Read Online White Stone Day by John MacLachlan Gray - Free Book Online
Authors: John MacLachlan Gray
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the magnesium lamp, lucifer poised, while Hemyng
prepares an additional plate, infusing the room with ether as though
it were a hospital. Boltbyn's heart pounds upon his sternum as he
inserts a plate into the camera and bends down to peer through the
lens. Thus magnified, he is able to distinguish between the face
before him and the face of his soon–to–be–lost
friend; still, the likeness is sufficiently unsettling that his hand
shakes as he wipes his brow. Why has Danbury done this? When one
gentleman asserts such a confident acquaintance with the private life
of another, the question becomes: What does he know? Or, What does he
think he knows? The duke pauses at the door for a final word:
'Gentlemen, urgent business awaits me in London. I remind you that,
as with our previous subjects, the model must not be touched by
anyone other than Mr O'Day, for the shock of a premature awakening
might cause grave injury to the child. 'Good luck to you, Mr Boltbyn.
I pray that your work will be a fitting tribute to its subject –
and to your own unique sensibility.' As he leaves, Danbury pauses to
whisper to his Irish servant: 'She has an hour under the lights
before she begins to smell.' 39 7
Plant's
Inn For Whitty, as for most London clubmen, a visit to one's
drinking– place is the nearest thing to going home.
Straightening the collar of his plum coat, smoothing his new canary
waistcoat (retrieved from his tailor after settling the account), he
enters a wooden, airless space not unlike the interior of a cigar
humidor – worn, scuffed and beaten by generations of elbows,
buttocks and foreheads, and as familiar as his walking–stick.
Whitty pauses by the door. A silence descends upon the room, but with
no greetings to follow. Curious. Superficially, all is precisely as
it was a few weeks ago. There is Crocker of The Spectator, opposite
Meggs of the People's Friend – the former with a small bandage
covering the open sore on his cheek; and there is Cobb, who writes
social notes for Lloyd's – presumably by clairvoyance, for he
never goes anywhere. None, however, acknowledges his presence. As he
crosses to the bar Whitty can sense eyes watching him sideways like
egrets, necks swivelling this way and that. Above the counter floats
a thick cloud of cigar and pipe smoke, through which the face of the
barkeeper emerges like the genie of the lamp. 'A good day to you,
sir,' Humphrey says. His face does not brighten into a mesh of
wrinkles, nor does he automatically fetch Whittv's customary drink.
'Puzzled at present, Humphrey. My usual, if you please.' 'Which would
be what, sir?' 'What, has your memory failed you? Softening of the
brain?' 'Circumstances has changed since you was here last.' Whitty
leans over the gleaming mahogany bar, which remains disconcertingly
empty of drink. 'Speak plainly if you please, Humphrey. Am I out of
order?' 'Indeed, sir, that were the thrust of Mrs Plant's last
indication.' '1 am prepared to settle my account in full, if that is
the cause for complaint.' 'That would be welcome, sir, yet there
remain issues outstanding.' 40 PLANT'S INN 'What the devil is my
offence this time, Humphrey?' 'Word reached certain ears as to the
reason for your absence, which did not enhance madam's regard. Quite
the opposite, sir, I regret to say.' 'A curious phenomenon, the
modern woman, Humphrey. A terrier in the struggle for emancipation,
yet a bloodhound for keeping track of a fellow.' 'Afraid I must
remain mum in that regard, sir, for I have never owned a dog.' The
barkeeper's eyes dart sideways as though Mrs Plant might spring at
him from behind a bottle of Charleson's. Whitty casts his gaze upon
the empty space behind the frosted glass from which Mrs Plant
orchestrates the establishment. 'Where is the lady? I wish to pay my
respects.' 'Presently at confession, sir.' The barkeeper stares at
Whitty's canary waistcoat and will not meet his gaze. Whitty flicks a
bit of cigar ash from his waistcoat, pulls the silver
prepares an additional plate, infusing the room with ether as though
it were a hospital. Boltbyn's heart pounds upon his sternum as he
inserts a plate into the camera and bends down to peer through the
lens. Thus magnified, he is able to distinguish between the face
before him and the face of his soon–to–be–lost
friend; still, the likeness is sufficiently unsettling that his hand
shakes as he wipes his brow. Why has Danbury done this? When one
gentleman asserts such a confident acquaintance with the private life
of another, the question becomes: What does he know? Or, What does he
think he knows? The duke pauses at the door for a final word:
'Gentlemen, urgent business awaits me in London. I remind you that,
as with our previous subjects, the model must not be touched by
anyone other than Mr O'Day, for the shock of a premature awakening
might cause grave injury to the child. 'Good luck to you, Mr Boltbyn.
I pray that your work will be a fitting tribute to its subject –
and to your own unique sensibility.' As he leaves, Danbury pauses to
whisper to his Irish servant: 'She has an hour under the lights
before she begins to smell.' 39 7
Plant's
Inn For Whitty, as for most London clubmen, a visit to one's
drinking– place is the nearest thing to going home.
Straightening the collar of his plum coat, smoothing his new canary
waistcoat (retrieved from his tailor after settling the account), he
enters a wooden, airless space not unlike the interior of a cigar
humidor – worn, scuffed and beaten by generations of elbows,
buttocks and foreheads, and as familiar as his walking–stick.
Whitty pauses by the door. A silence descends upon the room, but with
no greetings to follow. Curious. Superficially, all is precisely as
it was a few weeks ago. There is Crocker of The Spectator, opposite
Meggs of the People's Friend – the former with a small bandage
covering the open sore on his cheek; and there is Cobb, who writes
social notes for Lloyd's – presumably by clairvoyance, for he
never goes anywhere. None, however, acknowledges his presence. As he
crosses to the bar Whitty can sense eyes watching him sideways like
egrets, necks swivelling this way and that. Above the counter floats
a thick cloud of cigar and pipe smoke, through which the face of the
barkeeper emerges like the genie of the lamp. 'A good day to you,
sir,' Humphrey says. His face does not brighten into a mesh of
wrinkles, nor does he automatically fetch Whittv's customary drink.
'Puzzled at present, Humphrey. My usual, if you please.' 'Which would
be what, sir?' 'What, has your memory failed you? Softening of the
brain?' 'Circumstances has changed since you was here last.' Whitty
leans over the gleaming mahogany bar, which remains disconcertingly
empty of drink. 'Speak plainly if you please, Humphrey. Am I out of
order?' 'Indeed, sir, that were the thrust of Mrs Plant's last
indication.' '1 am prepared to settle my account in full, if that is
the cause for complaint.' 'That would be welcome, sir, yet there
remain issues outstanding.' 40 PLANT'S INN 'What the devil is my
offence this time, Humphrey?' 'Word reached certain ears as to the
reason for your absence, which did not enhance madam's regard. Quite
the opposite, sir, I regret to say.' 'A curious phenomenon, the
modern woman, Humphrey. A terrier in the struggle for emancipation,
yet a bloodhound for keeping track of a fellow.' 'Afraid I must
remain mum in that regard, sir, for I have never owned a dog.' The
barkeeper's eyes dart sideways as though Mrs Plant might spring at
him from behind a bottle of Charleson's. Whitty casts his gaze upon
the empty space behind the frosted glass from which Mrs Plant
orchestrates the establishment. 'Where is the lady? I wish to pay my
respects.' 'Presently at confession, sir.' The barkeeper stares at
Whitty's canary waistcoat and will not meet his gaze. Whitty flicks a
bit of cigar ash from his waistcoat, pulls the silver
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