crocodile, silver, china, rugs and old books. There were always some valuable things to be found there by those who knew. He had no conscience at all about cheating anyone who was ignorant enough to be cheated. His theory was that anyone who wished to buy old things should learn something about the job. He dealt with an admirable ‘faker’ in Drymouth who could provide you with a Chippendale chair, a piece of Lowestoft, a Girtin water-colour in no time at all. He made his living, in the main, from the junk that was in his front window. He was clever at arranging his window, and would have there some delicate china, an Indian shawl, some Toby jugs, and a piece of carving from a Spanish cathedral, so tactfully placed that they all gave lustre to one another.

When someone came to the shop who had true knowledge, he brought out his real things. This was his happiest time, for he had a great and genuine love of the true and the beautiful. He would surprisingly lower his prices for a connoisseur, feeling that here was another artist like himself. One or two things–a Bonington drawing, a small Chippendale table, some Waterford glass–he loved so much that he kept them to himself. He himself painted water-colours and very bad they were.

Not only was his face round and rosy but his skin was very smooth and he was a pattern of cleanliness. He always wore a rather high wing-collar and in his tie a gold pin. He liked loose pepper-and-salt tweeds in the winter time, and on his thick gold watch-chain was a Masonic sign. He was a high official in the local Lodge. His short thick legs were quick, impatient, impulsive, and the rest of his body seemed to move with slow good-nature behind them as though it said: ‘Hold on, legs. You’ll wear me out one of these days, but I’m proud of you all the same.’ He thought a pretty girl one of the nicest things in the world and I would not say that he had been always faithful to Mrs. Klitch. ‘In spirit–always,’ he would say, and Mrs. Klitch said, ‘What I don’t hear about don’t worry me.’

He went into the front shop, and, looking about him, thought that he would soon close, for it was not likely that there would be any more customers to-day. He was filled with pride and satisfaction. The front shop was nice, very nice indeed. He arranged a few things, humming ‘Raindrops on the Roof’ as he did so. He stopped and patted his Chinese Warrior on the shoulder. He was very proud of his Warrior, a big figure in red-and-gold lacquer, carrying a sword. He had a black hat and black boots and in his eyes there was a stare of cold arrogant brutality which Klitch greatly appreciated.

Then (Klitch often afterwards remembered the exact circumstances) his shop-bell rang, the door opened and a man came in. He was tall, broad and stout. He was wearing an ulster and carried a shabby brown bag. This last he at once put down on a sham Chippendale chair and said: ‘Mr. Herbert Klitch?’ His voice, even as revealed by those few words, was remarkable. It had a resonance quite unusual, so that you felt that it was carried on in a series of reverberating echoes. Nevertheless its tone was tunefully deep and true.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Klitch ungrammatically.

‘Ah,’ said the man. Then he took off his ulster. ‘Just as though,’ Klitch said afterwards, ‘he meant to stay for the night.’ He smiled a broad and beaming smile. This should have been friendly and yet was not altogether so. As Klitch very quickly noticed, the man was in many ways a series of contradictions. He was big and should have given an impression of great strength, but there was too much flesh on his bones. His head was finely shaped, but the cheeks were flabby, the mouth too small. The eyes were large and friendly but also a little sly. His most remarkable feature was his nose, which was unusually long, fleshy about the nostrils, and gave the impression, as some noses do, that it had a life independent of the rest of the face. His colouring was fair and he had an untidy light-brown moustache.

The moment that Klitch really looked at him he said to himself, ‘Now where have I seen that nose before?’

The stranger stood with his legs apart and began to talk.

‘I’ve just arrived in your town and left my bag at the station,’ he said. ‘The fact is that I have only a few shillings in my pocket. Don’t be afraid,’ he went on, laughing, ‘I’m not going to beg; no, and I’m not going to hold a pistol at your head either. I was looking all the way along for a curiosity shop, somewhere to sell a very pretty thing I’ve got in my bag here. I thought I was beat and then I came on your shop.’ He smiled in a friendly, intimate way. ‘You see, I only landed at Drymouth this morning and there were one or two things I had to buy there. I’m staying with relatives here in Polchester, but I don’t want to arrive without a penny to my name. I’ll be getting a cheque from America in a day or two, but that will take a week or more to clear.’ He looked around him. ‘You’ve got some nice things here.’

‘Yes,’ said Klitch, ‘I have–and I don’t know that I want any more. Times as they are, we’re all trying to sell things rather than buy them.’

