The Tenderness of Wolves

by Stef Penney

  ‘You have to take me. I have to find proof that he is innocent. No one else cares whom they arrest as long as they have someone. I beg you.’

  ‘What if there is nothing to find? Have you thought of that?’

  I have thought of that, but have no answer for it. I stare at his impassive face, at the eyes that seem to have no distinction between iris and pupil at all, but are all darkness, and feel a chill pass through me.

  There is no intoxicating liquor of any kind in the Fields of Heaven. The elect have no need for artificial stimulants, or for a road to oblivion. They are at all times happy and serene. After being harangued by Mrs Ross, Donald speculates on just what he would give for a glass of the disgusting rum drunk in such quantities at Fort Edgar. Winter is drinking season; it smoothes the flow of endless nights when warmth is a distant memory. It makes endurable the terrible jokes your companions tell and retell. It makes the companions themselves endurable. Donald has half a flask of whisky that he swore to himself he would save for the journey back, but he is sorely tempted. He has a feeling that he will not be going back any time soon.

  The snow has turned to rain. The temperature rises and the snowflakes are heavy with water, no longer floating, but falling to the ground. The nature of the lying snow changes too: from being light and feathery like a quilt, it has become sodden and unstable. Loaded with moisture, the snow has no strength; large masses break away and slide off the roof opposite Donald’s window, landing with a soft, heavy thump. The roofs are gradually revealed in their sombre colours–rust red, mineral blue. The snow itself is no longer white, but a translucent grey. Water drips continually from the eaves. The sound is inescapable; quiet but insistent, like conscience.

  He sees the tall native, Parker, cross the yard. He seems to be packing up ready to leave. Donald knows in his bones that he will go with Parker and the woman. Just to make sure that there is nothing in this story. He wonders if this is bravery; the thought of setting out across that dreadful plain terrifies him. On the other hand, if he takes the boy back as his suspect and then turns out to have been wrong, he will be reprimanded, condemned, talked about in low voices in drinking rooms. Dereliction of duty will not be good for his career. When it comes to a choice between the wilderness and professional ignominy, he knows which frightens him most.

  Parker told him the trading post is no more than six days’ march from here–weather conditions allowing. It is an opportunity to meet the factor there–perhaps a man who can help him advance. He tells Jacob that he must stay and guard the boy. The prisoner will be safe here for the time being.

  Jacob looks very serious. ‘Excuse me, but it would be better if I go with them. It will be hard travelling. I know what to look for.’

  There is nothing Donald would like more than to stay at Himmelvanger while Jacob trudges through the slush and ice to this godforsaken place, but it’s no good.

  ‘Thank you, Jacob, but I must go and decide what is to be done. And someone must stay here.’ He smiles at Jacob, who looks gravely back.

  ‘It would be better if I came with you. I can … look after you.’

  Donald smiles, touched at his loyalty. Also at how Jacob seems to regard him, out there anyway, as a defenceless child.

  ‘There is no need. Parker has to come back here in any case, to bring Mrs Ross back. It will be interesting to see another Company post.’

  He forces himself to sound more cheerful than he feels. There is apprehension, and more than a little dread, in the prospect of the cold wilderness ahead. Jacob looks thoughtful, as if struggling with himself.

  ‘But you see … I had a dream. You might think it stupid, but listen: I had a dream about you on your own. There was danger. I think I should go with you.’

  Donald quells the lurch in his stomach, and raises his voice further, to chase out the superstitions in Jacob, and in himself. Native nonsense–he didn’t think Jacob was prey to such fancies.

  ‘I’m not surprised you’ve been dreaming with that bloody goat’s cheese they eat here: it’s enough to give anyone nightmares!’

  Jacob doesn’t join him in laughter. He knows he has been reprimanded.

  ‘It is important to keep an eye on the boy. He may … say something important. You should try and gain his confidence.’

  Jacob looks doubtful, but nods.

