Slowly she calmed herself, and a crazed desire to run out harum-scarum into the woods subsided. Tomorrow she would leave Netherlea, even if it took her a month of walking, through snowdrifts as deep as houses, to reach Chester. Her bundle of goods lay ready in the corner; after her visit to the doctor, she would have money enough to free Nat and escape. She need spend only one more night here. De Angelo had been here once tonight. Was he likely to return? In this weather, she wagered he would not.
Before she went to bed, Tabitha set metal pots and tins into the casements, so she would hear at once if an intruder tried to enter by the windows. Then, taking the poker in her hand, she led Bess into the bedroom, and prepared for her very last night in the cottage she had always known as home.
Too overwrought to sleep, she lit a candle and picked up her mother’s almanack; she had searched it countless times, but still she re-read it, for she dimly remembered seeing mention of Christmas somewhere among her mother’s cramped notes.
She caressed the softly worn pages, remembering her mother’s ghostly appearance on the night of the calendar change, and grew steadily more certain that her mother must have left her a message inside the almanack. Though it was a waste of candlelight, she began wading through her mother’s entries again, for what seemed the hundredth time. She read once more of her mother’s fear of ‘D’, of the small calls on her mother’s time to attend to the dying and dead, and of her impatience with Tabitha’s tardiness in writing. There was nothing she had not read before. She turned back to the beginning, to January, February, March. She had reached April when she finally came across the elusive mention of Christmas:
2 April. St Urban’s Day. After calling at the hall, I rode in the cart, wherein the hedgers had gathered many laurel leaves. Such a remarkable scent of Christmas made me giddy, and I laid long in bed with a sore head.
The scent of Christmas. She flicked through the pages of the almanack. The Prognostications for December spoke of Christmas, too. Perhaps it was the flickering of the candle flame, but her eye was caught by the appearance of a new word, spelled out by the first letter of each line. The verse hid an acrostic:
Lay evergreens above your fire,
And raise your glass with joy entire,
Unrest is over and an end to strife,
Rejoice in winter’s death in life,
Ends now this year of fear and dread,
Lay victory’s wreath high on his head.
Of course, the victor’s wreath was made from laurel leaves! She was sure that the veiled figure on the De Vallory memorial was also crowned with a wreath. The threatening verse that had been pinned to the cottage door again repeated the same boast: ‘So your death must crown my victory.’
She was again standing in the stillroom at Bold Hall, breathing in the bittersweet fragrance of Christmas almond cakes. It was a subtle scent, one that had accompanied Tabitha often in these last months in Netherlea. It had been there in Nanny’s communion wine, and she had also inhaled its fragrance when she had tried to tempt Sir John to drink his ratafia. What was the cordial Jane had added to Sir John’s drink? Cherry laurel. Finally she knew De Angelo’s identity, and with that knowledge came a shiver of pure and potent fear.
Too disturbed to sleep, Tabitha started violently at the sudden tolling of the doom bell that reached her across the night. For a moment she believed herself summoned to attend another death in the village; then she remembered it was Christmas Eve, and slumped back against the bolster. The tolling was only the traditional ringing for the Devil’s funeral, in the final minutes before Christ’s birth.
‘Deliver us all from evil tonight,’ she murmured. On and on the bell tolled, in mournful regular beats. If the universe were just, she thought, De Angelo, like the Devil, would not survive this night.
Then, as midnight heralded Christmas Day, a melodious peal of five bells rang out across the frosty air to summon the faithful to Midnight Mass. It was a long time since Tabitha had attended the ceremony, but she recalled the church radiant with candles, representing the Light of the World. She had always been drawn to the large candle that represented the Star of Bethlehem. The church had been dressed with evergreens, too – bay, mistletoe, holly, ivy – and also, she remembered, swagged bunches of glossy green laurel leaves.
Beside her, Bess stirred in her sleep, murmuring in a childish dream. Tabitha wondered if the cattle were even now falling upon their knees to worship, just as the beasts in the stable had worshipped the Child of Bethlehem. Or had the shift of the calendar confounded even the beasts and their ancient memories? No, Nat had told her that this year England’s clocks were correct for the first time in centuries. This was the first true celebration of Christmas day’s arrival, as calculated by the revolution of the sun.
