“Miss Redruth.”
“You are out of your old cell.”
“I am all uprooted and set down here. I fancy my complaints finally moved old Swinge’s stony heart, or…”
“Or?”
His face darkened; his hands fell. “Or it is decided: I will never leave this place. And this corner is my permanent abode. My place in the gaoler’s collection.”
“I cannot think that is true,” she said, stepping forward.
He rose to draw her into the cell. “What news, Miss Redruth? How fares the world?”
She stopped. “The world is a wicked place,” she said. “There is no escaping it.”
“But here,” he concluded, with a faint smile.
He made his usual enquiries of her, regarding the house in Staverside, her meetings with Mr. Bensey, her family. She answered all of these dutifully, as though they little touched her, except when his questions glanced on her brother, Toby; then, all of her cares flew up.
“He is a stranger to his little sisters and brothers. I don’t know him. He has become so wild. I fear he has tangled in some violence or other ill-deeds. Father won’t see him. He never crosses the door but lurks about in the yard, like one of those wild dogs that no one owns.” She rose, went to the little window, looked out, shook her head, went back to where he was sitting again.
After several more stops and starts in their conversation, Grainger said, “You are distracted. Your thoughts are elsewhere.”
“There is another thing.” She folded her hands before her. “A lady, a very fine lady with many connections who is sometimes at the brothers’ place, has noticed me.”
“And so?”
“She thinks I am apt. She thinks I am presentable. She has put this to me, that I will go into her service and be a maid to her.”
“Who is this lady?” said Grainger, very quietly.
“Her name is Wenrender.”
“I know that name. She is notorious.”
“She is excellent, witty, well-mannered, wealthy, well-connected, independent—”
“She is infamous about the town!” he exclaimed.
“Aye! And all of your class know her and entertain her, and never speak of it.”
“It is so. But what then?”
Cassie looked down. “I have given my notice.”
She heard him rise, stride to the bounds of the room, turn around. “What have I done,” he said shakily, “in letting you into that place, but put you in the way of hazards and disgrace? What have we gained thereby? I have always doubted myself in this. I presumed too much. I am at fault. And now, as you leave that place, I cannot think of one whole, secure fact or circumstance that we have learnt out of it.”
“The brothers are a sham,” said Cassie. “They smile and smile and entertain young gentlemen, flatter their ambitions and vanity, and then put the pen in their hands and hold the papers while they sign away their lives. But they are mere puppets. I know it. Mr. Bensey has found them out. They manage great properties, but they own not a jot of it themselves. There is someone else. I am sure of it. They act for someone else. That is what we have gained.”
He made an abrupt motion with his arm, as though cutting all away, but when he spoke, he had regained something of his control. “Granted. This is true. But what evidence do we possess? How can we come closer to this third partner? For I am persuaded that where he is, we will find the Black Claw.”
“Proofs,” said Cassie. “What is all this talk of proofs? We must find the one who did the deed you are held for. That is all.”
“Mrs. Wenrender,” said Grainger, in a cooler tone, “is a bad character. She is known for a bawd and procuress.”
“If that’s so, what of it? I am to be her maid. A lady’s maid is an easy place. I am so bone-tired, day in, day out, fetching and cleaning and scrubbing. She said I can improve myself. Improve my prospects and society by being in her service. Can you deny it?”
“I cannot. But—”
“What? What is against it? She said she cannot abide a dullard. I can read and write well enough now. That was your doing. Aye, you put me in the path of it, don’t deny that you did. And probably thought you were quite close and secret and undetected about it. Well, to what purpose was it, if I can’t improve myself thereby?”
Her dark eyes, from the corner of the cell, were very bright to him. Despite himself, he laughed. “I am quite overturned. I must concede.” He bowed.
“You mustn’t be afraid,” she said, earnest again. “I have sworn to bring you out of this place, and I shall. The brothers go out, two or three times a year. They don’t like anyone in the house to know. They take a plain carriage. They say it is a business call, but the coachman tells me they stop with their lawyers. You know who they are. That fat man who made a liar of me. They bring papers with them. Not the ordinary papers. A great ledger book, and one or two bundles, done up in black ribbons. Besides that, they hide things from each other. They hoard them in secret places none of the maids knows of. And neither will consent for the other to be alone in this one room, where they keep their papers with the black ribbons. But I will find them out before I go. Mrs. Scourish is fond of me. I will get it out of her, somehow. I swear it. I will contrive to improve on her confidence.”
As she spoke, fierce and emphatic, the cell had darkened, for the clouds threatened rain. In the half-light that remained when she had finished, Grainger went to her. He took her hands in his and half-knelt on the stone floor. “My marvelous girl! I apologize, humbly and profoundly. For a moment I doubted you. But it was my own despair and restlessness speaking. Forgive me.”
She did not remove her hand from his, but turned her fingers against his own. “There is nothing to forgive. I have struggled so hard with this. I would not disappoint you.”
Not since the time he had been wounded and she had tended him in his pains had they been so close. Her hands were steady, but the breath she drew fluttered between her lips.
He released her and rose again. With great care and emphasis he said, “You cannot think that you might disappoint me. In truth, I have no hold or claim upon you.”
