Gilbert sat blinking, looking around him as if perplexed, confounded by this wild speech and the sudden change in the weather of the conversation. “What’s this rescue you speak of?” he asked. “I could see trouble in your face when you descended the ladder from your airship, Professor, but it was none of my damned business. Now that it’s been spoken aloud, however…”
“Dr. Narbondo, whom you no doubt recall, has kidnapped my son.”
The old man stood up, his face darkening. “Good God,” he said. “The last we saw of that filthy reptile he was making away on his submarine boat like a frightened mole. Tubby, you remember that. I told you we should have shot the creature where he stood when we had the chance.”
“We did what we could, Uncle, and you’ll recall that we had no means of shooting him where he stood, much less when he was inside his ship.”
“Aye, that was our downfall – insufficient weaponry. But I’ve got the means now, by God. The man is keen on revenge, no doubt, and this is his diabolic way of getting it.”
“I believe you’re in the right of it, sir. Revenge and more,” St. Ives said.
“Can I be of service, then?” Gilbert asked. “I’d sooner shoot this Narbondo than to shoot a pheasant, although the pheasant would eat better, certainly.”
“I thank you for the offer, sir,” St. Ives told him.
Hasbro, Jack, Tubby, and Doyle were up and moving now. There was no talk of London, just a silent preparation, and in moments they set out with St. Ives along the edge of the dunes, Egypt Bay invisible beyond. Uncle Gilbert carried his shotgun and wore his pith helmet against the sun.
“Don’t dawdle on my account,” he said. “I can keep up right enough. I’m an old man, perhaps, but I’m not a cripple. Hodgson assures me that he’ll stand guard over the airship, Professor, along with Barlow. Can shoot a sparrow out of a tree at fifty feet with a pellet, can Hodgson, as long as he don’t lose himself in his eggs and nests. And Barlow is a rare hand with a pistol. He’s set up his chair and ottoman in the shade of the ship.”
“I’m sorry to take you away from your bustards, sir,” St. Ives said. “You didn’t bargain for this.”
Gilbert nodded sharply. “It’s a child that’s in need, sir, and what’s more it’s the son of a man I consider to be my friend, if I might be forward enough to say so. A child’s life and happiness comes first for anyone who ain’t a filthy Benthamite insect, and no disrespect meant to the Crown. But the Queen has the Guard to keep watch over her. It’s their lookout, sir.”
The track along the dunes was a weedy ribbon of sand and shell, and they made good time along it, soon finding themselves on a sheep path through a thicket that eventually turned into forest. They were utterly silent, having talked their way through a makeshift plan that seemed sensible, given what they had seen of the Shade House from the air. There was no point in further talk.
They trod on a carpet of leaves now, hearing the crying of gulls, a strengthening breeze soughing through the limbs overhead, and so they easily heard the footfalls of someone running, moments before Finn Conrad rounded a bend in the path ahead, looking back over his shoulder so that he slammed straight into St. Ives, who caught him, reeling back from the force. Looking up wildly, Finn tore himself away and took several steps toward the trees before he recognized them, at which sight he dropped to his knees, his chest heaving.
A man appeared then, clearly pursuing Finn, running hard, his face disfigured both by a vicious wound and an equally vicious appearance of demented rage. His mouth worked, his voice ululating something that approximated human speech. In his hand he held a long knife, not hesitating at the sight of the men ranged before him, but evidently set on murdering Finn.
“Cease!” Gilbert shouted, stepping forward, but yet the man came on in a mad rush as if the lot of them were invisible.
Gilbert brought up his shotgun and instantly blew the man over backward, a mass of birds flying upward from the trees as the report echoed through the wood.
