Flowers Stained With Moonlight
FLOWERS STAINED
WITH MOONLIGHT
CATHERINE SHAW
To my eldest daughter,
always my first and best reader
I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
A few, and crocuses, and violets
Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
Of Nature’s wilful moods …
– Lord Alfred Douglas, 1894
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
FLOWERS STAINED WITH MOONLIGHT
MATHEMATICAL HISTORY IN FLOWERS STAINED WITH MOONLIGHT
About the Author
By Catherine Shaw
Copyright
Cambridge, Monday, June 6th, 1892
My dearest Dora,
Please forgive me for not having written before; several days at least must have passed since I last wrote, but oh dear, the days sometimes seem to resemble each other so, that I quite lose count. Only today – today is the sixth of June, and that date will always be the most unforgettable one of my life! It was four years ago today that I invaded the Courts of Justice, confronted the judge, and confounded the whole of a stolid British jury. How well I remember it all, and also the days that followed! Borne upon a cloud, I envisioned myself plunging into the adventure of turning my little school into a daring and audacious experiment, while my heart was overflowing with the joy of being engaged to be married. How happy I was! The prospect before me enchanted me so, that I believed myself content to wait any length of time before taking the next step and discovering the secrets of the wedded state.
Today, looking back, I begin to realise that four full years have come and gone since those days, four years that sometimes seem to weigh heavily upon me. Do you not ever feel so, Dora, you who have been waiting just as long for your betrothed to return from overseas? You never speak of impatience, you always seem tranquil and full of joy, but in your heart of hearts, do you not feel with a pang that we are getting older, Dora, you and I? Why, we will be twenty-five in just a few more months! Here I spend all my days with children, and have none of my own – and I long for them more with every passing hour. The very sweetness of my little pupils makes me ache all the more. They are so delightful, and it is so rejoicing to see all their big eyes fixed seriously upon me as I read to them of goblins, or explain the ins and the outs, the ups and the downs, of the many marriages of Henry VIII. I have come so far in these last four years; read so much, studied so hard, working each night by candlelight, that I sometimes feel like a different person from the ignorant girl I was when I first arrived in Cambridge – I am certainly a much better teacher than I used to be!
And yet, I am not altogether different after all. Rereading now what I have just written, I do seem to perceive some traces of the old impatience which used to seize me whenever life seemed to advance too slowly for my rushing blood.
Oh – a knock at the door! Who could it be?
Dora, how strange! A small boy has just delivered a message from a lady called Mrs Bryce-Fortescue; the name is perfectly unknown to me. It says that she wishes to know when she can call upon me for a matter of discretion and importance. Goodness – whatever can it mean? I have told the boy that I will be at her service tomorrow evening.
Perhaps it has something to do with the school. Yet why would discretion be necessary for that? I do hope it will be something more mysterious and exciting! Oh dear. I sound quite childish. Do I really deserve to become a respectable married lady?
Your very intrigued sister,
Vanessa
Cambridge, Wednesday, June 8th, 1892
My dear sister,
I am sure you are wondering about the mysterious Mrs Bryce-Fortescue, and what she could possibly have wanted with humble me!
I certainly wondered greatly myself, but I could not rid myself of the dampening idea that she simply must be a lady, perhaps newly arrived in Cambridge, who had heard of my school and was considering enrolling a daughter or even a son there. A pleasing prospect, but not one liable to set the heart beating. Still, the idea that the reputation of my little school should be spreading was a flattering, not to say inspiring one, and I put a great deal of energy into the day’s teaching. The children will very soon be free as birds for the remainder of the summer, and in the (probably vain) hope that they will not immediately forget all that they have learnt, I multiplied the tasks I set them, so that they became increasingly nervous, especially in view of the warm sunshine and blue sky which beckoned them so invitingly out of doors.
The day finally came to an end, I shooed the children outside, bid goodbye to Mrs Burke-Jones and Annabel, who was helping her tinier charges into their summery wraps, and hastened home more quickly than usual, eager in spite of myself for a little novelty.
I bustled about my rooms, vaguely trying to occupy myself, but lending a tense ear to the goings-on outside my door the while, until finally I heard a ring, then a rather decided voice speaking to the landlady, and finally a sharp knock on my own door. I opened it speedily.
There stood a lady. Tall, forceful, with black eyes in a sharp yet handsome face, dark hair very slightly streaked with grey, gathered into a fashionable knot, and clothes most beautiful in every detail, if not absolutely fashionable nor absolutely new. Something strong-willed in her forehead and nose gave her a faint resemblance to an eagle.
This lady remained silent for a long moment, fixing me with her eyes as though guessing and analysing my thoughts. I waited for her to speak, but as she did not, I quelled a faint feeling of dismay, and proceeded to emit some welcoming noises.
‘You must be Mrs Bryce-Fortescue,’ I stammered. ‘I was expecting you. Please do come in and sit down.’
