downward and upward, and whether Eddie might be induced to climb down, which was always more frightening and difficult than climbing up.
He settled his cap on his head and waited, reviewing his tale. Very shortly George came back out through the door, saw Finn standing there, and stopped in his tracks. Finn swept his cap from his head and bowed, thankful that he’d been wearing the balaclava earlier, which he had happily pitched into the street before they were out of London.
“Where in the devil’s name did
“St. Mary Hoo, sir, when this coach stopped for a time. I climbed up onto the back and rode along, hid by the baggage.”
“Then you’ll be able to find your way back to St. Mary Hoo afoot. Off with you.” He jerked his head to underscore the command and pointed back down the road. “
“I’m right anxious for a trial sir, if you’ll have me. I was an ostler for two years in Yorkshire for Mr. Carnahan, and I can pick a man’s pocket like it was nothing, if that suits your honor.”
“I daresay you can. No doubt you picked Mr. Carnahan’s pocket, whoever he is, which explains why you’re no longer in his employ. And now you’ve skulked out of St. Mary Hoo in the dark of night. You’ve only just been breeched and already you’re tearing along toward the gibbet like a devil in a red cap.”
“I’m just trying to make my living, sir. If it please your honor to help me, I’d be grateful.”
“It would not please me. I tell you to go home, wherever home is, before they put the rope around your neck. The noose is already tied, depend upon it. Better to look to the kindness of your mother, because there’s little enough of that commodity you’ll find in the world, nor here at Shade House, neither, for that matter.”
“My mother’s dead, sir, and my father’s gone off. He left when I was a lad, and never came back. He was a drunk, sir, so I don’t miss him. I took care of my little brother till he died of the bloody jack when he was only five years – not much older than the boy who come along in this coach just now. After that I left London and went north, where I worked in the cheesing line, Stilton mainly, and was scullery boy at the Bell Inn on the Great North Road, where I learned to butcher some. I can do a day’s work, sir, no matter what. I don’t peach, neither. Never have. I’d sooner stay here and work for my room and board, and no matter any pay. You won’t be sorry for it.”
George looked at him in silence, his head canted to the side so that he seemed to be inspecting him through the corner of his eye. The appraisal went on long enough so that Finn began to wonder whether the balaclava had done its work after all. He looked past George, into the trees, ready to bolt. Apparently making up his mind, George said, “Do you have a name, boy?”
“Newman, sir.”
“Just Newman? No Christian name?”
“No, sir. I’ve always been Newman, your honor. Newman ain’t Christian?”
“Some Newmans are and some aren’t,” George said. “When were you last in London?”
“Some time back,” Finn said. “Six months, maybe.”
“Not more recent?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re right certain of it?”
“Yes, sir.”
George looked at him for a time again, saying nothing. A bird with a particularly mournful note called from the nearby wood, but otherwise the night was silent.
“Stable’s around behind, Newman, near the Doctor’s cottage, him whose carriage you rode in on uninvited. You stay out of the Doctor’s way. He doesn’t hold with senseless talk, nor with boys, neither. Thinks they’re worthless, and he’s probably right in that regard. I’m saying this for your own good.
“Yes, sir,” Finn said, and immediately climbed up onto the seat of the landau and picked up the reins, clicking the horses into a walk and following in Narbondo’s wake around the side of the inn, looking sharp, since he had no idea whether Narbondo would recognize him from their conversation on the road in Aylesford two nights back. He was still half certain that George had seen through him – remembered the coat, maybe, from Angel Alley, although he would have seen it only briefly. But if he had recognized Finn, then what was his game?
There was no sign of Narbondo, only the cottage, a mean, one-room shanty built of drift lumber hauled out of the bay. The window was propped open and the shutters pushed aside – easy enough to get in, although Finn could think of no good reason to do so, since Eddie wasn’t there. A brook ran along behind the cottage, with a mill beside it farther down, the brook turning the wheel.
The stable stood nearby. Finn unhitched, fled, watered, and curried the horses, and then mucked out their stalls and pitched in clean straw before putting them away. He blew out the lanterns, walked out into the yard, discovering that it was morning outside, and he looked around one more time at the prospects for escape before walking in through the open back door of the inn. George was in the kitchen, as he had promised. It was a wide room, surprisingly clean and squared away. Finn took in the brick-and-iron ovens, the carving and breadboards, the hams and herbs and iron pots and pans hung on the walls and ceiling. A long window of bullseye glass let in the early morning light.
“All ship-shape in the stable, sir,” Finn said, picking up a long knife and feeling the blade. “I’ll just put an edge on this, if you’d like, and slice up that side of bacon, if it’s bacon that’s to be served out.”
“You’ll put the goddamned knife down,” said a man who was just then coming into the kitchen, carrying an enormous sack of flour over his shoulder as if it were nothing and bending low to clear the top of the lintel above the door.
“Yes, sir,” Finn said, and he put the knife down as he was told.
The man was big, immensely tall and heavy, dangerous looking. His black hair was long and his eyes sharp and smoldering. His left arm was put up in a sling that was dark brown with dried blood.
“This is Mr. McFee,” George said. “He’s particular in his ways, is Mr. McFee. I’ve told him you were to be given a trial in the kitchen, Newman. You’ll do just as he tells you, if you’ve got any sense.”
“If he had any sense he’d take himself off,” McFee said, not looking at Finn. He set the flour down on the floor with his one good arm.
“I’ll stay, sir, with your leave,” Finn told him.
“Then put an edge on that knife if you can, boy,” McFee told him. “We’ll test the blade on your hand. If you ruin it, and I have to grind it again, it’ll cost you an ear. We’ll cook it with the chowder as a lark, like the French do with hens’ ears. McFee’s ear chowder, we’ll call it.”
Finn stared at him, wondering whether the man was practicing on him, but there was no humor in his face at all, something more like a simmering rage. Finn took up the knife, felt the edge again, and began to hone it carefully against the steel, wishing that he hadn’t told George the nonsense about making cheeses. If McFee put him to work in that regard, Finn had best run, for he had no more notion of making cheese than of building chimneys. He handed over the knife, which McFee took from him, at the same time grasping Finn’s wrist with the hand that was in the bloody sling.
“Open your fist, boy,” he said. “When I say I’ll do something, you’d best remember that I’ll do it.”
Finn did as he was told. It seemed to be the safest course, since running was out of the question. He kept his face utterly still as McFee ran the sharp blade lightly across his palm. A line of blood welled up. Reaching into a crockery jar that stood on the breadboard, McFee brought out a handful of black dust, which he held in front of Finn.
“This here’s coal dust and human bone,” McFee said, “ground up precious fine, which the Doctor takes with his vittles like another man takes salt. You’ll mind yourself around the Doctor, boy, if you’ve got a head on you. Hear me now – you’ll jump to it when I tell you to, or I’ll slit your throat and feed you to the hogs.” He sprinkled the coal dust liberally on Finn’s sliced hand, rubbing it into the line of blood with his thumb. “That’ll put paid to the bleeding, boy, and give you a gaudy mark into the bargain, permanent like. You’ve come into John McFee’s kitchen. You’re mine now. My mark’s upon you.”
