Fallam's Secret

by Denise Giardina

  “Well, lad, you would not have heard way over in Ireland. But our Cromwell and his gray followers think we are not glum enough, nor sufficiently Christian. So they have sent us a major-general to Bristol, and his lieutenant here to Norchester, to make us holy. They will keep us from celebrations, no Morris dances or maypoles, no sports or plays. They have even forbidden Christmas! For they think Christmas is based on pagan superstition and far too jolly. The major-general and his lieutenant Pastor Fallam are sent to save us from happiness.”

  “We’re under martial law here,” Uncle John explained further. “There are eleven major-generals in England and they are like God the Father. Whatever they say the law is, that’s the law.”

  “And what does that make the lieutenant major-generals?” Lydde asked. “Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit?”

  “Close enough. In Norchester district, Noah Fallam is sheriff, judge, and jury, and no one can overrule him except Elisha Sitwell in Bristol and Cromwell himself.”

  Mother Bunch pointed to the clothes and shoes Lydde had arrived in. “I must go back to my kitchen. What is to be done with these strange garments?”

  “I think,” said Uncle John, “we’d best burn them in the kitchen hearth.”

  “Do we have to burn the Reeboks?” Lydde asked. Mother Bunch looked at her oddly. “My Irish shoes,” she explained. “They’re very comfortable.”

  “Sorry,” said Uncle John. “You can buy another pair when you get home.”

  “Mr. Soane,” said Mother Bunch with a laugh, “your speech is more and more like the lad’s.”

  “Yes.” Uncle John trusted her to believe anything he said. “I am falling into the habit of mimicking those I hear. It is becoming a pastime of mine.”

  Mother Bunch was shaking her head good-naturedly at his oddness, Lydde’s jeans and sweatshirt bundled to her chest, when there came a banging at the front door. She froze and looked at Uncle John.

  “That will be the authorities, come to question Lewis,” he said, trying to sound calm. “You will let them in, Mother Bunch, and tell them to wait in my study. But before you answer the door, take those clothes to the kitchen.”

  When she’d gone, Lydde said, “Won’t she be wondering what’s going on?”

  “She’s an old woman, and loyal to John Soane as the day is long. Besides, she worships at St. Pancras too and she doesn’t care for the Puritans, as you could tell.”

  But the visitors had let themselves in and intercepted Mother Bunch, for there was a clatter of boots on the stairs. Noah Fallam entered the room, carrying Lydde’s clothes in a bundle under his arm, followed by a sheepish Constable Baxter.

  “Is this the Irish boy?” Fallam demanded.

  “It is,” said Uncle John, once again feigning his speech impediment. “And are you accustomed to entering a man’s home without asking entrance?”

  Lydde and Fallam were staring at one another. A damned attractive man, she had to admit. His was an unusual combination of light brown hair and dark eyes, with a slight flush to his cheeks and a dimpled chin. Lydde felt a nervous tickle in her stomach.

  “If I believe it warranted,” Fallam replied, never taking his eyes from Lydde’s. “Norchester suffers two uproars in the space of a few hours. A lad arrives in strange garb bearing the insignia of the Devil, and a church is bewitched. Could there be a connection? If the answer be ‘yea,’ then indeed, there is reason to force entry before these”—he held up the clothes—“are lost.”

  “This boy is a cousin.”

  “So I am told. And I would know what else he may be. First remind me, Mr. Soane. Are you not a member of St. Pancras parish?”

  “I am.”

  “As I thought. I shall preach there tomorrow morning. You, sir, will be there with your household.”

  It was clearly an order, not a request. “We shall attend as usual,” Uncle John said mildly.

  Fallam turned back to Lydde. “These clothes which your servant was so anxious to do away with, are they the ones you arrived in?”

  Lydde looked at Uncle John and he nodded again.

  “Yes,” she said. “My cousin has only just convinced me it was safe to remove them, and we thought it best to burn them.”

  “Boy,” said Fallam, “you speak as strangely as was reported. You shall come with us.”

  “But he is tired from his journey,” Uncle John protested.

  “All the better. Perhaps we’ll get the truth more easily.”

