The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  Is it possible that Cassandra Redruth, wilful and clear-eyed, wept now, even for this wretch, while the light of morning lengthened on the casement? The last few lines of writing were hastier and more crabbed than before:

  I am near to the end. It will be this night or no other. I require only a quiet place, where I will not be disturbed too soon. My voice will be stopped up with dust, and I will stand as witness to nothing. In this wise, I will preserve the honour of my family, my wife, my name, if not our fortunes. I earnestly beseech you to destroy these papers once you have concluded them and give no sign, as I am sure you will find it easy to do, that you ever knew aught of me. I think—I dare to think—that you have been fond of me. I have been sincerely, recklessly, blindly devoted to you. I proceed, then, trusting that you, Arabella, of all mortal souls, will understand me better, though for my cowardice I cannot be forgiven.

  Your devoted,

  Austin Kempe

  “EXTRAORDINARY THING,” remarked Sir Stepney, a few days later at breakfast, glancing up from the Register.

  “What is it?” enquired Lady Stepney.

  “Fellow found drowned.”

  “Which fellow?” asked Lady Stepney, sleepily.

  “Name of Kempe. Might recall. ’Parently, thrown off his horse. Dazed. Tangled in a boat-rope. Wrapped around his neck. Drowned dead.”

  “Ghastly,” said Lady Stepney.

  CHAPTER XX.

  The Case Reversed.

  CASSIE GATHERED UP the papers, folded and bound them again, slept a little, in a state of dazed restlessness, in which horror, grief, elation, and giddy hopes all collided, roused herself, and when the sun had gained a full quarter of the sky, she went softly to her mistress’s door, to ascertain that she still slept. There was no sound but slow and heavy breathing from Mrs. Wenrender’s chamber. Cassie folded herself into a shawl and went out.

  The strong winds of the evening before had stilled themselves, and the streets were littered with leaves and torn branches and a few smashed tiles, yet how lively and filled with promise they appeared to Cassie’s eyes, as servants, clerks, and peddlers with their barrows all came forth into the renewed day, and flashes of bright sunlight caressed the wet streets and lightened the old, grey stone walls. So Cassie made her way down from Haught, towards the stationer’s and Mr. Bensey.

  After dancing past the yawning shop-boy, she flew up the stairs to find Mr. Bensey taking his morning roll and coffee besides a small fire. Before that astonished gentleman could put the buttered half of his bread down, she burst out: “Oh, Mr. Bensey. He will be free!”

  “My dear, what is the matter?”

  She felt the tears rising up: fatigue, a residue of dread and joyous resolution of all her long-buried hopes were all compounded, but one thread in her emotions was clear. “It has been a ghastly night, but I have the proof here. He will be free, Mr. Bensey! Mr. Grainger will go free!”

  Mr. Bensey was astounded, but not one to stand and gape long at a distracted woman. Quickly, he brought a chair to Cassie, and between her tears and laughter, he drew out the story of the night and Kempe’s confession. When the tale was complete, he fetched her a cup of coffee and sat, beaming.

  “I must go to him,” said Cassie suddenly. “He must know at once.”

  “Go, my dear. But have you that unfortunate man’s testament with you?”

  “I have it here,” she said, drawing it out again. “You must read it through! It must be copied and witnessed. We must draw up a motion. It must be put before the magistrate.”

  “It shall all be done. But for the moment, it must be kept safe.”

  Cassie started. “‘Our master is a black bird who perches on yonder hill,’ he said. The prison is not safe. I cannot take them with me. You must send for Mr. Quillby at once. Keep the papers with you, and I will go up to the Bells.”

  “You must be careful, my dear,” said Mr. Bensey, with a grave emphasis.

  “I will. But is it not wonderful?!”

  “It is an extraordinary discovery. And it is all through your good sense and cleverness. Mr. Grainger is truly a fortunate man.”

  “I have brought him out,” said Cassie, rising.

  “Then go to him,” said Mr. Bensey.

  In reply, she kissed him swiftly on the cheek and disappeared down the stairs. A little dazed, Mr. Bensey sipped the cold coffee from the cup he had left untasted and looked down, wonderingly, on the papers she had left behind.

  IT WAS WELL past the mid-morning, and Airenchester thronged with ladies and gentlemen, servants and tradesmen, all set about their business, jostling and pushing and passing and quarrelling. Thus, Cassie made slow passage towards Staverside and the river, and the Cathedral was tolling eleven o’clock as she came to Cracksheart Hill. Yet little could diminish her joy, and as she drew closer to the gaol, her heart, beating so swiftly within her breast, seemed to lighten with anticipation.

