This Saxon Shore – sample

It was dreadfully alarming to receive a telegram at the beginning of October 1900, with my brother Ronald a lieutenant with the First Dragoons away fighting in the South African War. I was immensely relieved to discover it was from his old friend, Hugh Merridew, who had recently become a partner in a medical practice down on the south coast. Though Hugh and I had not seen each other for over two months, I was not unduly surprised by his urgent request that I take the next train to Pevensey, for he had always been extremely attentive to, and more than a little fond of me. What did puzzle me, however, was the strange reference to a “troublesome case” which I was, in Hugh’s estimation, the “only person England able solve”.

Professor Withey was perfectly charming about my proposed three days’ absence. He had advised me to pack as many of my books as possible, and use the train journeys and any free time wisely, in view of the fact that, having completed my degree, I had just become the assistant (albeit unpaid and unofficial, for the time being) of this eminent Professor of History at University College, London.

I had replied to Hugh’s telegram, informing him that I should be arriving at Pevensey and Westham station at fourteen minutes past four in the afternoon. He was waiting for me on the platform, and greeted me with characteristic enthusiasm:

‘Eleanor! It’s so good of you to come. You look wonderful! How was the journey? Not too tiring, I hope? Is all this luggage yours?’ He called a porter.

‘I’ve brought a lot of books with me.’

‘Splendid! Just what the doctor ordered!’ I took his arm and was escorted through the noisy crowd that had alighted from the train and past the barrier to the waiting dogcart onto which my two heavy leather valises, my wicker travelling case and my hat-box were already being loaded by the porter who, I thought, deserved the threepence Hugh pressed into his big red palm.

‘Thank’ee, Sir. Good day to you, Madam. Sir!’ He touched his cap. Country people are so much more respectful: not at all like those dreadful Cockneys. Hugh climbed up beside me, clicked his tongue and we pulled away from the station, turned the corner into Westham High Street, drove past the castle walls and, in a very short time, into Pevensey.

‘I’ve booked you in at a little guest house. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable there … run by one of my patients … lady with bunions … ‘

‘Yes, quite. Are you intending to tell me why you’ve got me down here, Hugh? Is it something serious, or is it just another of your schoolboy pranks?’ Hugh lent towards me, his head tilted forward under the very wide brim of my hat.

‘I wish it were the latter, Eleanor …  I say, do you remember the time Ronnie and I made a bomb and detonated it in the potting shed at the Granges? Half scared your poor mother to death, didn’t it? By the way, have you heard from Ronnie recently? And what about Mamma?  She’s keeping well I trust?’

‘I can assure you they were both in excellent health the last time I heard. In the meantime I should be grateful if you would be kind enough to tell me why I have been summoned down here at such short notice. Goodness knows what Mamma would say if she knew where I was and who I was with!’

‘Do you mean to say I am the only person in England who knows your whereabouts, Eleanor?’

‘No I do not mean that. What’s more, I’m still waiting for an explanation–and it had better be a good one!’

‘Is capital murder good enough?’ I gasped, seeing in his good, grey eyes that he was serious.

‘Hugh! Whatever has happened? Who has been murdered?’

‘Oh, just an old academic–a retired classics master.’

‘And what has that to do with you, pray, or with me, for that matter?’

‘With me, because the old boy happened to be one of my patients: stomach ulcers, you know. I was the first person to be called to the scene when they found him. And you, my dear Eleanor, and you, because you are the one person in the world who can help me solve the mystery.’

‘I? But isn’t murder a matter for the police?’

‘Believe me, Eleanor. The Pevensey police are totally incapable of dealing with anything more serious than a stolen bicycle. What’s more, this is no ordinary murder–if murder ever is ordinary–I have the distinct feeling that the murderer is … well … that there is no murderer.’

‘Then it’s a case of suicide, clearly. Was he in a lot of pain with his ulcers?’

‘Constantly.’

‘Or was he being blackmailed? Did he have some terrible secret?’

‘Blackmailed, no. Terrible secret, perhaps.’

‘I’m afraid I still fail to see where I come into it.’

‘You’re a historian–a history graduate.’

‘You know perfectly well I am.’

‘And you know perfectly well that history relates, or chooses not to relate, some terrible secrets.’

‘Inevitably.’