  Then Lydde wailed, “Please, sir, may I not wait until after you preach tomorrow morning? For I am greatly in need of the word of God. Please, sir, it would be such a comfort to hear you first.”

  Fallam, she was pleased to see, had been taken off guard. Uncle John had put his hand on her shoulder. “There, there, Lewis. You are safe now.”

  Fallam looked from one to the other with narrowed eyes. Then he said, “Your certainty of receiving spiritual comfort from me is touching. Still I would ask you some questions. Since you claim to be weary, we shall go downstairs and proceed there. Mr. Soane, which room would be most appropriate?”

  It was clear he would not be denied. “The study would be best,” Uncle John said, and threw a helpless glance at Lydde.

  “It will do. Constable Baxter, you shall attend the good doctor to ensure we are not disturbed.” Fallam turned and clattered back downstairs, followed by Baxter.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Lydde said in a sudden panic.

  “Act,” said Uncle John.

  FALLAM sat at Uncle John’s desk, laid his hat beside the bundle of clothes, then leaned back. Lydde pulled up a chair.

  “You will stand,” Fallam said sharply.

  She straightened and stood up slowly, looking over his head.

  “Look at me,” Fallam commanded.

  She did, and held his gaze steadily.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m not certain, for we didn’t pay attention to such things. But I believe myself to be around fourteen.”

  “Your voice has not yet broke.”

  “No.”

  “And you are Irish.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned forward abruptly and smiled, but his eyes were hard. “I have been to Ireland. You sound nothing like an Irishman.”

  She swallowed, then said, “I am from a remote part of Ireland. In the far, far west. We spoke differently there.”

  “Where?”

  “Um—Gloccamorra.” It was from an old Broadway musical, the first thing that came to her. Figure that out, she thought.

  “Gloccamorra. A distant place indeed, for I have never heard of it.”

  “We used to joke, sir, that neither had the leprechauns.”

  She forced a smile, but he continued to stare at her in stony silence. Then he picked up her jeans and said, “What fabric is this? I have seen it neither in England nor Ireland.”

  “I—I do not know the name of it. It was said in my village that it came from the indigo plant.”

  “The what?”

  She fell silent, confused, trying to recall where indigo came from and remembering it was a dye, not a fabric. He held up the jeans and discovered the label.

  “What is the purpose of this…”—he tugged on the label—“this small piece of writing?”

  “In the west of Ireland they trade with strange places. I do not pretend to understand all their customs.”

  “‘Eddie Bauer. De-nim.’” He pronounced denim with the accent on the second syllable, as though it were French. “Who is this Eddie Bauer?”

  “Ah. A Frenchman, we were told. From a town called De-nim. These breeches came aboard with a shipwrecked cargo.”

  “‘Eddie Bauer,’” he read. “‘Since 1920.’”

  He waited with arms folded.

  Lydde took a deep breath. “I don’t know what it means,” she said.

  “You don’t know what it means?”

  “No.” She smiled brightly. “Do you?”

  “Do I?” He r
eared back indignantly. “Don’t be impertinent, boy.” Then he noticed the zipper. She watched the growing amazement on his face as he cautiously tugged on the tab and it slid along, locking the row of tiny metal teeth. “What is this?” he asked wonderingly.

  “It’s called a zipper,” she said. “It’s in place of buttons.”

  He ran it back and forth, zipping and unzipping more quickly.

  “You have to be careful,” she said, “not to catch your hair in it. That is, I mean, if you’re not wearing any underpants. Which people here—um—seem not to do.” He was glaring at her and her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  He dropped the jeans and took up the sweatshirt. “And this. This is made of strange stuff as well, odd to the touch. ‘Duke,’ it says. With a devil embossed.”

  “The doctor suggested,” she said quickly, “that it means the old dukes who supported the late King were all in league with the Devil.”

  “Indeed?” He raised his eyebrows. “And that is supposed to please me, is it?” Yet he didn’t seem pleased. He resumed his scrutiny of the label in the sweatshirt. “And this—Jansport?”

  “Yan-sport,” she corrected his pronunciation. “Scandinavian. A port in Greenland which sent ships to our part of Ireland.”

