The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  “What is there to say of your affairs?” he remarked. “The general rumour is that you are sunk in debt.”

  “Shows what they know,” said Palliser, with a sniff.

  “You mean, you are not in debt?”

  “’S’all resolved. Sign paper here, note here. A great muddle of writing and signs and seals. Don’t really follow it, myself. Mr. Massingham showed me.”

  William stopped. “Your fortunes are intact? You owe nothing in the world?”

  “Some legal deeds and such like, outstanding. Business matters. Shouldn’t tell.”

  “Who said you shouldn’t tell?”

  “Withnails, Withnail brothers have it all in hand.” Suddenly, Palliser raised his cane and made a frantic motion, as if erasing the words from the moist air. “Shouldn’t have said that. ‘Confidential,’ Piers said. Matter between gentlemen, and all that.”

  “You may have no fear of my implicating you in this discovery,” said William.

  “Decent fellow. Shame about your…you know—demnation bad business—friend.”

  “That matter is not at rest yet,” said William.

  It began to drizzle, a concatenation of the river and the air.

  “Are you recovered,” asked William, “and able to make your way home?”

  “Should think so. Decidedly.”

  “You do yourself no credit,” said William, who had the taint and weariness of the night on him, “to squander your fortune in vain pursuits.”

  “But what am I to do?” said Palliser, as plaintive and guileless as a child given leave to wander the world, and so quite alone and abandoned in it. “I lost my friend, also.”

  There they parted, Mr. Palliser and Mr. Palliser’s shadow.

  “IT WAS THE MOST ridiculous thing,” reported William, “but I felt sincerely sorry for that young wastrel.”

  “It is a most extraordinary thing,” agreed Thaddeus Grainger. “Do you believe that Massingham expected another person on the night of the murder?”

  William shrugged. “It is possible. I have often wondered why Massingham chose such a queer, out-of-the-way place. Perhaps he did have another appointment. But Palliser is a fool, and Massingham was irritable and deep in his intrigues. He was careful to get him away.”

  “The question remains: was it in connection with the Withnails? I suspect it was. I am sure it was.”

  William looked again at his friend. The prison manner, as much as the prison pallor and the prison disarray in dress and gestures, was upon him. He was hectic and anxious to reach after any shadow or faint trace of doubt, if it might be connected with his exoneration. But there was already a caution about him, and he cast an eye to the cell door and fell into a low tone as he spoke, and something of the old, open, careless manner had sloughed away.

  “It could be some scheme or conspiracy fell out that night,” allowed William.

  “It is too much to comprehend otherwise,” exclaimed Grainger. “Where is our missing witness? Why was Palliser warned so sternly to have nothing to do with us? What is the part of this man Brock, who was so close after the murder?”

  “Apt questions.”

  “What of the Withnails?” pressed Grainger. “I have heard that name. Two brothers, with a house in Staverside, loaded with connections. Indeed, it is a title of some repute, connected to some of the highest names in Airenchester. They are land-agents, brokers, bankers in a private capacity. All have the best opinion of their services. I have not made their acquaintance myself, but I perceive you know something of them.”

  “I have spoken with Galbraith, one of the hacks who follows the exchange for my journal. He said that there are numberless rumours concerning the Withnails. He said there is not a disreputable deal, a bankruptcy, a foreclosure, a swindle that they do not have a hand in. He is sure that half the gentry in the city are in bond to them, and the other half tight in dealing with them. And that there are in their strongboxes more crimes, shames, and dire secrets than in all the cells of the assizes.”

  Grainger put his hands together and leaned forward. “We must get inside their intrigues. We must know what dealings Massingham had with them.”

  “I would, gladly. But I have not the slightest means of approaching them, under any guise whatsoever.”

  “It must be done.”

  William lowered his head. “I know not the means.”

  “Nevertheless, we must give it thought.”

  Grainger fell back in a study, pinching his lips.

  “You are otherwise occupied?” asked William, looking about for a distraction.

