I clear my throat.
Acre looks round. For an instant I see the weariness in his eyes. I was stupid enough to let him see me. Now I’m another problem to be solved. Then he recognises my face.
If he’s surprised he doesn’t show it. He gives me a half-smile. ‘Mr Lucian,’ he says. ‘Good evening.’
‘Good evening, Acre.’ The words come out easy and assured. I tilt my head to look at de Havilland’s face. He’s breathing. If there’s a bruise, it’s on the back of his head. He could be asleep. I keep my eyes on his face but I can hear my father’s voice. I’ve had my doubts about de Havilland for a while. ‘Did – my father – order this?’
Acre smiles. ‘Perhaps you should be getting home, sir. These back ways can be dangerous after sunset.’
I catch myself before I ask anything else. I don’t want to hear the answer. I brush the soot from my sleeve until I’m sure I can control my tongue. ‘And the – the others?’
‘Probably a fire at the bindery,’ Wright says. ‘Terrible thing, a bindery fire. A binder gets stuck in it, no one even hears him screaming. Lucky the workers decided to leave early.’
‘Shut up.’ It’s so quick and low I barely hear it. Acre turns to me. The look in his eyes has changed. If my father decided he didn’t need a male heir, after all … ‘This is nothing to do with you, sir. With all due respect.’
‘Certainly.’ I smile at him. ‘I’m sorry to stumble in like this. As it happens, though …’ I drop into a crouch beside de Havilland’s body. I’ve turned out his pockets before Acre has time to react. Coins and a watch and a pillbox clink on the cobbles. A handkerchief. A cigarette case. A bunch of keys. I pick it up and they rattle on the ring. Latchkeys; the key to a cupboard and a tantalus; a little shiny key with a label, Lyon & Sons. A bigger, bronze key, older and plainer than the others.
Acre holds out his hand. ‘We need those.’
I meet his eyes. ‘Yes. Of course.’ If they’re staging a fire in de Havilland’s bindery, they’ll need to get in without breaking the locks. I fumble. If I take too long, Acre will pluck the whole bunch away from me. His arm twitches. Just in time I slide the big key off the ring and slip it into my pocket. I look at him and smile, again. ‘That was all I needed. Thanks.’
‘Your father knows about that, does he?’
‘Naturally.’ After a moment he shrugs and picks a tooth with his thumbnail. His mouth is floppy and raw. I get to my feet. ‘Good luck with – the rest.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ You wouldn’t know from his voice that he’s staring at me, taking my measure.
I nod and walk away. For the first ten yards the space between my shoulder blades is prickling. At every moment I’m expecting a foot in the back of my knee, or a flash of pain across my skull. But nothing touches me. At last I grind to a halt beside a shop window. When I glance down the street Acre and Wright are only just emerging from the alleyway. Wright has de Havilland over his shoulder. They cross the road and turn down a narrow passage that isn’t wide enough to be an alley. At the corner a ragged man is loitering, trying to light a damp cigarette end. He looks up and quickly away again. It must be a sight that they’re used to, in these dark lanes.
It’s started to snow again. Shabby clumps of snowflakes drift past me like feathers.
I hurry towards the junction with Alderney Street, sliding on lumps of frozen slush half-hidden by the new snow. The cold is like lead in my bones, weighing me down. But I don’t slow my pace until I’m halfway down Alderney Street, within reach of the corner of Station Road and Market Square. Here the lamps are all lit. Traffic is clogging the centre of the road. The ladies of pleasure are congregating under the portico of the Theatre Royal, wrapped in cloaks edged with dyed rabbit and moulting plumes. One of them waves at me, but a shiver catches her halfway through the gesture and her smile turns to a grimace.
I need to send a note to Farmer, telling him to meet me. Midnight would be best, somewhere quiet, where there’s no one around. He didn’t tell me where we were going. I was counting on borrowing horses from our own stable, but I can’t go home now. I can’t risk my father seeing me. Acre will tell him about the key. I’ll have to find a hotel where I can write a note and stay warm until it’s time to leave. I’ll hire the horses from a livery stable. I check the key in my pocket. Still there. I look round, wondering whether the Feathers or the Grosvenor would be safer. The movement makes me giddy. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a wave of nausea goes through me. Acid bubbles in my stomach, spreads upwards into my chest. I lean against the window of the nearest shop. I’m trembling so hard my forehead knocks against the icy glass.
