The Lie Tree

by Frances Hardinge

  She was taller and stronger than Faith and could easily have taken her in a fair fight. But of course the fight would never be fair. Jeanne Bissette would always reap the whirlwind for striking Faith Sunderly, beyond anything that Faith Sunderly would ever suffer for striking Jeanne Bissette. Dropping retribution from a height was easier than hurling it upward, and Faith felt a sting of shame at the thought.

  ‘I will tell everyone! Everyone! By the time I am done, you won’t be able to show your nose outdoors!’ Jeanne turned and broke into a staggering run, disappearing out through the church doors and into the moonlight.

  A few moments later, Paul appeared in the doorway, a ring of keys in one hand. He looked pointedly out into the churchyard, then back at Faith with a questioning expression.

  ‘She left,’ said Faith.

  ‘What were you doing in here?’ he asked.

  ‘Ruining all my own plans for no good reason.’ Something important had been missing inside Faith for a while, she realized, and now she had a tiny ribbon of it back. It made her feel worse, not better, but she clung to it anyway. ‘You will probably hear about it soon. Everybody will.’

  ‘What do you mean, your plans are ruined?’ Paul asked sharply. ‘Do not tell me you no longer need that photograph!’

  ‘I do need it!’ Faith answered quickly. ‘Did you make it for me? Is it ready?’

  Paul reached into his pocket and drew out a small card, which he frowned at, as though performing last-minute alterations through force of will.

  ‘It was not easy,’ he muttered, and passed it to her, still frowning. ‘This was the best that I could do.’

  Gazing down at it, Faith felt a frisson of shock. He had used the excavation picture that had been taken on Faith’s first day as draughtsman. There were Dr Jacklers and Lambent in the foreground, staring intensely at the aurochs horn. Behind them and slightly to one side were the figures of Mrs Lambent and Faith, the latter obscured by shadow and only partially in the shot. And clawing his way around the side of the ‘Bedouin tent’ was a half-hidden figure with very familiar aquiline features, domed brow and coldly distant eyes . . .

  For a moment Faith could not understand how her father had been transported into the scene in his entirety. It took her a moment to remember Uncle Miles. Of course, Faith’s uncle had been told to stand behind the tent and control the billowing of the cloth. Being Uncle Miles, however, he had found a way to lean across and appear in the photograph. Paul had cut out the Reverend’s face very precisely and glued it over that of his brother-in-law. The effect was deeply uncanny.

  ‘That is . . .’ Faith bit her tongue. Compliments were contrary to the rules of engagement in her conversations with Paul, but in this case unavoidable. ‘That is very good work,’ she admitted gruffly. She tucked it carefully between the pages of her notebook and put it away.

  She had not quite dared to hope that Paul would respond to her crazed challenge and make her the photograph. Impulsive brinkmanship was one thing, but this had involved time, effort and cool-headed precision.

  ‘Thank you,’ she added in an undertone. She was not sure whether he heard.

  Lantern in hand, Paul led her through the church and into the little vestry, where he stooped and turned keys in the three locks of a battered, old-fashioned parish-chest. He opened the lid and drew out a large leather-bound book.

  He passed it to Faith, and she began leafing through, focusing on marriage records. When she reached a page listing the marriages for ‘the Year One Thousand Eight Hundred and Sixty’, she stopped.

  ‘There,’ she breathed. She reached out and tapped one of the carefully written names.

  ‘Does that name mean something to you?’ asked Paul, looking over her shoulder.

  Faith nodded. ‘It means that I know who the killers are, and how they knew about the Tree, and why they might have hated my father,’ she whispered.

  Her father’s journal had always held the key, but Faith had not seen it. Her eye had skimmed over the one little sentence that might have told her everything she needed to know.

  I discovered that the Winterbournes had taken rooms in a shabby inn . . .

  Not ‘Winterbourne’, but ‘the Winterbournes’. Hector Winterbourne had been travelling through China with his wife. The Reverend had seen no reason to mention her. Her existence would not have seemed relevant or important to him.

  By the light of the lantern Faith could make out the marble plaques on the walls. Tonight her eye snagged on all the female names.

