The Raven's Seal

by Andrei Baltakmens

  “Don’t say that,” urged Toby. “They don’t say that.”

  Grainger straightened, but his hand was on the lad’s shoulder, pinning him to the black stone. “Aye. A sneak and a spy, the very words. And I have often wondered how it came to pass that so swiftly on the heels of the discovery of the confession, nameless ruffians would come to the very man, that harmless law-writer, into whose hands Cassie would entrust the papers. How did it come to pass, save that someone acquainted with the case gave the truth away?”

  To Grainger’s astonishment, Toby, who was snivelling and swallowing hard, covered his face with his hands and burst into tears. Grainger released him, and the youth slid down the wall into a posture, half kneeling and half crouching.

  “Don’t ’peach me,” he wailed. “Don’t ’peach me to her. She is the only one of them who will stand by me. Don’t tell her it was so.”

  “Stand up,” growled Grainger. “But it was so, when she met you coming out of the prison—or going in. And who was it you betrayed our discovery to?”

  “They made me! T’weren’t my choice. I tried to help her, I did, truly.”

  “For that she would never think it you. But I have not such a kindly nature! Stop your cringing and your whining!” Grainger bent down, to speak close to the lad. “I will keep your confession if you give me reason to trust you.”

  “I am sworn to them,” said Toby. His voice rose little above the drumming rain. “I cannot tell.”

  “You are Dirk Tallow’s bondsman, his soldier through and through,” said Grainger sadly.

  Desolate, Toby could only nod.

  “And whatever he asked of you, even if it ran against your family, you would do,” concluded Grainger.

  The boy did not speak but was shaken again by a gust of tears.

  “Well, you have kept silent and held to your oath,” said Grainger with a sigh. “But you are a fool. Did Augie Cledger choose you out of spite, or did they mean to sever you from the rest of the prisoners, to be sure that you would not speak to me?”

  “You don’t know what they will stop at, who they answer to,” said Toby, miserably.

  “Oh, I am beginning to form a pretty clear notion of that,” said Grainger, rising.

  “It was your fault!” cried Toby, suddenly. “Your fault from the start! I know what it means when a gentleman of your sort takes an interest in a girl from The Steps.”

  “How exceptionally prescient of you,” said Grainger, turning. “And how do you come to take an interest in my faults from the start?”

  Toby bit his lip and would not answer.

  “How long,” pressed Grainger, “have you had a part in this?”

  There was yet no answer.

  “You need not fear,” said Grainger, “that I will betray your part in this to any soul. On that you have my word. But let this be the end of such dealings between us. You owe me and your sister that much.”

  He had stepped into the rain before Toby replied. “I saw you. I saw you fight that other gent. I was watching in the old abbey. I climbed up a broken wall into one of the old cells. I could see it all—and I cheered for you, so I did! Dirk Tallow set me on to it. I was a likely lad, and he had an interest in your doings. So I was sent there to see which one of you walked away. You fought fair, and the other gent didn’t, but when I told Dirk you was wounded, he seemed mighty disappointed, and I can’t tell why. That was the start of it. Then he set me up as a porter boy, and from time to time he would ask after you, or set me on to what Cassie was doing. But I never told them about those papers we got out of the Withnails’. I swear I didn’t!”

  “And you told all of the rest to Dirk Tallow.”

  “Aye. Or one of his captains. Or sometimes the fat cheat, Babbage.”

  “Mr. Babbage! And they never told you the reason for their interest?”

  “I weren’t expected to know their minds on that.”

  “And you never knew to whom these reports passed?”

  Toby shook his head.

  “You have lied about this,” said Grainger, with a dangerous emphasis, “the whole time.”

  “It weren’t a lie. When did anyone ever ask it of me?”

  “You concealed it, then. Worse than a lie. And in light of these worming ways, why should I trust you now?”

  “You stood up for me, didn’t you? You had your reasons. But you was the only one, all the same.”

  “Yes,” said Grainger, now thoroughly drenched. “And that is worth considering in itself.”

