The Distant Hours

Percy cleared her throat and Saffy continued quickly. ‘The gentleman was very professional, but – ’ she shot a glance at Juniper – ‘well. One finds it so much easier to speak with another woman. Isn’t that so, Percy?’

‘It is.’

Seeing them together like that, I realized that I hadn’t imagined the passing of time. On my first visit, I’d noticed that the twins were the same height, even though Percy’s authoritative character added stature. This time, however, there was no mistaking it, Percy was smaller than her twin. She was frailer, too, and I couldn’t help thinking of Jekyll and Hyde, the moment in which the good doctor encounters his smaller, darker self.

‘Sit, won’t you,’ said Percy tartly. ‘Let’s all sit and get on with it.’

We did as she said, and Saffy poured the tea, conducting a rather one-sided conversation with Percy about Bruno, the dog – where had she found him? How had he been? How had he managed the walk? – And I learned that Bruno wasn’t well, that they were worried about him, very worried. They kept their voices low, sneaking glances at the sleeping Juniper, and I remembered Percy telling me that Bruno was her dog, that they always made sure she had an animal, that everybody needed something to love. I studied Percy over the top of my teacup, I couldn’t help it. Although she was prickly, there was something in her bearing that I found fascinating. As she gave short answers to Saffy’s questions, I watched the tight lips, the sagging skin, the deep lines etched by years of frowning, and I wondered whether she’d been speaking, in some part, of herself when she said that everybody needed something to love. Whether she, too, had been robbed of someone.

I was so deep in thought that when Percy turned to look directly at me, I worried for an instant that she’d somehow read my mind. I blinked and heat rushed to my cheeks, and that’s when I realized Saffy was speaking to me, that Percy had looked up only to see why I hadn’t answered.

‘I’m sorry?’ I said. ‘I was somewhere else.’

‘I was just asking about your journey from London,’ said Saffy; ‘it was comfortable, I hope?’

‘Oh, yes – thank you.’

‘I remember when we used to go up to London as girls. Do you remember that, Percy?’

Percy gave a low noise of acknowledgement.

Saffy’s face had come alive with the memory. ‘Daddy used to take us every year; we went by train at first, sitting in our very own little compartment with Nanny, and then Daddy purchased the Daimler and we all went up by motorcar. Percy preferred it here at the castle, but I adored being in London. So much happening, so many glorious ladies and handsome gentlemen to watch; the dresses, the shops, the parks.’ She smiled, sadly, though, it seemed to me. ‘I always assumed…’ The smile flickered, and she looked down at her teacup. ‘Well. I expect all young women dream of certain things. Are you married, Edie?’ The question was unexpected, causing me to draw breath, at which she held out a fine hand. ‘Forgive me for asking. How impertinent I am!’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind. And no, I’m not married.’

Her smile warmed. ‘I didn’t think so. I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but I noticed that you don’t wear a ring. Though perhaps young people don’t these days. I’m afraid I’m rather out of touch. I don’t get away often.’ She glanced, almost imperceptibly, at Percy. ‘None of us does.’ Her fingers fluttered a little before coming to rest on an antique locket that hung on a fine chain around her neck. ‘I was almost married, once.’

Beside me, Percy shifted in her seat. ‘I’m sure Miss Burchill doesn’t need to hear our tales of woe-’

‘Of course,’ said Saffy, flushing. ‘How foolish of me.’

‘Not at all.’ She looked so embarrassed I was anxious to offer reassurance; I had a feeling she’d spent much of her long life doing just as Percy bade her. ‘Please, do tell me about it.’

A sizzle as Percy struck a match and lit the cigarette she’d trapped between her lips. Saffy was torn, I could see, a blend of timidity and longing playing on her face as she watched her twin. She was reading a subtext to which I was blind, assessing a battleground scored with the blows of previous scuffles. She returned her attention to me only when Percy stood up and took her cigarette to the window, switching on a lamp as she went. ‘Percy’s right,’ she said tactfully, and I knew then that she had lost this skirmish. ‘It’s self-indulgent of me.’

‘Not at all, I-’

‘The article, Miss Burchill,’ Percy interrupted. ‘How is it progressing?’

