The Skull and the Nightingale by Michael Irwin

Author:Michael Irwin [Irwin, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
ISBN: 9780062202369
Publisher: Not Avail
Published: 2013-07-30T04:00:00+00:00

At the Ogdens’ house I was informed by a servant that Mr. Ogden was away. Affecting disappointment, I asked her to tell her mistress that Mr. Fenwick had called with a possible commission for her husband. Since he was absent, could she spare me a few moments so that I could pass on my message? My godfather’s key duly opened the lock: in three minutes I was received by Sarah in a bright drawing room.

I knew that the first step toward making a good impression would be to avoid making a bad one. Accordingly I spoke with detached courtesy, as though taking part in a play. My task was the simpler in that I knew Sarah’s responses in advance. I had seen her husband’s work (I reminded her) in Mr. Crocker’s house and mentioned it to my godfather, who had shown great interest—hence the proposition I had been asked to pass on. Would Mr. Ogden be here tomorrow? Away for a week? In Amsterdam? So her mother-in-law was Dutch? How interesting. Given the circumstances, might I leave the written inquiry with her, since I had nothing to add to it myself, being no more than an intermediary?

This was easily agreed. As I had hoped, the sealed missive from Lord Downs served as a safe-conduct, clearing me from suspicion. My readiness to hand it over no doubt also served to dispose of any fears of importunity on my part: my task done, I would soon depart.

However, as we exchanged courtesies, a reference to Mr. Ogden’s work in his own home led Sarah to show me some of the rooms. To prolong the episode I expressed great interest in all I saw, although the truth was that I was uncertain as to my own reaction. The effects I had admired in Crocker’s house were here carried further. It seemed to me that the furnishings and decorative materials had all been selected as contributions to patternings of light and color. Glass was much in evidence, whether formed into windows or mirrors, or fragmented into sparkling prismatic chandeliers. In one or two places a large round lens had been built into a wall or partition, as a window affording a distorted view of the room beyond. There was an absence of gilding, carvings, brackets, pillars, busts, portraits, or effusive decorations of any kind. All was plain and transparent, save in two or three places where small lozenges of stained glass shone blue, green, or red. It seemed ironic that all this clarity should have been created by a man of a character so closed and windowless.

As we walked from room to room I fancied that Sarah was watching my reactions with a quizzical eye. Her intelligence was not to be underestimated: I might well lose credit equally by being too critical or too emptily complimentary. I made some little show of looking about appraisingly from a variety of vantage points.

“The effect is remarkable,” I hazarded. “It confirms the opinions I formed at Mr. Crocker’s house.

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