Hunger
Page 3
to the Irish stirring at the back of his mind. ‘And of course the small size of their holdings made the potato particularly attractive to your father’s tenants – I am right in my surmise that one acre of land produces up to six tons of potatoes?’
The older sister graciously inclined her head. ‘You are.’
‘So it follows that a quarter acre must produce one-and-a-half tons, a substantial yield, if barely enough to provide for a man and his family – but dearest ladies, I am still somewhat puzzled. We passed many people on our way here, but very few occupying any plots of land. Most seemed little more than beggars.’
‘Those poor creatures!’ the younger woman exclaimed. ‘Although their usefulness to our father and his fellow landlords dwindled with each passing year, it was the government who ultimately brought such destitution down upon their heads. Some time ago a new law was passed demanding landlords pay rates on behalf of any tenant whose holding was under a quarter-acre in size. Four pounds multiplied several thousand times is a tidy sum.’
Grieves’ frown was growing deeper by the minute but Bonfigliotti went on unabashed – ‘You evicted them?’
‘If you had seen the torments this caused my father, Mr. Bonfigliotti, you would not have asked that question so lightly! Why else did he build a workhouse in the town afterwards? Alas, it has been closed some months now, due to an outbreak of fever.’
The younger woman nodded at Bonfigliotti’s plate. ‘We have new tenants now, Mr Bonfigliotti. They put that meat upon your plate and I think it would be true to say – for all know the fractious relationship an Irish landlord has with his tenants, good intentions or no – that they are more kindly disposed to their owners than were their predecessors!’
There was some laughter at this last remark, although Bonfigliotti did not participate in it as enthusiastically as Grieves felt he might have done, and it was on this note that the company retired.
Bonfigliotti found his bedroom, if anything, damper than the dining room, perhaps due to the fact that the fire which had been lit to warm it was much smaller and more subdued, as if cowed by the size of the task it was expected to fulfil. The bed was a big, handsome four-poster, but its sheets were cold and clammy to the touch and several volumes of Gibbons Decline & Fall of the Roman Empire had been utilised to replace a missing leg.
The little Italian could not sleep, his thoughts haunted by the swarms of hungry faces he had glimpsed earlier that day and by the uneasy conviction that Grieves had been right to be concerned for his cousins’ safety. Within the estate was some measure of order, but how long before desperation caused the bands of starving peasants who roamed the countryside to break down those gates, if only to fill their empty bellies?
And then he must have nodded off. He was woken abruptly some hours later by a woman’s scream followed by the frenzied barking of dogs. By the time he had dressed, Grieves was already waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, lantern in hand, his face grim.
It transpired that the older sister had been woken shortly before by what she could only describe as a low, stealthy scratching sound. It had come from outside the house and she had opened her window to ascertain its cause. The rain had briefly stopped and the moon had risen, but that side of the house had still been in shadow. She could only be sure that it came from directly beneath her bedroom, as if somebody were attempting to gain access to her father’s study. She had called out and something had bolted across the lawn. She had only seen it for a second in the moonlight but was struck by its curious loping stride, its extraordinarily gaunt frame and the odd way it ran – leaning forward with its head tucked down low between its bony shoulders. The sight had made her deeply uneasy, although she was unable to explain why.
Grieves had pointed out that it was only natural she be alarmed – her worry over trespassers being fully justified – but she had insisted that there had been something ominous, almost supernatural, about this stealthy intruder.
As luck would have it, the rain had ensured the flowerbed directly outside the window was moist and soft and a footprint was clearly impressed into it, enough to tell that the intruder had been barefoot and undernourished, the toe marks having the long, almost prehensile appearance brought on by starvation.
‘A former tenant with a grudge, then,’ Grieves muttered.
Bonfigliotti squatted down to examine the print more closely. ‘Or some hungry soul who ventured onto the estate in search of food.’
‘Ever the egalitarian, eh?’
