The Aylesford Skull

by James P. Blaylock

  TWENTY-SIX

  SHADE HOUSE

  It was very nearly dawn now, and Finn Conrad, still lying in his depression behind the coach, considered what he would do, because he would have to do it soon. His shoulder ached, his knee was bent at an unnatural angle, and the iron edge of the platform on which he lay dug into his elbow. He had no idea how long he had been rattling along, but it was too long, to his mind. Some time back, in St. Mary Hoo, where they had stopped for a time at an inn before leaving the pavement and driving into the wilds of the Cliffe Marshes, Finn had slipped off the back of the coach and hidden behind a hedgerow in order to keep from being discovered. Then he had leapt back on again when the coach got underway in the darkness, but not as nimbly as he had in London. In his diminished, cramped state he had nearly fallen. He should invent a tale right now, he told himself, and think it through in the time he had left. If they twigged to the lie, he would simply run away, if he weren’t half crippled.

  The coach was in among trees, rocking slowly along a rutted track. He could see the remnants of stars through the branches, and the bright moon, and in the eastern sky there was just the hint of dawn, the stars dimmed by it. He raised his head carefully and took a look in the direction of the distant, invisible Thames, where moonlight shone on a broad body of water: Egypt Bay, no doubt – the south shore along the Thames merely a line of shadow in the far distance. He thought of Square Davey, who was almost certainly on the river, possibly nearby. If he failed, he told himself, and something happened to Eddie, he would take Davey up on his offer to take up oystering again. Returning to Aylesford would be unthinkable. Thoughts of old Davey brought the Crumpet into his mind. The man would soon arrive in the Cliffe Marshes, and that would change everything on the instant. Finn must look for his chance to snatch Eddie away as soon as ever he could. If Newman had got his message through to the Professor, so much the better, but Finn couldn’t depend on it and he couldn’t wait for the Professor to play his hand.

  The driver reined in the horses, and the coach drew to a stop before a run-down, ancient, three-story wooden structure, tilted where its north-facing wall had apparently sunk into the marshy ground over the years. Several windows looked out onto a weedy yard where there stood an enormous walnut tree, the upper limbs of which arched over the roof of the inn. A sign hanging on a post in the yard read ‘Shade House,’ the lamp above it throwing out enough radiance so that Finn drew his head in just a bit. Another lamp burned behind a downstairs shutter. Now the inn door opened and a man walked out and said something to the coachman, who climbed heavily down to the ground before muttering a reply. Finn recognized the newcomer from Narbondo’s rooms on Angel Alley. He had thrown a cracker at the man just before fleeing through the door across the rope bridge with Eddie. He must have come along to the Bay immediately following the dust-up. His boots and trousers were brown with dirt, and he looked weary, his face bruised and cut. He opened the door of the coach now and helped Narbondo down, then lifted out the sleeping Eddie. He was delicate about it, and held the boy easily. There was something in the action that made Finn wonder whether the man had some variety of kindness in his heart, kindness that might be turned to advantage.

  “See to the boy, George,” Narbondo said in a low voice. “Put him in the lace bedroom and hang some bottles of champagne in the brook for Lord Moorgate. I suspect that he’ll be along in a few hours, and we want to put him at his ease and play upon his pride. I mean to confound him come what may and let him rot, but he’s too suspicious by half, and the longer we can keep him dancing the better.”

  With that Narbondo turned to the driver of the coach, and said, “Take your ease, Mr. Beaumont. George will see to the coach.” He walked away then – not through the door of the Shade House, but around the side, disappearing into the darkness. Mr. Beaumont climbed stiffly down and went in through the open door of the inn.

  George followed him, carrying Eddie, the night falling silent. Finn dragged himself off his perch and crept down to the ground, immediately setting in to shake himself limber and to push himself up on his toes to ease the cramping in his legs. A lamp came on behind one of the windows in the top floor now – Eddie being locked away, perhaps – near enough to the tree, Finn noticed, to climb up to it. He considered the succession of limbs both downward and upward, and whether Eddie might be induced to climb down, which was always more frightening and difficult than climbing up. Doubtful, he thought.