She wondered if Nat was still awake at Chester gaol. She missed him – but she would never cease to fight for him. Instead of fretting and despairing, she put her arm around Bess and allowed her mind to fill with the mystery and magic of Christmas, and a scintillating star, sent to free the world of evil.
FORTY-FIVE
A Riddle
An instrument small, which has caused, on my word,
More mischief than ever was done by the sword;
Add a vowel – and a shelter from sun and from rain,
That can soon be raised up and then put down again;
United, will give what I hope you will be,
When your former transgressions you ruefully see.
The 25th day of December 1752
Christmas Day
Luminary: Sun rises 13 minutes after 8.
Observation: Mars is a morning star and rises at 6.
Prognostication: A lucky day to travel.
The apprentice boy was dead. Nat had barely slept, tormented not only by the thought of De Angelo pursuing Tabitha, but also by the suffering of the expiring youth, just a half-dozen feet from where he lay. At dawn, he had offered a cup of water to his cellmate; but when Nat touched his skin it was as cold as the stones beneath his feet. What a pitiful end to a young life, he cursed. No one came in answer to Nat’s shouts for help, so he did his best to lay the body in a more dignified fashion – yet he failed even in that, for the limbs would not unbend.
When the guard finally came at eight o’clock, the surly drone was unrepentant, and merely cursed at the extra work of removing a man’s corpse from a cell. So much for Christmas spirit. When Nat insisted on speaking to the high sheriff, the guard laughed in his face. ‘You might want to see him, pal. But he don’t want to see you.’
‘Listen, fellow. I know who the Netherlea murderer is. I am innocent.’
‘Aye. That’s you and all the other innocent men here, wanting a parlay with the sheriff. On Christmas morning? Is your skull cracked?’
Nat tried again when a pair of soldiers arrived to remove the boy’s corpse. ‘I swear on my life, I am an innocent man. If a few soldiers can be spared, the villain will be arrested by this evening.’
This time his only replies were smirks, and scornful silence.
Nat’s black mood was not improved when he looked outside and saw Saxton crossing the yard again, this time in a greatcoat and felt hat. The constable did not appear festive either; he kept his head down, and strode across the snow like an ill-tempered bear. Nat shook the iron bars and cursed him, along with all the gaolers and the sheriff, who were employed to uphold the law but didn’t give a fig for justice.
He frowned to see Saxton walk past the guardhouse and make for the door that led to his own cell. When the constable burst in, his broad pink face was as stern as Nat had ever seen it. Rummaging in his pocket, the constable pulled out a letter, and waved it before his face.
‘Who told you of this? Don Eagle and his almanack?’ Nat was in a mood to be affronted.
‘Where did you get my private letter, you scurrilous dog?’
‘That is my business. Answer me in the name of the law.’
‘I will not. What have you done with Tab
itha?’
Saxton’s blue eyes were as cold as beads of ice. ‘You’ve got this all arsey-versey, Starling. I question you first, and then, only if my humour takes me, do I allow you to speak.’
‘And Tabitha?’
‘Tell me about Eagle.’
The constable’s grim tone and bearing were beginning to unnerve Nat so he let the facts tumble out of his mouth as speedily as he could.
‘I had a cellmate with the name of Reuben Pearce; he went to the gallows a few days past. Listen, Saxton, I beg you go and make enquiries at Lamb Row. This Don Eagle was an astrologer, the original De Angelo. Pearce said the printing blocks of his almanack were stolen, and that the name De Vallory was known to him. And there is more. I have translated the De Vallory inscription in Netherlea church and can tell you that De Angelo is taunting us. I know who that murdering devil is.’
Saxton’s mouth set in a hard line. ‘As do I. I’ve been to this Don Eagle’s lodgings and questioned his servants. All his almanack paraphernalia was taken by the man who attended him at his death.’
