Self-preservation is common to all living things, linked perhaps to that older brain which Magnus said forms part of our natural inheritance. Certainly in my own case instinct transmitted a danger signal; had it not done so I should have died as he did, through the same cause. I remember stumbling blindly away from the railway embankment to the protection of the passageway where the cattle had sheltered, and I heard the wagons thunder over my head as they passed down the line into the valley. Then I crossed a hedge and found myself in a field behind Little Treverran, home of the woodworker, and so on to the field where I had left the car.
There was no nausea, no vertigo, the instinct to “awake” had spared me this as well as my life, but as I sat huddled behind the wheel, still shaking all over, I wondered whether, had Magnus and I ventured forth together on that Friday night, there would have been what the reporters like to term a double tragedy. Or would both of us have survived? It would never now be proved; the opportunity for us to wander together in another time had gone forever. One thing I knew, which no one else would ever know, and that was why he had died. He had stretched out his hand to help Isolda in the snow. If instinct had warned him otherwise he had disregarded it, unlike myself, and therefore showed the greater courage.
It was after half-past seven when I started the car, and as I drove over the water-splash I still did not know how far I had walked during the excursion to the other world, or which farm or former site had proved to be Tregest. Somehow it no longer mattered. Isolda had escaped, and on that winter’s night of 1332, or ’33, perhaps even later, had been bound for Kilmarth; whether she reached it or not I might discover. Not now, nor tomorrow, but one day… My immediate purpose must be to conserve my strength and mental alertness for the inquest, and above all watch out for the after-effects of the drug. It would not do to appear in Court with a couple of bloodshot eyes and an inexplicable sweating sickness, especially with Dr. Powell’s experienced eye upon me.
I had no desire for food, and when I arrived home at about half-past eight, having parked the car at the top of the hill to while away the time, I called to Vita that we had all dined early at the hotel in Liskeard, and I was dead-beat and wanted to go to bed. She and the boys were eating in the kitchen, and I went straight upstairs without disturbing them, and put away the walking-stick in the dressing-room cupboard. I knew now, to the fullest extent, what it felt like to lead what is called a “double life.” The walking-stick, the bottles locked in the suitcase, were like keys to some woman’s flat, to be used when opportunity offered; but more tempting still, and more insidious, was the secret knowledge that the woman herself might be under my own roof, even now, tonight, in her own time.
I lay in bed, my hands behind my head, wondering how Robbie and the wild-haired sister Bess received their unexpected visitor. First warm clothes for Isolda, and food before the smoky hearth, the youngsters tongue-tied in her presence, Roger playing host; then groping her way to bed up that ladder to one of the straw-filled mattresses, hearing the cattle moving and stamping in the byre beneath her. Sleep might come early, through exhaustion, but it would more likely be late, because of the strangeness of everything about her, and because she would be thinking about her children, wondering whether she would see them again.
I shut my eyes, trying to picture that dark, cold loft. It would correspond in position, surely, to the small back bedroom above the basement, used in other days by Mrs. Lane’s unfortunate cook, and filled today with discarded trunks and cardboard boxes. How near to Roger in the kitchen below, how unattainable, both then and now!
“Darling…”
It was Vita bending over me, fantasy and confusion combining to make her other than she was, and when I pulled her down beside me it was not the living woman and my wife whom I held but the phantom one I sought and who I knew, in reality and the present, never could respond. Presently, when I opened my eyes—for I must have dozed off for a while—she was sitting on the stool before the dressing-table, smothering her face with cream.
“Well,” she said smiling, looking at me in the glass, “if that’s the way you celebrate your inheritance of this place I’m all for it.”
The towel, wrapped turban-fashion round her head, and the mask of cream gave her a clown-like appearance, and suddenly I felt revolted by the puppet world in which I found myself, and desired no part of it, neither now, nor tomorrow, nor at any time. I wanted to vomit. I got out of bed and said, “I’m going to sleep in the dressing-room.”
She stared at me, her eyes like holes in the mask. “What on earth’s the matter?” she said. “What have I done?”
