The Ornamental Hermit Read online

  “An acquaintance of yours, is it?” asked Mrs Appleby, still standing before him with the coffee pot in her hands.

  “No,” Billings replied softly.

  “She was awfully smart. Not a relative of yours, is she?”

  “No.”

  “Just a friend, then?”

  Go! Billings kept thinking to himself. Go away and leave me alone!

  “She’s the one who put us up when we returned from Africa,” he replied eventually.

  “Oh, when your father died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I should’ve insisted she’d come in then, if I’d known that. But then she was in such a hurry.” Mrs Appleby finally picked the dirty dishes up from the table, put them on her tray and carried them back into the kitchen.

  Billings remained sitting at the table, staring blankly at the letter without blinking until his vision glazed over and the curly black letters all merged into one swirling blur. Suddenly he saw his mother again, pale and sickly on her bed, sore from all the coughing. She had caught consumption during the crossing from Cape Town. They had only been in England two months. Her last words, her last breath, were spent on utterances of gratitude and humility, so that none were left for her son. Billings understood now that she had persuaded Mr Forrester to look after him when she died and that this is what she was thanking them for, but he didn’t know that then. Then he just wondered exactly what he was supposed to be grateful for. He was a minor when he came to England. A thirteen year old boy with a rough and patchy education, orphaned within two months of arriving and stranded helplessly in a foreign land. It was surely Mr Forrester’s duty to look after him.

  ‘It’s about Sebastian,’ she had written. Billings suddenly felt that same roaring rage well up in his gut which he felt when he was fourteen and Sebastian Forrester would come home from university. The glorious young Sebastian with his pensive blue eyes, his strong, broad shoulders and his alabaster skin. There stood Billings demurely in the corner, short, pale and scrawny, watching the Forresters kiss and hug and fuss over their beloved son whilst he waited his turn to pay his respects. Only a few months ago, he too had two parents who loved and fussed over him. Only a few months ago, he was the white demigod and all the Malagasy children looked at him with envy as he got to go home with his parents – their teachers – and they were forced to return to their straw huts and work the land or graze their cattle. Now he was just a ward. A protégé. An orphan.

  Why did Mrs Appleby have to tell Mrs Forrester that he was in? He had no choice now but to go to the meeting house and meet up with her.

  *

  Billings was standing outside the Friends Meeting House on St Martin’s Lane. He couldn’t bring himself to go in. He hadn’t attended a meeting for many years. Quakers called them meetings because they didn’t worship. They didn’t preach or sing or pray. They just sat in shared silence, only ever speaking when they were moved to do so, which was seldom. Billings hated silence. It made him feel uneasy. He needed to have noise around him. He needed to have distractions. Silence scared him. God’s presence could be felt in silence and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to see God. Or rather, he didn’t want God to see him. He was ashamed. He had always been ashamed.

  The meeting ended and Billings stepped out of the way as the congregation started to exit. He leaned against the wall and watched the men come out of the building, with their plain, black clothes and their bushy whiskers. They shook each other’s hands and patted each other on the back as they said their goodbyes. Smiling benignly all the time. The women came out later. They were also dressed in plain, black clothes and their hair was tied tightly back. Quaker women never wore curls or ribbons. Nor did they wear perfume or jewellery.

  First among the women was Mrs Forrester. She rushed out ahead of the other women and looked anxiously around her as she stepped out of the building. Billings called out her name and approached her.

  “Oh John, you came,” she cried when she saw him. She ran towards him, wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him till it hurt. “Oh John! My dear, dear John!”

  Billings couldn’t remember the last time he had been hugged like that and he felt chills running down his spine. But then Mrs Forrester suddenly stopped.

  “But you didn’t come in,” she said, looking accusingly into his eyes. “Why didn’t you come in?”

  Billings avoided answering the question. “Where is Mr Forrester?” he asked.