  “I thought the devil blouse came from papists who kidnapped you.”

  “Yes,” she volleyed back. “The papists were also from the west of Ireland. They added the devil themselves, I believe.”

  He threw down the sweatshirt and seized the shoes, waved them at her.

  Lydde crossed her fingers. “The man who made them was told leprechauns were thus shod. He tried to copy leprechaun shoes.”

  “What is this emblem on the side?” He pointed to the little British flag near the laces. “And what sort of cow produces leather of this type?”

  Lydde was exhausted and out of explanations. “A Reebok?” she said helplessly.

  He stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. When he was done, he smiled at her a moment as though fond of her, then stood abruptly, came around the desk, and seized her roughly by the arm.

  “You are lying, boy,” he said, his face close to hers, “and I shall get to the bottom of this. Do you understand?”

  “But I—”

  He shook her into silence. Then he froze, as though just noticing something. He studied her face, while she held her breath. Then he just as suddenly let her go with a final shake, threw open the study door and called, “Baxter! We are going!”

  He turned and watched her as he waited for the constable.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “I should have you stripped and examined for marks of the Devil.”

  Her head came up then, and she stepped back.

  “No,” he said with a smile. “I thought not.”

  Just then Baxter appeared from the direction of the kitchen with Uncle John, calling back his thanks to Mother Bunch for the delicious apple tart.

  “You have had your tart,” Fallam said, “and I have had an experience of another sort. The boy yonder.” He pointed at Lydde. “Keep an eye on him. And put these clothes in the sack. I shall take them with me for further examination.”

  When the door closed behind them, Uncle John said, “How’d it go?”

  Lydde shook her head. “I don’t think I got the part.”

  Chapter 8

  The Sermon

  NOAH FALLAM HAD chosen the former Bishop’s Palace as his seat of government for several reasons. It was large, and though he did not himself require so much space, he thought his endeavors did. The palace itself had been remodeled by a bishop sympathetic to Protestants during the reign of Bloody Mary and so there were numerous hiding places, false walls, and secret staircases. From the tower at the southwest corner one could survey all the cathedral precinct, much of the town, and even the estuary beyond the walls. And the closing of the cathedral meant there were no visitors except those on official business for the lieutenant major-general. Simon Cleyes, ever watchful, had little trouble keeping an eye out.

  Here Fallam returned from his visit to Soane’s Croft and, after sending Baxter on his way home to supper, went straight to his office. He turned the sack of strange clothes upside down over his desk, picked up the gray blouse with the embossed devil. A strange fabric indeed, smooth on one side but without the consolation of velvet, and a nubby white on the other like the stunted fleece of a fairy-struck lamb. He rubbed it thoughtfully. Then he took up the breeches and marveled at the impossible closeness and uniformity of the stitching. On an impulse he buried his face in the crotch and took a deep breath. He came out of his chair and threw the breeches from him, as stung as he had been when he seized and shook the boy. He trusted himself in this as in other ways. Just then Cleyes appeared at the door.

  “A letter,” he said. “From Elisha Sitwell.”

  The major-general. Sitwell had only been at his post in Bristol for a month, having replaced the previous major-general, who had died suddenly of a fit. Fallam knew Sitwell of old and was not pleased with the change. He groaned.

  “Throw it on the desk,” he said. “It shall keep good company with these odd garments.”

  Cleyes stared at the pile of clothes. He picked up a shoe and turned it this way and that. “Is it some sort of player’s costume?”

  “Of a sort,” Fallam said, “though I have not yet determined what sort of play it is. You have not seen this boy, have you?”

  “No,” Cleyes said.

  “When you do, I would like your opinion. Study him closely.”

  When Cleyes had gone, he opened the letter.