She did so, with a sweep of her skirts, closed the door behind her firmly, motioned me to sit in front of her, and began once again to stare at me closely and alarmingly.
‘Yes, you are as I remembered you,’ was her first, unexpected remark.
‘Why, have we met before?’ I queried, surprised.
‘No, we have not met, but I have seen you before,’ she answered. ‘I saw you in court, four years ago, when you presented your evidence to the judge and boldly rescued a certain rather wilted young gentleman from a most disagreeable and apparently quite undeserved fate. Such cases interest me, and I come into town purposely to follow them on occasion, although I do not live very near. I live well off the beaten track, in the countryside, in a manor that has belonged to my family for many generations. Ahem—’ and she broke off suddenly, as though she had meant to say more, but hesitated.
‘Oh!’ I said, enlightened but greatly embarrassed by this speech. Dear me, how bold and unladylike and visible it made me sound! I felt quite like the Hottentot Venus, poor girl, brought thousands of miles from her native Africa to be gaped at in wonder as some sort of extraordinary phenomenon.
‘But what has brought you here today, after so many years?’ I asked after a moment of awkward silence.
‘It is a long story,’ she said, and then, after another hesitation, she amended, ‘Or no, not such a long one, but a complicated one, and more than anything, it is a story requiring the greatest of discretion and delicacy. I need help, and
I need a certain kind of help, and I could not think of anyone who could afford me the exact kind of help I need. Someone who could be both daring and discreet, and also understanding of … of good taste. I could not bear a scandal.’
She paused, waiting for my response. Clearly the service she had in mind to ask of me had nothing to do with enrolling a new student in my class. My spirits began to rise.
‘Please, do tell me exactly how I can be of help to you,’ I encouraged her politely.
‘Yes, I shall tell you,’ she answered, her tone suddenly firm. Sitting rigidly, she spent a few moments choosing her words.
‘I must get to the point immediately. There is no sense in beating about the bush. No matter how unpleasant it is for me to recount the facts, obviously it must be done.’ She stopped briefly, and seemed to brace herself somewhat. I had the impression that she was rehearsing a speech prepared beforehand.
‘I am here to ask you, Miss Duncan, if you would be willing, in an entirely private capacity, to undertake an investigation for me. Namely, to investigate the death – no, the murder – of my son-in-law, Mr George Burton Granger. He was found shot dead just three days ago; that is, last Sunday. His body was discovered in the early afternoon, lying in a grove of trees bordering his estate, where he was in the habit of taking a daily constitutional. The police appear to be foolish enough to suspect my daughter of the crime, which is perfectly ridiculous. Sylvia is of a weak and fragile nature; quite incapable of murdering anybody. However, I perceive that the police suspect her, and I am greatly afraid that they will harass her and accuse her, and perhaps even browbeat her into making all kinds of foolish declarations. I do not know who killed Geo—Mr Granger, but I am perfectly certain that it was not Sylvia, and unimaginably anxious that she should not undergo the experience of an arrest, let alone the public shame, scandal and agony of a trial, whatever the outcome. It is not only the harrowing nature of such an experience, which she is but ill-equipped to endure, that I fear. No, worse – I see that the primary wish of the police is to arrest and convict a culprit as quickly as possible, so as to preserve their reputation of efficiency, as you well know from your own experience. They have not yet arrested Sylvia, but I feel impending disaster in the way they treat her; indeed, I believe that only the fact that I insisted on being present the first time they interviewed her prevented them from accusing and even arresting her at once! It hangs over us like a Damocles’ sword, and this situation simply cannot go on; a stop must be put to it immediately. I am asking you to come and stay with us, and to employ your particular talents in order to exculpate my daughter once and for all.’
‘I!’ I gasped, truly startled by what could, after all, however well-controlled, still be termed an outburst. ‘I am not a detective! I should have no idea what to do.’
‘I am aware that you are not a professional detective. I should not have come if you had been. I am simply asking you to try to do for me exactly what you did four years ago; apply your mind and your efforts to seek for the truth. I cannot count on your success, I can only ask you to do your best for me, if you are willing to try. My idea is to invite you to stay with us, ostensibly in the capacity of a friend, of course, or perhaps a daughter of friends. As far as financial considerations are concerned, if you succeed, no reward would be sufficient to express my gratitude! But in any event, I would undertake to cover all expenses you might incur, should you need to travel.
‘I realise that you are surprised and taken aback by my offer, and I see plainly from your expression that you are filled with doubts. But I have seen and known many people in my life, and I recognise something in you that is enterprising and trustworthy. I cannot trust the police, and I have not the means nor the necessary indiscretion to have recourse to a private detective – I need someone who, appearing as a friend of Sylvia’s, can gain the trust of everyone connected with my son-in-law. I am at my wits’ end, and I cannot see what can be lost by asking for your help. Anyone who knows my daughter can see that the mere idea of her shooting anyone is plainly absurd, but the police do not see things in the same light, and we are threatened by the horrific danger of her being arrested and tried. I am not beyond believing that it could end in an unjustified conviction! And even if it did not, it would bring down a most unendurable scandal upon us all. Do try to recall exactly how you felt four years ago, and I am sure you will wish to help us.’
