Leonard wanted to ask whether Lucy, with all of her evident learning and scientific reason, really believed that it was true – whether she thought that Edward had seen a light in the attic that night and that the house had protected him – but no matter how he rearranged the words in his mind, the question seemed impolite and certainly impolitic. Thankfully, Lucy seemed to have anticipated his line of thinking.
‘I believe in science, Mr Gilbert. But one of my first loves was natural history. The earth is ancient and it is vast and there is much that we do not yet comprehend. I refuse to accept that science and magic are opposed; they are both valid attempts to understand the way that our world works. And I have seen things, Mr Gilbert; I have dug things up from the earth and held them in my hand and felt things that our science cannot yet explain. The story of the Eldritch Children is a folk tale. I have no more reason to believe it than I do to believe that Arthur was a king who pulled a sword from a stone or that dragons once soared across our skies. But my brother told me that he saw a light that night in the attic of Birchwood Manor and that the house protected him, and I know he spoke the truth.’
Leonard did not doubt her faith, but he also understood psychology; the abiding sovereignty of the elder sibling. When he and Tom were younger, Leonard had been aware that no matter how often he tricked his brother or told him an untruth, Tom would trust him again the next time. Lucy had been much younger than Edward. She had adored him and he had disappeared from her life. She might be seventy-nine and impregnable now, but where Edward was concerned a part of her would always be that young girl.
Nonetheless, Leonard jotted down a note about the Eldritch Children. Frankly, the veracity of the story was of secondary importance as far as Leonard’s dissertation was concerned. It was enough that Radcliffe had been haunted by an idea, that he believed the house to possess certain properties, and fascinating to be able to tie them to a particular local folk tale. Aware that time was ticking, he drew a line under the note and moved on to the next subject. ‘I wonder, Miss Radcliffe, if we could speak now about the summer of 1862.’
She took up a walnut cigarette box from the table and offered one to Leonard. He accepted and waited while she deftly teased a flame from the silver lighter. She lit her own and exhaled, waving her hand through the smoke. ‘I expect you would like me to say that the summer of 1862 feels like yesterday. Well, it doesn’t. It feels like a different country. Strange, isn’t it? When I think of Edward telling me stories as a child, I can smell the moist muddy air of our attic in Hampstead. But to think back to that summer is like looking through a telescope at a distant star. I see myself from the outside only.’
‘You were here then? At Birchwood Manor?’
‘I was thirteen years old. My mother was going to the Continent to stay with friends and had proposed to send me to my grandparents at Beechworth. Edward invited me to accompany him and the others instead. I was excited to be within their orbit.’
‘What was it like?’
‘It was summer, and hot, and the first couple of weeks were spent as you might imagine: boating, picnicking, painting and walking. They all sat up late into the night telling stories and arguing over the scientific, artistic and philosophical theories of the day.’
‘But then?’
Her gaze met his directly. ‘As you know, Mr Gilbert, it all fell apart.’
‘Edward’s fiancée was killed.’
‘Fanny Brown, yes.’
‘And the intruder stole the Radcliffe Blue pendant.’
‘You’ve done your research.’
‘There were a number of articles in the Newspaper Library.’
‘I should expect so. Fanny Brown’s death was widely reported.’
‘And yet, from what I saw, it appeared that there was even more speculation as to the whereabouts of the Radcliffe Blue diamond.’
‘Poor Fanny. She was a nice enough girl, but prone to being overshadowed – in life and, as you point out, in death. I hope you are not asking me to account for the obsessions of the tabloid-reading public, Mr Gilbert?’
‘Not at all. In fact, I’m far more interested in the reactions of the people who knew Frances Brown. While the rest of the world appears to have been fascinated by the events, I noticed that the correspondence of Edward’s friends and colleagues, of Thurston Holmes, and Felix and Adele Bernard, is all but silent on the matter. It’s almost as if it didn’t happen.’
Did he imagine the slight flicker of recognition in her eyes?
‘It was a terrible day, Mr Gilbert. I shouldn’t think it would come as a surprise that those unfortunate enough to bear witness would choose not to dwell on it afterwards.’
She regarded him steadily over her cigarette. What she said was reasonable, but Leonard couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that. There was something unnatural about their reticence. It wasn’t simply an absence of conversation about the day in question; to read the letters of the others immediately afterwards, it was as if Edward Radcliffe and Frances Brown had never existed. And it wasn’t until after Edward Radcliffe’s death that his ghost crept back into the correspondence of Thurston Holmes.
There was something he was missing about the friendship between the two of them, and not just after Frances Brown was killed. Leonard thought back to his visit to the Holmes archive in York: he had noticed an earlier change in tenor in the letters between the two young men. The long, unrestrained conversations discussing art, philosophy and life that they had exchanged frequently after they met in 1858 had dried up in early 1862, becoming brief, perfunctory and formal. Something had happened between them, he was sure of it.
Lucy frowned when he asked that very question, before saying, ‘I do remember Edward coming home hot under the collar one morning – it must have been around then, because it was before his second exhibition. His knuckles were grazed and his shirt was torn.’
‘He’d been in a fight?’
‘He didn’t tell me the details but I saw Thurston Holmes later that week and he had a big purple bruise around his eye.’
‘What did they fight over?’
‘I don’t know, and I didn’t give it much thought at the time. They were often at odds, even when they were good friends. Thurston was competitive and vain. A bull, a peacock, a rooster – take your pick. He could be charming and generous, and as the older of the two he introduced Edward to a number of influential people. He was proud of Edward, I think. He enjoyed the kudos of having such a dynamic, talented young friend. They attracted a lot of attention when they were together, the way they dressed, their loose shirts and scarfs, their wild hair and free attitudes. But Thurston Holmes was the sort of person who needed to be the friend on top. He did not take it well when Edward began to receive more acclaim than he did. Have you ever noticed, Mr Gilbert, that it’s friends like that who have a habit of becoming one’s most fiercely committed adversaries?’
Leonard made a note of this insight into the friendship between the two artists. The firmness with which it was imparted explained his invitation here today. Lucy had told him in the graveyard that Holmes’s accounts of Edward could not be trusted; that she would have to set the record straight, ‘lest you publish more lies’. And here it was: she had wanted Leonard to know that Holmes had an agenda, that he was a jealous friend eager to elevate himself.
But Leonard wasn’t convinced that professional envy alone explained the falling out between the two men. Radcliffe’s star was on the rise during 1861 and 1862, but the exhibition that made his name hadn’t taken place until April of the latter year, and correspondence between the men had cooled much earlier than that. Leonard suspected that there had been something else at play and he had a good idea of what it might have been. ‘Edward started using a new model in mid-1861, didn’t he?’ He feigned nonchalance, but even as he broached the subject an echo of his recent dreams assailed him and he felt his face warm; he couldn’t meet Lucy’s gaze, pretending to focus on his notes instead. ‘Lily Millington? I think that was her name?’