There had been no perceptible transition. I had passed from one world to the other instantaneously, without the physical side-effects of yesterday. The only difficulty was mental readjustment, requiring an almost intolerable degree of concentration. Luckily the vicar preceded me up the aisle, chatting as we went, and if there was anything strange in my expression he was too polite to comment.
“We get a fair number of visitors in the summer,” he said, “people staying at Par, or they come over from Fowey. But you must be an enthusiast, hanging about the churchyard in the rain.”
I made a supreme effort to pull myself together. “In point of fact,” I said, surprised to find that I could even speak, “it was not really the church itself or the graves that interested me. Someone told me there had been a Priory here in former days.”
“Ah, yes, the Priory,” he said. “That’s been gone a long time, no trace of it left, unfortunately. The buildings all fell in after the dissolution of the monasteries in 1539. Some say the site was where Newhouse Farm is now, just below us in the valley, and others that it occupied the present churchyard itself, south of the porch, but nobody really knows.”
He led me to the north transept and showed me the tombstone of the last Prior, who had been buried before the altar in 1538, and pointed out the pulpit and some pew-ends, and all that was left of the original rood screen. Nothing of what I observed bore any resemblance to the small church I had so lately seen, with the grille in the wall dividing it from the Priory chapel; nor, as I stood here now beside the vicar, could I reconstruct from memory anything of an older transept, an older aisle.
“Everything’s changed,” I said.
“Changed?” he repeated, puzzled. “Oh, no doubt. The church was largely restored in 1880, possibly not altogether successfully. Are you disappointed?”
“No,” I assured him hastily, “not at all. It’s only that… Well, as I was saying, my interest goes back to very early days, long before the dissolution of the monasteries.”
“I understand.” He smiled in sympathy. “I’ve often wondered myself what it all looked like in former times, with the Priory close by. It was a French house, you know, attached to the Benedictine Abbey of St. Sergius and Bacchus in Angers, and I believe most of the monks were French. I wish I could tell you more about it, but I’ve only been here a few years, and I’m afraid I’m no historian.”
“Neither am I,” I told him, and we retraced our steps towards the porch.
“Do you know anything,” I asked, “about the lords of the manor in early times?”
He paused to switch off the lights. “Only what I have read in the Parochial History,” he said. “The manor is mentioned in Domesday as Tiwardrai—the House on the Strand—and it belonged to the great family of Cardinham until the last heiress Isolda sold it to the Champernounes, in the thirteenth century, and when they died out it passed to other hands.”
“Isolda?”
“Yes, Isolda de Cardinham. She married someone called William Ferrers of Bere in Devon, but I’m afraid I don’t remember the details. You would find out more about it in the St. Austell public library than from me.” He smiled again, and we passed through the door to the churchyard. “Are you staying in the neighborhood or passing through?” he asked.
“Staying. Professor Lane has lent me his house for the summer.”
“Kilmarth? I know it, of course, but I’ve never been inside. I don’t think Professor Lane gets down very often, and he doesn’t come to church.”
“No,” I replied, “probably not.”
“Well,” he said, as we parted at the gate, “if you feel like coming, either to a service or just to wander around, it will be nice to see you.”
We shook hands, and I walked up the road to where I had parked the car. I wondered whether I had been impossibly rude. I had not even thanked him for his courtesy, or introduced myself. Doubtless he considered me just another summer visitor, more boorish than usual, and a crank into the bargain. I got into the car, lit a cigarette, and sat there to collect my thoughts. The fact that there had been no physical reaction to the drug whatsoever was an astonishing relief. Not a suspicion of dizziness or nausea, and my limbs did not ache as they had done the day before, nor was I sweating.
I wound down the car window and looked up the street, then back again to the church. None of it fitted. The green where the people had so lately crowded must have covered all the present area, and beyond it too, where the modern road turned uphill. The Priory yard, where the bishop’s equipage nearly came to grief, would have been in that hollow below the gents’ hair-dresser, boundering the east wall of the churchyard, and the Priory itself, according to one theory mentioned by the vicar, filled the entire space that the southern portion of the churchyard held today. I closed my eyes. I saw the entrance, the quadrangle, the long narrow building forming kitchens and refectory, monks’ dormitory, chapter-house, where the reception had been held, and the Prior’s chamber above. Then I opened them again, but the pieces did not fit, and the church tower threw my jigsaw puzzle out of balance. It was no good—nothing tallied save the lie of the land.
