“If I am,” said Grainger easily, “I cannot see what I lose by that.”
“Tut. Bold men bleed as readily as the meek.”
“Now you speak in riddles,” said Grainger, smiling and pouring out a measure into a tin cup.
“You are careless of your safety, sir. The prison leaves an impression, even on the strongest character. After a certain period, the sense of freedoms denied and the hope of freedom fading may lead a man—possessing the character of a gentleman—to disregard caution, sense, and his own security.”
“You think that I am incautious.”
“You are rash to place yourself so often and so plainly in the path of a man like Mr. Starke.”
“And yet, Mr. Starke is hated and held in common contempt.”
Ravenscraigh shrugged and sipped from his beaker. “He has lately made an unusual alliance.”
“With whom?” said Grainger, guessing what was to come next.
“With Mr. Tallow and his associates.”
“And what of that?” said Grainger.
“You are no doubt familiar with the subject of our daily rumours,” responded Ravenscraigh, by way of explanation.
“This place is awash in rumours,” said Grainger, feigning indifference. “I beg you, be plainer.”
“The incident at Wodenshill.”
No more was said. The old man settled into his chair, holding his measure of brandy close. The dark outside the prison was wild and autumnal, and the candle between the two men flickered as a gust blustered against the panes of the tap-room. Ravenscraigh seemed to fade into a watchful shadow.
A great robbery had been done at the house at Wodenshill. Linen, silver, and gold had fled into the wild moors, leaving behind an elderly retainer of the house, bleeding his life out from a dashed-in skull. Who did the crime, where the stolen goods were, no one knew. Dirk Tallow’s crew was high in suspicion but roundly denied the deed. This was the rumour in the Bellstrom, where Mr. Brock stalked and bullied and hunted for the culprits—the reward, it was said, was nigh as great as the prize.
“We know not who did that theft,” said Grainger, musing awhile.
“I have a slight interest in the case,” admitted Ravenscraigh. “For thief-takers, constables, magistrates, and fences swarm after the reward. The order of the prison and the fellowship of crime are quite unsettled, and yet nothing can be found out. It has become entirely tedious.”
“Yet not so tedious, I think, to the family of the murdered man.”
“Quite so,” Ravenscraigh granted.
Grainger finished his cup, rose, and bowed deeply. “I will think on this,” he said. “I am in your debt.”
Ravenscraigh nodded, took up his book, and spoke without looking up again. “Have a care, sir. They are like children, these thieves and brigands. They are either absurdly, sentimentally loyal, or their allegiances shift like the river sands.”
THE SHADOWS clustered and formed vile cohorts in the crazy line of cells that led down to Cold Stone Row. The keys were turning for the night, and a hubbub ran through the prison, as those who could depart prepared to take their leave before the sealing of the outer gate. Thaddeus Grainger made his way towards his cell. His gait was a little unsteady, for he had been gaming this past hour (though with a very curious purpose, and more apt to cast about for prison gossip than attend to his wins and losses). He came to an archway above a sharp twist of short stairs.
A man lingered in the half-dark at the foot of the stairs. Grainger saw only his cap, his round shoulders, shabby coat, and heavy boots. Yet something in this person’s way of standing gave Grainger pause.
“What is the matter?” said Grainger.
In an instant Grainger knew his folly. A body moved behind him, but before he could turn he was struck heavily at the back of the knees by a stick or cudgel. He tumbled forward, hurling headlong down the steps. He raised his arms in time only to protect his head as he rolled on the crooked stairs and sprawled across the stones at the base.
He was beaten heavily across his shoulders and kicked in the ribs and the side as his hands went flying and he smashed his forehead against the stones.
In a daze, he tried to raise himself but could make out only the hobnailed boots that stepped back and then flew at him again. The breath was battered out of him.
“Stay clear of Starke. That’s all!” a voice bellowed.
A fearful blow caught him behind the ear, and for a moment all was pain, dimness, and seething, boundless, blood-red confusion.
