by Stef Penney
‘Why not?’
‘The boy was so exhausted, so … worn. He could not have got so far unless he was helped or … forced.’
Guilt is a strong spur, thinks Donald.
‘I did think,’ Per goes on, ‘it was strange. He said he needed the job for money, but he had quite a lot of money on him, over forty dollars. He had this too, and was very concerned to keep it with him.’
Per picks something off the floor that Donald hasn’t previously noticed; a skipertogan, a leather bag the Indians carry round their necks for tobacco and tinder. He opens it and shakes out a roll of paper money, and a slim, palm-sized tablet of bone or ivory, covered with scratched figures and dark little markings. It’s very dirty. Donald stares at it, his throat constricting, and holds out his hand.
‘This belonged to Laurent Jammet.’
‘Laurent Jammet?’
‘The victim of the attack.’
‘You say “belonged”.’ Per stares at him. ‘I see.’
Donald immediately understands Maria’s description of Francis when they are shown into the sickroom. A dark, pretty young woman stands up as the door opens, gives them a suspicious look and walks out, her skirt swishing insolently against his trouser legs. The boy watches them without speaking as they sit down, and Per introduces him. Against the white sheets his skin is sallow, almost Latin in appearance. His hair is black and rather long, his eyes a deep, striking blue. Maria also said that he was handsome; a handsome child. Donald has no idea whether Francis could be called handsome, but there is nothing childish about the hostility radiating from him. The blue eyes stare without blinking, making him feel ungainly and awkward. He takes out his notebook and then adjusts his chair, and the notebook slithers off his lap onto the floor. He curses inwardly and picks it up, trying to ignore the tide of warmth flooding his neck and face. He reminds himself who he is and what he is here to do. He meets those eyes again, which now slide away from his, and clears his throat.
‘This man is Mr Moody, of the Hudson Bay Company. He has come from Dove River. He says your mother and father are very worried about you.’ Per is trying to be reassuring.
‘Hello Francis.’
Francis nods slightly, as if Donald is mostly beneath his notice.
‘Do you know why I am here?’
Francis glares at him.
‘Your name is Francis Ross?’
Francis drops his eyes, which he takes for assent. Donald looks at Per, who is staring at the boy, wounded.
‘Um … In Dove River, did you know a man called Laurent Jammet?’
The boy swallows. His jaw muscles seem to tense, Donald notes, and then, to his surprise, he nods.
‘When did you last see him?’
There is a long pause, and Donald starts to wonder whether he is going to speak at all.
‘I saw him when he was dead. I saw the man who killed him, so I followed him north for four days, but then I lost him.’
His voice, when at last he speaks, is flat and quiet. Donald stares at the boy, excited and incredulous in equal measure. He has to remind himself to go carefully, take things one step at a time; to wait until one foothold is firm and steady before taking the next, like walking through the hellish bog. He settles the notebook more firmly on his lap.
‘What … Um, tell me what you saw, exactly … and when this happened.’
Francis sighs. ‘The night I left. It was … many days ago. I can’t remember.’
‘You have been here five days,’ prompts Per gently. Donald frowns at him. Per returns his look with one of blameless mildness.
‘So … five days before that, maybe? I was going to Laurent Jammet’s cabin. It was late, and I thought he wasn’t there. Then I saw a man come out and walk away. I went inside, and saw him.’
‘Saw who?’
‘Jammet.’
He swallows again, with apparent difficulty. Donald waits a long time for him to start again.
‘He’d just … died. He was warm, the blood was wet. That’s how I knew the other man was the killer.’
Donald scribbles down what Francis says. ‘This … other man–did you know him?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see what he looked like?’
‘Only that he was native, with long hair. I caught a glimpse of his face, but it was too dark. I couldn’t see much.’
Donald writes, keeping his face neutral. ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’
This one takes a long time. ‘Perhaps.’
‘What about his clothes–what was he wearing?’