  Grainger gestured at the table, on which stood a writing-desk, quills, bottles of ink, and papers in disarray, and in that same gesture revealed the tips of his fingers, stained with ink.

  “I have come into a minor trade as a writer of notes. You would not credit how swiftly rumour carries itself here. I wrote a simple appeal for a miserable ghost of a man, bound here in hideous circumstances by his fees to the gaoler. The next day, mind, I was confronted by the merest slip of a girl, a hard-faced whore by the name of Molly, who is no more than fourteen years of age. She had need to send a note with a farthing piece to her uncle in Stymeshall—a cabinet-maker, she said. She touched some thread of pity, concern, I know not what. And so you find me here, quite the law-writer, and prepared to set myself out at a penny a page, or whatever else can be got, with a very diverse and particular range of clients.”

  “I am glad that you are usefully engaged,” said William dryly.

  “I have almost done my ‘length’ as the old hands put it—my six months. If this goes on, I shall be quite the old hand myself.”

  They rose and shook hands.

  “The Withnails,” hissed Grainger. “We must come within their confidences. Give thought to it.”

  They parted, and even before the cell door had closed, William heard his friend, pacing, pacing, marking afresh the circumference of those four short walls.

  CASSIE REDRUTH was not often seen among the tenements of Porlock Yard, nor navigating the alleys and pot-holes of The Steps, lately, and this was remarked upon by the women who gathered at their doors or hung upon the windows. To which enquiries Mrs. Redruth replied with a nod or a knowing wink that her eldest was now “in service” to a genteel, elderly lady in Dendermere Square.

  Miss Greenwarden was retiring in her habits, save for a vaporous affliction soothed only by a pot of small ale that her footman or maid fetched, almost every night, from The Dog and Drover. And so, after assuming this duty, Cassie came to be known in that corner of Steergate. At odd hours she would try the gossip of the neighbourhood, among the servants, labourers, and small shopkeepers. The thrill of the late murder had passed, but amongst many remembrances she could pick out no trace of the limping stranger. The landlord of the tavern on Beltan Road could well recall the gentlemen: they made a merry time of it, ordered in champagne and brandy; but he could not bring to mind another party arriving in the afternoon or evening.

  “Anyone seen leaving?” she asked the ostler.

  “I saw not a one leaving. Went in about midnight and found the one gent sleeping it off in the corner (and snoring).”

  But the shy stable-boy and the maid could both place the very liberal, open-handed gentleman who came in on the morning afterwards and examined the scene, and asked many questions regarding witnesses, and walked the whole road and addressed every person there, for some intelligence of the crime.

  “Did he give his name?” asked Cassie.

  “Brock, it was. Mr. Abel Brock. Very particular about leaving a name, and a half-crown, in case any other fact should come to mind,” said the maid.

  “And this was the day the body was discovered?”

  “The very day. Before that sour old bird from the Watch came in.”

  “He has been in, has he?”

  “Once. Not since.”

  But days later, Cassie Redruth did see the Captain in The Dog and Drover, smoking apart from the company, so
imperturbable and self-possessed that it was difficult to determine what his care was, but that he looked straight and steady and cold at her over the bowl of his pipe. Shaken, Cassie took her leave of The Dog and Drover, walked the lanes with thoughtful steps, and avoided the Steergate afterwards.

  Once every other week, on her half day, coinciding with the Sabbath, Cassie returned to Porlock Yard. The Redruth home still contained squalling children and simmering pots, and Mrs. Redruth in the midst of it all, and Silas Redruth at his place at the table.

  Silas greeted his daughter with a barbed witticism as she appeared at the door, kissed her mother, and pressed the better part of her wage into her mother’s sweating hands. “Oho! Who is it now? Not too fine for us yet, my girl?”

  Cassie made no reply but set one of her smallest sisters on her knee and kissed her also.

  Mrs. Redruth asked, “Is all well at the great house?”

