by Alex Duncan
The old man reached up as far as he could and took hold of the lowest branch on the old oak. With a small jump he managed to sling his other arm, cane and all, over the same branch and heave himself up and over until he could sit down. He wobbled around for a moment until he was sure he could stand and took hold of a higher branch to support himself and continued up. In no time at all, and to his own surprise, he was balanced on a thick branch leaning out nearer the wall. His shoes were still caked in slippery mud so he was careful not to move around too much, but holding on with one arm gave him enough purchase to lean out further and look down into the area behind the wall.
The moon hid behind the clouds and the night was as black as pitch, so at first he was unclear as to what he saw. There was a large field of dry land that stretched out and led up to simple, run down stone buildings in the distance and the remains of a mill and waterwheel where the river bent round and cut through the wall. The air smelt faintly metallic. In the field there appeared to be figures moving around in every direction. Henry scrunched his eyes up and tried to get a clearer look of them, but it was still far from definite. The figures walked aimlessly about, with leaden, slow steps like shadows in the night.
Then the light of the moon broke through the clouds.
In the pale, silvery light Henry saw that it was people moving about in a meaningless way in the cold. He saw drawn, hollow faces, and men and women shivering or huddled together in groups or simply wandering about as though there was nothing left to do. There was an apathy and sadness about the shambling lot of them, all wearing plain grey smocks or shapeless dresses.
One young lady nearer the wall tripped over her own feet and fell down onto her knees. Henry instantly realized he knew her. It was the lady he’d seen escorted away from Corin Street only that morning. She had been dressed in an expensive looking golden shawl and a bonnet overflowing with feathers, and now here she was, her finery ripped and muddied and crawling in the dust. Henry had no idea what to make of it.
He leaned a little further out, but his foot slipped on the wood and he gave a sharp cry as he gripped firmly and saved himself from falling. The young lady heard the sound, looked straight up at him and she took a sharp breath. Henry steadied himself before putting his finger up to his lips and signalling to her to keep her peace.
The young lady shook her head and called up to him in a shrill whisper. ‘Please, please sir! You must help me. I’m not meant to be here. There’s been some mistake. I’m the wife of Mr Belleville. We’re very respectable. You must help me!’
Henry glared at her and madly waved his hand for her to keep quiet, but she was having none of it.
‘Sir, you’re not listening to me. I’m not meant to be here. You must help me get out. They’re keeping us all here against our will. It’s the very height of indecency. Please sir…’
‘Oi! Stop that caterwauling,’ came a great shout nearby, cutting off the young lady. ‘You’re not here to howl at the moon!’
Henry turned and saw one of the red and black uniformed guards rushing over to the young lady and, without so much as a flicker of hesitation, beat her about the head with a cudgel. The lady fell face down, unmoving and before Henry could retreat the guard looked up at where she had been shouting and saw the old man there in the high branches of the tree.
‘You there! What’s your game?!’
‘Oh bugger!’ hissed Henry.
He descended the tree as fast as he could, bending down to take each lower branch beneath him. The last step he missed, lost balance and fell to the ground. Groaning with the pain in his hips he pulled himself up and got onto the horse and kicked his heels into its sides and they were off.
Galloping down the track and through the river, the water splashing violently about them, Henry turned around and saw, coming up fast, a guard on horseback in pursuit.
‘Gidyup! Come on, heeeyah!’ he shouted down to the horse, kicking his heels in again and forcing them on faster towards the lights. He could hear the rhythm of the hooves banging against the hard path behind him, getting closer with every step and when he looked around again there was no longer only one guard following him but three.
He pulled hard on the reins and forced the horse to the right and into the heavily wooded forest near the town, winding through the thick trunks and ducking the low branches. He trusted in his own skill on horseback and thought the guards needed a little testing. He carved out his own path between the trees, sliding through breaks in the woodland that would have been tricky enough on foot, let alone on horseback. The sharp twigs whipped against his cheeks and, sinking down as low as he could, he jammed his cane up between two trees, wedging it in hard. Barely a breath later he heard a loud curse and thud and smiled knowing it must have been a guard loosing a fight with the obstacle and he sped on his way.
