Monday, September the 13th, 2004

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Unspeakable Desolation Pouring Down From the Stars

Chapter Thirteen

“UNDERSTAND,” SHE SAID, AS we chewed biscuits together in the summer-house, “That my soul is troubled and fearful. Sometimes my knees knock together involuntarily, for minutes on end, with such rapidity and force that I carry the bruises for weeks. I cannot bear sunlight: that is why I wear sunglasses and a gigantic hat.”

“It's rather a nice hat,” I said, and as far as I can remember I meant it.

“You are kind,” she sighed, “But there is no need to mouth such drivel. Once my back is turned, some of the nicest people I know laugh like drains at my assortment of hats, and I cannot say I blame them.”

“No, really,” I insisted, “I think it's a nice hat.”

She was pitiless. “Then you lack all sense of taste,” she snapped, “Never mind. You are still young. Perhaps when this stamp album business is done with we can have you carted off to an institution where your sensibilities can be restructured.”

“You're not much older than me yourself,” I protested.

“Physically, you may well be correct. Vital essence, however, is another matter. When I was a little girl, I would sit at my mother's knee for hours on end, listening to her tales of mayhem, decrepitude, and ruin. I rarely sleep, and through the long restless nights as I toss and turn, I can still hear her telling me tales of shipwrecked mariners and bug-eyed morticians, of desperate hellions and cold, harsh poisoners, of the air heavy with the reek of marsh gas on the fateful night that Blind Jim Carg went crackers with an axe in the cottage he shared with his invalid wife and frostbitten children. My childhood was an abnormal one by any standards, Mr Blake. I lived in a glum village with my mother, her mother, and dozens of cousins. Rarely a day would pass without us striding out of the house, in a sorry, dishevelled band, to undertake long hikes through the countryside. I remember one such occasion with particular clarity. In a late evening, dark, but not so dark, out to the river we walked: a strange river, to us, in strange fields, in a valley. As strangers we strolled to the water, as sleeping folks do, in strange countries, who stroll in an evening. And over the river, a mountain, alone in the half dark, a mass of dense darkness, of blackness, and by it a star—one bright star—to the right of the mountain and near to its top, very close to it, one star alone, that in light all the mass of the mountain held balanced. A memory shook us, that none of us had, but all shared, and at once started talking, who all knew this picture: this star and this mountain, these masses and forces, these shapes and positions, this darkness and light—in its infinite sum—all we knew and remembered, and woke for a moment, in the midst of a journey we never began. I was six years old at the time, Mr Blake, six. Can you imagine having such an experience at such a tender age? I see you cannot. My grandmother was a painter of crucifixions: she was not religious, but she was a monomaniac to be sure. I do not think one among us escaped being infected by her terrible apprehension of existence. She met her death on my twelfth birthday, in the same accident which robbed me of the use of my legs. I did not utter a word for five years.”

You're making up for lost time, I thought, yawning. Where was all this leading to?

“I hate to interrupt,” I interrupted, “But am I to understand that you're going to help me to find Mister Patch's stamp album?”

“Ah,” she said, sweeping the biscuit crumbs from her lap, “I see you are the sort of chap who wants to get right down to business.” I was not sure whether this was intended as a compliment: I smiled weakly. “I have come upon many clients like yourself,” she continued, “Impatient and headstrong, clattering along at such a pace that sooner or later you become entangled in a sort of intellectual clump of nettles, from which you can only be freed by convulsive brain-activity, externally sparked, leaving you crumpled and incapable, but once more whole. I am afraid that my services will prove useless to you unless you give me free rein.”

I had absolutely no idea how to reply to this, and wedged a digestive biscuit into my mouth in a pathetic attempt to conceal my jumbleheadedness.

“I do not pretend that my methods are straightforward, Mr Blake. There are any number of private detectives and confidential agents who would pander to your impetuosity. I know how they work. You would rattle off to them the essentials of the case, they would scribble down a few notes, out would come your wallet, and, with an advance in hand, away they would scurry, picking up clues where they might, until they returned to you with a report on their progress and a request for further funds. Does that sound familiar?”