  Anne, beloved mother of . . .

  In memory of his dear sister Elizabeth . . .

  And here also lies Amelia, his loving wife . . .

  Who had they been, all these mothers and sisters and wives? What were they now? Moons, blank and faceless, gleaming with borrowed light, each spinning loyally around a bigger sphere.

  ‘Invisible,’ said Faith under her breath. Women and girls were so often unseen, forgotten, afterthoughts. Faith herself had used it to good effect, hiding in plain sight and living a double life. But she had been blinded by exactly the same invisibility-of-the-mind, and was only just realizing it.

  The parish register entry recorded the marriage of Anthony Lambent Esq. to Mrs Agatha Winterbourne (Widow).

  CHAPTER 33:

  THE POWDER AND THE SPARK

  The next day dawned callously clear and heartlessly sunny. Birdsong was cruelly loud, shattering Faith’s sleep. Once again she woke in her own bed with an ache behind her eyes and the feeling that her insides had been battered with a rolling pin. As she hastily gulped water, she remembered the adventures of the night before. The visit to the Lie Tree, the encounter with Paul, the journey to the church, the conversation with Jeanne, the revelations of the parish register . . . and after that hatching strategies with Paul, slipping back through the sea cave and rowing back to shore.

  She would need to act quickly, before Jeanne exposed Faith’s true, dark colours to everyone on the island. Exposure no longer terrified Faith. She felt a numb resignation when she thought about it. Instead, she only hoped that she would get her chance to play her last cards before those at the excavation learned about her.

  There was no carriage to pick her up that day, of course, so she put on her outdoor clothes, picked up her sketchbook and set off on foot down the road.

  ‘Miss Sunderly!’ Ben Crock looked astonished as Faith appeared at the dig some time later, her skirts dusty and her face shiny from the heat of the sun. He cast a look down the road behind her. ‘Did you walk the whole way, miss?’

  ‘My father’s inquest takes place this afternoon,’ answered Faith, a little out of breath from all the climbs and descents of the road. ‘Afterwards I do not think my family will stay on Vane. This may be my last chance to visit the dig.’ She thought of Myrtle, and made her own eyes round, vulnerable and uncertain. ‘Do you think the gentlemen will turn me away?’

  Crock looked indecisive for a moment, as if considering whether he himself should be sending her home. There was no handy carriage to do so, however. Faith was counting on his reluctance to force her back along the road on foot.

  ‘I do not think that will be a problem, miss,’ he said, casting a glance down into the little gorge. ‘The gentlemen are distracted today. Yesterday the tunnel broke through into the shaft. We have been clearing the rubble to take a closer look.’

  ‘Have they found anything?’ asked Faith, her manner politely curious. In truth she knew as much as he did. Paul had told her all the latest news from the dig.

  ‘Some of the gravel is running down through cracks – there is another cavern down below the base of the shaft, just as we thought. There is a thick layer of breccia though, so we shall be using a barrel of powder to blast our way down.’

  ‘I suppose all the gentlemen will be here for the explosion?’

  ‘I am sure they shall, miss.’ Crock’s mouth twitched in what was almost a smile. ‘I do not think any of them would want to miss it.’

  Fa
ith thought the same. If there was a chance of breaking into an exciting new cavern, all the gentlemen scientists would want to be ‘in at the kill’. They would certainly not trust each other not to start stealing bones for their own collections, or naming fossils after themselves with extreme prejudice. Everybody important to the excavation would be here this day. She was counting upon it.

  As she walked into the little gorge, she won a couple of curious glances as she had on her first day, but everyone was too busy to question her presence.

  Uncle Miles, who was hovering like a schoolboy by the tunnel, caught sight of her and blanched. Faith gave him a small, flat smile like a dead fish. She could still feel the bruises of his fingers on her arms. He found a hundred places to look that were not her.

  She passed Dr Jacklers, who looked uncomfortable but had the good grace to bow.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Jacklers,’ Faith said mildly. ‘How is Miss Hunter?’

  ‘Well enough to be making light of her doctor’s advice.’ The doctor’s brow creased. Evidently this was a sore point.