There was no way he could head back up Hope Hill, he’d be the only rider out so late and they’d know exactly where he was heading, he would have to head straight into the town itself.
Within minutes they were clattering down a cobbled street and through a back alley. Henry looked up at the sign and saw it was Archer Street. Thankfully, he knew where he was. Pulling to the right at the end of the alley, he headed onto Corin Street and had got enough of a lead to leap from the horse, leaving it next to several other horses tied to a post and head directly into the Crossroads tavern before the other guards had even turned the corner.
He was quick to squeeze into the crowd of late night revellers, grab a forgotten tankard of ale from a table and join in with all the high-spirited jostling and carousing.
The best place to hide a needle, he thought as he took a long drink of the ale, was in a room full of needles. That’s what he used to tell Rosie at any rate.
The door to the tavern swung open and the two remaining guards, all hot and bothered, strutted in. Some of the locals hushed as the two men barged their way though the crowd, inspecting faces, others sung their songs even louder and cheered at the dancing and music. One guard seized Henry and swung him round by the elbow, grunting at him.
‘You. Where’ve you been this evening old timer?’
‘Me...urg…no…I…drink…flum…’ said Henry.
‘What was that?’ asked the guard, wafting the smell of ale away from his face.
‘It’s…no…me…prob…eurgh…’ said Henry, slurring and burping in the man’s face for good measure. The guard backed away, suitably revolted by him and Henry went to throw his arms around him in an inebriated embrace.
‘Oh get off me you old drunk,’ said the guard, pushing the old man off into the bar. Henry saluted him with a rude gesture and watched, out of the corner of his eye, as they continued their search, eventually giving up and leaving the way they had come in.
Henry gave a low sigh of relief and winced at the dull pain in his side. He ordered another drink and rested against the bar.
Soon enough he’d had his fill and left the Crossroads tavern when the moon was still high and the night sky was a tapestry of stars. He left the horse tied up outside, making sure there was enough hay to eat and made his way slowly and carefully back up Hope Hill on foot.
Creeping into the bedroom back in the Hope and Charity he settled down into the chair by the window and pulled his travelling cloak and the heavy rug around him and let his eyes close shut.
‘Find anything out then grandpa?’ came Rosie’s groggy voice from the same corner of the room as before. Henry grimaced.
‘Oh yes, I found something out all right,’ he said, struggling to find a comfortable position to lie in that didn’t aggravate his saw hips.
‘What was that?’ she asked.
Henry turned to her.
‘I’m getting far too old for this nonsense.’
◆◆◆
‘I’m telling you, it’s not nonsense,’ said the tall, lithe guard called Trigger, standing as upright as he could, four floors up on a flat roof overlooking Corin Street. He wasn’t particularly good with h
eights and did his utmost to stay away from the edge.
‘I promise you,’ he continued. ‘The man was as old as the hills but he could outride all of us, even Armstrong, and he’s as fast as a whippet. It was like he’d befriended the very wind to keep ahead of us.’
The guard next to him, a shorter, stockier man with a down-turned mouth and small, round eyes, laughed through his nose.
‘You lie! Go on, you can tell me, there were four of them at least, weren’t there?’
‘I do not lie; I crave your pardon Master Stool. I am a man of virtue I’ll have you know. And when I say there was only one old man causing all that fuss last night, I mean what I say.’
Stool sniggered again, a gross, snotty sound coming through his nostrils, and looked up at Trigger shaking his head.
‘And that’s how you got that is it?’ He prodded the blue tinged lump on Trigger’s forehead with his stubby finger.
