It was mid-June before I had a break from travelling. I had had a profitable few weeks and among other things I had secured two rare Kelmscott Press books for my client in Sussex, together with immaculate signed first editions of all Virginia Woolfs novels, near-mint in their dust wrappers. I was excited to have them and anxious to get them out of my hands and into his. I am well insured, but no amount of money can compensate for the loss or damage of items like these.
So I arranged to drive down with them.
At the back of my mind was the idea that I would leave time to go in search of the White House again.
Three
as there ever a June as glorious as that one? I had missed too much of the late spring but now we were in the heady days of balmy air and the first flush of roses. They were haymaking as I drove down and when I arrived at my clients house, the garden was lush and tumbling, the beds high and thick with flowers in full bloom, all was bees and honeysuckle and the smell of freshly mown grass.
I had been invited to stay the night and we dined on a terrace from which there was a distant view of the sea. Sir Edgar Merriman was elderly, modest of manner and incalculably rich. His tastes were for books and early scientific instruments and he also had a collection of rare musical boxes which, when wound and set going, charmed the evening air with their sound.
We lingered outside and Sir Edgars blue-grey coils of cigar smoke wreathed upwards, keeping the insects at bay, the pungent smell mingling with that of the lilies and stocks in the nearby beds. His wife, Alice, sat with us, a small, grey-haired woman with a sweet voice and a shyness which I found most appealing.
At one point the servant came to call Sir Edgar to the telephone and as she and I sat companionably in the soft darkness, the moths pattering around the lamp, I thought to ask her about the White House. Did she know of it? Could she direct me to it again?
She shook her head. I havent heard of such a place. How far were you from here?
Its hard to tell c I was hopelessly lost. I suppose Id driven for forty-five minutes or so? Perhaps a bit longer. I took a byroad which I thought I knew but did not.
There are so many unsigned roads in the country. We all know our way about so well, but they are a pitfall for the unwary. I dont think I can help you. Why do you want to go back there, Mr Snow?
I had known them both for some four or five years and stayed here overnight once or twice before, but to me they were always Sir Edgar and Lady Merriman and I was always Mr Snow, never Adam. I rather liked that.
I hesitated. What could I have said? That a deserted and half-derelict house and overgrown garden had some attraction for me, had almost put me under a spell so that I wanted to explore them further? That I was drawn back because c how could I have told her about the small hand?
Oh you know how some old places have a strange attractiveness. And I might want to retire to the country some day.
She said nothing and, after a moment, her husband returned and the conversation turned back to books and to what he had a mind to buy next. He had wide-ranging tastes and came up with some unusual suggestions. I was always challenged by him, always kept on my toes. He was an exciting client because I could never second-guess him.
Do you know, he asked now, passing me the decanter, if another First Folio of Shakespeare is ever likely to come up for sale?
I almost knocked over my glass.
IT WAS HALF
an hour later but the air was still warm as we gathered ourselves to go inside. I was fired with enthusiasm at the same time as I was coolly certain that no First Folio was likely to come my way for Sir Edgar. But even the speculative talk about it had made me think of his wealth in quite new terms.
As I was bidding him goodnight, Lady Merriman said suddenly, I think I have it, Mr Snow. I think I have the answer. Do just give me a moment if you would. She went out of the room and I heard her footsteps going up the stairs and away into the depths of the house.
I sat in a low chair beside the open French windows. The lamp was out and a faint whiff of oil came from it. The sky was thick with stars.
And I asked in a low voice, Who are you? For I had a strange sense of someone being there with me. But of course there was no one. I was alone and it was peaceful and calm.
Eventually, she returned carrying something.
I am so sorry, Mr Snow. What we are looking for has always just been moved somewhere else. But this may possibly help you. It came to me as we were sitting there after dinner the house. The name you gave, the White House, did not register with me because it was always known as Dennys House, to everyone locally it is about twenty miles from here, but in the country that is local, you know.
She sat down.
You really shouldnt have gone to any trouble. It was a passing whim. I dont quite know now why it affected me.
There is an article about it in this magazine. Its rather old. We do keep far too much and I have quite a run of these. The house became known as Dennys House because it belonged to Denny Parsons. Have you heard the name?