“You’ve done nothing,” I told her. “I want to sleep alone.”
I went through the bathroom to the dressing-room and she followed me, the silly shift she wore in bed flouncing round her knees, grotesquely ill-suited to the turban; and it struck me for the first time that the varnish on her fingernails made her hands like claws.
“I don’t believe you’ve been with those men at all,” she said. “You left them in Liskeard and have been drinking at some pub. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“No,” I answered.
“Something’s happened, all the same. You’ve been somewhere else, you’re not telling me the truth; everything you say and do is one long lie. You lied about the laboratory to the lawyer and that Willis man, you lied to the police about the way the Professor died. For God’s sake what’s behind it? Did you have some secret pact between you both that he would kill himself, and you knew about it all the time?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and began to push her out of the room. “I’ve not been drinking. There was no suicide pact. Magnus died accidentally, walking into a freight train as it was going into a tunnel. I stood by the line an hour ago and nearly did the same. That’s the truth, and if you won’t accept it it’s just too bad. I can’t make you.”
She stumbled against the bathroom door, and as she turned to look at me I saw a new expression on her face, not anger, but amazement, and disgust as well.
“You went and stood there again,” she said, “by the place where he was killed? You deliberately went and stood there and watched a train go by that might have killed you too?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s unhealthy, morbid, crazy, and the worst thing about it is that you were capable, after such an experience, of coming here and making love to me. That I’ll never forgive, or forget. So for heaven’s sake sleep in the dressing-room. I prefer it that way.”
She slammed the bathroom door, and I knew this time it was not another of her gestures, made on impulse, but something fundamental, springing from the core of innermost feeling shocked beyond measure. I understood, even honored her for it, and was torn by a strange, inarticulate pity, but there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do.
We met next morning not as husband and wife on edge after yet one more marital tiff, but as strangers who, through force of circumstance, were obliged to share a common roof—dress, eat, walk from room to room, make plans for the day, exchange pleasantries with the children, who were bred of her body and not mine, thus making the division yet more complete. I sensed her profound unhappiness, was aware of every sigh, every dragging step, every weary inflection in her voice, and the boys, sharp like little animals to the atmospheric change of mood, watched both of us with gimlet eyes.
“Is it true,” asked Teddy warily, catching me alone, “that the Professor has left the house to you?”
“It is,” I answered. “Unexpected, but very kind of him.”
“Will it mean we shall come here every holidays?”
“I don’t know, it depends on Vita,” I said.
He began fiddling with things on tables, picking them up and putting them back again, then kicking aimlessly at the backs of chairs.
“I don’t believe Mom likes it here,” he said.
“Do you?” I asked.
“It’s all right,” he shrugged.
Yesterday, because of fishing and the genial Tom, enthusiasm. Today, with the adult mood at odds, apathy and insecurity. My fault, of course. Whatever happened in this house had been, would be, my fault. I could not tell him so, or ask forgiveness.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It will sort itself out. You’ll probably spend the Christmas holidays in New York.”
“Whew… How super!” he exclaimed, and ran out of the room on to the terrace, calling to Micky, who was outside, “Dick says we may spend next holidays back home.”
The cheer that echoed from his young brother summed up their joint attitude to Cornwall, England, Europe, doubtless to their stepfather as well.
We got through the weekend somehow, though the weather broke, making it the more difficult, and while the boys played a form of racquets in the basement—I could hear the balls thudding against the walls below—and Vita wrote a ten-page letter to Bill and Diana in Ireland, I made an inspection of all Magnus’s books, from the nautical tales of Commander Lane’s day to his own more personal choice, touching each one with possessive pride. The third volume of The Parochial History of the County of Cornwall (L to N—no sign of the other volumes) was tucked behind The Story of the Windjammers, and I pulled it out and ran my eye over the index of parishes. Lanlivery was there, and in the chapter allotted to it pride of place was given to Restormel Castle. Alas for Sir John; his seven months’ tenure as Keeper was not mentioned. I was just about to replace the book, with the intention of reading it in full another time, when a line at the top of the page caught my attention.
