Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  She felt a scream gather in her throat, and the rise of hysteria blocked her breath. She opened her mouth. Then – a glimmer of light, her whispered name.

  ‘Kitty? Kit – where the devil are you?’

  ‘Matt? Oh – Matt!’ Trembling violently she threw her arms about the figure of her brother that had moved to her side, sobbing incoherently.

  ‘Hey, steady now. Steady, moi owd gal. The guard will hear—’

  With an enormous effort she calmed herself. They spoke on a breath, barely audibly.

  ‘How did you get in?’

  She sensed his grin in the darkness. ‘The same way you’re goin’ to get out, owd gal. Sir Percy ain’t the only one to like a bit o’ the old duty free grog. There’s more ways than one in an’ out of here. Take my hand. Tha’ss right. Now – come on—’

  Heart beating like a blacksmith’s hammer she followed him through the darkness and along a vaulted tunnel to another, smaller cellar.

  ‘There.’

  A faint rectangle of light, glimmering with frosty winter stars, hung in the darkness above her head.

  ‘Climb up here. Hurry now. We got to be well away from here by first light.’

  Away. Strangely, the thought jolted her. ‘Away where?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ For the first time her brother’s young voice was not quite steady. ‘Trust you to stand there askin’ stupid questions at a time like this! Hurry up! No – wait – best if I go first. Then I can haul you up—’ She saw a shadow swing from the barrel to the opening and wriggle through. ‘Right. Now you. Give us your hand. Tha’ss right. Heave!’

  She swung for a moment in mid-air. Then, with a convulsive twist she was through, blessedly free, gulping air.

  ‘Come on.’ Matt took her hand and they fled, past the house and onto the footpath that led by the shelter of the wind-blighted hedge to the sea. As they passed the windows of the Great Hall Kitty glanced in. Two men in shirtsleeves, each carrying another pick-a-back, were galloping the length of the room towards each other, to roars of drunken applause from the onlookers. The two ‘riders’ each brandished a sword, taken from the racks of such things that had decked the walls of the hall for nearly 300 years. As Kitty watched, with blood-curdling yells they clashed, and one pair was sent reeling to the ground to more howls of approbation from the inebriated audience.

  ‘Come on!’ Matt dragged her behind him. Her feet tangling in her long skirts, she stumbled, then righted herself. Some way along the path, a safe distance from the house, her brother stopped abruptly.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was all but lost in the wash of the nearby sea.

  ‘Wait here.’ His voice, too, was indistinct. She peered at him through the darkness, confused. ‘Look after this.’ He had been carrying a bundle which he now thrust at her. ‘Cook sent it. It’s food and a change of clothes.’

  ‘God bless her! But Matt – what?’

  He was moving from her, melting into the darkness. ‘Wait. Stay here. I won’t be long.’ He said something else then, something that in the crash of the water she did not quite hear. But moments after he had gone the sense of the words came to her, small cold sounds like pebbles in her head: ‘A score to settle.’

  ‘Matt!’ she hissed into the wind-whipped darkness.

  No reply.

  She huddled there for perhaps twenty minutes, each of them the space of a small lifetime. She stood up, stamping her feet and swinging her arms to keep the cold at bay. It was a wonderful night, clear and cold and windy. To the landward side the huge bulk of the house reared, silhouetted black and solid against the sky, windows lit, the sound of celebration muted by distance, by sea and by the rising wind. The waters of the North Sea shimmered, chill silver beneath a hunter’s moon, wave tops whipped to creamy foam. She stood for a moment looking northwards to where, two or three miles away, drowned Dunwich lay.

  If ever she had been going to hear the bells of that drowned city, surely she would hear them tonight—?

  When Matt came out of the darkness like a shadow she jumped violently, her heart in her mouth. ‘Where have you been?’

  His teeth glinted like an animal’s in the moonlight. ‘Looking to our future,’ he said. ‘And repaying a debt.’ She heard, very distinctly, the clink of coins.

  ‘Oh, Matt!’

  ‘Come on. We’ll follow the beach south. We’d be best off avoiding the roads for a bit.’