  In the shadow of the gatehouse arch she passed her brother, Toby, slouching with his shoulders hunched, coming the other way.

  He threw up his chin as he saw her. “You look pretty pleased with yourself.”

  “Toby! What are you doing here?”

  The youth shrugged. “Errand. Cheat’s letter.”

  “Toby,” said Cassie, “we have got it. We have got the evidence to bring him out.”

  The lad turned pale. “Don’t be so green as to shout it out here,” he hissed.

  “I am going in to see him. Mr. Bensey and Mr. Quillby will do what must be done.”

  “They’re the right gents, and no mistake,” said Toby. “’Ere, what is it you got?”

  “A confession, Toby. Only a blessed confession, from a witness who was really there.”

  Toby stepped closer to her. “Hush now! Is it sound?”

  “It’s a dying confession. It won’t be doubted. Not when it’s put before the bench.”

  The boy pulled away from her. Her hand fell from his shoulder. “You’re a rare one, you are,” he said. “I’m setting on.”

  Before she could frame a reply, the boy was running away, and her thoughts turned quickly to Thaddeus as she turned once more to the gate and called briskly for the turnkey.

  IN HASTE, she slipped through the Bellstrom, through the yard and up the stairs, and along the filthy corridors that led to his cell, and not even the familiar, bleak misery of the gaol could dull her happiness. A few jades and felons in heavy fetters glared at her as she passed, and she spared them not a glance. She could think of him only in his cell, and so he was when she came to him, sitting at his table in the corner of his little room, with letters and notes before him, and his head beneath the notch of the window, as though to catch some stray currents of the airs there.

  He rose, puzzled, as she burst in on his solitude, but breathless and dishevelled as she was by her journey through the town, she had rarely seemed lovelier, more energetic or charming, and his heart was swiftly and inexplicably gladdened.

  “Miss Redruth—”

  “You will be free. It is certain. Mr. Kempe…it has been such a wretched night. But he has confessed it all. It is the evidence we need. Your name is cleared. You will be free.” So the words came in a great rush, and yet he seemed to understand them at once and entirely.

  “My marvelous girl!” he cried, and caught her up by the waist and kissed her swiftly upon the lips.

  She responded, with no less delight, and after a moment—the very full measure of a moment—she drew back from him.

  “Mr. Grainger!”

  “What is it?” he said. “You do not object to this?”

  “You have not heard the whole of it, nor the cause.”

  “If you say I am to be free, that is enough for me.”

  She clung to him still and laid her head against his shoulder, with a shudder of weariness and regret. “It was so dreadful…when we brought him down. But now, I have read it all and I am torn between joy and grief.”

  “Then tell me everything.”


  Part by part, she played out the tale. He took her hands absently sometimes, put them to his lips sometimes, paced a little, returned to her, kissed her, all the more sweetly, all the more dazed, until she was silent again.

  “Where are these papers now?” he said.

  “With Mr. Bensey.”

  “William. William must be called at once. Copies must be made and witnessed. They must go before a magistrate—” he checked himself. “We must be careful. They cannot all be trusted.”

  “We have sent for Mr. Quillby.”

  He took her hands in his again and bowed down before her. “My dear Miss Redruth, I shall always be your faithful servant, and your debtor.”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “Not faithful? Not forever in your debt?”

  “Not Miss Redruth. Only your Cassie, forever now.”

  HOWSOEVER Cassie and Thaddeus spent the hours, in what discoveries and plans for the days to come, the stationer’s boy had an exceedingly weary afternoon, for he called first at Mr. Quillby’s lodgings, where he was out, then at the offices of his newspaper, where he had stepped forth, then at a coffeehouse in Turling (which he had just left), and finally found that gentlemen, after scouring Battens Hill, strolling bemusedly across a little square and pausing to refresh himself by a fountain there. The boy was dusty and footsore, and peevish, therefore, when he placed Mr. Bensey’s note in William’s hands, and only a little mollified by the coin he received. Yet William did not pause, once he had read the contents, and set off at once, while the exhausted shop-boy tarried behind, kicking at stones in the gutters and in no haste to resume his duties.