If de Havilland isn’t dead already, he soon will be. Because of what I told my father. Because I didn’t call out to him, I didn’t warn him. I shift from foot to foot, helpless, despising myself. If I went back now … But I’m afraid. If my father finds out I lied – if he decides to punish me … He threatened me once with the lunatic asylum. He wasn’t bluffing. The thought sends ice down my spine. If only I were a hero. The sort of person who would risk that, to save de Havilland. But I’m not.
I huddle into myself, shaking. I must have known what I was doing. But it’s only now that it’s real. I’ve killed someone. That noise when Wright hit him – the choking, bubbling sound of ether going into his lungs – the spasms, the terrible juddering as he clenched all over … My fault. Me.
I wait for it to pass. My vision clears. In the shop window a fan of coloured gloves stretches empty fingers towards me. The horror subsides into a dull shame. This is what it feels like to be a murderer. And a coward. No wonder I got myself bound. If my book is anything like this … I have to find it.
And I have the key. I bought it with de Havilland’s life.
I wipe my face dry with my sleeve. There’s no way back, even if I were brave enough. I take a deep breath and turn to hail a cab.
XXV
Later that evening the snow stops. The wind is stronger than ever. It scours the clouds away, strips twigs from the trees and grit from mortar and stone. By the time I get to the fish market the sky is clear and milky with the light of the full moon. The market square is like an empty stage, glistening limelight-bright. The traffic on the High Street is muffled by the buildings between and the silence is only broken by the clipped sound of hooves. I don’t like riding like this, leading another horse behind mine. I’m afraid I’ll draw too much attention, and someone will tell my father. But no one looks at me, except the few last whores outside the Theatre Royal.
It’s so like a dream that I don’t quite expect Farmer to be there. But he is. He’s standing under the clock. He’s huddled in my coat, stamping his feet. When he hears me coming he withdraws into the shadows. Then he sees it’s me. ‘Darnay,’ he says, ‘I’d started to think you—’ He breaks off. He steps forward into the moonlight, pulls himself easily into the saddle and sets off a few paces in front of me, without another word. I click to my own horse and follow him. Behind us the clock strikes twelve.
For the first few miles all I care about is getting out of Castleford. At every turning – every shadow and alleyway – flashes of memory mix with premonitions of disaster in my head: the sound of metal on bone, Acre’s voice warning me to stop, Farmer brought down, choking on his own blood, the final spasm as he loses consciousness … But as the road takes us past the last half-built houses I relax. The air is clearer here, out of the stench of coal fires and factories. There’s more space, more light. I tilt my head back. On the horizon, furthest from the moon, the sky is rich with stars.
We’re on the outskirts of the forest now. At first the snow is striped black and silver. Further in, the shadows deepen. There’ll be enough light to ride by, on the road. But within a few yards on either side there’s a glittering net of darkness. Here and there something scuttles. A fox flashes its eyes at us. My horse catches up with Farmer’s and whinnies.
We ride side by side. Up till now Farmer has been silent. The horses trudge on. The rhythm of
their steps is so regular it nearly lulls me to sleep.
He says, ‘What happened to de Havilland?’
In the absolute quiet it’s as loud as a gunshot. Without thinking I almost bring my horse to a halt.
He raises his eyebrows. His eyes are sharper than they were. There’s more colour in his cheeks.
My voice is clogged up, as if I haven’t spoken for days. I say, ‘What makes you think I’ll tell you that?’
‘You might as well trust me. What have you got to lose?’
‘Everything.’
‘Come on, Darnay. I already know more about you than you do.’ He gives me a half-smile.
It’s true. And I don’t care as much as I should. Not any more. I look away. The sharp black-and-white of the forest blurs and dazzles. I’m too tired to go on lying. ‘They drugged him. They’re going to burn the bindery down. With him in it.’
