The 5th Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories

A QUESTION OF TIME Elizabeth Walter

It was Tim who noticed the picture—not because he is interested in pictures but because he is bored with conversation. While it is going on his mind wanders; so do his eyes. So also do his hands, but I wasn’t sitting next to him. That pleasure was reserved for Babs.

There were six of us in Barney’s flat, and it was already later than it should be. By which I mean it was later than our parents liked us to be out. But we weren’t doing any harm, and we’d all left school, or nearly. As I told mine often enough, we’d got to be allowed to grow up.

Barney was actually the oldest of the lot of us. He must have been twenty at least. He only left art school last summer, but he struck it lucky almost at once. He designs textiles for one of the big makers of furnishing fabrics; hence the picture-collecting and the flat. Of course the flat’s tiny and the picture-collecting pretty haphazard, but Barney says he learns as he goes along. He’s always got pictures stacked against the walls, to say nothing of those that are hanging on them, and the pictures seem to change from week to week. I don’t take much notice of them as a rule—I’m more interested in Barney. I certainly didn’t remember the one Tim pointed out.

It was one of the framed ones, though the frame was battered. It was quite small and it wasn’t hanging on the wall. Instead, it was standing on a spare coffee table, the way some people have wedding photographs. But there was nothing bridal about it; in fact it was a drawing of a monk, sort of greyish, with long pink fingers. I didn’t think it was anything much.

Tim, however, had reached out and picked it up. “Hey, where d’you get this from?” (It was like Tim to interrupt)

“Bought it,” Barney said briefly.

“Whatever for?”

“Because I liked it.” He seemed to be challenging Tim to go on.

“Is it valuable?” Babs asked. (She is interested in money.)

Barney smiled. “Not so far as I know.”

“But you think it might be?” asked Leo, who is much less stupid than he looks.

Barney spread his hands. “I just don’t know, I tell you.”

“Who drew it?” I asked.

“I don’t know that either. I bought it in a junk-shop the other day.”

“Didn’t they know anything about it?”

“It wasn’t that sort of shop.”

“So you don’t know who it is?” asked Leo.

Tessa spoke for the first time. “It’s a friar, a Franciscan. I know the habit.”

“Isn’t he handsome!” Babs said.

He was, too, now that I looked at him, in an ugly-attractive sort of way, like that film-star whose name I can never remember but who plays parts where he’s always looking his opponents up and down with a measured, measuring look. If they’re women he’s deciding whether to bed them; if they’re men he’s deciding whether to fight. It struck me suddenly that it wasn’t quite the expression you expect on the face of a religious. I craned over Tessa’s shoulder to get a better look.

The friar was sitting down, though you couldn’t see the chair because his habit hid it. There was something familiar about the way he sat. Then I remembered where I’d seen that attitude, with the right hand posed on the chair arm: there was a picture of a pope who sat like that. It was in a history-book at school; he wore red and his robe was trimmed with ermine. If he’d had a beard he would have looked like Santa Claus. But he didn’t have a beard; he was clean-shaven. And our friar wasn’t even that.

The artist had drawn his head in great detail. You could see the stubble on his cheeks and under his chin. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved for days. His hair too was untidy; it was dark and curly like Tim’s and like Tim’s too, it was rather long and matted, as if he’d had to do without a comb.

“I call it a waste for a man like that to be a monk,” Babs said, pouting.

“He may have made a lot of converts,” Leo pointed out.

“I should think he did. He could have converted me in twenty minutes.”

“If you hadn’t seduced him in fifteen.”

Babs gave Tim a playful slap, and he caught her hand and held it, and began biting the back of her neck.

I looked at Barney; he showed no interest. Sometimes I wondered if he’d ever do it to me. I’d been in love with him the whole of that summer, and he just hadn’t noticed me yet. Of course he hadn’t noticed Babs and Tessa either, but Babs was always necking with Tim, and Tessa had a succession of young men (it was she who had brought Leo). I wondered if Barney was jealous, and while I wondered I caught his eyes.

I could feel my face blushing even though there was nothing to be ashamed of, Barney affects me like that. I had an odd feeling that the friar in the drawing would also, if only he would turn his head.

I took another look at his face. He wasn’t really handsome. He had the most enormous nose; and his face, when you looked close, was lined and his hair greying. He must have been all of forty-five. I wondered why Leo was examining the drawing with such attention, and if his thoughts about it were the same as mine.

They weren’t, for he looked at Barney and said suddenly: “Whoever drew that could certainly draw. This may be quite a find.” (I should have explained that Leo and Tessa are also art students.) “Have you had it valued?” Leo went on.

For some reason Barney looked uncomfortable. He slowly shook his head. “I can’t believe that drawing of Father Furnivall has any value.”

Tessa gave a little shriek. “So you do know who he is!”

