The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  “Oh!” he bellowed, as if in mortal surprise, “’Tis the gent, is it?”

  “Thaddeus Grainger, sir. At your service.” He had lost his hat in the cart, and contented himself with a small bow.

  The man’s circular face, with a stub of a nose and two creased eyes, was red with exertion. “I am Swinge, sir, the gaolkeeper. That there is my wife” (meaning the lady behind the desk). “These are my premises. I don’t ask what you’ve done, and I don’t want to know your sorrows. You’ll find me pretty easy, sir, if you keep by my rules, and my first rule is: pay your way! Each must pay his way.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Grainger faintly.

  “Garnish, sir! I must have my fees,” growled the gaoler. “Hand it down.”

  “Of course.” Grainger had his purse in hand and laid out a few sovereigns, which the other man studied greedily.

  “Now you’re a pretty gent,” said Swinge, “and should want your own cell. His own cell, Gussy!” The woman cackled and bent to write something. The coins were picked out of Grainger’s hand.

  “You can dine at my table, many of my gents do, or muck in with the commons, or make your own arrangements—’tis all the same to me.”

  “I believe,” said Grainger coldly, though he had given no thought to this, “that I will make my own arrangements.”

  “Very good, sir.” But the gaoler’s palm was still open, and so Grainger put more coin into it.

  “And now, I must put the irons on you, sir.”

  The tall boy came forward, dragging a heap of chains.

  “My son, if you please, Edgar.” The boy was as lean as his father was heavy, with a sallow, sombre face.

  “This,” said Swinge, rattling links as thick as his own gnarled thumbs, “is a guinea.”

  “You have nothing lighter?” said Grainger, horrified.

  “Why, I have chains as light as air for ten!” cried the gaoler, delving in the boy’s hands and pulling forth links as narrow as a lady’s necklace.

  “I think,” began Grainger, “that is, some inmates I have seen may go without chains at all?”

  “Pay your way, sir. That’s all I say: pay your way.”

  Grainger turned out more coins, watching the gaoler’s eager, flushed face, and when he detected a hint of satiety, he stopped. The purse that he had thought sufficient to all ends for weeks, if not months, was almost emptied.

  The fetters were put on the other prisoners. One man, who could not submit the gaoler’s garnish, had the coat stripped from his back that he might pay. Names and fees were written into the gaoler’s great book by that sniggering recording angel, his wife. When this process was concluded, Mrs. Swinge was prevailed upon again to read The Rules. These she intoned in a reedy voice, while the new prisoners sulked and shuffled and tested the weight of their chains. When they were concluded, Grainger could remember nothing.

  “We lock the cells by nightfall. No visitors are permitted then. Stick by my rules,” bellowed Swinge, “and you will find me sweet-tempered and amenable. Cross me, and I’ll crush yer! And pay your way. That’s all.”

  The sloping, superior boy, Edgar, was dispatched to bring Grainger to his cell. He was taken into the courtyard again, where his shocked attention registered little, but that one man was drinking from a tankard, that men and women were playing skittles, or dice, or cards, that a few indifferent eyes were turned to him, and most looked aside with a sneer. A knot of burly, garishly clothed men crouched under one arch.

  He was led a short distance to another door, down stairs that were slippery with damp, through another door, down a noxious, echoing stone corridor that seemed part of the very hill itself. A cell door stood ajar for him. He stepped through. The boy lingered, waiting for a coin, which he rendered up almost thoughtlessly. Inside was a squalid bedstead and a stool. The door clanged shut. There was no candle to light the cell. Thaddeus Grainger, alone, fell on the icy floor, and raged and wept for his loss and despair, beating his hands against the stones.

  AFTER A TIME, he recovered himself sufficiently to look about. He could walk the length and breadth of his new lodging in a handful of steps. A narrow vent showed him a fraction of the bleak sky. The rope-bed was low and narrow as a soldier’s cot, and bare but for a thin mattress so verminous he dare not lie on it. Instead, he drew the stool to the wall and sat on that, while he fell again into a black study.