‘Ow!’ yowled Trigger, rubbing the bruise and brushing his dark hair forward to hide the mark. ‘Speaking truly, it is. The man was quick enough to create an obstacle when I was but an arm’s length away from him. I, in turn, had to take my chances and swerve to avoid said obstacle. This, in turn, presented me with another obstacle in my path. I, already aflutter after avoiding the first obstacle, was not expecting this and collided headlong with the new obstacle, leading to the bruise you so kindly pointed out to me on my forehead.’
Stool cleared his throat.
‘You mean you hit a tree?’
‘Yes.’
Stool continued to snort as Trigger rocked back and forth on his heels and tried not to look out over the edge of the roof and down to the crowds buzzing about beneath them. The morning was clear and bright and warm and scents of baking bread and honeysuckle wafted up to the two of them at their post.
Without warning, the creek of a wooden door came from behind them and a finely dressed man pulled himself up onto the roof to join them.
‘Look lively,’ whispered Stool, standing as upright as he could. ‘It’s the boss. You better not let him see that bump, he’ll eat you for breakfast if he finds out what happened last night.’
Trigger brushed his hair again and stood to attention.
The man they called Apollo, dressed in a dark blue frock coat cut in a military style with a strikingly red waistcoat and white breeches, stretched his arms wide as he yawned and walked out to the two guards, laying his arms down on their shoulders.
‘What a morning, what a day!’ he sighed. ‘The sun does indeed shine on all of us today.’
The two guards shuffled their feet and tried to smile.
‘Er…yes sir Apollo sir.’ Trigger managed.
‘Grand job you boys are doing you know, grand job. We’re all terribly grateful for your efforts. And tonight it will pay off, you’ll see.’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘Yes, tonight, tonight, tonight!’ He slapped them both on their backs and they coughed.
‘But there’s still plenty to do,’ he went on. ‘Don’t think there isn’t. Got to keep everyone on a tight leash, don’t you know.’
Apollo leaned out over the lip of red brick on the roof of the building, along with Trigger and Stool in his embrace, and gazed down below. Trigger felt his stomach lurch, as the sight of the streets appeared to whoosh up to meet him and closed his eyes tight.
The streets were like a tight corset, fit to bursting. The small circles of hundreds of heads moved like some giant pattern beneath them, swirling and twisting and connecting and parting.
‘Look at it boys, just look at it.’
The two guards nodded obligingly.
‘It’s like some great machine, like some great well-oiled machine, all the cogs locking perfectly together. But it’s a delicate machine, let me tell you. It doesn’t take much to break it. Look down there.’ He pointed to a street corner and a formal looking shop front. It was the bank. ‘Can you see him leaving right about now?’
A gentleman dressed in black, unshaven and with his shirt hanging out, left the building, locking the front door behind him, and pushed his way through the queue waiting outside. It was Mr Hotchkiss, the banker. The two guards nodded that they saw him, Trigger still with his eyes firmly closed.
‘Look at him boys. He’s had a rough night. Yes, truly, it seems his mind has been elsewhere. He’s closed the bank you see, even when there were customers awaiting his service, they’ll not be happy about that. Now look at him…’
Trigger opened his eyes a fraction and the three of them followed the banker’s progress as he forced his way down the street, until he came to a flower stall, where an attractive figured lady was serving everyone with a smile and a wink.
‘See. He breaks through the crowd. It’s so predictable. He breaks through and goes to her. She’s the reason he’s not been sleeping I warrant you. He waits patiently until it’s his turn to be served and finally they see each other. Now watch closely…’
Though straining to see, it was clear that Hotchkiss and the flower lady had taken hands and passed each other something. Hotchkiss slipped a package into his pocket and the lady pushed a note down the front of her dress.
‘They’ve exchanged letters, sweet nothings and keepsakes without anyone knowing a thing, least of all Hotchkiss’ poor wife! Soon it will be more than mere scraps of paper and polite smiles on the street. Soon it will be hushed words in quiet corners and secret meetings after dark and stolen kisses.’
Trigger and Stool shuffled some more.
