12

Our trip to the village had proved an unpleasant reminder that life from now on wouldn’t be easy. Things were different – I was different. And the people of Sweepfield had made me feel it.

‘There’s bound to be talk,’ Da said when I told him. ‘You survived a terrible accident. Folks are intrigued.’

‘They’d do better to be interested in that Mr Walton man,’ I said. ‘He’s a strange one, all right, to be visiting our mam’s grave.’

Da heaved a long, tired sigh, the sort a person does when they don’t quite believe you.

‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Peg saw him. So did Mercy.’

‘There’s no law against visiting a churchyard, Lizzie. Besides, as I work for Mr Walton now, maybe he was just showing us his sympathy.’

But I didn’t much like people’s sympathy, especially coming as this did from a stranger: it made me feel pitied. And pity scared me, for it forced me to think of all I’d lost. Grief already gnawed at my edges, and if I let it, it would swallow me whole.

*

For the next few days, I stayed home. There didn’t seem much point in venturing out just to be stared at or be a target for Isaac Blake and his stones. Truth was, I felt shaken and very low. So much so I didn’t even get dressed. Hiding away didn’t help matters though: it just made life dreary and dull. So when Mercy stopped by, I tugged on my frock and combed my hair, ready as I’d ever be to face the world – or Mercy, at least.

‘Fancy a walk?’ I said, tying my shawl before she’d a chance to come inside. ‘It’ll be just the two of us.’ Da had gone out on carpentry business and taken Peg with him. It was a rare occurrence not to have her tagging along with us.

‘All right. Not into Sweepfield, though.’

‘No, not Sweepfield.’

On that we were agreed.

So at our gate we turned right, heading instead towards the main Netherton road. At first, the lane was rough underfoot; I had to concentrate hard. Mercy, her arm through mine, guided me past puddles and ruts made by cartwheels. On reaching the main road, the ground became smoother, and we settled into an easier pace. Though it was another cold, sunless day, the fresh air helped improve my spirits. So did Mercy feeding me barley sugars so sweet they made my teeth ache.

Then, out of nowhere, she said, ‘It’s hens this time.’

‘Hens?’

‘Mrs Morrison’s Speckled Sussexes. All fourteen taken and not a single feather left, so I’ve heard.’

My brain took a moment to catch up. ‘Weren’t some ducks taken from Dipcott Farm the other day? And didn’t a horse get bitten too?’

‘They did. It was.’

I dug my free hand into my pocket. ‘Then that’s an awfully hungry fox if you ask …’ I stopped. ‘Oh.’

Inside my pocket I found something cold and hard and little. It was, I remembered, Mr Walton’s brass button, the one he’d dropped at Mam’s grave. It gave me an idea – one that might make things clearer, and prove to myself that I could still be brave.

‘Eden Court’s up this way, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘It is – another half a mile or so. That Mr Walton’s moving more belongings in today – bottles of things, ropes and pipes and rolls of wire, so I’ve heard.’

It sounded fascinating.

‘Fancy a closer look?’ I asked.

Mercy stopped. ‘What, go in to Eden Court?’

‘Not into the house, no.’ I pulled the button from my pocket and showed her. ‘Just to the front door to return something, that’s all.’

‘Why, you sly thing!’ The admiration in her voice told me she approved.

At the crest of Sweeper’s Hill we turned off the main road onto a lane, which I remembered for how the trees arched high above it. From here, Eden Court was only a few hundred yards away, its roofline visible through the treetops.

‘Can you see the house? Does it still look like a castle?’ I asked.

‘It really does,’ said Mercy, a shudder in her voice. ‘I bet it’s got cannons on the roof. Actually, come to mention it, there is something up on the roof. I’m sure it wasn’t there before.’

I felt a twinge of excitement. ‘What is it?’

‘It looks like a flagpole or something, but without the flag.’

Which didn’t sound that exciting, after all.

‘Come on,’ I said, tugging her arm. ‘Let’s see if Mr Walton is at home.’

Minutes later we’d reached the gates.

‘This is it,’ Mercy said. ‘Eden Court.’

In my head, I saw the gateposts: grey stone pillars with bird shapes carved into them that Mam once told me were phoenixes. ‘They’re all about hope, those birds,’ she’d said. ‘In the story they rise up from the flames, just to prove that even when everything’s destroyed, life can begin again.’

At the time, I didn’t get what she meant. I wasn’t sure of it now, either. Life without Mam was full of things I didn’t understand: Mr Walton at her gravestone being one of them.

Then Mercy said, ‘Oh, I wasn’t expecting the gates to be wide open.’

‘All the easier for us to get in,’ I said.

Mercy hesitated. ‘It don’t exactly look welcoming, though.’

‘It never has,’ I reminded her. ‘Come on.’

