River's Edge

by James P. Blaylock

  He had the confirmed feeling that Townover had told him the truth as he knew it, and might have said more if St. Ives hadn’t started in on him like the Grand Inquisitor. It would have been wise to move more slowly. Townover believed in himself and in the mill, and he believed that the murder of Daisy Dumpel was yesterday’s news, although despite the talk of the mill “family,” he seemed to have no apparent pity for the murdered girl. Perhaps he was like old Scrooge in the story, the pity having gone out of him over the years, replaced by an armor of self-righteousness.

  He crossed the bridge a short time later, the tide rising now, carrying an unsettling number of dead birds and fish, which could conveniently be seen from above. He made his way upriver again into Snodland proper, the ferry dock on his left hand and the tannery beyond, where Daisy’s body had been found on the mud bank. He turned up Ferry Road, past the back of the jail, and then up the tree-lined High Street, where he saw the sign for the Malden Arms, a white-painted, three-story inn with green shutters. There was the smell of frying bacon from the open taproom door, and, unmistakably, of coffee beans roasting in a pan. He reined up, persuaded by his stomach, and handed over the horse and buggy to the stable boy.

  The paneled room was pleasantly dim, with seafaring paintings on the walls and an expertly built miniature of a ship of the line on the fireplace mantel. Three tables were occupied, two of them by men reading newspapers and third by a man and a woman who were eagerly devouring plates of eggs and rashers and beans. The publican, a heavy-set man with long mustaches and heavy spectacles, stood polishing glasses behind the bar. He nodded in a friendly manner when St. Ives asked for breakfast and coffee. After speaking through the window to the cook, he asked St. Ives whether he was staying upstairs.

  St. Ives admitted that he was not, but had stopped in because it was a likely looking inn and because of the smell of the roasting coffee beans. He looked around in general appreciation, like a man in no particular hurry. “I’ll admit,” he said, “that I read of the Malden Arms in the Gazette. Two men from the mill caught the murderer here, as I understand it.”

  “Aye, Davis and Jenks, both of them regular customers,” the publican said, dumping roasted beans into a mortar and grinding them. “This Bill Henry, he’d been in once or twice. He didn’t have the look of a murderer to me, but people are like books, in that regard, if you take my meaning. Do you like a strong cup of coffee?”

  “I do,” St. Ives said, “and I take your point about people and books. Take Admiral Nelson as an illustration. He was a small little man with one arm, but he beat the stuffing out of the French and the Spanish at Trafalgar.”

  “So he did, too. He didn’t have the look of a hero about him. That said, a Frenchman shot him dead with a musket ball, which was dumb luck, although what that says about books, I don’t know. Mayhaps that’s all we have as an ending once we’ve read through the chapters.” He put a heap of grounds into a china pot, pouring hot water over them and letting them steep. He set the pot, a cup, and a finely meshed sieve-disk in front of St. Ives, and then leaned against the bar. “The Gazette was wrong about one thing, however. They caught this Bill Henry in the alley behind, not inside. He saw them come in and when they went for him, he bolted. They tackled him in the alley and thrashed him.”

  “That’s justice,” St. Ives said, “If he was a guilty man.”

  “When the hue-and-cry went up, Constable Bates came running. It was he who found the girl’s money in Bill Henry’s coat. Davis said that he’d seen Henry bothering the girl at the mill, and the two things were enough to lock him up, although maybe not to hang him. He did that to himself with his own gaiters, however, and that condemns him, I suppose. An innocent man don’t hang himself.”

  “That’s certain,” St. Ives said, thinking about this. His breakfast arrived now, the food steaming on the plate, a rack of toast and a tiny bowl of jam. The publican poured coffee into his cup through the sieve, and it seemed to St. Ives that coming into Snodland was a useful business all the way around.

  “Speak of the devil,” the publican said in a surprised tone of voice, looking at the open door.

  St. Ives looked in that same direction, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, just in time to see Davis’s head looking in at him. Davis tipped his tweed hat, winked, and disappeared from the doorway.