THIRTY-FIVE
BLOODY BEEFSTEAK
Mother Laswell awoke in her chair at the sound of her book striking the ground. She was stricken with fear, her heart beating in her throat, the remnants of a dark dream evaporating in her mind like steam. She could still picture the dark house on the Thames and a nightmarish London veiled by cloud. The arched door of the house – the same door that had haunted other dreams – swung open, and standing within was Narbondo himself, holding Edward’s skull before him. Then the skull was illuminated, and the twin lamps that were the eyes cast a vaporous light out over the city. There was the sound of chaos unleashed: the ground shook, buildings fell, and she had lurched awake.
She looked around her now and saw where she was – sitting in a chair in her room at the inn. The morning returned to her, and she looked at the clock on the wall, thinking that a great deal of time must have passed. But it wasn’t so. She had been asleep for two hours, apparently, and she stood up now and poured herself a cup of now-cold tea from a pot on the sideboard. There were scones left, too, and so she ate one. When she had finished her cup and her scone, she found that she had no interest in her book. She thought of Alice. Surely the coach had arrived in Aylesford by now, although even if it had, Alice was still three or four hours away, depending on Simonides, where he was when the missive had arrived at Hereafter, and how quickly he had done his duty.
She stared at the clock, watching the pendulum move back and forth, seeming to mock her. You don’t need to come a-looking, Bill had told her, but Bill had gone a-looking, hadn’t he? No doubt he had been solicitous of her corns, which had regained their senses over the course of the morning. Sudden determination came into her mind, and she arose, thinking of leaving Bill a message with the innkeeper, but perhaps the innkeeper wasn’t to be trusted. Or perhaps the man Fred was staying at this very inn, and his conversation with the innkeeper had been innocent. There was no telling, and so she decided to keep herself to herself, and went out into the street, asking after the old rectory of the man at the lending library.
She found the path easily enough, and very shortly she found herself alone in the quiet afternoon, the path winding around toward a distant wood. After she had walked for fifteen minutes, the rectory itself appeared ahead, built of black stone, apparently ancient and fallen into disrepair, the slate roof of the house overshadowed by great trees. A broad lawn surrounded the house, the lawn cut by a brook that ran out of the wood. She stood for a time looking into the clear water, at the smooth stones along the bottom, her mind disengaged by the idyllic scene before her. There was a path along the side of the brook, but where it went she didn’t know, nor where the limekilns lay, with their mysterious smugglers’ tunnels.
Abruptly there sounded a muted singing, apparently coming from within the rectory, and she saw now that a wagon stood behind the structure and that a horse was tethered nearby. She made her way toward the wagon, finding herself looking into the rectory through an open door at a very old man who was applying plaster to a decayed frieze on a wall. She watched him work for a time, seeing the care that he was putting into it, working with a number of small trowels and scrapers. He stood back to survey his work, taking a pipe and a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket. It was then that she knocked on the door.
He turned and said, “Hello, ma’am,” cheerfully enough, and began packing tobacco into his pipe, shreds falling to the floor.
“Are you the caretaker?” she asked.
He shrugged. “After a fashion. The old place keeps falling down – bits and pieces of it – and I do what I can to put it back up. It’s a scrimshaw, you might say – something like.” He lit the pipe, drew on it, tamped it, and lit it again.
“It’s very fine work to my mind,” she told him. “The house appreciates it, you know. They develop something of a soul, houses do, over the years. I dare say this one’s watched the centuries pass.”
He smiled at her now. “That it has. I’m not fond of seeing good things in d
ecline, you might say, although comes a time when a body can’t stop it happening. If it’s not drink and the devil, then it’ll be something else that’ll have done with us sooner or later. What might I do for you?”
“I’m looking for directions to an old inn, very notorious, called Shade House.”
He shook his head. “You oughtn’t to go near it, ma’am. It’s far enough into the marsh to be isolated-like. It’s got an evil reputation, and well deserved. If it has a soul, it’s a black one. It’s been damned these many long years.”
“I’m not planning on walking the entire distance,” she said. “Partway, that’s all. I’ve been told the wood is very beautiful in summer. I might pick a mushroom if I see it. My Bill particularly fancies a mushroom.”
