CHAPTER SIXTEEN

His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland

FROM HIS BEDCHAMBER on the second floor he watched the valet and driver as they unloaded the awkward shape of the bedhead from the carriage. Then they disappeared from view, presumably to navigate up the stairs and along to his study. Before he went to take a look, he waited for the discreet knock to signal the bedhead was in place.

It was covered with a sheet and illuminated by the dawdling light through half-closed curtains. He rarely let the upstairs study see full sunlight, in order to shield the small number of books housed there. The bulk of his collection was stored in his underground library, safe from people as well as changes in temperature and light, while the remainder were housed in his downstairs library. But although precious, this bedhead was not going to reside underground. In fact, it would begin its new life here as a mantelpiece mounted above the fireplace, once his carpenter had made a few adjustments while installing it this afternoon: an extra panel on each side and a shelf along the top, all stained to match the original wood.

William tugged the sheet until it fell away, revealing the dark wood covered with figures that bubbled up all over, resembling the leakage of sap. He had seen the bedhead advertised some time ago in The Times, which he read without fail every morning, both in Cavendish Square and at Welbeck. His interest had been piqued by the following description:

Bedhead for sale. Family antique no longer required as moving. Unique design with story attached.

He’d written to the address, enquired about this story and found it to be unique indeed. According to the seller, a woman, the bedhead had been in the family for at least four generations and had originated from a castle in the depths of Scotland. It had been made to a design of the original owner of the castle, who’d wanted to sleep under symbols representing fertility and love. The carvings were of nymphs with plump breasts and distended bellies heaving with imminent birth, as well as Celtic motifs of love, lust, health and life. He ran his fingers over each one, wondering about all the nocturnal activities they had borne witness to. His hand trembled; for a moment his expression was one of a half-glimpsed hope. Druce? No, no, no. Why did she insist on popping into his mind?

The seller was a descendent of the original owner and attributed her own fertility to the bedhead. She had also been conceived and born in the bed beneath. But now, sadly, it was time for her to sell the item, as it didn’t suit her plans for redecoration. The drawing attached, rough as it was, had excited him although the mythology behind it all was what had interested him most. The carvings were magnificent even hundreds of years later.

He tucked the sheet back over it, picked up the newspaper from his desk then sat in the armchair next to the window. He would read for the next hour, pausing for a cup of tea when it arrived on time. His valet was always so punctual, just like the young man’s father had been until he’d grown stiff and succumbed to his bed. As death had crept into his bones, he’d trained his son, with William’s permission, to be his replacement. William had been amenable to this because he had looked at the father’s face for so long, was accustomed to his voice, his movements, his manner, and so the son’s presence felt familiar and safe.

Then he saw the advertisement for the Phantasmagoria: ‘This SPECROLOGY will open the Eyes of those who still foster a Belief in GHOSTS or DIESEMBODIED SPIRITS.’ Philidor, the proprietor, purported to be ‘The world’s greatest magician, mesmeriser and communer with the dead’. Was there truth to any of this? It wasn’t the only advertisement he’d read making such claims but certainly the grandest. And this new act, a ‘human wax automaton’, what was it exactly?

Private gatherings where the occult master promised an encounter with spirits were common; it seemed the public couldn’t get enough of this sort of entertainment. Some of them undoubtedly were charlatans, but others … What if some of them, even just one of them, was genuine? He could apologise for the great misfortune. What would it be like, he wondered as he studied the advertisement again, to finally be at peace, to be forgiven?

As William tried to read further, his eyes twitched of their own accord back to the shape of the bedhead against the wall. He found it hard to concentrate on his paper after reading that advertisement, even harder on his thoughts, so eventually he refolded the paper and, steepling his fingers, resigned himself to contemplating the concealed bedhead in full. A sheet could cover so many things: a bed, a body or a bedhead. A sheet had been hurriedly stripped from his own bed all those years ago and given to the old valet, who had taken it back into the dark night, snatching at it with his thick fingers and a set mouth. The door had slammed in the wind behind him, while the howls of William’s father had echoed down the stairs. William had stared at the closed door and known he would never see that sheet again.

Later that evening, William re-entered the study from the secret passage behind one of the bookshelves. There was another just like it accessible from his bedchamber, its entrance in the built-in cupboard, which meant he could go down to his library, museum, billiards room or ballroom without having to see anyone and without anyone knowing he had left his rooms. His nightly ritual was not in any of those ordinary underground chambers, however; it took place in his favourite cavern at the far end of the tunnel, a small room that nobody knew about.

William walked to his desk and picked up the newspaper, once more reading the confounded advertisement for that show. He could go. It would require an unexpected trip into London, and the housekeeper at Cavendish Square would need to be advised of his arrival. Perhaps he could time it with that fellow who’d written to say he was soon returning to port with a fresh trunk of antiquities from Siam. But would it be possible to avoid Druce? William found himself staring at the newly installed mantelpiece, finding in its deep grooves and shadows a place to rest his eyes while he considered his options. But then his gaze caught on the sword that hung above it, gleaming brightly in the firelight, and he averted his eyes. It could stir up memories best left alone. Still, he had survived the reign of his father; he would not be in fear of it, or him, any longer, therefore the sword was permitted to hang.

Pushing the paper aside, William picked up the letter that had arrived with the bedhead from its previous owner, reminded again of the ancient mythology embodied in the figures depicted on the bedhead. Such power infused those beliefs, such energy, attention and focus on the careful depiction of each one.

He narrowed his eyes, seeing the sap-like figures stretch into sinewy bodies. Full faces became all angled, chins and noses grew pointed like quill nibs. The figures began to dart up and down the panelling like demented mice, then clambered up onto the ledge where a sap bubble was pushing out of the wood like a coffin emerging from the earth. The bubble took the form of a tiny body. No. Stop. A fairy? An elf? A face that was perfection in its likeness: Elanor. The rest of the figures formed a circle, joined hands and began to dance – a chaotic, reckless blur of movement, wild and wicked like the imps themselves.

They stopped when Elanor looked up at him, extending her hand to break the circle. He lurched towards her then blinked, hard, and the imps disintegrated into the wood, and the mantel regained its composure.

A fanciful vision borne out of nerves, or a portent to give him hope?

He moved to his desk and wrote a letter to be sent to Cavendish Square immediately, advising his resident housekeeper there of his arrival the following afternoon. Then he wrote a note instructing his valet to secure a ticket for Philidor’s show. Phantasmagoria. It had a certain ring to it.

He retired to bed. The oak tree. Druce. Elanor. No, he would replace all of them with another memory, just as strong. Something that would push the others aside, at least for a time. Here it was, arriving like a wish granted by a wicked jinn.