The Lying Tongue (23 page)

She looked up and smiled, only too pleased to help.

“I don’t know whether you might know, but I’m trying to find out some more information about the collection here.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I just wondered if you might know anything about any of the objects on display?”

“I’m not an expert, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask my husband about that. But there is a charming story about how the book came into the abbey’s possession. Have you heard about that?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said.

“Oh, it’s wonderful, quite amusing, really. When John Tregon-well, whose family lived in the house next door—are you sure you don’t already know this? Did you not see the notice outside on the verge?”

“No,” I said, smiling.

“Well, one day the little boy, John, who must have been no more than five at the time, was playing in here and climbed to the top of the tower. I suppose the wind must have been quite ferocious up there, or perhaps he got too close to the edge. Anyway, he fell sixty feet and was only saved by his nankeen shirts, which I suppose must have acted as a sort of parachute. As a gesture of thanks, he gave all his books to the abbey. And so it’s thanks to his petticoats that we have this volume here.”

“That’s quite incredible,” I said, doing a spot of quick thinking. “What a story. In fact, just the kind of thing I’m looking for.”

“Really?”

“My thesis is going to concentrate on oral history,” I said. “I want to ask local people what they think of art.”

“I see,” she said. “As I said, it’s probably best if you talk to my husband. He’s the real expert. He’s at home this afternoon if you would like to see him.”

“Would that be okay?”

“I don’t see why not. In fact, I’m sure he would be delighted with the excuse to take a break from his work.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”

“Now, don’t be so silly. In fact, when I finish up here in a couple of minutes, I’ll go over to the house and ask him.”

“That’s ever so kind. Thank you.”

“That’s no problem. Why don’t you continue looking around while I go and check? I’m sure there’s still a lot you would like to see. Oh, by the way, I forgot to ask your name.”

“It’s Adam,” I said. “Adam Woods.”

As she left the abbey, letting the thick wooden door bang behind her, I continued on my tour, past the altar and into the north aisle. I turned a corner and saw a tomb of a woman, her likeness carved in marble. In her left hand she held a book, presumably a missal, in her right, a skull missing its bottom jaw. The sight of the skull unsettled me, and I turned away from it without making any notes and walked down the aisle back toward the entrance. I stopped by another white marble tomb of a man gazing upon the supine form of a lady. The decorative flourishes—the brocading on the woman’s dress, the twill cord around her waist, the tassels on the cushion supporting her—were all extremely fine, but at that moment I wasn’t interested in aesthetics. It was the pose of the two of them there, the man gazing upon the lifeless body of his wife, that fixed me to the spot.

I used to wake up in the middle of the night and watch Eliza sleeping. I would rest my elbow on the pillow, my hand on my cheek, and gaze on her while she rested. At times her breathing was so inaudible that I thought she had slipped into unconsciousness and died. At that moment I loved her so much. But then her chest would rise and fall and she would begin to stir.

I heard the door bang shut and turned around to see the head-master’s wife staring at me.

“Good news,” she said, walking toward me. “Just as I had said, my husband would be happy to see you later today. He suggests tea at four o’clock, if that suits you.”

“That’s wonderful.”

She gave me directions to the house, which stood in the school grounds, before excusing herself.

“Sorry, I have to run, otherwise we could have had a chat. Even though I have to confess I’m quite at a loss to know exactly what it is you want to write about, I think it’s just wonderful you are interested in art and in the past. Just wonderful. The way you were looking at that sculpture there almost brought tears to my eyes.”

“You must be Mr. Woods, the young man my wife was telling me about,” said the headmaster, opening the door of his large Victorian house and stretching out his hand. “Hello. I’m Jeffrey Peters. Come in, come in.”

The gray-haired, smartly dressed man led me through the entrance hall to a large sitting room where a fire cracked and spitted and cast a warm glow over the buttermilk-colored walls.

“Please sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a bergère chair with olive-green cushions. “May I get you some tea?”

“That would be wonderful,” I said, sitting down.

“I won’t be long, but please make yourself comfortable,” he said.

As he went off to make the tea, I stood up and took the opportunity to look around the tastefully decorated sitting room. On one wall stood an enormous bookcase, filled with books on church and cathedral architecture, spirituality and Christianity, while on the top of a highly polished mahogany chest of drawers stood a number of photographs of the headmaster and his wife and family. It was obvious that since the photographs had been taken, the headmaster, once quite a rotund figure, had lost a considerable amount of weight. In the corridor I heard the sound of the headmaster carrying the tea things, so I quickly resumed my seat.

“Here we are,” he said, placing the tray on the low-lying table between our chairs. “Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk,” I said.

“And cake? June does rather pride herself on her fruitcake.”

