The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  “Indeed.” As if in thought, Kempe’s finger moved along the top of his collar, on the side of his neck. “I am sure all our accounts coincide completely.”

  “It is a pity that you did not keep company with Mr. Massingham on that night.”

  “I had business in the lower town. It is one of my profoundest regrets that, on that night of all nights, I did not stay with my friend. As, I suppose, it must be yours.”

  William was not drawn by this. “Do you have any reason to believe that Mr. Massingham expected another guest?”

  The horse snorted and shook its broad head. Kempe said, “It is possible. But Mr. Massingham was very close in his business affairs, even with his friends.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Kempe shrugged. “He had a letter with him, with an unusual seal, which he referred to often. Perhaps it specified a meeting.” He adjusted his cravat, with a small cough. “I thought perhaps it signified an intimate assignation. I expect we shall never know.”

  “I have made it my business to know,” said William. “Good evening, sir.”

  “But wait!”

  William turned again. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Grainger.” Kempe twisted awkwardly in his saddle, before the question spilled out. “Is it as dismal as we must believe in that place? Does he suffer greatly?”

  “He suffers as greatly as any innocent man, imprisoned against his will,” said William.

  MR. THURBER had grown bolder on the basis of a facetious understanding between himself and Cassie Redruth, and she was daily, and nightly, harassed. Thurber staged ambushes on the servants’ stairs and retired only after the sharp application of an elbow. He slipped love notes, bound with cheap ribbons, under the door of the attic room that Cassie shared with the cook, much to the cook’s disgust. All the letters and ribbons Cassie returned directly. Nevertheless, Thurber made reference to her in The Dog and Drover and hinted at an Understanding between them, and even, with a sly wink intended for the men of the world, to certain Favours exchanged, which representations filled Cassie with a burning indignation she could find few means to vent.

  That morning, as Cassie brought a heavy armful of linen downstairs and Thurber passed upstairs, he offered to assist with the load. This assistance proved to be one hand on the waist and, while Cassie tottered off-balance on the stairs, a second hand grasping at other parts of her person.

  “Mr. Thurber,” said Cassie, with her teeth clenched, “you forget your place.”

  “Now, my lass, you brought me to this with your coquettish ways,” said Thurber hoarsely.

  “I ain’t never given you no cause!”

  “You led me on, and whether you go on or not, I’ll tell everyone I’ve had the pleasure.”

  By way of reply, Cassie dropped the bedclothes and smashed her hobnailed heel down on the instep of Thurber’s polished boot. While the air hissed out of him and he hopped back on his remaining foot, she completed her rebuttal with a single swift, educational kick to the fork of his breeches.

  Thurber screamed and collapsed on the stairs. “You witch!” he bellowed, tears streaming from his eyes. “You are trying to murder me!”

  Thurber’s cries drew the scullery maid up from under the stairs and the cook out of the kitchen. The maid looked on the spilled linens and Thurber’s writhing form and began to scream: “Help! Murder, theft, fire!”

  The drawing-room door opened, and Miss Greenwarden weakly enquired, “What is the matter?”

  Thurber, sitting curled on the stairs in a defensive position, reported to his mistress that, “This hussy has tried to make an end of me.”

  “I did no such thing, you coward, you liar, you lecher!” growled Cassie, and advanced on Thurber again, who scuttled away from her up the stairs,

  “Miss Redruth, explain yourself,” said Miss Greenwarden from the drawing-room.

  “She is in league with a gaolbird that I witnessed against,” interposed Thurber, wiping the tears from his red face, “and they plan to silence me forever.”

  “Brute!” continued Cassie, in a high rage. “Perjurer! Bawd! He tried to kiss me, ma’am.”

  “Miss Redruth, contain yourself,” said Miss Greenwarden. “You have quite confounded my nerves.”

  “I’ll confound him if he touches me again,” vowed Cassie, taking a menacing step towards Thurber, who merely moaned and flinched.

  “Is this true?” Miss Greenwarden continued. “Are you known to a criminal?”

