Clovis turns her attention from the extraordinary scene below and grasps Jonesy’s chin, turning his face to meet hers.
‘How do you know it was poison? It might have been a bad batch, or a mistake.’
‘I take it from jar myself.’ And then with a steely countenance he has not shown before, ‘I know poison. I buy myself from trusted trader of my father.’
Then he thrusts his wrist at Clovis.
‘I will not bleed out. Twice I have tried.’
She examines the cuts and searches his face, he tells the truth.
Willa turns ashen and begins to rock.
Clovis looks out of the window again. People still linger around the gallows, looking and pointing as if Finn were still there. At the corner of the platform nearest her window, Benedikt appears seemingly out of thin air, for she did not notice him before now. He wears a pair of dark, green-lensed spectacles today, which, in addition to his hat, almost entirely conceal his face. He gazes up as if he can see her behind the bars. When he turns to leave, Clovis notes something familiar in his stride. She dismisses it. Benedikt snakes through the ocean of people until he becomes a black speck and disappears.
Finn Fowler is taken to a small room near the boiling pot of human parts. A doctor who witnessed his ordeal volunteers his services. His genuine desire to make Finn more comfortable sits alongside his innate curiosity. How could this man possibly still be alive?
The doctor removes Finn’s soiled clothing and washes him. He examines the man’s ragged-looking throat, inside and out.
‘It will be some time before you will be able to speak again.’
In defiance, Finn struggles. He rises up and motions to the door.
‘What? What do you want?’ the doctor asks.
‘Ordinary,’ he rasps.
Minutes later, the Ordinary sweeps into the cell, his chest puffed with importance now that the hanged man who lives asks for him.
‘Make way, make way!’ He pushes the turnkeys and wardsmen who have gathered round for a glimpse.
‘I am here, Finn Fowler. I am here.’
Finn rests his head on a ragged blanket, as if comforted by the Ordinary’s presence. Yet there is some mischief in his expression. Come close, he motions to the man who clenches his prayer-book.
The Ordinary leans in. Closer, Finn indicates. Awkwardly, the Ordinary turns his ear until he feels the warmth of Finn’s rancid breath.
‘There …’ Finn coughs. ‘There is nothing … after death. No heaven.’ He pauses to swallow and wipe his slobbering mouth. ‘No hell.’ His voice scratches. ‘There is nothing.’
Shaken, the Ordinary springs back as if Finn Fowler had laid his hand upon his heart and strangled it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The river flows like dirty moss. The wind chops the Thames and forces the lighters to bang into each other, making an awful racket. There is no mercy on this river. The sound of the waves pushing against the wharves and wooden stilts diminishes the barking cries of the seagulls. Work is abandoned momentarily for hot cups of tea and, for many river men, something stronger at the nearest tavern. The criers are out walking the slick pavement with fresh cockles, silver mackerels and whelks.
Constance stands at the bowed parlour window peering down into the rising tide. The past swells up to a painful pinpoint in her heart, when, for a moment, she imagines her mother’s body floating by. The water rises so close, so high, that she could reach out to invade its threatening currents, grab her mother’s skirts and pull her out of the river’s clutch. This time, Averil Lawless would be saved.
Verity sits on the sofa behind her sister with their elderly father-in-law and his youngest son who will soon take the reins of Fitzgerald & Fitzgerald.
All around the room stand boxes and packages, bundles and stacks.
‘Constance, are you listening?’ she calls to her sister.
‘What? Yes.’
‘I was just saying to Percy and George that there is still no other talk from Limehouse to the Tower but that of the Fowlers,’ Verity says.
‘Astonishing.’ The old man shakes his head.
‘From gallows to transportation, it is not that unusual,’ Percy Fitzgerald suggests.
‘It is when you are pronounced dead,’ Verity counters.
‘Well, yes, that aspect of the tale is curious indeed,’ Percy says.
‘When the Fowlers return … ’ Constance begins.
‘The Fowlers will not return. Van Diemen’s Land is no New South Wales. The latter is near to being a desirable place to settle now. The convicts are happy to stay.’ George is firm. ‘Twelve years each, I believe is their sentence? No, you will not see them again.’
‘I wish we could be certain of it. I would rest easier.’
‘I too, Verity,’ Constance agrees.
‘Excuse me, Father. We mustn’t assume anything at this point. They have not yet left England,’ Percy says. ‘And I would not like to see my sisters-in-law’s hopes dashed. If they do return …’ his voice grows gentler to cushion the truth, ‘Mrs Fowler will still be the babe’s mother. And Mr Fowler his father.’
‘Quite right you are. But if I were to wager, I would say they are not made of the stuff to survive.’ George insists.
‘Sister.’ Verity peers at her around the teetering piles. ‘All right?’
Now that the day has arrived, Constance is not certain that she is all right.
‘I hope we have made the right decision,’ she says.
Bertie comes bounding in with the baby in her arms. She is stopped short by the silence in the room.
‘Thank you, Bertie. We’ll have luncheon when you can manage it.’ Constance takes the boy.
‘I’m far ahead of you. ’Tis ready now.’ Bertie makes a lively manoeuvre, skirting the baskets filled with linen and clothing. ‘It won’t be much longer now. Soon as you’ve had your lunch, it will be