‘Perfectly,’ said the stranger. ‘I fully appreciate that, but when you’ve seen what I’ve got here I think you’ll like it.’

He turned to the shabby bag, opened it and, from the middle of a pair of not-too-fresh pyjamas, produced something in brown paper. Klitch, who was a good observer and liked to say, with his head on one side, that nothing was too small to be important, noticed that the hands were big, podgy, and the backs of them covered with brown freckles. ‘I’d know those hands again anywhere,’ he thought. The man, with great care, his face puckered with childlike seriousness, unwrapped the paper and then held up something that made Klitch exclaim, in spite of himself, ‘Ah!’

It had been his habit for many years to assume complete indifference if he was a purchaser and show a friendly eagerness if a seller. He was disgusted with himself for saying ‘Ah!’ The man said nothing. He simply held up his prize against the light and his whole big body was taut with pride.

He was holding a crucifix of black marble. The Christus was carved in white ivory. It stood on a pedestal of brilliant green ivory.

‘You may well say “Ah,”‘ he remarked at last. ‘You won’t see another like this in a hurry. Spanish–seventeenth century.’

No, Klitch wouldn’t. He realized that. Moreover the artist-demon in him was stirring, gripping his heart with its talons, urging him on, spiteful vindictive little animal, to perform some egregious commercial folly.

‘Yes. It’s fine,’ Klitch said. ‘I won’t deny it.’ He examined it more closely. He took it into his expert hands. The figure was exquisitely carved and it was no absurd fancy of Klitch’s that, with its dignity of suffering, its abnegation of all pride, its poignant authority, the room and everything in it should be aware of a new presence.

Klitch placed it on a table. Both men looked at it.

‘Of course,’ said the man, ‘it’s worth I don’t know how much. If I waited I could get anything I like for it in London.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Klitch, ‘you could and perhaps you couldn’t. It’s amazing these days what low prices fine things are fetching at Christie’s and Sotheby’s.’

‘Oh, that’s not the way,’ said the man. ‘The thing to do is to find somebody who wants it, somebody who must have it. But I haven’t the time. That’s the damnable part of it. Fact is,’ he went on, growing more confidential, ‘I don’t want to part with it–if I can see a way out.’

‘What’s its history?’ Klitch asked.

‘I got it from a man in New Mexico. He said it came from Toledo. It’s seventeenth-century Spanish all right though.’

‘Probably stolen,’ Klitch thought, and told himself to be careful.

The man went on: ‘Now this is what I thought you might do. Let me have fifty pounds or so. Give me three months. If I can pay you back with interest in that time I take it back. If not, at the end of three months, you keep it. It’s worth three or four hundred if it’s worth a penny.’

‘Staying in Polchester?’ Klitch asked.

‘Well, to be honest with you I don’t know. Depends how I like my relations and how they like me. But you’re safe enough any way. If I abscond in the night you’ve got the thing for keeps. I’ll give you a paper saying that if I’m absent from this town a month without redeeming it it’s yours. Nothing could be fairer than that.’

Yes, Klitch thought, that was fair enough. He knew where he could sell it to-morrow for a hundred. But he didn’t want to sell it. The longer he looked at it the more he liked it. Fifty pounds was a lot of money, but he had done well that summer.

‘I’m not a pawnbroker, you know,’ he said, smiling.

‘This is different,’ said the man.

Yes, it was. Klitch hadn’t seen so beautiful a thing for a long time.

‘All right. I’ll do it,’ he said suddenly.

‘Cash,’ said the man.

‘I think I’ve got enough. Come into the back room.’

He sat down and wrote out a declaration. Then he jumped up.

‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a witness if you don’t mind.’ He went to the little staircase and called out: ‘Maria! You there?’

Someone answered, and presently a little woman with grey hair and a mottled face like a strawberry came down.

‘Here, Maria! I want you to witness this.’

Mrs. Klitch stared at the big man with great interest, but she was a discreet woman, did her business and retired up the stairs again. Then the man sat down and, holding the pen very clumsily in his big hand, signed his name.

‘Why!’ Klitch cried. ‘Furze? Michael Furze? Any relation of Mr. Stephen Furze?’

‘I’m his brother,’ said the man.

That, thought Klitch, is where I got the nose from!

‘His brother!’ Klitch said. ‘Stephen Furze’s brother! Well I never!’