  Faith was relieved to hear it. If Miss Hunter was vexing Dr Jacklers again, there was probably hope for her recovery.

  Down in the gorge, Lambent was striding about with his fly-whisk. Both Clay and Paul were present, the latter laden down with a camera stand and a carry-case. There were more navvies than before, and they were busy heaping sacks of sand and gravel around the mouth of the tunnel, creating a low, horseshoe-shaped wall.

  The ‘Bedouin tent’ had been removed from its place by the tunnel, but looking up at the top of the ridge Faith could just make out its billowing roof. Evidently it had been relocated next to the mining-basket winch.

  Faith settled herself on a rock in a corner, opening her sketchbook. In a short while, Paul Clay wandered over, and settled his tripod on the uneven ground. Neither looked at the other. Nobody watching could have guessed at conspiracy between the curate’s stony-faced son and the rector’s shy, dowdy daughter.

  ‘Is she here?’ murmured Faith, trying not to move her lips too much.

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Paul, staring intensely at the foot of his tripod. ‘They moved her tent up to the high ground to keep her safe from the explosion, and to give her a front-row seat when people go down in the basket. Are you sure the ghost trick will work on her?’

  If Faith was right, she was dealing with two murderers of different temperaments. One had distracted her father, one had struck a killing blow. One was terrified of the rumoured ghost, one was content to wander the ‘haunted’ area and be mistaken for a ghost himself. A follower, therefore, and a leader. A weak link and a strong.

  No, but I would bet on it.’ Faith thought of all the memento mori in Mrs Lambent’s reception room. ‘She thinks she is at death’s door, so she spends most of her life peering through it into the gloom. She is up to her nose in prayer books and well-wishing wreaths.’

  ‘We will find out soon enough. When we tighten the screw.’ Paul suited action to words and gave the screw of the tripod a few quick twists. ‘And how sure are you of him?’

  Faith managed not to glance towards the towering figure of Anthony Lambent.

  ‘Agatha is a loyal wife,’ Faith said under her breath.

  A wife cannot always rein in her husband’s impulses, Agatha Lambent had said, but she must always strive to protect him from the consequences.

  ‘She had a motive for hating my father, but no reason to want the Tree,’ she went on. ‘He does. He is a collector, a natural scientist . . . and he is standing for Parliament. Nobody can spread lies like a politician.’

  ‘Then we need to get him out of the way.’

  Faith’s plan was to put strain on the ‘weak link until it broke. There was no hope of doing that with the ‘strong link present.

  ‘When they have opened up a hole into the new cavern, all the gentlemen will want to be the first lowered down.’ Faith narrowed her eyes. ‘We need to make sure Mr Lambent gets his way.’

  At last the barricade of sandbags was judged sturdy enough. A barrel of gunpowder was rolled carefully into the tunnel, and then everybody emerged from the darkness but Crock. The gentlemen and labourers took up crouched positions in a ditch behind the barricade, all attention focused upon the mouth of the tunnel.

  As a lady, Faith was moved to safety behind a crag, and as custodian of the precious camera, Paul withdrew behind another. Neither of them stayed there.

  They met behind the huddle of tents. Faith swiftly pulled a bulky bag out from its hiding place between two rocks and handed it to her co-conspirator. Paul took it without a word and scrambled up in the direction of the road.

  Peering cautiously around the nearest tent, Faith was just in time to see Crock come hurtling out of the tunnel. As she watched, he vaulted the barricade of sandbags and threw himself flat on the other side.

  ‘It is lit!’ he called out. ‘Everybody stay down!’

  Faith ducked back. There was a shattering bang that shook her in spite of her readiness. A dull dry patter twitched and jerked the tent canvas. She tasted sand.

  When she risked another look, the cave mouth was invisible behind a gauzy spreading cloud of smoke and dust. Those lying behind the barricade had handkerchiefs over their mouths and were coughing vigorously. The distraction and drifting haze allowed Faith to sneak back to her ‘safe seat’, then re-emerge more decorously and obviously.

  The navvies entered the tunnel to clear the loose rock. A few barrows of rubble later, Crock reported that the newly blasted hole had indeed revealed another chamber below.