The little Italian stood up. ‘Take a plaster cast of this print if you wish – the two middle toes are the same length - then consult a list of those whom Sir Cecil employed, and examine the feet of each worker in turn. Maybe that will resolve the matter to your satisfaction.’
A closer study of the window revealed that somebody had been attempting to pick away the lead which held one pane in situ.
‘Doubtless so he and his comrades might break into the house and burn the place to the ground.’
Bonfigliotti shrugged and stood back. ‘Maybe, but a little ingenuity would have accomplished the task with a tenth of the effort. Glue on brown paper, for example – my associates in Lombardy tell me it is a trick commonly employed by burglars to break glass without drawing attention. Amico mio, this is not the act of a thief or troublemaker, but of a lackwit.’
‘Imbecile or otherwise, I do not believe he came here alone.’
‘Well, he may have wandered off while his comrades were engaged elsewhere.’
‘The telescope –’
‘Perhaps. We can conduct a more thorough investigation tomorrow.’
It was not raining the following morning, but already dark clouds huddled overhead and even as the two men trudged across the wet grass, a chilly breeze sprang up out of nowhere, an omen of the downpour to come.
The mournful cawing of a rookery told them they were approaching their destination, for the telescope that Sir Cecil had been working on at the time of his death stood at the heart of a small wood. Suspended between two tall granite walls on a universal hinge that enabled it to be moved from side to side as well as up and down, the telescope’s outer casing had been constructed by local coopers, then painted with bitumen.
Bonfigliotti found it forbidding rather than inspiring. Its massive black barrel, covered in a silvery dew, reminded him of some great engine of war, while the lives that had been lost in its construction made him reflect that a thirst for knowledge, no matter how laudable, was sometimes indistinguishable from greed.
Grieves was walking about the telescope studying it from every angle with clear approval. ‘He hoped it would rival that constructed by the Earl of Rosse.’
‘The Leviathan of Parsonstown?’
Bonfigliotti considered how the Earl of Rosse’s treatment of his tenants had been exemplary. Perhaps the same divine providence that had seen fit the earl complete his massive undertaking had likewise decreed Sir Cecil should not. Rather than say so to his friend, the little Italian contented himself with examining the ground immediately adjacent to the telescope instead.
‘Aha! See, Jasper? Here. And here.’
There was no mistaking the presence of several prints. However they were all identical to those found outside the window of Sir Cecil’s study. Grieves could barely conceal his disappointment. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘You forget the peculiarity of the two middle toes. I doubt any group of individuals, no matter how closely related, would share so unique a deformity.’
‘Our culprit is acting alone, then.’
‘Si.’ Bonfigliotti stared up at that looming shape. ‘I wonder what fresh depredations he has wreaked on your uncle’s telescope? We should examine it before returning to the house.’
This could only be achieved by ascending the narrow stairway set against the innermost side of one wall, which the two men dutifully did. Several new scratches – distinguishable from older marks by how brightly they gleamed – marred the brass rim.
Bonfigliotti frowned. ‘It is baffling, Jasper! Baffling! Our vandal tries to destroy your uncle’s telescope, but barely succeeds in scratching it. Not only that – the article, if you please.’
Grieves handed him the newspaper article which he had secreted in his waistcoat pocket. The little Italian scanned it quickly. ‘It is just as I thought. The maid hears his first attempt – that was on the twenty-first of last month. He then waits precisely a month – a month, mark you! – before making a second attempt! To no greater effect!’
‘Clearly an imbecile, just as you conjectured.’
In truth, Grieves was relieved: a solitary lunatic being much less a cause for concern than some roaming gang. But the little Italian grimaced and shook his head and generally looked far from satisfied.
That evening, Grieves found his friend in Sir Cecil’s study – where, according to his daughters, their father had spent nearly all his final days before succumbing to cancer of the throat. Bonfigliotti was sitting behind the desk at the far end of the big, panelled room.
Statuary of various sizes crowded it, but Grieves was particularly struck by the squat, tentacular deity, some two feet in height and carved out of black obsidian, which stood on the windowsill directly behind the