The man who came in with Slattery walked past the bar and stepped in behind it to open the back door and look out. He was only a few feet from the storeroom door. Nate could feel the floorboards settle under the man's weight.
'I'm sorry for your troubles,' Slattery said, without a hint of sincerity. 'I'm looking for a tall blond gentleman about eighteen years old. The young Master Nathaniel Wildenstern. Has anyone seen him?'
'Aye, I've seen 'im,' a man said from the other side of the room. 'Up yer arse, pickin' daisies.'
There was some nervous laughter. Nate couldn't see the bailiff's expression through the narrow hole, but his tone told him all he needed to hear.
'That's Charlie Fitzpatrick, isn't it?' Slattery retorted. 'Sure, I never knew you were such a sparklin' wit, Charlie. Maybe you can spare some more of it when I come to collect your rent this Tuesday? You do have the rent money, don't you, Charlie?'
There seemed to be no more wit forthcoming. Slattery was silent for a moment, and Nate could guess that he was giving the crowd the evil eye. The man at the back door closed it and walked in behind the bar. Nate gripped his pistol, wincing as he pulled back the hammer as quietly as he could.
'Get on with your drinkin',' Slattery said at last, throwing some money on a table. 'Drink away your troubles. Drink away your worries and drink away your sad little lives an' all. The more you all drink, the easier my job is, so have a round on me. And put some into poor dead Eoin there as well, why don't you? Don't want him meetin' the Almighty without drink on his breath. Give the Irish a bad name.'
And with a shuffle of boots on the wooden floor, they were gone. Nate eased the hammer home on his pistol and let out long breath. Slumping down with his back against the door, he stared up at the light coming through the tiny window.
Listening to the sounds of the men mounting their horses, he felt as if he were in a daze.
'Master Wildenstern?' Hanratty's voice called through the door. 'It's all right, they're gone now.'
Nate did not hear the landlord. This latest turn of events had finally overwhelmed him. He had never known the dead man, and yet the news of Eoin Duffy's death had been more than he could cope with after everything that had happened. He had thought that all he had to do was get away from the family – go to some far-flung corner of the world where he and the others could stay out of the way of the Wildensterns and live their lives in peace. But it could never be that simple.
'He's not answerin',' Hanratty said to somebody else. 'Do y'think he's all right?'
'Maybe he's fallen asleep – he looked knackered,' somebody suggested. 'You should have a look in and see.'
Now Nate had a man's death on his hands because he hadn't cared enough to ensure his instructions were carried out. Servants were never permitted to think for themselves, but people like Slattery were given more slack. It meant the family could wash its hands of any inhuman acts that he committed.
'I'm not stickin' me head in there,' Hanratty exclaimed. 'He was bit jumpy with that pistol if y'ask me. If I woke him up, he might get a fright and start squirtin' lead all over the place.'
'Best leave him to wake up on his own, so,' the other voice concluded helpfully.
Nate had known how his family worked even as he stood in that dungeon looking at the battered face of Eoin Duffy. And yet he had turned his back and walked away. And Clancy too was probably dead by now, because Nate had been stupid and careless, and because he lived in fear. Sitting in that tiny storeroom, he swore to himself that was about to change. He understood now what Clancy had been trying to tell him. He had been born into a privileged position… now he had to earn it. It was time to claim his inheritance.
His eyes wandered around the little room with its shelves of boxes, cans and paper parcels. It was nothing like the huge cellars at home, with their massive stores of fine food and drink. A milk churn sat in one corner, with a bag of potatoes leaning against it, some of them already sprouting shoots out of their brown skin. The whole room had a musty smell of vegetables on the edge of decay. In another corner was a small meat-safe, a cupboard with a wire gauze front used for storing meat. The Wildensterns were one of the only households in the country with the modern refrigerators. On top of the meat-safe lay a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Somebody had been doing the accounts. They were very small numbers.
Standing up, Nate picked up the pencil and a blank sheet and wrote out a short message on it. Then he opened the door. The crowd of mourners were looking on in interest.
'Francie,' he said. 'I need you to take this to the nearest telegraph office and send it immediately. Wake them up if you have to – tell them it's a matter of life and death.'
Francie looked at the message in confusion.
'But-'
'I need you to send it exactly as it is, do you hear me?' Nate insisted.
Francie nodded. Handing the note and some coins to the boy, Nate turned to Eamon Duffy.
'Sir, we need two horses. I can pay well.'
'We'll loan you the horses,' said the man, holding up two glasses of whisky. 'All I ask, Master Wildenstern, is that you drink to my brother.'
'It's the least I could do,' Nate replied, taking the glass and holding it up. 'May he be in Heaven an hour before the devil knows he's dead.'
'Amen to that,' the dead man's brother answered.
And so Nate rode away from the pub with the taste of whisky burning his parched throat. Like the bitterness of Eoin Duffy's death, it would take a long time to fade.
XXXI
'You have a new patient,' Hugo announced, looking disdainfully down at the unconscious servant as they came through the door. 'Someone more deserving of your attention… Though for how much longer, I couldn't say.'
Gerald looked up, his exhaustion evident on his face. His eyes closed for a moment in dismay as he saw Berto on the stretcher.
'He can't feel his legs,' Daisy told him tearfully, still holding Roberto's right hand. 'And his left arm is numb. We think his back is broken.'
'Put him on the table there,' Gerald said, pointing. He quickly washed his hands and then wiped them with a cloth. 'Lay him on his front.'
The two servants did as they were told. Gerald took some scissors and cut up the back of Berto's waistcoat and shirt. The trousers were soiled, but he made no mention of it. He ran his fingers up his cousin's spine, pressing gently in places.
'Here,' he said finally, touching a spot halfway up the back. 'A broken vertebra, maybe two or three. I… I'm sorry, Berto. It's a grievous injury. I don't know if there's anything that can be done.'
Roberto stifled a sob. Daisy pressed her hand to his cheek and kissed him, crying for him.
'I can't live like this,' Roberto gasped hoarsely. 'I can't face being a confounded cripple. If you can't fix me then
'Don't say that!' Daisy said softly to her husband. 'You'll be all right. You'll be fine. Won't he, Gerald?'
Gerald said nothing, avoiding her eyes. Hugo looked on with a bored expression, fiddling with his cufflinks.
'Is this ready?' he asked, nodding towards another body lying on the table nearby.
It was Edgar's naked corpse, its decapitated head stitched back on. The claw was missing from the right arm.
