The Shadowcutter

by Harriet Smart

  THE SHADOWCUTTER

  by

  Harriet Smart

  Published by Anthemion

  Copyright © 2015 by Harriet Smart

  ISBN 978-1-907873-39-3

  Third Edition

  www.harrietsmart.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please visit www.harrietsmart.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Epilogue

  Also by Harriet Smart

  The Butchered Man: Northminster Mystery 1

  The Dead Songbird: Northminster Mystery 2

  The Daughters of Blane

  Green Grow the Rushes

  The Wild Garden

  The Lark Ascending

  Reckless Griselda

  A Tempting Proposal

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Stanegate, July 1840

  “Mr Bryce is going to open his fencing room in Northminster,” said Major Vernon as they climbed the stairs. “There will be more business there for him. And he is going to give the men cutlass training.”

  “I had better lay in a stock of sutures, then,” said Felix, not entirely confident that the men of the Northminster Constabulary could be trained in the finer points of swordsmanship without a certain amount of damage.

  It was not yet seven in the morning and Felix could not help yawning. It was typical of Major Vernon to insist on rising even earlier on holiday than he usually did. That morning, he had goaded Felix into accompanying him to his fencing lesson, hoping to persuade him to take it up. Felix, feeling languid from the heat, did not feel inclined.

  The fencing master, Bryce, came out to greet them with an enthusiasm which matched that of Major Vernon. He was a Scotsman and not young – he had snow-white hair and a leathery complexion, but he had a sprightly air about him, as if he never grew tired. He was, as Major Vernon said as he presented him to Felix, a very fine advertisement for his art.

  While the Major changed into his kit, Mr Bryce took the opportunity to look Felix over.

  “You are right, sir, the gentleman does have the physique for it,” he said to Major Vernon. “And you never took lessons, Mr Carswell?”

  “I took one or two when I was first in Edinburgh,” said Felix, “but it got in the way of my work. And I was extremely clumsy.”

  “But the scar?”

  “A piece of glass and a madwoman.”

  “Then perhaps you do need to learn to defend yourself,” said Bryce.

  “Steady, Mr Bryce,” said Major Vernon, buttoning up his chamois leather jacket. “I want you to persuade him, not to drive him away.”

  “There is nothing the young ladies like better than a man who can handle a sword,” Bryce went on. “And it will help you with your dancing sir, make you nimble and light on your feet.” Bryce executed a waltz step or two to demonstrate and then finished with a bow.

  “I don’t have any plans to go dancing,” said Felix, wandering over to the open window in hope of finding a little air. That Major Vernon could think of exerting himself in a leather coat in this temperature astonished him. He did much not like hot weather and the air in Stanegate struck him as enervating. He had come from Northminster the day before, hoping for some relief from the heat and stench of the city. Stanegate did not smell so foul, but there was no refreshment in the air.

  “I can’t persuade, you sir? I am at your disposal,” said Bryce. “There is another gentleman here who is anxious to practice the epée, Major Vernon, and I told him I was expecting an accomplished opponent.”

  “I would hardly say that,” Major Vernon said, picking up his gloves.

  “He’s a Spanish gentleman from the West Indies, would you believe, sir? From some island, I can’t remember the name, Santa something or other – I’m not sure what he said. We do get all manner of people these days, in Stanegate.”

  “Heavens,” said Major Vernon. “I suspect he will slaughter me.”

  “He’s a young man,” said Bryce, “and he does has a certain style about him, but I think you will be more than a match for him. Shall we?” He opened the double doors and ushered them through into a thirty-foot room of lofty proportions. It was large enough to have held a score of swordsmen, all parrying and thrusting. As it was, Bryce had only one pupil, who stood at the far end fencing an invisible opponent.

  He stopped as they approached and bowed elaborately.

  “Would you care for a bout, sir?” he said, addressing the Major slowly and carefully. He had a thick Spanish accent. “I can see by your bearing that you are a true devotee of the sword.”

  Major Vernon returned the bow but with much less flamboyance.

  “At one time, perhaps, but you will have to forgive me if you find me a little rusty, Mr...?”

  “Oh, a hundred apologies, forgive me sir. Allow me to present myself. I am Don Xavier Perez Martinez.” He made another elaborate bow.

  “Giles Vernon at your service,” said Major Vernon. “I will fight you, of course, sir, but you may be disappointed with the sport. Whatever Mr Bryce may have told you –”

  “Ah, yes, I understand – you Englishmen are masters of the feint,” Martinez said.

  “This will be no feint, I assure you!” said Major Vernon. “Epée?”

  “Epée,” concurred Martinez.