‘Oh, I do wish to help you!’ I exclaimed. ‘But I am so worried that I shall not be able to do it.’
‘Let us simply begin at the beginning, then, by having you come to us for a week or two. You will meet Sylvia, who has returned home, as naturally she could not bear to continue on in her husband’s house after what happened. She has a friend down to keep her company, and that is the extent of our small household at the moment. You will learn what you can from them, and can easily travel back and forth to Haverhill, the village where my son-in-law resided, if you should find that to be useful. Come to us and see what you can do, and if in the end you come to feel that you cannot make any progress, we shall terminate the arrangement and bend our heads to endure the storm as we may.’
‘Yes, I shall come,’ I said, deciding it suddenly and completely. ‘Only, I must wait for the end of this week, as my teaching duties continue until then.’
‘But today is only Wednesday! I am afraid to wait; every moment is important. When is the soonest that you can come – must you teach until Friday? Can I send a carriage for you on Saturday morning, then? I shall count the days.’
I felt dismayed, distressed, worried, incapable, incompetent and certain to fail and disappoint such expectations, but at the same time, a wave of eager excitement impelled me to give a resounding assent to this proposition. Although I will surely turn out to be hopelessly unable to unearth the slightest piece of useful information, still, I do not seem to be able to prevent my mind from being invaded by heroic visions of astounding success, rescuing of maidens in distress and so on. And then deep down, my darling twin, in those recesses of the mind that only you can understand, there is another feeling. Perhaps she is not wrong, perhaps I have some ability, some talent, some special perspicacity which remains sleeping and unused within me, and which longs only to be awakened, once again, after so long – awakened and employed, so that I might fly with my own wings …
I feel humble and also guilty about the secret excitement within me, as though I were profiting somehow from murder, and from its accessory, suffering. Yet, if only the energy in the excitement can be converted into a meaningful search for the truth, it will be worth it, I believe.
Your confused, worried, distressed yet hopeful
Vanessa
Cambridge, Thursday, June 9th, 1892
My dearest sister,
Oh, I was bursting with my news today, as I joined Annabel, Emily and Charles after lessons for our weekly tea together. How difficult it was, at least at first, to say nothing! But I was determined not to, for it was only right that Arthur should be the first to know, and I was not to see him until he should come to fetch me and walk me home.
Fortunately, my secret seething was quite smothered – and I myself quite distracted – by Emily’s news.
‘Oh, Miss Duncan!’ she cried, seizing me by the sleeve the moment I entered the room, after having seen the last fluttering ribbon of my departing pupils disappear down the street.
‘Guess what – no, you’ll never guess – never! I’m to take the examinations to enter Girton College! I’m to take them this very September, a year before I even thought any such thing was possible. I am so excited, but so frightened, I shall do nothing but study like a mad thing for the whole of the summer.’
‘Is such a thing possible?’ I exclaimed. ‘So many difficulties to overcome – so much to learn, and your mother to be convinced as well!’
‘Oh, that was thanks to you, or rather to your good advice. You were so right, long ago, when you told me that with mother, the best way was to keep silent and wait
rather than ever insist on anything I dreadfully wanted. I have been keeping silent and waiting for ages, but Mother knew perfectly well the whole time, of course. She would! I know she was against it at first, but without a word ever being said, I came to feel that something in the air was changing. At any rate, we’ve told her, and all she said was “So the time has come. You will have to work very hard.” Well, there’s certainly no doubt about that!’
‘And what has made you decide to try it out so very soon?’
‘Ah, that was me,’ interposed her uncle radiantly. ‘I’m very confident in my star pupil – I know what those examinations are like, and she’s ripe and ready for them!’
Emily exhausted my own humble store of mathematical knowledge long ago, and her uncle has been teaching her privately for the last two years.
‘Uncle Charles says I’m ready for them, but I can hardly believe it myself – there are so dreadfully many things I don’t know! And then, I’ve never sat for an exam before, well, not a real one, anyway. What if I’m paralysed and can’t think at all! And what is even worse, I’ve got to pass an oral exam. That means I’ve got to do a problem right up at the blackboard in front of a professor who will listen to me make a frightful mess! Uncle Charles has been making me practise, and it’s simply awful – either I have no idea what to say, and fail miserably, or else I keep wanting to laugh! Last time he put on a false beard so I could imagine he was a real professor (oh, I’m so sorry, Uncle Charles. You are a real professor, of course! But you know what I mean) and it was worse than ever. What shall I do if I want to laugh during the examination? The more I think about it, the more I’m sure I will.’
‘Oh, my dear girl,’ said Annabel a little sadly, ‘I have a solution to that problem, at least. Self-control can be learnt through hard practice, and I have many exercises to suggest. You have talent, for look at the way you were able to keep silent about your ambitions for so long.’