‘He will have to wait,’ I said, but then the chap himself came down, his eyes so wide he reminded me of the flower-stuffed skull.
‘Inspectors, I must have a word,’ he gabbled, tripping on the rubble and nearly falling on his face. ‘In private, if possible.’
‘Go away,’ I said.
‘Please, sirs … It’s about the … the frogs!’
I turned to him so quickly my neck almost snapped. ‘What?’
McGray spoke in the gravest tone. ‘Everybody out.’
The abbot was indignant. ‘I will not leave you alone here, to further desecrate the –’
‘Get out!’ McGray roared, his voice resounding through the crypts, and the officers left immediately, dragging the priest out. As the echo of his high-pitched dissent died out we were left in a gloomy silence.
McGray wiped the black slime on the side of his coat, leaving a mighty stain, and held the lantern up to shed light on Crispin’s face. ‘Well?’
The young man’s lip was trembling as much as his voice. ‘Last night my grandfather had a moment of clarity … or so it seemed.’
‘You have our undivided attention.’
Crispin shoved his shaking hand into his pocket and produced a crumpled piece of paper. ‘He was very agitated after you visited. Didn’t sleep well … and he usually sits around all day, but that afternoon he paced all over the house. I saw him clasping his head – he does that a lot these days, when he’s trying to remember things …’
A long pause followed.
‘He did remember?’ McGray whispered.
‘Yes. He was looking out the window when that fire erupted. That green fire. Did you sirs see it?’
‘We saw it,’ I said.
‘Well, my grandfather was shocked, truly shocked. It was as if that fire brought back his memories, all at once. He shouted for me, asked me to bring him some paper. He babbled a lot about frogs. He would not speak the words, he only wrote them down. He said that a lot of the frogs … came from here.’
He handed us the note, but did not let it go when McGray grasped it. ‘Grandpa did ask one thing from you … before going all scatty again.’
‘Aye?’
Crispin whispered, a quivering little voice that barely made sense. ‘You must not tell anyone it was him who disclosed this. You must swear; that’s what he asked.’
I frowned, staring at him suspiciously. ‘Do you know what this is all about?’
Crispin shook his head. ‘No. It all sounds like nonsense to me, but I’ve learned to tell the difference; I know when Grandpa is with us and when he’s not. This seemed very important to him; I told you, he didn’t even dare say these words aloud. He wouldn’t let anyone bring the note but me.’
‘We can keep a secret,’ McGray said, his voice reassuring. ‘Trust me, I have a very dear one too. Although she cannae speak to me these days.’
Crispin nodded. He gradually loosened his grip, but before we could thank him he was gone.
McGray stood in silence, simply staring at the stone steps. It was as though he had suddenly forgotten where he was. I had to snatch the piece of paper and unfold it. The spidery writing, undoubtedly that of the frail old man, bore doom:
Cobden Hall,
Pendle
‘We are not going to Pendle!’
My shout attracted all sorts of stares from people on the street and I could not blame them; I was beyond red, turning a strange shade of purple, and arguing in tones reserved for London’s most drunken East End crooks.
McGray had ignored me all the way across town, walking impassively towards the train station, and his game of selective deafness made me irate. Only when I started uncharacteristically shouting did he look at me, but even then it was barely a glance out of the corner of his eye.
He ignored me as he enquired after horses, carts or carriages we could hire. Nobody wanted to take us through the Forest of Bowland; the roads, they said, were terrible, infested with robbers, and there were hardly any inns or shelters to break the journey. Some of those drivers, claiming to be true human barometers, augured terrible snowstorms (they could feel it in their bones, they said) and those hilly, desolate moors were the worst place to be marooned during a blizzard.
When they heard we were supposedly heading to Pendle they all suggested we take a train to Preston and then a reasonably short trip by stagecoach, but McGray would hear none of that.
‘What’s the bloody use o’ that?’ he had grumbled. ‘We want to follow those beacons.’
‘No,’ I snapped. ‘You want to follow them. I want to get hold of a cudgel and beat you back to sense.’