‘Well, there you have it, my dear. You are here to shed light on a terrible secret. Ah. Here we are! Number seven, De Mortain House. I’ll help you in with your things. No doubt you’ll be wanting to rest a little. I have my evening surgery in exactly …’ Hugh pulled out his gold hunter, opened it and glanced at the blue enamel Roman figures. ‘ … twenty-two minutes. I have–audaciously–arranged for us to dine here together … erm … if that suits. Mrs Banks will make you some tea in the meantime.’

‘So I have to wait until you’ve finished your surgery to find out what this terrible secret might be! You always have been, and you will never cease to be, absolutely infuriating, Hugh. It really is too wicked of you!’ But Hugh had already sprung from the driver’s seat and was smiling that disarming smile of his, waiting to help me down.

‘Madame!’ He introduced me to a plump, pink-faced Mrs Banks, who had hobbled amiably to the gate, despite her bunions. A young man I took to be her son carried my luggage into the house. Hugh exchanged a few words with the landlady, apologised to us both for his unseemly departure and climbed up onto the dogcart, promising to return ‘ … as soon as humanly possible: A.S.A.H.P, my dear!’

The room was bright, though–disappointingly–without a view of the English Channel. It had tasteful, ferny wallpaper, white paintwork and contained good quality furniture. I took a little tea and indulged myself with Mrs Banks’ scones and raspberry jam, then set about unpacking. In fact, most of my luggage consisted of books. Far too excited to even think of resting, I sat down at the little walnut table by the open window, through which cool, salty air flowed onto my face and hands, and attempted to work. To little avail: my head was full of Hugh and his murdered man.

At last the dinner gong sounded, and just as I arrived at the foot of the stairs, Hugh came hurrying up the path and through the open door.

‘Forgive me for not having had time to change for dinner, Eleanor. I’ve come straight from the surgery.’ I said nothing, noticing, as he stood framed for a second against the stained glass of the porch, that in fact he was as elegant and dashing as I had ever seen him. There was something almost irresistible about his soft, wavy light brown hair, his high forehead and the strangely strong little square space between his brows.

Mrs Banks had placed us at a small table by the window, discreetly out of earshot of even the most curious of her elderly guests, provided we conversed quietly, which, by tacit, mutual consent, we did. Over a meal whose dishes I barely tasted, I listened, captivated by the extraordinary events reported by Hugh. Insofar as I am able to recall with accuracy, so urgent was the cascade of words that came from his lips, what I learned was this:

The body was that of a certain Mr Anderforth, who had moved to Pevensey on his retirement the previous summer. He had been one of Hugh’s first patients, inherited from his predecessor. It seems the poor man suffered terribly from stomach ulcers, brought on, he claimed, by years of badly cooked meals taken twice a day in the refectory of a well-known boys’ school (which shall remain anonymous). Hugh, however, considered the cause to be of a more nervous kind, describing the patient as sour and embittered, unable to enjoy his retirement, being haunted by nightmares of ‘brainless barbarians’, ‘heathen hordes’ and the like, in whom it had been his lot to attempt to incubate a love of the Classics for almost forty years. Hugh described him as one of that chilling breed of academics whose discipline is a parade-ground of knowledge and exactitude and whose unfortunate pupils were there essentially to be harried and bullied into ranks. Hugh’s military analogy went no further, as we were both–very obviously–mindful of poor Ronnie away fighting in the Transvaal.

The old boy’s housekeeper, a Mrs Morcar, (he was a bachelor), had arrived at her normal time on Tuesday morning and, as instructed, had rung the bell twice before using the key with which she was entrusted, to open the front door and let herself into the house. Assuming her employer to be out for his morning constitutional down to the bay and back, the good lady had set about her duties as usual. On entering Mr Anderforth’s study, she saw his slippered feet and the bottom of his pyjama trousers on the hearthrug, the rest of him lying hidden behind his desk. Thinking he might be dozing, for his sufferings prevented him from sleeping properly at night, she tiptoed round to get a good look at him. Imagine the poor woman’s distress at meeting the staring eyes of a corpse! What had upset her most was not the unnaturally darkened colour of the poor fellow’s neck and chin, but the wide open jaw and the drawn, bluish lips, (“as if ‘e’d been a-screamin’ …” was how she’d put it), and the terrified expression in the eyes. Not sure what to do, or whether he was in fact dead, her first reaction had been to run out and alert the neighbour, who had immediately sent for the doctor.