Francis shakes his head. ‘It was dark. Dark clothes.’
‘Was he dressed like me? Or like a trapper? You must have formed some impression.’
‘Like a trapper.’
‘Why were you going to Jammet’s cabin?’
‘We were friends.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘I don’t know. Eleven. Midnight maybe.’
Donald looks up, trying to watch the boy’s face at the same time as writing down what he says. ‘Wasn’t that rather late?’
Francis shrugs.
‘Did you often visit him at this hour?’
‘He didn’t go to bed early. He wasn’t a farmer.’
‘So … you saw the body. And then what did you do?’
‘I followed the man.’
‘Did you go home … pack?’
‘No. I took some of Jammet’s things.’
‘You didn’t think to tell your parents? Or ask anyone for help, someone better qualified to deal with such a thing?’
‘There wasn’t time. I didn’t want to lose him.’
‘Didn’t want to lose him. So what things did you take?’
‘Just what I needed. A coat … Food.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Why? What does it matter?’ Francis lifts his eyes to look at Donald again. ‘Do you think I killed him?’
Donald looks back, calm. ‘Did you?’
‘I just said–I saw the killer. He was my friend. Why would I kill him?’
‘I’m just trying to find out what happened.’
Per shifts, warningly. Donald wonders whether to push the youth further, or to accuse him outright. He is probing in the dark like a novice surgeon, not knowing where to find the vital organ of truth.
‘He is very tired.’ This from Per. The boy does look spent, his skin taut over his bones.
‘Just a moment longer, if you please. So you say that you went to this man’s–Mr Jammet’s–house at midnight, found him dead, and followed the man you thought was his killer, but you lost him.’
‘Yes.’ The boy closes his eyes.
‘What is the piece of bone?’
Francis opens his eyes again, in surprise, this time.
‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what it is.’
‘You brought it with you. You must have had a reason.’
‘He gave it to me.’
‘He gave it to you? It’s valuable.’
‘Have you seen it? I don’t think it’s valuable.’
‘What about the money? Did he give you that, too?’
‘No. But I needed help to find the … man. I might have had to … pay someone.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Pay someone for what?’ Francis rolls his head away. ‘What did you have in mind?’
Per clears his throat and glares at Donald. He closes the notebook with a reluctant snap.
Outside, Per takes Donald by the arm. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to think of his health. He was close to death when Jens brought him in.’
‘That’s quite all right.’ This is not what Donald actually thinks, but he is here as a guest, after all. ‘But I hope you’ll understand that, under the circumstances, I have to place him under arrest. With the money in his possession, and so on.’
Per has a habit of leaning slightly towards whoever he is talking to, which Donald realises must be d
ue to shortsightedness. Up close, with his prominent pale eyes, Per even seems to smell faintly of goat.
‘That is your decision, of course.’
‘Yes. It is. So … I would like to arrange to have a guard outside the room.’
‘What for? He can hardly leave Himmelvanger, even if he could walk.’
‘Right. Well …’ Donald feels foolish, suddenly aware of the snow falling outside the window. ‘As long as we can keep an eye on him.’
‘There are no secrets here,’ Per says gravely, with a coy glance at the ceiling.
Andrew Knox stares out of the window at the falling snow with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he is aware from a certain amount of sisterly teasing that Susannah has got herself involved with Donald Moody, and is therefore concerned in a fatherly sort of way about the young Company man out in the bush. On the other, he is relieved to think of the prisoner’s tracks disappearing under a blanket of snow. It is dry snow, the true winter snow that once set in will hide the ground until spring. Of course he bemoaned it with Mackinley and the rest, and helped organise volunteers into search parties to establish at least which direction the fugitive might have taken. After they set off, Knox took Adam into the study and gave him a long lecture on the seriousness of his error. Adam vehemently protested that he distinctly remembered chaining and locking the door, and Knox allowed that there might have been some other explanation for the escape, and for that reason Adam would not lose his position. Adam’s expression was a mixture of righteous protest and resentful gratitude; they both know he is in the right, but they also know there is a limit to how much you can argue with your employer. Life is unfair.
