The Flame Eater

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The baroness bestowed a limpid smile. “Indeed, Mister Harris, I am sure that was true. You often travelled with my husband, I believe. You accompanied him on most of his journeys, to London and to Gloucester.”

  Edmund Harris nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed I did, my lady.”

  “In which case,” continued her ladyship, still benign, “you would have some knowledge of where my husband went and exactly what he did.”

  Mister Harris began to glimpse his downfall. “That is true, within limits, my lady.” He sat a little straighter and wriggled on the very edge of his stool. “Of course, whenever there was business of a personal nature, I was dismissed to walk alone.” He frowned with some deliberation. “But never, I assure you, your ladyship, did I accompany the baron on his most private business, nor was privy to his personal affairs. I had no idea – no knowledge at all. I remained at the hostelry until his lordship returned and called for me.”

  “But,” continued the baroness sweetly, “your skills would have been required in the matter of the house – purchasing the property where my husband later – died.”

  The young man nodded earnestly. “Indeed. That I did, my lady. But without knowledge of its use, I assure you, nor ever went there. I followed orders, and managed the paperwork in accordance with normal practice, and all in the chambers of the city clerk.”

  “How clever,” said Avice, interrupting. “Now, I wonder if you’d remember what it cost, Mister Harris? How sad to know it’s destroyed, and all that clever work of yours gone for nothing.”

  Mister Harris brightened. “Not an expensive property, mistress, but a loss all the same.” He blushed slightly. “My hard work was simply part of my regular work, but I thank you for your consideration. Certainly the setting of fire to hide the crime was wicked destruction, and nearly all that alley, so I understand, went up in flames.”

  Emeline, on the other side of the hall, shifted slightly. The earl was patting her knee. Removing her knee from his vicinity, she looked to her other side where Sysabel sat quietly next to her aunt on the settle beside the long shuttered windows. Neither spoke. Aunt Elizabeth was half asleep and Sysabel, although her embroidery was on her lap and the needle in her hand, stared into space and showed no desire to move.

  A sudden blink as the nearby candle flared in the draught. Aunt Elizabeth opened one eye. “Still here, my dear? Good girl. But such a warm evening. I am just a little drowsy, you know.”

  “Yes, aunt.” Sysabel stared straight forwards into the small bright flame. Slowly she lifted one finger, short, pale, the nail clipped low and straight. Then she reached forwards as if pointing, and pierced the centre of the light with her finger. The flame shuddered as if in recoil, then blazed anew. Sysabel watched as it crawled around the tip of her finger, licking it in fire. “But isn’t it strange,” she said very softly, “how much pain one person can bear, if they are obliged to.”

  The Lady Elizabeth yawned, eyes closed, and resettled. “Pain? Ah yes, my dear. But life is not always kind. Nevertheless, I shall make a point of telling your mother what a good girl you’ve been.”

  The flame was growing, lapping as if hungry now it had found food. Sysabel did not remove her finger. She said, “If you wish, aunt. But you may remember that my mother died nine years gone.”

  “Sweet, warm sleep,” murmured Aunt Elizabeth.

  Sysabel slowly pushed her finger down, flattening the wick until the candle flame was entirely extinguished and, with a small hiss, the light was gone. She smiled and retrieving her finger, examined it. The skin was dark and blistered all around and the nail had singed, melting a little in one uneven line. There was soft warm wax on the tip. She put it in her mouth, sucking away the pain as if savouring the taste. Finally she murmured, “Sleep sweet? One day, aunt. One day all of us will.”

  It was in the furthest corner that Nurse Martha sat. She had been knitting. Now the wool lay unattended in her lap. No one else was present in the hall except the hovering page, ready to refill cups. Adrian had left the house shortly after breakfast and had not yet returned.

  The earl said, “You’ll have shunsh too m’dear, with luck. Carry on the title, do the proper thing. P’rapsh young Nick will grow up in time – take reshponshibility, be the man hish brother would’ve been.”

  “Sons? Oh dear,” said Emeline. “I think it’s time I went to bed.”

