Read Online The Dying Light by Henry Porter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Henry Porter
Tags: Fiction - Espionage
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Eyam’s precise little hand.
At the top was a quote from Immanuel Kant: ‘Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe, the oftener and more steadily we reflect on them - the starry heavens above and the moral laws within.’
For the moment the evening is mine, Sister, but soon it will certainly be yours.
If you are reading this, Hugh Russell must have found you and given you the keys to Dove Cottage, which will come to you after you receive the news of my demise. I am dead. How odd that sounds. Anyway, welcome to my home; welcome to your home. I do wish that we had made the occupation simultaneous, rather than consecutive, but leaving it to you is the nearest I can get to that now.
How did we let this distance between us happen? What did we do not to deserve each other? It was, I am sure, all my fault and I hope I have managed to express this to you in person or on the phone before you read this.
Anyway, that is all regrettably in the past and now I give you my life - less tax, as it were - and with all the problems and strangeness of the last year or so; but also all the hidden delights of Dove Cottage, which I believe you will come to love. Look closely, as I know you can, and you will discover much that is surprising here. All my earthly goods are now yours: my secrets too. Think of nothing as too private for your eyes. I am opening myself to you, Sis, and though it is too late to say it, I send my love - the most tender and heartfelt of my life - and I kiss your clever eyes for good fortune and the happiness that has not been ours.
Some of what I have left you will have been handed to you with this letter, but there is more to find because I could not risk placing all my eggs in one basket. What you have is a primer. The full legacy to you and others will reveal itself in due course. I cannot go into details here.
The evening I speak of at the start of this note is perfect. I write on a patch of gravel garden in front of the cottage resting on an old metal table, which I inherited when I bought the place. I have a glass of Puligny Montrachet at my side; a neighbour’s dog is making eyes at a bowl of cheese sticks. It has been a very hot day. The sun has set and the sky is bruising a gentle purple in the west. It is just past eight o’clock, and the cuckoos call from the other side of the valley. There are hawks hunting in the dusk above me. As ever, the Dove is their prey. The birds sing but mostly they listen and watch at this time of the day. You will find it all very much behind the times, but I have been happy here.
If you are reading this it means I’m gone. The evening is yours now with all its grandeur and its flaws: you are more than equal to both. Good luck, and look after my books, my beloved Bristol and my garden - especially my vegetable patch.
With my love, David.
Dove Cottage, August 20th
She read it again while the lawyer looked on.
‘Do you want some coffee? Have a drink?’ she said absently.
‘I won’t, thanks.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘The letter: it doesn’t sound like him at all. I mean the pretentious stuff at the beginning is very much Eyam, but the rest of it sounds like he’s on drugs.’
‘Perhaps he was conscious that you would read this after his death. Maybe it was hard for him to write.’
She thought for a moment. ‘You’re probably right. What time do you want me to come in?’
‘Any time up to eight.’ He got up and gave her a card. ‘These days we country lawyers have to keep our heads down to make ends meet. You can give me your contact details when you come.’
‘Of course,’ she said, returning the letter and the will to their envelopes. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘If it’s past six and my secretary has gone home, just ring the bell.’
He left and a few moments later she watched him hurrying across the square, nodding to people as he went, one
At the top was a quote from Immanuel Kant: ‘Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe, the oftener and more steadily we reflect on them - the starry heavens above and the moral laws within.’
For the moment the evening is mine, Sister, but soon it will certainly be yours.
If you are reading this, Hugh Russell must have found you and given you the keys to Dove Cottage, which will come to you after you receive the news of my demise. I am dead. How odd that sounds. Anyway, welcome to my home; welcome to your home. I do wish that we had made the occupation simultaneous, rather than consecutive, but leaving it to you is the nearest I can get to that now.
How did we let this distance between us happen? What did we do not to deserve each other? It was, I am sure, all my fault and I hope I have managed to express this to you in person or on the phone before you read this.
Anyway, that is all regrettably in the past and now I give you my life - less tax, as it were - and with all the problems and strangeness of the last year or so; but also all the hidden delights of Dove Cottage, which I believe you will come to love. Look closely, as I know you can, and you will discover much that is surprising here. All my earthly goods are now yours: my secrets too. Think of nothing as too private for your eyes. I am opening myself to you, Sis, and though it is too late to say it, I send my love - the most tender and heartfelt of my life - and I kiss your clever eyes for good fortune and the happiness that has not been ours.
Some of what I have left you will have been handed to you with this letter, but there is more to find because I could not risk placing all my eggs in one basket. What you have is a primer. The full legacy to you and others will reveal itself in due course. I cannot go into details here.
The evening I speak of at the start of this note is perfect. I write on a patch of gravel garden in front of the cottage resting on an old metal table, which I inherited when I bought the place. I have a glass of Puligny Montrachet at my side; a neighbour’s dog is making eyes at a bowl of cheese sticks. It has been a very hot day. The sun has set and the sky is bruising a gentle purple in the west. It is just past eight o’clock, and the cuckoos call from the other side of the valley. There are hawks hunting in the dusk above me. As ever, the Dove is their prey. The birds sing but mostly they listen and watch at this time of the day. You will find it all very much behind the times, but I have been happy here.
If you are reading this it means I’m gone. The evening is yours now with all its grandeur and its flaws: you are more than equal to both. Good luck, and look after my books, my beloved Bristol and my garden - especially my vegetable patch.
With my love, David.
Dove Cottage, August 20th
She read it again while the lawyer looked on.
‘Do you want some coffee? Have a drink?’ she said absently.
‘I won’t, thanks.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘The letter: it doesn’t sound like him at all. I mean the pretentious stuff at the beginning is very much Eyam, but the rest of it sounds like he’s on drugs.’
‘Perhaps he was conscious that you would read this after his death. Maybe it was hard for him to write.’
She thought for a moment. ‘You’re probably right. What time do you want me to come in?’
‘Any time up to eight.’ He got up and gave her a card. ‘These days we country lawyers have to keep our heads down to make ends meet. You can give me your contact details when you come.’
‘Of course,’ she said, returning the letter and the will to their envelopes. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘If it’s past six and my secretary has gone home, just ring the bell.’
He left and a few moments later she watched him hurrying across the square, nodding to people as he went, one
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