by Stef Penney
I thought about this most of the day, and decided that evening was the best time. I could have waited till dawn, but I don’t want to leave it any longer. The river is fast and high–there have been rains to the north. But the rock from where Doc Wade took his leave is dry–it is only the spring floods that cover it.
And yet there is a footprint on it. A dark, wet mark. Even in the dusk I see it. Perhaps Knox has arranged for a guardian after all. Who got bored and went for a paddle. I don’t believe it for a minute, so I creep softly down the side of the cabin, out of sight of the front door. All is silent. Perhaps I imagined it–I can no longer see the rock. I have brought a knife in my pocket, which I am now holding, rather more tightly than is necessary. It’s not really that I think for a moment the murderer would come back–for what?–but I creep on, one hand on the cabin wall, until I can listen by the window for sounds within. I stand there so long my leg goes to sleep, and I have not heard so much as a fly’s breath. I step up to the door, which is wired shut, take out the pliers and unpick the fastening. Inside is dim but I still pull the door closed, just in case.
The cabin looks exactly as I remember it, except that the bed is now empty. There is still an awful smell coming from the mattress and blankets, stacked up against the wall. I wonder who is going to wash them–or will they simply be burnt? His old mother is hardly likely to want them.
I start upstairs. It doesn’t look as though Jammet came up here very much–there are boxes and crates stacked against the walls, and dust blankets everything, showing where the men went yesterday, their feet rubbing little clearings where they stopped and peered at something. I put down the lamp and start to go through the nearest box, which contains his best clothes–an old-fashioned black coat and trousers, which I would say were too small for him. Did they belong to him when younger, or to his father? I sift through the other boxes; more clothes, some papers from the Hudson Bay Company, mainly relating to his retirement after ‘an accident incurred in the line of duty’.
Several items open doors that lead to Jammet’s other lives, before he came to Dove River. I try not to think about some of them too much: a pressed silk flower, for instance, faded with age–a token of love from a woman, or one he meant to give but didn’t? I wonder about the invisible women in his life. And here is a rare thing–a photograph that shows Jammet as a younger man, grinning his infectious smile. He is with several men I take to be voyageurs, all wearing neckerchiefs and capotes and squinting to varying degrees in the bright sunlight, clustered around a mountain of boxes and canoes, but he is the only one who could keep up a smile for that long. What occasion could have merited a photograph? Perhaps they had just beaten the record for a particularly gruelling portage. Voyageurs take pride in such things.
Having searched the boxes I pull them away from the wall. I am not sure what I think I might find but there is nothing other than dust and mouse droppings; the desiccated husks of wasps.
I go downstairs disheartened. I don’t even know what I am looking for, other than something that will confirm that Francis is nothing to do with this, which of course I already know. I cannot imagine what that might be.
I become aware that I am breathing thickly through my mouth as I go through his foodstuffs. The smell inhabits the whole building, worse than when he was still here. For the sake of thoroughness, so I will not be tormented in the night and have to come back, I stick my hand into the bins of grain and flour, and that’s when I find it. In the flour bin my hand brushes against something and I jerk backwards with a sort of yelp before I can stop myself, throwing flour everywhere. It’s a slip of paper torn from a larger piece, with numbers and letters written on it: ‘61HBKW’. Nothing else. I can’t really imagine anything less useful. Why hide a piece of paper in a flour bin if it has nonsensical letters on it, particularly if, like Jammet, you can’t read? I put it in my pocket before it occurs to me that it could have fallen into the flour bin by accident. Come to that, it could have fallen into the flour anywhere; in Scott’s warehouse, for instance. Even if Jammet did hide it, it seems hardly likely to give me the identity of his killer.
I have so far avoided the area round the bed, and am unwilling, to say the least, to put my hands on it. I should have brought gloves, but that is one thing I did not think of. I peer round inside the empty firebox while I think about it. Then something happens that very nearly causes me to faint from shock: there is a knock at the door.