They went back into the front room.

‘Yes, my name’s Michael Furze. My friends call me Mike.’ The man, smiling, stood swaying slightly on his big legs.

Klitch gave him three ten-pound notes and the rest in ones.

‘So you’re going to stay with him?’

‘I suppose so. I haven’t seen him for twenty years. What’s he like now?’

‘What was he like twenty years ago?’

‘Oh, thin as a stick and mean as hell.’

‘Well, he’s just the same now. He’s not liked in the town. Too many people owe him money.’

‘Ah–same old Stephen.’ Furze’s eyes narrowed. ‘He had a girl of ten when I last saw him. She still with him?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And Sarah?’

‘Mrs. Furze? Yes, she’s still there.’

‘They don’t know I’m coming,’ Furze said, grinning. ‘It’ll give them a bit of a surprise.’

‘I expect it will.’ Then Klitch added: ‘I doubt if you’ll stay there long.’

‘Why? What’s the matter with them?’

‘A bit miserly, the old people. You won’t get much to eat.’

‘Oh, won’t I?’ Furze smiled again.

‘You’ll find the town a bit quiet too,’ Klitch said.

‘Just what I want–some quiet. I’ve roamed the world over. Moscow, Tokio, Honolulu, New Zealand, Paraguay, Colombia–anywhere you like. I could tell you some stories.... But I’ve always fancied a place like this. I’m a religious man.’

‘You’re what?’ asked Klitch.

‘Religious. Does that sound odd to you?’

‘No. Not odd,’ said Klitch. ‘Only precious few people are these days.’

‘Well, they ought to be.’ The voice began to boom again. ‘They’ll find it mighty uncomfortable for themselves one day. The soul–what’s more important than the soul? Here for seventy years or so, then–eternity. Eternity! Just think of it, man! When I was in Paraguay once...’

He then proceeded to tell an amazing story with dragons and witch-doctors and tortured old women and a large black snake in it. The story was wonderful and most unconvincing. Furze stopped with a click.

‘Well, there–I could talk all night. I must be getting on and give my dear relations a shock. A miser is he, dear Stephen? Always was. Grown on him, I expect.’

‘I expect it has,’ Klitch said gravely.

‘I hate to leave that with you. May I come in and look at it sometimes?’

‘Why, of course.’

‘I’ll buy it back from you in no time. You’ll see.’ He shook hands and Klitch was astonished at their soft pudginess. ‘Good night. Many thanks.’ He picked up his shabby bag and went out.

Klitch looked, from the open door, after him. There was no sign of him. He had been swallowed up as though he had never been. A thin, vaporous mist had come up, but above it stars shone out and the Cathedral, like a black ship, sailed against the pale sky.

‘That’s a rum bloke,’ Klitch thought. ‘Never met a rummer.’

He looked at the Cathedral. Empty now and silent. Not a soul there. He wondered sometimes what it felt at night. Did the spirits of the old priests and warriors and monks come out from their tombs? He had thought sometimes that he would invade that silence. What would he discover? A foolish, fantastic thought, but then he had for so long lived with old, discarded things, chairs and tables and pictures and suits of armour that seemed to him to have a life of their own. Well, if chairs and tables had, why not knights and bishops?

He went back into the shop and looked at the crucifix. Yes, it was lovely. He hoped fervently that that fellow would not find the money.

He called up the staircase: ‘Maria! Come down and see what I’ve got!’

CHAPTER II

A HOUSE LIKE A BONE, SET FOR TWO ANTAGONISTS

Michael Furze, when he had taken some strides into the thin evening mist, remembered that he had not asked Klitch where brother Stephen’s house was. But that did not matter. He had the name of the house–The Scarf–and there must be plenty who knew it.

He was greatly pleased with himself, as, in fact, he very often was. To call him conceited would be to call him mature: he had the vanity of a child, of an animal, of anything not old enough to make mature comparisons. His own idea of himself was that he was a wonderful fellow for bringing things off. His boastfulness–he was a tremendous boaster–did not come from the nervousness of self-suspicion nor from the blindness of a fanatic. He was like a boy who thinks his school the whole world. He forgot instantly his mistakes, follies, ignorances, exposures. A varied and adventurous life had taught him nothing. In the same way he lied continually, because as soon as he said a thing it became at once for him a truth; because of his physical size, his voice, his laugh and something attractively naïf in his personality people laughed at him indulgently. He was not mean nor revengeful; desire for revenge might be stirred in him and it would have then all the determined purpose of a limited nature; as yet, in his life he had been treated on the whole well.