“What a good idea,” I said. “Thank you.”

“June told me a little about your proposed thesis,” he said, passing me a plate, “which does sound rather intriguing, but I wondered if you could outline it in a little more detail.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, trying not to think too much about the library of specialist books on the shelves above me. “I’m not an expert in church or cathedral architecture—I’ve only just finished an art history degree—but I wanted to research the way objects in places like Winterborne Abbey are displayed and experienced.”

The headmaster reached out to take his teacup, but his intelligent eyes registered a keen interest in the subject.

“For instance, when you go to a museum, a world-class museum like the Tate or the V & A or the National Gallery, you see objects of great genius and beauty and intelligence, but often I believe you don’t feel a personal connection with the art. Whereas if you live or study or work in close proximity to a place, such as the abbey, that can trace the provenance of the objects in its collection way back in history, I think a viewer has a very different experience of the things on display.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” said the headmaster. “It’s an interesting idea.”

“Your wife told me that fascinating story about the little boy who fell off the tower.”

“Oh, yes, terribly charming,” he said, laughing. “The famous nankeen petticoat.”

“And how he went on to leave his library to the school. I would be really interested to research the history of the book on display, of course, together with the ivory triptych, the chalice, cross, and other objects. And also some of the sculptures in the abbey as well, some of which are very fine indeed.”

“Yes, we would have had a great deal more, I should think, if the Norman church that stood on the site had not been struck by lightning and consumed by fire in the early fourteenth century.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. A case of
totalier inflammavit, columnis decrustatis.”

“I see.”

He took another sip of tea and fixed me with his eyes.

“Of course I will help in any way I can, but I really can’t see what I can do.”

“I wondered whether the school keeps records of the objects, whether there is an archive of any sort.”

“Yes, there is something in the library I seem to remember, a ledger of some kind, I think. You’re welcome to have access to that if it helps.”

“Thank you, that’s extremely kind of you. And also, as I’m interested in the way people perceive these objects, I wondered whether it would be possible for you to put me in touch with any former staff members, for instance, or old boys of the school. I think it would be good to hear from as wide a range of people as possible, those from older and younger generations.”

“What kind of questions will you ask them?”

A currant from the fruitcake lodged itself in my throat.

“Sorry, excuse me,” I said, coughing. “It would be things like, what was your reaction when you first saw the particular object? Did you consider it to be an historical exhibit or a work of art or both? And how would you say it differed from the objects on display in a conventional museum?” I thought about the religious books on the shelves. “And did the relics or the objects have any kind of religious significance for you? Were they invested with a sort of spirituality?”

The headmaster looked down at the floor as he thought this over. As I waited for his decision, my heart began to race. I forced myself to keep my composure. Finally he raised his head, looked at me and smiled.

“I can see that could be very interesting indeed,” he said. “And I presume you will study other places as well.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m not sure which ones yet, but basically it will be anywhere that has a collection of art objects on display that have been there for years and that have a local, quite specific connection. So it may be things in a church, a local museum, a school or wherever. Of course, I am going to have to limit myself to the number of places I study, but if you have any suggestions, I’d be very happy to hear them.”

By the time I had finished, I had almost convinced myself that it was a worthwhile, and even quite interesting, subject for research.

“I think it’s a splendid idea, but I just have one question,” he said, staring intently at me. “Why on earth did you choose Winter-borne Abbey? After all, we are hardly, as they say, in the center of things, and the collection here, although we have a number of very fine pieces, is extremely modest.”

It was one question I had not prepared myself for. I pretended to clear my throat once more to give myself a few extra seconds to think.

“Sorry about this,” I said, as I coughed. “Oh, rather a silly reason, I’m afraid. When I was a teenager, I read
The Debating Society,
which I think was written by a former teacher here, Gordon Crace.”

On the mention of the name, the headmaster’s eyes narrowed. The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant, but I had no choice but to continue.

“The book made a great impression on me at the time,” I said, “especially the descriptions of the abbey, the school and the landscape. A few years later, my family came down to the Isle of Pur-beck for a summer holiday, and I pleaded with my parents to make the drive over to Winterborne Abbey to see it. I was astonished by its beauty and I suppose I never forgot it.”

I laughed at myself for being so foolish, but the headmaster’s stern expression did not soften.

“I had rather hoped the world had forgotten about that silly book,” he said, sighing. “In fact, I think the less said about it the better.”

The headmaster rose to his feet.

“But come to my office in the school on Monday morning, and we’ll see what we can do,” he said. “Mrs. Fowles, the librarian, is bound to be of some help.”

As he led the way out of the room and to the front door, I got the impression that he couldn’t wait to get rid of me, as if the mere mention of Crace’s name had polluted the air.