  He settled his cap on his head and waited, reviewing his tale. Very shortly George came back out through the door, saw Finn standing there, and stopped in his tracks. Finn swept his cap from his head and bowed, thankful that he’d been wearing the balaclava earlier, which he had happily pitched into the street before they were out of London.

  “Where in the devil’s name did you come from?” George asked.

  “St. Mary Hoo, sir, when this coach stopped for a time. I climbed up onto the back and rode along, hid by the baggage.”

  “Then you’ll be able to find your way back to St. Mary Hoo afoot. Off with you.” He jerked his head to underscore the command and pointed back down the road. “Now, boy. You don’t want to linger – not here.”

  “I’m right anxious for a trial sir, if you’ll have me. I was an ostler for two years in Yorkshire for Mr. Carnahan, and I can pick a man’s pocket like it was nothing, if that suits your honor.”

  “I daresay you can. No doubt you picked Mr. Carnahan’s pocket, whoever he is, which explains why you’re no longer in his employ. And now you’ve skulked out of St. Mary Hoo in the dark of night. You’ve only just been breeched and already you’re tearing along toward the gibbet like a devil in a red cap.”

  “I’m just trying to make my living, sir. If it please your honor to help me, I’d be grateful.”

  “It would not please me. I tell you to go home, wherever home is, before they put the rope around your neck. The noose is already tied, depend upon it. Better to look to the kindness of your mother, because there’s little enough of that commodity you’ll find in the world, nor here at Shade House, neither, for that matter.”

  “My mother’s dead, sir, and my father’s gone off. He left when I was a lad, and never came back. He was a drunk, sir, so I don’t miss him. I took care of my little brother till he died of the bloody jack when he was only five years – not much older than the boy who come along in this coach just now. After that I left London and went north, where I worked in the cheesing line, Stilton mainly, and was scullery boy at the Bell Inn on the Great North Road, where I learned to butcher some. I can do a day’s work, sir, no matter what. I don’t peach, neither. Never have. I’d sooner stay here and work for my room and board, and no matter any pay. You won’t be sorry for it.”

  George looked at him in silence, his head canted to the side so that he seemed to be inspecting him through the corner of his eye. The appraisal went on long enough so that Finn began to wonder whether the balaclava had done its work after all. He looked past George, into the trees, ready to bolt. Apparently making up his mind, George said, “Do you have a name, boy?”

  “Newman, sir.”

  “Just Newman? No Christian name?”

  “No, sir. I’ve always been Newman, your honor. Newman ain’t Christian?”

  “Some Newmans are and some aren’t,” George said. “When were you last in London?”

  “Some time back,” Finn said. “Six months, maybe.”

  “Not more recent?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re right certain of it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  George looked at him for a time again, saying nothing. A bird with a particularly mournful note called from the nearby wood, but otherwise the night was silent. He knows, Finn thought, looking out toward the dark trees, but in that moment George surprised him by nodding.

  “Stable’s around behind, Newman, near the Doctor’s cottage, him whose carriage you rode in on uninvited. You stay out of the Doctor’s way. He doesn’t hold with sen
seless talk, nor with boys, neither. Thinks they’re worthless, and he’s probably right in that regard. I’m saying this for your own good. Stay clear of the Doctor. When you’ve curried the horses and put them up, find me in the kitchen. If you don’t see me, ask for George. We’ll see what you’re made of and whether lying is on your list of talents. Be off with you now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Finn said, and immediately climbed up onto the seat of the landau and picked up the reins, clicking the horses into a walk and following in Narbondo’s wake around the side of the inn, looking sharp, since he had no idea whether Narbondo would recognize him from their conversation on the road in Aylesford two nights back. He was still half certain that George had seen through him – remembered the coat, maybe, from Angel Alley, although he would have seen it only briefly. But if he had recognized Finn, then what was his game?

  There was no sign of Narbondo, only the cottage, a mean, one-room shanty built of drift lumber hauled out of the bay. The window was propped open and the shutters pushed aside – easy enough to get in, although Finn could think of no good reason to do so, since Eddie wasn’t there. A brook ran along behind the cottage, with a mill beside it farther down, the brook turning the wheel.