  Although a cluster of candles had been lit, the drifting twilight elongated the angled shadows while, since the shutters had not yet been lifted, the windows echoed the rising star shimmer.

  “Ish that late?” His lordship was surprised. “But you young thingsh – all that energy – besht shleep early no doubt.”

  Emeline was in bed when Avice came to her.

  The door was pushed silently open, no creaking hinges or squeak of wood, just a faint breeze and the sudden scramble from corridor to bounce upon the mattress. “I’m running away again,” whispered Avice, grabbing at her sister’s knees through the bedclothes, “and this time you have to come with me.”

  Emeline opened her eyes, blinked, and elbowed herself up against the pillows. “Avice, go away.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Avice said. “I have an idea. But you have to come too.”

  Emeline rubbed her eyes. “For goodness sake, I’m at home. What am I supposed to run away from? We aren’t prisoners, Avice. Are you mad?”

  “Run away from what might happen. From mother. From the earl. From being watched. But it’s what I want to run to that matters. Don’t you see? Mother thinks Father’s killer is some silly little boy, or that poor pickle brained secretary who’s all so proud because he thinks mother likes him at last. Actually I think he thinks I like him too, and I used to but I don’t know. He’s prissy and cabbage eyed. Besides, I don’t imagine he’s capable of killing anyone unless he sticks his quill down their throats and drowns them in ink. But there’s worse than that, because Sissy secretly thinks it was Nicholas and his uncle together who killed everyone. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the horrid earl thinks it was Nicholas too.”

  “Oh, pooh.”

  “But I know who it was. And he’s gone off. He keeps going off somewhere. I think he’s trying to find Nicholas, and kill him too.”

  “Adrian?” Emeline felt suddenly cold.

  “Of course.” Avice lowered her voice. “Don’t you realise, Adrian is the Chatwyn heir after Nicholas. First Peter is got safely out of the way before he could marry you. Then when the fire after your wedding didn’t work, probably Adrian meant to wait so as not to look too suspicious. But now he knows you like your husband after all, so he has to act quickly before there are any children to push him out of line.”

  “Avice,” Emeline muttered in threatening undertones, “you’re the one who’s pickle brained. Adrian is a respectable if stuffy young man and look how protective he is of his sister. And remember how he came all the way down from Nottingham when I wrote saying I was worried Nicholas hadn’t retuned, and might be dying of the pestilence.”

  “Exactly,” said Avice, wide eyed. “He was hoping to find Nicholas dead of disease – most convenient – contagion doing the job for him. But he ordered Sissy to stay behind – didn’t want her in the way even though coming to see you would have made it more proper to bring her. He didn’t want her here either, and was really cross when he saw her – well, murder gets harder if your sister is watching.”

  “So why leave her here then, instead of carrying her straight back to Nottingham?”

  “Because,” said Avice gleefully. “now he’s too busy rushing off to do the deed.”

  “Visiting friends. Business. Trade. He’s entitled to make a little money on the side, isn’t he?”

  “But he never does. He’s not well off,” Avice pointed out. “They live off that old aunt’s money according to what Sissy said while we were away. So he’s after the Chatwyn inheritance and quickly needs to take advantage of Nicholas travelling alone somewhere.”
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br />   “Nicholas isn’t alone. He has armed guards.”

  “Probably Adrian won’t know that. He’s too busy thinking of himself, and Sissy and getting enough money for an easy life and the castle and a decent dowry for Sissy too – otherwise she’s nobody and no one important will marry her. But even if he does have to face armed guards, he can always ask Nicholas to walk off alone with him somewhere. I mean, Nicholas wouldn’t suspect him, would he?”

  Emeline took a deep breath. “Even if you were right, which you’re not, why on earth would he murder Papa?”

  “Perhaps because,” here Avice paused, lowered her voice further, leaned over and mumbled, “Papa found out and Adrian had to stop him telling anyone. Or perhaps he just disapproved since he is stuffy, and he found Papa with a whore and got angry.”

  “He disapproves of adultery but he cheerfully approves of murder?”

  “Well.” Avice chewed her lip. “Alright, either Papa found out he’d killed Peter, and had to be kept quiet. Or perhaps with Papa dead, Adrian thought we’d be rich, and he could marry me.”