CHAPTER XIV.
Mr. Ravenscraigh’s Interest.
MR. QUILLBY DINED with Mr. Galbraith in a disreputable coffeehouse near the old inns of court, and though the burgundy flowed pretty freely, the evening was all workaday between these gentlemen of the press. Galbraith was stout, red-faced, insinuating, and clever. He haunted the exchanges and intervened in the confidences of the clerks of the counting-houses, and yet he had never invested a penny of his own but regarded the gains and losses, the fortunes and collapses, as no more than a great game conducted perpetually for his amusement.
Now, drinking wine and coffee in equal measures, he said to William, “I have looked into that little matter you showed an interest in.”
“How so?” returned William, with a quickening of the breath, though he pretended indifference.
“Why, had you not some enquiries concerning the Withnails?”
William put his glass down; moved it idly to the left, then the right. “So I did.”
“They own property, don’t you know? Throughout Airenchester. They hold all sorts of curious pieces of the town. Many rookeries on Cracksheart Hill, for instance.”
“Indeed.”
Galbraith set a candlestick aside, so he could lean closer across the table. “The Withnails have a partner. A silent partner. A nameless shadow of no man’s knowledge or acquaintance. That is their weakness. I will hazard this: find their unseen partner, and you will find them out!”
“How did you come by this?” asked William, intrigued.
But Mr. Galbraith merely smiled, as though to say that no secret of the counting-house could be entirely closed to him.
“Do you know anything more of this old business with Piers Massingham?” pressed William.
Galbraith put a finger to his temple. “It passed, and all the principals concerned have prospered agreeably (though many small investors were left out of pocket). A property matter, I gather. Some patch of fen or wasteland on the Seddington Road. There is a village there, I believe.”
William made a note. “All properly conducted?”
“That is most unlikely, my dear fellow. Commons are closed up in haste and disorder at the moment, and no man pauses to ask whether or no the thing has been done properly.”
“And how do the other parties fare?”
“Mr. Harton prospers and does nothing. He is not a clever man and leaves it to his advisors. No doubt they rob him, but a wealthy man does not notice the mice in his pantry. Mr. Palliser is on the Continent with his new wife. A disagreeable girl: but the match is made to the satisfaction of all.”
“And Mr. Kempe?”
“Mr. Kempe comes out of it with but a modest increase. He is involved in several promising ventures, I gather.”
William rose from the table with great thanks, which Galbraith received indifferently. With a lighter step, William went home through the dark and fetid streets, for he intended to record all that he had learnt that evening before sleeping. But, as he mounted the stairs to his little rooms, his landlady presented him with a crumpled note.
AFTER A restless night, William rose while it was still dark by the light of a candle stub, dressed distractedly, and went down. He made his way across the stirring city and climbed to the gate of the Bellstrom. A line was already waiting for admission in the cold grey morning. Foremost in the line was Mrs. Myron.
“I have your note,” whispered Quillby. “Is he well?”
The old lady was grim-faced. “He is well eno
ugh now.”
As the gate was opened, they went in. How hard and dour and cruel the grimy old prison seemed at this dim hour of the breaking day! They hurried down to the lower cells.
Grainger was propped up, covered by a great rug and an overcoat. About his head was wound a long bandage. At the side of his little rope bed, sitting on the chair so as to be close at hand, was Miss Redruth.
“My dear Thaddeus!” exclaimed William.
“It is nothing. Not worth your while, though I am very pleased to see you,” said Grainger quietly. “I have a knot the size of an egg behind my ear. And a tenderness about the ribs. But otherwise, I am whole. You are acquainted with Miss Redruth?”
“I know the young lady, sir,” said Mrs. Myron, with a certain arching of the lips.
“Miss Redruth has been my nurse and protector,” said Grainger gravely.
“But what happened?” said William.
“I had the misfortune to slip on a clout of wet straw on some crooked steps,” said Grainger, “and two passing gentlemen were at hand to break my fall.”
