Why had the old man been killed? As if it mattered! He was dead as mutton! Smith frowned. In the morning he’d be off, and the document, the dead man and the blind man would be left behind. Tomorrow, it would be the Town again—with all its subtle alleys and dozy pockets. Back to the beginning.
As if that was possible! Most miserably, Smith knew there could be no returning. Wherever he went, whatever he did, Curtis Court and its long consequences would haunt him. What had the old man discovered—and why had he been so coldly done in?
The blind man had been right. There’d be no peace for Smith till he knew. And, little by little, as he sat by the small fire, the desire to uncover the mystery of Mr. Field’s dread became as strong as his first desire to read the document itself.
No more snow had fallen in the night and now a bloodless, bewildered-looking sun stood poised on the eastern hills—as if one nudge of a cloud would topple it into snowy oblivion. Everywhere, there was an air of universal crystallization; for a frost had overlaid the snow and set tiny needles on the fatted twigs of bushes, trees and thickets, that glinted sharply, blue, green and orange.
Sometimes, these bushes took on the shapes of men, unhorsed and frozen as they’d stumbled on; here was a fellow with a slouched hat; there, one with a great nose and a pipe; and there was another, brandishing a huge pistol, fixed for the winter in a murderous aggression.
Somberly, Smith wondered if such a fate had befallen Lord Tom and the two men in brown, for he and Mr. Mansfield were on the last stage of their singular journey to Prickler’s Hill, and Smith was as watchful as a hawk.
He sat atop the coach beside the wounded coachman, who was now recovered enough—he swore—to hold the reins in his right hand; though he looked to Smith for help and support whenever the coach tipped. He’d been greatly surprised to see the “weasel” in his master’s company—and had inadvertently said so, much confusing Charlie Parkin.
“Weasel? But I understood his name was Jones. I’ve writ down Jones.”
“Jones? He’s Smith!” declared the coachman.
“Jones!” said Mr. Mansfield.
“Smith—Jones—Weasel . . .” muttered Charlie. “There’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“There is indeed!” agreed Mr. Mansfield; and the constable never knew why the blind man laughed.
But now they were nearing the end of their journey. They skirted the village of Whetstone—and still no sign of pursuers.
“The house!” said the coachman, jerking his head towards the eminence of Prickler’s Hill.
The house, built in the Palladian style, stood a third of the way up the hill, sheltered from the north by rising ground and separated from Whetstone by an old stone church whose yard, shrouded in snow, was the very image of white and peaceful sleep.
The coach could go no further. The road was steep and vilely slippery. The horses steamed and labored in vain.
“On foot, then,” said Mr. Mansfield and he bade the coachman return into Whetstone while he and Smith went forward on foot.
“Pistols, Mister Mansfield? Shall I take ’em?”
The magistrate shook his head. “The gentlemen from Highgate Hill seem to’ve given up. No need for weapons now.”
Smith shrugged his shoulders, took Mr. Mansfield’s hand and began the last ascent. Though he could see nothing uneasy anywhere in the white landscape, he could not rid himself of the feeling that they were being watched closely. Where from? The house? The village? Or from the quiet churchyard?
He said nothing of this to Mr. Mansfield, there being no sense in alarming the blind man without just cause. Instead, he listened and commented as Mr. Mansfield talked of Mr. Field and his unlucky life.
He learned, with but half a mind, about the disappearance and most likely death of Mr. Field’s only son some years before—which had been followed by so relentless a siege of the old man and his property by his brothers, their wives and children that—
“—That what, Mister Mansfield?”
“That there were suspicions—grim suspicions—that the eager family knew more than they said about the son’s death.”
Smith sighed. “D’you think that could have been the old man’s discovery, Mister Mansfield? That he found out for certain what they’d done?”
Mr. Mansfield had been about to answer when he felt a sudden, strong pressure from Smith’s hand.
“What is it, Smith?”
“Nothing. Just the cold.”
Smith stared towards the churchyard. He was tolerably certain he’d seen something shift, slightly and secretly . . .
