sounds, but I stood in that room, Lady Markhampton’s drawing-room it was, the drawing-room of that house called the Chantry which stood in the Cathedral Close, and because all the objects there were vibrating with information I experienced her essence quite clearly; the image was slapped on the computer screen of my psychic eye. That meant I could ‘see’ her – but psychically, not visually – and at once I thought: nice old girl, sharp tongue, kind heart, well read, cleverer than her husband – and then I experienced the husband’s essence too: old buffer, drank too much, liked cricket and Havana cigars, stupid old bore, forget him, and anyway the love of Lady Markhampton’s life hadn’t been her husband, it had been a slim, striking, middle-aged man with golden eyes – golden eyes just like Charley Ashworth’s, how odd – and he was wearing a frock-coat and gaiters, a fact which was odder still, but no, he wasn’t an actor in a costume melodrama, he was a twentieth-century bishop in full episcopal gear, interesting, fancy Lady Markhampton being in love with a bishop, but of course she’d kept her secret, and neither the bishop nor the silly old husband had ever guessed.
Then time suddenly went way out of alignment, and I knew that in that drawing-room, so civilised and elegant, a priest had been killed during the Civil War when the Roundheads had smashed up Royalist Starbridge. There was wall-to-wall blood, I couldn’t see it, but it was there, I was wading in it, and all at once the Force – the psychic force – roared into top gear, like a gale it was, no, a hurricane, no, a nuclear wind, and it nearly deafened me, although of course there was no sound, just print-out, print-out, print-out, slam, slam, slam on the computer keyboard, and the word which kept flashing on the screen was DEATH, DEATH, DEATH, DEATH, DEATH.
Then I looked at my companions, that jeunesse dorée, those glamorous friends of Marina Markhampton all glittering in the Light, and I knew the Dark was closing in on them, I knew the Coterie was doomed. But Michael Ashworth was going to survive – odd how sure I was of that when popular opinion wrote him off as a rake who could only go from bad to worse, but no, Michael was going to live and someone else was going to live too, one of the girls – was it Marina, surviving with Michael? – but I couldn’t quite read the name in the print-out – oh God, let it be my friend Venetia! – and meanwhile the keys were slamming on and the horrors were coming up brilliantly lit upon the screen.
I looked at Dinkie, the steamy brunette, and knew she’d become a walking corpse. I looked at Christian’s brother Norman and knew his body would rot long before he died. I looked at Norman’s wife Cynthia and heard her screaming in a locked room. I looked at Marina’s friend Holly Carr and felt the pain as she slashed her wrists. I looked at Katie Aysgarth’s brother Simon and knew the waters would close over his head. I looked at my friend Venetia and the word that roared through my brain was DANGER, DANGER, DANGER – and I thought: I’ve got to save her, got to act, got to speak –
But when I stepped forward Marina intercepted me. ‘Nicky – Nicky! You’re not listening – what’s the matter, have you gone deaf? I want you to tell all our fortunes once we get up to the Cathedral roof …’
I said something, don’t know what, anything to brush her off, and then, thank God, Venetia saw me. She was on the other side of the room. I began to stagger towards her, and I think she realised I had a message to deliver because she came to meet me, but when we were face to face at last I was tongue-tied. I found I had no way of imparting my psychic knowledge; the ‘gnosis’ wasn’t transmissible to that part of the brain which controls speech, and when I finally opened my mouth the only words that came out were: ‘Don’t go to the Cathedral.’
Venetia’s expression changed from curiosity to an amused indulgence. What a dear little psychic poodle, she was thinking, a nonsensical warning delivered with such an earnest expression, he really is rather adorable.
Overcome by an embarrassed fury I bolted into the hall.
Someone – something – the cosmic equivalent of a hand – switched off the Force.
I just managed to reach the cloakroom basin before I threw up. Then I dashed cold water on my face and willed myself to stop shaking. I was wearing no cross but I tried to roll back the Dark by silently reciting the old Orthodox prayer which I used as a mantra. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God –
Someone rattled the cloakroom door. ‘Yoo-hoo! Who’s monopolising the lavatory? Hurry up!’
Struggling out I found Marina giggling with her girlfriends, Holly and Emma-Louise.
‘Nicky, do change your mind about coming to the Cathedral!’
Incapable of speech I merely shook my head, hurtled across the hall to the dining-room, which had been set aside for the guests’ coats, and began to rummage around for my leather jacket.
‘Ah, there you are!’ said Christian, walking into the room a second later. ‘I was afraid you’d already gone. This hasn’t been much fun for you, has it? Marina’s very bold in bringing together widely differing age-groups, but it’s a risky strategy for a hostess to adopt.’
‘I didn’t mind.’ I pawed at a mink stole and finally found my jacket. ‘It was okay.’
‘Was it? You look a bit green.’
Too many sausage rolls –’
‘– and not enough champagne!’ he said laughing. To my surprise he added: ‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t have much chance to talk to you – I think you were probably the most original person in the room and I always admire originality. Come to Oxford to see me if ever you can tear yourself away from the Other Place!’
And then as he smiled straight into my eyes, the Force blasted back across my psyche and I thought: you’ll die young.
‘We sin because we are part of a sinful situation …’
MICHAEL RAMSEY
Archbishop of Canterbury 1961–1974 Canterbury Pilgrim
I
He died two years later in the summer of 1965. I met him only three times after that first encounter, but those meetings ensured I became involved in the mystery of 1968. They all took place within weeks of Marina’s party.
I was anxious to respond to his invitation to Oxford, so as soon as my second-year exams were finished I wrote him a note which read: ‘Dear Dr Aysgarth, If you have a moment to spare I’d like to ask you how far Joachim of Flora’s philosophy predates Karl Marx’s theory of history. I could come up to Oxford any time now. Yours sincerely, N. DARROW.’
In reply he wrote back: ‘Dear Nick, How nice to hear from you! Now that term’s ended and my undergraduates have finished having nervous breakdowns, I’m free as air. Come up for the weekend and we’ll pull Joachim to pieces! Yours, CHRISTIAN.’
I went up for the weekend. He had an unexpectedly large house in North Oxford, a fact which reminded me that Katie came from a wealthy family. There was a tousled garden with a bumpy tennis court in the middle of it. The house was comfortable, but its youngest inhabitants, two little Aysgarths aged five and two, ensured that it was not oppressively tidy. I knew little about children in those days, but these girls seemed unusually bright and well-behaved. An au pair female pitter-pattered in the background but