  The stable stood nearby. Finn unhitched, fled, watered, and curried the horses, and then mucked out their stalls and pitched in clean straw before putting them away. He blew out the lanterns, walked out into the yard, discovering that it was morning outside, and he looked around one more time at the prospects for escape before walking in through the open back door of the inn. George was in the kitchen, as he had promised. It was a wide room, surprisingly clean and squared away. Finn took in the brick-and-iron ovens, the carving and breadboards, the hams and herbs and iron pots and pans hung on the walls and ceiling. A long window of bullseye glass let in the early morning light.

  “All ship-shape in the stable, sir,” Finn said, picking up a long knife and feeling the blade. “I’ll just put an edge on this, if you’d like, and slice up that side of bacon, if it’s bacon that’s to be served out.”

  “You’ll put the goddamned knife down,” said a man who was just then coming into the kitchen, carrying an enormous sack of flour over his shoulder as if it were nothing and bending low to clear the top of the lintel above the door.

  “Yes, sir,” Finn said, and he put the knife down as he was told.

  The man was big, immensely tall and heavy, dangerous looking. His black hair was long and his eyes sharp and smoldering. His left arm was put up in a sling that was dark brown with dried blood.

  “This is Mr. McFee,” George said. “He’s particular in his ways, is Mr. McFee. I’ve told him you were to be given a trial in the kitchen, Newman. You’ll do just as he tells you, if you’ve got any sense.”

  “If he had any sense he’d take himself off,” McFee said, not looking at Finn. He set the flour down on the floor with his one good arm.

  “I’ll stay, sir, with your leave,” Finn told him.

  “Then put an edge on that knife if you can, boy,” McFee told him. “We’ll test the blade on your hand. If you ruin it, and I have to grind it again, it’ll cost you an ear. We’ll cook it with the chowder as a lark, like the French do with hens’ ears. McFee’s ear chowder, we’ll call it.”

  Finn stared at him, wondering whether the man was practicing on him, but there was no humor in his face at all, something more like a simmering rage. Finn took up the knife, felt the edge again, and began to hone it carefully against the steel, wishing that he hadn’t told George the nonsense about making cheeses. If McFee put him to work in that regard, Finn had best run, for he had no more notion of making cheese than of building chimneys. He handed over the knife, which McFee took from him, at the same time grasping Finn’s wrist with the hand that was in the bloody sling.

  “Open your fist, boy,” he said. “When I say I’ll do something, you’d best remember that I’ll do it.”

  Finn did as he was told. It seemed to be the safest course, since running was out of the question. He kept his face utterly still as McFee ran the sharp blade lightly across his palm. A line of blood welled up. Reaching into a crockery jar that stood on the breadboard, McFee brought out a handful of black dust, which he held in front of Finn.

  “This here’s coal dust and human bone,” McFee said, “ground up precious fine, which the Doctor takes with his vittles like another man takes salt. You’ll mind yourself around the Doctor, boy, if you’ve got a head on you. Hear me now – you’ll jump to it when I tell you to, or I’ll slit your throat and feed you to the hogs.” He sprinkled the coal dust liberally on Finn’s sliced hand, rubbing it into the line of blood with his thumb. “That’ll put paid to the bleeding, boy, and give you a gaudy mark into the bargain, permanent like. You’ve come into John McFee’s kitchen. You’re mine now. My mark’s upon you.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ALOFT OVER LONDON

  St. Ives had got perhaps four hours of real sleep, and in the middle of it had lurched awake from a nightmare that had filled him with a profound, breathless dread – a vision of Eddie and Alice disappearing into a black cleft in a stone wall, which had closed tightly behind them. Even so, he had fallen asleep again, and this morning his headache had quite disappeared, and he found that his mind was clear and sharp. He had no regard for the idea that dreams were prophetic. No doubt they sometimes illustrated one’s deepest fears, he told himself, but almost certainly in a manner that was merely symbolic.