  This is how Quillby and Mrs. Myron found him some hours later. They had braved the gates of the Bellstrom and asked for him at the lodge. They were followed by a grimy porter boy, stumbling under a heavy chest, and the old lady had a small basket of viands on her arm.

  “Ahh, William,” said Grainger, offering his hand as his friend came in, “I am quite undone.”

  For a full minute, William was speechless. Then he said, “A great injustice has been done to you. We shall rally round you! Your friends will rally round.”

  “Where is Mr. Fladger?” said Grainger. “He must make representations, appeals, I know not what they call it. I cannot stay here.”

  Quillby shook his head. “I do not know. I half thought to find him here. After the trial, I could not come by him.”

  Mrs. Myron had taken her own stock of the cell and found it wanting. She pulled the boy in, who discarded his load. She called for the gaoler: chairs and a table were summoned, paid for, and set inside. The wretched old mattress was cast through the door. Then that lady opened her own basket, set out boiled eggs and bread and wine, and called again for a candle.

  When the three were seated (there were only two chairs, so Quillby consented to the stool), Grainger rested his hand a moment in hers.

  “They would not take my affidavit,” said she, touching the corner of her eye. “But I swear you did not leave the house. And you are your father’s son besides, and in nowise an alleyway backstabber.”

  A quiet supper commenced. Grainger was listless and merely broke a little bread and sipped the wine. The cry came down: open hours were concluded, and the gate was to be locked. Grainger scribbled out a little note for Fladger, and Quillby and Mrs. Myron withdrew.

  Left alone with only the small light of the candle, Grainger brooded at the table. As the night passed, he heard steps and the chink of chains, doors opening and closing, voices raised in execration, laughter, shrieks, and stealthy sobbing. He stared into the shadows of his cell and bewildered himself amongst regrets and the innumerable marks of the bare walls that told out the lives of other prisoners. At last, exhausted, he threw himself down on the new linens and thought of nothing and everything.

  QUILLBY CALLED UPON Mr. Fladger in his chambers, after an exhausting night of sleeplessness, rising often to debate with himself or berate his own folly, conjuring and discarding a thousand phantasmagorical legal tricks. Fatigued and dazed, he had spent the last dark hours of the morning fully awake, sharing, had he known it, that vigil with his friend. He presented himself in the clerk’s office. Fladger was not in chambers. Very well. He left Thaddeus’s note, under cover of a note of his own.

  In the afternoon, William called again at the offices of Fladger, Crouch, and Strang. Fladger was attending a client—expected shortly. William waited, pacing among the clerk’s desks while they scratched out fees and pleadings. Two hours passed. Was Fladger in his office? William enquired. Just stepped out. William lingered for two more hours, then took his coat and hat and departed, leaving another note for Fladger.

  THE NEXT NIGHT, on the strength of an old invitation often delayed, William went to dine at Lady Stepney’s. A sense of duty, thoughts that he could serve his friend thereby and take up the banner that would rally the just cause, compelled him. He brushed his curly brown hair, put on his whitest cravat and brightest waistcoat, and set his course for Haught. Never had the long carriage path, the scrubbed steps, and the blazing lights of the Stepney mansion looked more cool and unfriendly to William Quillby, yet he got himself inside, was announced, and slid into the back of the drawing-room.
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br />   A few of the gentlemen looked at him keenly, and he was cut by a portly man that he did not know, who happened to be a cousin of Massingham’s. He drifted among the side-tables, sofas, and bureaus at the edge of the room, prey to an awkward sense of failure, before Lady Stepney greeted him with a languid melancholy. Mr. Massingham and Mr. Grainger had been particular favourites of hers. She was doubly disappointed, bereaved and betrayed at a single stroke.

  “But Thaddeus—Mr. Grainger—is still very much alive. He has been the victim of a terrible injustice,” said Quillby, with all his sincerity.

  Lady Stepney sighed. “The ghastly scandal. The courts, the ignominy of trial. The terrible judgement. Oh, my wicked men, what troubles have you wrought? I fear I shall not recover my trust.”

  “But an innocent man…” hinted Quillby.

  “The evidence against poor Mr. Grainger,” said Lady Stepney. “So galling! If only he had been more circumspect.”

