notice
that the backdrop also featured what looked like tiny bright stars. Or maybe they were blemishes in the photographic paper.
Before passing into the unlit passageway of the ground floor that led to the rooms displaying Mason’s dioramas, they passed a selection of other photographs that Edith did not draw
Catherine’s attention to. But she looked up at them as they passed by and she caught glimpses of two tall figures dressed in black against lighter backgrounds, but surrounded by a group of
what she thought were children.
‘Stop here!’ Edith commanded from her chair in the barely lit passage. ‘This one, I think. This is the right one, yes, I’m quite sure. Now, if you would be so kind . . .
The door is unlocked.’
EIGHTEEN
The thin teacup rattled against the saucer Catherine had perched upon her lap. From her chair in the drawing room, Edith watched Catherine’s nervous fingers with either
pride or pleasure.
‘What is the point of art, Miss Howard, if it does not move us?’ Edith said with a sly smile.
As before, Horatio the dog stared at Catherine with a wet sympathetic eye. The other animals of the silent, stuffed menagerie waited patiently upon their perches for her response to what she had
just seen.
‘It’s . . . extraordinary.’
Edith nodded her head slowly. ‘The very word.’
And it certainly was a word for accurately describing what she had just seen in two of the ground-floor rooms set aside to display M. H. Mason’s early works. Catherine believed she’d
just seen at least one thousand dead rats, imbued with human characteristics and apparel down to the minute detail of their uniforms and facial expressions and postures. One diorama depicted
nothing as living. No-man’s-land, strewn with shell craters, demolished trenches, blackened tree stumps and rats. Dead rats. Rats that had looked so similar to small lifeless men in filthy
khaki, she had been forced to lean over the glass display case to make sure they were, in fact, rats. They had no tails. Some of them were only bones inside hairless grey skin.
The second piece had affected her so much she even thought, for a moment, that she could hear the crackle of rifle retorts, the far-off thunder of artillery and the muffled thumps of exploding
ordnance in wet mud. That case had featured a long weary line of men –
no, they were rats –
walking abreast of each other from a trench and into a pitted horizon wreathed in
white smoke. It was called ‘Ten Men Standing at Reveille’. Edith commented only once, to say her uncle had watched three hundred men reduced to ten left standing, in less than six
minutes, at the Battle of Bapaume.
Catherine lapped at her tea and wondered if she could endure hours alone in those dim rooms, cataloguing the entire contents of every square inch, of each case, without going mad. No wonder they
hid them in the dark.
That morning, the doors to the relevant ground-floor rooms were unlocked and the windows unshuttered in advance of her visit. Maude must have been busy. And Maude had not done more than glance
at her since she arrived, and within the solitary glance there was not even a flicker of dismay or surprise at seeing the unwanted guest return. Despite the note, the housekeeper had remained as
indifferent and unfriendly as ever.
Because she is mad. Edith is mad. Mason and his horrid sister were mad. They are all mad. They live with thousands of dead rats.
Maude was unconcerned by the injury her foot or ankle had sustained since Catherine’s previous visit. She only wore one boot and her hobble was more pronounced as the other foot was
entirely encased in a bandage. She should have been resting. Asking Maude about the injury seemed like a useless gesture, and Catherine’s pity would make a weak show of appearing for anyone
but herself. Edith seemed entirely unaware that Maude had even suffered an injury and issued orders as if the housekeeper were a slave.
‘You must
that the backdrop also featured what looked like tiny bright stars. Or maybe they were blemishes in the photographic paper.
Before passing into the unlit passageway of the ground floor that led to the rooms displaying Mason’s dioramas, they passed a selection of other photographs that Edith did not draw
Catherine’s attention to. But she looked up at them as they passed by and she caught glimpses of two tall figures dressed in black against lighter backgrounds, but surrounded by a group of
what she thought were children.
‘Stop here!’ Edith commanded from her chair in the barely lit passage. ‘This one, I think. This is the right one, yes, I’m quite sure. Now, if you would be so kind . . .
The door is unlocked.’
EIGHTEEN
The thin teacup rattled against the saucer Catherine had perched upon her lap. From her chair in the drawing room, Edith watched Catherine’s nervous fingers with either
pride or pleasure.
‘What is the point of art, Miss Howard, if it does not move us?’ Edith said with a sly smile.
As before, Horatio the dog stared at Catherine with a wet sympathetic eye. The other animals of the silent, stuffed menagerie waited patiently upon their perches for her response to what she had
just seen.
‘It’s . . . extraordinary.’
Edith nodded her head slowly. ‘The very word.’
And it certainly was a word for accurately describing what she had just seen in two of the ground-floor rooms set aside to display M. H. Mason’s early works. Catherine believed she’d
just seen at least one thousand dead rats, imbued with human characteristics and apparel down to the minute detail of their uniforms and facial expressions and postures. One diorama depicted
nothing as living. No-man’s-land, strewn with shell craters, demolished trenches, blackened tree stumps and rats. Dead rats. Rats that had looked so similar to small lifeless men in filthy
khaki, she had been forced to lean over the glass display case to make sure they were, in fact, rats. They had no tails. Some of them were only bones inside hairless grey skin.
The second piece had affected her so much she even thought, for a moment, that she could hear the crackle of rifle retorts, the far-off thunder of artillery and the muffled thumps of exploding
ordnance in wet mud. That case had featured a long weary line of men –
no, they were rats –
walking abreast of each other from a trench and into a pitted horizon wreathed in
white smoke. It was called ‘Ten Men Standing at Reveille’. Edith commented only once, to say her uncle had watched three hundred men reduced to ten left standing, in less than six
minutes, at the Battle of Bapaume.
Catherine lapped at her tea and wondered if she could endure hours alone in those dim rooms, cataloguing the entire contents of every square inch, of each case, without going mad. No wonder they
hid them in the dark.
That morning, the doors to the relevant ground-floor rooms were unlocked and the windows unshuttered in advance of her visit. Maude must have been busy. And Maude had not done more than glance
at her since she arrived, and within the solitary glance there was not even a flicker of dismay or surprise at seeing the unwanted guest return. Despite the note, the housekeeper had remained as
indifferent and unfriendly as ever.
Because she is mad. Edith is mad. Mason and his horrid sister were mad. They are all mad. They live with thousands of dead rats.
Maude was unconcerned by the injury her foot or ankle had sustained since Catherine’s previous visit. She only wore one boot and her hobble was more pronounced as the other foot was
entirely encased in a bandage. She should have been resting. Asking Maude about the injury seemed like a useless gesture, and Catherine’s pity would make a weak show of appearing for anyone
but herself. Edith seemed entirely unaware that Maude had even suffered an injury and issued orders as if the housekeeper were a slave.
‘You must
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