  By means of resting his weight against the wall, the boy raised himself again. “You ain’t angry with me?”

  Grainger darted back, and Toby had the presence of mind to flinch, although the tall man, haggard and wolfish in his worn prison-clothes, raised neither his hand nor his voice. “You acquiesced to all this spying and creeping. Aye! Of your own will. I know the sort of men you thought to impress with your service. You have done me a great evil, you miserable scrap of a boy! And your sister and your family besides. And worse than that, you have harmed a good, innocent old man, whose only thought was to bear witness to the truth. If my injuries alone stood in the balance, I would flog you. But I have scant regard for all courts, and am not placed to judge you. However, I will call on you again before we are requited. Go. Be as before; tell no one of this.”

  Toby scampered away. The roar of the tap-room was by no means abated, but Grainger remained outside, a little beyond the reach of the rain, pacing to and fro, sometimes muttering, sometimes folding his arms about him, sometimes scowling blackly, for many hours afterwards.

  WILLIAM QUILLBY, with a note from Thaddeus Grainger in hand, made his way along Duckfoote Lane towards the Bellstrom. A frosty wind whipped along the lane, as though to lash the denizens of Cracksheart Hill for their manifold sins, and William thought fondly of a coffeehouse and fire.

  Thoroughly chilled, William hurried under the gateway arch and was about to knock (with raw hands) for the turnkey, when he heard his name called and realised that two people he knew sheltered before the prison gate. The first was Mrs. Myron; the second, the placid Myron himself. William was surprised and alarmed to see the former, for Mrs. Myron attended on the young master strictly in the morning, but he was dumbfounded to come upon Myron here, for the family steward had never, to his knowledge, set foot within the Bellstrom. Myron himself seemed equally discomfited: his face blank, his stance straight, his manner stonily contained, and he stared at the patch of gatehouse wall before him as though he had a mind to chide the gaoler for maintaining such slovenly premises.

  Flustered, William raised his hat. “All is well, I hope?”

  Myron bowed very correctly but did not seem inclined to speak. Mrs. Myron replied: “Nothing is wrong. I expect we are all here by the same cause. At least, the young master said that we were to call, and that you would come. Mr. Myron thought it were best if we waited for you, sir, and went in together.”

  “Very well!” William knocked and slipped a coin to the turnkey.

  Mrs. Myron was familiar with the way, but Myron held himself unmoved and looked neither left nor right as they pushed through the rabble of lurking felons and mincing whores. The din of the prison, its stinks and crush, afflicted Myron most severely, for he frowned at the walls, and the fetters, and the slimy puddles and masses of filthy straw and detritus. Yet they came without incident to Grainger’s cell.

  Grainger had stoked up the little fire, and the smoke stung the eyes.

  “I am sure,” declared William, smiling, “that we are all well met—but I am otherwise at a loss as to the meaning of this conclave.”

  Grainger put a finger to his lips. “That is a question that perhaps Mrs. Myron can best answer. But let us venture not to be overheard.” So saying, he went to the cell door and shut it firmly.

  The light from the passageway cut out, and the room became very dim, for clouds sat black on the horizon and the fire smouldered. William balanced himself on the end of the little bedstead, with
the air of a gentleman sitting himself at the theatre before the first act.

  “Perhaps, sir,” said Mrs. Myron in a low voice, “you had best set before the others why we are here.”

  “It is curious,” mused Grainger, “what speculations and queries one entertains—nay, follows doggedly to their very ends—and which we forget or dismiss. Long ago, it seems very long ago, when I first came within these walls, another prisoner represented something to me that I thought curious at the time, but soon set aside as a mere coincidence. I had not thought of it since then, yet recently something that was said to me brought it back to my mind: ‘An excellent family is not always surety of an excellent character.’ It strikes a little near the mark, does it not? He thought to make me misdoubt another, but it applies equally well elsewhere. There is a prisoner here, a redoubtable prisoner, an elderly gentleman of good breeding, who told me he was known to my family in happier days, and spoke highly of my father and mother. I put the name of that prisoner to Mrs. Myron, wondering if she could recall the connection, and rather than answer directly, she insisted on this mysterious meeting and bringing Mr. Myron as her witness.”