  William had it in mind to say that, perhaps if Grainger had run his rival through in an acknowledged duel, he would have been sufficiently circumspect.

  “In matters of honour,” confided Lady Stepney, “I fear men are too easily led by their passions.”

  “And in matters of justice, also,” William said sadly and stepped aside.

  At dinner, William found himself opposite a thin, red-faced man of decided opinions, who would not admit of one scruple of doubt against the magistrate or the jury. He was decided upon the punishment, too.

  “Hang ’em—hang ’em all,” said he, during the soup. “Exterminate the whole breed of murderers!”

  “It is as well we do not,” said William, enraged, “or we would of necessity erase mankind from the Earth!”

  The gentleman was not moved by this reflection, and William fell into the attention of a young lady, for whom the whole of the trial held a romantic air of desperation and amorous rivalry. In vain could William refer to the facts in the face of her heroic illusions, and for the duration of three courses she pressed him for fictitious details of the morning duel.

  His consternation was complete when one more face turned his way and seemed to become caught, to William’s eyes, in the haze of the candlelight and the reflections in the silver. It was the heart-shaped face, gently upturned nose, and flaxen hair of Miss Clara Grimsborough.

  She said nothing, but listened to him attentively and nodded fractionally as he argued against the vapour of odd misconceptions that had grown up around Thaddeus Grainger. He found that he was speaking as if for her alone, and yet could not bring himself to address her alone. When the ladies withdrew, he was entirely desperate. Neither Fladger nor any of his associates were there, as he had hoped. William made an approach to Sir Stepney, who overlooked him magnificently, and so he remained, ignored and unconsoled by Port, until the gentlemen went out to join the ladies.

  It was towards Miss Grimsborough, who lingered at the side of the fire, that Quillby directed himself in his desolation.

  He made his deepest bow. “Miss Grimsborough.”

  “Mr. Quillby.” She looked up, not at all cold, and he felt his heart, sore with worry and loss, start within him.

  “I am—” he began and then stopped. “I am conscious I am not entirely welcome here. I would not force my presence on anyone, but I presume, for you seemed—sympathetic.”

  “Mr. Quillby,” she began gravely, “I think you are very brave and loyal to your friend. I think you are commendable.”

  There was a space near her on the sofa, and William moved to sit by her. “I cannot comprehend,” he confided, “how a man can be falsely accused and convicted of a terrible crime to such general satisfaction. How can there be people here who knew him and, I daresay, admired him, who now condemn him altogether? Can an undiscovered murderer yet go free? And those here go around utterly complacent of those facts and indifferent to right action.”

  “Not everyone is indifferent. But we are wretchedly chained to appearances, and for Mr. Grainger things appear very badly indeed.”

  It was the most William had ever spoken to Miss Grimsborough, and therefore he hesitated to say what came next. “Miss Grimsborough, I am aware that things look badly for my friend, but if the Captain of the Watch, your father, who is so much respected and honoured, had not been so singular in his pursuit, so immovable in his suspicion; if he could be prevailed upon to reconsider and use his considerable authority to direct or renew his search elsewhere…”

  But as William spoke, Miss Grimsborough’s attention faltered, and he concluded awkwardly.

  Miss Grimsborough looked away. “My father.…I could not. You do not know how set and stern he is!”

  “I am sorry,” said William, defeated.

  “But be assured, Mr. Quillby, you have a sincere friend in me.”

  William rose and bowed once more, in all gratitude. But, before he could say more, he was called by Lady Stepney herself. Lady Stepney was keeping company with Miss Pears. Lady Stepney was languid and prone to melancholia this evening, but as she maintained the fiction of her two lost admirers, she commiserated closely with Miss Pears, whom everyone was convinced had lost a true suitor to a false. Miss Pears, consequently, was composed and gracious, and therefore much admired. She was proud of her long white neck, which she held very straight, though her eyes were apt to be watery.

  “Mr. Quillby,” said Lady Stepney, “is perfectly acquainted with the case. Mr. Quillby has a novel theory.”