And now he was thinking that he was a wonder. Here he was, arriving in a town altogether unknown to him, without a penny in his pocket, and behold, within an hour, he had fifty quid! Had fifty quid as he wanted it too!

Oh yes, Mike, my son, you’re a marvel. You go from place to place, all the world over, and land on your feet and get what you want, have money and food and friends for the asking! What is there about you, Mike? Hasn’t God got some special purpose for you? Didn’t He make you as you are that you should do some wonderful thing? Then, when the clock strikes, at the exact moment, there you will be, the world, astonished, at your feet, all glory to God! Weren’t you a marvel in the War, Mike; never once hit, never ill save for that bit of dysentery in Palestine; and weren’t you a marvel in America and in Constantinople and in China? Aren’t you a marvel with women too? Don’t they all fall for you and, when you’re sick of them, don’t you just leave them as a real man should?

And now you’ve come to the right place, Mike, my son–a cathedral town. Haven’t you always wanted a cathedral? Haven’t you in Venice and Toledo and Paris and Cologne stared open-mouthed at those wonderful places just as though you had some special right to them, some personal relation with them? Haven’t you said, since you were a baby: ‘There’s nothing so wonderful, nothing I, Mike Furze, want so much’? And hasn’t it been a kind of wonderful coincidence that your stinking, parsimonious, bread-scraping brother should choose, fifteen years ago, of all places in the world a cathedral town to live in? Choose it and stay in it! There’s a kind of miracle for you!

He had reached the Arden Gate. He turned for a last look, and there it was, its black mass raised above the mist against the stars. Clutching his brown bag, his legs apart, he stared at it, wondering whether, in full light of day, he would be disappointed in it. This wonder came freshly to him on every fresh occasion, for after all, what could this passion of his for cathedrals be but an illusion? One day–he expected it to come at any time–he would say to himself: ‘Well, now–think of that–whatever did I see in the thing?’ and he knew that, when that moment came, he would suffer some loss, the kind of loss that he would suffer were he never to see his black marble crucifix again. This sense of what he would lose led him to yet further appreciation: ‘No, indeed–I am no ordinary man. The ordinary man cares nothing for cathedrals.’

Through Arden Gate he walked and started down the High Street. Now he must consider the Town, about which of course he knew nothing at all.

He could not, as a visitor returning after several years might do–Shade, thin bony Shade of Miss Midgeley, are you there?–wonder at the many improvements and possibly lament them–at the up-to-date splendours of the St. Leath Hotel; at the fine sprouting of red-brick villas up the hill above Orange Street; at the renovation of ‘The Bull’ with its bathrooms and handsome garage; at the parking-place off the Market; at the reclamation and renovation of Pennicent Street, that once abominable heart of Seatown, now Riverside Street; at the excellent and justly famous eighteen-hole golf course carved from part of the St. Leath domain–(the St. Leaths, poor things, no longer wealthy as once they were)–the two splendid cinemas, ‘The Arden’ and ‘The Grand,’ forgetting the little cheap one, ‘The Majestic’ (vulgarly known as ‘The Dog’), down in Riverside Street.

Yes, so modern are you, might that sparse and bony Shade exclaim, that you are contemplating (you, James Aldridge, Mayor, and you, Humphrey Carris, solicitor, and you, Fred Hattaway, architect, and you, Dick Bellamy, universal provider) a flying-field, on the other side of the river towards Pybus.

So far in the one direction: and in the other might that Shade–universally present, for whom time has no meaning–marvel also that so little is changed, that wildness still runs in Riverside Street (what of ‘The Dog and Pilchard’? Is Hogg’s stout shadow not hovering there yet?), the Market-place has not lost its scented country air, nor ‘The Bull’ its dark and tallow-candled passages, nor Canon’s Yard its mysteries, nor Norman Row the dignities of its tempestuous Abbot....

And the Cathedral? Here the Shade pauses, waits, and enters to find a great company in attendance....

