The Midnight Circus, стр. 12

RequiemAntarctica

withRobert J. Harris

IN 1912 ROBERT FALCON SCOTT and four companions attempted to become thefirst men to reach the South Pole. Beaten to the Pole by the NorwegianRoald Amundsen, all of them perished on the return journey. It waseight months before their bodies were found huddled in a tent. Thesearch party buried them there in the ice and the naval surgeon whoexamined them refused to divulge any medical details of the Polar party's end. It was a secret he carried with him to the grave.

Isuppose a clergyman should be accustomed to keeping God’s hours, but Icould not help feeling vexed when the doorbell rang that chillySaturday night. Most of my day had been taken up with a meeting of thedeanery, and consequently my sermon for the following morning was stillonly half-written. If not for my determination tocomplete my task, I would have been abed some two hours. As it was, mybrain was fogged with lack of sleep as I strove to explicate themysteries of the Resurrection, seeking to do more than simply repeatwhat I had said the previous year. And—to be truthful—the year beforethat.

Iwas sitting in a half-dream when the door chime woke me, ringing likethe tolling of a far-away bell. I shook myself out of an unsettlingfancy about being summoned to watch spirits rising up from opengraves. Pushing myself from my desk, I blinked in the lamplight, andthen frowned down at my watch, which I had placed on the desk. Neareleven—and the text of the sermon not yet done.

Thebell rang again, more insistently this time. I hurried from my study,barely restraining myself from shouting an irked warning to my visitorto show some patience.

Islid back the bolt and opened the door so abruptly that the woman whostood on the threshold took a timid step backward. At once I feltguilty for my own impatience and mustered what I hoped was aconciliatory smile.

Inthe gloom into which she had retreated she was well disguised, and ittook me a few moments to recognize her. She was tightly wrapped in athick green coat with a scarf bound over her head, for the weatheroutside was blustery with snow. Her pleasant, round face looked up atme diffidently. She had been at church sporadically over the past fewyears, but for the life of me I could not recall her name.

“I’msorry to bother you at such an hour, vicar,” she apologized,“but Mr. Atkinson was quite frantic that I bring you.”

‘‘It’sperfectly all right, I assure you.” I wracked my brain for her name.“Perfectly all right.” Now it was coming back to me. “God doesn’tkeep his eye on the clock, Mrs. Marchant,” I added experimentally.

Herexpression brightened only faintly but it was enough to confirm that Ihad recalled her name correctly. She was employed as a housekeeper by aMr. Atkinson who had moved into Bay House about six years before buthad never attended church. He was—I had been reliably told—a retirednaval officer, and I had heard someone speak of him as having beensomething of an explorer in his youth. These days, by contrast, he wasevidently so infirm that he was rarely sighted out of doors. I supposeI should have visited the old man before, offering him the consolationof prayer. But when he had first arrived in our village, I had sentover a welcoming letter. There had been no reply. I did not sendanother. I am not the proselytizing type. I believe that to forceoneself on the unwilling only invites disaster. In God’s owntime, is my motto.

“Mr.Atkinson wishes to see me, you say?”

Shenodded, her eyes wide. “He told me I had to come in person and fetchyou. He was afraid you wouldn’t respond to a phone call.”

“Areyou quite certain it cannot wait until morning? I have, er . . .business.” I gestured vaguely toward the interior of the house. “Itis very late.” And in the morning I would be in church and unavailable,but I did not mention that. Just as I finished speaking, the clock inthe hall began its toll.

“Mr.Atkinson is unwell,” Mrs. Marchant said. There was no mistakingthe genuine anxiety in her voice. The emphasis she laid on that lastword implied more than the normal ill health of an invalid. I evendetected a trace of a tear welling up in her eye. The naturalconclusion was that Atkinson might be dead by morning.

Isighed in what I hoped was a good-natured manner, and signaled her in.Of course I would have to relent. The poor woman had just walked a goodtwo miles in this inclement weather to find me.

“Justgive me a moment to fetch my coat.”

Relief spread across her face.

AsI led her to the back of the parsonage where my car was parked, I had aflickering recollection of the bell in my recent reverie. That sense ofbeing summoned for some extraordinary purpose returned to me with anirrational force that made my hand tremble as I tried to fit the key tothe car door. But of course I did not speak of it. The devil is oftenin dreams. And in loose tongues as well.

Oncewe were seated and on our way, Mrs. Marchant appeared to relax. Sheeven loosened her head scarf, the way another woman of another timemight have loosened her stays. I looked back at the road.

“Iassume Dr. Landsdale is in attendance?”

Thehousekeeper shook her head. I could see it from the corner of my eye.“Mr. Atkinson wouldn’t allow me to call him,” she said, staring offinto the night.

“Butif he is seriously ill . . . ?” I tried to keep any note of censure outof my voice.

“Itwas you he wanted, vicar, no one else,” Mrs. Marchantinsisted. She folded her arms about herself as though thatgesture signaled an end to our conversation, like a full stop at theend of a sentence.

Idecided not to press her. Clearly she was not minded to