  “With respect, ma’am, it is no theory. I have come to say plainly that my friend is innocent, that the accusation against him is false, and the decision against him is wrong.”

  “You are hasty, sir,” said Miss Pears, with terrible coolness. “You presume to overthrow the judgement of the court and the jury. On what grounds, pray?”

  “Only that the evidence in court was weak and no more than suggestive. And more importantly, because Thaddeus is my friend, and I know that the crime is not within his character.”

  “Men have presented false characters before,” said Miss Pears, with an icy flash.

  Lady Stepney made a hushing sound under her breath, and touched Miss Pears on the hand.

  “No doubt,” conceded William. “But I am convinced that the case is so fatally weak, the evidence so fragile, that an appeal must be lodged as soon as possible. If only the friends of the accused would rally to his cause. The good names assembled here, Lady Stepney—”

  William could proceed no more, for that lady raised one eyebrow. “But my dear Mr. Quillby, what good can come of this?”

  “You surprise me, my lady. The good of removing an innocent man from a scene of such unspeakable degradations that I hesitate to speak of them.”

  “Is it so entirely awful?” asked Miss Pears, with sudden interest.

  “The gaol is squalid, dangerous, and foul. For the condemned, it is a place of confinement, terror, and suffering.”

  “La!” said Miss Pears. “Then let them take care to keep out of it!”

  Let them take care to keep out of it: a worthy old doctrine. And if some have not the care, and some have not the means to keep out, are we thereby to grind their misfortune and furnish them with as many prisons, and as many means to get in, as possible? A sound doctrine, for the raising of prison walls and the cramming of prison yards, and the making of a desolation for all those these things touch. William was undone. He could only retreat. He took his leave of Lady Stepney and crossed the expanse of the drawing-room. No other eye, save that of Miss Grimsborough, sought him out as he left.

  ON THE MORROW, Quillby was passing in at the gates of the Bellstrom, and as chance would have it, he met Mr. Fladger, lawyer and barrister, coming out.

  “Mr. Fladger,” said he, “you have got my messages. I presume you have been consulting with Mr. Grainger.”

  Fladger did not smile. His lean face was grave and his mouth set tight. “In fact, no. I have been visiting another client of mine.”

  “Then let us both go in,” said Wi
lliam. “You have time for another meeting, at least.”

  “Mr. Quillby,” said Fladger, “you are a decent, loyal fellow, and therefore I reserve my counsel for you this morning.”

  “I don’t understand. Will you come in?”

  “I make it a rule, Mr. Quillby, not to commit to lost causes.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Mr. Grainger’s case is quite hopeless. There is no chance of appeal.”

  “What do you mean by this?”

  The lawyer lowered his head and dropped his voice, as though conferring in court. “There is a power greater than you comprehend ranged against Mr. Grainger.”

  “I ask again,” said William, “what is the meaning of this backsliding and evasiveness?”

  A shadow moved behind the grate in the prison portal. Fladger smiled his broadest smile and tapped William on the arm. “Good fellow! Take care of his comfort—that is the important thing now.”

  Before William could say more, the lawyer was gone. A burly gentleman passed him and hammered for admittance. William Quillby, shaken and baffled, hastened to go in.

  CHAPTER VII.

  Refreshing Company.

  THE CLANGOUR OF the prison, its night-whispers and eerie cries, the grinding cold, the stench, and the taint of smoke from small burners left Thaddeus Grainger quite awake. At last, a little wan daylight lightened the slot that was all the aperture between his cell and the outside airs. He lay for some time, shivering, despondent, and exhausted, until he heard the turnkeys moving, the working of locks in unknown mazes of passages and secret spaces. A sound startled him out of his thoughts, but it was only the key scraping in the lock of his own cell. A broad, coarse face appeared in the grate partway up the cell door. It was Swinge, the gaoler.

  “Ho! My new gent. Had a refreshing night?”

  “The accommodations are rather severe,” replied Grainger.

  “Make the best of it. Don’t pine. That’s what I advise. We don’t ask what you done, but you have whistled past the gallows, and that’s rare. Come, sir, there is a table set at the lodge.”