I threw away my cigarette, started the car, and took the road past the church. A curious feeling of elation came to me as I swept downhill past the valley stream, and so to the low-lying, straggling shops of Par. Not ten minutes since the whole of this had been under water, the sloping Priory lands lapped by the sea. Sand-banks had bordered the wide sweep of the estuary where those bungalows stood now, and houses and shops were all blue channel with a running tide. I stopped the car by the chemists’ and bought some toothpaste, the feeling of elation increasing as the girl wrapped it up. It seemed to me that she was without substance, the shop as well, and the two other people standing there, and I felt myself smiling furtively because of this, with an urge to say, “You none of you exist. All this is under water.”
I stood outside the shop, and it had stopped raining. The heavy pall that had been overhead all day had broken at last into a patchwork sky, squares of blue alternating with wisps of smoky cloud. Too soon to go back home. Too early to ring Magnus. One thing I had proved, if nothing else: this time there had been no telepathy between us. He might have had some intuition of my movements the preceding afternoon, but not today. The laboratory in Kilmarth was not a bogey-hole conjuring up ghosts, any more than the porch in St. Andrew’s church had been filled with phantoms. Magnus must be right in his assumption that some primary chemical process was reversible, the drug inducing this change; and conditions were such that the senses, reacting to the situation as a secondary effect, swung into action, capturing the past.
I had not awakened from some nostalgic dream when the vicar tapped me on the shoulder, but had passed from one living reality to another. Could time be all-dimensional—yesterday, today, tomorrow running concurrently in ceaseless repetition? Perhaps it needed only a change of ingredient, a different enzyme, to show the future, myself a bald-headed buffer in New York with the boys grown-up and married, and Vita dead. The thought was disconcerting. I would rather concern myself with the Champernounes, the Carminowes, and Isolda. No telepathic communication here: Magnus had mentioned none of them, but the vicar had, and only after I had seen them as living persons.
Then I decided what to do: I would drive to St. Austell and see if there was some volume in the public library that would give proof of their identity.
The library was perched above the town, and I parked the car and went inside. The girl at the desk was helpful. She advised me to go upstairs to the reference library, and search for pedigrees in a book called The Visitations of Cornwall.
I took the fat volume from the shelves and settled myself at one of the tables. First glance in alphabetical order was disappointing. No Bodrugans and no Champernounes. No Carminowes either. And no Cardinhams. I turned to the beginning once again, and then, with quickening interest, realized that I must have muddled the pages the first time, for I came upon the Carminowes of Carminowe. I let my eye travel down the page, and there Sir John was, married to a Joanna into the bargain—he must have found the similarity of name of wife and mistress confusing. He had a great brood of children, and one of his grandsons, Miles, had inherited Boconnoc. Boconnoc… Bockenod… a change in the spelling, but this was my Sir John without a doubt.
On the succeeding page was his elder brother Sir Oliver Carminowe. By his first wife he had had several children. I glanced along the line and found Isolda his second wife, daughter of one Reynold Ferrers of Bere in Devon, and below, at the bottom of the page, her daughters, Joanna and Margaret. I’d got her—not the vicar’s Devon heiress, Isolda Cardinham, but a descendant.
I pushed the heavy volume aside, and found myself smiling fatuously into the face of a bespectacled man reading the Daily Telegraph, who stared at me suspiciously, then hid his face behind his paper. My lass unparalleled was no figure of the imagination, nor a telepathic process of thought between Magnus and myself. She had lived, though the dates were sketchy: it did not state when she was born or when she died.
I put the book back on the shelves and walked downstairs and out of the building, the feeling of elation increased by my discovery. Carminowes, Champernounes, Bodrugans, all dead for six hundred years, yet still alive in my other world of time.
I drove away from St. Austell thinking how much I had accomplished in one afternoon, witnessing a ceremony in a Priory long since crumbled, coupled with Martinmas upon the village green. And all through some wizard’s brew concocted by Magnus, leaving no side-effect or aftermath, only a sense of well-being and delight. It was as easy as falling off a cliff. I drove up Polmear hill doing a cool sixty, and it was not until I had turned down the drive to Kilmarth, put away the car and let myself into the house that I thought of the simile again. Falling off a cliff… Was this the side-effect? This sense of exhilaration, that nothing mattered? Yesterday the nausea, the vertigo, because I had broken the rules. Today, moving from one world to another without effort, I was cock-a-hoop.
I went upstairs to the library and dialed the number of Magnus’s flat. He answered immediately.
“How was it?” he asked.
“What do you mean, how was it? How was what? It rained all day.”
“Fine in London,” he replied. “But forget the weather. How was the second trip?”
His certainty that I had made the experiment again irritated me. “What makes you think I took a second trip?”
“One always does.”
“Well, you’re right, as it happens. I didn’t intend to, but I wanted to prove something.”
“What did you want to prove?”
“That the experiment was nothing to do with any telepathic communication between us.”
“I could have told you that,” he said.
“Perhaps. But we had both experimented first in Bluebeard’s chamber, which might have had an unconscious influence.”