  She hurried after him, the wind plastering her skirt against her legs. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘London, of course. Where else?’ The coins clinked cheerfully again. Matt’s voice was threaded with a wild excitement. ‘If we can get as far as Colchester then I reckon they’ll ha’ lost our trail. We can catch a train from there.’

  ‘Providing we can get that far.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll get there.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Give or take a couple o’ more minutes an’ they’re goin’ to ’ave better things to think on than us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kitty was having trouble keeping up with him. ‘Matt – slow down! What do you mean?’ For the third time she tripped over the heavy, sea-wet hem of her skirt. ‘Oh, drat the thing! I can’t walk like this! Wait—’ She kilted her full skirt up, tucked it about her waist, leaving her long woollen-stockinged legs free. ‘That’s better. I – Matt! – what’s that?’ She had turned and was looking back at the house. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said.

  The distant bulk that was Westwood Grange was lit now by more than the strung lanthorns and candles of the celebration. The upper windows of the west wing of the house – the windows of the rooms that Sir Percival had taken for his own – were lit by a lurid glow, a bloody light that, as they watched, flickered and flared and turned the silver moon pale by comparison.

  She stared, aghast. ‘Matthew,’ she said at last, her voice lost in the sound of the wild sea-wind, ‘what have you done?’

  Beside her, her brother laughed.

  Chapter 3

  (i)

  They parted in anger three days later, in the stable yard of the Red Lion Inn in Colchester High Street. For two long days, as they had plodded southward, blown like fallen leaves before the winter wind, Kitty had struggled to keep a still tongue. On the second night they had taken the ferry from Felixstowe to Harwich and had spent the night in a small and insalubrious harbour-side inn. The next day they would make for Colchester, fifteen or so miles to the south-west – and there, Matt said, they could feel safe enough from pursuit to take the train to London.

  ‘No,’ Kitty said.

  Matt looked at her, spoon poised halfway to his mouth. ‘What do you mean – “No”?’

  ‘I’m not going to London. What would I do in London?’

  ‘Same as you’d do anywhere else.’ Matt grinned. ‘Only better, I reckon.’ He touched the belt that encircled his narrow waist that held, buckled to it, the leather pouch that he never let out of his sight. ‘We don’t have to worry, Kit – we’ve enough here to see us all right for months—’

  ‘No,’ she said again, and shook her head miserably, ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t what?’ He was genuinely puzzled.

  There was a long moment’s silence. With the dirty spoon that was all they had been provided with to eat the unappetizing cabbage soup – the inn’s only fare – she stirred the disgusting, watery liquid with no enthusiasm. ‘I don’t want anything to do with that money, Matt.’

  He stared at her, angry disbelief glimmering in his eyes. ‘Tha’ss plain daft,’ he said, softly.

  She shook her head, shutting her eyes for an instant. ‘I can’t help it.’ Her nerves were strung to breaking point. She was close to tears. As they had trudged away down the beach two nights before, the wind-whipped flames that were devouring the house she had loved had reddened the sky behind them, a lurid, unnatural sunset at which she had refused to turn and look. But yet those flames had flickered before her eyes as she walked, danced in her dreams when she had at last slept, huddled i
n a hollow in the sand dunes, and curtained her sight every time she had looked at her brother. ‘You should not have taken that money, Matt,’ she said now, quietly. ‘And you should not – oh, you should not! – have set that fire.’ It was the first time the words had been spoken, though they had hung between them for thirty painful miles. She bowed her head, pressing her knuckles to her aching forehead. ‘You should not,’ she said again.

  ‘By!’ her brother said at last, his voice tight with anger. ‘You do talk some rubbish sometimes.’

  She shook her head.

  He spooned more soup. ‘I did it for you.’

  She lifted a shocked, protesting head. ‘For me?’

  ‘Of course. I reckoned they wouldn’t ha’ been chasin’ round lookin’ for a runaway with a fire on their hands. Now would they?’

  ‘They wouldn’t have been looking for me anyway, not till morning. And – drunk as most of them were – perhaps not even then! Oh, Matt – how could you? What of Anne – Mrs Roberts – all of our friends? Supposing someone has been hurt?’