‘What?’ Farmer pulls up short.
I shouldn’t have told him. He stares at me. In the silence I see his expression go from disbelief to belief. ‘I couldn’t stop them.’
‘The whole bindery? What about the others?’
‘It’s only de Havilland,’ I say, as if that excuses everything. As if one sordid death doesn’t count.
‘Even so, we can’t …’ He pulls on the reins, swinging his horse round. ‘Don’t you understand? It’s murder.’
I’ve said the word to myself. But hearing it aloud makes me catch my breath. ‘Of course I understand. But we can’t stop them. I wish we could.’
‘We have to try. Come on!’
I bite my lip. He’ll go back. Any decent person would. I should have done. If only I had … But it’s too late. ‘We can’t help,’ I say. ‘It won’t do any good.’
‘We could—’
‘My father’s made up his mind. You can’t stop it. If you get in the way, you’ll end up in the bindery with de Havilland.’
‘We have to!’ He stares at me. ‘You’re not going to let them kill him.’
I can’t speak. The pause answers him better than I could have done.
‘Lucian—’
‘Please. Please don’t. You’ll die too. If you died, because of me—’ My voice cracks. It doesn’t matter. Let him think I only care about myself. ‘And if my father finds out about this … he’ll put me in a madhouse.’ But why should Emmett believe me? Why should he care? I’ve condoned murder, by my own admission. And I’m a coward. He must despise me now, if he didn’t already.
There’s a silence. I bow my head and swallow the taste of metal on my tongue. Then I gesture at the road in front of me. ‘Just tell me where I need to go, will you?’
He starts to speak, and stops. A fine vapour of snow curls along the bank at the side of the road. At last he clicks to the horse and pulls it back round. He rides past me in the direction we were going before. I watch him get further and further away until at last he looks back over his shoulder. Incredulous warmth pulses through me. I don’t know why he’s changed his mind, but it feels like a kind of miracle.
I’m worth a lot of money to him. That’s all. It must be.
I nudge my horse with my heels and it lurches into a reluctant trot. When I’m within a few metres of Farmer he starts to move again. Neither of us speaks. The path looks the same as it did a minute ago. I imagine us walking round a wheel, the snowy path unrolling and the diorama of wintry trees repeating itself for ever. I wouldn’t care.
After a long time he says, ‘Was I meant to be in the bindery, too? Burnt to death with de Havilland?’
I don’t answer. But in spite of myself I glance at him. He makes a grim little noise.
‘Why didn’t Acre take de Havilland to another binder? Isn’t that what he normally does?’
‘I don’t know.’ I push my hair out of my eyes. The frost has frozen it into clumps. Farmer looks away. ‘How do you know what he normally does?’
The corners of his mouth tighten. At last he shrugs. ‘Long story.’
‘Go on.’
He snorts. ‘I can’t. Believe me, I’d like to.’
‘Did you – tell me you didn’t try to blackmail my father?’
‘For pity’s sake, shut up about blackmail!’ He wheels his horse sideways. Mine stumbles to a halt. ‘I’m not blackmailing you. Can you get that into your head? I’ll give you back every penny of your damned money. I’m only wearing this coat because I’d freeze to death without it.’
I don’t say anything. Slowly he pulls his horse round to face the road. He wipes his mouth. The vein on his forehead stands out like a thread.
I ride past him. I stare at the shadows under the horse’s hooves, watching them fold and slide over the uneven snowdrifts.
The road curves. A clearing opens and disappears to our right. A charcoal-burner’s stack smoulders in the middle of it. Then it’s gone. An owl calls, and my horse spooks sideways. Blood thunders in my ears.
Farmer catches up with me. The path winds up a hill and down a rocky gully.
He says, ‘You could have told them where I was.’
‘Don’t be a fool. Why would I do that?’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Are you saying that’s what I should have done?’
‘I’m asking if you wish you had.’
I rub my forehead, trying to bring some feeling back to the numb skin. ‘Because you can lead me to my book.’
He nods. ‘Your book. Yes. Of course.’