“So…”
“So, I poured the drops into your drinking-flask—forgive me for making myself at home—drove to the church, and swallowed them in the porch.”
His snort of delight annoyed me even more.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you did the same?”
“Precisely. But not in the porch, dear boy, in the churchyard after dark. The point is, what did you see?”
I told him, winding up with my encounter with the vicar, the visit to the public library, and the absence, or so I had thought, of any side-effects. He listened to my saga without interruption, as he had done the day before, and when I had concluded he told me to hang on, he was going to pour himself a drink, but he reminded me not to do likewise. The thought of his gin and tonic added fuel to my small flame of irritation.
“I think you came out of it all very well,” he said, “and you seem to have met the flower of the county, which is more than I have ever done, in that time or this.”
“You mean you did not have the same experience?”
“Quite the contrary. No chapter-house or village green for me. I found myself in the monks’ dormitory, a very different kettle of fish.”
“What went on?” I asked.
“Exactly what you might suppose when a bunch of medieval Frenchmen got together. Use your imagination.”
Now it was my turn to snort. The thought of fastidious Magnus playing peeping Tom among that fusty crowd brought my good humor back again.
“You know what I think?” I said. “I think we found what we deserved. I got His Grace the Bishop and the County, awaking in me all the forgotten snob appeal of Stonyhurst, and you got the sexy deviations you have denied yourself for thirty years.”
“How do you know I’ve denied them?”
“I don’t. I give you credit for good behavior.”
“Thanks for the compliment. The point is, none of this can be put down to telepathic communication between us. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Therefore we saw what we saw through another channel—the horseman, Roger. He was in the chapter-house and on the green with you, and in the dormitory with me. His is the brain that channels the information to us.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Why? You don’t think we are going to discover that in a couple of trips? You have work to do.”
“That’s all very well, but it’s a bit of a bore having to shadow this chap, or have him shadow me, every time I may decide to make the experiment. I don’t find him very sympathetic. Nor do I take to the lady of the manor.”
“The lady of the manor?” He paused a moment, I supposed for reflection. “She’s possibly the one I saw on my third trip. Auburn-haired, brown eyes, rather a bitch?”
“That sounds like her. Joanna Champernoune,” I said.
We both laughed, struck by the folly and the fascination of discussing someone who had been dead for centuries as if we had met her at some party in our own time.
“She was arguing about manor lands,” he said. “I did not follow it. Incidentally, have you noticed how one gets the sense of the conversation without conscious translation from the medieval French they seem to be speaking? That’s the link again, between his brain and ours. If we saw it before us in print, old English or Norman-French or Cornish, we shouldn’t understand a word.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It hadn’t struck me. Magnus…”
“Yes?”
“I’m still a bit bothered about side-effects. What I mean is, thank God I had no nausea or vertigo today, but on the contrary a tremendous sense of elation, and I must have broken the speed-limit several times driving home.”
He did not reply at once, and when he did his tone was guarded. “That’s one of the things,” he said, “one of the reasons we have to test the drug. It could be addictive.”
“What do you mean exactly, addictive?”
“What I say. Not just the fascination of the experience itself, which we both know nobody else has tried, but the stimulation to the part of the brain affected. And I’ve warned you before of the possible physical dangers—being run over, that sort of thing. You must appreciate that part of the brain is shut off when you’re under the influence of the drug. The functional part still controls your movements, rather as one can drive with a high percentage of alcohol in the blood and not have an accident, but the danger is always present, and there doesn’t appear to be a warning system between one part of the brain and another. There may be. There may not. All this is part of what I have to find out.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I see.” I felt rather deflated. The sense of exhilaration which I had experienced while driving back had certainly been unusual. “I’d better lay off,” I said, “give it a miss, unless the circumstances are absolutely right.”
Again he paused before he answered. “That’s up to you,” he said. “You must judge for yourself. Any more questions? I’m dining out.”
Any more questions… A dozen, twenty. But I should think of them all when he had rung off. “Yes,” I said. “Did you know before you took your first trip that Roger had once lived here in this house?”
“Absolutely not,” he replied. “Mother used to talk about the Bakers of the seventeenth century, and Rashleighs who followed them. We knew nothing about their predecessors, although my father had a vague idea that the foundations went back to the fourteenth century; I don’t know who told him.”
“Is that why you converted the old laundry into Bluebeard’s chamber?”
“No, it just seemed a suitable place, and the cloam oven is rather fun. It retains the heat if you light the fire, and I can keep liquids there at a high temperature while I’m working at something else alongside. Perfect atmosphere. Nothing sinister about it. Don’t run away with the idea that this experiment is some sort of a ghost-hunt, dear boy. We’re not conjuring spirits from the vasty deep.”