  “Avice, you’re far too fond of thinking people want to marry you.”

  “They will if I’m rich. But I have to admit I’m not sure about why he killed Papa. Perhaps it was someone else and Nicholas is wrong about it being the same person.” Avice leaned suddenly forwards again, one quivering finger to her lips. “Besides, there’s more. Sissy told me other things too. Did you guess – well I expect you didn’t. But she was doing it with Peter.”

  “Doing what?” gulped Emeline.

  “You know what I mean. Beds. Kissing. What men do with their wives, only she was barely thirteen the first time. That was a year and a half ago and Peter was nearly thirty when he died. I think that’s horrid. I mean, I did kiss that silly Edmund Harris when I was thirteen, but he didn’t even want me to.” Avice crouched lower as her sister stared back at her. “But that gives Adrian another reason for killing Peter. And I think it got worse. Maybe if I was Sissy’s brother, I would have killed Peter too.”

  “Tell me. But keep your voice down,” urgently, “or Maman will hear.”

  It was the next bedchamber where the baroness stepped out of her gown. The thick brocade was scooped up by Martha, who shook out the creases ready to hang on one of the garderobe pegs. The baroness sat on the bed, pulled up her shift and began to untie her garters, carefully rolling down her fine blue stockings. She pointed a bare toe, regarding a still neat foot. “I am not old, you know, Martha,” she said softly. “James should have had a different wife – perhaps a little older – more sedate. Docile!”

  “My lady.” Martha pulled back the covers. Then she saw the small folded paper which had fallen as her mistress was unclothed. Martha bent and picked it up.

  Her ladyship crawled quickly into bed. “My girls, on the other hand,” she informed the pillows, “are positively infantile. Clearly James carried a streak of ill balance and an inferior bloodline. I can no longer guess what either of my daughters might do next.”

  Martha sat on the edge of the bed and began to unpin her baroness’s headdress. She paused a moment. Finally she said, “Speaking of young ladies, I had wondered, and thought of saying something, my lady. But perhaps it is better left unsaid.”

  “Which one?” demanded the baroness.

  Martha sat back with a handful of golden tipped hairpins. “Our young ladies are without blame and I speak no word against them, madam. There was something else, something I noticed this evening, which reminded me of the fire which devastated the castle after the Lady Emeline’s wedding, and which might have caused both her death and that of her husband.”

  There was a sudden rustle of linen and feathers and the baroness sat up in alarm. “Tell me, Martha.”

  Martha shook her head. “Just wondering, my lady, and thinking that perhaps we have not considered the possibility of another culprit. I happened to notice Mistress Sysabel playing with – a candle flame. An unusual game for an innocent young lady, I believe.”

  The baroness again collapsed against the pillows. “The silly miss adored Peter. Why would she kill the boy?”

  “They say she has a temper, my lady. And perhaps – just perhaps – there could have been a reason which she now wishes to hide.”

  “The girl is too foolish to hide anything. And if you mean she was having an illicit affair, which no doubt that supercilious young man was wicked enough to encourage, then she has hidden nothing, for I already guessed some time ago. But all the more reason not to slaughter the lover.”

  “But if he meant to cast her off once affianced to our young Mistress Emeline? Or worse, my lady, if the affair had results which needed the young gentleman’s immediate offer of marriage but which he denied?” The baroness paused, considering. Martha nodded and continued, “You may guess my meaning, my lady. Illicit affairs can often have consequences most terrible for the poor girl, but often quite easy for the gentleman to deny and to escape. Such a situation might leave the girl – let us say – both desperate and – infuriated.”

  “Young ladies don’t commit murder, Martha,” declared the baroness. “And more importantly, Sysabel had neither motive nor opportunity to divest the world of my husband.” She looked around a moment, as if expecting something to leap from the shadows. Then she lowered her voice. “You have the list safe, Martha? Good. But there was a name I could not possibly be seen to add to that list.”

  Martha held out the scrap of paper. “Shall I add it myself, my lady?” But the baroness shook her head.