Michael Furze asked no questions. He passed down the High Street through the lighted town. Everything was alive and bustling. Motors pushed and hooted through the narrow street; the St. Leath motor-bus, having met the last train of the day, jigged its way up the hill; farmers (for it had been market day) stood solidly gossiping, moving contemptuously at the last possible instant from the path of intolerable cars; opposite Bennett’s was the lighted hall-way of W. H. Smith’s (and oh! the rivalry and hatred that this opposition had created) and, two doors below it, the brilliant flaunting electric-lit windows of Bellamy’s main store! Here surely was promise of life and adventure for Michael Furze. Furze with his brown bag and his fifty quid!

He stopped.

‘Would you mind telling me,’ he asked the policeman at the corner, ‘where The Scarf is? It’s the name of a house. I don’t know the street. Belongs to a Mr. Stephen Furze.’

The policeman directed him.

He turned to the right and down, finding himself then in an unexpected quiet, passing some railings that guarded a drop of sheer black-fronted rock. He stayed there a moment and looked downwards, to the life and lights of Seatown. He knew nothing of Seatown as yet nor of the spirit that informed it, but he had the sharp sniffing apprehensions of a child or a puppy and he realized that there was, down there, some world very different from the High Street just as the High Street was different again from the Cathedral. So small a place and three distinct worlds in it–or were they distinct? These speculations, however, were not for him, whose whole instinct was towards self-preservation and self-glory. Nevertheless he was apprehensive. The mist came up from the river and with the mist a sea-tang, a breath of the unknown. He translated this, as he moved forward, into a new nervousness as to how his brother would receive him. He was not afraid of his brother. Oh no, not he! They had never cared for one another–but who could care for Stephen? Michael had left the home in Hull–their father had been a shipping merchant–at a very early age, apprentice to the Merchant Service, and after that it was only at odd moments that they had met. Stephen had moved to London, had been some sort of broker in the City. Twenty years ago Michael had spent a week-end with them at Tulse Hill–on his own invitation, needless to say. And what a week-end! Poor Mike had emerged on the Monday a starved man: every mouthful had been grudged him. Stephen’s meanness had become a mania–yes, the intensity, the preoccupation, the watching waiting lust of madness.

Wasn’t it crazy, then, after such an experience, to return? The notion had come to him on the ocean, travelling from America without a penny in his pocket. He had been idly turning over the pages of some magazine when he had been confronted with a magnificent photograph of Chartres. There it was just as he had last seen it, glorious, triumphant, flattering him with the appeal that it made to him, so that his throat contracted, his fingers curved. How many others on the boat with him would feel that delighted pleasure? He remembered then that Stephen, his wife and child, had gone, fifteen years ago, to live in Polchester in the South of England. He remembered even the name of the house–The Scarf, Polchester, Glebeshire, England.

It hit him then like a blow in the stomach. Stephen must be rich by now; twenty years of miserly saving. There would be results of that. Stephen was ten years older than himself and, even twenty years ago, had been a lanky pale-faced skeleton. And there was the Cathedral, one of the most famous in England. In that moment of time, staring at the pictures of Chartres, his mind was made up, his destiny settled.

Now the child in him, part roguish, part malicious, part friendly, part fearful, anticipated the meeting.

He came to a house, isolated, not far from the church of which the policeman had told him. He could see it very dimly, but he knew it to be the one, for on either side of the gate were stone pillars surmounted by misshapen stone animals. What they represented he could not, in that light, tell. He pushed back the gate that screamed on its hinges; his feet crunched the gravelled path. Before the door he hesitated. Not a sound came to him save the rustling at his feet of a few autumn leaves taunted by the evening wind. Then, most unexpectedly, across the whole extent of the town, the Cathedral struck the hour. He waited until the full total of the five strokes that followed the chime had ended. Then, as though that had decided him, he pushed, with all his force, the bell. He heard it peal as though through an empty house. He waited and with every second of pause his impatience grew. It was as though he felt a personal insult, and he pushed the bell again; he might have been muttering: ‘You’ll keep me out, will you? Well, I’ll show you.’

He heard someone approaching; light spread behind the fan. The door opened and an old woman stood there, peering out into the dusk. He knew that she was Sarah Furze.

‘Who’s there?’ she said.

He stepped forward, but she did not move.

‘Don’t you know me?’ he cried, and his voice boomed into the house. ‘I’m brother Mike!’

She stared at him, pushing her head forward. He could see that she was very much older than when he had seen her last. Her face was dry, faintly yellow, seamed with wrinkles, and her eyes dull and strained with the defeated gaze of someone very short-sighted. Then he realized with a shock that she was more than short-sighted; she was blind.

