The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  Halt! A hit! A hit!

  Massingham recovered first. He twisted his head, as if throwing off a red haze; he had been overpowered by a single impulse, and this rankled his composure. He pulled the blade free, and red blood welled up behind it. Angrily, Grainger slashed at him, but he could not rise.

  The courtyard was all motion. Quillby darted to his friend’s side and settled a greatcoat about his shoulders. Massingham began laughing, and Harton commended his success heartily (though the stroke was doubtful). The surgeon set about his trade with great deliberation. Grainger found a flask pressed to his lips. He swallowed a gill of fiery brandy; about the same measure was poured about his wound, bringing searing pain.

  A strong, clean cloth was bound about his thigh and tightened deftly.

  “A deep cut,” pronounced the surgeon. “But it has missed both nerves and the principal blood vessels.”

  “Then pray, let us continue,” said Grainger, through clenched teeth.

  “Nay, Thaddeus. It is quite impossible,” soothed Quillby. “I doubt that you can stand.”

  Grainger was hauled to his feet, with the help of his friend. He committed much of his weight to Quillby’s shoulder, while he balanced on his good right leg.

  “Massingham!”

  That gentleman turned and enquired with a drawl, “What is it, Grainger? I take it our business here is concluded.”

  “It was a cowardly thrust. May you get as much as you gave, measure for measure, this day.”

  Massingham shrugged. “Would you deal that to me? I think not. Look to your own position first.”

  “We are delayed, not concluded,” said Grainger. But his breath came in ragged gusts, and he could not continue.

  Quillby left his friend for a moment and traced a shaky bow before Massingham. “Sir. My friend is correct. I beg leave to present my credentials, at your convenience.”

  “Quillby…” warned Grainger.

  “No. No. I demand an answer.”

  Massingham touched his moustache. It was damp with perspiration. “By all means. We will retire. Mr. Palliser has at least held for us a room at a tolerable inn in Steergate. This fellow may find me there, if he chooses to persist when he has cooled.”

  The scene cleared: the wounded man was brought out with the help of his second. Labouring and breathing curses, Grainger mounted his horse with William assisting. He swayed in the saddle as the two rode away. The other gentlemen followed. Harton recovered his composure and proposed a song. Nothing remained but this waste of stone, the disturbed snow, the dark tracks of charge and retreat, and here, the spots of blood that would await the touch of the sun and the thaw.

  IN THE LATE hours of the night, the wind blew along the close, dark streets of Airenchester, scoured the old snow and ice off the roofs and sent it billowing and skittering between the bent buildings. A watchman passed, shivering and stamping his feet, calling the midnight hour. The doors and windows were all shut up, as though to exile and bar those who wandered outside. The watchman peered in at windows, tested a few doors, and found nothing stirring but the restless wind.

  The watchman took shelter beneath the Steergate, a deep arch in this portion of the broken old city wall, sloping down into a little square and a small churchyard. It seemed that the wind followed him into the enclosure and bit at him even as he hunched against the stone wall and rubbed at his fingertips until the feeling returned.

  The watchman peered about. A figure sat awkwardly in the blackest portion of the passageway, with legs splayed and back against the curving wall. The watchman uttered a curse on all drunkards. Yet the wind twitched fine lace, and brocade glimmered in the rays of the lantern. A drunk dressed as a gentleman? The watchman shuffled closer. Now he made out snow in the man’s hair, and flakes of ice had gathered—and remained—in the upheld palm laid negligently on the cobblestones.

  There was no answer to the watchman’s challenge. The eyes were open, though downcast. The jaw askew. There could be no answer. With an oath, the watchman shook the man by the shoulder, and he toppled. The round cobbles beneath him were slick with blood, shining black. A gout of blood, frozen stiff, cascaded from low on the back.

  A shout broke the night: Cry Fire! Theft! Murder!

  Cry Murder, for it is that sin alone.

  CHAPTER IV.

  Captain Grimsborough Reports.

