I had asked Mrs. Early to call me at eight-thirty, and at a quarter to nine I was seated in the kitchen, gritty-eyed and pale of face, tackling kippers and toast. It was a big pot of Assam tea which finally pulled me round, that and a brisk walk as far as the orchard, where I finished off with a Cox's Orange Pippin.
Back to the study, where a fire was already blazing. Once again I opened the cabinet; first I looked in the box where what remained of the original manuscripts were housed, taking care not to handle the pages too harshly—even as I looked they seemed that they were crumbling away before my eyes. It was a miracle they had lasted this long, anyway. If my uncle were right, some six or seven hundred years!
I put my uncle's letter and his transcript on the table and looked at them again, paying attention now to his footnotes, where he had identified various towns and places, and glancing at the maps he had drawn to interpret, as far as he could, the route the girl Summer had taken.
It looked an awful muddle, with a lot of guesswork thrown in. . . .
Now for the egg—or whatever it was. I had forgotten to pack my shawl, but I went and fetched my cloak, so it wouldn't roll around the table. I made it a kind of nest, then went to take it out of the cabinet. It was far heavier than I had imagined. I had never seen a round egg before, though I understood the ostrich and most reptiles preferred this shape, but as far as I knew those were all white in colour, whereas this one was definitely a greyish colour with a metallic sheen and little sparkly bits that caught the light.
Back to the cabinet to get the measuring calipers and the scales, with the measurements my uncle had already made, some dozen in all. Luckily the basin for the scales was round, so the egg wouldn't tip. I looked at the last figures my uncle had quoted for weight and width and decided to work from those. Not that I expected any increase in either, but at least it would set my mind at rest. Dragon's egg, indeed! First the weighing . . .
Some ten minutes later I sat back in my chair, my hands trembling. Somehow, in the six months since my uncle had last recorded his findings the what-ever-it-was had gained a full seven ounces in weight and an inch in width!
What was this—this thing that sat on the table in front of me? I found I was pacing around the room, my arms wrapped tightly around my chest. How could something like that grow larger by the month? Nay, the day, the hour, the minute? My heart was pounding, my mind racing. Perhaps the scales and the calipers were wrongly set, perhaps my uncle's figures were fictional, perhaps I was hallucinating, perhaps . . .
But I ran out of perhapses, which were getting more ridiculous by the moment, and calmed down a little, just enough to decide to examine the other objects in the cabinet. Forget about the Thing for a while.
First I lifted out the yellowing ivory figurine and examined it closely. It was obviously meant to represent some sort of mythical being, for it contained elements of more than one creature. A horse or deer, buffalo, fish? For sure it had never walked the earth in that guise! But then, hundreds of years ago, who could have imagined an elephant, giraffe or kangaroo? But no, this was definitely from the imagination.
Next I went back to the cabinet for the scrap of material that was supposed to be from the horn of a unicorn, another mythical beast. An insignificant scrap it was too, almost transparent in its triple curl. I put it down next to the Thing and the little figure. Now I had all the pieces of my uncle's puzzle together with the story they were supposed to come from, but what to make of it all?
I touched the "Eg" again and noted its warmth, I turned the figure this way and that; I picked up the ring once more—
There was a sudden knock on the door, I started, and the ring I was holding in my left hand slipped out of my fingers and dropped over the middle finger of my right. Mrs. Early came in, looking flustered and wiping floury hands on her apron.
"You've a visitor, miss! It's that young gentleman"—she said the word as if it were a bad taste in her mouth—"from London as is staying at the Lamb and Flag in the village. The one from your uncle's solicitors . . . D'you mind if I bring him up? There's no fire lighted downstairs, 'cept in the kitchen."
I was about to say that would be fine, when said young gentleman appeared in the doorway behind her, followed by an angry-looking Mr. Early.
"Wouldn't wait," he said tersely.
"It's all right, Mr. Early," I said. "Come in, Mr . . . ?"
"Cumberbatch, Claude Cumberbatch. Junior clerk in the offices of Goldstone, Crutch and Swallow of Lincoln's Inn." He presented me with a card. "And you must be Miss Sophronisbe Lee." Without a by-your-leave he dropped into the chair opposite mine and gazed around the room. "Servant's quarters?"