Another stagecoach driver refused to take us, but suggested we ask ‘Benjo’ – but only if we were absolutely desperate.
No wonder, for Benjo was a nasty-looking old man, who reeked of a most off-putting mixture of beer and sweat – at least one, if not both, of those constituent parts being stale. He did not want to drive us either, but he did offer a carriage: a rattling, creaking piece of wreckage, which he was willing to sell us along with a famished, diseased mule.
‘You must be joking,’ I spluttered. ‘That bloody beast should be shot and put out of its misery. I doubt it will even survive the trip.’
‘Take it or leave it, boss,’ Benjo said.
McGray appeared to be seeing an entirely different animal. ‘Frey, pay the laddie.’
It was not a large amount, but I chuckled nonetheless. ‘You must have had a lungful of mushroom powder in that warehouse if you believe I would ever hand you money for such a rotten cause! We have nothing to suggest that Joel has even left Lancaster. We are not going to Pendle.’
Nine-Nails grabbed me by the collar, gnashing his teeth and pulled me away to whisper: ‘The beacons point there. The mad judge says all the frogs and trinkets came from there. Joel left a note saying he knew everything. He must know it’s all happening there. We have to go there.’
I pulled away, his expression making me terribly uneasy. ‘Nine-Nails, your eyes are crazy. Joel might have meant anything by that note. He is insane, have you forgotten? Besides, we are now in English jurisdiction. The sensible thing to do is to assign a dedicated inspector to go down there and carry out an official investigation. In the meantime we should stay here; there are many trails and places we have still not investigated in proper depth. Even back in Edin-bloody-burgh!’
McGray again snorted, ‘Pay him!’
‘Pay him yourself if you are so desperate.’
‘It’s not just the money I need. Ye’ve seen we’re not chasing just a wee lass any more. I cannae do this alone.’
‘Then you cannot do it at all, because I am not following you.’
He chewed his lip, a fervent glow burning in his eyes. Something I’d only seen in him once, when he was kneeling by his sister’s side. ‘I’ve never been so close to finding what’s wrong with Pansy.’
‘McGray, you are not –’
‘She talked!’ he snapped, an unnatural frenzy taking hold of him, and his booming voice attracted the attention of everyone around. ‘After five years she bloody talked! And she chose to speak to that murderous, mad bastard! Why would she do that? And then she wrote in yer bloody notebook! Why? Now I’m only a blasted coach trip away from finding out.’
‘You are not close at all,’ I said, so coldly I could scarcely believe myself. ‘I told you before: you should have never taken on this case. I have followed you too far already and I will not plunge myself any deeper into this mess. Not even if you drag me by force.’
McGray assented. ‘As ye wish …’
He moved swiftly, faster than I could react. All I remember is a flashing image of his fist, barely an impression, right before my vision blurred and all I saw were stars.
The entire world reduced to numbness, mental and physical, everything happening as if I were watching from miles away. I felt my body being dragged, as my brain reluctantly took in what had just happened.
Nine-Nails had punched me! Right in the nose
too!
As the seconds passed the pain took over, intensifying until my face felt as if it were splitting. I was holding my nose and groaning as McGray snatched my wallet and emptied my pockets, and I could not put up any resistance when he placed me in the carriage. A moment later he was whipping the lame mule, dragging us miserably into the Lancashire wilderness, to those snow-blasted moors where all we’d find was darkness.
24
The pain in my face was excruciating for a good while, making me wish Nine-Nails had knocked me out entirely. By the time I managed to open my eyes and consider my options it was too late: Nine-Nails was driving so fast I could not possibly jump out without smashing myself to ribbons on the rocky road. Even if I could, he had also taken my badge, wallet and gun, and we were too far from Lancaster for me to reach the town before the infuriatingly short winter day came to a close.
All I could do was wait. I would have to follow McGray, but I was adamant that I’d desert his stupid quest as soon as the first sensible chance came.