  Felix went and sat down on one of the benches by the wall. While the men fixed on their masks and took up the weapons, he tried to recall the names o
f the islands of the West Indies that were Spanish colonies and failed entirely. His mother had attempted to cram a little geography into him as a child, but clearly without much success.

  Major Vernon and Don Xavier took up their positions and after saluting each other with flourishes of the sword, began their first bout.

  Felix knew little of the complexities of what he was witnessing, but it struck him at once that Don Xavier was not holding back. He went straight on the attack, with notable aggression, as if he meant real harm. For all the Major was doing his best to defend his position, he was clearly very soon under pressure. In a matter of moments, Don Xavier had actually knocked the sword from the Major’s hand. It went clattering to the floor, skittering across the boards noisily.

  Major Vernon threw up his hands, clearly startled by this very speedy defeat.

  “I told you I was not a good enough opponent,” he said, reaching to retrieve his sword. “You are most accomplished! Congratulations! Again?”

  Don Xavier did not reply. Felix noticed his chest rising and falling as he recovered his breath. It seemed he was quite winded by his victory, and then he began to cough in a fashion that alarmed Felix at once. It was a severe bronchial spasm which caused him to turn away, bending double as he did so, overcome entirely by it. His sword went crashing to the floor and he buckled at the knees.

  Felix leapt from the bench and threw himself down beside him, scrabbling to get the fencing mask clear of his face and hold him into a position so that he would not choke. A mixture of sputum and blood was frothing from his mouth, and his whole frame was shaking from the violence of his coughing. Felix’s handkerchief was soon clogged with the expectorations: a mass of greyish white globules, streaked with blood and stinking ominously of fresh plaster.

  Major Vernon, who had crouched down to help support him, offered his own handkerchief, leaving Felix staring down at the evidence. He reached for Martinez’s wrist and took his pulse. It was racing. The signs were not good: chronic phthisis, if he was not mistaken.

  “Where is he staying?” Major Vernon asked the fencing master.

  “At the White Horse, I think.”

  “Do you have towels and water?” said Felix, wishing he had his medical bag with him.

  “Of course, right away,” Bryce said and hurried off.

  The coughing subsided and Don Xavier stared at Felix, with glassy, sunken eyes, his forehead damp with fever. He opened his mouth as if to speak.

  “No, quiet for now, if you please, sir,” said Felix. “I am a surgeon, I will do all I can for you, and then we will find your own attendant.”

  Don Xavier shook his head, as if were the most painful and exhausting thing in the world.

  “I... I....” he rasped and then gave up, his head sinking back against Major Vernon.

  “All in good time,” Felix said, but wondered how much time he had.

  -0-

  The White Horse was not one of the most expensive or fashionable hotels in Stanegate. It lay in the oldest part of the town, hard up against the graveyard of the Parish Church. The grudging landlady showed them up to his room, which was inconveniently on the third floor.

  “Shouldn’t you have taken him to the infirmary?” she said, as they got him onto his bed.

  Felix did not trouble himself to answer her. Martinez was gasping for breath and needed his full attention. The stairs had been a desperate struggle for him, although he had Carswell and Major Vernon supporting him. They had been obliged to carry him up the last flight. He had, of course, considered taking the man to the Infirmary, but summer was always a dangerous place in a public hospital, especially in a town full of visiting invalids. The chance of catching a passing fever would be considerable. With Martinez’s already weakened constitution, it would be akin to negligence to have taken him there.

  But the room at the White Horse was, in its way, equally unpromising: a long, narrow slot, with a dormer window at one end. A miserable room at the best of times, and not at all suitable for a invalid.

  “When did he arrive?” Major Vernon asked the landlady. Martinez appeared to have only half unpacked. His travelling trunk lay open at the end of the room but he had taken the trouble to set up on the table by the bed a black crucifix with a white ivory figure of Christ, a string of rosary beads and an image of the Virgin Mary.

  “Day before last,” she said.

  “No servant with him?” Major Vernon said.

  “No, sir. We don’t usually take that sort here.”

  “And he didn’t call for a doctor?” said Felix.

  “Not that I know of. I shouldn’t have let him have the room if I’d known he was in this state. And he’s papist –” Felix heard the landlady mutter when Major Vernon sent her for water, brandy and more pillows

  “Well, I am sorry for that, Don Xavier,” Major Vernon said, when she had gone. “A very poor specimen of our national hospitality.”

  Martinez made a gesture that suggested he was not offended. He was beyond being offended, Felix supposed, the poor fellow.

  “Come, sir, let’s get you more comfortable,” Felix said, and together with the Major they got him out of his clothes. He was wretched with sweat, and the closeness of the room did not help. What had possessed him to go fencing that morning, Felix thought, as he sponged him down, attempting to reduce the fever. His symptoms were of a nature and severity that they would have presented themselves before, and with disabling consequences. He would know exactly what was wrong with him.