  ‘Would you go and tell Mr Parker that I will be accompanying them?’

  When Jacob has gone, Donald has a sudden impulse to shout after him, to express his fervent gratitude for his concern, however misguided, and his friendship. Jacob is the only person here who cares in the slightest what happens to him. Then he stops himself; he is a grown man. He does not need a native servant to look after him, not even Jacob.

  Donald reflects on the change that has taken place in their relationship. After the trip to Dove River and its grisly aftermath, there was a closeness between them that he must have treasured more than he knew, since now he regrets its absence. Donald attributes it to the fact that he is now the boss, whereas before, Mackinley treated them both with much the same sort of mild contempt, and they (or at least Donald) reflected that contempt back on him in a subtler form. Now he sees Mackinley in a different light, with more understanding of the complexities of command. Well, his father always told him that life was not a picnic, that is, not there to be enjoyed. As a child he used to find that an extraordinary, perverse idea, but now his father’s words make sense. To be an adult is to rise to uncertain and alarming challenges, to eschew friendship in favour of responsibility. Sometimes you must forgo being liked in order to be respected. And something else occurs to him: something that chimes with his thoughts of Susannah. For only by being respected can a man truly win love, since for a woman, love must contain an element of awe.

  He looks at his letters: love letters, he supposes, although they contain nothing of a very sentimental nature. It is too early for that, though one day, who knows … There are four, neatly folded and addressed, and these he will give to Per to send to Dove River when the weather allows. He is pleased with the letters, which he has copied out in his room, embellishing them with tortuous philosophical digressions, the composition of which took up two long, alcohol-free evenings. He imagines Susannah reading them and keeping them in a pocket, or wrapped in a scented handkerchief (the one he gave her?) in a drawer.

  With a rush of feeling, he tries to conjure the image of her face at the precise moment she smiled at him in the library, but finds, to his consternation, that he can’t quite fix her in his mind. He has a vague impression of her smile, the soft light brown hair, the pale, glowing skin and hazel eyes, but the parts keep shifting and fading, and refuse to coalesce into a recognisable human whole. For some reason he can remember the face of her sister Maria, and that of her father, in perfect, three-dimensional clarity, but Susannah’s likeness is just beyond his reach.

  He sits down to write a short note to her, to tell her of his forthcoming journey. He is torn between wanting to make it sound dangerous and daring, and not wanting to worry her unduly if she receives it before his return. In the end he makes light of it, saying he will probably be back in Caulfield in about three weeks, and it will be a fine opportunity to represent the Company and meet another factor, while setting his mind at rest on the subject of Francis’s guilt. He assures her of his best wishes, and asks, in a coda that slightly surprises him, to send his warm regards to her sister. He stares at the page for a moment, wondering if it looks odd, but there is no time to copy out the whole letter, and so he seals it in an envelope and places it with the others.

  It is ten o’clock on a Thursday evening, three weeks since Laurent Jammet’s body was found. Maria is staring out of the window of her father’s study, even though there is nothing to see. She can make out lances of rain drumming into the mud of what is supposed to be the garden, but at the moment resembles a cattle pen. Beyond that, only a seething darkness, where occasional veils of water are swathed this way and that by the wind, picking
up light from who knows where.

  Inside the house it’s not much better. After the events of the afternoon, Mrs Knox lies prostrate in her bedroom under the influence of something Dr Gray gave her an hour ago. She was less upset than Maria would have thought, but the doctor had been persuasive in talking of the dangers of delayed shock, so Maria had encouraged her mother to swallow the draught. Susannah was more overtly distressed, but that is Susannah’s way–a sudden storm followed by clear skies. As yet, still stormy, although from down here Maria can hear nothing. The house is deathly quiet.