  “All well.” Cassie did not elaborate with her parents. Miss Greenwarden, though cautious in her household economy, was by no means an exacting mistress. But in the servant’s quarters, Josiah Thurber was notorious and preened himself in the place of the master. At the servant’s table, he announced himself on many occasions, with a wink and a leer, as one “well-known with the ladies.” Whatever the ladies may have thought, in Dendermere Square he flirted relentlessly with every maid-of-work, and had (he claimed) made a brace of conquests among the feminine domestics. In truth, he contrived situations to reach above Cassie to bring plates and cups down from the shelves, to pass her close on the stairs, and to get tangled among her skirts in the pantry. Cassie Redruth, child of The Steps, knew a serviceable kick that would give Mr. Thurber pause for thought, would he but know it, if these encounters became intolerable. In the meantime, he had twice stated his intention that he and Cassie go in together as butler and housekeeper in some respectable establishment, which she had adroitly parried, along with Thurber’s offer of a kiss to seal the bargain.

  The little girl on her lap squirmed and attempted to climb onto the table. Mrs. Redruth said, by way of cheerful conversation, “Have you been up at the Bells again, dear?”

  This gave Silas a new theme for his displeasure: “Sure, you see fit to spend more time with a convict in his cell than in the house of your own honest family.”

  “He ain’t a convict.…At least, he shouldn’t be there.”

  “Says you. He was convicted under oaths and in open court.”

  “It was all lies. I was there, and I say it was lies. And I’ve found out more lies since then!”

  Mrs. Redruth made a hushing noise under her breath, which in no way soothed her husband, who rose to the bait.

  “Aye, and by poking and prying, and making yourself known for your partiality, what do you aim to gain, my girl?”

  Cassie had no reply, and her father arched a brow. “Think you this gentleman-prisoner will marry you from his cell? Do you mean to put yourself above your family that way?”

  Cassie let her squirming sister go. The room stifled her, and the stale air of The Steps reeked of boiled mutton-bone and cabbage-water. The screams of children and the dull tread of other inmates of the tottering tenement, shuffling about on canted floors, audible through the creaking of partitions and the sagging walls, were all confinement and suffocation. For a moment, her heart blazed within her, but she suppressed a stinging reply.

  Mrs. Redruth groaned, stretched her broad back, and called for one of her sons to bring a footstool, for her feet were aching something fierce.

  “I don’t think to put myself above anyone,” said Cassie, suppressed. “Leastwise by any sort of marrying. But Mr. Grainger behaved honourably by me, and I will be honourable by him.”

  “There you go, Silas,” said her mother, once she had her feet on the stool. “It’s a matter of honour. The good Redruth name.”

  “I can’t say as I see how binding my good name with murderers and black deeds does it any honour,” grumbled Silas, but the old grenadier seemed mollified, nonetheless.

  Later, when the plates were cleared away and the lamp glowing, Toby Redruth made a flying visit in the family residence. He was dressed in a new cap and jacket and brought with him three or four small sweet oranges, which he rolled across the table to the delight of the younger children.

  “Here’s a lad,” the grenadier announced, with a significant glance, “who has a care for the state and welfare of his own family.”

  The conversation returned to the business about Dendermere Square. Mrs. Redruth was of the decided opinion that Thurber had an eye for Cassie and would make his intentions known, by-and-by.

  “His intentions are pretty well known already,” Cassie replied.

  Becoming agitated, Toby whispered aside to his sister, “You shouldn’t ask no more questions. Not round there. Especially questions about Mr. Brock! He’s not a man as takes kindly to enquiries after his business.”

  “Who told you this?” hissed Cassie.

  But the boy was close-mouthed and would say no more.

  The supper concluded, Toby Redruth sauntered away. Far church bells were heard in Porlock Yard, as the grenadier lighted his pipe with a coal. At the sounding of the bells, Cassie Redruth started and recovered her shawl, kissed her mother distractedly and some such of her brothers and sisters who were within easy reach, and made for the door.

  “She is a good child,” said Mrs. Redruth, who knew her husband’s thoughts.