  Consequently, when William approached Campion’s, the dinner hour was near, and cool blue shadows once again lay between the lanes. He thought little of it, that the store was empty and no lights were yet burning. He went directly to the stairs that mounted to Mr. Bensey’s lodgings. These were darker even than the shop, with only a faint staff of light, showing where the door stood ajar. Wary of missing a step on the dim stairs, William climbed as quickly as he dared.

  The door at the top was open, as if a caller was expected, and William lingered with his hand on the door. Yet, after a moment, he heard shuffling steps in the room beyond, and the sound of papers rustling, and so, strangely relieved, William went within.

  The room was chilled, for the box-window was open to the twilight. It had grown rather dim, and so, only after he had taken a step or two did William realise that the floor was covered with papers. Letters, blotted scraps, affidavits, appeals, submissions, notes, bills: all the law-writer’s humble work lay scattered across the floor, the desk, the chairs, the drawers, some folded, some crumpled, some torn, some in rough piles that were even now disturbed by the draft that came in by the door behind William. In the centre of this stood Mr. Bensey, stooped, with a few leaves of parchment in his grasp. His hands were shaking, and this was the dry, faint rattling, like the turning of many pages, that William had heard on the threshold. William opened his mouth to speak, and a sudden vast, horrid apprehension fell upon him. Every shelf, every drawer and pigeonhole and little nook in Mr. Bensey’s rooms had been broken into and the contents tossed violently aside.

  And what was the stain on Mr. Bensey’s forehead, which ran in rivulets across his face to his chin? What was the scarlet drop that even now fell and blotted the sheet he had in hand, as bright as red sealing-wax?

  “Mr. Bensey!” cried William. “What has happened here?”

  “I have lost some papers,” said Mr. Bensey, in a faint, plaintive voice. “Very important papers. Miss Redruth left them in my care, and I cannot find them.”

  He looked down distractedly at the scrap he held, and another cerise drop spattered on the floor.

  William went to him at once. “You are injured, sir.”

  “No, no. That is not material. Surely the letter is here.” Mr. Bensey shuffled and turned, and turned about.

  “What has happened?” asked William again. “Who has done this?”

  Mr. Bensey put his hand to his head. “I recall, after Miss Redruth, two or three men. But I am forgetful, neglectful.…I do not usually misplace papers. If you would be so good, sir, as to help me look.” His voice quailed.

  “It is hopeless,” said William, glancing around and putting his hand on Mr. Bensey’s shoulder. “Will you not come here and rest?”

  “But the letters, sir. The evidence. It is of the most singular importance. I cannot find it!”

  “Come,” said Quillby, with the utmost gentleness. “You are not well.”

  Mr. Bensey leaned against his arm and let the papers slide from his hands. “In truth, I am a little weary. My mind is uneasy, and I seem to see red ink everywhere.”

  With much patient cajoling, while Mr. Bensey looked this way and that, and tried to pick up some other sample of print, some pages torn from a little book of his, Quillby led Mr. Bensey to his bed and went to fetch a damp cloth and stanch the weeping wound on his head. Only when this was done, and Mr. Bensey was persuaded to stay in his bed and not go looking again for the missing papers, did William go running, stumbling down the ill-lit stairs to rouse the neighbourhood, summon the watch, and call for a surgeon.

  Within minutes, the street and the store were filled with people. The shopkeeper returned; he had made a business call in the town and left the boy (who was still missing) at the counter. The surgeon was brought from his consulting-rooms and set about at once to dress Mr. Bensey’s scalp.

  “He has been struck a very heavy blow. I expect he fainted one or two times. What would any thieves want with this poor, weak old man? He remembers little, and his mind is disordered. He is pathetically concerned to locate some papers,” said the physician. “But he will not say what they are.”

  “They are quite gone,” said William, distractedly rubbing his forehead.

  Quite gone. William bent to pick up a few scraps from the floor, looked at them and, comprehending nothing, let them fall again. Quite gone. The evidence obliterated. The proof erased. William knew not whether to rage or weep, for he was empty and dulled to all clearer senses beyond dismay. Quite gone. His thoughts flew, at once, to the shadows of the Bellstrom Gaol and the prisoner immured there. The cause, the steady labour and investigation of years, undone. Miss Redruth is with him, thought William, wearily. They will know but a little interval of hope and calm now, and soon enough I must go and show them nothing but a room of torn papers.

  All our hopes: quite gone.

  BOOK THE FOURTH

  THE RAVEN’S SEAL

  CHAPTER XXI.