We’d only gone a few yards down the drive when from behind us came the thud of hoofbeats. Rapidly, they got louder. I heard the snorts of horses, the slap of reins. Mercy bumped against me. In a tangle of arms and legs, we fell sideways. From the damp, rank smell, I guessed we’d landed in a ditch.

The cart thundered past, so close I felt my bones shake. Then it was gone. All that remained was dust, which settled thickly in my throat.

‘He could’ve blinking well killed us!’ I said, scrambling to my feet. ‘Are you all right, Mercy?’

Nearby, leaves rustled as she stood up. ‘I’ll live.’

A quick brush down and we set off again, more cautiously this time. What I’d forgotten about Eden Court was how short the driveway was. It ended sharply round the next bend. The house, I recalled now, with its stone steps and wide front door, stood not twenty yards up ahead.

‘Don’t let them see us!’ Mercy hissed. ‘Not yet!’

‘Why not?’

Mercy didn’t explain. She nudged me into what felt like a bush before squeezing in beside me.

I was a tiny bit annoyed. ‘What’re we doing? Why are we hiding?’

We were so close to the house now, I could hear voices and the jingling of the horses’ bits. I tried to stand up but Mercy pulled me down again.

‘That carriage, the one that just nearly killed us, has pulled up outside the house,’ she said. ‘They’re unloading it now. Stay still a minute so we can see what it’s carrying.’

‘But I came to speak to Mr Walton.’

‘Shh! It might be interesting.’

I sighed crossly and sat back on my heels. ‘Go on, then, what can you see?’

‘Everything in the back’s covered over,’ Mercy whispered. ‘No, wait. The covers are coming off …’

‘What’s underneath?’

‘Lots of wooden boxes. They’ve got lids on and … oh, a servant’s just opened one …’

My stomach did a little flip. ‘What’s inside?’

‘He’s taking things out and holding them up to make sure they’re not broken. They look like jars with things in them.’

I sat forward. This was getting interesting. It was infuriating too, when all I could see were shadows and light.

‘What sort of things?’ I demanded. ‘Pickles? Jam?’

‘Don’t get sarky, Lizzie. I’m doing my best.’

‘Sorry.’

As Mercy went back to explaining, my head filled with images of boxes being unloaded, carried up the front steps and taken inside. The jars, all different shapes and sizes, were of green and blue glass, so Mercy said. There were rolls of wire, stone containers, a crate full of what seemed to be tools.

‘Right, that appears to be all of it,’ said Mercy, getting to her feet ‘Let’s go and find your Mr Walton.’

From the direction of the house came an almighty crash. There was no mistaking the tinkle of broken glass.

‘Oh my! What’ve they dropped?’ I asked, imagining blue and green bottles smashed on the steps.

Beside me, I sensed Mercy stiffen. ‘That’s not a box. That’s something else.’

She let out a long slow breath.

‘Tell me!’ I said.

‘It can’t be. Can it?’

This was unbearable.

‘You’d better tell me, Mercy Matthews, or I swear I’ll …’

She grabbed my arm so hard it silenced me on the spot. ‘They’ve dropped a case. Like a glass case with something in it – some sort of stuffed animal. I can’t tell quite, but it looks like a giant dog.’

‘A dog?’

‘It’s probably Mr Walton’s pet.’

I had an overwhelming urge to laugh. Or maybe it was nerves. Either way, this discovery about Mr Walton took me by surprise. So not only was he a mysterious scientist, but he was also sentimental enough to stuff his own pet dog.

‘Oh no. What’s he doing here?’ From the way Mercy said it, I guessed someone else had arrived on the scene.

‘Who is it, Mercy?’

‘Isaac flipping Blake. It’s all right though, they’re ordering him to keep back.’

‘Good. The last thing they’ll want is his great feet stomping over all that broken glass.’

And if Isaac Blake dared to throw stones at me again, this time I’d give him what for.

‘Blimey,’ Mercy said. ‘That’s an awful lot of pig Isaac’s got there.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘He’s handing over a huge pig carcass to one of the servant men.’

Now this did make sense, for Isaac’s family were pig breeders and butchers. Most of the local meat came from them.

‘Perhaps Mr Walton likes bacon for his breakfast,’ I said, for I was learning more about this man by the minute.

‘But it’s still got its snout and trotters on. You’d think he’d have it butchered properly, at least,’ Mercy replied. ‘Wait a minute. Why’s the man taking it all the way down there?’

‘Down where? Oh tell me, Mercy!’

‘He’s gone off down a path that seems to run alongside the stables. He’s walking away from Eden Court.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe they’ve got a storehouse down there for the meat.’

It was a possibility.

It was also possible, I was beginning to realise, that the meat wasn’t meant for Mr Walton at all.