‘Before long they will talk of leaving town altogether, leaving all this behind and stealing away in the night for a new life together. The wives and the husbands will wake alone, solemn and maudlin. Work will cease. This will spread to their customers, their friends, their children. They have abandoned reason, abandoned it for their selfish desires, and we’ll be the ones to pay for it.’
He was getting more passionate now and jabbed a finger through the air, aimed at the pair on the street now parting and returning to their work.
‘That tiny little moment you just witnessed is like a pebble thrown into a pond; one small plop and the circles spread out, affecting everything and everyone around it. How can we function like this boys, how?’
The two guards shrugged.
‘We must use our reason.’ He tapped a finger to the side of his brow. ‘It’s the best weapon we have. If we are going to progress and thrive in the next century we must use our reason. Otherwise…we rust. And what would happen then?’
Stool put his hand up.
‘We break down?’ he asked
‘Spot on boy. Well done. We break down.’
The guard beamed, proudly.
‘And I’m not going to let that happen!
‘Tonight boys, tonight they’ll see, they’ll all see what the future holds for us. I’ll show them we can become a great country again, the greatest country, and they will love me for it. By Jove, I’ll transport the whole audience to Elysian Fields! Ha ha!’
The two guards tried to laugh with him as best they could as they pulled back from the edge of the building and Apollo span on his toes and skipped back to the door. Trigger swallowed in relief and wiped his sweating hands down the length of his breeches.
‘Now, Master Stool?’
‘Sir?’
‘Pay Mr Hotchkiss a little visit later today will you, and make him aware of his…behaviour.’
‘Sir,’ nodded Stool.
‘And Master Trigger?’
‘Sir?’
‘One small question before I depart.’
‘Sir?’
Apollo shone a smile his way and gave a twirl.
‘How do I look?’
◆◆◆
It all looked very agreeable, thought Mrs Pennyfeather, landlady of The Hop Inn, very agreeable indeed. With a ledger full of names and a NO VACANCY sign hanging in the window it certainly was a good time for business. And, if word on the street was anything to go by (and it usually was) it was only going to get better. O
nce the event was over, folk were expected to flock to the town from up and down the country. We’ll be the envy of everyone, she thought, frisking the display of lilies in the vase on the counter, as long as we keep things spick and span I’ll not be taking that sign down for years.
The light outside was just beginning to fade to a dull, velvety blue as evening came on, but the noise of chatter and gossip and bartering held on and Mrs Pennyfeather had happily turned away twenty customers seeking lodgings in the last hour alone. What a night lay ahead.
‘Blanch dear?’ she called to the serving girl in the lobby. Blanch, skipped in and bobbed a curtsey. She was as prim as a doily.
‘Yes ma’am?’
‘I think it’s time you turned the beds down, lit the candles and removed any dead flowers from their vases. We must keep everything perfect if we are to retain our reputation for the future. Oh, and check if our friends the Winterton’s need anything, they’ve been in their suite all day, missing out on all the fun of the town.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ said Blanch, running off and up the stairs to the top most floor. She scuttled down the corridor, lighting candles on their brackets from her own small candle until she came to the final door, marked the Royal Suite.
In front of the door the silver breakfast tray still waited on the hard wood floor. It hadn’t been touched. The glass pots of conserve hadn’t been moved, the bread lay where she had put it that morning and a wilted rose still drooped in its tiny vase.
Blanch knocked tentatively on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, more firmly, but there was still no answer. Putting her face to the door she called in.
‘Mr Winterton sir, everything all right in there?’
Silence. Except she came away from the door with the peculiar feeling of cold spreading through her, like having wet feet in an icy puddle. She shivered and called in again.
‘Mr Winterton, Mrs Winterton?’
Nothing.
This was silly, she thought, Mrs Pennyfeather must be mistaken. They can’t be in.
Blanch reached into her apron and pulled out a set of keys. Shuffling through them she selected the key to the door and turned it in the lock until it clicked. The door edged open and for a moment she was certain she could smell burning, but only for a moment. In the gap through the door she saw the drawn curtains wave in the breeze from the open windows.