18
THOUGH Mr. Field was now many weeks dead, there was still a bereaved air about his house. Dogs barked as the blind man and the boy trudged along the short, curved drive, but no one bade them be quiet—or came to see why they barked. Five yards from the door, Smith faltered.
“What is it? The cold again?”
“Freezing!” said Smith. He had fancied that he’d again seen a movement in the churchyard, which now lay below them.
The barking of the unseen dogs grew louder and to Smith it seemed they were warning, not the house, but the blind man and him to keep away—to abandon whatever it was that had brought them across the snow.
Go back! Back! Wickedness is here! The Devil is here!
But it was too late. They’d been seen approaching. The tall door opened and a footman received them. At the sound of the door the dogs fell silent and the footman nodded.
“The master’s beasts, sir. There’s no hushing them till they hear the door. The ignorant creatures still believe he will come back and only when they hear the door do they understand he’s not come yet. For he always went to them first. Poor, ignorant beasts, God help them!”
Yet Smith felt that the footman was oddly proud of the “ignorant beasts,” and maybe thought them not so ignorant after all.
He was old, but still upright—though the worn shine of his livery across his back betrayed a straining—even a longing—to bow at last. He took Mr. Mansfield’s card, lowered his eyes to read it—as if to avoid the blind man’s stare.
“Yes—yes, of course, sir. I should have known you. You have been before.”
“Long ago.”
“Long ago, sir.”
Now they were in the hall of Mr. Field’s house and Smith stared about him as if the discovery the unlucky old man had made might be written somewhere on the walls . . . or was being whispered from the faintly jingling chandelier. But the walls betrayed nothing, only some ghostly pale patches where pictures had once hung.
“Grand paintings used to be there!” said the servant with ancient pride, seeing Smith’s looks.
“I remember them,” said Mr. Mansfield softly. “I remember a King Saul and David—”
“Aye, sir. That was the first to go.”
“To go?”
“Sold, sold, sir . . . to pay the butcher, the baker and—”
“—And the chimney-sweep down the road?” put in Smith quickly.
The servant looked at him curiously: then shrugged his shoulders. “If you will, lad. The chimney-sweep down the road—whoever he may be!”
“A gent with a wooden leg.”
At this, the old servant seemed to stiffen and lose what little color the years had left him. Then he recovered. An angry look came into his eyes, and Smith knew he’d made an enemy of the old man. But for the life of him he couldn’t imagine why.
Mr. Mansfield inquired for Mr. Lennard but it seemed the attorney was in Barnet and would not be at the house till midday. Indeed, there was no one in the house but Miss Field (the dead master’s sister) and two of the nephews.
The footman said “no one” with a strong inflection, so that Miss Field and the nephews coming after, did indeed seem part and parcel of “no one.” Not that the old man had been contemptuous—but there was in his voice a weariness of something too well known for contempt.
“The others are with Mister Lennard, sir. They are always
with Mister Lennard. They give him no peace, sir—not even to conduct the business. He stayed here, sir, for two nights. But he had to leave. They were at him all the while. Poor souls! For they’re in need even of the necessary penny to bless themselves with . . . and so will go to Hell. For who will bless them now? Not I! Not I!”
They were now come into the chief drawing room: a long, handsome apartment with tall windows giving out onto the church and Whetstone beyond it. There was a fire in the grate, but it burned cheerlessly, with uneasy flames and little heat. Here, too, there were ghosts on the walls . . . and a small writing table by one of the windows.
Was it here he’d written of the discovery that had sent him hurrying to the Town?
Smith stared somberly out of the window towards the churchyard. Once more, he had the feeling of being secretly watched.
“Not I,” said the servant for a third time; and his grim sentiment was not to be answered.
“You are a hard fellow,” said Mr. Mansfield sternly; for hardness begets hardness.
“I am an old man, sir, and in the course of nature, I’ll soon be with my master. Then I’ll make my reckoning with the Almighty; but before that I must finish my account with Mister Field. Though he is dead, sir, my duty to him is not.”