  “And what,” interjected Quillby, leaning forward with imperfect patience, “is the name of this prisoner?”

  “The gentleman’s name,” returned Grainger, “is Nicodemus Ravenscraigh.”

  Mrs. Myron grasped her husband’s hand. Tenderly, he led her to the chair by the table. Myron remained standing at her side, his face grim.

  Mrs. Myron sighed and rested her head on her palm. “That name is known to us, but it has a dark and unfortunate history. Your father, yes, had dealings with this man. My pretty mistress, your mother, also. But if he said that they were friends or in any way intimates, well, that is altogether a lie!”

  “The truth, Mrs. Myron,” said Grainger calmly. “That is all I am interested in. The whole matter, in whatever light it places my parents; I must have the facts about this Nicodemus Ravenscraigh.”

  Mrs. Myron glanced at her husband, who nodded sternly as she replied, “I know the name of Nick Ravenscraigh of old. He came from a good old Airenchester family: well-connected and well-moneyed. But even in his youth he acquired an indifferent bad reputation. Oh, he was handsome, persuasive and exceedingly clever, and delighted in little intrigues, but he was also a rake and gambler, and it was rumoured that he had committed a great portion of his fortune to many debts, within his own class and among the city merchants.”

  “And foremost among them, a man called Airey,” Grainger interposed.

  “There was a man called Airey,” Mrs. Myron concurred, surprised. “But all that came out later.”

  Mrs. Myron continued: “I was your darling mother’s maid in those days. There was some slight connection between the Ravenscraighs and her family. Nick Ravenscraigh had paid court to her, but she was too much of a lively, sensible girl to be taken in by the airs of the likes of him, and besides, she was in love with your father. Well, he was in debt. Ravenscraigh, I mean. You know that much, it seems. And a fine, gentlemanly pose he made of it. But Clarence, your father, disliked him and mistrusted him. Nick Ravenscraigh was a gamester, and he was also a cheat, and your father called him out and told him so to his face.”

  “To his face, indeed,” breathed Grainger in wonder. “A severe breach between gentlemen. I marvel it was not a matter of honour!”

  “A challenge was forwarded,” said Myron unexpectedly. “And accepted directly. But this Ravenscraigh’s seconds could never agree to the particulars—the time and the place and the means—and the issue was never concluded.”

  “You cast my parents in a singular light,” observed Grainger.

  “Children only ever know half of the matter of their parents, and rightly so,” said Mrs. Myron. “But should you know the whole of it, you would never glean a dishonourable or a mean motive in the least thing your mother or father did. But it could be said that when your father spoke against Nick Ravenscraigh, for his cheating, and his fleecing of his relatives and friends, that was the beginning of his decline, for afterwards he could associate only with wicked men, with gamblers and horse-traders and moneylenders, and his fortune was threadbare indeed.”

  Mrs. Myron shook her head before resuming. “By and by, he seemed to have mended his ways. He married a decent young lady from a decent family.”

  “What was her name?“ asked William.

  “Her name was Grimsborough—Miss Moira Grimsborough.” Now it was William’s turn to look astonished. “It was said that the girl’s family opposed the match, but that the eldest son was abroad with the cavalry and could not return to intervene in time. It was also said that even as the marriage began, Ravenscraigh kept a mistress, a haughty, handsome, accomplished woman.”

  “These are vile things, surely. But what of the crime?” Grainger pressed.

  For a moment, the company was quite silent. The little fire in the grate dwindled to a glow, and while a great storm-cloak of black clouds had covered the north of the city and swept all light from the sky, there was only the sound and flicker of rain at the window, and all shades and tones in the cell were muted. Mrs. Myron directed her remarks almost wholly to the grate, while Grainger leaned against the wall, and William made furtive notes on a scrap of paper in his palm.