Hugh became more and more excited:

‘As I was able to tell the police, when they finally appeared, he was still lying where the housekeeper had found him, the neighbour having wisely thought it better not to move him. He bore every sign of a man who had suffered a severe thrombosis, and had been dead for six or seven hours. However, the alarming thing, which is known only to myself and to you, now, Eleanor, is that while Mrs Morcar was in the kitchen making a pot of tea, I undid his dressing-gown, which was somewhat rucked up around his middle, and found a single broad, bloodless knife-wound in his abdomen. Out of delicacy, I covered him up again, and in so doing, noticed, to my consternation, that neither his pyjamas nor his dressing-gown had the slightest trace of blood or even a cut in them. Could the pains have become so intolerable that our Mr Anderforth had decided to take his own life? I looked around for a weapon of some sort, but the only one in the room was a short, brass-handled sword in its scabbard, hanging vertically on the wall near the window–a good twelve feet from where the body was lying. Well, as you can imagine, I went straight over to the window, unhooked it from the wall and drew the broad, steel blade. It was exceedingly cold to the touch, which struck me as strange, for the time of year. What’s more, it clearly hadn’t been moved–or dusted–recently, for the hilt and the brass trim of the top of the scabbard were festooned with fine cobwebs. Unfortunately for us both, Mrs Morcar came into the room without knocking at that very moment and beheld me brandishing the dashed thing! She immediately turned and fled, screaming, to her kitchen, slamming the doors behind her. As I discovered in a conversation with her through the keyhole of the kitchen door, she’d come simply to ask if I would like a biscuit with my tea, and had, understandably, in the circumstances, taken fright. I was able to calm her, reassuring her that the sword was now back in its place, and that I had simply been examining it. She promised to bring in the tea as soon as she had had time to compose herself, so that I disposed of a few more minutes to scout around the fireplace and finally cast a glance over the books and papers on the desk. It was here that I came upon …’ Hugh lowered his voice to the faintest murmur, so that I was obliged to lean well forward across the table to catch what he said. ‘… a certain document which I took the precaution of slipping into my bag before Mrs Morcar or the police disturbed me.’

‘You deliberately removed …’ Hugh motioned with his head towards the other guests, most of whom were well into their dessert. I lowered my voice accordingly. ‘Hugh! Do you realise how dangerous it is to … well … do what you did? Why, you could get yourself implicated as an accomplice … or worse! What if the housekeeper tells the police about the sword?’

‘No danger of that, my dear. The fact is, when my eyes fell upon what I have here in my jacket pocket, I immediately thought of you and … well I suppose my instincts got the better of me.’ I felt a sudden pang.

‘Hugh! What are you suggesting? What you are saying doesn’t sound at all proper. I’m beginning to wonder why ever I responded to your summons.’ However, all Hugh did was smile in that exasperating, almost wicked way of his, and tap his breast pocket.

‘Would you like to see what I found, Eleanor?’ I did my utmost to appear calm.

‘If you give me your solemn word that I shall not be shocked. I should never forgive you …’

‘My dear, dear Eleanor. I give you my most solemn, most soulful word that though you will undoubtedly be … erm … disturbed … erm … intrigued by what I have to show you, you will have no grounds whatsoever for thinking any the less of your most loyal and humblest servant Hugh Merridew!’ Mrs Banks, who had evidently caught the end of Hugh’s declaration as she ambled up with the dessert, beamed at me pinkly, setting an overflowing willow-pattern dish of apple pie and cream before me. Hugh watched her return to the kitchen and pulled out of his inside pocket a sheaf of two or three handwritten pages.

‘How’s your Latin, Eleanor? Better than mine, I trust.’

‘My Latin?’

‘The latter part is in Latin.’

‘Well. I shall have to see what I can do. So long as it’s legible, I ought to be able to make some sense of it.’

‘Sense is the word, my dear.’ I pushed my dessert to one side and began to read what was a first draught, with several crossings-out and reformulations, nevertheless, clearly the work of an orderly, disciplined mind:

October 1900

Fragment of a Mediæval Latin Text

(Seemingly a Thirteenth Century Copy of an Earlier Record) Written in a regular Caroline Minuscule hand on both sides of a large piece of parchment, twice folded and re-used as the rigid part of the binding of a Seventeenth Century book of sermons, ex libris H. Anderforth, Classical scholar and antiquarian, author of the present translation

Hugh interrupted:

‘Try as I would, I couldn’t find the original text, though there is a volume of Seventeenth Century sermons in the study, whose leather binding has come adrift and which has clearly had the stiffener removed.’ I nodded and continued.