  Almost certainly, he told himself again, and in any event, last night’s blue devils had been consigned to Hell, where they could abide until he had some use for them, which wouldn’t be soon. He had been shown the way by Finn Conrad, a boy alone in London and with precious few resources aside from his wits and his cleverness. The lesson might have been humbling rather than inspiring to any reasonably competent man. To St. Ives it was a tonic of the first water, to coin a somewhat ridiculous phrase, and so was the eastern horizon, which, seen now from their great height in the airship, glowed a magnificent orange, the sun coming up dripping out of the Dover Strait, and London laid out below them.

  The gondola was a skeletal-looking, boat-built structure, very much like an enclosed launch, its keel tapering into a bowsprit in front. The gondola’s wooden frame was stick-like, and scarcely seemed sturdy enough to bear the weight of the craft and its cargo. The plank floorboards creaked, and the breeze blew in through open ports – a potential irritation, perhaps, if St. Ives hadn’t been wearing goggles. There were glass windows, in fact, hinged open at the moment, which might be closed in the case of rain, but it was Keeble’s idea that the effect of the wind pushing against the gondola would be lessened if they remained open.

  By now St. Ives felt safe enough, and was used to the movement of the spokes of the ship’s wheel, which felt like a living thing beneath his hands. As soon as they had ascended above the rooftops his attention had been drawn to the miniature city laid out below them. He saw the dome of St. Paul’s now, off the port bow, Queen Victoria Street and Blackfriars Bridge identifiable alongside, Hyde Park a leafy green acreage in the distance, everything small and neat. He took in the view of the shipping on the Thames, the first boats already plying back and forth to the Custom House or mooring at the Billingsgate docks. Smithfield Market lay dead ahead, with Billson’s Half Toad Inn somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t quite discern the inn among the many tiny buildings and streets, Lambert Court looking like any of a thousand other such courts from the air.

  He had been aloft in balloons a number of times, but motive power made this something pleasingly different – a true, dirigible airship, not at the mercy of the winds, at least for the most part. He was a pilot rather than a passenger in that sense. Just as this thought came into his mind, however, a sudden gust shifted them bodily in the direction of the river, and for a moment he had precious little control of the craft as the nose quickly fell off course.

  “She pays off to leeward prodigiously even in this moderate breeze,”
St. Ives said to Hasbro, who was peering intently into the periscope lens.

  “Dizzyingly, I might add,” Hasbro said, “what with the smaller view through the lens. One keeps losing perspective. I’m endeavoring to keep the St. Paul’s in sight…” He looked out through the gondola window, then back into the lens, adjusting the periscope controls. “There, I’ve found it again.”

  First-rate practice, St. Ives thought. He moved the king-spoke of the ship’s wheel to starboard, the airship turning slowly, heading back into the wind at an oblique angle and making tolerable headway against it. He intended to come completely around in a circle to starboard if he could, to see what the wind would do in all quarters. The controls were simple enough, the propeller providing surprising motive power, towing them rather than pushing. At twelve nautical miles an hour it was as fast as a sailing ship or a steam launch, although it didn’t seem so, with the ground so far below and no visible wake or bow wave to judge by. He wondered what the effect of a thirty-knot headwind would be, or a quick downdraft, but he would have to wait until Aeolus provided him with useful examples of such things. God willing it wouldn’t mean disaster.

  Keeble’s clever electric engine hummed as they made their circuit, St. Ives keeping an eye on the compass needle, which traced the course. An imagined Aylesford swept past somewhere in the hazy distance, Alice and Cleo comfortably asleep, he hoped, and then, much farther away, the Channel and Beachy Head, with the coast of France beyond. They circled around farther, looking away west now, up the Thames, Wales lurking out there somewhere, and then very shortly what must be the Great North Road appeared below. Around they came into the east again, and a flock of birds flew past, out of the sun, which had crept higher into the sky, well clear of the sea, although the city was still largely in shadow. The blue lenses of St. Ives’s goggles reduced the glare, but gave the world a strangely aquatic tinge, as if they sailed beneath a tropical ocean rather than through the sky. They were over Smithfield once again, back on course, although some distance west of where they had started their turn, no great time having elapsed in the experimental circuit.