As if this business wasn’t complicated enough, an hour ago there came an extraordinary rumour from Dove River that Mrs Ross had vanished, and gossip is rife that she has been kidnapped by the fugitive. Knox is horrified by this turn of events, and puzzles over his part in it. Did he somehow cause this by allowing her to speak to the man? Or are the two disappearances purely coincidental? This, he has to concede, is unlikely. On balance he has to hope that she has been kidnapped, for if she is on her own, her chances of survival in this weather are bleak.
When he broke the news to his wife and daughters, he was careful to stress his certainty that the prisoner would be putting as much distance between himself and Caulfield as possible. They reacted to the news of Mrs Ross’s disappearance with predictable horror. It is the nightmare of every white woman in a savage country, although he reminds them that it is as yet only rumour. But in everyone’s minds, his escape, and the disappearance of a local woman, has sealed Parker’s guilt.
Mackinley took the news with a sort of grim-faced satisfaction, even as he swore at Adam’s stupidity and railed at Caulfield’s lack of proper facilities. He is now out with one of the search parties, scouting for possible tracks along the bay. After the encounter with Mackinley, when he told him about the empty warehouse, Knox had to shut himself in his study for a glass of brandy, where he succumbed to a fit of violent trembling. Fortunately it passed after a few moments, but he still cannot quite screw up the courage to go out and face the world.
‘Daddy?’ Maria has not called him that for as long as he can remember. ‘Are you all right?’ She comes up behind him and puts her hands on his shoulders. ‘This is terrible.’
‘It could be worse. It could always be worse.’
Maria looks as if she has been crying–another childhood habit he assumed she had abandoned. He knows she is worried not for herself, but for his reputation.
‘I can’t bear what people will say.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions. We have all assumed that we know what happened, but it’s all guess. If you want to know what I think …’ He checks himself. ‘Most escaped prisoners don’t get very far. He’ll probably be behind bars again in the next day or two.’
‘I can’t bear to think about that poor woman.’
‘No one has spoken to her husband yet. I will go and talk to him. There may be nothing in it at all.’
‘Mackinley looked so angry I thought he was going to hit Adam.’
‘He’s disappointed. He thinks a conviction will earn him promotion.’
Maria makes a scornful noise in her throat. ‘I can’t believe we can ever go back to normal after this.’
‘Oh … in a few months time we will barely remember any of it.’
He glances out of the window and wonders if she finds this convincing. He has, once again, the vertiginous sensation of impending disaster. When he looks round (a few seconds later? a minute? He isn’t sure) Maria has gone. He had been mesmerised by the whiteness outside. The flakes settle like feathers and trap a layer of air on the ground, each snowflake touching the next only by the tips of its axes.
The perfect snow for covering tracks.
Susannah responds to the stresses of the day by trying on frocks in her room, flinging aside those that have become too demodé. This ritual takes place every few months, whenever Susannah feels the yoke of country life press too irksomely on her shoulders. Maria stands in the doorway watching her tug at the ribbons on a green moiré dress with determined scorn. She feels a flood of affection for her sister, for worrying about things like waistlines and sleeve widths at a time of crisis.
‘That dress would trim up perfectly well, Susannah. Don’t tear it.’
Susannah looks up. ‘Well I certainly can’t wear it with these stupid things, they look quite ridiculous.’ She sighs and throws the dress down, defeated. The offending ribbons were sewn on by Maria herself, with tiny, firm stitches.
Maria picks it up. ‘We could put on new sleeves, lace perhaps, take these off, and change the shape of the neckline, so, and then it would be quite fashionable.’
‘I suppose. And what could we do with this one?’ She holds up a sprigged cotton calico that has more than a hint of Marie Antoinette playing at milkmaids.
‘Um … dishrags.’
