He turned, and together they went side by side along the passage at a lazy pace.
“You seek a better cell,” observed William.
“A better prospect. Something closer to the daylight and the air. I will have endured this a year before too long. But the gaoler keeps these for his favoured clients, his drabs and debtors, like a pinching innkeeper who fears to let his best rooms at a lower rate.”
“The inn, I fear, is not a safe one,” said William, stepping aside to avoid a pile of refuse.
“I have not forgotten my thief in the night,” said Grainger, softly and grimly. “I have something to relate on that point.”
“Then lead on,” said William.
They passed noisome cells and groaning, supine bodies. Some men had climbed to a ledge in the wall, and held their hands extended through the bars of a high grate, as if to cool them.
“You will know, my dear William, that I have fallen into the occupation, the pastime, I know not what to call it quite, of a letter-writer.” This was said with a mixture of raillery and seriousness that William attended to very closely.
They had come to a sort of crossroads, where a single shaft of bright light struck down through the dust. Grainger drew his friend aside and spoke softly. “Most items of value, I keep locked in my old stout chest when I am not in my cell. But I have been damnably foolish, thinking that a few bits of pens, papers, and a little ink would have no value to a sensible thief. My desk was smashed into splinters, and when I recovered from the shock and anger of it—and anger left me grinding my teeth for many hours—I found that several letters had been removed. Letters, you understand, I had received from you, and which contained remarks aimed at our deepest suspicions.”
“You mean, regarding your case,” said William.
“Precisely.”
“And perhaps, alluding to the Black Claw.”
“Speak no more of that!” warned Grainger, and they moved on.
“As I say,” he continued with more animation, “there is a passable business in this scratching. I make it a policy to charge no one beyond their means. It is, I think, a gentlemanly scruple. Though of one poor girl,” here his voice fell again, “I believe I asked more than she dared and set her in the way of a great hurt. Nonetheless, my thoughts fell upon one Peasely, a retired chandler, who also sells his pen at the rate of so many pennies to the page and has favoured me with many a dark look and insipid threat. Prisons are like that: all a delicate balance of influence and resentment. But he is a small man, after all, and very proper in his fashion. Blackmail and theft are not the craft of a debtor.”
William paused to mop his face with a scrap of handkerchief. “If that is the case, what can you do?”
“I am not finished yet! I consulted with Mr. Ravenscraigh, who advised me to acquire a strong-box and a hiding place, and a better cell. But failure may be a sharpener of resolve. Instead, I turned to the matter of ink.”
William folded away his handkerchief. “I congratulate you. You have now irrevocably confounded my confusion.”
“I mean,” continued Grainger, “that the thief, in his haste, shattered a bottle of ink and tracked the marks across the cell floor. It stood to reason, therefore, that an ink-stain remained on his boots.”
“Surely, you did not inspect every boot in the Bellstrom?”
“No, but there is in the Bells a coterie of horrendous small children, the sons and daughters of felons and debtors, who proved apt to my task. For a farthing apiece, I sent them abroad, and not a boot passed on a step, or in and out of the tap-room or the gate, that was not most earnestly inspected. Presently, they brought me a name, a petty thief by the name of Lafferty.”
“But, my dear Thaddeus,” said William, “say you came upon the fellow: what possible recourse would you have against him in this place?”
Grainger slowed his pace but did not pause. “Those who have evil done against them have licence to do evil in return, in the Bells. Only the weak and the helpless allow themselves to be crossed in any fashion. Here—”
They had come to the iron-work gates of a deep cell, a vault hacked out of the rock of the hill. Here, where the daylight drew thin and failed, men wallowed in the cloying heat. William heard the rattling of chains drawn through links in the walls. The prisoners, raising themselves to the highest steps, rested, panting against the bars.
