Smith

by Leon Garfield

  “No. I was thinking you’d ’and me over to the Law.”

  “And even so you came back?”

  “I’m only a yewmanbeen.”

  “Only!”

  Smith freed one of Mr. Mansfield’s hands and turned once more into the weather.

  “We’d best be moving—or we’ll freeze in situation!”

  They stumbled on awhile longer—but no more in silence. A curious warmth seemed to have sprung up between them and rendered the wind less savage. Mr. Mansfield told Smith that his daughter had stayed behind to attend his trial and to keep Mr. Billing to his promise of the adjournment. It seemed it was she, the Saint of Vine Street, who’d kept her faith in Smith.

  “Not you, Mister Mansfield?” asked Smith shrewdly.

  “No, alas, not me. I’m no saint, Smith. Like you, I’m only a human being.”

  “Queer, then, being an old mole-in-the-hole and helpless, you should come out in sich weather for . . . for what, Mister Mansfield? For the ’ealthy cold air?”

  Mr. Mansfield grinned awkwardly.

  “That’s it, Smith! For my health!”

  Smith grinned back—then remembered his companion’s disability and said: “I’m a-smiling, Mister Mansfield!”

  “Pleased to hear it, Smith.”

  “You, too, Mister Mansfield. And a very cheering thing to see. You got a friendly smile, you know.”

  “I didn’t know, Smith. But now you’ve mentioned it, I’ll take a special pride in it!”

  And Mr. Mansfield continued to smile into the icy wind in the firm hope that Smith would sometimes turn and get the benefit; which Smith did, always remembering to return the compliment aloud. Then he’d turn back again and chatter about what he could see and what he’d seen . . . describing his life and the doings of his sisters . . . and even his escape from the jail. But he never mentioned Lord Tom nor any of the darkness that hemmed him in. Likewise, Mr. Mansfield, though he confided in Smith much of his warmer past, said nothing of what must have lain deepest in both their thoughts—the murder of Mr. Field.

  Presently, they reached the top of a gentle slope.

  “Cottage, Mister Mansfield . . . quarter mile off . . . light in the window . . . nice, snug little place. Looks warm. What say we knock on the door?”

  “Don’t mind if we do.”

  Smith tucked his head as far as it would go into his collar and began the descent toward the cottage which lay in a snow-filled hollow.

  A neat, well-built cottage, with good windows and a stout fence marking off its garden from the Common—though with the snow lying so heavy on garden and Common alike, the fence looked more peevish than necessary. There was a strong blossoming of smoke from the chimney that bespoke a warmer nature within than without . . . and the cottage’s windows gleamed most cheerfully.

  All this Smith described to Mr. Mansfield, who nodded as they approached the door and said he was reminded of old fairy tales.

  “A wood-chopper’s cottage . . . an old wood-chopper and his brown-eyed wife—”

  “Then there’s money in chopping wood,” said Smith shrewdly. “For there’s a stable at the back and space for a carriage.”

  He knocked on the door and Mr. Mansfield sighed as if he was almost sorry that their winter’s journey—murderous as it had been—was ending in so ordinary and genteel a place.

  The door opened an inch.

  “Who’s there? What d’you want?” The voice was harsh and irritable.

  “Shelter!” cried Smith and Mr. Mansfield together.

  “Who for?”

  “A blind man and a frozen child!”

  “What was that?” came a woman’s voice from within.

  “Blind man and frozen child,” answered the first voice.

  “Stuff and nonsense, Charlie!”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Have a look!”

  The door opened farther to the full extent of its chain. A stout, waistcoated man, bald and frowning, peered out.

  “Man and child, right enough, Mrs. P.,” he called out.

  “How big, Charlie?”

  “Child’s about—um—high as your chair and the man’s taller than me.”

  “Don’t like it, Charlie.”

  “No more do I. Shall I shut ’em out, Mrs. P.?”

  “Good God, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Mansfield. “In humanity’s name! On such a night?”

  “Did you hear that, Mrs. P.? The weather, y’know!”

  “Mrs. P.!” shouted Smith. “We’re frozen near to death—and me friend’s as blind as a post.”

  “Charlie! See if he’s blind!” came Mrs. P.’s complaining voice. Obligingly, Mr. Mansfield took off his spectacles and presented his face.

