The Aylesford Skull

“My thinking exactly. I’ve been given to understand that you’ve offered to ransom the boy to his father for a sum equal to what I’ve agreed to give to my man in the War Office. I don’t make any accusations, but it seems to me uncommon possible that you’ve promised the boy to two different parties, standing to gain twice if only you can hold out another day or so. Last night you were in London. Today I find you in the marsh. Heaven knows where you’ll be next week, after the deed has been done.”

“Heaven keeps no track of my comings and goings, I can assure you. I’ll remind you that I did you the favor of letting you know where I was bound, for here you both are. I could scarcely remain in the rookery.”

Moorgate waved the statement away, as if it didn’t signify. “I mean to say that time is short, as you very well know. You promised to contrive a lamp from the skull of the boy, but you haven’t undertaken to do it. I’m compelled to believe that you keep the boy alive because you mean to play us false if you can find a way.”

“You’re a bold man, Lord Moorgate. Once again you’ve come into my domain and made unwarranted assertions. I’ve only to whistle, and ten bloodthirsty men will come running. Perhaps you would like a turn atop the table here, my lord? Your own skull shows great promise.” Narbondo gestured at the surgical instruments on the wall, his downturned face looking wantonly demonic.

It came into Finn’s mind that nothing would serve his own endeavors more than immediate bloodshed in this underground room, if only to draw men away from the inn. He waited anxiously, watching Lord Moorgate’s face, which was set like a stone mask, his hand under his coat now – a pistol, perhaps. The woman stood very still.

“I jest,” Narbondo said after a desperately long moment. He smiled at the two. “I assure you that I had no intention of turning the boy over to his father. I merely hoped that the man would be foolhardy enough to bring me the ransom money, in which case I intended to relieve him of his life and his purse at one stroke. You’ll agree that the scenario would have been monstrously comical. Come, tell me plainly what you want. Give me an opportunity to put things right. And you’re free to remove your veil, my dear. I make it a habit of knowing my confederates. We all have our secrets, and so be it, but the veil carries things a trifle too far.”

Moorgate reached out and snatched the woman’s veil from her face, yanking off her hat in the process. He tore the veil from the hat, pitched the veil onto the floor, and then gave her the hat back. She restored it to the top of her head while fixing Moorgate with a hateful look.

“Meet Helen,” Moorgate said to Narbondo. “Even I’m not certain it’s her actual name, but you can trust her. I do, as far as it goes.”

Narbondo bowed obsequiously. “Charmed,” he said, looking at her intently, as if he saw something in her face.

“We’ve come to witness the boy’s head separated from his body,” Moorgate said. “Such a display would demonstrate your commitment to our joint endeavor. I applaud your attempt to profit by squeezing the boy’s father, but now that the effort has failed, you’ve no reason to want the boy alive. I’ve promised you… head-money, as they say, and so I want my head. I want it now, and I want to see your own hands red with the boy’s blood, and not his hypothetical blood. I’ll have my way with this or I’ll send to de Groot informing him to cease payment to the War Office and to call off Mr. Fox. He awaits my word.”

“You’ve taken precautions. Good. I like a cautious man. And perhaps you’ve also got a small craving to see the operation transpire?” Narbondo leered at him.

“I’ve got such a craving,” the woman said, the first words she’d spoken. “And then I’d like my breakfast.”

“Excellent,” Narbondo said, clapping his palms together as if he were quite pleased. “I’ll send someone to fetch the boy.”

Finn stood as if frozen, his mind comprehending this last exchange, but unable to resolve their words in any sensible way.

THIRTY ONE

THE MESSAGE ARRIVES

Alice brushed another layer of Langdon’s experimental fixative over the head of the pike. The mixture smelled of varnish and triple-refined spirits. She had done a neat job of severing the prodigious head, which was larger than she had anticipated. The pike had weighed over three stone, and it was unlikely that she would ever catch a larger. He had nearly foxed her again yesterday, running in under a hole in the bank half blocked with stones, but Alice had waded in after him, in order to keep the line straight and free. The battle had lasted twenty minutes, with Cleo and Mrs. Langley on the bank shouting advice.

The process of hardening the flesh required twelve coats of the varnish, inside and out, but because the varnish was so awfully hot, as Langdon had put it – chemically hot – it dried quickly, especially in the summer heat, and she had already applied the requisite number of coats to the inside of the scoured-out skull earlier today, which she had filled with a mixture of hide glue and smashed clinkers. She had thrust two bolts into it, which were now cemented tightly in place, and which would hold the head to its wooden plaque.

She had awakened before dawn this morning, unable to fall back to sleep, and had roused herself out of bed before her idle mind became active. She had set to work on the wooden table in the gallery, which had a view of the wisteria alley through the wire mesh over the windows. Now and then she pictured Langdon and Hasbro turning off the road and appearing beneath the wisteria, Eddie sitting between them on the seat of the wagon. She knew that picturing it wouldn’t make it so, but it was a picture that was welcome in her mind, and which kept out other pictures not so welcome. She turned the pike’s head to catch the sunlight coming in through the screen, wondering whether she had any glass eyes in her collection that would fit the empty sockets.

The door opened behind her now and Mrs. Langley entered, looking unhappily at the head of the pike. “The smell of that mixture is mortal!” she said. “You might perhaps take it outside, ma’am. We can set a table up in the open field, under a shade. It’s a lovely day.”

“You’re right, of course,” Alice told her. “I’ve become quite used to it, but now that you mention it my head is swimming.” She capped the jar of varnish, put her brushes into a bowl of turpentine and followed Mrs. Langley into the kitchen, where Cleo stood on a chair, mixing something in a bowl with a long wooden spoon.

“We’re making scones,” Cleo said. “With bits of cherries.”

“For a nice tea,” Mrs. Langley put in. And then, in a lower voice, she said to Alice, “I inquired in the village this morning about Mr. Marchand, ma’am, the zookeeper. He’s very much alive, apparently, although ancient. Living in Maidstone, I’m told. His younger brother Bennett keeps the books at the paper mill on Hanley Road.” She looked furtively at Cleo now, who was apparently paying no attention. “The younger Mr. Marchand has informed me that the… item of interest might indeed be purchased for a sum. A rather substantial sum, ma’am, but well within the stated limits.”

“Splendid,” Alice said. “You put our plan into motion, then?”

“I did. Are you certain it’s… That it’s quite… reasonable, ma’am?”

“No, indeed. It’s utterly unreasonable, Mrs. Langley, and therein lies its attraction. I’ve come to suspect that reason is a much overrated commodity.”

“Perhaps it is, ma’am. That’s enough stirring, Cleo. They’ll be leaden if they’re over-beat.”

There was a clattering outside, the unmistakable sound of a wagon rattling up the wisteria alley. Alice’s heart leapt into her throat, and she rushed into the gallery again, her hand to her mouth, her heart beating, nearly unable to breathe. But it wasn’t their wagon, and Langdon and Hasbro weren’t driving it. A boy she didn’t know sat on the seat. He reined up before the steps and climbed down, Alice already opening the door before he had a chance to knock.

“I’m Alice St. Ives,” she said without preamble. “Have you news of my husband?” She had almost said, “my son,” but caught herself, not wanting to tempt fate.

“No, ma’am,” the boy said. “I’ve got a letter from Mother Laswell, what just came up with the coach from the village at Cliffe.”

“From Mother Laswell? And who are you, then?”

“I’m Simonides, from Hereafter Farm,” he said, plucking off his cap. “She said I was to find you mortal quick and give you this, and I’m to say that the wagon is yours to command. I’m to drive you out to Cliffe Village if you