“The manor of Steckstenton or Strickstenton, originally Tregesteynton, belonged to the Carminowes of Boconnoc, and passed from them to the Courtenays, and eventually to the representatives of the Pitt family. The estate of Strickstenton is the property of N. Kendall, Esq.”
Tregesteynton… the Carminowes of Boconnoc. I had got it at last, but too late. Had I known ten days ago, had we both known, Magnus could have crossed the valley lower down, at Treesmill, and need not have died. As to the original manor house, the site of it had surely been below the present farmhouse, or, trespassing there in time last Thursday evening, I must have been seen by the present owners.
Strickstenton… Tregesteynton. One thing was certain: I could bring the name up in Court if the Coroner questioned me.
The date of the inquest was fixed for Friday morning—earlier than had been expected. Dench and Willis would do as they had done before—travel down by a night train and return after it was over. I was congratulating myself, as I was shaving on the day of the inquest, that I had suffered no side-effects from the drugs, no sweats, no bloodshot eyes, and despite the estrangement with Vita had passed the last few days in comparative peace, when suddenly, for no reason, the razor dropped from my hand into the wash-basin. I tried to pick it up, and my fingers would not coordinate; they were numb, with a sort of cramp. There was no feeling in them, no pain—they just did not function. I told myself it was nerves, due to the forthcoming ordeal, yet later at breakfast, as I reached for a cup of coffee without thinking, the cup slipped out of my hand, spilling the contents and smashing itself on the tray.
We were breakfasting in the dining-room to be on time for the inquest, and Vita was sitting opposite me.
“Sorry,” I said. “What a bloody clumsy thing to do.”
She stared at my hand, which had started to tremble, the tremor seeming to run up the wrist to the elbow. I could not control it. I thrust my hand into my jacket pocket and kept it close to my side, and the tremor eased.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Your hand is all shaking.”
“It’s cramp,” I said. “I must have lain on it during the night.”
“Well, blow on it or something,” she said. “Stretch the fingers, and bring the circulation back.”
She began mopping up the tray, and poured me a fresh cup of coffee. I drank it with my left hand, but appetite had gone. I was wondering how I was going to drive the car, with one hand trembling or useless. I had told Vita that I preferred to attend the inquest alone, for there was no reason for her to come with me, but when the moment drew near to leave my hand was still useless, although the tremor had ceased.
“Look, I think you’ll have to take me into St. Austell,” I said. “My right hand has still got this infernal cramp.”
The warm sympathy which would have been hers a week ago was lacking. “I’ll drive you, of course,” she replied, “but it’s rather odd, isn’t it, suddenly to have cramp? You’ve never had it before. You had better keep your hand in your pocket, or the Coroner will think you have been drinking.”
It was not a remark calculated to put me at my ease, and the very business of having to sit as passenger, humped beside Vita as she drove instead of being at the wheel myself, did something to my self-respect. I felt inadequate, frustrated, and began to lose the thread of the answers to the Coroner which I had so carefully rehearsed.
When we arrived at the White Hart and met Dench and Willis Vita, quite unnecessarily, apologized for her presence by saying, “Dick’s disabled. I had to act as chauffeur,” and the whole silly business was then explained. There was little time for talking, and I walked with the others to the building where the inquest was to be held, feeling a marked man, while the Coroner, doubtless a mild enough individual in private life, took on, in my eyes, the semblance of a judge of the Criminal Court, with the jury, one and all, adepts at finding a prisoner guilty.
The proceedings started with the police evidence about the finding of the body. It was straightforward enough, but as I listened to the story I thought how strangely it must fall on other ears, and how suggestive of someone who had temporarily lost his reason and been bent on his own destruction. Dr. Powell was then called to give evidence. He read his statement in that clear, no-nonsense-about-it voice which suddenly reminded me of one of the younger Rugger-playing priests at Stonyhurst.