  “She was a witness for the accused in the Steergate Murder Trial, in which I was Material!” Thurber averred, and then elaborated: “She is his molly.”

  The maid whimpered, “She will bring her gang in. We will be murdered in our beds.” The cook went straight to comfort her.

  “It’s all lies,” said Cassie.

  “Miss Redruth, you are dismissed.” The drawing-room doors closed.

  “You heard her: you’re out,” crowed Thurber, who modified his triumph with a cringe as Cassie advanced.

  She contented herself with a kick to his shins and then glided serenely up the stairs, though her heart beat fiercely in her throat.

  SO, ON A bright May morning, Cassie Redruth wended her way through Staverside and into a courtyard that was all a white glare and confusion, for vast swathes of linen hung from strong lines that ran from edge to edge; steam and the smell of soap and ashes filled the air, and the flagstones ran with water. Cassie ducked between the first rows of sheets and stooped again in another file that dripped and swayed, flapped and rustled, as though she were caught up among the ropes, spars, and sails of a great ship. She heard women’s voices and water splashing.

  She pressed deeper into the yard. Another girl emerged between the sheets, a doughy-faced maid with red arms, red face, and red eyes streaming with tears, who did no more than glance at Cassie and sob before slipping away.

  Cassie ended her course where the doors to the wash-house were thrown open and maids dragged out great lengths of washing. Presiding over this stood a tall, lean, old woman, with hair as white as her linens. Her face was flushed, her arms raw, her features hard and sharp and proud. Her mouth was set in a harsh, straight line. She looked on the scurrying girls with a dragonish eye, as though they were fetching up a hoard from her cave.

  Seeing Cassie, she roared, “You there! What are you about?”

  Cassie dipped her best curtsy. “Excuse me, ma’am. I am looking for the Withnails’ house.”

  “Then you have found it,” replied the lady, and looked back to the wash.

  “If it please you, ma’am,” continued Cassie meekly, “I am looking for a position.”

  “Who told you there was a position here?”

  “No one, but I’m looking all the same.”

  “In service before?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Why leave it?”

  “A footman at my last place had a wrong notion of me and made improper advances.”

  “Did he?”

  “I was forced to lay him out straight,” Cassie testified. She saw an eyebrow rise and a flicker of stern interest, and added, “Anywise, I am not sorry, and I won’t go back to be disrespected. I am an honest girl.”

  “Well, if it’s bad business in a house, it’s usually down to a man,” concluded the elderly lady. “I have need of a maid of all work, for I have dismissed a girl this day. I offer nothing but steady pay and long labours. Will you take it or no?”

  “I will take it.”

  “I will tolerate no shirkers, no snivellers, and no girls that are afraid to work their hands and knees and elbows raw.”

  “I ain’t vain, and I don’t shirk my duties.”

  “What is your name, girl?”

  “Cassandra Redruth.”

  “Cassandra,” the lady echoed, with a doubtful sniff.

  “It was my mother’s fancy. She heard it on the continent. I am mostly called Cassie.”

  “Then take up your skirts and get within, Miss Redruth,
” said the lady serenely, indicating the din and vapours of the wash-room. “I am Mrs. Scourish; I am housekeeper to the Withnails, and you will answer to me from here on.”

  Cassie curtsied and pulled up her sleeves. The lines of sheets billowed and cracked, as she ducked down the steps into the caverns of the Withnail house.

  THE GATES of the Bellstrom were set fast. A heavy rain fell beyond the prison walls, and as Grainger lay in his cell, he concentrated on the faint sound of the rain in the vent, and his thoughts roamed the free darkness among images of former days and many curiously clear recollections of his old home.

  He was surprised by an urgent rapping on his cell door. Startled, he went at once to the door. The grate was open. He saw wide green eyes staring at him: Sukie Mills.

  The turnkey had not yet made the round of Cold Stone Row. Without considering, Grainger opened his cell door, but the girl did not cross the threshold, remaining hunched in the shadow of the doorway.

  “I have got what you asked,” she hissed, “and damn you for it!”

