The Midnight Circus, стр. 13
Soona wan yellow light from a pair of tall windows assured me that wewere approaching Bay House. The handsome stone building, built aroundthe turn of the century, was situated upon a small rise within sight ofthe sea whose low tide glimmered dully under the glow of a half moon. Ipulled up by the front door, but Mrs. Marchant made no move until Iclimbed out and opened the passenger door for her. Even so, it waswith obvious reluctance that she led me into the house.
Inthe well-lit vestibule, a ship’s barometer upon the wall bore mutetestimony to the unseasonable weather. To one side of a nearby doorwaya stuffed gull stood upon a shelf, its wings outstretched, its beakagape as if in warning. On the opposite wall was a skillful watercolorpainting of the sun rising over a snow-covered landscape.
Mrs.Marchant took my coat and hung it up, then pointed out the stairway.
“It’sthe first door facing you when you reach the top,” she said. “Thedoor’s ajar. Just go right in. He’s waiting for you. Can I bring you acup of tea?”
“Notat the present, thank you.” If I were to find myself attempting toargue Mr. Atkinson into accepting medical advice, it might be best forthe housekeeper not to walk intothe middle of a difficult scene. These old gentlemen can be devilishlyreluctant. And the presence of a woman only makes them worse.
Iascended the stairway and, when I reached the open doorway, I couldhear the labored breathing from within.
I stepped inside and sawAtkinson laid out in bed under a quilt, his head and shoulderspropped up on three plump pillows. His hair was pure white, thickaround the sides but with only a few wisps covering his crown. He wasclean shaven—thanks, I assumed, to the attentions of Mrs. Marchant—andhis features were of a lean, intelligent cast. One eye stared upbrightly at me, the other seemed somehow dead, for it did not trackas its mate did. What struck me most forcefully, however, was the airof melancholy that hung over him, even in repose. It was my immediateimpression that this was not the result of his physical condition,but was a habitual facet of his character.
AsI approached the bed, he fixed me with a stare that bespoke a fiercewill.
“Youare Reverend Kitson?” he asked. His voice, though tired, was that of amuch younger man. In fact, as I got closer, I realized, he was not atall the aged seaman I had been led to expect but looked to be in hislate forties, though hard living and rough seas, as well as thelingering illness, must have taken a great toll.
Ialso realized, somewhat latterly, that I had not donned my clericalcollar before leaving the house.
“Yes,I am the vicar,” I confirmed. “Mrs. Marchant brought me. I wrote youonce.”
Hesmiled, but it did not lift the melancholy that sat on his mouth. “Idid not answer.”
Ishook my head, signifying that it did not matter. Not now.
Hishead shifted as though he were trying to nod in response, but wasimpeded by the pillows. “Mrs. Marchant is a good woman,” he said,“and I will not let her go unrewarded.”
Iwas surprised at the strength and clarity of his voice, which was verymuch at odds with his debilitated appearance. “I am certain that isnot what . . .”
Buthis hand impatiently stopped my sentence. He had no time, thatperemptory wave said, for the niceties of Christian dialogue. I was, Iadmit, glad of that. I have never been really good at this sort ofthing. My parish work includes hospital visits, of course, but I dothem with dread.
Imoved closer and stretched out a hand that stopped short of touchinghis arm. “Do you not think we should phone for a doctor, Atkinson? Youshould really—”
Heinterrupted me this time with a savage cough that sent a brief flush tohis pale young-old face. “I have had enough of his pills andinjections,” he rasped. “If death is coming, we should meet it withdignity, not cringing behind false comforts. All those potions do is togrant us a few hours of breath. I was a naval surgeon not so very longago, and I know of what I speak.”
Irecovered my composure and said, “I knew you were a naval man,something of an explorer, I heard?” I did my best to sound conciliatoryand accommodating. Numbing, even. His violent outburst had caused avisible deterioration in his state, and I did not want to provokeanother.
He made no response to my inquiry, but raised a limp armto indicate a small cabinet by the wall. “Do you drink, Vicar?”
“Itake a drop on occasion,” I conceded, thinking on the hour. I hadforgotten my watch, on the desk by my sermon, but surely it was closingin toward half eleven.
“Thenhave one now,” Atkinson said. “There’s a decent brandy in that cabinetthat will warm you.”
Ihesitated, knowing there was still the sermon to complete when I gothome again. But before I could decline politely he added, “You’ll needa drink if you are to hear me through to the end.”
Thereseemed no sense in upsetting him over so small a matter, so I acceptedhis offer. Then I pulled a chair up to his bedside and sipped from themodest measure I poured myself. In spite of the circumstances, I waspleasantly surprised to find that it was more than merely decent. Icomplimented him upon his taste, and this appeared to both amuse andcalm him.
“Nowthat you are fortified against what is to come, we should get down toour business,” he said, as if I were there for some sort of settling ofa debt, “while there is still time.”
“Iassume you wish me to hear your confession.” It would not be the firsttime I had heard the deathbed story of a man who had not seen theinside of a church since boyhood. Often what these fellows had to saywas all the more poignant for the distance they felt yawning betweenthemselves and their creator. I was good