"Not exactly, Mr. Cumberbatch." I tried to control my temper: he was probably younger than I was. "I find it most congenial . . ." His expression indicated that it wasn't the sort of place he expected to be received in. "And now that you have finally found me . . ." I paused to let that sink in; after all I had arrived two days ago and had not had so much as a message. " . . . may I offer you some refreshment? A cup of tea, perhaps?"
"Oh, I think something more lively than that, miss! Tea is for old biddies. Let's see, does this establishment boast a bottle or two of sweet sherry?"
I shook my head, just in time to see Mrs. Early nodding hers. I glanced at my watch. "I feel that eleven in the morning is a trifle early for spirituous liquors—"
"Oh, maybe for school-mistresses, but for us men of the world . . ."
I glanced at Mrs. Early: perhaps she had something in mind. From her smug expression I realised she had.
"Perhaps the young gentleman would like to give me his opinion on some rather strong turnip and ginger wine we have been saving for special guests? With some salted biscuits, of course . . ." It must be poisonous! "And you Miss Lee? China, or Russian with lemon?"
"China if you don't mind. And a couple of your sweet cakes, please."
While she was gone Mr. Cumberbatch—what a mouthful, I thought—got up and wandered round the room, peering through the window, poking the fire, gazing into the cabinet, setting the rocking chair tipping back and forth, fingering the velvet of the curtains. He then sat down again and poked the Eg with his finger, setting it into a dangerous wobble.
"Be careful!" I said sharply. "I don't want it to roll off!"
"No problem, miss!" He reached out his hand for the ivory figurine, but I was there before him. Somehow I didn't wish him to touch it; I was glad I had the twist of horn on my finger temporarily—he would probably have snapped it in half.
I studied him as he sat in his chair, cracking his bony knuckles. He was probably in his late teens or early twenties, thin almost to the point of emaciation, with a pasty complexion and straight fair hair, rather greasy, worn long down to his collar. He had pale blue eyes, a large Roman nose, a lot of teeth and a rather weak chin. In fact his facial structure was that of someone you might see in one of the Punch cartoons as representing the last scion of a degenerate aristocracy. His voice would have betrayed him, however: it held decided echoes of the East End of London.
He was dressed in the latest fashion of high collar, tight jacket with checked waistcoat, baggy trousers and pointed shoes and even wore a pair of the hideous yellow gloves that were all the rage, but his linen wasn't the freshest and from where I sat I could smell the scent of the tavern: greasy food, stale ale, whisky and tobacco. Indeed right at that moment he extracted a leather pouch from his pocket, pulled out a cheroot and lit it with a vesta, which he threw at, and missed, the fireplace. I rose immediately and opened the window then crossed to his side, took the cheroot from his fingers, and tossed it on the fire.
"You didn't say you didn't want me to smoke! Cost me four pence—"
"And you didn't ask!"
Luckily for us both Mrs. Early knocked with a tray of tea and little sponge cakes for me, and a jug and large wineglass plus a plate of salted biscuits for our guest. "Let me know if you want anything else, miss . . ."
What she really meant was that it was unorthodox for me to receive a gentleman in my rooms, but that she would be handy (probably just outside the door), ready to rush in and defend my honour . . . I hadn't the slightest doubt that that would be unnecessary.
Claude Cumberbatch filled his glass to the brim and took a long draught. There was a peculiar expression on his face when he put the glass down, and he took a hasty mouthful of biscuits.
I was letting my tea brew. "To your liking, Mr. Cumberbatch?"
"Er . . . Very unusual. I've never tasted anything quite like it . . . Home-made, I venture to guess?"
"Certainly. Not for the faint-hearted, I agree, but excellent for warding off the chills of inclement weather. It is, of course, a man's drink. Another glass? Do help yourself." I poured out a cup of tea and sipped it.
"Was there some especial reason you wished to see me, or is this just a social call?"
"Huh? Oh, yes." He fumbled in his pocket. "Got—got a 'munication from the firm s'morning." He was already slurring his words, to my delight. That wine must be strong! He slurped another draught. "Want to know when—when you're ready to go back—back to Lunnon . . ."