  “Nasty,” said Charlie. “Blind all right.”

  “Then let ’em in, Charlie!” cried Mrs. P. “Keeping a blind man and a frozen child on your doorstep; ain’t you got no humanity, sir? Oh, you’re a weak vessel, Charlie Parkin!”

  Thereupon, the chain was unfastened, the door opened wide and Smith and Mr. Mansfield welcomed directly into the parlor.

  “Hats! Coats! Boots!” shouted Mrs. P. “Quick, Charlie! Into the kitchen with ’em before we’re drowned out again!”

  “Least said, soonest mended,” said Charlie, collecting up those snowy articles, which were already dripping fast in the great heat of the parlor.

  He bustled out and Mrs. P.—a very small woman with sharp features and a blue cap—fixed Smith and Mr. Mansfield on either side of the neat fire. Indeed, everything about the parlor was neat: the cloth upon the table was neatly embroidered with neat little flowers, the plates upon that cloth were neat, and even the crumbs remaining on those plates had been neatly arranged, like soldiers drawn up for review.

  “A very neat home,” said Smith to Mr. Mansfield.

  “You poor things!” said Mrs. P., busy by the sideboard with glasses and some warming spirits. “Lost your ways on the Common, I suppose?”

  “Our coach was held up, ma’am,” said Mr. Mansfield. “Highwaymen.”

  “Charlie!” shouted Mrs. P. “They was held up! Highwaymen!”

  Instantly, Charlie reappeared, with a pistol in his hand. His eyes were fiery. “Highwaymen? Where?”

  “No, no! They”—she nodded to Smith and Mr. Mansfield—“was held up by highwaymen. Victims, Charlie. And come to us for succor.”

  “Oh!” said Charlie, putting up his weapon. “Them damned high tobies!”

  “Fetch the book, Charlie.”

  Charlie nodded, vanished back into the kitchen and reappeared with spectacles and a large ledger.

  “Ink and a fresh pen, Charlie.”

  They were got from the sideboard.

  “Brown paper, Charlie.”

  This was to spread on the tablecloth to protect it from the consequences of Charlie’s writings.

  “Now, Charlie—off you go!”

  Wonderingly, Smith watched and Mr. Mansfield listened to these preparations.

  “Blind man and boy,” said Mrs. P.—and Charlie repeated it and slowly, with much help from his fumbling tongue, wrote it in the book.

  “Held up—where was you held up?”

  “On the Common, ma’am.”

  “On the Common, Charlie.”

  “On the Common, Mrs. P. Two M’s and one N.”

  “Robbed?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Not robbed, Charlie.”

  Charlie wrote and Mrs. P. sighed at her husband’s slowness. (“A slow vessel, Mister Parkin.”)

  “Injured?”

  “Our coachman was—murdered, I believe,” said Mr. Mansfield, bleakly.

  “Coachman murdered, Charlie.”

  Charlie looked up and exchanged a long, deep stare with Mrs. P. Then he shook his head. “Them damned high tobies!”

  Now Mrs. P. came over with two glasses of spirits.

  “Two measures of brandy, Charlie!” she called out as she offered them.

  “Two measure
s of brandy,” wrote Charlie. “And two suppers to follow, Mrs. P.?”

  “Two suppers, Charlie—and two seats by the fire for the night.” She turned to her guests.

  “Nothing but chairs remaining.”

  Charlie finished his writing and looked up.

  “Names? What names, please?”

  “Mansfield,” said the magistrate somewhat coolly—for he was more than surprised by the above formalities. “Mister Mansfield. Justice of the Peace, sir.”

  “A magistrate! Fancy that, Mrs. P. Well, well, sir, it seems we’re in the same line of business. For I’m a constable—among other things. Yes, sir! Here to keep law and order! And let me tell you, sir, there’s not a vagabond, rogue or footpad who dares to set foot across the fence.”

  “That’s right!” agreed Mrs. P. “This cottage and all the ground enclosed by the fence belongs to the parish—and we keep it clean and aboveboard. The law’s respected here, sir.”

  “And everything’s recorded,” went on Charlie, patting the ledger. “Accounts square and trim. Two measures of brandy offered; two measures of brandy writ down; two measures of brandy back from the parish. Not a drop more—not a drop less.”