  “It needs no ink, and is no doubt quite nonsensical. But I have wondered, you know, just sometimes, why young Nicholas tries so hard to appear unnecessarily stupid, and such a terrible coward, when he is undoubtedly neither. Odd, don’t you think, Martha?”

  Martha had lifted the little pewter candle holder, ready to snuff the last little light. “I had noted it, my lady,” she said quietly. And she blew out the flame.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nicholas rode south, crossing the Bridge moments before the gates were locked for the night. The sunny afternoon had turned to a mild evening and late shopping, the delights of the taverns, cock fights, markets and the Southwark Bear Pit, left folk hurrying home in both directions. Insignificant and unseen amongst the crowds, His mount, unlike the proud liard he usually rode, was a knock kneed but docile mare with a sweet nature, a shabby coat and a wispy tail trailing, bedraggled. The crowds elbowed, thickening as the gatekeeper began to rattle his keys. Nicholas leaned over and patted the horse’s warm neck. “Cheer up, Bessie,” he said softly. “We’ll soon be out in the countryside, and you can show these lumbering oxen your heels.”

  A little behind him Harry muttered, “Leaving London, that’s the biggest mistake. ‘Tis only fools what leaves the big city and takes off for them windy skies.”

  “Least you can see what’s coming in them open places,” Rob pointed out from the back of an overweight and lumbering sumpter. “Which is more than can be said for them bloody Southwark alleys.”

  David Witton had been keeping an eye on Wolt and the baggage but now rode up close to his master’s side, silently dismissing Robert and Henry Bambrigg to oblivion. His own remarks were heard only by Nicholas. “We’ll be remembered by nobody here, that’s for sure, my lord. A company of ill-dressed clods on horses fit for little more than the Shamble’s butchers, trudging out of town as dusk falls. But which hostelry do we choose to stay overnight, sir? The Southwark inns are a vile lot, but if we stop at one of the better houses then we’ll pay considerably more than could be expected of folk such as us, and will look out of place.”

  “Too nice, are you David, to stay in a slum for a night?” Nicholas smiled. “I seem to remember us staying often enough in your tenement room when I had reason to keep out of sight. Is that so much better than the Southwark taverns?”

  “But it was my own, my lord, and could be kept clean. In Southwark there’s more fleas than whores, and more whores than cutpurses.”


  Wolt, shuffling behind them all, led the baggage horse but preferred the use of his own feet. His first very short acquaintanceship with the great city of London had not impressed, but at least he was pleasantly surprised by the Bridge. In Gloucestershire he had seen several bridges but they were small wooden planked affairs which swayed when crossed, but at least were so short they could be run over in half a breath. The bridge of London, however, was made of soaring stone and sat on nineteen mighty pillars. It did not sway, it carried great hosts of people and animals all at the same time, and was so rich with houses and shops that you could barely see past them to the river below. The river could, of course, be smelled, so one knew it was very much there. Now beneath the massive iron portcullis, below the spikes for traitors’ heads above the gate, the small party crossed the bridge into Southwark and immediately quickened pace.

  The inn was not one of those along the main route which travellers had long taken on pilgrimage to Canterbury. Nicholas had chosen a small bustling hostelry in a shadowed alley where the customers were still drinking heavily long after dark. Jerrid Chatwyn was waiting for Nicholas, sitting back against the wall, legs spread over one of the pallets, cup in hand. He waved to the larger stool. “There’s beer, and there’s cold pork, black bread and cheese. Help yourself, my boy. Tuck in, all of you. But I’ve already helped myself to the two best blankets.”

  “Knowing, of course,” grinned Nicholas, tossing his small bundle to another of the pallets, “that the biggest lice, fleas and spiders always nest in the best blankets.”

  “I shall squash the lot,” replied his uncle, “as I snore my way to dreams of soft white arms, heaving breasts and a sweet plump mouth searching for mine.” He nodded to David, but eyed the other three with amusement. “Been exploring the rubbish tips again, Nick my boy?”

  Wolt muttered into his shirt collar, “I ain’t no raker’s snotboy, I’s respektibal.”