  Major Vernon had found a fresh shirt for him, and they sat him upright to remove the old one. As the old shirt was taken off, Felix noticed that his back was covered with a horrific lattice-work of scars, many clearly old, but there was also a nasty crop of fresh and extremely livid weals, which needed urgent cleaning and attention. It looked for all the world as if he had been regularly flogged. He glanced at Major Vernon wondering what he thought, frustrated that there could be no discussion nor any questioning of their patient at that moment. Martinez was too weak for it.

  Fortunately Bryce, who had been sent to retrieve Felix’s medical bag, arrived shortly afterwards.

  “There’s a woman who lives next door to me who has a good reputation as a nurse,” Bryce said. “Shall I fetch her for you, Mr Carswell?”

  “Yes, good idea,” said Felix taking his bag, and searching in it for a suitable dressing for the weals.

  As he did so, he noticed Major Vernon opening the drawer of the table on which the crucifix had been set up, and frowning at what he saw.

  “What?”

  “All in good time,” Vernon murmured, sliding the drawer closed again.

  Felix dressed the wounds, and was glad to observe Martinez’s breathing became a little more regular, although it could not be described as comfortable, although he was still perspiring heavily. He took a few soundings with his stethoscope and what he heard only confirmed his earlier intuitions.

  Martinez took a little brandy and water, into which Felix mixed a grain of opium. It was best to sedate him and let his body rest before the next inevitable, bloody coughing fit.

  When he had slipped into unconsciousness Felix opened the drawer and saw a fearsome looking whip made of a dozen knotted cords.

  “Self-inflicted, I suspect,” Vernon said.

  “You may be right, given the pattern of scarring,” Felix said. “But why? What would possess you to do that when...”

  “Might this have something to do with it?” Major Vernon said, lifting a long white tunic-like woollen garment out of the trunk. “I think this is a monk’s habit of some sort.”

  “Good grief.” Felix said, coming over and looking into the trunk for himself.

  “A wandering friar, perhaps,” said Major Vernon, hanging the tunic on one of the hooks on the wall, “who fences like an officer.”

  “And in the last stages of consumption,” said Felix.

  “Is it that bad?”

  Felix nodded. “There’s no doubt. When I sounded h
is chest –”

  “He’s a long way from home to be in such a condition. What about his Mother Church? Why aren’t they taking care of him? And why is he here, of all places?” He went over and looked down at the now sleeping man. “Poor soul. Well, we shall have to do what we can for him. I’m sorry, it’s not much of a holiday for you.”

  Felix did not like to say that he did not really regard his visit in the light of a holiday. He had come out of duty as much as anything; although he was pleased to see Major Vernon, the pleasure was coloured with a certain amount of discomfort.

  It had been his idea that they go there in the first place and he now regretted the suggestion. He should have sent them further away, to the seaside, out with of visiting distance. He had only thrown out the idea in the mildest terms, that it might be beneficial at some point or other, now that Mrs Vernon was so much recovered that a course of waters at some spa town might do her good. He had not expected to be taken seriously, for he could scarcely imagine that Major Vernon would ever willingly take leave from the Constabulary.

  But the notion had fallen on surprisingly fertile ground. Major Vernon had seized on it and, being a man who liked to put things into action with great zeal, it had soon become a settled project. He was due some leave, he had said, and it would do him as much good as Mrs Vernon to have a holiday. What did Carswell think of the waters at Stanegate? It was close enough to Northminster, a mere hour and a quarter by the new railway, to make it possible for him to get away without undue worry. If there was a problem he could get back easily. Furthermore it would give him a chance to put Superintendent Rollins in charge – he could be made Acting Assistant Chief Constable.

  “I want to see what he makes of the job – this will be an ideal chance for him.”

  “Be careful or you will lose him to another force if you let him learn all your arts,” Felix had said.

  “That is entirely possible,” Major Vernon had said with a shrug. “A man as talented as Rollins, who has made so much of himself from so little deserves all the opportunities we can give him to get on. But he is very loyal, and his family are all here. It is a risk I will take.”

  So a house had been taken, and all was organised. Felix had had to admit to considerable relief when Major and Mrs Vernon had left for the wholesome dissipations of Stanegate and its spas. Out of sight, he hoped to God, would be out of mind. But the Major had extracted a promise from him that he must visit, and he could not in all conscience avoid that. Mrs Vernon was still his patient, after all. Poor mysterious Martinez, as he wheezed in his uneasy slumber on his wretched bed, could not know how helpful he was being. He was sparing Felix the tortures of breakfast with Mrs Vernon.