The voice must have told her who it was, for she stood aside. He passed by her into the house.

‘Michael!’ she said, her voice quavering with astonishment. ‘I can’t see....’

‘It’s myself sure enough,’ he shouted at her as though the knowledge of her blindness made him think that she must also be deaf. ‘Turned up again like a bad penny.’ Then he caught her by the shoulder, pulled her towards him and kissed her. Her cheek was dry and powdery. She was a little old woman wearing a faded black silk dress, her grey hair plaited in old fashion but very neatly above her wrinkled forehead.

‘There’s no one in the house,’ she said.

He stood there, staring about him. He realized a number of things–one that the place was lit by gas, another that the hall, the stairs were dry and clean like an old yellow bone. Yes, dryness and cleanliness and a faint, a very faint odour in the air of mortality, as though far away in the heights or depths of the house someone were lying awaiting burial. It was not altogether unpleasant, this very faint odour; it was chemical, perhaps, rather than corporeal. Yes, the odour of a chemist’s shop, many degrees rarefied. He was sharp and observant in any new place because he had, in his life, travelled so far and encountered so many adventures. He noticed that once the wallpaper of the hall and staircase had been a bright yellow with crimson roses. Now the walls were dim as things are that have been kept underground away from the light. The only furniture of the hall was an umbrella-stand, very ancient, leaning a little away from the door as though it feared the draught; above this a looking-glass and at the side of the glass some coats hanging like corpses. Only one picture hung on the wall, a photogravure of Father Christmas arriving in a family of excited, clapping, laughing children and pouring from his sack a multitude of gifts. One other thing he noticed, and that was that at the head of the stair, was a high window, its glass of yellow-and-green lozenges.

Plenty of time for looking at things, he thought, for there he was and there Sarah was, motionless, staring in front of her with her sightless eyes. There was no sound at all save the faint hiss of the gas-jet in the globe above his head. He must be doing something about this. The silence was twisting his nerves.

‘Stephen out, is he?’ he cried heartily. (His voice seemed to drive up to the green-and-yellow window and back again.) ‘When will he be back?’

‘Soon–very soon–any minute now.’

‘I’ve come to stay the night.’

‘You must talk to Stephen,’ she said, rubbing her lip with her fingers.

‘Aren’t you glad to welcome me, old girl, after all this time?’ he said, feeling that something must be done.

‘Yes, yes.’ Her lips moved in a smile. ‘Where have you been all this while, Michael?’

‘The world over, old girl. Places you’ve never heard of, I’ll be bound. And now I’ve come home.’

‘Yes. Stephen will be surprised.’

‘I bet he will.’ He wondered whether she were still uncertain of his identity. She stood there with indecision. And yet she could not be uncertain. Once you’d met him you’d recognize Michael Furze again anywhere, in the very confines of the deepest darkness.

However, he could not stand there for ever, so he said:

‘What about sitting down, old girl, and waiting a bit? I’ve been travelling all day.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I only left the boat this morning.’

‘The boat?’

‘Yes. I’ve come from America. Come straight here to see how you were all getting along.’

It seemed that she had made up her mind, for again with that smile which came and went as though she herself had nothing to do with it, she moved down the hall. She moved with the concentrated certainty of the blind and, coming to a door on the left, opened it.

‘You can make yourself comfortable here perhaps. Stephen won’t be long, I’m sure.’

He moved in, taking his brown bag with him. He was at once struck with the icy coldness of the room.

‘My God!’ he thought. ‘I shan’t be able to stay here a week.’

He saw things that he recognized. The old clock on the mantelpiece with the grumpy face, faint yellow marks of discoloration that gave it a pouting mouth and a twisted nose. It was not going; the hands pointed to quarter-past eleven. Two large china ornaments, country girls in wide-brimmed hats carrying baskets of flowers; two arm-chairs of horsehair; a white wool rug with black lines on it; a glass-fronted cabinet containing some very mediocre china, a Swiss cow-bell, a carved wooden box. All these things he remembered from his childhood. On that same rug Stephen had, in one of those dry, bitter tempers of his, rubbed his knuckles in his brother’s eyes until he screamed again. His mother had slapped him for opening the cabinet without permission. The clock made a noise, when it was going, like an old man in a wheezing hurry. He had been all the world over and had returned to these same things. He could fancy that they recognized him and he half expected the old clock to start off again on its wheezy way to show him that it remembered him. But no–everything here was frozen into silence.