  After some debate–very much debate, as the town elders could not agree and it was all so unprecedented, her father was taken into custody on a charge of perverting the course of justice. Because he is, after all, the supposed magistrate of this community and not some scruffy half-breed stranger, he has not been consigned to the warehouse, but it was decided that he should be detained at John Scott’s leisure. This means that he is locked in the room next door to Mr Sturrock and has his meals brought up to him. The room is very similar to Mr Sturrock’s lodgings and the fare is the same, but Maria’s father does not have to pay for the privilege.

  John Scott, together with Mr Mackinley and Archie Spence, came and knocked on the door at half past five this evening. Maria answered, and then led them to the drawing room while she fetched her father. They talked behind closed doors for twenty minutes before her father came out to explain that he was, in effect, in custody. There was a slight smile playing round his mouth, as though he was enjoying a private joke. While his wife remonstrated, dry-eyed and furious, and Susannah wept, Maria stood by and could not think of anything to say. Her mother marched into the drawing room and coruscated the men there. They sat open-mouthed and cowed as she withered them with her scorn. John Scott had clearly wavered in the plan to actually incarcerate her father in his house, but Mackinley stood firm, his eyes and mouth betraying his delight. Her father closed the argument by saying that he would be staying just along the road, only until the magistrate from St Pierre could be brought to officiate. He asked without a hint of irony whether they would be setting bail. Obviously the men had forgotten all about such a thing. John Scott opened his mouth but no sound came out. Mackinley cleared his throat, and said they would think on the matter overnight, and set a figure tomorrow. The trouble was, they really needed to ask her father what to do.

  Eventually Knox had put an end to it by suggesting that they go; it was dinnertime, he said, and they were keeping the cooks waiting. Of course, he was referring to Mary in their kitchen, but it sounded rather as though he was chiding his arresters for making him late for his supper, and Mackinley had frowned, although her father did not seem to notice. There was a lightness about his demeanour, Maria thought: it was almost as though he was pleased to be arrested, as though they had fallen into some trap of his own making. The three women watched as their husband and father led the other men out of the house, having asked if they wanted to borrow umbrellas or galoshes. Mackinley and the others declined, although it was by now raining heavily, and there were several spares.

  Sturrock listens to the sound of footsteps mounting the stairs. He has been resting on his bed, thinking about Mrs Ross and whether she has caught up with her son–who undoubtedly, to his mind, has taken the bone tablet with him. The shambolic events of the last few days make him think he should not stay here any longer. Now the snow is melting, maybe it is time to make his escape. But any place he goes can only be further from the object of his desire, and surely they must bring the boy back here when they have found him. He sighs; the whisky bottle that has been such good company for the past few days is nearly empty. It is the story of his life, to be so near and yet still so far from achieving anything of lasting worth, and to have run out of liquor.

  At this point in his reflections he rouses himself to get up and find out what all the noise was about: a new neighbour, perhaps. He opens the door to see Mr Mackinley from the Company and John Scott, together with another man he does not know. Scott comes towards him, having closed the door to the room opposite.

  ‘Ah, Mr Sturrock. I was just coming to tell you …’

  ‘A new neighbour?’ Sturrock asks with a smile, the possibility of some good conversation the cause for optimism.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Sturrock notices the look of contempt Mackinley throws at the back of Scott’s head. ‘No, we find ourselves in the awkward situation of, em, having to detain the magistrate, Mr Knox … and since we cannot put him in the warehouse, ha ha, it seemed this house would be as good a place as any, for the time being.’

  Scott pauses, a light sweat beading his forehead. The man looks under considerable strain, his face pinker than ever.

  ‘I hope it will not inconvenience you, Mr Sturrock.’ This from Mackinley.

  ‘You mean you’re locking Knox in that room there?’ Sturrock asks, almost gaily. ‘What the hell has he done?’

  The men all glance at each other, as if wondering whether Sturrock is entitled to such information.

  ‘It turns out that the prisoner’s escape was no accident. Knox released him, thus halting the wheels of justice.’

  Sturrock becomes aware that his eyebrows are trying to crawl up his forehead and join his hair. ‘Good God, is he mad?’

