The Skull and the Nightingale. Michael Irwin

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      The following afternoon the sun was yet warmer, and at my godfather’s suggestion we strolled out onto the terrace. Our talk having been thus far no more than desultory trifling I was not surprised when he fell silent altogether and stood gazing out at the garden, one hand on the warm stone balustrade.

      He spoke again without looking at me.

      ‘Your years of travel have left their mark. You are bolder, more self-assured.’

      I bowed, uncertain whether this was pure compliment.

      ‘You have no recollection of your father, I believe?’

      ‘Sadly I have not.’

      ‘You have something of him in your appearance and disposition: the dark eyes, the affable address. Your visit has brought him vividly into my recollection.’

      Here, surely, was the moment. Ten words would clinch the matter: ‘I have therefore decided to make you my sole heir.’ Unaccountably he let the opportunity slip.

      ‘I have been observing you. You are robust and well-made. You have the gift of pleasing in casual conversation. You smile readily, and can make people smile in return. These are not talents that I share.’

      ‘You do yourself an injustice, sir,’ I said, beginning my sentence before I could see the end of it. Fortunately he raised a hand to interrupt.

      ‘I speak without false modesty. Such capacities are rooted in temperament. For my part I can attract attention and respect.’

      ‘So I have observed, sir.’

      Ignoring this feeble compliment, he sat himself down on a stone bench and motioned me to join him. There was a silence, during which I fancied he was preparing a statement. At length he continued, musingly: ‘I enjoyed your letters from Paris and Rome. In this house you have met some of the people with whom I commonly consort. They are a poor crew who live narrow lives. I was therefore refreshed to enjoy a tour of more exotic places, as seen through younger eyes and experienced by livelier senses.’

      He turned to me: ‘How different my life here has been. In Fork Hill the successive days are all but indistinguishable. Cumulatively they distil a kind of essence, or perfume, which gives pleasure but has left me dulled. National events scarcely impinge upon me. When King George died I felt nothing. By the time I hear that a new ministry has been formed it may be on the verge of collapse.’

      ‘Is not that a peaceful state of affairs?’

      ‘It is. But it resembles the peace of the grave. I need fresh life.’

      ‘It would surely be open to you, sir, to spend some time in London?’

      Mr Gilbert turned his face directly towards the sun and was silent for a moment, as though savouring the warmth on his thin cheeks.

      ‘I was once a regular visitor to the capital. But it is five years since I last was there, and I did not enjoy the experience. I found the din and the stench repellent and the social life artificial. Yes, yes, there was more to it than that, of course. But my recollections are of dirt, disorder and foolish gossip. I will not go to London again. Yet I need diversion, I need stimulation.’

      With sudden earnestness Mr Gilbert placed a hand on my sleeve.

      ‘In consequence – in consequence I have devised an odd plan. Here I am, out of touch with London and life. The town demands a young man’s constitution, and a young man’s appetites. My proposal is that you should explore it on my behalf.’

      I was floundering. ‘How so, sir? In what capacity?’

      ‘In the capacity of a young gentleman. You will stay in your present lodgings, and I will maintain you with a sufficient income. Your task will be to sample the life of the capital and convey to me your sense of it by regular letters.’

      My spirits were rising. Was I really to live as I pleased and to be paid for doing so?

      ‘This is a most generous offer, sir. But what in particular–’

      He silenced me with a gesture.

      ‘I leave the matter in your hands. When abroad you naturally felt obliged to see certain famous buildings and monuments; and you reported on them fittingly enough. Now I ask something different. Go where your own inclinations lead you. But write down what you see and hear and feel.’

      I nodded, knew not what to say, so nodded once more.

      ‘Although I no longer care to visit London it interests me more than I can say. It is a mighty experiment – or assemblage of experiments. I want you to report on the resulting pleasures, oddities and extremities as you experience them.’

      He stopped, but I remained silent, seeing that he was still ordering his thoughts. When he spoke again it was in the tone of one summing up an argument: ‘My hope is to be able to live two lives simultaneously – the familiar quiet existence here and, by proxy, a young man’s life in the town. But is my proposal agreeable to you?’

      I took a deep breath. ‘How could it fail to be so?’

      Mr Gilbert looked at me sharply: ‘So you have no misgivings?’

      ‘None, sir.’

      ‘I am glad to hear it.’ His face relaxed into a grim little smile. ‘I have some myself. It may be that we will lead one another into dark territory.’