"Who said I wished to return to London?"
"Well, you must: no—no-one in their ses-, sesnes, would want to live in the w-wilds . . ."
"I do have a choice, Mr. Cumberbatch."
He finally produced the letter, all crumpled, and waved it at me with a shaking hand. "It says—Mr. Swallow says—as the most 'venient train would be twelve-fifteen on Friday, or ten-thirty Sat'day. Take a trap from the inn . . ."
"Sure you wouldn't prefer the carrier?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm from my voice, but he didn't notice.
"Oh, no, far too s-slow. Never get there . . ."
"Does Mr. Swallow say anything else?" From where I sat the letter looked at least two pages long.
"No, no, no . . . Just some 'structions for me. Private . . ."
He filled his glass from the jug, draining it down to the last drop. "Goo' stuff this . . ."
"I'm sure it is," I agreed, "Now, as to the letter of Mr. Swallow's—"
But he wasn't listening; in fact he wasn't hearing anything at all. His head was down on the table, his hands hanging loose to the floor and he was snoring heartily. I rose to fetch Mr. Early to dispose of him, but decided that Mr. Swallow's letter came first. As I scanned the first few lines it occurred to me with a certain surprise that even a few days ago I wouldn't have dreamed of reading someone else's correspondence. But things had changed dramatically, and this concerned me and my future life, so blow the conventions!
The letter read as follows: "Mr. Cumberbatch, as our representative I ask that you visit Miss Lee, enquire as to her health and well-being, and assure her that if there is anything we can do to facilitate her enquiries, to let us know. I do not expect her to be precipitate in her decision, as I judge her to be careful in her considerations. Please inform her that her employer, Miss Moffat, is happy for her to take as much leave as she wishes. If for any reason, she wishes to visit London before she has made up her mind, please inform her of the times of the trains, buy her a ticket, and escort her to the station. Please assure her of our best attention at all times." It was signed in an indecipherable squiggle.
So much for being expected to accept my uncle's offer of cash and return to London the day after tomorrow! Just because Claude Cumberbatch couldn't stand the countryside, I was supposed to fall in with his plans and return him to London!
I stuffed the letter back in his pocket and went downstairs to find Mr. and Mrs. Early, suggesting they dump him just outside the gates to the Hall, but Mr. Early harnessed the pony to the trap, saying he would deposit him with the landlord of the Lamb and Flag.
"Punishment enough with the head he'll have on him," he said, in a rare burst of confidence and volubility. "Yon's strong stuff."
Mrs. Early arranged that, not to waste the journey, he could bring back various items she was short of: sugar, flour and oil. "And you'll be needing a new yard-broom and a bag of nails," she reminded him.
When they had gone she suggested that I take a closer look at the rooms in our part of the house. "There's some nice bits and pieces, and they'll all be yours if you decide to take on your uncle's dare."
"Dare?"
"Well, it's like that, isn't it? He did talk to me a bit, you know. About that Egg-thing. Wanted it to go back to where he thought it belonged. I expect it worried him because it didn't fit in with all his theories; men like him always like things neat and tidy." She paused. "You don't have to say, miss, but I reckon as how he's given you a choice: take what money's left and the Hall's sold, or try and take the thing back to Chiney, or wherever, and get the Hall when you gets back."
I didn't deny it. "Put like that it isn't much of a choice, is it?" I said with a smile.
"I agree, but not the way you think. I reckon it depends on the person. Were I your age now, knowing what I know, I wouldn't hesitate. But thirty years ago I would have chosen different. Then I was just an under-housemaid, glad for a roof over my head, reasonable food, a small wage and a day off a month. If then someone had suggested I give it all up and travel abroad—me, who hadn't been farther than twenty miles from here in my life—and get my own cottage if and when I returned, I'd have turned it down flat. I'd have taken the money."
She looked at me shrewdly. "Circumstances is different, but the situations much the same, I'd say. As I said, depends on the person concerned . . . Now, shall we take a look at the rest of this place properly?"
The remainder of the floor I was on consisted of bedrooms, adequately if sparsely furnished with beds, wardrobes, chests of drawers and dressing tables, with bright rugs on the polished floors; a large window at the end of the corridor gave a good light.