So Saxton knew too. Nat felt he might burst. ‘So I am right. And what of Tabitha?’
‘The road to Netherlea has been blocked by snow and fallen trees since Saint Thomas’s day. So far as I can reckon it, Tabitha travelled the road just before the worst of the weather. I tried to get back home, late that night, but had to return here. And now I’ve been given this letter of yours that was never passed on to her. And she is stranded in Netherlea.’
‘And is that devil in Netherlea, too?’
Saxton nodded with clenched teeth, and Nat saw that what he had taken to be fury was fierce desperation.
‘How is the road today?’
‘Still blocked. And damn this cowardly town, there is not a man who will make a trial of it.’
Nat stood up smartly, the chain at his ankle clanking at his side. ‘I will.’
‘It will be on foot, man – no horse can climb over the trees that have fallen across that steep road. The only way is for us to haul our way up with hatchets and ropes.’
‘We can do it, Saxton. Every minute that passes puts her in greater danger.’
Saxton folded his arms and looked intently at Nat.
‘You know I will do whatever is needful to help Tabitha,’ Nat urged him. ‘Come on, man. Let’s go.’
The constable brooded a moment longer – then, suddenly, he roared over his shoulder.
‘Amos!’
When the guard hurried in, Saxton pointed at the chain holding Nat’s ankle.
‘Unlock it. I must question this rascal at greater length.’
At the rapid turn of a key, the chain tumbled to the floor, and the constable clapped Amos on the back. ‘Here’s your Christmas box, good fellow. Go and fetch some hot ale for the lads in the guardhouse. Don’t gawp, man, but go to it! Only leave me your keys – I had a roaring night on the ale last night and am in much want of the privy.’
Once the guard had left, Saxton pulled off his own coat to reveal a second set of garments beneath. ‘Put these on, and stuff your old rags with straw.’
Nat did as he was told, leaving a crude mannequin of himself upon the floor of his cell. At a signal, he limped after the constable, and out through the door, dressed in a black watchman’s hat that he wore low over his eyes, with the collar of his greatcoat pulled up around his chin. Without the least attempt at secrecy, the constable led the way downstairs.
‘Wait here,’ Saxton ordered.
Nat leaned against the guardhouse wall. He felt lightheaded, and his newly freed leg was a devil to manage. But the chill air of liberty entered his lungs, firing his blood like the strongest brandy.
A few feet away Saxton was bawling good-humouredly into the guardhouse door.
‘No, no more ale till dinnertime. I’ll be on my way now. I’ll get a confession out of that prig by New Year, see if I don’t!’ He rubbed his knuckles, as if they were sore. ‘Here be your keys, Amos. Starling is knocked senseless – be a good fellow and leave him dinnerless until I call again tomorrow. Merry Christmas, lads!’
Nat heard a chorus of good wishes from the smoky fug of the guardhouse. Then Saxton took Nat’s arm and steered him briskly through the gateway and down the drawbridge, where not even a single guard was inclined to endure Christmas Day in the snow.
As Saxton drove a hired cart along the empty snow-smooth road out of Chester, Nat’s eyes watered in the blinding outdoor light. He felt overcome by the sea-blue sky and the disc of silver sun that shed warming rays upon his cheek. Wisps of freezing vapour moved across the fields, with the silent stealth of drifting smoke. After six weeks in a dark cell there was something paradisiacal about the light and distance and beauty of the open world.
Nat was compelled to speak, at last, of De Angelo.
‘He used his profession as the craftiest of disguises. Do you remember, when Francis died, he told everyone with absolute assurance that the murder had taken place that morning?’
Saxton nodded as he adjusted the reins, guiding the horse up the lower slope of the hill. ‘Aye, I was there, being duped with the rest.’
‘He insisted that Francis had died that morning and, naturally, there were witnesses aplenty to his being present at breakfast. He even quarrelled with Sir John, so all the company would remember it. Yet Tabitha said Francis was so rigidly fixed in a kneeling posture that she couldn’t straighten his limbs. Idiot that I am, I questioned her judgement, instead of doubting his word. Then, last night, a wretched boy died in my cell. Right after he died, only his head and face were in a state of rigor; but this morning, his limbs were entirely inflexible, just as Francis’s had been. Francis died the night before.’
