The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  “Yes. It is understood. Good day to you, Miss Redruth.”

  “Good day to you, Mr. Grainger.”

  She curtsied and went out. He let her pass with a quizzical smile. She wrapped her shawl about her head and walked quickly down the hill, as the streets were doused clean by the rain. Water ran down the alleys and terraces of The Steps, snapping at such trifles of litter and refuse, ashes, bones and peel, rat-corpses, and bacon rinds as lined its way, and washed all into the patient flow of the Pentlow.

  CHAPTER XI.

  Under the Sign of the Black Claw.

  THADDEUS GRAINGER observed that in the oldest prisoner of the Bellstrom Gaol, certain habits were inviolate. From mid-morning, Ravenscraigh walked in the yard, unmoved by wind or rain, though in the foulest weather he would confine himself to the south or east cloister. And each morning he received, as it were, a steady stream of supplicants. Inmates, from the drunkard to the frail tradesman to the resolved blackguard and foppish debtor, would make their obeisances and receive some fragment of advice, a word and a cool nod. In these walks, Ravenscraigh was followed at a respectful distance by a majordomo of sorts, a lumbering ruffian in a stained black coat with a red silk kerchief around his thick neck, small eyes, and a flat nose. No person approached Ravenscraigh without a nod from the scowling Herrick, who was a stand-over man in the town and could bring down a horse with a single blow from his knotted fists.

  This morning was clear, though flecks of frost lay in the cracks between the weathered stones, as Grainger made his way around the yard and came to cross paths with Ravenscraigh. He nodded and called good morning to that gentleman, who returned a sharply appraising look, though he responded to the greeting calmly enough. Herrick held himself ready, with his thick fists bunched.

  “I am disturbing you?” asked Grainger.

  “Not in the least.”

  “I fear I disturb your companion,” said Grainger, with a glance at Herrick.

  Ravenscraigh snorted. “Herrick? He dislikes the cold. He is prone to chills.”

  “The air is shrewd,” allowed Grainger.

  Ravenscraigh smiled thinly. “It braces the constitution.”

  “Then I wish you a healthful walk.”

  “Perhaps you would care to continue with us?” asked Ravenscraigh.

  “I would be honoured.”

  Grainger fell in beside Ravenscraigh, who continued with a firm, unhurried step.

  “You are much sought out,” remarked Grainger, with an eye to the scattering of prisoners who even now watched the old man warily in his rounds.

  “It is a curious thing,” returned Ravenscraigh. “There is a class of prison inmates which owns a broad simplicity and ignorance regarding the external world. They have almost a childish need for guidance and turn sometimes to a gentleman, of some small education. As vile, degraded, and brutal as they are in their own company, they resemble infants in the world outside.”

  “I see,” said Grainger, “and you advise them therefore…”

  “On small matters of propriety, and likewise on the precedence and circumstances of our detention.”

  “I would not presume to intrude on these consultations,” said Grainger.

  “You do not intrude,” said Ravenscraigh, with an urbane air. “You will understand that the conversation of a gentleman is of value to me, under these circumstances.”

  “I thank you.”

  They turned before the chapel yard. “But come, Mr. Grainger,” said Ravenscraigh, “you did not seek my company merely to discourse with an old man.”

  “On the contrary. I believe, that is, you mentioned when we last met, that you knew my parents.”

  “I did. I will not say we were intimate. Your father was known to me. A gentleman of firm mind, strong purpose, excellent prospects. And your good mother also was much admired.”

  “And yet,” hinted Grainger, “knowing my parents, and so evidently a gentleman of refinements yourself—”

  “Ha! Now we come to this business. You seek after the ruin of my fortunes and how I came to be here, and remain here, all these years after.”

  “You know my case,” said Grainger. “You hold a position of trust among all portions of the gaol. The honour of your regard may be of profound worth to me. But I would, I admit, know the conditions of that trust.”