It did: and, I added, it seemed perfectly reasonable, assuming that there was a satisfactory conclusion. She let out a hoot of laughter which chilled my bones: yes, yes, I know that reads like a hackneyed exaggeration, but believe me, I was there—I actually heard it. She let me finish quivering before she replied.

“Before you decide whether or not to employ me, there are a number of things you must understand. I have told you that my methods are unorthodox. I do not proceed in what is commonly thought of as a ‘logical’ fashion. At times, my actions may appear abstruse, inept, or lackadaisical. A number of my previous clients have accused me of fraud, construing my behaviour as time-wasting indolence: I hope you will not make the same mistake. The point is, Mr Blake, that should I at any time doubt that your trust in me is complete, unfailing, and passeth all understanding, I shall be off the case, and will whisk myself away without a moment's notice. And remember that I am a sensitive soul: I take umbrage easily. A flip comment, a quizzical raising of the eyebrow, the merest criticism: any of these is likely to shatter my brain, and I will be out of here like a rocket, returning to my glum domain of hissing gas-jets and cracked linoleum, wherein I will wait, patiently and without rancour, for another client. Should you signal to me the tiniest sliver of doubt in my abilities, I will begone: but offer me your trust, and I will find Mister Patch's stamp album, and return it to you. Is that understood?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Very well. Now, listen. When I was seventeen years old I wrote a book called Fangs In The Mist. I sent it off to over a dozen publishers before it was eventually accepted. Taking advice from one of the editors, I adopted a pseudonym: T B Puddle. Perhaps you recall the book? No? Well, here is a copy. I insist that you read it from cover to cover before we proceed any further. Meanwhile, I will take advantage of your hospitality by having a relaxing bath and a little nap. I take it there is running hot water in the house, and a nice springy mattress on which I can rest my bones?”

Her manner was uppity and abrupt, but somehow this pallid cripple enthralled me, and I gushed thirty seconds' worth of cloying succour.

“By all means! There is a lovely bathroom on the ground floor! Let me wheel you to it! I’ll seek out the best soap for you! I’ll make ready the downstairs bedroom, plump up the cushions and festoon the place with fragrant pot pourris! Sleep as long as you like! And just tinkle the bell when you awake and I’ll bring you a feast of delicacies!”

She looked at me as if I were a madman, but I took no notice, sprang up at once and steered her across the dying lawn towards the house.

“What's the book about?” I asked.

“You'll see,” she replied, in a tone which forbade further questions.

I wheeled her into the bathroom, started the taps running, and fairly ran back to the summer-house, tripping along like a love-struck teenager: which is perhaps what I was. The book was a dog-eared paperback which looked as if it had once been attacked by singularly ferocious mice. On the cover, the title and author's name formed a blaze of fiery red and yellow across what appeared to be a picture of some mist with a pair of glistening fangs lurking therein. Thrills and spills aplenty were promised by this garish design. I smirked to myself, for some reason, opened the book and began to read:

Fangs In The Mist

Chapter One

While Hugh was sliding on the lake, he fell and sprained his wrist. My sister has a blue veil made of gauze. The old woman got a skein of worsted, and began to knit her stocking. The lawyer made a very awkward mistake. The geese plucked some wool from the fleece of the sheep. The pulpit is too near the ceiling. The curtains are made of chintz, and the quilt is filled with eiderdown. The invalid ate a biscuit with his gruel. The cook pierced her arm with a skewer, and bruised a sinew. The laundryman gave his neice a pair of gloves, and asked her to repair the seams. He had a piece of quartz in his hands: he let it fall amongst the cinders. We have no cauliflowers in our garden, but we have turnips and spinach. I will give you a snowdrop for that crocus. My uncle arrived on a Wednesday evening in February. When the fire had burnt the joists, the roof of the castle fell in. The orphan child enjoyed her coarse bread and her draught of water. Be careful to shun vicious neighbours. A railway guard should be an honest man, and should never taste liquor. The ostler is a saucy knave: he refused to fasten my stirrup. The heir, in bad humour, cut his thumb with a knife. You cannot see through wood: it is opaque. The wrestler fell from the bough of a larch and broke his collar-bone. This piece of chalk will not weigh half an ounce. That bunch of thyme has a pleasant scent. His guilt is undoubted: and that of his cousin, who was in league with him, is strongly suspected. They got lime from the kiln, and began to repair the aisle of the church. Do you hear the mice gnawing the wainscot? A gnat bit me on the cheek, and caused me great pain. The prisoner would not deign to kneel before the judge. The debtor rose in great wrath, and tried to knock his captor down. The viscount, when cruising in his yacht, saw a wreck off the beach. The rustic drove his plough through the lea. It was tough work, but the horses pulled with all their might. Our master has a thorough knowledge of accounts. The baker must weigh the dough before he puts it in the oven. The calf fell into the slough, so we called the veterinary surgeon. The priest is acquainted with several foreigners. The shepherd found a corpse in the forest. The villain has no moral character, and is a disgrace to his family. The surgeon was on the point of yielding when the hostess interfered. When I pointed the muzzle of the gun at him, he very cunningly feigned death. The monks commended their erring brother to the mercy of the deity. The crowd was composed chiefly of rowdy and violent persons. While Pat was riding his chestnut horse, the reins broke. My cousin is a martyr to toothache. He prophesied that there would be a thunderstorm before the morning. The manager has invented a new system of telegraph-signals. He had scarcely crossed the line when he was siezed by a policeman. Example is better than precept, and good advice has double weight when offered by one who practises what he advises. The traveller visits the capital annually. The drawing-room is immediately above the kitchen. The doctor arrived in a chaise: he felt the patient's pulse, and pronounced him better. When sailing in his canoe on the canal, he was capsized and nearly drowned. Osier twigs make excellent baskets. Sulphur is dug out of the earth in Italy and South America. In Holland the stork is protected by law, because it eats the frogs and worms that would injure the dikes. The wharfinger was not only sightless: he also became utterly deaf. Their navigational ways were profoundly mysterious. My knife is gone, and none of the children know where it is. The teacher reminded the pupils how admirably and excellently God has regulated everything in the world. The engineer missed the way again: instead of going into his own house, he went into that of his neighbour. At this intelligence he stood as if struck with palsy. Do not forget to put on your cloak: it is very cold and stormy. The watchmaker soaked his feet in a tub of hot water. He was carrying the box on his head. I have not seen him for six months. He tied the parcel tightly, so that the things should not come out. Notwithstanding this, the string broke. He cannot see the necessity for doing it again. He is the same age as his cousin. This lady appears to be taller than her mother. Those who are idle are seldom happy. The windows are not shut. It was a very austere garden. You should try to memorise everything you are reading. Show the man your ticket as you go in. My sister has obtained a very large sponge. Where were your parents last week? We are thinking of chartering an entire steamer, and must calculate how much cheaper the expenses of freight would be than if we shipped in small consignments. I have been appointed sole agent for the sale of this machine. The boxes were nearly all broken, and their contents much damaged by water. The servant has disarranged the cabinets. In great states hundreds must starve, in order that one may gourmandize and revel: tens of thousands are oppressed and hunted to death, that one crowned fool or philosopher may gratify his whims.

I took a deep breath, and skimmed hurriedly through the next few pages: I was not even a quarter of the way through chapter one, and there were eleven more after that. How shall I describe my feelings when I realised that the entire book was written in this irritating fashion? Irritation? Consternation? Disgust? I flung the book to the floor and set off to the house in search of a large bottle of Cataleptic Drudge. As I was about to go down to the cellar, Matilda Spamclot came trundling towards me across the hallway.

“You're a fast reader,” she said, “You've finished the book already!”

“Er, not exactly,” I whimpered. I could feel myself blushing.

“Now look here. I thought I had made myself clear. I will brook no tomfoolery. If I am to take on this case, you must follow my instructions. Get back to that outbuilding of yours and finish the book!”