… the fleet lay at anchor outside the estuary of the Somme. Not fearing any possibility of attack from the English, upon the Duke’s orders, the ships were to follow the course set by his own vessel. Hence, a lantern was affixed to the masthead in such a way as to facilitate visibility. However, soon after the fleet arrived in the open channel, by misfortune, the Duke’s ship became separated from the slower transports, heavily laden with men, horses and war materials of all kinds There was great consternation aboard the transports, and every effort was made to speed their progress. Fear for the safety of the Duke was succeeded by great relief when the latter’s vessel was again sighted at dawn, where it lay at anchor, awaiting the fleet. Notwithstanding this grave peril now past, by the grace of God, (for the Duke’s vessel was unprotected) the fleet was able to reassemble. Disembarkation was carried out at the place called Pevensey on 28th September. The Duke held council, for it was unexpected that the landing should have taken place without meeting the slightest resistance from the English. Some of the noblemen were in favour of a march upon London-burg or Winchester without delay. However, the Duke, anxious not to move his army too far from his ships before having fought a major engagement, decided, principally on the advice of his nobleman Walter Ritomagne, that a temporary camp should be established within an ancient and disused fort at Pevensey and that scouts should be sent out to ascertain the whereabouts of the enemy host, be it that of Harold of England or Harald of Norway.

Thus the Duke caused a temporary camp consisting of a bank and a ditch to be constructed inside the aforesaid fort. During this operation, were thrown up so many very ancient, blackened and broken bones and pierced skulls that the soldiers began to fear an ill-omen for the success of the invasion. On hearing this, Walter Ritomagne, whom the Duke had charged with the supervision of the work, mounted the rampart and spoke thus:

‘Worthy soldiers, these bones are the remains of Bretons, massacred by the Saxons. Our discovery of them means that it is now the turn of the Normans, among whose host there are so many valiant Bretons, returned at last to the homeland of their fathers, to avenge these terrible deaths by slaughtering the Saxon dogs as they deserve.’ The Duke, Bishop Odo and others appeared well pleased by this wonderful intelligence, and were confirmed in their strategy by the subsequent words of Robert FitzWimarc, who advised immobility and entrenching.

The earthwork completed, the Duke granted permission to Walter Ritomagne once again to address the host. His words, at first marvellous to hear, ran thus:

‘We are secure in a fort built by the great and powerful Romans many centuries ago. Fortunately for us, the Saxon dogs could never construct ramparts such as these. The Romans,’ he asserted, ‘were first class fighters, disciplined and concerted in battle, fearless and redoubtable. The English had managed to take possession– illegitimately–of these islands only because the Romans had already begun to withdraw their garrisons.’ These were indeed wondrous words. All felt silent, and Walter Ritomagne went on to speak as one possessed by a supernatural eloquence. Here and there, Latin words, incomprehensible to the soldiers, insinuated themselves into his speech, and this with greater and greater frequency until only the Duke and his close entourage had the learning necessary to understand the wonderfully detailed account of the Roman legions’ fighting techniques. After some minutes, Walter Ritomagne, who had become agitated and flushed, collapsed and was carried to his tent, in a state of fever.

From here on, Henry Anderforth’s “translation” was simply, one presumed, a copy of the original Latin text, which I was able to translate out loud to Hugh:

All that evening, this worthy nobleman was in delirium until overcome, exhausted, by sleep. The next morning, he was found to be dead, his face and throat black, and an appalling internal wound in the abdomen. William [the Conqueror] caused him to be buried rapidly, and had the men who had been guarding his tent executed for failing in their duty. It was announced to the troops that Walter Ritomagne had died of a fever caused by the insalubrious, marshy terrain to the east and north of the fort. William wisely evacuated the camp and brought his men to the place called Hastings where he awaited the enemy host.

I looked up to see Hugh’s excited eyes staring into mine.

‘That’s about what I understood. Isn’t it absolutely scintillating, Eleanor?’

‘And this was on his desk?’

‘Yes. He’d obviously been working on it during the night. Do you realise what we’ve got hold of here, Eleanor?’

‘Well. We’ve got hold of a first draft of something produced by a sick old man about to take his own life and anxious to leave his mark on history, I should say.’

‘Oh Eleanor! How can you be so … prosaic!’

‘Until we find the original text, your poor old patient’s scribblings are historiographically worthless, Hugh. As a man of science you ought to realise that.’

‘But the blackening of the face and the internal wound! Don’t you see, Eleanor? Ritomagne and Anderforth met with the same death!’ I must confess I had been so intent on the translation that I had been insensitive to the parallel. I felt myself shudder.