  ‘I think the hole is wide enough to take the mining basket, sir,’ he told Lambent. ‘We can lower it from the winch at the top, right down the shaft and into the new cavern.’

  ‘Excellent news!’ Lambent rubbed his hands. ‘Crock, prepare the basket. You and I shall delve the depths and see what treasures your explosive has loosened for us!’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Clay cleared his throat, and tentatively raised one hand to gain a finger-hold on the conversation. ‘I wonder if Crock would not do better aloft, supervising the mechanism? I would be glad to join you in your descent, Mr Lambent.’

  ‘Or perhaps myself?’ Uncle Miles suggested quickly.

  ‘Sir.’ Crock was shading his eyes and staring up towards the road.

  With an irregular clap and clop of hoofs, a solitary horse was wandering down the incline. Its reins trailed.

  ‘Is that my bay?’ Lambent stared. ‘How did it become untethered?’

  The horse shook its pale mane and continued its aimless yet relentless amble along the ridge towards the ‘Bedouin tent’. Faith could not see Mrs Lambent, could not guess how she was reacting. Crock clambered up to intercept the horse, and after a few snorts and nervous shifts it let him draw close and take its reins.

  ‘There are boots in the stirrups!’ called down the foreman. ‘Stuck through backwards!’ He took one out and examined it closely, then stiffened. He glanced towards Faith, but it was a look of concern, not suspicion. Then Crock clambered back down and showed the boot to Lambent, whispering in his ear. Faith knew that they must be poring over the monogram.

  E.J.S.

  ‘A riderless horse with boots backwards in the stirrups?’ said Clay in a hushed tone. ‘I have heard of such a thing at military funerals.’

  Lambent stared unmoving at the boot for a few seconds. Then he marched over to Uncle Miles and proffered the boot, inches from his face.

  ‘What are you about, Cattistock?’ he demanded sharply.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Confusion made Uncle Miles’s face look rounder.

  ‘What manner of game is this?’ Lambent shifted his weight and seemed to grow taller and broader, swelling with suppressed feelings. He shook the boot. ‘This, sir, is a boot. A thing, sir, of leather and nails. It is not fading like smoke in my hand. It is not a phantasm of ether. It is an object as solid as you or I, and I daresay if I were to clout you in the face with it, it would leave a print.’
/>   Uncle Miles took a hasty step backwards. ‘I do not understand you, Lambent!’ he protested.

  ‘It is a boot,’ Mr Lambent continued, his voice dangerously quiet and taut, ‘that has made its spectral journey, I believe, from your family abode.’

  Faith had never previously seen Lambent angry. After the basket incident he had been outraged and severely out of countenance, but that had not been anger of the same dye. Now that his fists were stealthily clenched, Faith realized how large they were. For a moment she sensed strength, barely controlled strength, like a river foaming against a lock and threatening its own banks.

  Like most creatures at bay, Uncle Miles looked around for support or allies and found none. At the last his eye fell upon Faith, and something moved sluggishly behind his gaze, perhaps a realization that she could in fact have brought the Reverend’s boots to the site . . .

  ‘Get out!’ snarled Lambent.

  ‘But I was promised—’

  ‘No, I do not wish to hear it! Begone!’

  With one last suspicious glance at Faith, Uncle Miles fled with as much dignity as he could muster.

  ‘We have wasted enough time.’ Lambent gave a gruff, lionlike noise of frustration in his throat. ‘Crock, make the basket ready. I shall descend with Clay.’

  ‘Hold, please!’ The doctor, seemingly undaunted by the magistrate’s ill-temper, was still nursing some squat and bitter grievance of his own. ‘We have not discussed who should descend first. You are too high-handed, Lambent!’

  ‘High-handed? Doctor, this excavation is on my land, and paid for from my purse.’

  ‘And you have already seen fit to recompense yourself for that!’ the doctor answered through his teeth.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Lambent’s voice was low and cold.

  ‘I am simply saying, sir, that various little birds have told me that not all our finds make it to the sorting table, and not all our finds return from your house after they are varnished.’ The doctor had the cold, tight voice of somebody who thinks he is being tactful. Faith could not guess which of her rumours he had heard, or in which form.