Grainger went to the cell gate with an eager step, and William followed him reluctantly. In a few bounds, Grainger had reached the encrusted floor of the cell. The inmates watched him, most indifferently, too dazed by the heat. Behind the row of standing inmates, William heard a stealthy step and the dragging of heavy fetters. Grainger strode forward like a huntsman’s hound to the scent of a hare in the brake. He reached between two figures and put his hand to a shambling figure who shied away from his touch, recoiling against the cell wall.
“Well, Master Lafferty,” exclaimed Grainger, “we have found you!”
“You’ve no call to seek me out,” protested this person.
Lafferty was of no great height, tapered at the shoulders but thick in the belly. His face was round, topped with a thin, disordered thatch of sandy hair. His skin, and even his eyes, had a sandy taint, as if the grain of the prison had long since rubbed itself into his features. He scampered away from Grainger.
Grainger seized the man by the tattered front of his coat and shook him lightly. In his haste, Lafferty stumbled and struck the cell wall with his shoulder.
“Oy! Hold off,” he cried, more in alarm than pain.
Grainger did not release his grip. “You know me, evidently.”
“You’re the gent as was sent down for murder,” gabbled Lafferty, squirming.
“Indeed.” For a moment, Grainger relented and his stance eased, but he recovered himself and smiled most pleasantly on Lafferty. “And this is my friend and associate, Mr. Quillby, a gentlemen of the press.”
“How d’ye do,” mumbled Lafferty. “Pleased ter meet’cher.”
Not knowing quite how to reply, William nodded his head. The other prisoners had drawn slackly away, abandoning them to the back bench.
“And this, William,” continued Grainger pleasantly, “is Master Lafferty. A thief and vagabond and snatcher of trifles.”
“’Ere,” protested Lafferty, “that’s raw.”
Still grinning, Grainger grasped the cringing man’s arm and drew up his sleeve. Burnt on the inside of his forearm, pale against the sweat and grime, was the brand of a thief.
“A hot day,” remarked Grainger, “to be wearing a coat.”
“Thaddeus!” William spoke, low and urgent.
Lafferty, in twisting away from Grainger, had moved his left hand closer to his side-pocket.
Grainger released his arm, boxed him lightly on the ear, shook him by the shoulder. “No call for that!”
Lafferty dropped his hand.
“This is in the nature of a friendly visit.”
Lafferty’s eyes shifted from Grainger to William. An indescribable look, placating, wary, cunning, crossed his face.
“You have greatly inconvenienced my friend Mr. Quillby,” said Grainger.
“Didn’t mean ter, I’m sure,” squeaked Lafferty, knowing not the least reason why.
“I mean, when you broke into my desk, you removed papers and letters between Mr. Quillby and myself, which Mr. Quillby is anxious to recover.”
“I didn’t. I never did!”
“Mr. Lafferty,” said Grainger, with a set face and a grim, low voice, “let us not be fools with each other. In your haste, you broke an ink-bottle.”
Helplessly, Lafferty glanced at his worn boots.
“Very well. Where are those papers you took off me?”
“I ain’t got nothing to give you!”
Grainger tapped him contemptuously. “I wholly believe that.”
Lafferty appealed to William, who stood a little to the side, fascinated and appalled. “I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t know them pap
ers was yours. I didn’t think much of them, see, so, if I could someways make amends, I would, but—”
“Be quiet,” snapped Grainger. “Who sent you into my cell and into my desk?”
Lafferty went from pleading to cringing in an instant. “It were me. I was by, and the way were clear, I didn’t think on it!”
“You are lying. Why take the papers?”
“I thought if they was love-letters and such, or saucy, I could sell them on.”
“Aye. And who would read them for you and not know my hand?”
“They had a ribbon around them!”
Grainger closed with Lafferty. His voice fell. “Would you be known as a gaolhouse thief?”
The sweat beaded and ran on Lafferty’s brow. He looked across the cell, as if afraid these words would rouse one of his drowsing cellmates.
“Thaddeus,” began William.
“They would turn the heel on me,” whispered Lafferty in terror.