  “Mr Forrester is at home,” she replied. “He’s dying. But look at you. You look good. But thin. Are you eating? And when are you going to find yourself a nice young wife to settle down with?” She went in for another hug, but Billings grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes.

  “Mr Forrester is dying?” he asked, shocked.

  “Oh, he’s been deteriorating slowly for the last few years, John. He won’t last the year. That’s why it was so urgent for us to see you.”

  “To see me about what?”

  “I shall tell you on the way. Come, there’s a cab waiting for us.” She took his hand and pulled him towards the cab stand, where a row of hansoms were waiting to pick up the people leaving the meeting house.

  *

  “He’s been ill for some time.” Mrs Forrester was sitting next to Billings in the cab, his hands sandwiched tightly in hers. Her eyes were still gleaming with the joy of seeing him after all these years, even when she spoke of her husband’s ill health. “He’s never really been the same since Sebastian went missing. It’s his heart, he’s been suffering terribly from palpitations. I blame it on the stress and the expense we incurred in finding Sebastian. Do you know how much money we paid those incompetent detectives in Cumberland? We should have employed you.”

  “I was only a constable at the time.”

  “They profited from us!” She suddenly let go of his hands. “They milked us. Combing the hills, dragging the lakes. That’s what hurts the most. That in the midst of our desperation, our grieving, somebody else tried to profit.” She turned away from Billings, took off her gloves and started staring out the window at the bare trees which lined the cobbled streets of Chelsea. They both fell silent for a short while. “We got a letter,” she said eventually.

  “A letter?” Billings asked.

  “From him. From Sebastian. He’s back in Oxford. He sent us a letter.”

  “I thought he was dead,” he said clumsily, then instantly regretted it.

  “We were in Oxford last week,” she continued, ignoring his gaffe and turning back to face him. “Both of us. Mr Forrester, sick as he was, insisted he’d come with me.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “We didn’t. We waited for a whole week at that tea room he’d suggested for our meeting, but he didn’t show up. And we had no way of locating him. We inquired everywhere, but nobody could enlighten us. So we went back home. Mr Forrester thinks it may have been an impostor.”

  “An impostor?”

  “Mr Forrester is dying, John. I told you that. There’s a large inheritance at stake. Anyone can pretend to be Sebastian. It’s been ten years.” She turned back towards the window and fell quiet. The silence continued for the rest of the journey. Billings tried to think of something to say to break the awkward pause, but couldn’t come up with anything appropriate. Suddenly he heard Mrs Forrester sniff. Was she crying? He didn’t know what to do and remained sitting silently and awkwardly next to her, until the cab came to a stop outside the old Chelsea home he remembered from his childhood.

  *

  “You must be quiet when we enter,” said Mrs Forrester softly as she unlocked the heavy front door. “We put his bed in the drawing room, so he wouldn’t feel alone. He’s usually asleep in the evening so I don’t want to wake him.”

  She pushed the door open and entered the house. Billings followed her into the dark hallway. The door to the study room was open and he peeped into it as he passed. This was the room where Mr Forrester used to s
it and study and where he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. There was that large oak desk with the lion claws carved into the legs; the heavy bookcase, stacked from top to bottom with his big leather-bound books; and the Persian rug with the beautiful intertwining patterns. It was just as he remembered it from his childhood, but somehow not as impressive. It seemed smaller now. And dustier. And the furniture was old-fashioned and heavy and dark.

  “Freddy?” Mrs Forrester whispered as she popped her head into the drawing room. “Are you awake? I’ve got John Billings with me.”

  Billings could hear a small crackling voice mumble a reply. “John?”

  “You remember, dear. Gideon Billings’s son. The detective. He’s here.” She turned to Billings and beckoned.

  Billings approached slowly and saw an old man lying in a big oak bed in the middle of the room. It took him a while to fully recognize him but eventually, looking past the sunken cheeks, the glazed eyes, the weak skeletal arms which tried in vain to push his body up to a sitting position, he saw the great man he remembered. “Hello sir,” he said.