  “A name for honesty,” said Mrs. P.

  “And for neatness,” added Charlie.

  Smith looked at Mr. Mansfield and observed his face had grown redder than the fire could have made it. For the magistrate felt that this demonstration of upholding the law struck too shrewdly to be smiled at. And he wondered if the Parkins’ neat cottage and clean garden over which they watched so exactly—and let the rest of the Common go hang—was not an image of what his own heart had been and, indeed, of the whole tidy business of the law itself.

  Charlie had been about to put the ledger away, when a thought struck him.

  “Lad’s name, sir? Servant of your’n?”

  “Friend!” said Mr. Mansfield, vigorously. “A friend!”

  “Name?” said Charlie, his pen poised like a sword.

  “Jones,” lied Mr. Mansfield blandly.

  Smith, the escaped and no doubt hunted jailbird, regarded the perjured magistrate with the warmest affection—and surprise.

  “Jones,” wrote down Charlie, sanded the ink and shut the ledger. He looked to Mrs. P.

  “Shall we show why we got no bed to spare, Mrs. P.?”

  “Parish business, Charlie. You ain’t got the right.”

  “But he’s a Justice, Mrs. P., and concerned, I fancy.”

  “You’re a sentimental vessel, Charlie Parkin. Dangerous for one with your responsibilities.”

  “Just this once, Mrs. P. And he’s blind.”

  “Very well, Charlie—as he’s blind, then.”

  Whereupon the sentimental constable chuckled and reopened the ledger which he carried to Mr. Mansfield’s side.

  “There was someone before you, sir.”

  “Indeed?”

  “We took him in.”

  “Generous, sir. Generous!”

  “He was bleeding.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Your coachman, sir. Yes, indeed—we’ve succored him and nourished him and put him to bed.”

  “Thank God! Thank God!” cried Mr. Mansfield, deeply moved.

  “Here it is,” went on Charlie, proud to have been of service to humanity, the parish and a Justice of the Peace. And, forthwith, he read out the coachman’s name, wound, where sustained, quantity of bandage applied, sustenance consumed and quality of lodging, together with the care of horses and use of coach-house. All of which was chargeable to the parish . . . as was the meager warmth from Charlie Parkin’s respectable heart.

  Then the ledger was put away and Mrs. P. busied herself with fetching hot suppers for her guests while her husband talked and talked of how he kept his garden clear and expressed the hope that Mr. Mansfield would bring his vigilance to the ears of all his legal friends in Town.

  At about ten o’clock the Parkins went to bed (after assuring Mr. Mansfield that his coachman was not badly hurt and was sleeping peacefully) and left their guests to doze and brood in their chairs beside the banked-up fire.

  “It’s been a long day,” murmured Mr. Mansfield.

  “A long day,” agreed Smith.

  “A lifetime long.”

  Smith said nothing, but fancied he understood. Slowly, Mr. Mansfield’s head sank down on his chest and his fine, strong face glowed in the firelight. Smith stared at him profoundly. Dreamily, he wondered what sort of man the magistrate had been before he’d lost his sight.

  “Smith!”

  Mr. Mansfield was still awake. He’d taken off his spectacles and was staring to where he supposed Smith to be. His eyes were in a tragically ruinous state. But he was smiling. He fumbled inside his waistcoat.

  “Here, Smith. Isn’t this something you wanted? Take it then. Read it. Aloud, I beg of you!”

  He was offering Smith the document.

  17

  THE DOCUMENT! All the time in the snow, when he and Mr. Mansfield had been alone, the precious item had been within his grasp—and he’d forgotten it! Forgotten it so entirely, that its sudden appearance before the cottage fire was almost terrifying.

  “Take it, Smith—and tell me what old Mister Field had to say.”

  Fearfully, Smith reached out his hand and took the document. Ten thousand thoughts, fears and questions filled his head. Why had he been given it now? Why the enormous trust? Didn’t the magistrate still believe him to be a murderer? But what other choice had he—in his condition? Trust was obligatory: a necessary quality of life.

  “Read, Smith. Don’t be afraid. Read!”