  SOME DAYS LATER, when news of the murder of Piers Massingham had got about the high city and the low, and a thousand rumours had flown and none had settled, the Captain of the Watch waited upon the mayor in the city chambers. No gargoyle carved upon the city hall, no face, ornament, or statue chipped out among the alcoves, corners, or window pieces could be harder or more dour than the mien of the master of the city watch. A gentleman somewhere between fifty and sixty was Captain Grimsborough. He was tall and somewhat spare, strong in body and steady in countenance, which was rarely other than stern. He had a lean, rough face—long, like a blunted axe—a lantern-jaw, narrow eyes, iron-grey hair. Above his brow there were two or three scars got by sword-cuts.

  He stood quite still, as motionless as a sergeant upon the parade-ground, with hat in one hand. A clerk was shivering at his desk at the top of the hall, for the fire in the broad fireplace was not lit in the antechamber. This clerk was rather put out of mind by the presence of the Captain, and consequently scratching marks on a piece of paper to no purpose. From within and above, men’s voices came in merry gusts of laughter and loud talk.

  The Captain’s hand rested on the hilt of the sword hanging from his left hip. This was a heavy sabre, the terror of the criminal classes of the city, the scourge of vagrants and thieves, which had served him and carried him through many a desperate moment in a choked alleyway. Under the Captain’s hand, the pommel, in the shape of a lion’s head, bit ferociously at the base of the guard.

  A door opened above the long sweep of stairs. There was another gout of conversation, a cheerful tinkling, as of glasses. The clerk looked up. The Captain did not stir, for there was something in his patience that bespoke the steady, unimaginative calm of the man.

  Another clerk came scuttling down the stairs. The first screwed up the sheet of foolscap that had preoccupied him. The two whispered together. The first looked up and said solemnly, “If it please you, sir, you may go in.”

  The barest nod sufficed the Captain to acknowledge this call.

  The mayor was standing by his desk when the Captain was admitted. There was a bright fire on the hearth, newly coaxed into a high flame.

  The Captain strode in upon the boards, his soldier’s boots creaking.

  The mayor was studying some papers in hand (which he had snatched from his desk but a moment before). “Captain Grimsborough,” said he, “pray, be seated.”

  The Captain’s hand tightened on the pommel of his old sword. “If your honour permits, I would rather stand.”

  The mayor looked up. “Quite right. By all means. Admirable. Martial discipline. Will you take some claret?”

  “No, sir. Not at present.”

  “Then you will not object if I call in a bottle?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Edgerton! A bottle.”

  “How many glasses, sir?”

  “Two glasses.” (The Captain made no sign, if he had heard this.)

  The mayor sat, folded his arms. Mayor Shorter was of no great stature, compounded by a tendency towards corpulence. His face and hands were soft and a little flushed, as though the artist of his creation had sketched him in with a soft pastel and never drawn the line more exactly.

  “Dreadful business,” remarked the mayor.

  “I suppose it was,” the Captain allowed, as a man who had seen a deal of dreadful business. “But this piece was no worse than the rest.”

  The bottle was brought in on a round tray, with two Venetian glasses. The tray was placed on the mayor’s desk, though the mayor scooped up a folded letter with a black ribbon before it was set down. He smoothed out the paper with o
ne thick thumb, before pouring himself a glass.

  “Lady Tarwell, young Massingham’s mother, is quite distraught, as a mother should be. She is anxious that the perpetrator be brought to justice.”

  “As are we all,” said the Captain.

  “Lady Tarwell is prepared to set forth a reward, a very substantial sum, to anyone who can shed light upon this most grievous murder.”

  “I hope we are not so wanting in our duty as to require such a spur,” returned the Captain. “But the men will be heartened.”

  “It is merely to hasten the resolution of the crime.”

  “That’s as may be. In my experience, rewards offered to all and sundry bring out more thief-takers, informers, liars, and frauds than honest witnesses.”

  The mayor sipped at his glass and raised one hazy brow. “The city and the council, Captain, have decided to post a reward of their own. A gentleman of quality, an atrocious death; justice cannot be tardy in this case. What would you have us do elsewise? What are you doing, Captain?”

  “There is nothing else to do,” said the Captain, imperturbable, “but lay out the facts, plain and square.”