“Oh yes,” Barney said. “I recognised him the moment I saw him. You don’t forget a face like that in a hurry.” And he stared at the drawing in a puzzled, hungry way.

Babs drew herself away from Tim long enough to ask, “What did you say his name was?”

“Furnivall, Father Francis Furnival!” Barney said. “He died in 1612, in prison—probably of torture—after being betrayed as he hid in a priest’s hole.”

“In a what?”

“A priest’s hole—a secret room where a Catholic priest could hide. Quite a lot of old houses have them, and they’re often very cunningly contrived. The Catholic religion was suppressed in England in those days, but a few diehards kept it up, and a handful of priests ministered to these faithful. They went round from house to house, in disguise and always in great danger. Father Furnivall was one of them.”

I could believe it, looking at his portrait. He had a devil-may-care boldness in his face, as if he enjoyed and welcomed danger. I could imagine him in disguise.

Tim whistled. “The one that didn’t get away. What happened?”

“There was a young painter staying in the house. He had been engaged to do a portrait of one of the daughters, and he must have given Father Furnivall away. One afternoon a troop of horse led by the local captain of militia surrounded and searched the house. Someone must have told them about Furnivall and where he was hiding, for they made a bee-line for the priest’s hole, the entrance to which was behind a painting in the drawing-room. Father Furnivall was discovered and dragged out.”

“What did they do to him?” Tessa asked in a whisper.

“They tried him and condemned him to death. It was irregular—as a rule captured priests conveniently died in prison before they could be brought to trial, but in a country district no one worried too much about the niceties. Father Furnivall’s trial took place that very afternoon in the great hall, before a hastily summoned justice and justice’s clerk.”

“I thought you said he died in prison—of torture?”

“So he did. His gaolers wanted him to talk, but he wouldn’t.”

“Talk about what?”

“About other priests who were in hiding, and other houses with priests’ holes. But he wouldn’t speak although they promised him his freedom. So he was put to the question, to use the contemporary euphemistic phrase.”

“How do you know he died under torture?”

“There is no record that he was ever executed. What else is one to suppose?”

“He might have talked after all,” Tim suggested.

Barney shook his head. “It would be out of character with a face like that.”

I agreed with him. Father Furnivall would never have done anything he didn’t want to—and equally, he would have done anything he did. I could imagine him giving orders, but not obeying them. He couldn’t have found it easy to be a priest.

“Why are you so sure it was the painter who betrayed him?” Tessa asked suddenly.

“Who else could it have been? The rest of the household were family or old and trusted retainers, all of them Catholics to a man. Whereas the painter had no ties of loyalty to bind him and wasn’t a Catholic.”

“How do you know?”

Leo spoke so sharply that I was startled, but Barney went on as if he hadn’t heard.

“Then there was that business of the entrance to the priest’s hole being concealed behind the painting. Who but a painter would be likely to examine the picture so closely that he found the spring?”

“It’s plausible, but not proven!” Leo objected.

“I tell you I know it’s true!” Barney spoke with such vehemence he almost shouted. He brought his hand down flat on the table with a bang.

“All right, all right,” Tessa said pacifically. “You two stop fighting.”

Leo muttered something that might have been an apology, and asked instead: “What’s the date of this drawing? Or don’t you know?”

“I know very exactly,” Barney answered. “It’s dated September 28th, 1612.”

“How do you know? You haven’t had it out of the frame,” Leo challenged.

“It was drawn the day of his arrest, and I know the date.”

“You’ve certainly boned up on Father Furnivall,” Babs said lazily. “He must mean a lot to you.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Why?”

Barney again side-stepped the question. “He was arrested just before midday, and arraigned that same afternoon. It was a golden early-autumn day. You can see how the light fell on his face as he sat there—a foretaste of the glory to come.”

“He’s getting quite carried away,” Tim observed to no one in particular. He had regained possession of Babs, who said suddenly: “I don’t believe Barney bought that drawing in a junk-shop. He knows too much about it for that.”

“I did. Cross my heart. I can show you where the shop is.”

“Of course he did,” I cried. (Babs is always needling Barney.) “Do you think he stole it, or what?”

“Or what,” she said succinctly; and Tim, before turning back to her, said indulgently to me: “Shut up, kid.”

It’s true I’m the youngest, but that doesn’t make me the silliest. I discovered that long ago.

“Tim Phelps,” I began, “if you don’t leave off treating me like a baby——”

A hand fastened over my face. “That’s enough, Emily,” Barney ordered. I was so surprised I obeyed. Not that I was surprised at the rough-house; there’s often a scuffle like that. No, what surprised me was that I could feel Barney’s hand trembling, and when I looked at him there were drops of sweat on his face. I wondered whether the others had noticed it. I had a feeling Leo might have done.

