CHARLES CRAIG OPENED HIS EYES and lay still for a moment, trying to determine what had awakened him. His wife, Margaret, was snoring softly beside him as she did when she had been forced to take laudanum for her pain. The room was hot and smelled of the ammonia liniment she applied nightly to her swollen joints. He listened but the only other sound was the scratch and rustle of the evergreens that grew beside the house. He slipped out of bed and, barefoot, padded over to the window. The blind was pulled down tight to the sill, and he lifted the side a crack so he could look out. Their bedchamber was at the rear of the house and below him was a large garden, smooth and white with the recent snow. Directly in front, the ground rose gently to a high fence, which demarcated the edge of their neighbour’s property. Their house was hidden by a thick stand of evergreens that extended to the right and down to the road, offering perfect privacy. To the left was an open field. He thought he could detect a slight movement, a deeper shadow among the shadows of the evergreens in the upper corner, but he wasn’t certain. The sky was overcast, and the moon was obscured.
He stayed motionless at the window for several minutes then, with a little groan, straightened up. Margaret muttered in her sleep, and he went back to the bed and pulled the quilt up around her shoulders. He waited a moment to make sure she had not awoken, then he went to the wardrobe and took out his trousers and a jacket. He favoured the newer style of nightwear, and he was wearing striped flannelette pyjamas. He pulled the trousers and coat on over these and crept from the room. There were no candles lit on the landing or stairwell, but his eyes were accustomed to the darkness and he made his way downstairs to the study. There was a dull slit of light showing beneath the door. He knocked, one hard tap followed by two softer ones. In a moment his son opened the door. Craig had moved out of view a few paces down the hallway and, without pause, James joined him.
“Is he out there again?” he asked.
“I’m not completely certain. Did the dogs bark just now?”
“They did a little while ago.” James looked discomfited. “It didn’t seem too serious,” he added. “I thought it must be a squirrel or a racoon.”
“There are occasions when you are worse than the most ignorant loafer,” said Charles. He did not raise his voice or insert much inflection, but James flushed as if he had been roundly scolded.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
“Never mind.” Charlie nodded in the direction of the study. “Are the curtains closed tight?”
“They are.”
“Let’s go in.”
Craig led the way back into the room. James had been enjoying a pipe, and the air was thick and aromatic with the smoke. There was a glass of whiskey on the table beside his chair. His father walked straight over to the desk and rolled back the top.
The pug who had been keeping James company trotted over to him, waving her little curl of a tail. Craig gave her a cursory pat on the head.
“Is Tiny in the kennel?”
“Yes, of course.”
Craig removed one of the inner desk drawers and reached his hand inside, turning the wooden screw that unlocked the secret compartment.
“Where is he?” asked James.
“Same place in the east upper corner.” He took a small leather billy out of the hidden drawer.
“What do you want me to do?” asked James.
Craig pointed to the mantel clock, a showy walnut piece with much ormolu trim.
“Stay in here until that chimes the quarter. I’m going to come around through the copse. When it’s time, open the curtains wide and stand in front of the window. Make a point of yawning and stretching. Then pick up Bess, get the lamp, and leave the room. Keep the lamp lit and go to the back door. Put on your boots and coat and step outside onto the patio a little ways. Make a show of getting Bess to relieve herself. Make a lot of noise about it. This is your chance to pretend you’re Edmund Keane.”
He put on his jacket and slipped the billy into his pocket.
“What if this fellow has a pistol?”
Craig shrugged. “You know what to do. Don’t stand in the light; keep moving around. I should be close enough by then to stop him, but if I shout, get out of the way fast.” Then, with a curt nod for his son, he left.