  Now she flinched from the weak light of his candle, and he could see the black bruise on her cheek and the livid marks about her neck.

  “For God’s sake,” he cried, “what is it?”

  “I would to God that I had the tin to pay you,” she exclaimed passionately, “or that you had taken t’other!”

  “Tell me plainly: what is the matter?”

  The girl was shaken and fearful. She looked up to him plainly for a moment. “You are under the Black Claw. You was brought up on murder by it.”

  “I do not understand.”

  The girl pushed him away with one small, filthy hand. “You wanted to know how you came here. That is the truth! It is the Black Claw. I keep my bargains. This makes us square.”

  “Who has done this to you?” he demanded.

  But the gate at the end of the row opened with a groan, and Sharp Sue drew up her tattered shawl about her head and ran from him, leaving Grainger with only the rain and the obscure import of her words.

  IT WAS THE END of a still, breathless day. Grey clouds hung low over the city of Airenchester and seemed to squeeze out all light from Cracksheart Hill to Haught. The whole city quieted, as though the business of getting and spending, taking and toiling, the preying of the strong upon the weak and the scavenging of the weak upon the exhausted, could be suspended.

  Thaddeus Grainger composed a letter to his friend:

  My Dear William,

  This mystery of the Black Claw oppresses me. I cannot force it from my head. When I consider the dangers that poor girl outfaced to put this rumour, this scrap of whispered prison gossip, in my hands, the obscurity and confusion of it is redoubled. I am forced to conclude that we are no nearer the truth than ever, but we have been bound up in something terrible, and it bears us all along. I must be more careful than ever. Eyes in the prison are always watchful. I am positive my cell is searched, perhaps by the turnkey. I will put this letter straight into the boy’s hand. Give him a shilling at least.

  You will recall the name of Mr. Ravenscraigh, whom I have spoken of several times. I invested half a bottle of brandy in this gentleman’s good favour, which we drank down in the Cosy. We were not closely marked, among the usual vices of drunkenness and gambling. He speaks well, this old-fashioned gentleman-debtor—tho’ there is always something sharpish and ironic in his replies—but when I mentioned to him the Black Claw, I believe I saw in his eyes a sort of shock or surprise or apprehension—I know not what—that shows that he is not immune to the common fears of the gaol. He recovered himself very quickly, though, and said (as much as I can set it down fairly), “It is curious that you mention it. Among the lowest classes and criminal elements of the town, this Black Claw is the mark of a bogey-man, a goblin, a fantastic terror. To receive a notice under the Black Claw is to receive an absolute command, be it for theft, riot, or the very warrant of a murder. It is a fabrication, a fancy, a convenient piece of cant that can cover for every great crime. Some even hold that the Black Claw is the sign and token of the Old One himself. I am surprised that you take it at face value. I daresay it was conjured up to impress you.”

  This much I admit—and did say to Mr. R.—I do not think the Black Claw the mark of the Enemy of Mankind, but when I think of that poor girl’s evident and pressing terror, the brutal marks on her face, I cannot imagine that it does not conceal something more material than a superstition.

  At last, the hail struck the leads of the Bellstrom Gaol with a hideous roar, as if it would beat down the walls and roofs of the prison and lash all the souls trembling within. Thaddeus Grainger set down his pen. He took his greatcoat and went out. In the twilight precipitated by the heavy clouds, the prison was full of shambling ghosts: ghosts of guilt and ghosts of repentance, ghosts of innocence, and ghosts of rage; and all these tattered wraiths, in the threadbare garments of their cares, paused in their business of trading and taking and bullying and yielding as Grainger passed by, and attended to the storm.

  A terrible din invested the yard, and Grainger felt his confusion and black mood given voice: he was a prisoner still, and the world beyond the cell, the corridor, the yard, which suffered the battering of the storm, had not the least compunction or concern at his confinement. He was forgotten, day by day and month by month, by his former associates and society. Injustice rolled on and ground down the weak and the unheard, and knew them not. There was a crime still to be resolved, yet he sensed acutely how weak and murky were all the threads, hints, suspicions that enfolded him. How feeble were the lights of reason and enquiry against this great darkness, all that moved unseen and unrecorded under the protection of the Black Claw. The labyrinths of the prison, the chains, gates, and cells, contained some part of the mystery he had not yet detected.

