Tom All-Alone's by Lynn Shepherd Page B

You will find the stairs in the corner over there.’
    Charles heads round the gallery to the far side, but when he gets there he finds himself unexpectedly confounded. He knows this is where the stairs are supposed to be (and he is, as we know, rather better than most at finding his way), but when he turns the final corner by a niche containing a life-size statue of Pan, he finds himself face to face with – himself: a life-size reflection of himself. The glass is slightly convex, and the mirror so cleverly sited and angled that it makes the room seem at least twice its real size. It also serves, very effectively, as a blind alley, an optical illusion that can only be designed to lead the inexperienced visitor astray. What sort of man could possibly—? Charles turns and looks backs to the 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 realizes, 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 tantalizing glimpses forever out of reach. Charles looks slowly about him, re-adjusting his mental map, and attempting to penetrate beyond the dazzleof 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 realizes that the catacomb effect is nothing but a spectacular sleight of hand: four of the six narrow passageways 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
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    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