The barn had been built in the English style, plain and sturdy, with thick walls of rough-hewn stone and a tiled roof. It would scarcely have looked out of place in a Cotswold village, I thought, setting down my satchel and instruments beside the pathway and shading my eyes against the early morning sunlight. The front wall was pierced by four small unglazed windows, two on either side of the double doors; the aperture in the gable – originally, I supposed, the loft doorway – had been incongruously fitted with a large, rectangular sash, while two square skylights, evidently of recent construction, had been inserted in the roof.
Eleanor was there before me. Seated at a trestle table just inside the building, she was clearly asserting ownership both of the space she occupied and the light that fell on her through the open doorway. She raised her head as I entered, lifting her paintbrush and fixing me momentarily with a vague, unseeing gaze; then, without a word, she returned to her work.
As promised by Vane, I had been supplied with a trestle of my own but, whether accidentally or through Eleanor’s machinations, it had been placed against the wall beneath one of the small windows. The light that fell on its surface was adequate for my purposes, but I could see at once that its positioning was significant: I should be working under Eleanor’s eye, but without the opportunity of observing her activities. It crossed my mind that I might simply move the trestle to a more favourable position but, on reflection, I decided against it. There would be time later, I told myself, for such adjustments.
I unbuckled my satchel, took out the lory and laid it belly upward on the rough surface. ‘Is there a chair?’ I asked.
For some time she said nothing, her gaze flickering between the paper pinned to her drawing-board and the bright orange nasturtium flower on the table in front of her. She continued to paint, but I sensed something faintly suspect in her concentration, a subtle hint of the theatrical. ‘Under the hayloft,’ she said at last, jerking her head sideways without looking up at me. ‘In the corner.’
The battered chair I discovered there among the debris was hardly ideal – a little low for the table and with curving armrests that impeded my movements – but by placing a thick plank beneath its back legs, I was able to adapt it to my needs. I untied my canvas roll and laid it flat on the table, with the handles of the instruments towards me; then I drew out a scalpel and set to work, parting the crimson breast-feathers with my fingers before running the narrow blade down the body from throat to vent.
There is nothing particularly difficult about skinning a bird, but the job requires immense patience. The thickness of the plumage is deceptive: the skin itself is thin and delicate, and separating it from the flesh is a necessarily slow process. I’ve learned by experience not to apply undue pressure but simply to use the end of the blade to tease the skin free of the tissue that binds it to the body. It’s not an entirely agreeable task, but I’ve always found it an absorbing one, and I’m apt, when engaged in it, to lose all sense of my surroundings.
I don’t know how long Eleanor had been standing there when I became aware of her, close behind me, paintbrush in hand, looking over my shoulder at my handiwork. I started violently, sending the scalpel clattering across the table-top, and twisted round in my seat. ‘Don’t do that,’ I snapped.
She backed away, but without taking her eyes off mine. ‘I’ve a right to do as I please in my own studio,’ she said. ‘Haven’t I?’
I was at a disadvantage, embarrassed by my own outburst. ‘You frightened me,’ I said lamely. ‘I mean, I’d forgotten where I was.’
‘It happens to me too. I hate it when anyone comes in while I’m drawing or painting.’
‘How am I to take that, Eleanor?’
She shrugged. ‘Take it as you please. You told me how you felt. I’m telling you how I feel.’
‘Would you rather I found somewhere else to work?’
‘My father says you’re to work here. I’ve no choice in the matter.’
‘I’m sorry. I’d never intended—’
‘It’s not your fault. But it isn’t easy for me, having you here. I don’t like being disturbed in my own work, and I don’t like the look of yours.’ She glanced down at the exposed flesh of the bird’s breast. ‘What’s it all for, anyway, this killing and skinning?’
‘All science,’ I said, easing my chair round so that I faced her directly, ‘is grounded in facts. A collector’s cabinet is a repository of facts from which important scientific truths may be deduced, and new theories constructed. We need these collections, Eleanor, if we’re to understand the world we live in – it’s as simple as that.’