Resignedly, I looked through the carriage window. We were ascending into the hills, heading straight towards the black clouds we’d seen from the bell tower. I saw the clean skies to the west and my heart sank. The watery sands of Morecambe Bay reflected the golden rays of sunlight, their usually dull, muddy colours turned auburn. Nearer to us, yet already minuscule to the eye, were the brown and grey streets of Lancaster, clustering around the small mount on which stood the towers of the castle and priory. I could imagine what the green beacon would have looked like the previous night; for anyone standing where we were, it would have seemed a bright ball of fire floating in mid-air.
We soon reached the other side of the hill and I lost all sight of Lancaster. The drive must have lasted two or three hours before McGray finally slowed down. He stopped the carriage beside the ruins of an old barn and I heard him jump down from the driver’s seat, then his muffled steps on the snow.
‘Will the countess have supper?’
‘Supper!’ I cried. ‘I want to tear you apart!’ Unfortunately my voice came out very nasal, my nostrils full of clotted blood.
‘Aye, ye sound really menacing.’
That made my blood boil. The carriage creaked like a brothel’s old bed as I alighted, and the strong, icy wind was like daggers hitting my still tender face. I had to wrap myself in my coat as I looked around. Even though McGray had stopped at the summit of a hill, all I could see was mile upon mile of rolling, barren emptiness, extending to the horizon and beyond. A few lonely shrubs stood above the thick layers of snow. Constantly battered by the wind, they looked like dark, bony hands all praying in the same direction.
I found McGray sitting on a stone, munching on a greasy meat and potato pie and washing it down with a flask of ale. Partially sheltered against the lichen-spotted wall, he was oblivious to the wind, the snowflakes that were beginning to fall, and the fact that he’d effectively kidnapped a colleague.
His utterly blasé attitude did nothing but worsen my temper. I felt my lips twisting involuntarily, showing my gnashing teeth as I snorted in wrath.
‘You …’ I growled, but I heard the adenoidal sound of my voice and had to stop to blow my nose. ‘You . .’ I repeated, my voice now believably enraged, ‘wretched … twisted … filthy … sheep-offal-stuffed … hare-brained Scot!’
At last he looked me in the eye. ‘Cannae tell why, but I kinda feel something’s bothering ye.’
‘How could you do that?’ I hollered, thrashing at the air in a paroxysm of fury.
McGray sneered, and spoke only when the echoes of my screaming had died out. ‘Och, look at yerself, sobbing and drumming yer heels ’cos I stole yer pudding.’
‘Stole my –’ I had to force myself into composure, as the agitated movements made my face ache more. ‘How can you act as if nothing – How can you –’ I tilted my head. ‘Where did you find pies?’
‘Bought them off an auld lady when ye were sobbing. And her ale’s not bad at all. C’mon, have a bite.’
He threw me a soggy pie, which I did not bother to catch. The greasy lump of dough hit my chest and then fell to the snow with a dull thud.
‘Yer gonnae regret not eating that.’
He’d prove to be right, and very soon, but even if I’d known it then, I was so angry I could only kick the pie away.
‘Give me my gun.’
‘Och, what d’ye want that for? Are ye gonnae walk all the way back to Lancaster?’
‘Well, I should be able to if I so wish! I am being held hostage! People in London will hear about this. As high as Commissioner Monro.’
McGray bit into his pie and spoke, spitting crumbs. ‘Jesus, I forgot how touchy youse Southrons are. A wee smack on the face and ye cry I assaulted ye.’
I was going to argue, but the terrible wind made me sneeze like I seldom do. I blew my nose again and pitied my handkerchief, smothered in coagulated blood and the fruits of painful expectoration. I threw it away.
‘I will wait in the carriage,’ I said. ‘You may freeze to death out here if you want. At least I could then retrieve my money and take that flimsy mule to the nearest civilized spot.’
The cracked wood made for meagre protection, but welcome all the same. I would not want to have spent more than a few minutes in that unforgiving weather, and the way McGray endured it reminded me of those wretched drunkards we usually saw sleeping in the frosty alleys of Edinburgh’s Old Town.
Full of ale and meat pies, McGray resumed driving and we descended across the eastern side of the hill. It was only a short time before the last gleam of twilight faded and the night settled, together with thick snow. The black clouds were now directly above us, obscuring everything around us and making the world a tenebrous cave. I realized we did not even carry a lantern.