“You fear to commit yourself because of this place,” she told him. “But you will yet go free. I know it.”
“Perhaps not.” He was grave. “I strive to be hopeful, but there are within these walls gentlemen, much like myself, who have not gone free these twenty or thirty years.”
“It is not hopeless. You have friends. Many who are bound to your case, and working daily still to see your release.”
“I would not,” said he, standing a little away from her, “have any of these dear friends bound to me, if it was by any means to their disadvantage, or a drag upon their prospects.”
“Whatsoever they do,” said Cassie, with a low voice, “your friends are bound to you, and chose to be bound for the love they bear you.”
“I do not doubt it. I am humbled by it, though it is not what I deserve. But, even if I were to gain my freedom, I am still not free from the restraints of my rank and position. I would not have it seen or said, by anyone from any perspective whatsoever, that I drew my friends through this with me, or manipulated them, or held them to me through any promise or undertaking, suggested, spoken, or implied. My honour would not warrant it, nor do their good names and standing deserve such a slur.”
A wind, freshening and with the scent of rain, turned against the walls of the Bellstrom with sudden force. It seemed to startle the girl, for she looked about her and then to him.
“What I promise to begin or undertake,” she said, “I will make complete of my own free will. Not,” she finished, “for any other reason.”
He drew a deep breath. “Then let that be the understanding between us.”
MISS CLARA Grimsborough was shopping on the High Street and carrying her new shoes and packages carefully before her, when she came across William Quillby, who was strolling, rather disconsolate and indecisive, towards the lower town. Quillby pau
sed, flustered on seeing her, but quickly raised his hat.
“Miss Grimsborough.”
“Mr. Quillby. I am surprised to see you. They say about town you have taken to haunting low places, about The Steps and the courts, and your old friends hardly know you!”
She spoke lightly, yet William was quite discomposed by her words. He put his hat back on his head. “I am sorry, Miss Grimsborough. I have no aim to be a stranger. I have been much distracted lately by this business.”
“You mean your friend.”
“Quite so.”
“Poor Mr. Grainger! How does it go with him?”
William looked down at the wet and mud of the road. “It goes ill. We have had glimpses of the truth, and yet, I am afraid to say, we are baffled at every turn. I scarce know where to look next.”
“Surely not.”
“It is so.”
“But you have suspicions.”
Quillby looked around. “We believe that very few of those engaged in this case, from the lawyers to the witnesses, have told the complete and entire truth.”
Miss Grimsborough pursed her mouth. “Surely not.”
“Of late,” said William, “I have gone over the events of that fatal night, and many things strike me now as wholly inconsistent.”
“How so?”
The crowd, drawn out by the change in the weather, was dense and moved quickly around them. Quillby was obliged to come closer to her. “Each one of Mr. Massingham’s companions gave some reason to leave him, but all that seems merely convenient after the fact. How did it come to be that he made his way through the dark streets of Steergate alone, or worse yet, in the company of a stranger who meant him ill?”
“Why, that is what my father said,” said Miss Grimsborough calmly.
“But we know,” continued William, “that Mr. Harton was undone by drink, for the landlord said so, and we have heard as much. And Mr. Kempe had an appointment with a tradesman. His upholsterer, he said at trial.”
“So he said,” observed Clara, with a stern look that William found quite overpowering.
“So he said,” concurred William. “And he is a gentleman.”
“But that,” said Clara, “is easily tested.” She turned neatly on her heels, and William, to no degree the wiser, followed.
“Where,” called William, “are we going?” He seemed, by some sleight, to have come into possession of all Miss Grimsborough’s boxes.
“Why, we are going to see Mr. Kempe’s tradesman.”
They went swiftly from the High Street, down by Tolls Lane and the Cathedral, into the winds of the lower town.
“But, if you please,” continued William, who was sticking doggedly to Miss Grimsborough’s skirts, “how should we know who Mr. Kempe’s upholsterer is?”
“It is Mr. Thrash,” said Miss Grimsborough. “Who else would it be, in smart society?”
Since William had no just reply to this, they came to Thrash’s, an old workshop and storehouse with new paint across its front, and a fine sign in gold lettering. Quillby opened the door and a bell rang. They stepped inside, into a quiet office, with hard chairs and a long counter, and a little door into a parlour beyond, where a smoky fire was lit. From behind the other wall came the scratching, battering, and shouting of the workshop.
A door opened, and Mr. Thrash himself bustled through, a thick-set, busy man with straw about his collar and sawdust on his sleeves. He bowed and made a brisk yet courteous enquiry after their business.
Miss Grimsborough stepped forward. “Mr. Thrash,” said she, “this gentleman and I understand that Mr. Kempe is one of your customers.”
“Could be. Could be. I have a number of customers.”
“But Mr. Kempe recommended you directly.”
“Why then,” said Mr. Thrash, scratching his head. “It must be so.”
“Mr. Kempe was particularly grateful for your consideration during that dreadful business, oh, it must be near four years ago now.”
“What business was that, miss?” said Mr. Thrash, moving to behind the polished shop-counter.