“No, I realize that,” I said.
“To reduce it to its lowest level, if you sit in an armchair watching some old movie on television, the characters don’t pop out of the screen to haunt you, although many of the actors are dead. It’s not so very different from what you were up to this afternoon. Our guide Roger and his friends were living once, but are well and truly laid today.”
I knew what he meant, but it was not as simple as that. The implications went deeper, and the impact too; the sensation was not so much that of witnessing their world as of taking part in it.
“I wish,” I said, “we knew more about our guide. I daresay I can dig up the others in the St. Austell library—I’ve found the Carminowes already, as I told you, John, and his brother Oliver, and Oliver’s wife Isolda—but a steward called Roger is rather a long shot, and is hardly likely to figure in any pedigree.”
“Probably not, but you can never tell. One of my students has a buddy who works in the Public Record Office and the British Museum, and I’ve got the business in hand. I haven’t told him why I am interested, just that I want a list of taxpayers in the parish of Tywardreath in the fourteenth century. He should be able to find it, I gather, in the Lay Subsidy Roll for 1327, which must be pretty near the period we want. If something turns up I’ll let you know. Any news of Vita?”
“None.”
“Pity you didn’t arrange to fly the boys over to her in New York,” he said.
“Too damned expensive. Besides, that would have meant I had to go too.”
“Well, keep them all at bay for as long as you can. Say something has gone wrong with the drains—that will daunt her.”
“Nothing daunts Vita,” I told him. “She’d bring some plumbing expert down from the American Embassy.”
“Well, press on before she arrives. And while I think of it, you know the sample marked B in the lab, alongside the A solution you’re using?”
“Yes.”
“Pack it carefully and send it up to me. I want to put it under test.”
“Then you are going to try it out in London?”
“Not on myself, on a healthy young monkey. He won’t see his medieval forebears, but he might get the staggers. Good-bye.”
Magnus had hung up on me again in his usual brusque fashion, leaving me with the inevitable sense of depletion. It was always so, whenever we met and talked, or spent an evening together. First the stimulation, sparks flying and the moments speeding by, then suddenly he would be gone, hailing a taxi and disappearing—not to be seen again for several weeks—while I wandered aimlessly back to my own flat.
“And how was your Professor?” Vita would ask in the ironic, rather mocking tone she assumed when I had passed an evening in Magnus’s company, and emphasis on the “your” which never failed to sting.
“In the usual form,” I would answer. “Full of wild ideas I find amusing.”
“Glad you had fun,” was the reaction, but with a biting edge that implied the reverse of pleasure. She told me once, after a somewhat longer session than usual, when I had come home rather high about 2 a.m., that Magnus sapped me, and that when I returned to her I looked like a pricked balloon.
It was one of our first rows, and I did not know how to deal with it. She wandered around the sitting-room punching cushions and emptying her own ashtrays, while I sat on the sofa looking aggrieved. We went to bed without speaking, but the next morning, to my surprise and relief, she behaved as if nothing had happened, and positively glowed with feminine warmth and charm. Magnus was not mentioned again, but I made a mental note not to dine with him again unless she had a date herself elsewhere.
Today I did not feel like a pricked balloon when he rang off—the expression was rather offensive, come to think of it, suggesting the fetid air of somebody’s breath exploding—merely denuded of stimulation, and a little uneasy too, because why did he suddenly want a test done on the bottle marked B? Did he want to make certain of his findings on the unfortunate monkey before putting me, the human guinea-pig, to a possibly sharper test? There was still sufficient solution in bottle A to keep me going…
I was brought up sharply in my train of thought. Keep me going? It sounded like an alcoholic preparing for a spree, and I remembered what Magnus had said about the possibilities of the drug being addictive. Perhaps this was another reason for trying it out on the monkey. I had a vision of the creature, bleary-eyed, leaping about his cage and panting for the next injection.
I felt in my pocket for the flask, and rinsed it out very thoroughly. I did not replace it on the pantry shelf, however, for Mrs. Collins might take it into her head to move it somewhere else, and then if I happened to want it I should have to ask her where it was, which would be a bore. It was too early for supper, but the tray she had laid with ham and salad, fruit and cheese looked tempting, and I decided to carry it into the music-room and have a long evening by the wood fire.
I took a stack of records at random and piled them one on top of the other on the turntable. But, no matter what sounds filled the music-room, I kept returning to the scenes of this afternoon, the reception in the Priory chapter-house, the stripping of carcasses on the village green, the hooded musician with his double horn wandering among the children and the barking dogs, and above all that lass with braided hair and jeweled fillet who, one afternoon six hundred years ago, had looked so bored until, because of some remark which I could not catch, spoken by a man in another time, she had lifted her head and smiled.