Yet though he should seek through all the world for Edward Glyver, where could he be found? There was no one now at Sandchurch who could tell him. No letters were directed to him from there any more. He might look in the Post-office Directory for him, but in vain. He would not be there. No door-plate, and no headstone either, bore his name. He has vanished from the earth. And yet he lives and breathes in me! I am Edward Glapthorn, who was Edward Glyver, who will be Edward Duport. Oh Phoebus, light of the age! How will you catch this phantom, this wraith, who is now one man, now another? He is here; he is there; he is nowhere. He is behind you.
But I have another advantage. Though he does not yet know me, I know him. I have become his father’s friend, and may walk through the front door of his house at any time I please – as I did only recently. I am invisible to my enemy, as he walks to his Club, or strolls through the Park at Evenwood of an evening. Only think, mighty Phoebus, what this means! The man who sits opposite you when you take the train back from the country: does he have a familiar look? There is something about him, perhaps, that stirs your memory; but only for a moment. You return to reading your news-paper, and do not see that his eye is fixed upon you. He is nothing to you, another traveller merely; but you should be more careful. There is a fog tonight, the streets are deserted; no one will hear you cry out. For where is your shield, where your armour, against a man whom you cannot see, whom you cannot name, whom you do not know? I find myself laughing out loud, laughing so much that the tears roll down my face.
And when the laughter stops, I see clearly where all this will end. But who will be the hunter, and who the hunted?
*[‘Seek the truth’. Ed.]
*[‘Lift up your hearts’. From the Latin Eucharist. Ed.]
*[A maxim of the tribune Lucius Cassius Longinus, quoted by Cicero, meaning ‘For whose benefit?’, often used to point a finger at someone who stands to gain most from a crime. Ed.]
PART THE FIFTH
The Meaning of Night
1853–1855
Our knowledge doth but show us our ignorance.
Owen Felltham, Resolves (1623), xxvii,
‘Of Curiosity in Knowledge’
35
Credula res amor est*
Mr Carteret’s Deposition had opened a window on many things that had previously been hidden from my view, providing important corroboration of what was recorded in my foster-mother’s journals, as well as valuable circumstantial detail concerning the actions taken by Lady Tansor, and their far-reaching consequences. But I knew in my heart that the letters taken from Mr Carteret’s bag would never now be recovered; and that, without them, my case was still not unanswerable. I considered that it might be possible that other documents had survived of a similar character; but even granting this possibility, how could they now be found? I came to the forlorn conclusion that I was as far from my goal as ever, whilst Daunt’s position grew ever stronger.
I subsided into one of my glooms. But then, three days later, a note came from Lizzie Brine, delivered to me by messenger, informing me that Miss Carteret and her friend, Mademoiselle Buisson, would be visiting the National Gallery on the following Monday afternoon, the 14th of November. My spirits instantly revived and, on the day in question, at just after two o’clock, I walked over to Trafalgar-square and stationed myself at the foot of the Gallery’s steps.
At a little before half-past two, I saw her emerge into the autumn sunlight, with her friend at her side. They began to descend the steps as I, with an air of complete nonchalance, started to ascend them.
‘Miss Carteret! What an extraordinary coincidence!’
She made me no reply, and for several moments not a scintilla of recognition was discernible in her expression. Instead, she stood regarding me through her round spectacles as though I were a complete stranger, until at last her companion spoke up.
‘Emilie, ma chère, est-ce que tu vas me présenter à ce monsieur?’*
Only with these words did her features relax. Turning to Mademoiselle Buisson she introduced me as, ‘Mr Edward Glapthorn, the gentleman I told you about’. Then, more deliberately, ‘Mr Glapthorn has spent some time in Paris, and is a fluent French speaker.’
‘Ah,’ said Mademoiselle Buisson, raising her eyebrows in a singularly charming way, ‘then we shall be unable to talk about him without his knowing what we say.’
Her English was perfectly expressed and enunciated, with barely a trace of a Gallic accent. With fetching, girlish volubility, she expressed herself delighted to make my acquaintance, and began at once, as if we already knew each other, to describe some of the exhibits they had seen, with a breathless enthusiasm that was most engaging. Mrs Rowthorn had told me that she was of an age with Miss Carteret, but she had a simple unaffected prettiness about her which made her seem younger. They made odd companions, certainly; Mademoiselle Buisson was animated, expressive, and forthcoming, dressed gaily à la mode, and displaying a natural exuberance of spirit. Miss Carteret, sombre and stately in her mourning black, stood silently watchful, like a tolerant older sister, as her companion flittered and giggled. Yet it was impossible not to sense the closeness of their connexion – the way that Mademoiselle Buisson would turn to her friend as she made a particular point and place her hand on Miss Carteret’s arm, with that same unthinking familiarity that I had seen her display at Evenwood after the funeral; the little complicit glances, eye meeting eye, speaking of confidences shared, and secrets kept safe.
‘May I ask how long you will be staying in London, Miss Carteret?’
‘With such prescience as you possess, Mr Glapthorn,’ she replied, ‘I imagine you can answer that question for yourself.’
‘Prescience? What can you mean?’
‘You wish me to suppose, then, that meeting you here is coincidental?’
‘You may suppose what you wish,’ I said, as genially as I could, ‘or, if you cannot accept the fact of coincidence, perhaps you would be more comfortable with the notion of Fate.’
At this, she managed a contrite little smile, and asked to be excused for her ill humour.
‘Your kind note of acceptance to my father’s interment was received,’ she went on, ‘but we were disappointed not to have observed you amongst the company.’
‘I am afraid I was a little late in arriving. I paid my respects to your father – as my firm’s representative, as well as in a personal capacity – after the carriages had departed; and then, having an urgent engagement here in town, and not wishing to intrude on you or your family, I returned immediately.’
‘We were hoping to receive you at the Dower House again,’ she said, taking off her glasses and placing them in her reticule. ‘You were expected, you know. But you had your own reasons for not coming, I dare say.’
‘I did not wish to intrude, as I said.’
‘As you said. But you put yourself to a great deal of trouble on our account in travelling all the way to Northamptonshire only to return immediately. I hope you met your engagement?’
‘It was no trouble, I assure you.’
‘You are kind to say so, Mr Glapthorn. And now, if you will excuse us. Perhaps coincidence – or Fate – will arrange for our paths to cross again.’