Susannah laughs–her private, at-home laugh, which is a substantial guffaw, as opposed to her simpering public laugh, which her mother tells her is more ladylike. ‘It is awful, isn’t it? I don’t know what I was thinking of.’
‘Matthew Fox, as far as I can remember.’
Susannah flings the dress at her. ‘All the more reason for it to become a dishrag.’
Maria sits on the bed, surrounded by the despised cast-offs. ‘Have you written to Donald Moody yet?’
Susannah avoids her eye. ‘How can I? There’s no way of delivering anything.’
‘I thought you promised?’
‘Well, so did he, but I haven’t received anything–and he knows where I am.’
‘Well there’s bound to be some news soon. I should imagine they’ll hear about the prisoner somehow, and realise they’re on a wild goose chase.’ She lies down among the empty dresses. ‘I thought you liked him.’
‘He’s all right.’ A blush rises in Susannah’s cheeks, to her annoyance. Maria grins at her.
‘Stop it! But what am I supposed to do?’
‘Oh, I thought you might have written some long passionate letters and tied them with a pink ribbon, kept next to your heart.’
Maria is pleased at Susannah’s blush. She has seen plenty of young men conceive a passionate fondness for her sister and feel they have awoken some answering spark, only for Susannah to lose interest after a week or so, her eye fixing on something more appealing just around the corner. The drawers of her dressing table are stuffed with tokens of unrequited love. Maria’s own dressing table is not so burdened, but this does not make her jealous of her sister; far from it. She sees how Susannah finds all the attention a great irritant, one which puts more pressure on her to behave like a young lady. All the men who find her face and figure so charming fail to realise a fundamental truth about Susannah–that she is a profoundly pragmatic girl who is fonder of swimming and fishing than elegant tea parties. She is bored by abstract talk and embarrassed by flowery professions of emotion. Because Maria knows
this, she is not envious of the attention Susannah receives. And because Maria knew, when she became very fond of a young man who taught at the school last year, how sincerely Susannah hoped he would make her happy. It wasn’t Susannah’s fault that when Robert met her, he became confused about his feelings, and ended up stammering a confession of love to her, then slinking back to Sarnia on the next steamer, cowed by her horrified reaction. Susannah had not told Maria, but the rumour got around anyway, as everything does in Caulfield, sooner or later. Maria, after a period of silent agony, made a wax model of Robert Fisher and roasted it slowly over her bedroom fire. Strangely enough, it made her feel better.
Maria has more or less taken a vow of chastity since then, as she can’t imagine meeting a man who would measure up to her ideal of manhood–her father. In any case, she isn’t sure that marriage and domestic bliss is all it’s cracked up to be. In Caulfield and Dove River, women work their fingers to the bone and age with frightening speed, so that by the time the men are in what you might call their prime, still hale albeit a touch rugged, they appear to be married to their mothers. It is not a fate she likes to imagine for herself.
But Donald seems a decent and intelligent man. It has long been her habit, on meeting someone for the first time, to be provocative and prickly, in order to turn aside those who are too shallow to see through her façade. It is, she is well aware, a form of self-defence, reinforced after her unfortunate affair. Donald persevered, even if it was because of Susannah, and she respects him for it. And then, when they met in the street after he had met Sturrock, she had been impressed by what he said, even to the point of wondering whether everything she had been told about the Searcher were true.
‘What about this one?’ Susannah holds up a pale-blue woollen frock; a previous favourite. ‘I’d like to wear this again, if we could do something about the sleeves.’
She seems to have put all thoughts of Donald out of her mind. In a sense, as soon as he walked away from Caulfield, he ceased to exist in any meaningful way, and became an abstract, a thing in abeyance, to be returned to when he comes back, not before. Maria reflects that Susannah will probably never write to him first, if at all. She wonders, were it not for Donald’s infatuation with Susannah, which was obvious from their first meeting, whether she would have allowed herself to care for him. Foolish even to think about it, of course.