  “YES, SIR.” DAVIS said to Charles Townover, Davis having just returned from Snodland. “He went into the village and straight to the Crown. I waited out of sight until he came back out, and then followed him to the river. He turned upriver toward Aylesford, the way he’d come down, and I followed along after at a good distance until I was sure he was homeward bound. He did just as he said he would.”

  Townover considered this, looking steadily at Davis. “You’re certain?” he said. “He made no other stops?”

  “As certain as I’m standing here.”

  “And you do not know this fellow St. Ives? From London or from anywhere else?”

  “No sir. I take my oath on it.”

  Townover nodded. “I don’t like him, and I believe him to be false. Communicate this to Henley when he arrives and see whether he has anything useful to say, both about this St. Ives and about Mary Shanks. I fully believe that the girl spoiled the vat intentionally. She could as easily have vomited onto the floor. It’s past time to rout out troublemakers.”

  Chapter 12

  The Broadsheet

  CLOVER WALKED ALONG the lane toward Hereafter Farm. The day was warm and the road was dusty, and she was happy for the shade of the over-arching oaks and for the grassy verge. A rill of water hurried along beside, its bed brown with leaves from the oaks, but the water clear. No one had passed her since she had turned off the road, which wasn’t surprising, since Hereafter Farm sat at the dead-end of its own lonely lane. She heard children whooping not too far ahead, and she slowed her pace and looked cautiously about, anxious not to be seen until she wanted to be seen.

  Twenty yards farther on, the corner of a barn showed through the trees. Two children dashed past it and disappeared. The lane broadened out into a carriage drive of packed dirt and gravel, and beyond it stood a two-story house of grey stone with a broad front porch. She stepped behind the trunk of a tree and watched the house, considering what she should do. Henley had sent her to discover what she could, but there was precious little she’d discover if she weren’t a sneaker. She was particularly good at sneaking.

  There was enough sunlight on the porch for her to see that the door to the house stood open, and right now there was no one about. She could hear flies buzzing and the sound of laughter—the children again—but she couldn’t see them. She stepped out and walked toward the house, looking about curiously, which would seem natural if she were observed, and without a pause she climbed the stairs and crossed to the open door as quietly as she could. She hesitated at the door, hearing a conversation within, several voices. They were having a regular powwow.

  Clover stepped into the kitchen, the voices growing louder, and she moved to a door that led into a hallway. It occurred to her that she could load her bag with valuables and walk out if she chose, but it would be short sighted, to be sure. She walked quietly down the hallway, past two empty rooms, until she stood by what must be the parlor, trying to decide whether to knock against the door moulding to announce herself, or to bide her time and listen.

  THE REMAINS OF their tea sat on a wheeled cart, nothing but two broken biscuits and a last quarter of sandwich, still unclaimed. St. Ives was fond of afternoon tea when he could afford the time it took to consume it in a civilized manner, which was rarely. Today he had eaten nothing since his breakfast at the Malden Arms. Mrs. Tully’s deviled ham made capital sandwiches, and Bill Kraken had just opened a second bottle of sherry. The lot of them sat in the parlor at Hereafter Farm, laying out a plan of action, although Mother Laswell had particularly strong opinions, and the plan shifted this way and that way with her enthusiasms. She meant to make a speech to the girls at th
e mill, she said, in order to move them to action. They were apparently ripe for it. If the girls walked out, it would open Pandora’s Box, and everything else would follow.

  “And I fully intend to be ready when it does,” she said. “I’ve composed an article for the Gazette, with evidence laid out so that any fool can see the sense in it. Poisons will kill the River Medway if the mill is allowed free rein, including the oyster beds in Long Reach and Sheerness in time. The river won’t return to its glory, not in our lifetime, unless we act.” She slapped the arm of her upholstered chair and nodded sharply. “It’s a call to arms. I mean to throw an iron plow into the workings of the mill, by God, if that be the only means at our disposal.”

  “Don’t speak rash,” Bill Kraken said to her. “You’re asking to be taken up and thrown into Newgate Prison, and then you’ll see precious little more in your lifetime and never mind oysters.”