“Why,” said Miss Grimsborough, in a small voice, “the business of that trouble in Steergate, when the murder was done.”
Impossible to say, if that gentleman’s aspect did not harden, if his strong carpenter’s hands did not become rigid, as they rested on the counter. “It was an honour, miss, to be of service to Mr. Kempe.”
“But I cannot recall,” said Quillby, suddenly and sharply, “that you were called at trial.”
“No, sir. I was not. ” Impossible to say, still, if the voice was not tightly controlled, the answer fractionally too quick.
“Mr. Thrash,” said Miss Grimsborough, “the walk down the hill has left me perfectly fatigued, and I fear a chill.”
Her voice quavered quite alarmingly to Quillby, who looked around for a place for her to rest.
“There is a warm hearth in the parlour, miss, if you will consent to step that way,” said Mr. Thrash, pointing to the open door that led away from the workshop.
“Thank you, Mr. Thrash.”
Quillby and Mr. Thrash were left alone. William, at a loss as to how to proceed with any business save the one, continued doggedly: “Mr. Kempe had business with you that night.”
“That afternoon, sir. I remember most particularly, because he came in, Mr. Kempe that is, just as I was preparing to close the shop. His manner, if I may say so, was distracted. He had an account to settle, and settled it very handsomely that day.”
“And that is how you remember one customer out of many, on one particular day of the year,” said William.
“Most distinctly, sir,” said Mr. Thrash, with the utmost calm. “And besides, his name is in the shop-book.” And as though to lend verity to this matter, Mr. Thrash laid one sawdusty hand on the dreadful book.
Not daring to question the majesty of the shop-book, Quillby looked around for Miss Grimsborough. She was still in the other room.
“Now sir,” said Mr. Thrash. “If I may: what was your business?”
Quillby, having no business, had no means to answer this question. Various notions concerning torn footstools and broken sofas raced through his head, and he blurted out the first thing that presented itself to his mind. “I have a chair. An easy chair. It is broken.”
“Indeed, sir. What sort of covers?”
While Quillby elaborated on the rip in the seat of his favourite chair, he looked quite forlornly for Miss Grimsborough, who did not emerge from the little parlour until he had exhausted his story of the tear (caused by a cat) and the whole history of the velvet cushions. When she did come out, she was pensive but steady.
“Mr. Quillby,” said she. “I am refreshed. I would like to go.”
Mr. Thrash came out from behind the counter to open the door for Miss Grimsborough. But the look he gave Mr. Quillby, who heard himself utter the most ridiculous apologies and promises to return later, was hard and wary.
The door to Thrash’s closed heavily.
“I hope you remembered my shoes,” said Miss Grimsborough.
“I have them.” The string was wound tightly around William’s wrist.
Miss Grimsborough walked briskly towards the High Street.
“Mr. Thrash is very clear in his recollections,” announced William, downcast.
“Mr. Thrash,” said Clara, “is mistaken. That is the kindest way I can express it.”
“How so?” cried William, starting forward to look into her face.
“I shall tell you,” said Clara. “I went into Mr. Thrash’s little parlour, for there was a fire lit there, and I had a fancy that it could not be empty. There was a very old man next to the grate—”
“The elder Mr. Thrash.”
“Quite right. The elder Mr. Thrash is retired from the business, but likes to spend his days close to the workshop and sometimes comes out to oversee the apprentices, or to speak with their oldest customers. His hands shake too much now for the chisel or the plane, b
ut his wits are as sharp as ever.”
They were passing through the Cathedral close. William, in his anxiety to hear the whole tale, turned often on his heels to attend to Clara, while she picked her way briskly between the puddles. The sky was lowering again.
“The elder Mr. Thrash, who was very kind and friendly and made sure I had the best place beside the fire and would have even fetched me a cup of tea, but that I said that I had come in only because of a chill—”
“He said what?”
“He remembers that Mr. Kempe came in about the time of the murder, and that he paid off a very large account, for a whole house-lot of furniture. But that was the following day. The day after the murder was discovered.”
William stopped. “The next day! But how can he be sure?”
“Hush! You will be overheard. There are echoes here. He recalls the great commotion caused by the murder. But more than that, he knows because the next day, another visitor came, a broad man in a black greatcoat, who gave his name as Brock. Mr. Thrash the younger and Mr. Brock spoke for a good long time, so Mr. Thrash the elder took an interest. But Mr. Thrash would not say what they spoke of. And after they were finished, he went straight to his shop-book and changed something.”
“The date,” said William. “He changed the date of the account. No! He tore out the page, I’ll wager, and wrote the whole thing in fresh again.”
“That is what the old gentleman remembered and found so curious.”
“It was a lie,” said William, thoughts mounting on thoughts, so that he felt quite shaken. “A lie in open court. Kempe lied to protect himself, or they lied to protect him. So we would not think he was there. Perhaps he even met with the killer, as Massingham did!” He caught her by the hands and raised them to his lips, quite forgetting the boxes and bundles strung about his arms. “Miss Grimsborough, you are an angel. This is a most extraordinary discovery.”
The Raven's Seal Page 21