photograph from the second envelope . . .
'I say, Edmund, what is it? You look as though you have seen –
I did not say ghost, out of respect for your sceptical frame of
mind.' Sala reaches for the photograph; Whitty snatches it from his
grasp, turns, and leaves the room without uttering a word. With the
mechanical gait of a sleep–walker Whitty steps out of the
building onto Ingester Square, where he pauses in the inadequate
shelter of the only tree in the vicinity – nearly dead, yet not
quite ready for the fire. He pauses with no destination in mind, and
for no reason in particular he examines the bark of this enduring
plant . . . He sits on the bench, insensible to the moisture soaking
the seat of his trousers. He holds the square envelope out in front
of him as though it were about to explode. Blackmail, for certain –
but to what end? To extort money from a 61 WHITE STONE DAY journalist
on his uppers? Or to bar further enquiries into the circumstances of
David's life and death? In either case, the sender has made his
point. The photograph is of the type which has been imported from
France and sold on Holywell Street since the invention of the
daguerreotype. Such photographs commonly depict a naked woman of a
certain type, in a tawdry attempt at a luxurious setting. The most
expensive feature a gentleman in a similar state. This picture is
infinitely worse. It is impossible that it could be an impostor. What
actor could counterfeit the small, crescent–shaped birthmark on
David's thigh, or the scar from a fractured collarbone after falling
from a horse, or the crow's–feet at the corner of his eyes from
rowing in the summer sun? Or the lazy smile which Edmund had seen
spread slowly over David's face whenever he contemplated his own
handsome reflection in a glass? The female in the picture cannot have
attained her twelfth year. Monstrous. The oriental wallpaper in the
background tells him nothing, for it is a favourite with the fast set
in both Paris and London. He slips the photograph back into the
envelope and into his coat pocket. Why does he not simply destroy the
thing, rip it to shreds, throw it in the putrid Thames where it
belongs? Because, even were this the only photograph taken, there
might be hundreds of duplicates, ready to be sold beneath the
counters of bookshops all over the city. What might he be compelled
to do, in order to prevent this from happening? Watched by the
gargoyles across the square, slouched atop the Church of England,
Whitty rises abruptly to his feet – too abruptly, for he has to
extend one hand to steady himself on the bench, only to cut it on an
exposed nail. A bitter oath escapes his throat, directed at various
kinds of pain, and he exits Ingester Square at a run, howling aloud,
mouth agape, unable to contain himself in the most miserable hour of
his life. 62 12 The Pith and Paradox He needs a drink desperately,
yet Plant's is out of the question. He decides to calm his nerves in
an appalling den near the Embankment, called the Pith and Paradox. It
is filled with hoodlums for hire. Whitty is acquainted with its
proprietor, a woman of fifty who takes the name Madame Geneva, whose
celebrated breasts spill over the counter like tipped bowls of
tapioca. When not serving acrid glasses of doctored gin at tuppence a
glass, or paying tuppence for a stolen coat worth a guinea, the good
woman performs Tarot readings for local judies, bludgers and
gonolphs, as though their futures were not sufficiently obvious
already. The moment Whitty enters the Pith and Paradox, it is clear
that a change of radical proportions has taken place: an unfamiliar
cleanliness and orderliness, a dearth of vomit. The floorboards are
no longer carpeted with sawdust, sodden with expectoration, but
instead have been swept clean. Nor does the diseased hag–bag at
the end of the bar cackle over her gin at the top of her voice, but
maintains an almost decorous state of inebriation. 'Mr Whitty,' comes
a familiar,
'I say, Edmund, what is it? You look as though you have seen –
I did not say ghost, out of respect for your sceptical frame of
mind.' Sala reaches for the photograph; Whitty snatches it from his
grasp, turns, and leaves the room without uttering a word. With the
mechanical gait of a sleep–walker Whitty steps out of the
building onto Ingester Square, where he pauses in the inadequate
shelter of the only tree in the vicinity – nearly dead, yet not
quite ready for the fire. He pauses with no destination in mind, and
for no reason in particular he examines the bark of this enduring
plant . . . He sits on the bench, insensible to the moisture soaking
the seat of his trousers. He holds the square envelope out in front
of him as though it were about to explode. Blackmail, for certain –
but to what end? To extort money from a 61 WHITE STONE DAY journalist
on his uppers? Or to bar further enquiries into the circumstances of
David's life and death? In either case, the sender has made his
point. The photograph is of the type which has been imported from
France and sold on Holywell Street since the invention of the
daguerreotype. Such photographs commonly depict a naked woman of a
certain type, in a tawdry attempt at a luxurious setting. The most
expensive feature a gentleman in a similar state. This picture is
infinitely worse. It is impossible that it could be an impostor. What
actor could counterfeit the small, crescent–shaped birthmark on
David's thigh, or the scar from a fractured collarbone after falling
from a horse, or the crow's–feet at the corner of his eyes from
rowing in the summer sun? Or the lazy smile which Edmund had seen
spread slowly over David's face whenever he contemplated his own
handsome reflection in a glass? The female in the picture cannot have
attained her twelfth year. Monstrous. The oriental wallpaper in the
background tells him nothing, for it is a favourite with the fast set
in both Paris and London. He slips the photograph back into the
envelope and into his coat pocket. Why does he not simply destroy the
thing, rip it to shreds, throw it in the putrid Thames where it
belongs? Because, even were this the only photograph taken, there
might be hundreds of duplicates, ready to be sold beneath the
counters of bookshops all over the city. What might he be compelled
to do, in order to prevent this from happening? Watched by the
gargoyles across the square, slouched atop the Church of England,
Whitty rises abruptly to his feet – too abruptly, for he has to
extend one hand to steady himself on the bench, only to cut it on an
exposed nail. A bitter oath escapes his throat, directed at various
kinds of pain, and he exits Ingester Square at a run, howling aloud,
mouth agape, unable to contain himself in the most miserable hour of
his life. 62 12 The Pith and Paradox He needs a drink desperately,
yet Plant's is out of the question. He decides to calm his nerves in
an appalling den near the Embankment, called the Pith and Paradox. It
is filled with hoodlums for hire. Whitty is acquainted with its
proprietor, a woman of fifty who takes the name Madame Geneva, whose
celebrated breasts spill over the counter like tipped bowls of
tapioca. When not serving acrid glasses of doctored gin at tuppence a
glass, or paying tuppence for a stolen coat worth a guinea, the good
woman performs Tarot readings for local judies, bludgers and
gonolphs, as though their futures were not sufficiently obvious
already. The moment Whitty enters the Pith and Paradox, it is clear
that a change of radical proportions has taken place: an unfamiliar
cleanliness and orderliness, a dearth of vomit. The floorboards are
no longer carpeted with sawdust, sodden with expectoration, but
instead have been swept clean. Nor does the diseased hag–bag at
the end of the bar cackle over her gin at the top of her voice, but
maintains an almost decorous state of inebriation. 'Mr Whitty,' comes
a familiar,
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