pensive,
Keatsian air. 'Blast, Edmund!' Sala's descending fist causes tiny
globes of black liquid to spatter from his inkwell onto the desk.
'Give over to the fecking Scotsman? Can't have it, old man!' 'Get
used to Mr Fraser, Algy. The Proprietor might well tender him an
offer.' 'True, the fecking Scotsman seems to have taken the field at
present. Uncanny, the way the rascal has developed an instinct in
recent months.' Cream interjects: 'Uncanny is precisely the word for
Mr Fraser's intuitive manifestation.' 'Quite,' Whitty says. 'How
timely that Mr Fraser should enter the discussion now, for several
new and interesting facts have surfaced concerning that Celtic
gentleman.' 'Interesting in what way?' Sala and Cream speak in
unison. 'Following a persistent investigation I have obtained the
confidence of an impeccable source, who leaves no doubt that Dr
Gilbert Williams, the subject of Fraser's latest series on psychic
phenomena, is in truth a proven humbug with a litter of innocent
victims in his wake.' 'Continue, Edmund, old boy. You warm the
cockles of my heart with your little tale.' 'A plethora of aliases
have come to light: Professor Herbert Zollner of Prague, Herr
Schrenk–Notting of Konnersreuth, Bavaria . . .' 'Capital!
Foreign names!' 'Only last year he was observed cheating in Biarritz
– in the presence of Louis Napoleon himself!' says the
correspondent, for added effect. 'A royalty angle!' 'By various
means, I have acquired an invitation to our man's little spook show
under the name of Willows – that is, should I decide to
undertake the story.' Sala's monocle drops to his lap. (The sacks
beneath his eyes are a shade of yellow that suggests liver trouble.)
'Dear heaven, Edmund! Can there be any question, with such crisp copy
at hand? Naturally, The Falcon will provide a substantial advance.' 3
3 WHITE STONE DAY Behind his newspaper the sub–editor takes
notes in a round, careful script. At this rate, it should only be a
matter of weeks before the proprietor orders the dismissal of Mr
Whitty – and, God willing, Mr Sala as well – with a
bright possibility of promotion for the meritorious Mr Cream. 34 6
Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, And each damp
thing that creeps and crawls Went wobble–ivohble on the walls.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear, Strange characters of woe
and fear, The humbugs of the social sphere. Not far from the town of
Chipping Norton, the brougham containing Reverend William Boltbyn and
his photographic equipment pauses beside a one–storeyed
porter's lodge, nestled in deep ivy, before a set of heavy wooden
lodge–gates designed to convey the opposite of welcome. Nobody
in ten years has passed through these gates without a signed
invitation from the Duke of Danbury. Artists who ask permission to
sketch the house are refused without exception. A photographer who
managed to capture the manor by stealth had his negatives smashed, so
that the otherwise inclusive Homes of the British Aristocracy in the
Camera: Being Reminiscences of a Peripatetic Photographer contains no
chapter on Bissett Grange. This absence was of less consequence to
the photographer than the near–loss of a leg by
blood–poisoning, having stepped into a poacher's snare. An
exception to this forbidding directive are members of the Oxford
Photographic Society, which the duke has taken under his protection
since its founding a dozen years ago, and who roam the estate at
will. As the carriage clatters up the elm–avenue to the house,
Boltbyn admires the broad expanse of park; two grazing deer raise
their heads at the sound of carriage–wheels and hurry, at their
peculiar sling trot, into the shelter of a shadowed copse. Boltbyn
does not look forward to the afternoon. He had thought the society to
have progressed well past Sleeping Innocence pictures; moreover, he
does not welcome the opportunity to contribute further to the ceuvre
of Mr Nixon Crede. The entrance to the manor is made
Keatsian air. 'Blast, Edmund!' Sala's descending fist causes tiny
globes of black liquid to spatter from his inkwell onto the desk.
'Give over to the fecking Scotsman? Can't have it, old man!' 'Get
used to Mr Fraser, Algy. The Proprietor might well tender him an
offer.' 'True, the fecking Scotsman seems to have taken the field at
present. Uncanny, the way the rascal has developed an instinct in
recent months.' Cream interjects: 'Uncanny is precisely the word for
Mr Fraser's intuitive manifestation.' 'Quite,' Whitty says. 'How
timely that Mr Fraser should enter the discussion now, for several
new and interesting facts have surfaced concerning that Celtic
gentleman.' 'Interesting in what way?' Sala and Cream speak in
unison. 'Following a persistent investigation I have obtained the
confidence of an impeccable source, who leaves no doubt that Dr
Gilbert Williams, the subject of Fraser's latest series on psychic
phenomena, is in truth a proven humbug with a litter of innocent
victims in his wake.' 'Continue, Edmund, old boy. You warm the
cockles of my heart with your little tale.' 'A plethora of aliases
have come to light: Professor Herbert Zollner of Prague, Herr
Schrenk–Notting of Konnersreuth, Bavaria . . .' 'Capital!
Foreign names!' 'Only last year he was observed cheating in Biarritz
– in the presence of Louis Napoleon himself!' says the
correspondent, for added effect. 'A royalty angle!' 'By various
means, I have acquired an invitation to our man's little spook show
under the name of Willows – that is, should I decide to
undertake the story.' Sala's monocle drops to his lap. (The sacks
beneath his eyes are a shade of yellow that suggests liver trouble.)
'Dear heaven, Edmund! Can there be any question, with such crisp copy
at hand? Naturally, The Falcon will provide a substantial advance.' 3
3 WHITE STONE DAY Behind his newspaper the sub–editor takes
notes in a round, careful script. At this rate, it should only be a
matter of weeks before the proprietor orders the dismissal of Mr
Whitty – and, God willing, Mr Sala as well – with a
bright possibility of promotion for the meritorious Mr Cream. 34 6
Bissett
Grange, Oxfordshire I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, And each damp
thing that creeps and crawls Went wobble–ivohble on the walls.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear, Strange characters of woe
and fear, The humbugs of the social sphere. Not far from the town of
Chipping Norton, the brougham containing Reverend William Boltbyn and
his photographic equipment pauses beside a one–storeyed
porter's lodge, nestled in deep ivy, before a set of heavy wooden
lodge–gates designed to convey the opposite of welcome. Nobody
in ten years has passed through these gates without a signed
invitation from the Duke of Danbury. Artists who ask permission to
sketch the house are refused without exception. A photographer who
managed to capture the manor by stealth had his negatives smashed, so
that the otherwise inclusive Homes of the British Aristocracy in the
Camera: Being Reminiscences of a Peripatetic Photographer contains no
chapter on Bissett Grange. This absence was of less consequence to
the photographer than the near–loss of a leg by
blood–poisoning, having stepped into a poacher's snare. An
exception to this forbidding directive are members of the Oxford
Photographic Society, which the duke has taken under his protection
since its founding a dozen years ago, and who roam the estate at
will. As the carriage clatters up the elm–avenue to the house,
Boltbyn admires the broad expanse of park; two grazing deer raise
their heads at the sound of carriage–wheels and hurry, at their
peculiar sling trot, into the shelter of a shadowed copse. Boltbyn
does not look forward to the afternoon. He had thought the society to
have progressed well past Sleeping Innocence pictures; moreover, he
does not welcome the opportunity to contribute further to the ceuvre
of Mr Nixon Crede. The entrance to the manor is made
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