The gas was already lit. The room was bare in spirit and irreproachably clean.

Sarah had left him then, so he sat down on one of the horsehair chairs, his bag at his feet, and wondered what would come next.

He had not long to wonder, for the door opened without a sound and Stephen stood in the room.

‘I believe he was in the house all the time,’ Michael thought. But he went cordially to his brother, shook his hand with almost extravagant warmth and cried:

‘What about this for a surprise, old boy? Delighted to see you.’

Stephen had not altered very greatly in twenty years. He was sparser, sparer; his body had a preserved look, as though he had been kept all this time in some kind of spirit. He was as tall as his brother, and his big white nose, projecting from his gaunt face, suggested a possibility, like Michael’s, that it had a life of its own. It was a peering, active probing nose with its own knowledge, its own discoveries, its own conclusions. He had scanty grey hair, wisps of it brushed carefully over the white domed skull; pale shaggy eyebrows; eyes mild, sleepy; a mouth uncertain, rather tremulous.

In truth, had it not been for the nose and a curious lithe active movement of the long thin body, Stephen Furze might seem a gentle, sluggish, easy man, kindly of intention, non-interfering. He wore a black frock-coat of ancient cut, a high white collar, a black bow-tie. His garments were old but scrupulously brushed and neat. When he spoke all Michael’s childhood and youth rushed back to him, for Stephen’s voice had a soft, gentle ring about it that distinguished it from all others.

When he spoke he gave an impression of great politeness but of firmness too. There was nothing humble in his tone, and he had a way of suddenly protruding his eyes from under the heavy white lids so that they looked at you as a candle shines when the cover is lifted.

He gripped his brother’s podgy hand and it was then that his body seemed to rise, hover and hang forward.

‘A surprise! I should think so! We thought you the other end of the earth. We’d no idea where you were, and naturally, for you haven’t written to us for years.’

Michael removed his hand and stepped back.

‘I was always hoping to write and tell you that I was a millionaire,’ he said. ‘Thought my luck would change, but it didn’t. Then in New York I was suddenly home-sick, felt I must see old England again. Before I died, you know.’ He laughed.

‘Died!’ said Stephen. ‘We are both far from that, I hope.’

‘I only landed at Drymouth this morning and came straight here.’

‘Well, sit down, sit down,’ Stephen said, with a kind of warm gentleness. ‘You’ll stay and have something to eat with us? You can’t refuse us that after all this time. Where are you stopping? “The Bull”?’

(This, thought Michael, with my bag staring at him!)

Michael squared his shoulders.

‘I’ve come straight here,’ he said. ‘Can you give me a bed for the night?’

Stephen gave a quick apprehensive look round the room. He looked at the china ornaments, the cabinet, the table. It was as though he were guarding these things, protecting them from attack.

He stood by the fireside. He rubbed his nose.

‘The fact is, Mike, we’re not prepared for you. You should have given us warning. Poor Sarah–I don’t know whether you noticed, but she’s blind, poor thing–a terrible deprivation. And at the moment we have no maid–’

‘Oh, I’m used to roughing it,’ Michael broke in heartily. ‘I’ll sleep anywhere. If I stay for a bit I can look around–’

At the word ‘stay’ Stephen Furze straightened his body, then turned with a gentle twisting movement towards his brother.

‘Stay? Well, as to that...’

This short conversation had brought his childhood back to Michael with an amazing vividness–for always, from the very beginning, the relations of the two brothers had been like this: they had never wasted time over preliminaries, had been at once in opposition, Michael with the blustering vehemence of his simple egotism, Stephen with the quiet resolve of a monomaniac.

Stephen always had his way. But now–and how curious that it should be so late postponed!–they were meeting for the first time in serious contact as grown men. Michael had the obstinacy of his naïf selfishness, Stephen the driving determination of his monomania. But, as yet, there was no battle, for Michael said:

‘Look here, Stephen. I didn’t mean to spring this upon you. Truly I didn’t. I should have written, but I only made up my mind at the last moment. I’m like that, you know. A rolling stone. Never know where I’ll be to-morrow. I just said to myself: “I must have somewhere quiet in England for a week or two after rolling round.” Then of course I thought of you. And then the Cathedral–I like cathedrals, I don’t know why.... I’ll be no trouble to you. I only want a room and my breakfast. And of course I’ll pay for my keep.’

Stephen said gently, ‘Yes.’