  “Plainly said! And therefore I will render you a plain answer. I was ruined utterly by youth and indiscretion. I have nothing to answer for but my folly. I made out a note of hand, a bond for a friend, in whom I placed all possible trust and affection. That friend defaulted. The bond was called. I had not the means to pay. In the scandal and disorder, my friend, who aspired to an older, nobler name than mine, abandoned me, blackened my name and reputation beyond all repair. And thus, bereft of kindred, friendship, prospects, and fortune, you find me shipwrecked upon this shore.”

  They had stopped before the gate. The morning shadows darkened that portal.

  “I have touched on a painful recollection,” said Grainger.

  Ravenscraigh drew back his head. His stance was cold and proud. “It belongs to the dead past. I do not indulge in regrets. And therefore, it is closed to me.”

  “Let us move on,” said Grainger.

  “I perceive,” resumed Ravenscraigh, after they had gone some few paces, “that you are at pains to make yourself useful among our fellow charges.”

  “I undertake commissions, minor communications, at a rate that I believe my clients can bear.”

  “It is difficult, no doubt, for a gentleman of means to be reduced to trading on his abilities.”

  Grainger paused. “Not at all. It is entertaining to me, and I gain some use besides.”

  Ravenscraigh smiled grimly. “You mean, you take it as an opportunity to glean the business of the prison, and in particular, the business of Mr. Brock.”

  “You are acute, sir.”

  “Do not rouse the ire of Mr. Brock.”

  “I do not see what part the thief-taker has in this prison, except he seems to come and go much as he pleases, and attends where he pleases, and has got himself muddled up, I know not how, in my affairs,” said Grainger.

  There was a flash of irony or steely approval in the older prisoner, as he glanced back at Grainger. But as he spoke he lowered his voice, and Grainger was obliged to continue close at his side.

  “The thief-taker mistrusts all, and is mistrusted by all. His trade is in guilt and crime; it matters not to him how it is brought in or to whom it is sold. One thief will take the stand for another, just as well. Mr. Brock has associates, spies and informers within and without the gangs. So he has a share in everything: in larceny and the traffic of stolen goods. He pursues the criminal and profits by the crime. He takes his reward on one hand and sells the confession or the stolen pocket-watch on the other. But it is the thief-taker’s business, and he will not tolerate interference. He is a violent, determined, feared man.”

  “You are right,” said Grainger, growing thoughtful. “I will be more cautious with Brock.”

  “You have some suspicions?” said Ravenscraigh.

  “I do, in truth.”

  They had reached the end of their circuit, and before them stood another poor prisoner, hat in hand, shuffling and simpering.

  “But I have said enough already,” continued Grainger, “and another is here for your advice.”

  They shook hands, and Grainger tipped his hat to Herrick, whose stolid expression did not change, and continued on his way.

  GRAINGER MADE his way through the prison with some caution, for Dirk Tallow was within the Bells again on a new charge and was fond of taking a swaggering procession with two or three of his cronies wherever he pleased. Rumour, plentiful among the old hands of the Bellstrom, held that Tallow and Mr. Brock were in dispute over some matter, and that Brock had therefore contrived to ’peach on Tallow, much to his displeasure. Dirk Tallow was like a penned bull that had taken to baiting men, and through some sense of antipathy or r
ivalry, had singled Grainger out for his humours. A few days before, he had exchanged these small gallantries with Grainger:

  “Mr. Grainger,” he said, with a florid bow and blustering air. “You look pale, sir, unhealthily so.”

  “I assure you, I am in perfect health,” returned Grainger. He was passing before the lodge.

  “You want sunlight, sir, and exercise. You spend too much time in your cell. Writing to your lawyer, no doubt. There is not a drop of blood in you. Look how pale our society gentleman is!” All the while preening himself in his lace, fine coat, and white cockade.

  “I thank you. I am quite well.”

  “Pinch your cheeks, sir! That will mend your looks.” This last thrust brought a guffaw from Parsefoot, who was lounging nearby.

  “Your advice is misplaced.”

  “Then ride, sir. Riding stirs the blood. Or do you not ride?”

  “You are wide of the mark, sir,” returned Grainger, growing heated.

  “You think me coarse?”