  A Prison Fever.

  A DULLNESS OF SPIRIT, a formless, unresponsive weight, fell by degrees on Thaddeus Grainger. His character, by nature sanguine and resilient to trivial shocks, was not one to succumb readily to such a reversal. But long imprisonment, the glimpse of reprieve, and that chance reversed bore in swiftly and overwhelmed the bulwarks of his resolve. Those who tarry within the gaolhouse know well the signs: the eye loses its quickness, the manner is subdued, simple movements are tentative and weary, but the greater burden is assumed by the sufferer, who carries all these things inside. From first wakefulness, he felt a cold, grey futility, above which his thoughts would not rise. The daily round, the prisoner’s hours and days, seemed unendurable, and a sort of cloud, an edgeless, inchoate, colourless blur that blunted all perception and interest, settled on the stone walls and walks and manifold bars of the Bellstrom.

  He discarded, one by one, many of his little duties and tasks as a scribe and sometime advocate for the lowest and meanest of the inmates. His friends and intimates noted with alarm his passages of taciturnity, his low and vague replies and haggard demeanour. Indeed, passages of conversation with William, Cassie’s visits, would seem to rouse him, but afterwards he would sink once more into the same gradual decline. He made a constant effort to appear firm and courteous, but the struggle left him drained, and the determination to appear at least hopeful, if not cheerful, seemed a bitt
er hypocrisy once the hour had passed.

  Between Cassie and himself, the shadow of failure, of expectations overthrown, had fallen. An awkwardness and restraint, which neither had known before, now guarded all their exchanges. She did not change the pattern of her visits, but her sojourns in the Bellstrom became perceptibly briefer, while regret, dismay, shame, consumed more and more of her associations with the prisoner.

  Meanwhile, his small fortune was failing. His estate, left to agents and lawyers, without a firm hand to guide it, was dwindling, The quiet, shut-up house, though tended carefully by the Myrons, was yielding to disrepair, while ivy stole across the once clean brickwork, and dead leaves choked up the drains and gutters.

  THEN, IN THE summer of the fifth year of Grainger’s sentence, the gaol-fever came to the Bellstrom. The heat and foul airs of the season, when the mud of the river and the roads dried up and was pounded into dust by the wind, was more than enough, pent up behind the great walls of the prison-house, to breed a host of pestilences. Let the wealthy drink wine! For the poor must take water to slake their thirst, and those who drank the warm, filthy water of the yard fell into a shivering, shaking wrack of fever, from which many did not recover. Day by day, the moans of the afflicted went about the Bells, and in the dimmest hours of the morning, the shrouded bundles went out.

  “It will thin their ranks,” said Justice Prenterghast, with a certain awful satisfaction, while the sickness raged. Only Swinge dreaded the reduction of his paying crowd.

  Grainger remained in his cell. The passage of the prison became hazardous, and he barred all visitors from his presence. Only Mrs. Myron still came, and the old lady’s sturdiness, cleanliness, and good sense seemed to protect her from greater harm. In the gaol, she covered her face with a scented cloth. Yet to her eye, Grainger, trapped in a stifling cell, exposed to the miasma of the prison, was growing as lean and wasted as the most pitiful felon. There was a redness about his eyes and a dryness to his voice that distressed her immeasurably.

  INELUCTABLY, the prison-fever found him out, since he refused to sit and drink wine in comfort at the gaoler’s table. Perhaps it came through the water he mixed with brandy to ease his sleep at night. There under the hectic compulsion of the fever, Thaddeus Grainger laboured through a vast and unreal gaolhouse. He had a distinct and baffling impression that at night he was driven to climb interminable stairs, twisting and rising, twisting and rising ever. Steps of wood, with dust between the cracks; steps of stone worn down to a hollow; flights of fine white marble: he passed them all, and each flight, each turn, each landing, gave way only to more climbing, so that he longed, heartily, for some way to break off this great ascent, and despised the wearisome, agonizing rise and fall of his feet. And yet he could not find a single passage or gallery that would afford a glimpse of rest. After that, he meandered in colossal chambers that contained the ruined statues of titans; immense ropes, chains, and pulleys; gigantic platforms that extended everywhere and led nowhere; places desolate, shadowed, and grim, where columns and arches screened the few hazy shafts of sunlight, and his mind and senses faltered, and he was tormented by the notion of some fact, some happenstance or glimpse of terrific significance that he had forgotten and discarded.