  It suddenly occurs to him that Knox will be listening to every word–for he can hardly do otherwise. ‘I mean to say, what an extraordinary thing.’

  ‘Extraordinary, yes.’

  Mackinley makes to turn away, and Sturrock feels a surge of dislike.

  ‘Well well …’

  ‘Quite.’

  Scott says, in a conversational tone of voice: ‘Dinner will be ready shortly, Mr Sturrock.’

  ‘Ah, thank you. Thank you.’

  At Mackinley’s signal the other men make to go downstairs, leaving Sturrock staring at the locked door. When the footsteps have died away he calls out in a low voice, ‘Mr Knox? Mr Knox?’

  ‘I hear you, Mr Sturrock.’

  ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  ‘Well … are you all right?’

  ‘Quite comfortable, thank you. I think I will retire now.’

  ‘Well, good night. Give me a shout if you … well, if you want someone to talk to.’

  There is no further reply. Sturrock wonders whether this means his source of income has run dry.

  Sturrock is downstairs by the stove in Scott’s store, which becomes a bar after dark, when Maria Knox walks in. The rain has kept up its assault for several hours; the snow is entirely gone and the citizens of Caulfield are wading in mud up to their ankles. It is late–he can’t remember how late now, but presumably she has come to speak to her father. However, she comes straight towards him. He knows who she is although they have never spoken.

  ‘Mr Sturrock? I am Maria Knox.’

  He inclines his head gravely out of deference to her situation. The gravity is heightened by the five or so glasses of whisky he has drunk, and the memories he has been immersed in for the past hour.

  ‘I know it is late, but I was hoping to speak to you.’

  ‘Speak to me?’ He inclines his head again–really, he must be quite drunk–though this time gallantly. ‘That would be an undeserved pleasure.’

  ‘There is no need for flattery. I wanted to talk to someone … well, you are not one of us, and the town seems to have gone quite mad.’

  Her voice is low, although there is no one else within earshot. ‘You mean your father’s … predicament.’

  She looks at him with a look that is both exasperated and calculating. ‘I don’t quite know what I am doing here. I think it is because Mr Moody, the Company man, spoke of you, and seemed to have formed a favourable impression, despite … everything. Heaven knows what I expected …’

  He realises–the drink is making him slow-witted–that she is on the verge of tears, and her exasperation is with herself. ‘I don’t know who else I can talk to. I am very worried, very worried inde
ed. You are a man of experience, Mr Sturrock, what would you do in my circumstances?’

  ‘About your father? Is there anything you can do, other than wait? I believe they are sending for the magistrate from St Pierre in the morning, or when the roads are passable.’

  ‘You think they are not passable?’

  ‘Weather like this? I doubt it very much.’

  ‘I was thinking of going tonight, to be there first. There is no telling what they will say about him.’

  ‘My dear girl … you cannot mean it. To attempt the journey tonight, in this rain … it would be madness. Your father would be horrified. It would be the worst thing you could do to him.’

  ‘You think so? Perhaps you are right. In any case, the truth is I am too much of a coward to attempt such a journey on my own. Oh, God!’ She hides her head in her hands, though only for a second. She does not dissolve into tears. Sturrock feels an admiration for her, and orders another drink for himself, and one for her.

  ‘You knew Monsieur Jammet, did you not? What do you think happened to him?’

  ‘I didn’t know him all that well. But he was a man with many secrets, and men with secrets have, perhaps, more enemies than those without.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Erm, only that … well, I came to Caulfield–and am here still–because I wanted to buy an item that Jammet owned. He knew that. Only the item has vanished.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘It seems likely. Perhaps by Francis Ross. So I wait for his return.’

  ‘Do you think Francis killed him then?’

  ‘I did not know him at all. So I cannot say.’

  ‘I did … I mean, I do.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  Maria pauses, staring into her glass–to her surprise already empty. ‘How can you know what people are capable of? I have thought I have judged people well in the past, only to be proved quite wrong.’