  There was something rallying, and yet petulant, in the mayor’s reply. “Then go on. The facts, if you please.”

  “Very well. As to the manner and time of death: the gentleman was stabbed in the midriff, from behind, quite neatly, by a narrow blade—”

  The mayor shuddered: “Uggh!” but his glass was quite steady.

  “—somewhat below the ribs, and bled copiously. The thrust was deep, so say a longish weapon: a dagger or sword. A search of the gate and the lane furnished forth no blade (for the coward often discards the weapon at the very scene). As to the time, I resolved this myself: the body was cold but not stiff. Say, therefore, within a few hours of discovery. In such a narrow place, it could not be elsewise.”

  “That’s plain enough,” said the mayor. “Was not Mr. Massingham with his companions, that very evening?”

  The Captain nodded judiciously. “The young gentleman was in the company of friends at the Beltan Road Inn, a respectable establishment. The landlord said they were boisterous but had no cause to quarrel. First gent, name of Harton, was dead drunk, got left in a corner. Landlord recalls other gentlemen leaving at a decent hour. Fellow called Kempe said they made their farewells outside the inn, went their own ways, wishes he had gone with his friend, and so forth.”

  “A creditable sentiment,” murmured the mayor.

  “That’s as expected,” said the Captain. “But the gentleman was not wholly frank with me.”

  “How so?”

  “The Beltan Road Inn,” said the Captain, “is near enough Hemthorne Abbey to be something of a stop or a rallying point, when certain matters between gentlemen are resolved.”

  “Ahh,” said the mayor, brightening. “You are near to it, Captain Grimsborough. You have found it out!” His soft face was all animation. He set aside his glass and leaned across the desk.

  “This Kempe would not answer to it at first…”

  “Admirable discretion.”

  The edge of the Captain’s mouth drew down in two sharp lines. “But once I had the matter of it from that empty-headed fellow, Harton, Mr. Kempe laid out the whole of it to me.”

  Mayor Shorter did not reply, but his entire aspect was one of expectation.

  “A matter of honour was tested between the victim and another gentleman, that very morning. It did not end well. The fight (call it how you will) went against the other party, who believed that Massingham had taken an unfair advantage and struck a coward’s blow.”

  “The other party,” hinted the mayor, “was enraged.”

  “I would say that he was ill-tempered.”

  “And did he not express his temper?”

  “The other party, who was blooded, was overheard to threaten Mr. Massingham.”

  The mayor put his blunt fingers together and shook his head. “This is an ill thing. A very ill thing! The name of this outraged gentleman is…?”

  The Captain’s countenance did not change. He stood, as straight-backed and inflexible as ever. But he took a small step towards the mayor’s desk. “Duelling is established an offence before God and the Crown. But why go thence to ambush and murder? This is too hasty. There is something in the manner of it. This Massingham had a fine name but a bad countenance. He was known for a swift temper. He frequented brothels. He quarrelled. He had been in difficulty and acquired debts, and bought himself out of the same I know not how.”

  “Tush, Captain! You are hard upon your duty, no doubt. But to speak thus of the dead and give credence to low rumours—it does not become your dedication.”

  “I trust I know my duty,” said the Captain stonily. His eyes rested on the high carved back of the mayor’s chair.

  “I’m sure you do. Let us turn, therefore, to the matter at hand. Bring it out. Who made the threat?”

  “His name is Grainger.”

  The mayor laid his hands flat on the paper before him. “It is a shame. A great shame. I knew his father. A fine, respectable sort of gentleman. And his excellent mother. But what account is there of this fellow?”

  The Captain relaxed somewhat, for it was not in his nature to follow the imagination into doubt. “The usual account. Prospects. Good breeding. Little else to relate. A dissipated air. The usual run of bad habits, but nothing against him until now.”

  “Ahh, but now,” said the mayor, “what does he say of their quarrel?”

  “The young gent was wounded in the duel. Wound bloody but not serious. The young gent went home in a high temper. Dismissed his second and his staff. Young gent drank off a bottle of brandy, fell into a sort of sleep, and did not leave his rooms.”

  “Claims he did not leave his rooms,” corrected the mayor, with a faint, judicious air.