‘Of course! Hugh! Tell me it’s one of your pranks! You’ve made the whole thing up to … well … so that I should come to Pevensey.’

‘Eleanor. I swear to you I did no such thing. The unescapable fact is, we’re onto something serious, … deadly serious!’

I slept not very well that night. I was already apprehensive about my new position as Professor Withey’s assistant. However, this latest coup of Hugh’s worried me. He had always been intense and prone to exaggeration. The excited way in which he had become caught up in these events was infectious and dangerous. For all he was a qualified doctor, I had the greatest difficulty in seeing him as anyone different from the strange, tousled, restless schoolboy Ronnie had invited to spend part of the holidays with us–what would it be … ten or twelve years earlier and as a result of which they had become inseparable friends–I recalled Hugh’s compelling, breathless descriptions of days spent with Ronnie in the South Kensington museum, in Kew Gardens or at the Crystal Palace. Truly, I was uneasy about how a man of such passionate disposition could possibly listen to his patients and decide calmly what course of treatment to embark upon. I could just imagine him being fascinated by symptoms and poring over his medical books until deep into the night, comparing them with lurid accounts of tropical diseases contracted by unfortunate colonials. I simply could not see Hugh making the scientific step from discovery to action, from description to prescription. Moreover, it was typical of his generous but volatile nature to send me a telegram before waiting for the outcome of the autopsy, imagining in his boyish way that I of all people would have the answer to the problem–as if by magic! I suppose Hugh had always looked up to me, who am two years his senior, and, I presume to think, because my own rational nature complemented his own impetuosity. Not that he could have been capable of such a prosaic calculation, for Hugh’s mind was ruled by his heart. He appealed to, and had always been appealed to, by the emotions. Perhaps, that was the almost magical pivot of his charm, what made him so wonderfully disquieting. How typical of him to be in–illicit–possession of a text purporting to having been written at one of the very hinges of history!

I must have woken up six or seven times during the night, and lain for long and long enough, wondering what was happening to Hugh. Ritomagne was a name I had never read in connection with the Norman Conquest, nor in any other connection, for that matter. Could it be that poor Hugh was losing control of his senses? Was the work of a general practitioner–a role I could only see him partially fulfilling–proving too much for him … or too little, perhaps? Was I witnessing the driving, uncontrollable instinct of a poet, or some sort of mental breakdown? Or was his concern for Ronnie–not to mention his affection for me–so strong that our forced separation had unbalanced his mind? Whatever could be the meaning of this wound on Anderforth’s body? How could the old man have known he was describing a death so similar to his own? All these questions, along with countless others pitched and tumbled, over and over, so that I awoke on the Friday morning unrefreshed, and was glad of the chance to visit the castle alone, gaunt and inhospitable though it was, while Hugh conducted his morning surgery.

Anderforth’s body was in the hospital in Eastbourne awaiting the autopsy. Hugh, with his usual désinvolture had negotiated his and my own presence, having impressed upon the physician who was to perform the examination, a former army surgeon who had, somewhat unaccountably, taken a liking to Hugh, that my participation was “indispensible, given the enigmatic, historical nature of the case”. To what extent this colleague of his, a certain Dr Gifford, was privy to Hugh’s fantastic elaboration of the circumstances, I did not know. Nevertheless, we took the eleven thirty-two train into Eastbourne and had a light lunch in a hotel just opposite the station on arrival.

According to his medical record, which Hugh had necessarily brought with him, Henry Anderforth appeared to have no living relations, unless an uncle of his mother’s, who had emigrated to Canada some sixty years earlier, had married and had had children. Thus, we were dealing with a man who was practically alone in the world. I must say, when the portly, faintly jovial, but brusque surgeon uncovered the dead man’s livid face, the taughtened skin, the long thin, slightly hooked nose, the prominent larynx and shrunken lower jaw all bore the stamp of an unhappy and unfulfilled life. Henry Anderforth had been a decidedly unattractive man, unnaturally aged for his sixty-six years. Someone, Hugh possibly, had closed the eyes and the mouth, so that the corpse, despite its being the first I had ever encountered, was not– as I had feared–horrific. There was extensive bruising on the throat, and as we discovered some seconds later, around the collar bone. Dr Gifford pulled down the sheet only as far as the man’s abdomen, doubtless out of regard for my sensibilities, revealing nothing in any way alarming. However, Hugh frowned. His lips parted with an audible ‘pop’ as he tilted his head back and forth, scanning the man’s hollow stomach. I realised he was looking for the wound he had so precisely described to me.

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