A moment later I was sure of it. “There’s something funny here,” Leo said. He was looking very directly at Barney, who looked unhappily back. “You bought that drawing less than a week ago. You bought it in a junk-shop. I’ve no doubt you got it for a song. You said yourself that the people in the junk-shop could tell you nothing about it. Yet you’ve already found out a great deal. Or shall we say you’ve invented?”

“No,” Barney said. “Not that.”

“All right then. Suppose you tell us where you saw the portrait that enabled you to recognise this friar?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because there isn’t a portrait.” Leo’s voice was hypnotically low. “Then what enabled you to date this drawing so precisely? You don’t just give a year, you give a day.”

“I’ve told you—it’s the day he was captured,” Barney whispered. “You can look it up in the Dictionary of National Biography.”

“But how did you know the drawing was of Father Furnivall in the first place?”

Barney’s hands were shaking as if his wrists had springs in them. “Because I drew him,” he said.

“Aha! So much for the Old Master nonsense and the obligingly unhelpful junk-shop.”

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Barney said slowly (even Tim and Babs were sitting up by now), “but I drew Father Furnivall in the great hall as he faced his accusers. I remember it. Don’t ask me how.”

“Are you trying to tell us now that you’re not an imposter?”

“I didn’t fake that drawing, if that’s what you mean.”

Tessa, who had been examining it, looked up quickly. “It looks pretty genuine to me.”

Leo took it from her. “You’re right. It doesn’t look modern.” He turned to Barney. “I never thought you had it in you to draw like that.”

“I haven’t—not the me you see. But I made that drawing. When I saw it, I recognised it at once. Just as I remembered Father Furnivall, and the scene in the hall, and how he looked and what he said . . .” He buried his face in his hands. “I can’t stand it. It’s all my fault that he’s dead.”

I wanted to take him in my arms, but I couldn’t with the others looking. I had to content myself with stroking his trouser-leg.

Leo said: “Look here, I’m sorry if I made you out to be a forger, but you must admit it’s pretty odd.”

“Odd!” Barney’s voice rose sharply. “I’ve been telling myself that all week. I must be going round the bend, or something.”

“No, no,” I took hold of his hand.

“Suppose you tell us what you remember,” Leo suggested. “We might be able to clear things up.”

He sounded doubtful. Tessa was looking frightened. Babs had hidden her face against Tim’s coat. I continued to stroke Barney’s hand as he bowed his head and began, hesitantly at first, but growing bolder, to recall the distant past:

“The windows in the great hall faced westwards. There was a low raised dais at one end. That was where they sat—the captain of militia, the local justice, the pursy-mouthed scribe who acted as the justice’s clerk, I can see them now—not their clothes but their faces. Pleased but decorous, like businessmen who have done a good deal.”

“Where were you?” Leo said gently.

“I was standing in the body of the hall, where all the household had been herded, I was leaning against the wall.”

He stopped. “Now why was I leaning against the wall? The walls were reserved for soldiers, who stood all around like sentinels, their pikes drawn. They were keeping an eye on the household—one false move and they’d have struck you down. Everyone else was huddled in the middle of the room, even the women. But I was privileged. I was allowed the wall.

“That was why I could sketch, of course. I had something to lean on. And I had my drawing materials with me—I don’t know why. There was space around me, too. Neither the soldiers nor the household stood near me. I was isolated. No one would meet my eye. Or—no: that’s not true. There were some who looked at me with loathing—some of the soldiers too. When I looked up from my drawing it was to catch their stares of hatred. What had I done that they should hate me so?”

“Go on,” Leo commanded. “Describe how Father Furnivall was brought in.”

“With his feet fettered, dragged between two soldiers,” Barney said promptly. “Either because of the fetters or because he had already been tortured, he could not stand. That was why they gave him a chair.

“The justice’s clerk read out the indictment. The forms of justice were to be observed. The priest was asked whether he had anything to say, but he kept silent. The captain of militia leaned forward and struck him with his glove across the cheek.”

I looked at the drawing, and it was as though I saw the red mark spreading. I could picture how his head would jerk up and his eyes flash. Was that when he placed his right hand on the chair arm and gripped it, to help him control himself? It would have been so easy to strike back, so natural for the man in the picture, for there must have been an athletic body underneath that friar’s gown. And no one ever held his head more proudly, or kept his lips more firmly shut.

“Didn’t he speak at all?” asked Tessa.

“Yes. He said—I think I’ve remembered his words—that a greater judge than he had set an example of silence before unjust judges, and he would follow where his Master led.”

“Oh, good for him!” I cried. I hadn’t meant to say it, but Father Furnivall’s words were so exactly right—right for him, I mean, because I could just imagine him saying them and then for ever afterwards closing his mouth. Such a wide, strong, sensitive mouth—but cynical. He knew exactly what men’s promises were worth. When his captors promised him freedom or threatened torture, the turned-down corners of his mouth would lift in a grim smile. But his lips stayed shut, and if he groaned under their tortures, they did not break his iron self-command.