  The Captain nodded stiffly. “Staff downstairs. No one to say whether he came or went.”

  “Grainger was upstairs, getting drunk.”

  “It was the pain, he said.”

  “In a vengeful mood?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “But wrathful?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Able to walk, despite his hurts?”

  “I’ve seen men hurt the same who could run well enough at need.”

  “And that very night,” said the mayor, “his rival and tormentor dies by a stab wound, a cowardly wound, delivered by an unseen hand?”

  “As you say.”

  “These are the plain facts, whole and entire?”

  “They are.”

  “And that is the substance of your report?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  The mayor sighed and straightened one or two things before him. “Then you are bound, Captain Grimsborough, are you not, to lay these facts before a magistrate?”

  The Captain nodded in the same heavy, impenetrable way, as all the statues of the saints on the Cathedral would nod if they could.

  “Then it were best done quickly,” said the mayor, “and a warrant served against young Grainger before he can stir himself to evade justice.”

  Mayor Shorter ran his smooth hands over his jowls, picked up a pen, and set it down again. The Captain made his neat, parade-ground turn, and walked the long stretch of boards to the door. The bowed floor creaked like the stage or the scaffold, as the Captain passed under the dusty gaze of mayoral portraits. When he was alone, the mayor reached for his goblet again, and as he took up the glass, his hand shook and spilled the dark wine, dappling red marks on the parchment before him.

  THE NEWS GOT about Haught and Battens Hills, and was much discussed in drawing rooms and salons, amidst an atmosphere of tea and malice. Let Lady Tarwell come, in the stiff rustle of her mourning, and let there be the glint of loss and vengeance in her eye, foil to her genteel grief! The news got down along the Pentlow, from Feer Bridge to Tully Landing, in among the clerks of the courts, the attorneys, apprentices, and students: he will be bound over; he will
be brought for trial. It was heard in The Steps and whispered at the threshold of the Bellstrom Gaol, and came, thereby, into Porlock Yard.

  “That young nobleman, as did the murder in Steergate, is to appear for it before the assizes,” said old Silas Redruth, with a grim relish in the phrases. “It will bring him to the scaffold in Gales Square, mark you.”

  “He ain’t no nobleman,” corrected his eldest son. “He has a gentleman’s name. But he did for a baroness’s son, and most like he’ll hang for it.”

  “What is his name then?” said Cassie, who was drying her sister’s hair before the fire.

  “Grainger,” said her brother, with an eye askance, it seemed, at her.

  The girl paled, though her hands, gently lifting and parting her sister’s hair, never paused. “It’s not true,” said she.

  “His name’s Grainger, to be sure,” said Toby, looking full on her.

  “I mean, it’s not true he done it. He’s a good and kind gentleman.”

  “Ho, ho,” chortled Silas Redruth, “and what would he have with the likes of thee?”

  There were two high white points on the girl’s cheeks. “He did me a favour once, in the way of a kindness.”

  “Most like he had some other gain in mind for you, pretty lass!”

  “Silas!” said Mrs. Redruth, from her side of the table.

  “He is innocent,” said the girl. “I know it. I will swear it to the magistrate.”

  “A pretty gent, no doubt,” said Mrs. Redruth, shaking her head. “’Tis a pity he’s lost.”

  CHAPTER V.

  Courtroom Scenes.

  ON THE DAY OF the assizes, petitioners lined the halls, and clerks and lawyers, gowns and wigs of all sorts, officers and bailiffs moved among them, pausing now and again only to nip at the crowd and bark a few words of instruction, like judicial sheep-dogs patrolling the mob. A greater throng gathered outside the court: plaintiffs, witnesses, and mere gawkers, street-hawkers, and posy-sellers, milling about the gates and in the slippery courtyards, treading on feet and skirts and getting jostled about.

  Lady Tarwell attended, flanked by two stout footmen who cleared a path through the mass, and there the silver slipped into the bailiff’s hand, and he led that lady to the front of the public gallery. Mr. Harton hastened to take her gloves and hold her fan. That gentleman was grim-faced and had an expression about him of a man who had failed to do his duty once and was determined to see justice done.