Grainger raised his hand to William, but spoke to Lafferty. “Then you will tell us the truth, plain and entire.”
Lafferty swallowed, three or four times, convulsively. “It were Mr. Starke, see. I owes him money.”
“Go on. We are not overheard.”
“He said to me, ‘That fellow, Grainger, must keep a deal of coin in his desk. I shall make sure you are not seen in his cell, if you bring me all the papers you can find, and keep the rest for yourself—excepting what you owe me.’ So while this lad of his keeps watch outside, I go in and break open the desk. But there’s no coin in there, only papers and pens. And while I’m trying to shake loose some farthings, the ink bottle rolls out and breaks. Then I hear the signal and I run. I gives the papers to Mr. Starke, like he asked. I sold the ribbon for a shilling. I would give it back to you if I could.”
“And the rest went for grog, I suppose,” concluded Grainger.
Lafferty hung his head. “You won’t ’peach me, master? I got nowhere else to go.”
“What did Starke want with my papers?”
“I don’t know. He’s close and jealous, that one.”
“You are a wretched fool,” said Grainger.
Released, Lafferty sank down against the wall.
“Come,” said Grainger. “It is too hot down here.”
“With all my heart,” said William, “let us be gone.”
But Grainger leaned first over the crouching thief. “You must not breathe of this to another soul, least of all Mr. Starke.”
“I swear, by my word!”
“Not by your word. By something that will last.”
“By ’im above, then.”
“By him below, rather.”
“Not him! That’s an ill-turn.”
“By his Black Claw, then.”
“On the Black Claw—my word.”
“And you will answer to him below, if I hear a whisper of this from anyone.”
Satisfied, Grainger guided William away. Even the stale air of the passages came as a relief from the suffocating cells.
William glanced at his friend as they walked towards the gates. “There is a determination about you I have not marked in your character before.”
“You think I was harsh with Lafferty, though we have learnt much of value. In truth, I was weak. If you are crossed in the gaol, then you must be revenged. For every wrong, exact a two-fold harm. I should have beaten him,” said Grainger.
“I’m glad you did not,” replied William gravely. “But you set a terror in him.”
“There is nothing more loathsome to any prisoner than an inmate who steals from his fellows in the cells. They are excoriated, despised, turned out. It is an effectual threat, and the only one I had the means to make.”
William considered this and then asked, “Who is this fellow, Starke?”
“One of the most hated and mistrusted men in the Bells. He is an informer. He is also wealthy, favoured, and protected by the gaoler, and trades on that favour. Brock uses him. And he, in turn, uses the most wretched and desperate inmates.”
“What do you intend now?”
“I must think. They made a grave error in choosing Lafferty for the sneaking and thieving.”
They climbed the steps and stood in the yard, blinking and stunned, in the glare of sunlight. William rubbed his eyes, took off his hat, wiped his brow.
“I must go,” said William.
“Godspeed. Bring me news of Miss Redruth.”
“I will.”
The two men parted, and William passed, more thoughtful than ever before, through the gates of the Bellstrom, oppressed by phantoms in the dust and the sunlight that, stealthy as a universal thief, crossed the roads and roofs and windowsills.
THE HOUSE in Staverside drowsed in the noonday sun. The shutters were drawn to hold out the heat and glare (and besides, some of the Withnails’ guests were, at this hour, acutely averse to the daylight). But there was no rest for the housemaids, for there were ever grates to be cleared of ashes, candle-stubs to be dug out and replaced, drapes and rugs to be washed, aired, and hung, floors to scrub, silver and copper to shine, linens to be changed, so that for two very pleasant and retiring old gentlemen and their select guests, the work was never concluded. Among all this busy-ness, Mrs. Scourish cruised slow and serene, for there was no haste or bustle about that old lady, but what terrors did she inspire among the housemaids, should her baleful eye fall upon one ashen thumb-smudge, drip of wax, or greasy smear.