She was, obviously, quite barmy. I should have pulled a frightening face at her and thrown her out of the house: but I restrained myself. After all, I was relying on her to find Mister Patch's album. Also, she had come recommended by Scrimgeour, and I could not afford to put his nose out of joint. Most compellingly, if I refused Matilda's help, what other options were open to me? Fig, Brewster and Binnie had paid with their lives: my own attempt had met with failure: I could not think of anything else to do. And, of course, there was something about Matilda that held me spellbound.

“Righty ho,” I said, “I was just going to get some refreshments. I must say it's an absolutely fascinating novel—such tremendous narrative drive!”

She smote her forehead with the flat of her hand and gave me a pitying look. “It isn't a novel, you clot! It is a wholly factual account of my first case! I am the woman who put Jem Boggis, the flimsy-legged poisoner of Blister Lane, behind bars for the rest of his life!”

Shamefaced, I scuttled back to the summer house and ploughed on through the book as best I could. It made no sense to me whatsoever, but once I got used to its curious rhythms, I even began to enjoy it a little.

The chef poured his soup into the tureen. The lieutenant's ears were burning: his superiors were discussing his next posting. The devil makes work for idle hands to do. Has Rodney spat upon the embers?

I never did find out if Rodney spat so, but the thought of him doing so, or not doing so, was rather pleasing, whoever he was. Later, as we clutched each other in a verdant dingle, Matilda explained why she had forced me to read Fangs In The Mist.

“Detail is everything, Mr Blake,” she said.

“Call me Zinnigmot, please,” I gasped.

“Stop being so foolish. It has far too many syllables for a genuine name.”

Specious as this statement was, Matilda allowed no time for me to argue. “Detail, always detail. Now, you must tell me everything that has happened regarding this inane stamp collection business, everything you can remember, and in as much detail as possible. Armed with sufficient detail, nothing can stop me gouging out the truth. Nothing and nobody—not even the Infected Churls of Tantarabim!”

I wanted to ask Matilda what that last bit meant, but her pencil was already poised over a clean page of her ledger, and she had begun to make impatient hissing noises. So I told her everything, more or less exactly as I have told it to you. It took ages to go over my story in the demented detail which Matilda required, but she didn't yawn once. I was amazed at the speed with which she scribbled her notes. She worked her way through three hard pencils before I finished.

“That's splendid,” she said, closing her ledger, and wheeling herself away towards the house, “Now, I’m going to have to ponder on all this for a while.”

Three weeks later, on a sopping Thursday afternoon, I popped my head around her door to ask if she had made any progress. She was fast asleep. I crept over to her desk and rummaged through the pile of papers: there were two or three ledgers, innumerable scraps torn from exercise books, five small cardboard boxes containing a meticulously-kept card index, and a dozen telephone directories, the pages of which had been bleached and which now contained a staggering number of quite incomprehensible diagrams. I would have liked to reproduce one of these at this point in my story, but Matilda has since re-bleached the pages ready for her next case. Unable to make head nor tail of what she was up to, I retreated to the pantry and opened a bottle of Whelk-Encrusted Mariner's Spit. I was halfway through my second glass when Matilda appeared in the doorway.

“Well may you celebrate, Mr Blake,” she said, “You will be pleased to know that I have solved the case!”

She chucked something at me. It was Mister Patch's stamp album. I stood up, sat down again, mopped my brow, looked wildly about, and made quite ridiculous gibbering noises.

“Come, come,” she interrupted, “Pour me a glass of whatever you're drinking and let us repair to the verdant dingle so that I can tell you all about it!”

I protested that it was pouring with rain, but Matilda just threw an umbrella at me and started for the door. Shoving a few more bottles into a tote bag, I followed her. And there, sheltering under the dripping leaves of pugton and hubidibas trees, I nestled my head in Matilda's lap, as with gentle hands she stroked my brow, and in a voice celestial and spellbinding, she slowly, oh so slowly, whispered to me the truth of all that had happened, all that I had been too dim and blind to see, and a great calmness stole over me, and I envisioned her words as turquoise ribbons rippling in the air above my head with the lightness of gossamer, and my heart seemed to stop beating, and my brain ceased whirling, and I fell fast, fast asleep.

THE VERY END

except for an AFTERWORD