  “I think talk of exercise tedious. Excuse me.”

  With such encounters in mind as he retraced his steps to his cell, Grainger was unprepared for the person who stepped neatly out before him. She had concealed herself in the shadow of a buttress and appeared so suddenly that Grainger almost blundered into her and was forced to recoil before he could appraise the whole person before him.

  This was one of those tattered and reduced young women who frequented the theatres, streets, and coffeehouses. Her dress was thin and festive after a fashion, adorned with bows and grubby ribbons. Too much flesh showed through, from her ankles to her arms and neck, and much of that was pale, bony, and angular. Her hair was streaked with henna, though plain brown at the roots. She stood no higher than the middle of Grainger’s top-coat buttons, but her face, with a pointed nose, pointed chin, and wide green eyes, was pretty.

  “’Ere,” she said, “you’re that gent on Cold Stone Row, as writes the letters.”

  “I am.”

  “Well I need one, writ for me, that is.”

  She looked around with a conspiring air, but Grainger saw nothing but the rags and clumps of straw and mud scattered across the blackened stone floor, and the rows of cell doors.

  “I can do that,” he said, “if you tell me what you need written, and to whom, and from whom.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” she declared. “I’m Sukie Mills, as is called ‘Sharp Sue,’ on account of my quiet ways. I need a letter wrote to my sweetheart, who is on the outside at present, and is sure to find someone to read it for him. The Duchess said you’re a pretty gent with a fair hand. I daresay you are.”

  She was standing very much in Grainger’s shadow, and he was obliged to step back.

  “What is the matter?” he asked.

  “The matter? Nothing’s the matter.”

  “What is it you wish to say?”

  “Well, there are certain tokens of affection between us (that’s me and Bob and some other gents of my acquaintance), which I could not put me hands on when I was took, but which, laid out in pawn, would afford me some relief, and it falls to him, if he has an honest or a decent bone in his body, to help me put them up with a shylock I know of.”

  She had laid out her case to Grainger in a manner at once circumspect, defiant, and desperate. Her eyes were steady upon him, as if daring him to gainsay her position.

  “I charge a fee, for my services,” said Grainger gravely.

  She raised one brow. “Well, you and I would be mugs if we didn’t.”

  “But no more than the job costs me, or the client can afford.”

  “Well, there are some as won’t like that, but the Duchess said you was even-handed.”

  “Very well; we are agreed.”

  The girl glanced about her. “Shall we go back to your crib, then?”

  “Naturally. I have my pens and papers there.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  “I shall write it out fair there.”

  “Is it quiet, in your crib?”

  Sharp Sue seemed to have acquired a fascination with the buttons of Grainger’s waistcoat, for her small, slim fingers were toying and prying at them.

  “Quiet enough.”

  “I ain’t got no tin, you know.”

  “Then how do you mean—”

  She lifted up, with a dainty little hike, the edge of her skirt and turned out in a flash a lean ankle and calf, in patched stockings.

  “I see,” said Grainger, with a catch in his breath.

  He was still for a moment, and then with a start he caught her wandering hand and returned it gently to her side.

  She recoiled from him, and stood glowering with two clenched fists on her hips. “You rate your services pretty high, if you turn down my offer. Or do you think the goods not worth the hire?” she hissed.

  “Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Grainger. At that moment, a drunk man came reeling and whistling along the passage behind them. Though the girl was still hard and angry, Grainger leaned closer to her.

  “I had in mind another service altogether.”

  “Name it, then. Or be damned for your insolence!”

  “Do not be offended. I am acutely conscious of the honour you do me; nevertheless, call it my fancy, or my sport, but I have an interest, a deep interest, in everything that concerns my case. In return for my service, I require of you any intelligence, be it hearsay or certain knowledge, that you may come by, regarding the suspicion that surrounds me.”

  The girl narrowed her eyes. “It ain’t ’peaching, is it?”

  “I want only the facts that concern me. I want to know what interest the thief-taker, Brock, has against me. Can Sharp Sue bring that out?”

  “Well, I know Becky Paine, who is Dirk Tallow’s molly.”

