“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
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 and 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
