The Solitary House by Lynn Shepherd Page A

other side of the gallery. Tulkinghorn is still standing there. Standing and watching. A curious expression on his face—his customary sardonic superiority, yes, but something else as well, which in another man might suggest a barely suppressed excitement. The combination is unsettling, and Charles is struck suddenly by the conviction that more than half of the lawyer’s pleasure in this exquisite collection lies in the power it affords him to withhold that pleasure from everyone else. Even—or perhaps especially—those he ostensibly brings to see it. He has not merely constructed this astonishing gallery, and at unimaginable expense, but contrived every stratagem at his disposal to deceive the eye: light, shadow, looking-glass, trompe-l’oeil . Indeed, as Charles now realises, this space that seems designed for display has actually been created for another purpose altogether. An enfilade of architectural subterfuges that bestows with one hand, what it conceals with the other. There are, unquestionably, incomparable treasures here, but not so many as the eye believes it can see—some are mere illusions, others tantalising glimpses forever out of reach. Charles looks slowly about him, re-adjusting his mental map, and attempting to penetrate beyond the dazzle of remarkable objects to the bones of the building that must lie behind. Tulkinghorn is the Daedalus of this labyrinth, and no-one understands its secrets better than the man who made it. He feels, surely and uncomfortably, that his host is toying with him, much as Thunder does with the mice behind the skirting-boards, when the weather is wet and there is nothing better to do. It takes a few minutes, but he eventually realises that the catacomb effect is nothing but a spectacular sleight of hand: Four of the six narrow passage-ways that appear to lead off the gallery are only mirrored alcoves. There is only one way in, which means there can be only one way down.
    “I congratulate you,” says Tulkinghorn, when Charles emerges eventually beneath him. “Many visitors never negotiate that particular little puzzle. Even the more astute take rather longer than you did. You will find a lit candle in the small niche on the right-hand side. If you hold it carefully inside the sarcophagus you will be able to appreciate fully the translucent quality of the stone. There are also, as you will see, some signs remaining of blue inlay, but sadly the alabaster has not aged well.”
    His tone is almost cordial, as if Charles has passed some obscure initiation.
    “It is extraordinary, Mr Tulkinghorn. The whole collection. Quite extraordinary.”
    The lawyer inclines his head. “I am gratified you think so. But I am afraid I will have to draw your exploration of it to a rather abrupt conclusion. I have a luncheon engagement with a baronet, and I cannot keep him waiting.”
    Charles arrives home just in time to be too late for his own lunch, but Molly scrapes together the remains of the boiled beef and greens, and he elects to take his plate into his great-uncle’s room and sit with him while he eats. The slight graze to his cheek has all but healed and—to Charles’s relief—Maddox seems to retain no memory at all of how he came by it. Though if Abel has anything to say on the matter, it’s doubtful Maddox will ever move much beyond these four walls again. He is quiet today, but Charles has not the experience yet to know the difference between the quiet of composure, and the quiet of catatonia. His eye-glass and his watch are ready to his hand, though he has not yet picked up either of them; but perhaps he just needs something to stimulate his curiosity. Charles finishes his meat and puts the plate on the floor beside him, then takes the Cremorne letters from the inside of his jacket.
    “Do you have a moment, Uncle Maddox?”
    The old man eyes him, rather warily.
    “I have just acquired a new case, that I would like to consult you about.”
    It may be the magic word case , or