He held the photo closer to the light, and the unease deepened, because he seemed to be looking at the man from the Holzminden sketch. Or was he? Yes, there again were the deep-set eyes, the distinctive cheekbones, and the blown-leaf birthmark or scar. It was undoubtedly the same man. Except that it could not be. He could not be in the sketch and the photograph, not twenty-five years apart and looking exactly the same. Nor could he have been in the dark gardens of this house earlier tonight.
Whatever the explanation, it was an odd thing to come across. Michael could not escape a curious feeling that this young man, whoever he was, had somehow been picked up out of 1917 and dropped into a slot in 1943. And then dropped into the gardens today, as well? It was patently absurd. He studied the blurred edges of the boy’s figure in the later one. Could some kind of double exposure be the explanation? Had someone tried to photograph the 1917 sketch and superimpose it on the 1943 one – perhaps wanting to depict the links between the two wars or create a montage? But the boy was seated at a table in 1917 and standing in a doorway in 1943, and it did not look as if the photograph had been taken with anything more than a box Brownie. He went down the stairs, still trying to think of an explanation.
The hall was wreathed in shadows, and only the faintest light came through the narrow windows on each side of the door. Michael glanced round, wondering if he should switch on a light – always supposing he could find a light switch – then saw a figure walk across the right-hand window immediately outside. He stood still, expecting to hear a knock at the door, hoping this might be news to say the tree had been cleared already and wondering if he should answer the knock when it came.
But the knock did not come. Instead the door rattled and creaked heavily, as if someone was leaning against it. Someone’s trying to get in, thought Michael. Is it the boy I saw earlier? Should I open the door or call Miss Gilmore? Moving quietly, he went up to the window and tried to see out. But it was too dark and rain streaked the window. He waited, but the door was motionless, and there was only the keening wind and the rhythmic tapping of the rain against the windows. Perhaps it had only been the storm he had heard, and the reflection of tree branches blown against the windows. He repressed a shiver and headed for the book room.
As soon as he opened the folder containing the letter, he felt its sadness all over again. The faint concern about an intruder and the puzzle of the sketch and photo receded, and he smoothed the letter out carefully, then turned it over to read the writer’s name. The signature stood out clearly. Stephen Gilmore.
Stephen. Did that name fit those features? Michael thought it did. Saints and martyrs and an English King. He turned the letter back and as he did so a scrap of fabric that had been in the envelope slid out. There was a small star and an insignia. Stephen’s regiment or unit and his rank, presumably. Had this been sent to his family after Stephen had suffered whatever shameful death had been waiting for him?
Nell, delving into the histories and provenances of the antique items she bought and sold, had sometimes said that to turn up old documents was like having a hand reach out from the past and feeling long-ago fingers curl around yours. It was a friendly sensation, she said. But as Michael began to read Stephen Gilmore’s letter, he was aware only of apprehension. There’s something terrible at the end of all this, he thought. It might not be contained in the letter, but I think it’s contained in this house. No, I’m being absurd.
Forcing himself to be objective, he began to read, but he was strongly aware of the fear and desperation that had driven Stephen’s words.
The horrors I experienced at Passchendaele – those squalid, screaming deaths in the mud, and the constant rain of shells from the Bosch – will be nothing compared to what is ahead now. I could wish I had died at Passchendaele among good comrades, knowing I died for what was right and just … That would have been an honourable death – you would all have been proud of me and there would have been memorials – church services. My female cousins would have thought of me as romantic and tragic. The boys would have talked of me as a hero.
This was hardly a conventional farewell letter. Michael glanced at his watch. Half past six. He had time to finish it before dinner with his hostess. He resumed reading, and, as if in eerie echo of his thoughts, the next lines also referred to time.
There’s no clock in here, but I can feel the minutes ticking away … I’m filled with such despair, I’m afraid for my own sanity … I was mad once before, so I’ve been told, and I believe I may easily become mad again … Pray for me, please, for I can see no way of escape. And, oh God, if I could see Fosse House again – if I could see the clear pure light when it falls across the fens, and if I could walk up the tree-lined carriageway and see the lamps burning in the windows as dusk falls … Light the lamps for me, though – do so every evening at dusk – for perhaps I may still somehow find my way home.
I promise you – all of you at home – that I am innocent of this charge. Even if I must die at the hands of Niemeyer’s butchers, I will find a way to convince you all of my innocence. I must find a way. If it takes twenty-five years – if it takes a century, I must – I will – prove my innocence.
Did they light the lamps for you, Stephen? thought Michael, torn with pity. Does someone still do so? Because I saw lights when I came along the drive earlier, and they were faint, strange lights, as if they were the glimmer of lamps from some lost, long-ago world …
Stephen had also written that if it took twenty-five years, or if it took a century, he would prove his innocence. And only fractionally over twenty-five years later, in November 1943, his image had been blurrily captured on a photograph. A century after he had written those words, Michael had seen him walking through the gardens of Fosse House.
It was just after seven o’clock. His hostess would certainly expect punctuality from her guest, however unwelcome and unexpected a guest he might be.
As Michael went in search of the dining-room, he spared a thought for Oxford, and hoped that all was well there.
Memo from: Dr Owen Bracegirdle, History Faculty, Oriel College, Oxford
To: Director of Music, Oriel College, Oxford