Cassie Redruth spent her days on her knees or on her feet. Her hands were rendered red and raw by soda, lye-soap, and ashes. By evening, her fingers swelled, crooked and cramped. Her hands had always been strong and plain, but now she looked upon them, cracked and coarsened so, with a sort of weary disgust.
That afternoon, a small cellar door opened onto the street behind the mews. Cassie stepped out. As she glanced up and down the street, her face held plain caution, fear, and determination. She had no wish to be seen. As soon as the door was secured, she slipped her hands beneath her aprons and walked quickly to the end of the lane.
She set her path towards the Bellstrom. There was no need for her to ask her way to a particular cell. Few heeded her as she passed, for the prison remained sunk in its infernal airs.
She tapped timidly on his cell door, but he answered readily.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“Not at all. I sent by Mr. Quillby, to know how you fare.”
“Tolerable well, sir. It is a good situation.” She could not speak of the weariness of a servant’s labour.
“I am glad of it. I had a fear that you would be recognised and place yourself in the way of danger and suspicion.”
“No one looks at a maid.”
“I suppose you are right.” He drew her in and brought her the chair. “But I would look on you!”
“You make merry with me.”
“Not at all.” He stood across from her. “I am a very dull fellow.”
She looked down, but then remembered what she had carried beneath her maid’s apron. “I have this for you.”
She raised a letter, crumpled, on good paper.
“What is that?” he asked sharply.
“It is one of their messages, sir. They get so much correspondence, the brothers. Messengers coming and going at all hours. Usually they take delivery by hand, but this was left on the hallway table, slipped down, and was forgotten.”
“Did anyone see you take it?”
“No one. No one at all. See here, I noticed that the seal is loose. Perhaps you could pry it up and reseal it, and no one would be the wiser.”
With a sudden motion, he took it from her. Indeed, the seal was loose, and he needed only to tease it up with his thumb. The white paper unfolded.
He read quickly and exclaimed, “You have put yourself at terrible risk for a very slight prize.”
“What? What is it?”
“Nothing. Some silly fellow. Presents his compliments…begs leave to call at such and such a time…su
ch a business to discuss—it means nothing.”
“You are angry with me.”
“I am angry with myself. What a fool I have been, thinking that by having one friend, a servant in a great house, I could bring out all their secrets in one step.”
“But I will find them out. I will, somehow. Mrs. Scourish, she is a terror to the other girls, but she likes me. I will gain her confidence. They have room after room of papers. The housemaids see the brothers when they are alone or quarrel. They make notes and fill out great account books, and conceal things from each other, and then they will quiz the girls to find out what the other is doing, and lock up what they take in different places. Mrs. Scourish is the only one they trust, and she keeps all the keys. I will get the keys. I will come by them somehow.”
“But what will you come by? If you could find out something regarding Mr. Brock, the business they conduct together. Or better yet, the business between Massingham and the Withnails. If you could come by those papers, they would be revealed all at once. But how to find them? If you could get into their offices and bring me these things.”
“But how am I to do that,” exclaimed Cassie, “if you cannot tell me where to go and what to deliver to you? I am a wise girl and can sign my name and know it when I see it, and have got my catechism by heart, but I can no more read the brothers’ correspondence or tell the labels on their strongboxes than you can put on your Sunday coat and walk through the main gate!”
He stopped still and could not answer, while steps passed and doors clashed in the passage outside. Cassie Redruth hid her hands beneath her skirts.
“My dear Miss Redruth, I have been presumptuous and beg your pardon. I am acutely conscious of the risks you take on my behalf and beg you to consider me as devoted in return.”
“Well, then,” she said, though her breath caught, “I will report to you all that I learn.”
“But, no more letters, for the moment. We will see what else we can devise.”
He turned to the table, folding and smoothing the letter in hand, and prepared to strike a light while rummaging for a stick of wax. His voice returned, gentle and calm again. “Let us repair this seal, and then you may go back.”
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