Saxton looked at him sideways and nodded. ‘Even the law can be misled, when our medical man is a liar.’
It was ten thirty in the morning by the constable’s pocketwatch when the wheels refused to budge further. They left the cart at the last cottage on the edge of town and walked on with a few tools. Soon they reached the first fallen tree, a good-sized beech that had crashed down at an angle across the road, its leafless branches and tangle of roots thickly covered in ice-hard snow.
‘Ready for a scramble, Starling?’
‘Assuredly.’
Saxton climbed up first, using his hatchet to steady himself against the icebound tree. At the top, he crawled over the slippery trunk, and Nat soon followed after him. Then, with great care, they descended over a powdery snowdrift as tall as a man.
It was desperate work after that, dragging broken branches and shrubs out of their path. Nat was feverish and unsteady on his feet by the time they reached a tree that entirely blocked their way, an oak of colossal size that had crashed down awkwardly across the road, exactly where it wound into a gully. Its trunk was suspended like a bridge above their heads, yet beneath it the way was blocked with debris and compacted snow.
‘I should say it is twenty feet to its highest point,’ Nat said.
‘I shall go first,’ the constable insisted.
Saxton tied a rope around his hatchet and, taking a few steps backwards, threw it with a strong aim into the air. It glittered and spun as it arced up, lodging between two strong-looking branches. Then, with all his burly strength, he seized the rope and began to shin up its length, using his hands and feet to haul himself up.
After much exertion, the constable straddled the tree trunk and secured the rope to a branch high above Nat’s head.
Nat grasped the rope, strangely reluctant to leave the solid ground behind him.
‘Come along, Starling,’ the constable called down. ‘It’s well after noon by the height of the sun. Or are you not man enough?’
Damn, he was more of a books-and-brandy man than a circus tumbler. Still, he grasped the rope and hauled himself up a few feet, though his limbs were sapped of vigour. Death and fire, his muscles were stretched beyond their capacity. Raising his head, he saw the constable watching him, the bright sun casting his face entirely
in shadow. With great effort, he scrambled up a few more feet of slippery rope.
‘We haven’t got all day, Starling.’
Nat caught the flash of the hatchet’s ironwork in the sunshine. He steadied himself to look up again; the constable was a dark shape waiting above him.
‘What the devil are you doing with that hatchet?’ Nat gasped.
‘Thinking on your future.’
‘Well, think on Tabitha’s future, won’t you? Give me a hand up.’
He could not see the constable’s face – but he did feel the rope slowly lift his weight, and scrabbled, in a most ungainly fashion, to drag himself up. With a gasp of relief Nat threw himself up beside the constable and clung there. He could do nothing but lie and pant, with a heaving chest, for a good few minutes.
‘Well,’ Nat said at last, pulling himself upright, ‘now for De Angelo.’
Together they clambered down the other side and, with great joy, saw they had reached the long, flat road to Netherlea.
FORTY-SIX
A Riddle
No vast device beneath the sky,
Can keep a secret bound as I;
All things for safety are to me consigned,
Although I often leave them far behind;
I never act but by another’s will,
And what is twisted from me, I must fulfil.
The 25th day of December 1752
Christmas Day
Luminary: Day 7 hours and 34 minutes long.
Observation: Jupiter is retrograde in the 10th degree of Cancer.
Prognostication: Affliction of some eminent person.
Tabitha had woken to find herself not only still alive, but in possession of a new scheme she had devised in her sleep. She would open the doctor’s strongroom while he was absent at Bold Hall, help herself to fifteen pounds, and leave the skull watch in its place. That was mighty close to honest dealing, she convinced herself. Then, good and early, with her money in hand, she need only leave Bess with Nell before setting off across the snow for the safe haven of Chester. With luck, the road would be open, and a cart or carriage would offer her a ride. And if it were not, she would just have to dig her way to Nat through the snow.
The Almanack Page 29