I stand stock still for several seconds, but it is foolish to pretend I am not here, what with the lantern shining through the translucent windows. I stand for several more seconds, while I try to concoct a good reason for being there, but I still haven’t thought of one when the door opens and I am confronted with a man I have never seen before.
Shortly after he emerged from the bright fog of childhood, Donald had to acknowledge that he had difficulty seeing objects at any distance. Anything beyond the range of his outstretched hand became indistinct; small objects escaped him; people became anonymous. He could no longer recognise friends, or even his own family, and he stopped hailing people at a distance, as he had no idea who they were. He developed a reputation for coldness. He confided his unease to his mother and was provided with a pair of uncomfortable wire-framed spectacles. This was the first miracle of his life–the way the spectacles brought him back into the world.
The second, related miracle occurred one evening soon after. It was November, a rare clear night, and he was walking home from school when he looked up and stopped dead in astonishment. The full moon hung low and heavy in front of him, casting his shadow along the road. But what made his jaw drop was its clarity. He had assumed (without ever thinking about it much) that the moon was a fuzzy disc to everyone. How could it be otherwise, when it was so far away? But here it was, in sharp, exquisite detail–the wrinkled, pocked surface, the bright plains and dark craters. His new, augmented vision reached not just to the far side of the street and the hymn board in church, but countless leagues into space. Breathless, he took the glasses off–the moon was softer, larger, somehow nearer. His surroundings closed in, appearing both more intimate and more threatening. He put the glasses back on and distance, clarity, was restored.
That night he walked home filled with a huge, brimming delight. He laughed out loud, to the surprise of passers-by. He wanted to shout to them and tell them of his discovery. He knew it would mean nothing to them, they who had seen it all along. But he felt sorry for them, not to know what it was to appreciate a gift like eyesight, having lost it, and been granted it again.
How often, since then, has he felt that perfect, overwhelming delight? In truth, not once.
Donald lies in the narrow, uncomfortable bed staring at the moon over Caulfield. He takes his spectacles off and puts them on again, reliving that ecstatic moment of revelation. He remembers being sure he had been afforded a glimpse of something portentous, although not certain what it meant. Now it doesn’t seem that it meant anything much. But he became accustomed to looking at things from a distance, in order to keep them in focus. Perhaps that is why he gravitated towards numbers, attracted by their mute simplicity. Numbers are only ever themselves. If things can be reduced to numbers, they can be ordered and balanced. Take the community of native families that live beyond the palisade of Fort Edgar, and cause constant headaches to the factors. The voyageurs breed at an alarming rate, producing ever more mouths for the Company to feed. There has been much grumbling about the food they consume and the medical attention they demand, so Donald set to enumerating the work that the women do for the Fort. He listed the washing and vegetable tending, the tanning of hides, the making of snowshoes … and attributed a value to each task, until he could show that the Company was benefiting at least as much from the association as the families were. He was proud of this achievement, even more so since getting to know Jacob’s wife and children–two girls who stare at their father’s pale friend with huge, liquid brown eyes. These children with their trusting gaze a
nd incomprehensible secret names are set against the furs that the Company lives on, although to be honest, no one is in any doubt which are more important.
When Donald first arrived at Fort Edgar, the Clerk-in-depot, a man called Bell, had shown him round the post. Donald saw the offices, the crowded sleeping quarters, the trading counter, the Indian village beyond the palisade (at a suitable distance), the log church, the graveyard … and finally the huge cold storerooms where the furs were stacked, waiting to start on their epic journey to London, where they would be converted into hard cash. Bell glanced furtively around him before breaking open a bale, and the glossy pelts slithered out onto the dirt floor.
‘Well, this is what it’s all about,’ he said in his Edinburgh accent. ‘This lot will be worth several guineas in London. Let’s see …’ He stirred the pelts with his hand. ‘Here’s a marten. You can see why we don’t want them to shoot the beasties–the traps barely leave a mark, look!’