“What happened next?” Leo asked, still probing.

“The justice cried out that he had blasphemed. The captain jumped to his feet and commanded the guards to drag the prisoner outside and hang him, but the justice’s clerk intervened. He was a little, evil man who loved cruelty. He had a soft voice and a sneering laugh. He reminded the justice that the prisoner might be a useful source of information—if he could be ‘persuaded’ to talk. King James’s Secretary of State might be sorry to lose so valuable an informant—he let Father Furnivall hear that word—and gave his hateful laugh as he began to gather up his papers. The justice nodded to the captain, who withdrew his order. Father Furnivall again sat down.

“All this time I had been sketching rapidly. The main lines were already drawn, though I had to put the finishing touches in later—that’s why I drew him wearing his Franciscan habit, because I couldn’t remember his clothes.”

“It was lucky you had a sketch-block with you,” Tessa said dryly, “to record this moment of history.”

I felt Barney stiffen with anger. “I didn’t have a sketch-block. I had a single sheet and that wasn’t even a clean one, I’d been making drawings of hands—from boredom or for amusement—when we were all summoned to the great hall. I took the sheet of paper with me, together with some chalks and a book. I had no intention of drawing that portrait. I wish to God I never had.”

“Why?” I exclaimed. “I think it’s beautiful.”

Babs looked at me. “You would!”

“No, honest, Barney. It’s a wonderful drawing.”

“The kid’s right,” Tessa said.

Barney shuddered so violently that I was frightened. “Put it away. In a moment he’ll turn his head.”

“Steady on!” Leo put a hand on Barney’s shoulder. “This is all jolly queer, I admit, but there’s no need to get worked up about it. A portrait is fixed; it can’t move.”

Barney shook off the hand. “Don’t you understand?” he shouted. “He’s going to turn his head and look at me, just as he did that day in the hall. I couldn’t stand it then and I can’t now, I tell you.”

“Why not?”

Barney took no notice and rushed on: “He must have known where I was standing. His eyes turned immediately to mine. And although his hands were bound, he half-lifted them as if in blessing. He knew exactly what I’d done.”

Tim said: “Come off it, Barney. You’ve had your joke. No need to prolong it like this. I’m getting cold.” He snuggled Babs closer to him. “Why are you so afraid of meeting the old monk’s eye?”

“Because,” Barney said, “I betrayed him.”

There was a silence.

“What makes you think that?” Tessa asked.

Barney spread his hands helplessly. “Don’t ask me. I just know it. That’s why they looked at me with hate.”

“You’re imagining things,” I said, though I did not believe it.

“Am I?” Barney looked down and absently stroked my hair: but impersonally, as if I were a dog he was fondling. I heard Babs begin to laugh.

As usual, Leo came to the rescue.

“Didn’t you say an artist was suspected of betraying Father Furnivall? If so, wouldn’t his name be known?”

“The Dictionary of National Biography doesn’t give it.”

“Well then, what other work of his survives?”

“What are you getting at?” Tim demanded.

“An expert could compare the drawing with it and see if the same hand did both. It would prove Barney’s point.”

“There’s nothing known of him,” Barney said. “Except this.” He put out a hand and touched the drawing, which was lying in Leo’s lap.

“Bunk!” Tim said with unnecessary vigour. “Come off it, Barney. You’re only having us on.”

“I am not.”

“Course you are. What you’re saying is bloody impossible. Do you think anyone’s going to believe you, except wide-eyed Emily here?”

“Let her alone.” Barney sounded angry. “And don’t call me a liar unless you want a fight.”

Tim stood up, pushing Babs aside. “So it’s like that, is it? All right then: I don’t believe you. Do you want to settle it outside?”

“There’s no need,” Leo interposed smoothly. “We can settle Barney’s bona fides in this room.” He looked at him. “Can I take the frame of that picture to pieces?”

“If you want to. But what are you going to do?”

Leo didn’t answer, merely turned over the drawing and began to fiddle with the back of the frame, while the rest of us gathered round to peer over his shoulder. Even Babs seemed interested at last.

Leo slit the brown paper which held in place the frame’s wooden backing. The frame began to come apart. He laid the pieces on the table before him and turned to the picture itself. The paper was yellowed and brittle at the edges. Without the frame, it was obvious how rough and unfinished the drawing really was. It made its quality all the more striking; it would have stood out anywhere.

“There!” Leo sat back. “I rather think this will prove it.”

Tim said: “You haven’t proved anything so far. The drawing isn’t signed or initialled. In any case, Barney can’t remember his name.”

“No, but he’s remembered something more important.”

Tim looked sceptical. “What do you mean?”

Leo turned the paper over very slowly. On the back were three drawings of hands.