  So Smith crouched down at the blind man’s feet, close by the fire where the light was sufficient. And, as he sat, Mr. Mansfield’s hand dropped by chance on his shoulder, then moved lightly upward and rested on his head.

  Smith read: slowly, shakily—for he was not over proficient and the writing was crabbed and there were words he could not pronounce.

  Neither confession, nor deed to property was the document. It was a letter to Mr. Lennard. A strange letter of an uncanny power in the firelit room. For, as Smith read on, murdered old Mr. Field seemed to creep into the parlor and cast his cold shadow between the blind man and the boy . . . so that Mr. Mansfield shivered and withdrew his hand from Smith’s head—and Smith shrank back towards his own side of the fire.

  The old man had written in deep agitation. Something had disturbed and shaken him profoundly. Also, there was fear . . . of a distressing kind. He knew his life to be threatened. Several times, he mentioned it. “I lie awake of nights, Lennard—and hear such sounds, and have such thoughts . . . at my age!” Then, later, he wrote of a discovery he’d made—but did not say what . . . only that he meant to carry it to his grave. A terrible discovery. This, also, was repeated and underlined . . . “A terrible, terrible discovery.”

  But now came an oddity. An instruction quite plain and without any of the confused fears that invaded the rest of the document. “The trifle” (trifle was underlined) “I wrote you of previously is buried in a shrewd place. Andrews knows where. Ask him where Jack used to play as a boy. When you have it, dispose of it as pleases you. I shall care no longer . . .” There followed here some bitter and pathetic words of the world in general, all once more in a very agitated manner, together with a last reference to his discovery, reaffirming his intention of carrying it to the grave, “where it would be hidden and forgot forever.”

  Smith stopped reading. There was a restless silence in which the fire leaped and cast strange lightnings across the blind man’s face.

  “Go on,” Mr. Mansfield said.

  “There’s nothing more.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing!” muttered Smith. “Or d’you think I’m hiding the rest from you?”

  He scowled furiously into the fire; his heart felt grievously empty. The document, the precious item that was to have raised him up in the world: nothing but an old man’s misery and dread and the
whereabouts of a trifle—a locket, most likely, or a brooch with a twist of his grandma’s hair.

  For this he’d endured so much. He stared at the paper, through which the fire shone redly, and noted the stains made by his own sweat when first he’d fled from the men in brown. Then he remembered his grief when he’d thought the document had been destroyed; and then his joy when he’d discovered it was safe. He remembered Miss Fanny’s hopes in it—not much less than his own . . . And now? Not even a “whereas” or a “felonious” or a “property” to justify a family’s dreams. Good God! And the old man had been killed for it!

  “The discovery . . . the discovery,” whispered Mr. Mansfield. “What was it?”

  “Took it with him to the grave,” said Smith dully. “Dead man’s wish. To be respected. Remember?”

  Mr. Mansfield shook his head. “We must know it, Smith. There’ll be no peace otherwise.”

  “You find out on your own, Mister Mansfield. I’m done with it. I’m off.”

  “But I’m blind, Smith. I—I need your eyes—”

  “Your daughter’s eyes are just as sharp.”

  “Not so. They’re partial. They’re dimmed by affection. Yours, Smith, are clear.”

  Smith, whose eyes were, at that time, anything but clear, being misted with tears of disappointment and general dissatisfaction with the world, nodded.

  “True enough.”

  Mr. Mansfield frowned and his projecting brows hid his empty eyes in pools of darkness so that, to an ignorant glance, he was no more blind than the boy.

  “What did you hope for from the document? Great riches? Power? What was it, Smith, that you struggled so hugely for?”

  Smith did not answer, partly on account of an obscure anger against the magistrate, and partly because he’d never had a clear notion of what he’d hoped for . . . save to make his way up in the world.

  Mr. Mansfield waited, seeming to stare into the fire. Little by little, his head sank once more onto his chest. Smith watched him. Surely he was asleep? Maybe half an hour passed . . .

  “Smith!”

  “I’m here.”

  “I thought you’d gone. You said you were going. Have you changed your mind?”

  “I’ll go in the morning.”

  Once more there was silence: a long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the blind man’s regular breathing. Desolately, Smith stared at the unlucky document. The words jiggled and danced before his tired eyes—but never again to shape themselves into the mystery of hope.