  “Show him the letter!” Mr Forrester said in agitation, without reciprocating the greeting. He was still struggling to sit up.

  “Not now, dear.” Mrs Forrester rushed to his aid and propped a pillow behind his back.

  “Show him the letter, Godammit!” he repeated, pushing her away. “I haven’t much time. I’m dying!”

  “Oh, Freddy!” Mrs Forrester bit her lip then quickly ran out of the room.

  It was only at that point that Billings noticed Mr Forrester’s beard had been shaved off. That’s what made him look so small. The great, impressive white beard was gone, making him look naked and vulnerable. Like a shorn sheep. Why did they do it? Perhaps it was easier to feed him.

  “John Billings, eh?” Mr Forrester said, squinting at his guest.

  “How are you, sir?”

  “Come here. Step into the light. Let me have a look at you.”

  Billings stepped closer. Mr Forrester looked him up and down.

  “Ah yes. I recognize you now. There’s traces of your mother about you.”

  “I know.”

  “Nothing of your father.”

  “No.”

  “Good man, he was. Deep thinker. But morose.”

  “Yes, I think I may have inherited that from him.”

  “Did good work for our faith in Africa. And your mother too. Great shame it ended the way it did. What was it? Malaria?”

  “Yellow fever.”

  “Did she tell you about the letter?”

  “She told me you received one.”

  “We need someone to investigate.”

  “Yes, I understand that, but...”

  “I’m dying. Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes, sir, she did, but...”

  “All expenses will be paid. Wages too, if you wish.”

  “I understand that, Mr Forrester, but I really can’t leave London now. I’ve just been given...”

  “We looked after you. Your mother was destitute when she came back with you from Africa. Not a penny to her name.”

  “I know. And I appreciate that, but...”

  “I want to see my son again, John. I only have the one. And I want to see him before I die. I may not be around next month.”

  Mrs Forrester suddenly entered with a small writing box in her hands.

  “John’s taking the case,” Mr Forrester said to her.

  Before Billings got the chance to argue, Mrs Forrester rushed towards him, grabbed hold of his face and kissed him eagerly on both cheeks. “I knew you would do this for us, John,” she said. “You are the only one who knows Sebastian well enough.”

  “Well, I never actually knew him that well,” he replied, trying to get himself out of this situation. “It was a long time ago and I only have very vague recollections of him.”

  “Oh, you remember him, John. He was an unusual child. Wild and stubborn and passionate. Do you remember, dear?” She turned towards her husband. “Do you remember how he used to run around the garden naked? Stark naked, he was!” She laughed. “We couldn’t get him to put his clothes back on. And no type of weather could deter him. Rain. Snow. You turned your back once and there’d be a pile of clothes on the floor and he’d be out there, naked like a savage, enjoying God’s world in blissful innocence. How old was he then, dear? Nine?”

  Her husband didn’t reply. He just looked ahead of him. Scowling.

  “I think he felt trapped,” Mrs Forrester continued. “He felt trapped by his clothes. He felt restricted. He couldn’t bear restrictions. I asked him once. I asked him why he did it. ‘Because I want to feel the elements,’ he said. ‘Elements!’ That’s the very word he used. He wanted to feel the elements on his skin. ‘If God wants me to be cold, I’ll be cold. If God wants me to be wet, I’ll be wet,’ he said. ‘But God doesn’t want you to get ill,’ I said. ‘That’s why he invented clothes.’ Oh, he had a very special way of looking at things. Even at that age.”

  Suddenly one of Mr Forrester’s pillows came flying towards her and hit her arm. “Will you shut up, woman!” her husband cried.

  “Freddy!”

  “He was weak!” he screamed. “That’s why he couldn’t hack it in the theological college! He was a dreamer! A romantic, quixotic fool!”

  “It’s his illness talking.” Mrs Forrester picked the pillow up from the floor and looked at Billings apologetically. “The constant pain makes him bitter.”