‘You’re talking to me as though I were a schoolgirl. I know what science is, and I know what collectors think they’re doing. But what kind of a fact is it, your dead lory? You’ll take the skin back to England with you and you’ll lay it in your cabinet with a label round its neck. Now and again you might bring it out, perhaps for your own private satisfaction or to take a few notes on it, or perhaps to show it to another collector. This is a crimson lory, you’ll say. But it won’t be true. You know that as well as I do, Mr Redbourne. Whatever it is you imagine you’re laying hold of – for yourself, for your precious science – it’s gone the moment you pull the trigger.’
I knew what she was driving at, and might have acknowledged as much, but she was working herself into a state of high excitement, the words tumbling out in a breathless torrent, and there seemed no opportunity to respond.
‘What you’re left with is a handful of skin and feathers – the sort of thing a milliner might use to dress a hat. It’s dead stuff, dry as dust, and nothing’s going to bring back the bird you had in your sights when you took aim. You’d do better,’ she added, turning nimbly and darting back to her table, ‘to try to catch something of its life. This’ – I saw her dip her brush twice and lunge at the paper on her drawing-board – ‘is a lory. And’ – another quick flourish – ‘so is this.’ She tilted the board to show me two running streaks of red slashed diagonally across the paper.
‘You’ve spoiled your painting.’
She let the board fall to the table and put down her brush. ‘I don’t care,’ she said, but her jaw was set hard and tight as though she were biting back some unallowable grief. ‘Anyway, it was already spoiled.’
‘Let me see.’ I rose from my chair and stepped over to examine the painting more closely. I saw her move protectively towards it, one hand outstretched; then, with a little shrug, she stepped back and let me by.
It was not, I saw at once, the kind of study that might have graced the pages of a botanical handbook. Bounded by the two bright slashes of red pigment, it glowed with a similar brilliance, rich and vibrant, but it notably lacked the precision we conventionally associate with scientific illustration. Yet the longer I gazed at the work, the more clearly I recognised in it something of the vital essence of the flower – the extravagance of the flared petals, bright as flame but stained and streaked with darkness, the honeyed light far down in the throat, the cool translucence of the stem.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said encouragingly. ‘Truly lovely.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ she said scornfully, reaching over and tugging the paper roughly from the board. ‘I’ve had enough of lovely.’ And then, with a quick, angry movement, she ripped the sheet across and flung the two halves to the earthen floor.
If it had been an act of pure spitefulness, I should no doubt have been well advised to ignore it and return to my work. But something in the girl’s face – distress, I thought, and a kind of bewilderment, as though she had been caught unawares by her own action – held me there. I stooped and picked up the pieces.
‘There was no call for that,’ I said gently. ‘If you didn’t want the painting, you might have offered it to me. I should have been glad of it.’
‘You said it was spoiled.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Then it’s yours. Have it.’ It was gracelessly done and I, for my part, had no time to thank her before she turned away and stalked out into the sunlight.
I was sitting in my room early that evening, aligning the two halves of the painting on my writing-desk, when I heard Vane call my name softly outside the door. With an obscure feeling of guilt, I gathered up the pieces and slipped them into the left-hand drawer.
‘Are you there, Redbourne?’
I opened the door just as he was readying himself to rap on the panel. ‘Bullen has arrived,’ he said. ‘He’ll be at dinner tonight, but I thought it advisable to have the two of you meet in advance. That way you’ll be able to address matters of business before our other guests arrive.’
‘Business?’
‘Bullen is more than willing to act as your guide, but he has made it clear to me that he’ll be obliged to treat any excursion as a professional engagement.’ He glanced uneasily down the corridor. ‘The fact is,’ he went on, lowering his voice to a murmur, ‘that the man has fallen on hard times. A few years ago he owned seventy-five acres of good grazing, but he’s been brought to the brink of ruin by unwise speculation. Sugar plantations, the hotel business – knows nothing about either, of course. If it weren’t for his collecting he’d have gone under. I tell you, Redbourne, your arrival is a godsend for him.’