‘Yes,’ said Saffy, recovering herself, ‘tell us how it’s going, Edith. What are your plans while you’re here? I expect you’ll want to start with interviews.’

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘Mr Gilbert did such a thorough job that it won’t be necessary for me to take up too much of your time.’

‘Oh – oh, I see.’

‘We’ve spoken of this already, Saffy,’ said Percy, and I thought I detected a note of warning in her voice.

‘Of course.’ Saffy smiled at me, but there was sadness behind her eyes. ‘Only sometimes one thinks of things… later.’

‘I’d be very happy to speak with you if there’s something you’ve thought of that you might not have told Mr Gilbert,’ I said.

‘That won’t be necessary, Miss Burchill,’ said Percy, returning to the table to tip some ash from her cigarette. ‘As you said, Mr Gilbert has amassed quite a dossier.’

I nodded, but her adamant stance perplexed me. Her position that further interviews were unnecessary was so emphatic, it was clear that she didn’t want me to speak alone with Saffy, and yet it was Percy who’d dropped Adam Gilbert from the project and insisted that I replace him. I wasn’t vain or mad enough to believe it had anything to do with my writing prowess or the fine rapport we’d struck up on my previous visit. Why, then, had she asked for me? And why was she so determined that I should not speak with Saffy? Was it about control? Was Percy Blythe so accustomed to ordering the lives of her sisters that she couldn’t permit so much as a conversation to be carried on without her? Or was it more than that? Was she concerned about whatever it was Saffy wanted to tell me?

‘Your time here will be better spent seeing the tower and getting a feel for the castle itself,’ continued Percy. ‘The way Daddy worked.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘of course. That’s certainly important.’ I was disappointed in myself, unable to shake the feeling that I, too, was submitting myself meekly to Percy Blythe’s direction. Deep inside me, a small pig-headed something stirred. ‘All the same,’ I heard myself say, ‘there seem to be a few things that weren’t covered.’

The dog whimpered from the floor and Percy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh?’

‘I noticed that Mr Gilbert hadn’t interviewed Juniper and I thought I might-’

‘No.’

‘I understand that you don’t want her disturbed, and I promise-’

‘Miss Burchill, I assure you there is nothing to be gained in speaking with Juniper about our father’s work. She wasn’t even born when the Mud Man was written.’

‘That’s true, but the article is supposed to be about the three of you and I’d still like to-’

‘Miss Burchill.’ Percy’s voice was cold. ‘You must understand that our sister is not well. I told you once before that she suffered a great setback in her youth, a disappointment from which she never recovered.’

‘You did, and I would never dream of mentioning Thomas to her – ’

I broke off as Percy’s face blanched. It was the first time I could think of that I’d seen her rattled. I hadn’t meant to say his name and it hung like smoke in the air around us. She snatched up a new cigarette. ‘Your time here,’ she repeated with a stern, slow finality, belied by the quivering matchbox in her hand, ‘would be best spent seeing the tower. Gaining an understanding of the way Daddy worked.’

I nodded, and a strange unsettled weight shifted in the pit of my stomach.

‘If there are any questions you still need answered, you will ask them of me. Not my sisters.’

Which was when Saffy intervened, in her own inimitable fashion. She’d kept her head down during my exchange with Percy, but she looked up then, a pleasant, mild expression arranged on her face. She spoke in a clear voice, perfectly guileless. ‘Which means, of course, that she must take a look at Daddy’s notebooks.’

Was it possible that the whole room chilled when she said it? Or did it only seem that way to me? Nobody had seen Raymond Blythe’s notebooks; not when he was alive, and not in the fifty years of posthumous scholarship. Myths had begun to form around their very existence. And now, to hear them mentioned like this, so casually; to glimpse a possibility that I might touch them, might read the great man’s handwriting and run my fingertip, ever so lightly, over his thoughts, right as they were forming – ‘Yes,’ I managed, in little more than a whisper, ‘yes, please.’

Percy, meanwhile, had turned to look at Saffy and although I had no more hope of understanding the dynamics that stretched between them and back over nearly nine decades than I did untangling the undergrowth of Cardarker