“Ah,” he said, apparently happy with this. “Look for the bloody beefsteak,” he said. “Do you know it?”
“No. Sounds perfectly awful.”
“None better, ma’am. Vast great thing, grows on the sides of oaks, the older the more succulent. You cut it and it bleeds, believe it or not. Fry it in butter, and you’ll have something, you and Bill. For your own good, though, turn around and return after an hour’s walking. You’ll have seen what there is to see, and you’ll be safe from the men who frequent Shade House – smugglers and pirates, the lot of them.”
“I thank you for your concern, sir.”
“Bob Mayhew, at your service.” He took the pipe out of his mouth and tipped his hat.
“Harriet Laswell, at yours. People have called me Mother Laswell this last age. I’m pleased to meet you.”
He nodded at her. “Easy enough to follow the stream, Mother. I’ve done it many a time. There’s trout in the deeper pools that’ll take a fly in the early morning.”
“I’ll just be on my way, then,” she said. “It’s good to have met you.” He nodded again, and she left him to his work, setting out across the lawn again and into the shadow of the wood.
The path along the stream was covered with grass and moss, for the most part, although it was sometimes rocky, and now and then she had to push her way past encroaching bushes. She covered ground at a good pace despite that, however, and there was enough shade so that the warmth would have been pleasant enough, had she not been in such a hurry. She cast her mind roundabout her, opening it up to the chance that she might sense remnants of Bill’s having passed this way, but nothing came to her except for a tolerably lonesome feeling.
Several hundred yards along the brook, she saw what appeared to be brickwork off through the trees – almost certainly old limekilns, apparently falling down, their arches half-hidden by willow and hazel. There was something both mysterious and morbid about the ruins, abandoned for so many years and now being reclaimed by the undergrowth. She walked toward them, looking for the tunnel mouth that Bill had told her about. There was a muddy, low area in front of the kilns, and she stopped before it, not wanting to foul her shoes merely out of curiosity. She saw, however, that someone had, for there was a line of footprints, half full of water, which led away into the midst of the kilns and brush. There was a patch of darkness beyond, perhaps the tunnel, perhaps dense shadow. She was quite certain that the footprints were Bill’s, having seen their muddy image on the kitchen floor often enough at Hereafter Farm, and she suddenly wished that he hadn’t gone alone into the tunnel, if in fact he had.
She hastened back to the path and set out again. She had a distinct presentiment of danger now, or if not danger, something amiss, something troubled, and she made an effort to clear her mind in order to let particulars into it, and although nothing more suggested itself, the presentiment didn’t fade. She was aware that the sun was lower in the sky, and wondered how long she’d been afoot. She had no idea of turning back until she had reason to, but she didn’t want to rush headlong into any foolishness, either. The path crossed the brook – not much of a ford, just a half dozen barely submerged stones. Immediately she slipped from one of them and plunged in with both feet, calf-deep. She slogged to the shore and went on, thinking that the cold water felt good on her tired feet, which were growing painful again. Bill had been right to leave her behind, she thought, because this trek would just about cripple her if she didn’t turn back soon. But she was right in her way, too, and she was determined to go on. She listened hard for sounds besides her own footfalls, but heard only the splash of water, the calls of birds, and the wind sighing in the trees.
Very soon she stopped again. The presentiment had returned, doubly strong – troubling enough for her to move quickly off the path in order to hide behind a particularly broad trunk. Within moments a small boy appeared, hurrying along and looking back down the path. It scarcely seemed possible, but it was the boy Eddie. She called his name and stepped out from behind her tree, hoping that he would recognize her from their brief acquaintance in the alley last night. He stood stock-still and stared at her as she approached him. He had a wild look about him, and seemed ready to bolt, but he didn’t. He took her hand right enough when she offered it, and she patted his head and hugged him to her. He sobbed once or twice, holding onto her dress, and then hiccupped and fell silent, looking back again, evident fear in his eyes.
“Are they following you?” she asked.