Vane’s account fell some way short, it seemed to me, of a reassuring character reference. ‘I assume,’ I said, ‘that the arrangement will be equally beneficial to me?’
‘No doubt of it,’ he said hastily, ‘no doubt at all. He’s already planning an itinerary for you – local excursions first, and then a trip out to the mountains. Come down and let him tell you about it.’ He turned, evidently expecting me to follow at once. I hesitated for a moment, then fell into step behind him.
Bullen was sprawled at ease on the sofa in the dayroom, his hat beside him on the padded arm-rest. He sprang up as I entered and advanced to meet me, a tall man, big-boned without any hint of fleshiness, his features hard and angular above a full brown beard. His handshake was firm and his voice, as he greeted me, deep and resonant, but there was something in his demeanour – the hunched shoulders, the evasive eyes – that disconcertingly offset the initial impression of physical strength. Vane had no sooner introduced us than he withdrew, pleading business of his own.
‘And what,’ asked Bullen, reseating himself on the sofa, ‘made you fix on Australia?’
‘I’m not sure that the decision was entirely mine.’
I could see him weighing up my reply. ‘I mean,’ I explained, ‘that matters seemed to fall into place without a great deal of effort on my part.’
‘You’re a believer in the workings of a divine providence, Mr Redbourne?’
I laughed. ‘That’s a very serious interpretation of a casual observation.’
‘Speaking for myself,’ he said, for all the world as though I had pressed him to give me an account of his personal philosophy, ‘I believe that our destiny lies in our own hands. And once we recognise that fact, our power is virtually unlimited.’
I thought of the man’s failed business ventures and wondered what his philosophy made of those. ‘I understand,’ I said, shifting ground with more firmness than tact, ‘that you’ve offered to act as my guide to the region. Perhaps we might discuss practicalities.’
Reflecting later on the moment, I realised that I had decisively undermined Bullen’s attempts to engage with me on terms of equality – to present himself as civilised conversationalist and fellow gentleman – but if he resented my less than dextrous manipulation of our discussion, he gave no sign of it, turning his attention immediately to matters of business. We easily agreed terms for the local excursions, but it quickly became apparent that his real interest lay in the possibility of accompanying me on longer expeditions, at my expense.
‘But no fee,’ he added quickly,‘apart from this: of the specimens killed on any of those expeditions, five go to me. My choice.’
It might have seemed a small enough matter, but I could see at once that his proposal had serious implications. By creaming off the best of our bag – and I had a fleeting vision of him out there in some shadowy wilderness, gloating over his cache of rarities – Bullen would seriously diminish the quality of my own collection. I resisted, diplomatically at first but then more vigorously, and we were still debating the point when I heard Vane returning, his footsteps ringing out on the bare boards of the hallway. ‘Three specimens,’ said Bullen quickly as the door opened and our host entered.
I have often noticed that an angry conversation seems to leave some residual stain on the air and, even if he had not overheard our altercation, Vane must have realised as he stepped into the room that my first meeting with Bullen was not proving a success. I saw his eyes flicker between the two of us as though he were assessing the situation.
‘Well,’ he said lightly, gesturing towards the deepening shadows outside, ‘at least we shall all be a little cooler now. We’ll be dining in half an hour.’
‘You mentioned other company,’ I said.
‘The Merivales. The family has farmed the opposite slope of the valley for three generations. Walter Merivale died last year, but his widow and son have kept things running smoothly enough. An admirable family, Redbourne – I can guarantee that you’ll enjoy their society.’
I took leave to doubt it, though I naturally kept my opinion to myself. Vane had presumably imagined that Bullen – a man prepared to haggle like a fairground huckster in pursuit of his own dubious ends – was fit company for me, and I saw no reason to suppose that his other guests would impress me any more favourably. I excused myself, perhaps a shade abruptly, and went up to dress for dinner.