Despite the whistling gusts I found the source of the noises that had woken me: McGray was kicking the rump of the old mule, which now lay sadly on the ground, half buried in layers of snow. No wonder it had not lived through the night, after its ailing legs had been made to run at a gruelling pace up that steep hill.
For a moment I felt sorry for the beast’s cruel fate, but then I realized what it truly meant: we were effectively stranded in the middle of Lancashire’s wildest moors, miles away from anything, and with no means of transport but our own feet.
Instead of renewed fury I felt an irrational impulse to laugh.
‘Oh! So it did die,’ I said, my voice gloating with vindication.
McGray gave it a last kick, then grabbed my collar and pulled half my body out through the window. ‘I should’ve given yer seat to the nag!’
He left me balancing precariously on the sill, and I nearly fell on my face. I pushed myself back into the carriage, conscious of how awkward my movements must look, and stepped out. The snow was deep, my feet plunging several inches, but the edges of the road were still visible. The path was smooth, showing no footprints or any trace of the dark procession I’d seen at night. I was going to tell McGray about it, but decided not to. Those lights had been heading in the very direction I was trying to avoid; if I spoke, I would only reaffirm McGray’s demented drive.
‘We can easily follow this track,’ I said instead, smoothing out my coat. ‘If we make our way now at a good pace, we should be back in Lancaster before nightfall. We will have lost an entire day because of your unmitigated stupidity, but at least –’
‘We’re closer to this wee village,’ McGray interrupted. He was seated on the dead mule, examining the crumpled maps he’d torn from the library books. Strangely, he was squinting and holding the sheet mere inches from his face. ‘Slaidburn.’
‘Slaidburn? Is that not the village where … ?’
‘Where Pimblett was born, aye. It would take us a wee bit out o’ the way, but we can get there in a couple of hours, even at yer pregnant snail’s pace. We might find some help. And maybe even find out a thing or two about Pimblett. It looks like one o’ those places where everyone knows each other; someone may be able to tell us how Pimblett ended up working for the nasty auld witch … and for Redfern.’
‘Where exactly are we?’ I asked, and McGray pointed at a little canyon.
‘Trough of Bowland.’
I looked at the map and immediately snapped, ‘That village is to the east. I want to go west – back!’
‘D’ye still think anybody gives a toss what ye want?’
‘I am not going,’ I affirmed. Even as I spoke I realized how illogical I sounded, but somehow I could not possibly retract. ‘I’d rather walk thirteen miles west than six miles closer to your mad witches.’
‘As ye wish,’ McGray said, standing up and heading east, undeterred. ‘Just remember ye have no weapons, money or badge. I wouldn’t be surprised if ye get beaten or murdered or – desecrated.’
Exasperated as I was, I had to follow him, trotting pathetically until I caught him up. ‘You cannot possibly imagine how much I want to punch you in the throat right now.’
‘Well, ye can always try.’
‘I am not going to –’
‘Afraid?’
‘Shut up! I will delay my pleasure simply because if we meet a wolf or a murderous thief I will need something to distract them with.’
We forged on, hoping to reach the village as quickly as possible, but it was as though the skies were determined to dissuade us. The wind and snow became a proper blizzard, hitting us in the face without pity. I crouched and wrapped my face as best as I could in my furry collar, marching behind McGray with my eyes open only enough to make out his footprints. With every breath I felt the freezing air burning my nostrils, and my stomach growled with unbearable hunger. I yearned for the greasy pie I had recklessly thrown away.
‘We have to find shelter!’ I yelled when I realized I could no longer feel my feet, the inside of my boots now as cold as the snow on which we were treading. I thought of those ghastly stories about explorers in the Alps: gangrenous legs and toes so badly frozen the flesh and bones snapped like glass.
McGray did not reply or slow down, so I yelled again.
He turned back, but not because he’d heard me. His gaze was fixed on the road, in the direction we’d come from.
‘What is it?’ I asked, but again he did not reply.