  But Silas scowled and pointed with the stem of his pipe over his shoulder, to where the Bellstrom massed above The Steps.

  CASSIE REDRUTH hastened up the hill. Loose dogs barked at her, and loose children also nipped at her heels. The Bellstrom crouched above her, like the three-headed ogre in the story, turned to stone while lying in ambush on the top of a hill. The sky was a vast cloth of grey felt, and the first cold flecks of rain began to fall, as Cassie skirted the cliffs that faced The Steps from the roots of the gaol and turned for Cracksheart Hill.

  Cassie reached the gate and passed her coin to the leering turnkey, who opened the portal and sniffed at her skirts as she passed within. She knew her way: she crossed the yard, edged down the ankle-turning descent, traced the shaded passageway, and came thereby to his cell door.

  She knocked (no need, he heard her in the corridor and had called already) and went within. He rose as she entered and put aside the book he had in hand.

  “Miss Redruth.”

  “Well,” said she, “I’m here to see you again.”

  He bent his head, smiling. “I am glad on it.”

  “You are well?”

  “Tolerable.” He moved to place one hard, rickety little chair close to the centre of the cell for her. “Edgar Swinge, the gaolkeeper’s boy, has been here. He has been at pains to point out to me the imminent peril of my soul. Consequently, I avoid the chapel to avoid him. Please, sit down. You have come from your duties?”

  “I’ve been visiting.”

  “Your family—are they in good health and spirits?”

  Cassie made a fist of one hand and held it tightly in the other. “They don’t believe you are a right and proper person for me to know.”

  “Quite correct,” said Grainger with equanimity. “I shouldn’t want to know me, either.”

  “You don’t mean that!”

  He sat on the edge of the little cot and looked at her, quite serious. “Miss Redruth, I value your visits and your kind thoughts more than I can describe. You have been truer to me than all of my class. I do not regard that lightly. But I would not have you at odds with your family.”

  She glanced at her clenched hands. “I am at odds with everyone, it seems.”

  “How so?”

  “I can find out nothing more. I am warned off on all sides. I have turned the Steergate over and over, and can make nothing of it but more puzzles. I don’t know what I am doing in Dendermere Square. It is all dead ends…and there is a man there—” She broke off in confusion.

  “You are in s
ome difficulty? I had thought,” he said, “the position was acceptable to you.”

  “It is respectable. And Miss Greenwarden is kindly.”

  He rose, crossed behind her, and paced the room. From the slot-window, rain hissed, beating against the thick stone walls of the prison. For a moment, they both listened.

  “There is something,” he began, “that I hesitate to ask you. There is a house in the city. It is owned by two brothers, moneylenders—men, it seems, of great influence and power. It may contain some vital clue or connection to the murder. William cannot get near it. Nor can I. But servants have leave to come and go where they please, unmarked.”

  “I’ll try it,” she said.

  “You are hasty. I only mean that you may come across some rumour, some servant’s gossip. I beg you not to endanger yourself further.”

  “I’ll try it. I am not afraid, if it is for your sake.”

  He stopped and turned before her. She saw pleasure and apprehension both in his face. “I am not worth any risk. I have very little to offer you in return, but I am grateful.”

  “Enough,” she said. “Only let me know where this house is and who these men are, and I will try it. I am not one to be cast down. I will not stop at the first hurdle.”

  “My brave girl!” he exclaimed.

  There was no pause in the rain, and the cell became very dark. Water sheeted off the walls of the Bellstrom and ran from the roofs of The Steps into the gutters and lanes and byways of Airenchester.

  “I must go,” said Cassie. “Miss Greenwarden expects me.”

  “It is raining. Can you not wait until it abates?”

  “Here with you, you mean?”

  He laughed. “Here, where it is at least dry!”

  “I don’t mind the wet. I must go before the gate is locked.”

  She rose, and he paced to the cell door. With his hand on it he said, “The Withnail brothers. Their house is in Staverside. Everyone knows it. And if it should ever come within my means to make recompense to you…”

  “Don’t say it again. It is understood.”