  “Very well then, I shall leave the rest to your discretion.”

  “And my letter?”

  “Come, I shall put your words to paper, directly.”

  “Put it fair, mind.”

  “I will.”

  “Then I’ll get what you want to know.”

  “And our bargain is concluded.”

  With this, Grainger took the girl’s hand and bent across it. She giggled and then sighed, and as Grainger held out his arm, she walked beside him, through the long passages of the Bellstrom, with a dainty flick of her skirts.

  BEING SOMEWHAT crushed in his rooms at the top of a respectable pile of masonry and wood, Quillby would often, at the end of a day hunched over his desk, take himself for a long walk towards Tornock Gardens and refresh himself under the wooded lanes.

  On pleasant evenings such as this, he had seen Miss Grimsborough riding here, but as his thoughts that day were of a gloomy and distracted cast, fixed on the knots around the Grainger case, he had no inkling of her approach until he heard the patter of hoof-beats and Miss Grimsborough herself drew up before him. She was riding a pretty bay filly and, flushed with her ride, Miss Grimsborough herself looked very charming to William. She was animated by exertion, and her blue eyes were very bright, and her figure very neat under the dappling of the new leaves.

  “Miss Grimsborough.”

  “Mr. Quillby.”

  “I am interrupting your ride.”

  “No! I have been hoping to see you.”

  “See me?” For a moment, William felt his heart lighten.

  “How is your friend,” asked Miss Grimsborough, “the unfortunate Mr. Grainger?”

  “He is tolerable well. I thank you for asking. He is making an effort to be active and useful. It is a creditable thing, to my mind,” replied William.

  “Will you walk this way with me, Mr. Quillby?”

  “Gladly.”

  He turned in beside her stirrups. The little horse whinnied, but did not shy away.

  “Mr. Grainger’s case,” said Miss Grimsborough, “is on my father’s mind.”

  “I see,” said William, and all his airy mood fell away.

  “My father is not given to broo
ding, or doubts,” said Miss Grimsborough gravely. “But he has returned often to the case. Oftener still, these last few weeks. He has mentioned your name, and that of a certain young woman. He has been summoned by Mayor Shorter. Your letters, sir, have disturbed his composure.”

  William looked at his feet and coughed. “It is not my intention, was never my intention, to harass your father or question his devotion and abilities. Take it rather, Miss Grimsborough, that a humble servant and friend felt it necessary to possess the Captain of certain material facts that may alter his view of the case.”

  “He has no patience with meddlers. He would be displeased if he knew that you and I were speaking together on this matter. It touches his pride.”

  William stopped and looked up at Miss Grimsborough. “I would be no cause of difficulty between you and your father, but I ask you plainly: what would you have me do?”

  Miss Grimsborough glanced at something behind him and then bent in the saddle until her cheek was close by the filly’s gleaming coat and her head was almost by William’s. “Keep at it, Mr. Quillby,” she whispered, “at all costs, and defy them to the end. I do not know what you have touched, but they are roused, and you are near the mark!”

  And with that she spurred her lively horse away, leaving William in the dust and new leaves.

  “Dashed bad luck,” a voice remarked. “He’s spooked the girl.” It was Mr. Harton, riding with Mr. Kempe. Harton snorted and spurred his own horse forward, forcing William to step back into the shrubbery, but Kempe nodded coolly and came on at an easier pace.

  “My apologies,” said Kempe, as William returned to the path. “Mr. Harton is temperamental.”

  “I don’t care for his temper,” said William. Kempe, he noted, was pale, and his customary air of restraint lay heavily on him. There were lines of care and fatigue on his sallow face that William had not marked before, and his hands moved restlessly, with a slight tremor.

  “You have quite alarmed poor Palliser with your—how should I call them?—enquiries, I suppose,” remarked Kempe, with an effort at negligence.

  “You, I take it, are not so easily moved,” said William.

  “You did not find out much, I expect.”

  “On the contrary,” said William, emboldened by his exasperation. “Mr. Palliser’s account of your final evening together was intriguing.”