Read Online Summon the Bright Water by Geoffrey Household - Free Book Online
Authors: Geoffrey Household
Tags: Thriller & Suspense
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regular soldier had unhinged a too contemplative mind and inclined him towards dreams of a past in which war for the sake of Christianity was the normal spice of life. He’d have done better to choose the Crusades, but I suppose the very dubious Arthur gave more scope for imagination.
‘Good man! Thought you’d manage! But you’ll need a blanket.’
He handed over a splendid carriage rug dating from the time when there were no car heaters and told me to take it with me when I left.
‘Jump in! Short run into the Forest where we won’t be interrupted.’
He had found an idyllic spot between the armchair roots of a noble oak where he opened his picnic basket. It had a luxurious air of the eighteen-nineties about it and had belonged, he told me, to his grandfather. Gin, whisky, white Burgundy, strawberries and half a cold Severn salmon appeared, each from its proper compartment.
‘Couldn’t swipe anything from Broom Lodge,’ he said, ‘so I got it in Lydney and hung about till the chap had cooked it for me. Ought to know how. Catches them.’
While we were eating I encouraged him to talk of his religion. He was as sure of immortality as any pious Christian but considered that Marrin’s belief in reincarnation was an unnecessary theory. I ventured to bring up the question of Arthur’s battles, in which he himself seemed to be personally involved; then he only choked on his salmon and raised an emotional, hot-gospeller’s voice to declare that the past was always the present.
‘What’s the past? Only a string of presents one after another. No such thing as time, Simeon says. He’s quite right there. So the past is always the present if you can recognise it. That’s the difficulty: to recognise the fourth dimension when you’re in it. Could draw a diagram if I were a mathematician.’
Having cordially accepted the string-of-presents theory as expounded by Major Quixote – there’s a flaw in it somewhere, but it does account for visions of the past – I started on the strawberries and asked him how much he knew of Marrin’s movements.
‘Too busy to leave the place in the day much unless he’s off to London to sell his trinkets, but he does go out at night when the tide serves his purpose. Meditating under water they say.’
‘And if I want to leave a message for you, how shall I do it?’
He asked if I was sure that I could find again the ragged stump of the sapling which he had cut. Yes, I was sure.
‘Then bury your note alongside and put a stick to mark it. I’ll do the same.’
It was now twilight. I thanked him warmly and got up to go.
‘Any trouble with alcohol?’ he asked.
‘No trouble.’
‘Good! Take the whisky bottle.’
I thanked him warmly and left, but did not go home. First I watched the major drive away; he was shaking his head and talking to himself when he got into the car, perhaps in sadness at the criminality of his enigmatic friend. Then I set out on foot for Broom Lodge. I reckoned that if there was anything at all in this meditation over the flowing tide, Marrin, after last night, would have a good deal to meditate about and might get down to it straightaway.
It was nearly dark when I arrived, so that I was perfectly safe in the garden on the open front of the house. Lights were on in the hall for those who preferred earnest discussion to bed; lights were going off upstairs as craftsmen and farm hands who would be up early settled down to sleep. It occurred to me that if Simeon Marrin wished to give his disappearances an air of spiritual mystery he would slip away at the back into the shadows of the trees rather than walk out of the front door like ordinary humanity; so I made a circuit into the woodland at the back and waited.
A little before midnight, eight persons left the house and took the forest track into the darkness. I could tell by his height that one of them was Marrin, carrying a box. Another appeared to be carrying a trumpet. When they had passed, I
‘Good man! Thought you’d manage! But you’ll need a blanket.’
He handed over a splendid carriage rug dating from the time when there were no car heaters and told me to take it with me when I left.
‘Jump in! Short run into the Forest where we won’t be interrupted.’
He had found an idyllic spot between the armchair roots of a noble oak where he opened his picnic basket. It had a luxurious air of the eighteen-nineties about it and had belonged, he told me, to his grandfather. Gin, whisky, white Burgundy, strawberries and half a cold Severn salmon appeared, each from its proper compartment.
‘Couldn’t swipe anything from Broom Lodge,’ he said, ‘so I got it in Lydney and hung about till the chap had cooked it for me. Ought to know how. Catches them.’
While we were eating I encouraged him to talk of his religion. He was as sure of immortality as any pious Christian but considered that Marrin’s belief in reincarnation was an unnecessary theory. I ventured to bring up the question of Arthur’s battles, in which he himself seemed to be personally involved; then he only choked on his salmon and raised an emotional, hot-gospeller’s voice to declare that the past was always the present.
‘What’s the past? Only a string of presents one after another. No such thing as time, Simeon says. He’s quite right there. So the past is always the present if you can recognise it. That’s the difficulty: to recognise the fourth dimension when you’re in it. Could draw a diagram if I were a mathematician.’
Having cordially accepted the string-of-presents theory as expounded by Major Quixote – there’s a flaw in it somewhere, but it does account for visions of the past – I started on the strawberries and asked him how much he knew of Marrin’s movements.
‘Too busy to leave the place in the day much unless he’s off to London to sell his trinkets, but he does go out at night when the tide serves his purpose. Meditating under water they say.’
‘And if I want to leave a message for you, how shall I do it?’
He asked if I was sure that I could find again the ragged stump of the sapling which he had cut. Yes, I was sure.
‘Then bury your note alongside and put a stick to mark it. I’ll do the same.’
It was now twilight. I thanked him warmly and got up to go.
‘Any trouble with alcohol?’ he asked.
‘No trouble.’
‘Good! Take the whisky bottle.’
I thanked him warmly and left, but did not go home. First I watched the major drive away; he was shaking his head and talking to himself when he got into the car, perhaps in sadness at the criminality of his enigmatic friend. Then I set out on foot for Broom Lodge. I reckoned that if there was anything at all in this meditation over the flowing tide, Marrin, after last night, would have a good deal to meditate about and might get down to it straightaway.
It was nearly dark when I arrived, so that I was perfectly safe in the garden on the open front of the house. Lights were on in the hall for those who preferred earnest discussion to bed; lights were going off upstairs as craftsmen and farm hands who would be up early settled down to sleep. It occurred to me that if Simeon Marrin wished to give his disappearances an air of spiritual mystery he would slip away at the back into the shadows of the trees rather than walk out of the front door like ordinary humanity; so I made a circuit into the woodland at the back and waited.
A little before midnight, eight persons left the house and took the forest track into the darkness. I could tell by his height that one of them was Marrin, carrying a box. Another appeared to be carrying a trumpet. When they had passed, I
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