  After a time, the hailstorm rolled away to Haught and Battens Hill, to pound upon the doors and windows there, like a torrent of supplicants, suitors, and accused, beating the walls and roofs for admission to the law.

  Grainger stirred and went below. The prison was as raucous as before. Yet, approaching his cell, he was alerted to another sound: running feet, going rapidly away, and though the runner was lost in the gloom, yet the commotion was unusual. Grainger opened his cell door. It was dark inside, but the riot of shadows showed him that all was displaced. Quickly he went in, searching for his candle. He could not find it. The pallet-bed was overturned. His chest had been dragged out and the lock tried. The little table was shattered, and his writing desk had been smashed and splintered. Papers lay torn and strewn everywhere, and the little bottle of ink had been broken. At last, groping among the ruins, he found a splint and a candle he could light. Ink pooled on the floor and covered his correspondence: a vast, black mark—the very token and trace of the Black Claw.

  BOOK THE THIRD

  JACKALS AND LIONS

  CHAPTER XII.

  Superior Lodgings.

  AIRENCHESTER LAY breathless and haggard, smothered in dust, under the July sun. Gloomy notions preoccupied William Quillby, as in the heat he went along the main roads and observed amongst the drays and carts and fine carriages the rootless and forlorn. At length, as if sensing the motion of that human progress, he crossed into The Steps and peered about in shabby rookeries and viewed the crowded rooms, barren of furnishings or comforts. He made several notes in his crooked script. He was stared at sullenly: the sun had made too much of a cauldron of The Steps to rouse anyone to menace him.

  He had a strong piece for the Register in mind. Perhaps, he thought, a pamphlet. For it was strange that there were some wandering under the fevered sun who were formerly possessed of homes, occupations, dignity, and respect, and had them not now, while others yet preened themselves in their newly coined fortunes, and yet the one knew not where the others arise or what they might do. It seemed that amongst all this an invisible hand worked to sequester and remove, and a very great thief passed and was not detected.

  When the heat was fiercest on t
he hillside, William marked the time and turned towards the Bellstrom Gaol. The sunlight and the suffocating dust permeated every stone of the fastness, as though drawn there by magnetism. William took off his hat, gulped down the parching air of the courtyard, and went within. Though hands clutched at the corners of his coat as he went by, William followed the familiar path. Before he came to the cell at the end of the row, he heard Thaddeus Grainger’s voice raised and a growling reply.

  “It is not adequate, sir. It is mean and stifling.”

  “You are too particular, sir,” returned a coarsened voice. “You gets what you pays for, and this is the best your means or your honour can afford.”

  This latter was the bowlegged gaolkeeper, Swinge, who was shaking his head at Grainger as William approached.

  “You have had a sufficiency of my coin to house a duke and his retinue,” retorted Grainger.

  “You may carry yourself proud as you like, but my fees are my fees.”

  “Call them what you like, at least a highwayman has the good grace to extract his dues with menaces and a pistol, not by this low, grinding extortion.”

  “Oh, that’s an ill-phrase,” scoffed Swinge, unmoved.

  “I will not consent to that rate for any room,” said Grainger, drawing himself up to his full height.

  “Please yerself!” concluded the gaoler, stumping away. “Sweat for it or freeze for it, as you will.”

  Grainger saw his friend emerging from the shadows, but his face was still hard and contemptuous, with a weary, grim harshness in it that William had not noted before.

  “I come at an unfortunate moment,” said William, hesitating.

  The marks of anger and resolve faded in an instant. “Not at all. You replace that misbegotten fellow, and I am glad of it. What is the news in the town?”

  “The town is wicked,” said William, “but in this season, no one profits by it.”

  Grainger laughed aloud and held out a hand to William. “Come, let us walk a little this way. If we are to have a breeze, we must make it ourselves.”