Downstairs it was different. The fanlight above the front door threw bars of sunshine across the black-and-white tiled floor and a couple of small sidetables were bright with vases of autumn leaves. The first door on the left revealed a pleasant dining-room, mainly in blue, down to the seascape over the sideboard and the Passion-Flower patterned crockery and china candlesticks. "Your uncle said all the furniture in here were by a man called Chippendale," ventured Mrs. Early. "He preferred it to the modern stuff." So did I.
The next room on the left was the morning-room. Here the emphasis was on the colour green with a couple of touches of dark blue—I noted the Etruscan vases on the mantel. The room was still full of the morning sunshine, with its two tall windows facing southeast; two small sofas, half-a-dozen chairs, a gaming-table, two pretty landscapes and plenty of room for a writing-desk like my mother's.
Across the corridor was the withdrawing-room, this in rose and green. Longer than the other two rooms, it had a fireplace at either end. One half was obviously meant for cosy relaxation by the fire, with sofas and occasional tables, and the other for perhaps cards or even dancing, for there was a piano and two card tables with chairs. On the walls were a dozen gold-framed prints of those deliciously scented French roses, and over both the fireplaces, in rose-veined marble, were large, ornamental Italian gilt-framed mirrors, which made the room seem even larger than it was.
The last room was smaller than the others, but was fully shelved, except that on one wall hung a huge oilcloth map of the world, pierced by a multitude of coloured mapping pins.
"This is where your uncle kept his books and manuscripts," said Mrs. Early. "That map on the wall showed all the places he'd been. In his last illness he had a pallet bed brought in here, because he found the stairs difficult. Liked to lie and look at the map, he did." And the map should be kept right there, I thought, a fitting memorial. But it would be nice to fill the bookshelves once again, and my father's wing-chair would do well beside the fire . . .
There was no carpeting in here, apart from a Persian rug by the fireplace, and the polished wood flooring was echoed in colour by the table, leather-seated chairs, curtains and copper candlesticks.
"Did he die in here?" I asked, noting that the pallet had been removed.
"Oh, no. He died outside, up on Bracken Hill. He would have wanted it that way. Mr. Early found him up there, one day when he missed luncheon. All peaceful he looked, like he'd fallen asleep on a pleasant dream," and her eyes filled with tears, which she mopped with her apron.
I was most impressed with the arrangements at the Temple: as I had thought before, it would be ideal for a small family—but I must stop mentally furnishing it with my own bits and pieces, I told myself, because I most certainly would not be staying!
As soon as Mr. Early returned we had luncheon—toad-in-the-hole, minted peas and gravy, with apple crumble and custard to follow—and as it was a sunny afternoon I took another walk around the grounds, kicking up the piles of leaves like a child in a park, the scent of a bonfire Mr. Early was tending tickling my nostrils with its evocative scent.
After tea I did some necessary darning, only noticing as I finished that I was still wearing the ring. I tried to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge. I even used soap, but it stayed just where it was, on the middle finger of my right hand. Actually I didn't mind it being there at all; it felt warm and comfortable. It would have been nice if it had been gold, or contained a precious stone, but I had never had a ring before and was pleased to see that if I looked closely there were little sparkles of colour in it, rather like an opal.
I had supper with Mr. and Mrs. Early in the kitchen, and went upstairs again determined to make a "Pros" and "Cons" list so that I would be absolutely certain I had made the right decision to take the money my uncle had offered, rather than attempting that ridiculous expedition, but I got no further than the headings on a sheet of paper before I found myself yawning prodigiously.
Country air was very enervating, I decided, as I put the Eg, figurine and transcript in the cabinet, locked it but left the key there. I asked for hot water and a half-hour later was tucked up in bed with one of Mrs. Early's hot toddys. I read the first chapter of Westward Ho! but couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. Blowing out the candles I laid my head on the pillow and slept dreamlessly.
Called at eight-thirty, refreshed and hungry, I ate my breakfast hurriedly then went upstairs, determined to concentrate on my listings. I got out the Eg and placed it on the cloak once more, then reached inside the cabinet for the ivory figurine—
It wasn't there!