He assisted Mr. Mansfield to a chair which the blind man, being unused to the hands that were guiding him, felt carefully and exactly. He frowned. The upholstery was much torn—a strange state of affairs in so short a time since the master’s death.
But it was not that chair alone; everywhere in the room, cushions and seats were in a grievous state—with their white insides peeping forth for all the world as though the wild, pervasive snow had crept into the house and hid itself everywhere.
“Aye,” said the servant. “ ’Tis the same elsewhere. You’ll not find a cushion, chair-covering nor bolster unslit, nor a floorboard unopened. The family have been hard at it. For they’ve a heathenish belief the master hid a great fortune somewhere against the chance of—of poor dead Jack’s returning! But Jack will come back when his father does—and that will be at the Judgment of us all! Not a day before! Aye! And then the beasts will bark and bark!”
(But where did Jack play as a boy? suddenly wondered Smith—with an excitement that had been steadily mounting within him as he remembered the document’s injunction.)
Now the servant—after brushing some ash from the hearth, on which the fire looked more wretched than ever—left the room to announce Mr. Mansfield to Miss Field. Smith and the blind man were alone.
“Andrews!” muttered Smith urgently. “We’d best ask Andrews where Jack played as a boy!”
“Why? D’you still have your hopes? If so—forget them, Smith. We’ll wait for Mister Lennard. This is his affair alone.”
The blind man spoke sharpishly—as if Smith had suddenly lost ground with him. He breathed deeply—and provoked a silence, in which he regretted profoundly what he’d said. But there was no other way. He was much tormented. Though he trusted Smith with his very life, he could not trust him with the dead man’s secret. He dreaded the boy would be off, never to be found again in the dark world—save to be hanged.
He said, more gently, “Where are you now?”
“By the fire.”
“Oh yes—yes . . .”
“Why did you ask?”
“I—I thought you were over there.” He pointed to the windows. “I thought you were staring at me.”
But before Smith could answer Miss Field came hurriedly into the room. She was a gaunt-boned, elderly lady—large, though frail and anxious-looking. She rustled tremendously as she moved—like great sweepings of autumn leaves.
“Mister Mansfield! Kate Field at your service, sir!” She held out a hand—looked puzzled when it wasn’t taken—then flushed at her mistake and glanced apologetically at Smith, as if she’d wounded him.
“Sad times, Mister Mansfield! A brother dead . . . the family penniless! Sell, sell, sell! But we must! To live, you know! I expect you’ve noticed great change— Oh!” Once more she flushed and bit her lip. “But how’s dear little Rose? It—it is Rose, isn’t it, sir?”
She seemed particularly anxious to get something right, and was much relieved when the blind man nodded. So she went breathlessly on, shifting about the room—even picking at the ruined furnishings, like a large black moth in search of a meal.
She faintly resembled her murdered brother—and this touched Smith curiously, so that, when she returned—as she often did—to the family’s distress and disappointed hopes and desperation for money, he could not share the blind man’s indifference. Why shouldn’t the silly old woman long for money? And be open about it? Steeped as he was in the darknesses of the Town, Smith understood too well Miss Field’s painful distraction—that had pushed out even seemly grief at her brother’s death.
Then abruptly, Miss Field realized she was not recommending herself to anyone but the curious urchin the magistrate had brought with him; she cast a rapid, melancholy smile at Smith and began to talk hurriedly and sadly about the dead man.
“Yes—yes . . . a sad life, my brother’s! A tragedy, Mister Mansfield! Never, never for a day did he get over the loss of Jack, never accepted it. The shock, I suppose. Always expected him to come riding up the drive. Tragic! Even turned on the rest of us when we tried to tell him. Tragic for us! We only meant to help. And—and believe me, it was for the best!” (Here, she glanced uneasily at the servant—as if she suspected him of something worse than contempt.) “Not a worthy son! Not likable. Though I was his aunt, I say it—and God forgive me—he’s better off dead! But—but we mustn’t speak ill of them—the dead, I mean—for there they lie—” (She was by the window, momentarily looking out.) “—in the churchyard: my brother and his dear wife . . . Well, well! Maybe he’s with his precious Jack in heaven now.” (She glanced almost defiantly at the servant, who turned away.) “And maybe he repents of having hid his fortune away from us! Cruel, cruel thing to do! Unnatural, don’t you think, Mister Mansfield?”