“Mr. Tyre found him,” said Cassie. “They called for me and brought up a surgeon that they know. My brother fetched me, and we paid our way past the turnkey, for it was gone lockup by then.”
“When was this?” said William.
“A night and a day ago. I had no thought to disturb you. I have been bundled up thus since. But Miss Redruth has neglected her duties for me, and she will face hard questions.”
Cassie looked down at Grainger. “Mrs. Scourish is awful canny. She knows I am called across the river. And though I won’t tell her why, I must keep the hours of the lock.”
“I cannot allow her to stay,” Grainger concluded. “And she will not depart unless another takes her place.”
“I am here now, young master,” said Mrs. Myron, bustling forward, but speaking in gentler tones.
While Mrs. Myron set about breakfast and roused the coals in the grate, Grainger gestured William to the foot of the bed. “Tell me what has passed with you: all that you have found out since we parted. That will be a tonic to me.”
William sat down and related, with a great many stops, starts, and revisions, what he could recall of his supper with Mr. Galbraith.
“I’ve seen him,” interposed Cassie, abruptly, as William neared the end of his narration.
“Seen who?”
“That one called Harton. The great, swaggering dolt. He dines with the Withnails. Come to think of it, I’ve seen t’other one, Kempe, as well. But he never stops to dine. He waits on the brothers with such a sour look, maybe once or twice in these last six months.”
William nodded. “So Mr. Kempe has business with the Withnails, as well. He has never mentioned that.”
“More to the point,” mused Grainger, “who is this silent partner that no man knows?”
“A fellow with a limp, perhaps?” asked William, brightening.
“Precisely! That must be brought out.”
Cassie shook her head. “If there is man with a limp in business with the Withnails, he is never there. I have asked all the maids, and Mrs. Scourish herself ain’t heard of such a person.”
“And yet your friend, Galbraith, is certain of this silent partner?”
“He is positive. And he is never mistaken in matters of business.”
“He will reveal himself by and by,” said Grainger. “We must be patient and steady. And then we will have him!” Yet he winced as he spoke and fell back in the bed.
For a moment, Miss Redruth laid her hand to his brow, and he did not move it away.
“My head aches, somewhat,” he told William, who looked on with concern.
“You should rest, and not put yourself in the way of harm,” said Mrs. Myron sharply. She was searing bacon over the little grate.
“I will rest today. But on the morrow I have accounts to settle.”
BUT IT WAS not the next day, nor yet for many days, that Mr. Grainger was seen again in the byways of the Bells. When he did return, it was with an almost imperceptibly slower step and a certain hesitation and stiffness in the way he turned and moved. Yet nothing else marked his demeanour, cool and courteous as ever, as he took up his old place in the tap-room, and his former tasks as a letter-writer, and of this, some few of the old hands of the Bells indicated their guarded approval. Nevertheless, though his former heedlessness was now tempered by a certain caution, Grainger was active again in the cells and galleries of the teeming gaol. He visited, once or twice more, the Maids Tower, where the poor, pent-up girl was often accompanied by her fierce brother. More often, he was seen in the tap-room or along the Walk, in close and quiet conversation with one or other of the inmates. He frequented a few card games, staking little but listening at length; and once, he called upon Mr. Peasely. They spent a long evening in the former chandler’s cell, poring over a great many little scraps of paper, of which one or two were exchanged.
To the gaoler, he made no complaint, though Swinge once or twice slyly tried to elicit from him the cause of his fall.
“It won’t do,” moaned Swinge. “I won’t have my gents subjected to rough treatment.”
“It is nothing,” said Grainger. “Don’t think on it!” He closed the cell door and went back to poring over the slips of paper on his desk.
AT A PARTICULAR hour, Grainger lingered outside a set of rooms and happened to address those within:
“Good evening, Mr. Starke.”
“Good evening, Mr. Grainger.”
“May I join you?”
“By all means. You appear to have quite recovered from your unfortunate accident.”
“I am quite recovered. I thank you.”