He waved the flattened leg of a weasel-like animal at Donald. The head was still attached to it–a small, pointed face with its eyes squeezed shut, as though it couldn’t bear to remember what had happened to it.
He laid the marten down and plunged his hand back into the skins, offering them to Donald in quick succession, like a magician. ‘These are the least valuable; beaver, wolf, and bear, though they are useful enough–good wrappings for the other furs. Feel how coarse it is …’
The glossy pelts rippled under his hands, vestigial legs folding under them. Donald took the pelts as he was handed them and was surprised at their touch. He had felt rather disgusted at this vast warehouse of death, but as he pushed his hands into the cool, silky luxuriance, he experienced an urge to put the soft fur to his lips. He resisted, of course, but understood how a woman could want such a thing draped round her neck, where she could, with just a small tilt of the head, brush the fur against her cheek.
Bell was still talking, almost to himself. ‘But the most valuable … ah, this is silver fox–this is worth more than its weight in gold.’ His eyes shone in the dirty light.
Donald reached out a hand to touch, and Bell almost flinched. The fur was grey and white and black, blended together into a silvery sheen, thick and soft, with a heavy, watery flow. He withdrew his hand, as Bell seemed unable to let go of it.
‘The only one more valuable is black fox–that comes from the far north too, but you hardly see one from one year’s end to the next. That would cost you a hundred guineas in London.’
Donald shook his head in wonder. As Bell started to press the furs into a wooden packing mould, tenderly laying the silver fox in the middle, Donald felt uncomfortable, as if, despite Bell’s best efforts to hide it, he was in the presence of some secretive act of pleasure.
Donald wrenches his mind back to the present. He wants to think about his conversation with Jacob, to balance the facts until he comes up with a brilliant solution that makes everything come out right, but there aren’t enough facts. A man is dead but no one knows why, let alone who did it. If they could trace Jammet’s life back from its end point, if they could know everything about him, would it lead to the truth? It is, he feels, an idle thought; he cannot imagine the Company committing the men and the time to find out. Not for a free trader.
His mind turns again towards Susannah. He had sat with her in the parlour for several minutes without any awkward silences, and she seemed to find him interesting; she wanted to tell him things, and to hear what he had to say. He was too anxious to feel delight, but there was something like happiness there, unfurling like buds after a Canadian winter. He folds his spectacles and puts them, for want of a bedside table, on the floor beside him, where, he hopes, he won’t stand on them in the morning.
After the initial shock, I realise I am not in imminent danger. The man in the doorway is at least sixty years old, his bearing is bookish, and, most importantly, he isn’t armed. He looks distinguished more than anything, with smooth white hair brushed off a high forehead, a thin face and aquiline nose. His expression strikes me as kind. In fact, for a man of his age, he is (the word surprises me but it is right) beautiful.
I have got into the reprehensible habit, common here where accent is no longer a reliable guide, of checking off a list of items in a stranger. Whenever I encounter someone new I glance at cuffs, shoes, fingernails and so on, to establish station in life and financial security. This man is dressed in a flamboyant coat that is well cut but has seen better days, and though he is neat and clean-shaven, his shoes are disgracefully worn. In the moment it takes to reach these conclusions, I notice he has been taking much the same sort of inventory of me, and so presumably has concluded that I am the wife of a reasonably prosperous farmer. Whether he goes any further and decides that I am a faded and probably bitter former beauty, I really could not say.
‘Excuse me …’ His voice is pleasant, with a Yankee twang. My heart slows its frantic hammering.
‘You gave me a shock,’ I say severely, aware that there is flour on my dress and probably in my hair. ‘Are you looking for Mr Jammet?’
‘No. I heard …’ He gestures towards the bed and bloody blankets. ‘A terrible thing … a terrible waste. Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t know your name.’
He smiles gravely and I find myself warming to him. I do appreciate nice manners, especially when someone is questioning my presence at a scene of crime.