  Unconcernedly he slurped the soup from his spoon. ‘They’ll be all right.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He shrugged.

  She shook her head angrily. ‘I don’t understand you. I’ll never understand you.’ She threw her spoon down, revolted at the smell that lifted from the dish, hungry as she was. ‘You don’t seem to care what you do.’ Her voice had risen.

  He hissed at her sharply. ‘Keep your voice down, stupid! D’you want the lot of them to hear?’ He jerked his head at a group of loud-voiced, rough-dressed seamen who lounged, talking, laughing and drinking, against the bar. ‘I didn’t hear you complain when I got you out of that cellar—’

  That was too much. ‘I wouldn’t have damned well been in the cellar if it hadn’t been for you!’ Colour high she glared at him. A man in the group by the bar glanced at them interestedly, winked at Kitty. She ducked her head. ‘I’m not going to London,’ she hissed, quietly and determinedly.

  Matt opened his mouth, shut it again, smiled that sudden, infuriatingly charming smile. ‘You’re tired,’ he said, reasonably. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Are you going to eat that soup?’

  Silently she pushed the bowl across the table to him.

  * * *

  They reached Colchester, set upon its hill above the placid River Colne, late the following afternoon. They saw the spires and towers of the town’s churches long before they reached it; those last miles, Kitty thought, tiredly, must surely have been the longest she had ever walked? Wearily they trudged up the last hill, lined with fine, prosperous-looking houses, past the ruined town walls to where the roofless castle guarded the entrance to the wide, rutted High Street, the castle looking out as it had for so many centuries across the flat and fertile fields of north Essex. The High Street, continuing quite steeply uphill, was broad – traditionally market place as well as highway – with a small Saxon market-church set island-like in the centre. The street’s length encompassed many fine shops as well as several inns, as might have been expected of a thoroughfare that had served the thriving town since Roman times. The Red Lion, one of the largest of the taverns, was bustling with life. A group of red-coated soldiers were gathered beneath the arched entrance to the yard. Nearby, ostlers were rubbing down a matched pair of mud-splashed horses.

  ‘Do you think we might get a room here?’ Kitty craned her neck to look up at the ancient, overhanging, plastered storeys of the building. ‘It looks big enough, but there’s an awful lot of—’

  ‘We don’t need a room.’ Matt swung the bundle he was carrying from his back to the muddy ground. ‘Just something to eat and directions to the station. Ah—’ Looking around he had espied a small coach, the words ‘North Station’ emblazoned upon it. ‘Looks like we’ve come to the right place for that—’

  The soldiers had been joined by two girls. They stood talking and laughing loudly, tilting their bonneted heads to look at the men, their unpractically wide skirts belling about their legs, swaying as they moved. Kitty felt suddenly, mortifyingly, dowdy. She turned on her brother, her tone sharper than she had intended. ‘Matt! I told you—’

  The group moved off, pushing between Matt and Kitty as if they had not been there. One of the girls had a possessive hand upon the arm of a tall fusilier. Even through her anger Kitty noted with astonishment the frizzed hair, the artificial colour upon the girl’s pointed face.

  Matt jerked his head. ‘We can’t talk here.’

  ‘We have to. I told you. I’m not going to London.’

  She saw in his face then the same, fatal flash of temper of which she herself was so often the victim. ‘Then stay,’ he said. ‘And good luck to you. I’ll go alone.’

  They glared at each other.

  ‘Make way there!’ A small open carriage drove under the archway and into the yard. Muddy water splashed high. Kitty stepped back.

  Matt caught her arm. ‘Kitty, don’t be stupid! You have to come with me—’

  ‘I do not.’ Her blood was up to match his own.

  ‘You’ve no money. Nothing. How will you live?’

  ‘There’s such a thing as work, Matt Daniels. Heard of it, have you?’

  He flushed, angrily.

  She snatched her arm from his hand.