‘Yes.’ Even my lips and tongue are stiff with cold. ‘What are you trying to say? Why else would I care what happened to you?’
‘Why else, indeed.’ He coughs, clears his throat, and spits. The knot of phlegm sinks into the snow. It leaves a clean outline like a leaf. Then he flicks the reins and his horse speeds up. He doesn’t look back. I ride after him in silence.
We ride on and on. Everything looks the same. I start to drift into a dream. Suddenly everything is lighter and I jolt awake. The end of the woods. In front of us the marshes stretch bare and shining under the moon. The road is only just visible, like a watermark. Where it curves I can make out a dark smudge that might be a house or an outcrop of rock.
Farmer calls over his shoulder, ‘Let’s stop here. I need to piss.’
I rein in my horse next to him as he dismounts. He lands with a thud and staggers. He points at the trees and disappears into the shadows. I get down too. The muscles in my legs have frozen solid. I’m chilled and aching all over. How long have we been riding? Hours. The moon is lower than it was. I get out my watch but I’ve forgotten to wind it. The case is sticky with frost.
When Farmer steps back into the moonlight I pick my way through the deep snow into another patch of trees. At first I think it’s too cold to undo my trousers. I have to take off my gloves. When I’m finished I fumble with my flies for a long time, wrestling with my buttons.
‘Come on, I’m freezing,’ Farmer calls over his shoulder. Then he catches sight of what I’m doing. ‘Need a hand with that?’
A flush prickles on my skin like pins-and-needles. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I was joking.’
‘Oh.’ I manage to do the last button. When I look up he’s still watching me. He smiles. It’s a crooked, reluctant smile, but there’s no mockery in it. For a split second colour dances on the edge of my vision, a sense of light and space as if someone has lifted the lid of a box.
‘Here.’ He stands beside my horse and laces his fingers together into a step. ‘Need a bunk-up?’
I want to refuse. In Market Square he mounted easily, graceful and thoughtless, as if he’s been doing it all his life. I can only just clamber onto a horse when there’s a mounting-block and a following wind. But without his help I’m not sure I’ll be able to get into the saddle at all. ‘Thank you.’ The words stick in my teeth. He grins, as if he knows exactly how I feel.
‘Come on, then.’ He hoists me up easily. My muscles are clumsy from the cold but I find myself in the saddle without any effort. He hauls himse
lf up on to the other horse. He’s still smiling, but not at me.
‘What do you want, Farmer?’
The smile fades. He looks around, as if he’s woken up and doesn’t know where he is. ‘What?’
‘I don’t understand you. You say you don’t want money. You’re not blackmailing me. You help me – but you despise me. Why?’
‘Despise you? Lucian …’
‘Don’t call me Lucian!’
He blinks. His face is expressionless. After a long time he shrugs.
‘All right. Never mind.’ I flick the reins. ‘Let’s go.’
‘I know you don’t remember. I know that. But I wish …’
I straighten up, digging my heels into the horse’s sides. His voice dips into a murmur, suddenly distorted as if I’m hearing it underwater. Then everything slides away. I’m alone, nowhere. The air shimmers, full of light. Like a blizzard of stars. I blink and it’s gone. I’m back. I shake my head, scattering the last shimmering flakes.
We haven’t moved. He stares at me.
‘What?’ Stars drop across my vision and burn out.
‘Never mind. It’s stupid, I can’t stop myself trying.’
‘What? What happened?’
‘Don’t worry. You’re right. It’s getting late. Early. Let’s go.’
‘Wait – you tried to tell me something, didn’t you?’ This is what it was like for Nell. The world sliding between your fingers like water. Nothing to hold on to. If I reached out for the nearest branch my hand would go straight through it, like a shadow in smoke.
‘Forget it.’ After a second he laughs, shortly.
‘You did that before. Didn’t you? When you came to see me. You made the world go … strange. Don’t do it again.’
But he doesn’t look at me. ‘Come on. I’m freezing.’
‘Did you hear me?’
‘We’ll find your book. It’ll be all right.’ He clicks to his horse and it sets off.
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