So he had set the scene. Too much alcohol, too much dope. The television on at the foot of the bed, the sound off, the images glimmering. And he positioned himself like Chatterton in the painting: lying atop the covers fully dressed, one arm dangling decadently over the side. His mouth was open, his eyes were closed, his faint snore was almost convincing. Through slightly parted lids, he watched Harper as she paused, as she watched him. He saw the uncharacteristic emotion in her expression. Saw the heaviness too, the savage work of gravity on her exhausted features. Without stirring from where he lay, but with an undeniable little thrill of terror and excitement, he thought, She’s seen him!

Then Harper passed on, out of his view.

She went up the stairs again, to her own room. An attic cell. A cupboard, stacked with books, littered with loose papers, pictures. A bed, a rocking chair. One small window on the night sky. Divested of her stick, her satchel, she stooped, grunting, to light the gas fire. Sighing, she sank into her rocker before the feeble blue flame.

She set the chair into motion. She had had some vague idea of sobbing her heart out once she’d reached the privacy of her home. Sobbing for her sins, for her weakness, for her misspent life. But she found she couldn’t be bothered. She was too tired. The grief was too deep for tears. And anyway, she had work to do before she could get to sleep.

She bent to drag her satchel to her. Brought out her pipe, her baccy. Brought out the envelope that she had transferred from the pocket of her cape. Brought out the manuscript and placed it on her skirted lap.

Well, at least he wasn’t infallible, she thought with some small satisfaction. He had reckoned every copy was destroyed. He hadn’t counted on the ghost of M. R. James.

She adjusted her glasses. She chomped her pipe. Torched the skulltop. Primed the flame. Rocked and smoked awhile, Iago’s words reverberating in her mind. I was here before the oceans turned black with life, and when the deserts are white with death I will remain. Strange words. Overwrought. Silly. And yet eerily familiar somehow.

The room was quiet but for the rhythmic shifting of the rocker’s joins: tick-tick, tick-tick.

The clockwork of history, Harper thought.

And she began to read.

VII

THE
MONK’S
CONFESSION