I looked to see what he was staring at, but in the blizzard the world was nothing but a blur of white. A moment later a hazy, milky shadow appeared on the horizon, just emerging from behind the nearest mount. As soon as I saw it I noticed the barely audible sound of hooves and wheels.
‘Is that what you heard?’ I asked, but McGray shook his head. He seemed genuinely confused.
‘Nae, I heard … someone screaming.’
‘Screaming? I heard nothing.’
‘Someone was calling my name,’ he muttered.
‘I am absolutely certain I did not hear –’ I gasped. The outlines of the incoming carriage had become clearer and I had to rub my eyes to confirm the vision. ‘McGray … that is the same carriage we saw outside the warehouse.’
‘What? Are ye sure?’
‘Indeed. It was a black landau; definitely not the type of transport you’d expect to see on a road like this.’
McGray sheltered his eyes with his four-fingered hand, squinting and frowning as if his eyes could see only blurred shadows.
When I looked again the carriage was much nearer. I could even make out the expensive-looking trunks tied to its roof, but my heart jumped when I saw the voluminous silhouette of the driver. He was swathed in a thick, hooded cloak, but one did not need to see his face to deduce it was the gargantuan man we’d shot in the quays.
‘The circus freak,’ I hissed as McGray unholstered both weapons. ‘Give me my gun!’
‘Nice try, lassie. Step aside.’
I hardly had time to move; the carriage was but twenty yards from us. McGray planted himself in the middle of the road and shouted at the driver to stop, but the man came on relentlessly. I jumped aside, glancing at the galloping horses and their steamy breath as they darted towards Nine-Nails. I winced as I pictured them knocking him over and stamping their mighty hooves mercilessly on his body. Why would the man who’d tried to kill us stop now?
McGray fired twice but missed the thug, and both bullets hit the corner of the carriage. Then there was loud neighing, as the man pulled the reins so hard I thought he’d strangle the horses and the carriage would shatter under its own momentum. The beasts stopped, one of them delivering a wet snort only inches from Nine-Nails’ face. He wiped the mucus as casually as if it were soapy water, his other hand holding the gun firmly. It was a strange image to say the least.
‘Can we ask ye –’ There was movement inside the carriage, but all I could see was the back of a dark figure, bending down. ‘Can we ask youse a few wee questions?’
My ears were suddenly deafened by the blustery weather, while my eyes went from McGray’s heaving chest to the driver’s thick, quivering hand. Why had he stopped? Why not finish it all when McGray had so willingly placed himself in front of the wheels?
‘Get down!’ McGray roared.
Again, something stirred in the carriage: a slim, female figure emerged, cautiously peeping through the window that faced the opposite side of the road from me. It was clear to me it was Oakley, but McGray’s expression shifted to an inexplicable mixture of surprise and what could have been fear.
‘What?’ he gasped.
I could see the girl’s back. She raised an arm swiftly and from that moment it was like she’d cast a curse. McGray shouted as something flew towards him: a dark bottle Oakley had thrown. It fell by Nine-Nails’ feet and exploded in flames so violent the blizzard could not smother them. McGray’s clothes caught fire – green fire, which he desperately tried to extinguish with his bare hands, the
pistols falling to the ground.
‘Drop!’ I yelled, sprinting towards him, but I could not get to him. The troglodyte driver had alighted and he struck my still tender face with the back of his hand, making me see stars and throwing me backwards on to the snow.
Through watery vision and the blizzard I could barely see the shadow of the giant, marching with enormous strides. McGray had dropped to his knees but did not have a chance to put out all the flames; the giant grabbed him by the collar and lifted him with one arm as easily as he’d heft a bundle of clothes. McGray was still ablaze when the man lifted his free fist and punched him mightily in the face. The blow echoed so loudly even I felt it, then a second strike followed, on the same cheekbone, and I saw McGray spitting blood.
The driver tossed him to the ground, where McGray lay motionless. Then the giant bent down and picked up both guns, aiming one at me while he went through McGray’s pockets. I saw him snatch money, our badges and a couple of small vials that McGray must have taken from the witches’ warehouse.
‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice trembling with rage and cold. ‘Are you following Lord Ardglass? Or are you running from him?’
He ignored me, pulling his hood up to keep his face concealed. As soon as he had pocketed the loot he jumped back on to his seat and spurred the horses. Again I expected their hooves to trample on McGray’s body, but for a second time they defied my logic; the driver moved aside and carefully, almost meticulously, rode around Nine-Nails and the small green fire that still burned, oddly, on the snow itself.
‘Go back!’ he roared in a rasping voice, the two short words barely audible in the gale.
I watched the carriage wheels make deep marks on the white road, rushing away, leaving us alone and helpless in the harsh snowstorm.
25
It was as if they’d brought the worst of the elements with them, for as soon as they disappeared the wind hit even harder, bringing more snow to batter us mercilessly.
I groaned as I moved, clumsily bringing myself to my feet and taking faltering steps towards McGray’s body. He was as still as a corpse, and no matter how angry I’d been I could not help gasping in dread when I saw him. He lay on the ground, his eyes wide open, and I feared the worst until he drew a deep, sudden breath. The marks of the fist spanned from his cheekbone to his jaw, the skin already swelling and his lip burst. There was still a small green flame burning stubbornly in the folds of his coat; I smothered it with a handful of snow, and found that the fabric was not charred but rather smeared with a black, slimy substance.
The larger flames, where the bottle had hit the ground, trembled violently in the wind yet did not die out, and under the green glow there was a dark stain. I threw on more snow and when the fire was out I found that the stain was another slimy spill. I instantly thought of the resinous substance McGray had found in the ancient crypt. Had that tomb been in fact a storage place?
I felt the stuff with my fingertips, as the snow had rapidly cooled it down, and cautiously smelled it. That was no magic: it had the strong scent of gunpowder, and the slime must be a blend of oils, tar and maybe pine resin. When lit at the right angle, it shone with specks of glitter, which must have been the finest shavings of metal. I tried to wipe it off, but the nasty substance stuck, leaving a greasy film on everything it came into contact with.
I heard McGray take another troubled inhalation. I looked back at him and gasped. It was snowing so copiously that his hands, feet and half his face were already buried under a white sheet. We had to move now or that pass would become our grave.
I had to lift his torso – no mean feat – and lean his head forwards, for he was probably choking on his own blood.
As I held him I could no longer contain the most frustrated groan. I was marooned, lost, unarmed, in the midst of one of the worst blizzards of the century, with an injured man who could not even crawl … I had to shake my head and put those thoughts aside or they’d overwhelm me.
‘Think, Ian,’ I said aloud. ‘One thing at a time …’ I struggled for a desperate moment, but I finally managed to focus on our most vital need. ‘Shelter,’ I murmured, ‘or we will freeze to death.’
I looked around, but there was not a feature or tree or rock we could use. I groaned again, and before the gloom took over I stood up, took a deep breath and pulled on McGray’s arm. I had not expected him to be quite so heavy. I had to bend, put his arm around my shoulders and pull him upwards, grunting as I heard my spine crack. Another deep breath and I took my first step, with McGray hanging as limply as a sack of potatoes, his boots dragging as I made my gruelling way forwards.
The movement roused him, but not entirely, and he began to moan. Suddenly he opened his eyes, lifted his chin and babbled in a panicked voice.
‘I saw her! I saw her!’
‘You had a privileged viewpoint,’ I said, struggling under his weight.
‘She wasn’t the witch.’
‘Who was she, then?’ I listened carefully, but McGray babbled and stammered. ‘I am not that proficient in your dialect yet.’
He swallowed painfully – I could tell that talking was draining all his energy – but he managed to utter a single word: ‘Pansy.’
I nearly tripped, my legs tangled in his.