McGray had to stop and take the carriage off the road. We stood on a sloping terrain, using the very thick trunk of an old oak to shelter the mule from the cold. McGray had trouble tethering the animal to the tree; he was trying to use the minuscule spark of a match for a light, but the wind was merciless and in the end he carried out most of the task blindly.
‘Cannae even see the bleeding road,’ he said as he jumped into the carriage.
‘So this is how your epic quest ends,’ I mocked. ‘Stranded in the middle of bloody nowhere, in a carriage that is virtually a crate with wheels, pulled by a pathetic creature that is not going to live through the night.’
‘Say another word and I’ll throw ye out,’ he warned, huddling up in the opposite seat, where he fell asleep within the minute.
I had never seen him sleep so soundly, or even two full nights in a row, and it surprised me that it should happen under such dire circumstances.
In fact, I envied him. The bitter cold and his deafening snoring did not let me rest, and very soon every joint and bone in my body either ached or had become numb. I spent hours shifting around on that hard seat, feeling the annoying draughts that filtered through the cracks in the carriage. Nevertheless, my eyelids eventually felt heavy, and I welcomed the delicious drowsiness and the promise of some repose.
I must have slept for a while, although it felt like a blink. Then, before I had the chance to dream, something seemed to emerge from the impenetrable darkness. A gentle glow, passing through my eyelids like the morning sun.
Only it was green.
I opened my eyes immediately, but even then all I could see was a blurred, hazy radiance. A drop trickled down and I realized I was looking at the carriage’s steamed-up window. I leaned forwards, rubbed the condensation away and then saw, clear cut against the blackness, a line of green globes of fire.
They were marching down the road, mere yards away from us, in a silent procession going east. I tried to count them, but the lights meandered and crossed each other as they moved ahead. I gave up on the exact number, but estimated there must be a dozen of them.
I nudged McGray, desperate to alert him, but he was sleeping too deeply and would not wake up u
nless I shook him hard. He did not even move when I looked into the side pocket of his coat, desperate to find a weapon. His heavy arms were crossed tightly across his chest. The guns must have been in his inside pockets.
Again I looked at the lights, now fading into the distance; they’d be gone as swiftly as they had appeared. Recklessly I opened the door, the icy air striking my face, and jumped out of the carriage.
I trudged along the road, my boots sinking into the snow, watching the now distant glares. I was going to shout, to order them to reveal themselves, but then I remembered the horrible heat I’d felt in the belfry, the green fire burning through my clothes, and then Redfern’s cruel cackle resounded in my head, as clearly as if she were standing by my side.
Unarmed and with an unconscious companion, I decided to remain silent, despite the frustration clutching at my chest.
My face was now numb, the night breeze a deadly shroud, and I plodded back to the carriage. McGray had noticed nothing. Even the cold draught had not stirred him.
I stayed awake for a long time, my eyes wide open, expecting more green glows to come from any direction, not really knowing what I’d do if they came for our carriage. Every gust of wind and every ruffle of branches startled me, and I became even more anxious when tiredness made my eyes watery. I tried hard to stay alert, but despite my efforts I slowly drifted away.
I heard blows and grunting, and before I opened my eyes I thought I was back in London, in the modest Suffolk Street lodgings I’d missed so much since moving to Edinburgh, and that Joan was mercilessly tenderizing a steak in the kitchen.
Nothing to do with my reality: I stretched, feeling my body as numb and stiff as a great-grandfather’s, and had a look through the carriage’s window. It was very early morning, the skies completely overcast, and the dull light that filtered through the clouds rendered the world in all the hues of blue and grey.
For the first time I had a clear view of where we had stopped: we were in the middle of a narrow valley, with steep hills on either side of the road. The snow had hardened and flaked off in places, showing that underneath the ice those slopes were entirely covered in purple heathers. One would have thought that the hills would protect us, when in fact they’d done the opposite: the wind tore along the chasm, hitting us even harder than if we’d spent the night in the middle of the open moors.
A Fever of the Blood Page 18