“This was the well-preserved body of a man of about forty-five years of age. When first examined at 1 p.m. on Saturday August 3rd death had occurred about fourteen hours previously. The autopsy, performed the following day, showed superficial bruises and abrasions of the knees and chest, deeper and more severe bruising of the upper arm and shoulder, and extensive laceration of the right side of the scalp. Underlying this was a depressed fracture of the right parietal region of the skull, accompanied by lacerations of the brain and bleeding from the right middle meningeal artery. The stomach was found to contain about one pint of mixed food and fluid, which on subsequent analysis contained nothing abnormal and no alcohol. Blood samples examined were also normal, and the heart, lungs, liver and kidneys were all normal and healthy. In my opinion, death was due to a cerebral hemorrhage following a severe crushing blow on the head.”
I relaxed in my seat, tension momentarily lifted, wondering if John Willis did the same, or whether he had never had cause for concern.
The Coroner then asked Dr. Powell if the brain injuries were consistent with what might be expected if the deceased had come into violent contact with a passing vehicle such as the wagon of a freight train.
“Yes, definitely,” was the reply. “A point of some importance is that death was not instantaneous. He had strength enough to drag himself a few yards to the hut. The head blow was sufficient to cause severe concussion, but actual death from hemorrhage probably took place five to ten minutes afterwards.”
“Thank you, Dr. Powell,” said the Coroner, and I heard him call my name. I stood up, wondering if the fact that my right hand was in my pocket gave me too casual an appearance, or whether, in point of fact, anyone noticed it at all.
“Mr. Young,” said the Coroner, “I have your statement here, and propose reading it to the jury. Stop me if there is anything you wish to correct.”
The statement, as read by him, made me sound callous, as if I had been more preoccupied in missing my dinner than anxious for the safety of my guest. The jury would get the impression of a loafer, spinning away the small hours with a cushion behind his head and a bottle of whiskey at his elbow.
“Mr. Young,” said the Coroner, when he had finished, “it did not occur to you to contact the police on the Friday night. Why?”
“I thought it unnecessary,” I replied. “I kept expecting Professor Lane to turn up.”
“You were not surprised at his getting off the train at Par and taking a walk instead of meeting you at St. Austell as arranged?”
“I was surprised, yes, but it was quite in character. If he had some objective in view he followed it through. Time and punctuality meant nothing to him on these occasions.”
“And what do you think was the particular objective Professor Lane had in view on the night in question?” asked the Coroner.
“Well, he had become interested in the historical associations of the district, and the sites of manor houses. We had planned to visit some of them during the weekend. When he did not turn up I assumed he must have decided to take a walk to some particular site which he had not told me about. Since I made my statement to the police I believe I have located the site he had in mind.”
I thought there might be a stir of interest among the jury but they remained unmoved.
“Perhaps you will tell us about it,” said the Coroner.
“Yes, of course,” I answered, self-confidence returning, and inwardly blessing the Parochial History. “I believe now, which I did not know at the time, that he was trying to locate the onetime manor of Strickstenton in Lanlivery parish. This manor belonged at one time to a family called Courtenay”—I was careful not to mention the Carminowes, because of Vita—“who also used to own Treverran too. The quickest way between these houses, as the crow flies, would be to cross the valley above the present Treverran farm, and walk through the wood to Strickstenton.”
The Coroner asked for an ordnance map, which he examined carefully. “I see what you mean, Mr. Young,” he said. “But surely there is a passageway under the railway which Professor Lane would have taken in preference to crossing the line itself?”
“Yes,” I said, “but he had no map. He might not have known it was there.”
“So he cut across the line, despite the fact that it was by then quite dark, and a freight train was coming up the valley?”
“I don’t think the darkness worried him. And obviously he didn’t hear the train—he was so intent on his quest.”
“So intent, Mr. Young, that he deliberately climbed through the wire and walked down the steep embankment as the train was passing?”
“I don’t think he walked down the bank. He slipped and fell. Don’t forget it was snowing at the time.”
I saw the Coroner staring at me, and the jury too. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Young,” said the Coroner, “did I hear you say it was snowing?”