  “Someone’s got to speak rash, Bill, and to twist their noses if they won’t heed. How else will we stop them?”

  St. Ives had little to say to this, although Kraken was quite possibly correct. Townover would make concessions to conciliate the Friends of the River Medway, but he surely would not hesitate to resist any heavy-handed efforts to force his hand. Mother Laswell had the passion of the true believer, and assumed that others would rally round, but others rarely did. People disliked agitation, for the most part, especially those who were being agitated against.

  St. Ives looked out the French windows now and saw Eddie, Cleo, and Larkin astride the long-suffering Ned Ludd, sneaking along the wall of the barn carrying bows and arrows that Kraken had made for them. The arrows were capped with chunks of india-rubber affixed with hide glue. Another clump of children had disappeared into the barn a few minutes back—three of Mother Laswell’s orphan children—no doubt setting up an ambush. He envied their innocence. Long may it reign, he thought.

  “Come, Professor,” Mother Laswell said to St. Ives, “Alice tells us that you went into the mill itself to beard Charles Townover in his den. What did you discover?”

  “Nothing useful. I’m afraid that I simply drew the attention of the man. I was ham-handed in my dealings with him. I apologize for that, Gilbert.”

  “Not at all,” Frobisher said. “This morning I decided to give up any notion of investing in the mill, if that’s the general consensus. I’ll send news to Townover this very evening if you wish.”

  He looked around a little bit unhappily, or so it seemed to St. Ives, who said, “Perhaps if your illness persisted for a few more days, the promise of your investing might yet have some influence over the man. I came away with the feeling that he might see reason, that he doesn’t mean entirely ill, but is merely reacting, if you take my meaning.”

  “I do not,” Mother Laswell said. “I believe that he means very ill indeed.”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I’m of the same mind as the Professor,” Gilbert said to her. “Charles Townover is doing harm, certainly, but perhaps he could be convinced to cease doing so. He has the self-righteousness of a man who believes himself to be correct. He’s been singularly successful in his life, after all. Now he perceives himself to be under siege. I don’t like him, but he hasn’t come as far as he has without being able to see through a window.”

  “What would you have us do, then, Mr. Frobisher?” Mother asked. “I, too, can see through a window, although the window at hand is tolerably filthy, if you take my meaning.”

  “I take it very seriously, ma’am. But I’ll tell you what I mean to do, now that you ask…”

  Frobisher nodded and stroked his chin, then seemed surprised to see that his sherry glass stood half full. He picked it up, contemplated it, and then drank it off in a single swallow. “I came up to Kent with the idea of investing in fine paper,” he said, standing up now, as if he was addressing an assembly. “I found that very article at the Majestic Paper Mill—very fine paper indeed, and many people employed…”

  “Fine paper traded for disease and death,” Mother Laswell said, interrupting him. “It’s a Devil’s bargain.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I don’t deny it. But what if there was no disease and death? What if we turn the Devil out of doors? I propose to offer Townover a significant sum, but on the assurance that my investment would be spent to carry out the aims of the Friends of the Medway—to civilize the mill, so to speak. The man would be nothing out of pocket. Gilbert Frobisher would bear the cost, but the newspapers would cry up Charles Townover as a hero, and his fortunes would improve. The mill would be an example to the world. What do you think, Professor? Can the thing be done?”

  “I believe so—with a sufficient outlay of money. A great deal can be done with simple sedimentation if the effluent can be contained over a proper field. We would have to consult with people who know more about these things.”

  “Then it must be done quickly, I believe,” Mother Laswell said, “or else the Medway will be as dead as Lazarus and we’ve got nothing left to us but prayer.”

  “Then we’ll consult with all our might, by gad,” Frobisher said, reaching for the sherry bottle. “Townover will see reason. The mill will change its character, do you see, and so will the man, once he perceives the profit in it. He’s a man of business, after all.”