‘Pansy!’ I cried. ‘That is nonsense. Your sister is safely locked in the asylum, back in Edinburgh.’ McGray was shaking his head, grumbling again, and I sighed with impatience. ‘Do trust me; she is in a nice, warm room, perhaps in a soft bed, and someone is bringing her a tray with a hearty dinner …’
I realized what was behind my own words. I was starving! No wonder I struggled to drag bloody Nine-Nails along, for the last thing I’d eaten had been the large breakfast at the Lancaster inn. Again I thought longingly of the greasy pie McGray had offered, and was tempted to run back to wherever it was and dig it up.
I cannot tell for how long I walked, or even whether I followed the road at all. My every thought was focused on the next step, my boots sinking deeper and deeper into the snow. It could have been minutes or hours, but it seemed as if my entire life had been nothing but that painful march. Just as I felt McGray’s body slipping out of my weakening grip I made out a grey shadow in the distance, behind a sudden indent in the terrain.
It was an ancient oak, with leafless branches that looked like bony hands and claws, ready to catch us and drag us underground. Its gnarled roots clasped the cracks and edges of a jagged rock, forming a deep, wide hollow between the stone and the ground.
I nearly yelled in victory and moved on with renewed energy. The last few yards I dragged Nine-Nails by the wrists, past caring, and pushed him as well as I could into the deeper corner of the sheltered nook.
There was just enough space for us both, and I had to curl up, my back bent snugly against the damp roots and soil. Tightly wrapped in my snowy coat, my nose leaking like an open tap and my body shivering from head to toe, I was the very image of misery.
All we could do now was wait, with nothing to look at but the vastness, the whiteness, the emptiness of that place. I tried to think of a lower moment in my life, but to no avail; I’d never felt so isolated, so doomed, so lost. Not even as a child, right after my dear mother’s passing, when I would crouch under the table in a very similar fashion.
I rubbed my arms and chest, and tried to send my mind to merrier thoughts, desperate to keep myself warm and sane.
I thought of my initially pleasant Christmas: the blissful train journey to Gloucestershire, which I had spent in a delightful private compartment, alone with a cigar, a brandy and my belated correspondence.
My dear Uncle Maurice and Elgie, my youngest brother, had met me at the train station, and I felt a pang of nostalgia thinking of that moment; those two rogues were the only relatives whose presence I could tolerate with equanimity, and seeing them after many long weeks in Scotland had brought warm feelings to my heart.
Then the deer stalking, the food, my young brother’s superb violin playing
…
I tried hard to stay on the good memories, but I could not help my mind going back to the unfortunate encounter with my elder brother and my former sweetheart.
Laurence and Eugenia had arrived unannounced, allegedly to give our father a pleasant Christmas surprise. The old Mr Frey had indeed been stunned, but not as they had intended. Laurence had always been his favourite son, the one with the chief post in Chancery Lane, the high connections and the house closest to his; but none of that mattered that day. Father made it perfectly clear that he could not approve of one of his sons ‘stealing a brother’s mare’.
Eugenia nearly fainted when Father called her a trollop, and the old man refused even to sit at the dinner table with them. The lovebirds, now crestfallen, had been forced to eat their Christmas dinner on their own, at the long-abandoned dowager’s house, and to spend the night there too, since there were no late trains they could catch.
I still cannot believe my father took my side. He even shared a glass of fine whisky – ‘the one good thing that’s ever come out of bloody Scotland’, he’d said – while giving me the most affectionate speech his manners had ever allowed: after reaffirming that he thought I’d thrown my career into a spittoon, he’d grumbled a long sentence that could be loosely translated as ‘you make your own choices, and my not liking them does not mean you are wrong’.
That is the one honest conversation I’ve ever had with my detached father, and I cannot believe I owe it to the whims of Laurence and Eugenia. Now I know that their engagement will always be as annoying as a pebble in my shoe, and all I can do is to avoid seeing and thinking of them. I hence welcomed the end of my holidays; I’d returned to Scotland thinking I would be safely isolated from the matter, but I had been wrong. I remembered how enraged I’d felt when McGray brought it up, so casually, in front of that rough, swindling Madame Katerina. The rascals!
A Fever of the Blood Page 19