He shook his head, as if he didn’t know, and she realized that it didn’t matter. There wasn’t a moment to lose if she wanted to gain something from her strange odyssey. She set off toward Cliffe Village again. She hadn’t gone out looking for Eddie, but by the grace of God she had found him, and she wasn’t going to let him slip away, not again. Then she thought of Bill and misgivings flooded in upon her. He was still out there somewhere – at the inn, wandering through the tunnels, perhaps injured. What would he say to her, though? He wouldn’t risk the boy’s life, not for a moment.
“If you weren’t such a big lad, I’d carry you,” she said. “Can you keep up?”
“I lost Finn,” he told her. “The man chased us, and I ran.”
“Lord protect us,” she said under her breath, and then aloud she asked, “Did you see my Bill, Eddie? A tall, thin man, with hair like in a windstorm?”
“He was shot with a gun,” Eddie said. “In the room where they do bad things.”
She nearly fell, but caught herself and took in a deep breath, resisting the urge simply to sit down on the path. She found herself weeping silently, but she compelled herself to move on. Whatever else might have happened, she could have this small success; she would return Eddie to his mother and put an end to the woman’s travails; her own were apparently endless.
On they went at an even pace, her mind spinning, until she recognized suddenly where they had got to, much more quickly than she would have thought possible. The limekilns lay away to their left. She could see the brick through the trees, but she didn’t pay any of it more than a glance. She hadn’t liked the idea of the tunnel from the start, and now that it was the bane of poor Bill Kraken, the most selfless man she had ever known, a man whom she had scorned, to her everlasting shame and regret…
She kicked something, and a stabbing pain lanced through her toe. She stopped and looked down, seeing that a bloody pistol lay on the path. It had been hidden in a weedy clump, where it had been dropped, but now it was shifted into plain sight, the barrel pointing like a compass needle up the path. She stared at it, unbelieving at first. It was Bill’s pistol. She had seen it clearly at the Chalk Horse when he had gone out. The blood on it was fresh, bright red in the ray of filtered sunlight. Had it been there earlier? She swept it into the brook with the side of her foot, where it sank into a deep pool, glinting in the sunshine atop the dead leaves on the bottom. She grasped Eddie’s hand again and hurried forward, the rectory coming into view far ahead. The way opened up, the lawn with its sheep…
Bob Mayhew was crouched beside his wagon, bent over the body of a man. She began to run in earnest, full of dread and hope, dragging Eddie along, knowing without any doubt that it was Bill who lay there.
“He come this far an
d pitched over,” Mayhew said, “just this past instant. I had my tools in the cart, and was set to leave, when I heard something behind me and I turned.”
“He’s my Bill,” Mother Laswell said.
Mayhew looked at her, not quite comprehending.
“It wasn’t the truth I told you,” she said hurriedly, her hand to her forehead. “I wasn’t looking for mushrooms. I was looking for two people, and I’ve found them both.” She heaved a great sob now, which had come unbidden into her throat, and then shook her head to clear the emotions out of it. There was no time for sentiment.
“Better found than lost,” Mayhew said. “But he’s bled himself nearly white. We’ll put him in the wagon and be off. There’s a surgeon in the village, a good man. Saved my horse once, which was as good as dead.”
“There’s comfort in that,” she said, and together they lifted Kraken onto the bed of the wagon, dragging and sliding him until he was entirely in. He muttered something, but Mother Laswell didn’t catch what he said, and there was no time for conversation. She rinsed the gore from her hands in the stream water, and then, with Eddie between them on the rough wooden seat, Mayhew tossed the reins, and the horse set out at a trot. Soon they were in the village, the station and the bookman passing on the left and the Chalk Horse on the right. She would have to return Lois the Witch, before they set out, and she realized that she was already thinking of Hereafter Farm, hope having re-entered her being. There was fear in her, too, as she looked at Bill, pale and bloody, lying on his back, but she pushed the fear away, having had enough of it to last her for the rest of her life.
The Aylesford Skull Page 30