  “This is the devil’s realm we live in!” Mr Forrester was continuing with his rant. “That’s what he couldn’t understand! This is the devil’s realm and we are all stained with the devil’s spore!”

  “You had better go.” Mrs Forrester rushed towards Billings and kissed him quickly on his cheek. “He starts talking nonsense when he’s tired. Here. Take this with you.” She handed him the writing box. “The letter is in there. And others too, so you can compare the handwriting. Study them. They might give you clues. Thank you, John. Thank you for doing this for us. If anyone can find him, it’s you.”

  *

  After taking his nightly dose of morphine, Billings put Sebastian’s writing box on his bed and started studying its contents. It was an elegant piece of equipment. Approximately fifteen inches wide, nine inches deep and six inches tall, it was made of solid mahogany with a decorative brass strap binding it on either side. Beneath the lid there was a sloping leather writing surface. There was a small lever on the side of the box which, when pushed, caused the surface to shoot open and reveal a secret compartment. In the compartment Billings found a book, a notebook and some letters.

  The notebook was filled with dates and terms of church history: ‘Council of Nicaea – 325; Council of Constantinople – 381; Council of Chalcedon – 451’ etc. Sebastian seemed to have made a half-hearted attempt at taking notes, but only the first few pages were filled in. The rest just had a couple of sentences hastily jotted on them or were covered with abstract drawings and caricatures of his lecturers.

  The book, however, was much more intriguing. Bent, dog-eared and covered in fingerprints, it was obviously well read. It was called ’The Sayings of The Desert Fathers’ and it appeared to be a collection of rules and quotes from early Christian monks who withdrew into the Egyptian desert in the 5th century. Billings dropped the book on to his bed and it instantly fell open on a page where a particular passage had been underlined: ‘Live as though crucified; in struggle, in lowliness of spirit, in good will and spiritual abstinence, in fasting, in penitence, in weeping.’ Billings was too hazy-minded and foggy at the time to make much sense of it, but he had no doubt that this was significant.

  As he returned the book to its drawer, it occurred to him that the box was too big and clunky for what it contained. He suspected that there might be another compartment hidden in it. After fiddling about with it for a while, he discovered a couple of buttons hidden beneath the sloping surface, which when pressed in succession, suddenly
caused a small drawer at the back of the box to spring out. Inside the drawer he found a diary. Fifty or so pages, filled with writing – small, tightly packed, and often spilling into the margins. This must be a great discovery, he thought. The Forresters had made no mention of a diary. Were they ignorant of its existence? But it was the letters Billings was most interested in. The first one was sent ten years ago from Windermere, shortly before Sebastian’s disappearance.

  Dear Mother and Father,

  You will by now have heard that I have left Oxford and that I am staying in the Lake District. Please do not worry. I shall try to explain in this letter what has driven me here. I have been at Wycliffe Hall for over a year now and I have become convinced that I can not leave England and go to Madagascar to teach, as you had wished me to do. I have nothing to teach. I am a wicked, selfish, ignorant fool and I only have things to learn (Father will know what I mean). At Wycliffe Hall they teach us to read and interpret the ancient texts, to decipher the parables, to explain the apparent contradictions, but in my view all this is futile. Religion is not a science. It is not a history lesson. Religion is about faith. This strange and otherworldly sensation which can fill your heart and drive you into a state of ecstasy. Faith can not be explained. It should not be explained. Faith is not about knowing, it’s about believing. That is our only connection with God. Faith, as opposed to knowledge, can only exist if we live in ignorance of the facts. How can I explain God’s words to another? It is impossible. God does not speak in words. He speaks in feelings, in instincts, in passions, and it is by these means that he has spoken to me. He has called me and I have decided to follow his call. I do not know to where it will lead or for how long I shall have to travel, but please do not worry. Just pray for me. Pray that I shall proof myself worthy for God to enlighten and redeem me (again, Father will know what I mean. He won’t understand or agree, but he’ll know). I shall write again soon. I promise.