I took a moment or two to recover, and I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That was misleading. The point was that Professor Lane had a particular interest in climatic conditions during the Middle Ages; his theory was that winters were much harder in those days than they are now. Before the railway cutting was built through the hillside above the Treesmill valley the ground would have sloped down continuously all the way to the bottom, and drifts would have lain there heavily, making communication between Treverran and Strickstenton virtually impossible. I believe, from a scientific rather than a historical point of view, he was thinking so much about this, and the general incline of the land about him, and how it would be affected by snowfall, that he became oblivious of everything else.”
The incredulous faces went on staring at me, and I saw one man nudge his companion, signifying that either I was a raving lunatic or the Professor had been.
“Thank you, Mr. Young, that is all,” said the Coroner and I sat down, pouring with sweat and a tremor shooting down my arm from elbow to wrist.
He called John Willis, who proceeded to give evidence that his late colleague had been in the best of health and spirits when he saw him before the weekend, that he was engaged in work of great importance to the country which he was not at liberty to speak about, but that naturally this work had no connection with his visit to Cornwall, which was in the nature of a private visit and in pursuance of a personal hobby, mainly historical.
“I must add,” he said, “that I am in complete agreement with Mr. Young as to his theory of how Professor Lane met his death. I am not an antiquarian, nor a historian, but certainly Professor Lane held theories about the extent of snowfall in previous centuries,” and he proceeded, for about three minutes, to launch into jargon so incomprehensible and above my head and the heads of everybody present that Magnus himself could not have surpassed it had he been giving an imitation, after a thundering good dinner, of the sort of stuff published in the more obscure scientific journals.
“Thank you, Mr. Willis,” murmured the Coroner when he had finished. “Very interesting. I am sure we are all grateful for your information.”
The evidence was concluded. The Coroner, summing up, directed that, although the circumstances were unusual, he found no reason to suppose that Professor Lane had deliberately walked onto the line as the train approached. The verdict was death by misadventure, with a rider to the effect that British Railways, Western Region, would do well to make a more thorough inspection of the wiring and danger notices along the line.
It was all over. Herbert Dench turned to me with a smile, as we left the building, and said, “Very satisfactory for all concerned. I suggest we celebrate at the White Hart. I don’t mind telling you I was afraid of a very different verdict, and I think we might have had it but for your and Willis’s account of Professor Lane’s extraordinary preoccupation with winter conditions. I remember hearing of a similar case in the Himalayas…” and he proceeded to tell us, as we walked to the hotel, of a scientist who for three weeks lived at some phenomenal altitude in appalling conditions to study the atmospheric effect upon certain bacteria. I did not see the connection but was glad of the respite, and when we reached our destination went straight to the bar and got quietly and very inoffensively drunk. Nobody noticed, and what is more the tremor in my hand ceased immediately. Perhaps after all it had been nerves.
“Well, we mustn’t keep you from enjoying your delightful new home,” the lawyer said, when we had consumed a brief but hilarious lunch. “Willis and I can walk up to the station.”
As we moved towards the door of the hotel I said to Willis, “I can’t thank you enough for your evidence. What Magnus would have called a remarkable performance.”
“It made its impact,” he admitted, “though you had me somewhat shaken. I wasn’t prepared for snow. Still, it goes to prove what my boss always said: the layman will accept anything if it is put forward in an authoritative enough fashion.” He blinked at me behind his spectacles and added quietly, “You did make a clean sweep of all the jam-jars, I take it? Nothing left that could do you or anyone else any damage?”
“Buried,” I replied, “under the debris of years.”
“Good,” he said. “We don’t want any more disasters.”
He hesitated, as if he might have been going to say something else, but the lawyer and Vita were waiting for us by the hotel entrance, and the opportunity was lost. Farewells were said, hands shaken, and we all dispersed. As we made our way to the car park Vita remarked in wifely fashion, “I noticed your hand recovered as soon as you reached the bar. Be that as it may, I intend to drive.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, borrowing her country’s curious phraseology, and, tilting my hat over my eye as I got into the car, I prepared myself for sleep. My conscience pricked me, though. I had lied to Willis. Bottles A and B were empty, true enough but the contents of bottle C were still intact, and lay in my suitcase in the dressing-room.