Mr. Mansfield’s lips were tight—and Smith was sorry for it. He was, at that time, sorry for a great many things: not least that the long search and deep pursuit should end in this cheerless, ransacked house with the pitiful old lady somehow driving a deeper wedge than ever between him and the implacable blind man.
“Our tragedy, Mister Mansfield! It’s all our tragedy! Everyone turns against us! Even Attorney Lennard. Oh, I can tell! He turns away—he frowns—he would not stay here. God knows what he thinks of us all! You come at a sad time, sir! And all on account of the money! Oh, where can it be? God knows we’ve done our part! God knows we’ve searched!” (She stared at the torn furnishings.) “Oh, it’s cruel! And yet it must be somewhere—Ah!”
She stopped as a far-off tumbling was heard. “My nephews in the attic, sir. I must go! Pray to God they’ve found something! Pray to God!”
She was already half through the door—when she remembered her responsibilities. “Do forgive me, sir. Mind on other things. Our tragedy, you know. Serve wine, Andrews!”
With that, she was gone, leaving Smith to stare, dismayed, at the old servant of whom he’d made an enemy. At Andrews, who held the key to one secret at least.
“Ask him!” breathed Smith desperately into the blind man’s ear as Andrews was at a side table. But the magistrate grimly shook his head.
Back came Andrews with a glass of wine for Mr. Mansfield—and for Smith, a deeply hostile look. So Smith returned to staring restlessly and unhappily through the windows. An obscure feeling of haste was gripping him . . . as if he’d been infected by the general unquiet of the house itself. Outside, the churchyard was hid by snow-hatted yews. But up stood the bell tower on tiptoe—with an air of stony peeping.
Andrews was talking with Mr. Mansfield about Jack. Defending the dead son against the unjust attack. Andrews was very jealous of the dead’s good name: both father and son. For the living, he’d not so much to say. And the blind man was nodding grave
ly as he heard how well and handsomely Jack had grown to manhood—instead of asking Andrews where Jack had played as a boy. “Dead man’s wishes!” Smith longed to cry out. “To be respected! Ask of Andrews where Jack used to play as a boy!”
“It’s twelve years, now,” went on Andrews. “And still they’ve not forgiven him for being loved! Still they dislike him—abuse him—hate and envy him—as if he will indeed come riding up the drive and snatch some trifle out of their greedy hands!”
“Is it twelve years already, Andrews?”
Twelve years it was, and Jack had been just twenty—with the world before him. And then—he’d vanished. Gone into London it was supposed, and been swallowed up. There was a tale he’d been pressed aboard a ship that had gone down with all hands off the Lizard. But did it matter now? After twelve years the dead lie deep and it’s only their good name that can be distressed.
“So why can’t they let him rest in peace with his father?” Andrews nodded to the windows and beyond, and the peering belfry seemed to nod back. Yet the yews had a secret air . . . These yews were not so close together as Smith had at first supposed. Here and there there were thin gaps. Was it from these gaps that came the sense of watching?
“I’ll leave you now, sir,” Andrews was saying, and Smith’s desperation grew extreme. He sensed that Mr. Mansfield was lost to him. All that remained was “the trifle.” Such hopes as he had, had dwindled to that, and he clung to them as if for his life. It was eleven o’clock. The attorney was to come at midday. Smith believed he’d an hour remaining. (But the time was shorter than he dreamed.)
“Mister Andrews!” he cried out.
The servant’s hand was on the door. He paused.
“Tell us—what was Jack like as—as a boy?”
“Smith!” muttered the magistrate unhappily.
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