  ‘I’m going to the station,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  ‘Go then. What are you waiting for?’ She turned from him, took a step towards the open tavern door, listening for his voice in argument, calling her back, waiting for his hand upon her shoulder. Neither came. At the door she turned, looked back.

  Matt was nowhere to be seen.

  She did not – could not – truly believe he had gone. She hung about the busy yard for half an hour, watching for her brother’s gangling figure, convinced that he would not leave her like this, that when his temper had cooled he would be back with his quick, teasing grin, acting as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Lookin’ fer somethin’?’ The voice was not friendly.

  She jumped. A huge man in shirtsleeves and grubby apron glowered down at her, his small eyes suspicious.

  ‘I – yes. My brother – we were – supposed to meet here.’

  ‘Were you indeed?’ The man leaned towards her. His breath smelled horribly. She stepped back onto the highly polished boots of a soldier, who swore and pushed her so hard that she stumbled from him. The big man caught her arm, more, it seemed to her, as if he believed her to be trying to escape him than to prevent her falling. ‘Well, Miss – I don’t mind people using my tavern as a public meetin’ place – no, not a bit – just so long as they don’t ’ang about gettin’ under everyone’s feet and spendin’ not a farthin’ piece. Be off with yer, now. This is a respectable ’ouse. We don’t like your kind round ’ere.’

  She looked at him, bemused. ‘Her kind’? What on earth could he mean? He jerked his massive head graphically. ‘Out.’

  Miserably she walked beneath the arch and out into the now almost deserted High Street. It was very cold, and almost full dark. Lights had been kindled in the shop windows, the tall, pointed gas lamps glimmered in the street. People hurried past, heads down against the cutting wind. She shivered. Where was Matt? She glanced up and down the street, half expecting to see him hiding in a doorway, watching her discomfiture, laughing at her. She saw instead a soldier who leaned negligently against a street lamp, eyeing her with unflatteringly faint interest. It came to her then in a surge of horrified embarrassment what the landlord of the Red Lion had meant by ‘her kind’. Colchester was a garrison town, and a tavern yard was no place for an honest girl to linger alone as darkness fell.

  Avoiding the man’s eyes – though to be sure he showed no great interest in her – she crossed the street, hesitated uncertainly on the pavement on the other side. Where to now? She had nothing but a few pence in her pocket – barely enough for a meal, let alone to pay for a roof for the night.

  Where was Matt? How dared he leave her alone like this,
helpless and penniless in a strange town! That her anger was not entirely just – she had after all told him to go – did nothing to temper it. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. She was standing outside yet another inn, a tall, square-built building whose sign proclaimed it ‘The George’. Giving herself no time for thought she pushed open the door and marched inside. A few early-evening drinkers leaned at the bar or warmed themselves by the fire. A girl was serving at the bar, a thin, red-headed girl with bright eyes and a ready smile. She looked at Kitty with some curiosity. ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘I’d – I’d like to see the landlord, please.’ Kitty tried, and failed, to keep her voice steady.

  Curiosity turned to faint sympathy. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

  The girl shrugged, losing interest. ‘The old man’s in the yard.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She threaded her way to the door the girl had indicated with an inclination of her head and followed a long, dark corridor to the stable yard. The wind hit her like a blast of pure ice. She shivered. The yard was empty. Nonplussed, she stood in the lamplight, the courage that had taken her thus far draining from her like water from a holed bucket.

  ‘’E must ’ave gone upstairs.’

  She turned. The red-headed barmaid stood behind her, watching her. ‘You want me to fetch ’im?’

  ‘Y-yes please.’

  The girl turned, then stopped. ‘Job is it?’ Sympathy again gleamed in her eyes. ‘’E ain’t takin’ anyone on,’ she added gently, ‘if that was what you were wantin’?’

  ‘I – well – yes—’

  The fiery head shook. ‘We’re overstaffed already. Business is a bit slack at the moment.’

  Kitty’s spine stiffened against such premature disappointment. ‘I’d like to see him anyway, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t mind, love. It’s just it’ll do you no good. An’ he’s bin in a bit of a paddy terday~;~ I don’t see ’im feelin’ charitable.’