“A gentleman must have a care for his person in this place.”
“Apparently so. I intend to take singular care, from henceforth.”
Starke usually dined with the gaoler, but in the evenings he amused himself in the two rooms he kept in the debtors’ wing, playing at cards, drinking, and lounging. Starke, beaming and ebullient, sat at the head of his table and dealt the cards. Two gentlemen, cheats and rakes, posed on either side of him. A bored whore sat on the sill and stared out of the bars at the smoky evening, and another man, Starke’s squire and protector, amused himself by tossing a coin and glowering at those who passed by. All this affected Grainger not one whit, as he stood at his ease, smiling softly, with his eyes on the cheerful Starke.
“We play for stakes,” drawled one of the gentleman, glancing lazily at Grainger.
“All the better,” said he, sitting himself quickly.
The cards were dealt, with a shrug.
“There is a great prize going begging,” remarked Grainger.
“Indeed, sir,” said Starke, eyeing his cards. “These are but small stakes.”
“I mean: the Wodenshill haul.”
Coins fell upon the table.
“I don’t perceive what you refer to,” said Starke, softly.
“Be plain, sir,” commanded the other player, with an irritable air.
“I mean,” continued Grainger, as calmly as before, “the proceeds of the great theft at Wodenshill. For whoever passes those goods will no doubt come by a considerable profit.”
“Ah, now I recall,” said Starke, frowning severely on the cards in his hand. “Yet no man knows who conducted that fearful crime, and no gentleman, I am sure, cares to know.”
“The gaol is wormy with the rumour that Dirk Tallow’s crew accomplished the deed,” said Grainger.
Cards fluttered upon the table.
“All the more cause to disdain the business,” commented the gentleman on Grainger’s left, with a sniff.
Starke grinned.
“In truth, the gang seem to have broken with their masters, and they must look abroad to find an intermediary who will deal with the booty.”
“A foul business,” opined Starke.
The cards were retrieved. Passed out again.
“You are not, I believe, a native of
Airenchester,” said Grainger, drawing a card.
“I have a varied and a vagabond sort of history,” owed Starke lightly. “I have dwelt in many fair towns.”
“Aye, and in the cells at Newgate!” cackled the whore at the window.
Starke, unmoved, drew another card.
“Yet in truth,” said Grainger, “even the middleman in the Wodenshill job would derive a pretty purse.”
The hand was made. Grainger threw in his cards.
The cards were collected, made straight, and passed to the next weary gentleman, who began to pass them out again.
“Be so good, sir,” Grainger remarked, “as to deal from the top of the deck and to disentangle the card that I note has become caught in your cuffs.”
After a discomforted pause, the game resumed.
“And yet,” said Grainger presently, “Mr. Tallow’s star is on the rise, and all regard the gallant highwayman with a little awe and, I daresay, fear.”
Starke’s manner did not change, and yet he lingered longer, counting and arranging his hand. “The popular sentiment little concerns us, I am sure.”
“And yet you know that Dirk Tallow’s rivals are all undone, and that Mickey Harfoot has gone to the gallows, and his mistress is like to do the same.”
Starke frowned, creasing his clear brow. “A sordid business.”
“A rough tragedy,” tutted the gentleman on his right. “A man of feeling cannot but be moved.”
“And yet no one tarries to enquire,” pressed Grainger, “how Dirk Tallow’s enemies are brought low, or how their capture was contrived on that night. How they were taken, judged, and hanged—how betrayed.”
“It is the natural end to lives of desperation and contempt for the laws of men and God,” said Starke piously.
“God save us all!” shrieked the woman at the window, who would not stop giggling afterwards.
“Quite,” said Grainger.
The hand was played, yet Grainger took up and cast down his cards negligently. All his attention was on Starke, the informant, who gave no sign of any perturbation of spirit. And yet, though his smiling expression did not change, his broad, bare forehead shone beneath the light.
Grainger had lost the round. He weighed his purse in his hand and grinned. “Gentleman, I am at a loss.”
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