In the end, Rafe managed to clean the light meter sufficiently to get several shots of Wilberforce scowling at the camera. The best shot, Rafe thought, would be the one where Wilberforce’s whiskers and front paws were covered in tomato sauce from the herring. It was a pity the publicist would probably not use it, on account of it looking as if Wilberforce had just killed something in a particularly gruesome fashion.
After Rafe had gone, Michael threw away the remains of the herring, sponged the carpet, and sat down to write a chapter for the Wilberforce Histories, in which the Tudor Wilberforce was mistaken for the Royal executioner, and found himself on Tower Hill, complete with headsman’s axe and block. The publishers would not be able to use that either, but writing it made him feel better, and he then embarked on a more moderate episode in which Wilberforce, adorned with gold earring and bandanna, sailed the seven seas, braving a tempestuous storm and discovering an unknown island, on which he planted a flag. Michael followed this up with a lively scene in which Elizabeth Tudor announced the island would henceforth be known as Wilberforce Island. He rifled the atlas to make sure there was not actually a real Wilberforce Island somewhere, then described the Queen presenting the intrepid explorer (now richly clad in doublet and hose) with a casket of doubloons (which would make for a good illustration), and a churn of best dairy cream. Or was cream a bit too lush in today’s cholesterol-conscious, five-a-day climate? Michael deleted the cream, and then, with the idea of imparting a few vaguely educational facts to his youthful readers, allowed Wilberforce to be borne off to The Globe, where he met luminaries of the era, one of whom was a certain Master Will Shakespeare. Master Shakespeare was so entranced with the tale of Wilberforce’s exploits on the high seas that he declared his intention to one day write a play in which a massive storm – ‘A veritable tempest!’ exclaimed Master Will with enthusiasm – caused a group of people to be shipwrecked on just such an island as Wilberforce had found.
Michael emailed the pirate/playhouse version to his editor, added the Tower Hill one just in case, and pressed Send before he could change his mind.
He then turned his attention to the lecture on the metaphysical poets which he had been trying to compile for the last three days. The melancholic allegories and intensities came as something of a rest cure after the brooding darknesses of Deadlight Hall and Salamander House.
NINETEEN
It was not until Friday afternoon that the elusive memory attached to the handwriting – the memory that had been nudging at Michael’s mind – suddenly clicked into place.
Books – old books – that was at the centre of it. Children’s books in the main, with the exception of one. That one was not a printed book at all; it was leather-bound, the edges worn and one edge very slightly split. He concentrated, and the image came properly into focus. The shelf of books in the attic at Deadlight Hall. That was what he had been trying to remember – he had seen them through that blur of migraine, but he was sure there had been a small book among them – a book whose pages had slightly uneven edges. Beneath the split cover he had glimpsed handwriting – the same kind of handwriting he had seen in the old Poison Book and in Maria’s letters.
How reliable was the memory, though? Even if it was accurate, it was too much to hope that the book could be a diary. It could be an old household account book, or even a cookery book left behind by some long-ago cook. Nothing to do with Maria Porringer’s story at all. But Michael would not be able to rest until he had found out.