The Aylesford Skull

return Lois the Witch, before they set out, and she realized that she was already thinking of Hereafter Farm, hope having re-entered her being. There was fear in her, too, as she looked at Bill, pale and bloody, lying on his back, but she pushed the fear away, having had enough of it to last her for the rest of her life.

Mayhew drew up before a white cottage with a sign out front of a snake climbing a pole. He leapt down and hurried inside, and moments later he returned followed by a man in a stained white coat who was apparently a doctor. He bent over Kraken, felt his neck and wrist, and bade Mayhew to fetch Johnson from the smithy next door.

“Can you save him, Doctor?” Mother Laswell asked, holding onto Eddie, who was asleep now, and resting heavily against her.

“We’ll see, ma’am,” the doctor said. “He’s bled some, but…”

The blacksmith arrived along with Mayhew, and together the three men plucked Kraken from the bed of the wagon and carried him inside the cottage, leaving Mother Laswell and Eddie alone. She sat for awhile in silence, letting the boy sleep, considering the strange way of things – her defeat yesterday when she had faced down Narbondo, her ignominious capture on the rope bridge in Spitalfields, and the elation she had felt when she realized that it was Bill Kraken who had come out of the night to fight Lord Moorgate and to save her from her otherwise inevitable fate. And now here she sat, having found a lost boy, her journey nearly at an end. She prayed that God would see fit to spare Bill, and anticipated bringing him home. Yes, she thought. They would return to Hereafter Farm as soon as ever they could. Bill would pull through. She was certain of it. Bill Kraken wasn’t meant to die, not now, not after all this.

She saw a wagon rattling toward them from up the street – a wagon she knew. For a moment she was baffled, but then she saw with immense happiness that Simonides was holding the reins, a dark-haired woman sitting tall and straight on the seat beside him: Alice, of course! She had come at last. Simonides saw Mother Laswell and reined in the horses. Alice caught sight of Eddie and let out a small shriek, and then there was a great commotion, and Mother Laswell stood on the walkway that led into the doctor’s quarters and watched the reuniting of mother and son.

* * *

“My race is run,” Mother Laswell said to Alice. They sat in the inn parlor, drinking a glass of port, waiting for word of Bill. Eddie was fast asleep on a settee, dead tired and having consumed the better part of a meat pie with the avidity of a glutton. “I’m bound for Hereafter Farm, with Bill beside me, God willing. What will you do?”

“I’ll take my son home,” Alice said, “and pray for the safe return of my husband. Langdon told me something of your travails, your… search for your own son.”

Mother Laswell nodded. “That’s how I saw it for many and many a year, but this morning my mind changed. I woke up to a revelation. Since my boy died I’ve been searching for I don’t know what – solace, no doubt, answers to questions I couldn’t put into words. We both of us have something in common: we’ve both been searching, and we’ve both come to an end of it. I’m letting go of the past and setting my sights on the future, God willing that I’ve got Bill to spend it with.”

Alice nodded. “I thank you for what you and Bill have done for Eddie. If there’s any way to repay you, I’d do it willingly. I’m in your debt.”

“Let’s not speak of debt, ma’am. I’ll ask this, however: when the Professor wins through, if he brings my Edward’s remains home to Aylesford, you can ask him to undo the foul thing that my husband did so many years ago. That’s all I ask.”

The inn door opened and Mayhew walked in, his cap in his hands. “The doctor’s sewed your Bill up. It was nip and tuck, and he’s still precarious, but the bleeding’s stopped, and the ball, which was beside the lung, is out now.”

Mother Laswell wept, and Alice put her arm around her shoulders and waited her out.

THIRTY-SIX

THE BURNING

St. Ives stood looking at the dead man, at the bloody remnants of him, the shotgun blast ringing in his ears. There was a shocked silence among his companions. Finn had recovered from his exertions, but was looking away into the trees now, as if lost in thought. Uncle Gilbert stared at the fallen man, at what was left of his face, clearly surprised and aghast at the butchery that his weapon had wrought. St. Ives guessed that Gilbert hadn’t meant to fire it, that the weapon had surprised him. If that was so, then it might have been any of them that lay dead on the ground – something that a man like Gilbert Frobisher would have a difficult time sorting out. A small gust of wind picked up dry leaves that went skittering away down the path, a reminder that the world was still turning.

“Leave some of these vermin for the rest of us, Uncle,” Tubby said, attempting levity, but his uncle seemed shattered and simply worn out, and Tubby helped him to sit down on a fallen tree, where Gilbert mopped his face with a kerchief and shook his head.

Doyle stepped to his side, peering first into one eye and then into the other and then feeling his pulse. “You’ve had a shock, sir,” he said. “As a medical doctor I advise you to return to your camp. I tell you candidly to keep it in your mind that you stopped a man who was intent upon murdering a boy.”

Gilbert nodded, although his face revealed no alteration.

“This was one of the two from out of the sewer near Blackfriars Bridge this morning,” Hasbro said to St. Ives in a low voice. “I recognize his clothing.”

“Pity he can’t speak,” St. Ives muttered. “We might have persuaded him to tell us something.”

There were footsteps behind them now – old Hodgson, carrying his bird rifle and hurrying along. “I heard the report of a weapon,” he said, “and I knew you weren’t shooting partridge.” Gilbert nodded at him without any enthusiasm, and Hodgson looked at the dead body and recoiled.

“Here’s luck,” said Doyle. “The two of you can go back together. A good bottle of wine will set you up again directly, Mr. Frobisher. Whisky might be more to the point.”

“Just so,” said Hodgson, evidently having come to an understanding of things. “And we’ve cataloguing to attend to. Buck up, old boy.”

Tubby grasped the dead man by his ankles now and dragged him away, into the wood. He returned after a few minutes, dusting his hands. “I predict great celebration among the local vultures,” he said.

“Buteo buteo,” Gilbert muttered, stroking his chin now, his gaze unfocused.

Finn stepped across and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I’d like to thank you, sir,” he said. “He meant to murder me, and worse, if you take my meaning. He swore to it, when he caught up with me back in the wood, and he would have had me, too, for I was worn out from running. You put an end to a right villain, sir. His name was the Crumpet, and he’s had his hand in miseries of all variety. I learned just yesterday that he took a dull-witted boy named Spry Jack out of Billingsgate Market, and the boy never came back. All what he done with him, no one knows, nor wants to, but the Crumpet was a black-hearted devil, sir, and no mistake.”

“I can vouch for it,” St. Ives said. “He exploded an infernal device in London early this morning to our certain knowledge. Blew a hole in the wall of the Fleet River, quite likely murdering people in Smithfield. He attempted to murder me some weeks back after he blew up the palm house at the Bayswater Club and killed poor Shorter, the botanist. The world’s a better place now that he’s gone from it, and Narbondo has lost a lieutenant.”

“Not Jensen Shorter of the Horticultural Society?” Gilbert asked. “We botanized together years ago. He was a great man for the lichens.”

“That he was,” St. Ives said. “You’ve avenged Shorter’s murder into the bargain.”

Gilbert shook his head sadly, the news of Shorter’s death adding weight to his unhappiness, although it also added something like anger, which improved his demeanor, for there was less self-revulsion in it now. He looked at Finn and said, “We haven’t met, young man. Gilbert Frobisher, at your service. I thank you for your kindness.”

“This is Finn Conrad, Uncle,” Tubby told him, “one of the most sensible coves I know. He’s got a good head