  Now that I am a month in my new post, wrote Sitwell,

  I am pleased to note that the works of the Devil have been suppressed in Norchester as well or better than any place in the Commonwealth. I commend you for the thoroughness with which you enforce your ban of plays, of games, of music, and of other such frivolous tools of Satan. I do however notice the rise of another sort of lawlessness. Smuggling thrives in your district as nowhere else in my jurisdiction. Your situation in a more remote area of the coast has something to do with this of course. Yet I hear from men of property, especially from those industrious and pious members of Parliament of the sort who have set England on its present godly course, that the situation grows steadily worse and is cause for unrest among those inclined to rebellion. You have yourself reported that a brigand styling himself the Raven has organized a gang of smugglers which even now trouble your district and disrupt government revenue. I hope to hear soon of steps you have taken to bring this blackguard to the scaffold. If this proves beyond you, I shall leave Bristol to lend you assistance.

  Fallam sighed and leaned back. He had been expecting this letter ever since he heard of Sitwell’s appointment. What he had not counted on was to receive it in the midst of a mystery. He picked up a black shoe and put his hand inside. Noah Fallam had a long hand with slender fingers, and the shoe’s strange binding gripped him tightly. He easily touched the inside toe. A dainty foot despite the shoe’s bulky shape.

  So. The new arrival might prove to be a costly distraction. Or—and he allowed himself a smile—an interesting diversion.

  THE next morning Lydde sat at the breakfast table with Mary and Uncle John while Mother Bunch prepared fried bread and thick-cut bacon. Lydde watched in horrified fascination while she dropped a great dollop of butter into a simmering pot of beer, then poured the buttery beer mixture into a pot of raw eggs. She stirred this mess a moment, then emptied it into tankards and handed them around.

  “Here, lad,” the old woman said kindly. “Take the chill off.”

  Lydde leaned over and whispered to Uncle John, “While you’re improving the health habits of the population, shouldn’t you do something about this?”

  “What would you suggest?” he whispered back. “Fresh-squeezed orange juice?”

  Later they tottered along the road toward St. Pancras, Lydde enjoying a pleasant buzz that warmed her to the tip of her toes
, and feeling less inclined to complain. Mary walked ahead, then slowed, came alongside Lydde, and put her arm through hers. They had been observing each other all morning. At daybreak Mary had greeted Lydde with a pitcher of water for her washing up, and soon after, looking out the bedroom window, Lydde had seen her returning from the henhouse with an apron filled with eggs. Mother Bunch was obviously fond of her, and the reason was obvious. Mary was a pleasant, useful girl.

  As for Mary, she was fascinated by her new cousin. Lewis was a strange mixture of awkwardness and assurance. When Mother Bunch had called for help with the fire, he had stared at a common bellows, turning it this way and that as though he had never seen one before. Then he handled it so awkwardly that Mother Bunch had to take it from him and fan the flames herself. Mary generously put this down to his deprived Irish raising. And yet he spoke to good Mr. Soane with a confidence beyond his years, and Mr. Soane returned the respect.

  Inside the crowded church, people turned to stare when the Soanes entered, to whisper behind their hands. Mary clutched Lydde’s arm even more tightly, as though to protect her cousin. As for Lydde, she first noticed the smell of a hundred unwashed bodies. This despite the fact that Saturday night was bath night for many, including everyone at Soane’s Croft. She herself had a go of it, rubbing her skin gingerly with a rough evil-smelling bar of soap while crouched in a tub of tepid water in the washroom between kitchen and doctor’s office.

  Uncle John looked around calmly, ignoring the whispers and stares, and led Lydde to the back pew beside the aisle, while Mary and Mother Bunch went to sit on the other side with the women. Lydde stared at the freshly whitewashed walls, trying to recall which painting had been where.

  “Don’t stare at the walls,” Uncle John whispered. “People are watching you.”

  So Lydde dropped her eyes to her lap. Then a door at the front of the church opened. Noah Fallam stepped through, severe in a black robe with white tabs at the collar.

  The service was pointedly not from the prayer book. There was no music, since the Puritans had taken ax and flame to the organ along with other “frivolous” items such as candlesticks. There was merely a prayer, several lengthy readings from scripture: Jeremiah, Revelation, and the Gospel of Mark. Then Noah Fallam stepped to the pulpit. He had no notes, only a Bible, which he laid before him with the gravity of an offering. He surveyed the congregation with a stern look on his face. Then he began.