  “You know that the Ravenscraighs fell in with this man Airey, who was pleased to treat their fine riverside house as his own, and came and went by the dock at all hours of the night and day. Until one night, when he blew a hole in his head with a duelling pistol. Some said he grew weary of his inconstant and brutal life, and was oppressed by losses of his own, for he had made and lost a very great wager that same day—and others said he was murdered. The suspicion, though not the proof, fell upon Nicodemus Ravenscraigh. Mrs. Ravenscraigh had gone up into the country for the airs, but many said that Ravenscraigh’s mistress was also a visitor to the house that night.”

  “How was it he escaped trial for the crime?” said Grainger after a pause.

  Mrs. Myron looked up and seemed startled. “Perhaps, sir, my husband can best answer that.”

  Myron stepped to her side. “Many, your father among them, had good cause to suspect Mr. Ravenscraigh of some foulness in the death of Airey, but there were several circumstances against the supposition.”

  “Such as?”

  “Very well, sir. In the first place, the pistol was found near the dead man’s hand, aye, and spattered with his blood.”

  “Suggestive,” noted William, “but hardly conclusive.”

  Myron nodded, the very model of a grave justice. “But then, when all the rumours were flying thick and fast, before a warrant could be made out against him, Ravenscraigh’s manservant swore an affidavit that the door to Airey’s room was locked on the inside, and that after the shot was heard he broke down the door to get inside.”

  “Who took down the affidavit?” queried William. “Trounce and Babbage, I assume.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but there you are wrong. ’Twas another young lawyer who had recently passed the bar. A gentleman by the name of Shorter.”

  “Who is now mayor of this fine city!” remarked William.

  “And a more ambitious, wheedling, sly fellow, puffed up by his own importance, I never knew,” sniffed Mrs. Myron, by way of assent.

  “Who was this manservant?” asked Grainger.

  “An ostler and carriage-driver, I recall,” returned Myron.

  “I believe,” said Mrs. Myron, “that his name was Brock, Abel Brock.”

  Quillby had given up writing altogether and stared as if mesmerised also by Mrs. Myron.

  “The same Brock who is now a thief-taker?”

  Mrs. Myron nodded. “If you know him so, I suppose it is true.”

  “A low sort of witness,” concluded Myron.

  “But sufficient, I should say,” resumed Grainger, running his hands across his head, “to keep his master out of the shadow of the courthouse, until, I expect, my father and his other cr
editors could call on all his debts.”

  “Well, no sir,” Mrs. Myron retorted. “Begging your pardon, but that is where you are quite wrong.”

  Grainger smiled. “You have astonished me comprehensively three times this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Myron nodded serenely. Her husband touched her shoulder, as though to yield the stage to her. “But you are wrong in both respects, young master. Your father was never a creditor to Mr. Ravenscraigh, and after that first incident, held himself apart from all that man did.”

  “And in the second respect?”

  “Nicodemus Ravenscraigh was never taken up for his debts by any of his creditors. He had quite ruined his fortune and owed money in any number of quarters, but he came by his own will and purpose to the Bellstrom to escape his commitments.”

  “A debtor, indeed,” said Myron grimly. “A politic debtor, who used the prison to hide from his entanglements.”

  “Aye, for once he was inside the Bellstrom, none of his other creditors or bills could follow him or hold him or make any other claim against him. He was safe from Airey’s friends, and the charges against his estate. Safe from the constables. Anyone he had no wish to see was turned away at the gate. And with a ticket-of-leave from the gaoler and two strong turnkeys at his side, he could go forth anywhere in the city. We saw him, striding about the town in his neat black coat as if he were a free man. He had studied his revenge well, and against all those who had accused him, or held him to his debts, he measured some sort of retribution, and drove many a soul to ruin in the wake of his own desolation, by means generally foul.”

  “A remarkable change in character,” said Grainger.

  “But is it so strange?” returned Mrs. Myron. “The prison changes all those who pass its gates. You were always a careless, blithe, clever boy, but you are changed also, and a truer gentleman for it, and more like your father still than I ever knew you.”

  Grainger shook his head, but William asked, suddenly, “And what of Miss Grimsborough, that is, the Captain’s sister?”