  CLOVER LISTENED FROM the shadows of the hallway, stowing away the details of the conversation. She would like to have seen the people speaking, but there was no real need to take the chance of peering around the doorjamb. She heard something behind her now—the rustle of a skirt? She felt a presence and she turned, looking down the dim hallway. Ten feet away from her stood a young woman of about her own age. She was blind, her milk-white eyes peering forward. She stood very still, and it seemed to Clover that she might have been standing so for a time.

  Clover looked away from her and stepped boldly forward into the parlor. The fat man who had been speaking fell silent, and she gave him the prettiest smile she could manage. “I don’t mean to interfere,” she said. “The front door stood open, and one of the children told me to step in. I’m a friend of Daisy Dumpel, a Paper Doll at the mill, just as she was. We had a room at the Chequers together. I’ve come from there to see Mother Laswell.”

  “I am Mother Laswell,” the heavy-set woman dressed in robes said—something Clover already knew, since the broadsheet that Clover carried had several likenesses of the woman. A disheveled looking man with a windstorm of hair and who reminded her of an underfed mongrel dog sat next to her. He gave Clover a suspicious look. He would be trouble, she thought. He was probably born for it. The dark haired woman was Alice St. Ives: her likeness was on the broadsheet also.

  Mother Laswell looked past her now, and Clover knew without turning around that the blind girl had followed her. It mattered little, however. Clover meant to have her say and leave, and she had no idea of returning to this place unless Henley compelled her to.

  “What is your name, child?” Mother Laswell asked, regarding her more keenly now.

  “Clover Cantwell, ma’am. People call me Clo sometimes.”

  “And why have you come, Clo? You’re welcome here, of course, but you must have had a long walk.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Daisy told me of you and your society about the river, and so when the man left these papers off in the taproom at the Chequers, I told Mrs. Swinton that you’d want to see them because of what they say. The boy at the Chequers was away with the gig, however, and wasn’t expected back until late, so I walked. It isn’t far. I walk to Maidstone to see my Aunt Gower most Sundays.”

  “And what can you tell us about Daisy?” Mother Laswell asked. “The newspapers revealed her name, but said little else.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll say that Daisy was mending, but Mr. Townover feared for her health, and so he gave her a gift of money. She was going back to London, which she told me. Her father lives there, and she was longing to see him. I warned her about that man Bill Henry, but they say she went with him anyway, and look what come of it. If
I’d have been there I might have stopped her.” She shook her head sorrowfully.

  “Is anyone certain that she went off with Bill Henry?” St. Ives asked her. “The Gazette reported that there were no witnesses.”

  “No sir, but Bill Henry talked to Daisy at the mill, and I heard him say that he would see her presently. I told the constable what I knew.”

  “You’ve brought the Gazette with you, I see,” Mother Laswell said. “Is there more to the story now?”

  “Not about Daisy,” Clover told her. “There’s this, which is why I was sent.” She stepped across and handed a copy of the broadsheet to Mother Laswell along with the newspaper. She watched while the woman laid the broadsheet out onto a table and the five of them gathered round. They seemed to forget about Clover in the instant that they saw the photographs on the broadsheet, and at that juncture she turned away, nearly running into the blind girl. She came very near to whispering something hurtful to her, simply to put her in her place. But she was filled with the sense that the girl saw her, or saw into her, and she bolted into the kitchen and out through the door into the sunlight, hurrying away down the road.

  She had surely heard enough to earn Henley’s regard and perhaps another of his banknotes, which was certain, of course, if she gave him what else he wanted. The thought renewed her smile and she skipped along the grassy verge.

  ALICE UNDERSTOOD THE nature of the broadsheet immediately: a piece of infamous slander. Across the top were the words “Witches Coven in Aylesford.” Below that was an account of the coven’s activities, which referred to “several women of note,” although there were no names revealed. Whoever wrote the piece hadn’t the fortitude to commit himself by being particular about names. Below that were photographs of the members of the Friends of the River Medway, taken at the soirée. There were others along with them, chosen randomly and also unnamed, as if the architect of the broadsheet wanted to avoid outright accusations.