‘I am Mrs Ross. His neighbour. I came to sort out his things.’ I smile regretfully, indicating the unpleasantness of the task. Is it my imagination, or has he quickened at the mention of Jammet’s things?
‘Ah, Mrs Ross, I apologise for disturbing you. My name is Thomas Sturrock, from Toronto. Lawyer.’
He extends his hand, and I take it. He bows his head.
‘You are here to see to his estate?’ Lawyers, in my experience, don’t turn up on their own, snooping around after dark, getting their hands dirty. Nor do they tend to have frayed cuffs and holes in their shoes.
‘No, I’m not here on business.’
Honest. Not a typical lawyer at all.
‘It is a personal matter. I’m not sure who I should apply to in this, but, you see, the fact is, Monsieur Jammet had an object which is of some importance to my research. He was going to send it to me.’
He pauses, assessing my reaction, which is one of bemusement. Having searched the cabin from top to bottom I can think of nothing that could be of any interest to anyone, especially a man like this. If Jammet had had such a thing, I assume he would have sold it.
‘It’s not something of value,’ he adds, ‘just of academic interest.’
I continue to say nothing.
‘I suppose I must place myself in your hands,’ he says with a diffident smile. ‘You can have no way of knowing whether what I say is true, so I will tell you everything. Monsieur Jammet had acquired a piece of bone or ivory, about so big …’ He indicates the palm of his hand. ‘With markings on it. It may be that this object is of archaeological significance.’
‘You said you were a lawyer …?’
‘A lawyer by profession. An archaeologist by inclination.’
He spreads his hands wide. I’m puzzled, but he seems sincere. ‘I must admit, I did not know him particularly well, though I am sorry for his death. I believe that it was … sudden.’
I suppose sudden is one way of putting it.
‘It must seem rather grasping of me to come for this object so soon after his death, but I really think it could be important. It is nothing to look at, and it would be a terrible pity if it were thrown away out of ignorance. So there you are–that is why I am here.’
He has a way of looking at me that I find disarming–open and rather unsure of himself. Even if he is lying, I can’t think what harm he could mean.
‘Well Mr Sturrock,’ I begin, ‘I haven’t …’
I break off suddenly, for I hear something else–a rattle of pebbles on the path behind the cabin. Instantly I seize the lantern from the stove.
His mouth opens in amazement, but he moves with impressive speed for a man his age: he is out the door the second I finish speaking. I blow out the lantern and pull the door to, giving the wire a twist to hold it closed before slipping into the bushes of Jammet’s overgrown garden. I silently thank Jammet for his lack of horticultural pride; the place could hide a dozen of us.
I try to melt into the bushes, aware that one of my feet is sinking into something soft and wet. The footsteps come closer, and a lantern light, swinging in the hand of a dark figure.
To my eternal shock, it is my husband.
He holds up the lantern, opens the door and goes inside. I wait for an appreciable time, getting colder by the moment, my shoe soaking up water, wondering when Sturrock is going to get fed up and reappear to talk to the newcomer instead of the insane woman. Then Angus comes out again, fixing the door behind him. He barely looks around before disappearing up the path, and soon even his light is hidden from view.
It is now quite dark. I stand up stiffly, my joints cracking, and pull my foot out of the soft muck. The stocking is soaked. I find matches and manage with difficulty to relight the lamp.
‘Mr Sturrock,’ I call, and a few moments later he comes into the circle of my lantern, brushing leaves off his shabby coat.
‘Well, that was rather an adventure.’ He smiles at me. ‘Who was the gentleman from whom we had to hide?’
‘I don’t know. It was too dark to see. Mr Sturrock, I apologise for my behaviour, you must think me very peculiar. I am going to be frank, as you have been with me, and perhaps we can help each other.’
I unfasten the door as I speak, and the smell hits me afresh. If Sturrock notices, he does a good job of hiding it.