James sat down in the armchair and gulped back the rest of his whiskey. His pipe had gone out, but he didn’t attempt to light it. Bess jumped up beside him, and he stroked her ears. Ten minutes dragged by, and the clock started to strike. He got up, went to the window, and flung open the curtains. He couldn’t see anything outside, but knowing how visible he was made him uneasy. He did a quick yawn and stretch, snapped his fingers at Bess, and walked out of the room. At the back door he waited, listening, but everything was silent. It was almost one o’clock, and people were long in bed. He put on his overcoat and slipped into his boots, picked up the dog, and stepped out onto the patio. Hearing him, Tiny popped out of her kennel and barked. James moved into the shadows, put Bess on the ground, and called out clearly, “Hurry up, Bess, don’t take all night.” Then he started to walk up and down, clapping his hands. Tiny continued to bark, and Bess joined in, spinning round him.
“That’s enough, come on.” He went over to the kennel, which was at the end of the patio, persuaded the pug to come over, and fastened her to a long leash. “Be good, you two.” That done he returned to the back door, picked up his lantern, and went inside. He extinguished the light and waited in the hall. The dogs had quieted down and gone into their kennel, and it must have been only five minutes later when he heard the soft crunch of snow as somebody headed towards the door. His father entered.
“You didn’t wait long out there, James.”
“Sorry, Papa. Did you see him?”
“A glimpse. He was already moving away across Hernsworth’s field. Either finished his job or knew we were on to him. He wasn’t hurrying, so he probably swallowed your charade.”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s not too tall, shorter than you and me by a good foot, but he was wearing a mackintosh with the hood up, and I couldn’t tell what size he was, broad or slim.” Craig blew on his cold hands and began to take off his outdoor clothes. “I examined the ground where he’d been standing, but there was nothing to see: no tobacco juice, no cigar butts. However long he had been there, he was a patient man.”
“What do you think we should do, Papa.”
“For now, nothing.” For the first time, Craig grinned. “It is possible that we are making a mountain out of a molehill. He could be out there for a dozen reasons. He might be a shy suitor trying to catch a glimpse of Adelia for one thing. Or he could be a dog snatcher, looking to carry off our pride and joy.” He blew on his hands again. “Or he’s nosing into our business.”
They had been standing in the hall, speaking in low voices. Craig tapped his son lightly on the cheek. “By the way, James, you are looking most fearful. I’ve told you many times, you must never show fear. Never.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.” James summoned up his characteristic, sunny smile.
“That’s better. You must take a lesson from what happened to that poor sod, Harry Murdoch. He was his own worst enemy.”
“I didn’t know you felt sorry for him, Papa.”
Craig shrugged. “Of course I do. Not a lot but somewhat. Now off to bed with you. In the morning we’ll go out and have another look around. He just may have left something behind, although I doubt it. This man is experienced.”
James kissed him good night and left. Craig didn’t move but stood and chafed his cold hands again. He knew he wouldn’t sleep yet; his blood was still racing. He needed a bit of soothing, a release. He made his way up the rear stairs, past the second-floor landing to the third. There were two chambers up here. One was used as a storage room; the other was where his sister-in-law slept. He opened the door to this room and went inside. “Carmel,” he whispered. “Carmel, wake up, dear, it’s me.”
Jessica didn’t want to go back to bed just yet. Walter was not a heavy sleeper, and it seemed that the smallest movement on her part woke him. She’d half expected him to be waiting at the door. She knew it came from love, but his solicitude was oppressing her, ultimately futile. He could not help her, could not offer any relief from her torment.
She didn’t risk raking the coals even though she was chilled to the bone. Her boots were worn thin at the soles, and her stockings were damp from the snow that had leaked through. In her crib, Sally turned and cried out, “Mama, Mama.” Jessica went over to her, but she was fast asleep. She looked flushed, and in a rush of alarm Jessica touched her forehead. She was warm but not overly so, and Jessica pulled back the coverlet to cool her. Then, wrapping her hands in the ends of her shawl, she began to pace around the room. A large Bible was on its special stand by the window and she halted in front of it, touching the soft leather cover as if it were a live creature. She opened it at the back page where her mother had written down the family tree as she remembered it.
Evangeline Plain had married Josiah Watkins. They had seven children of whom four had lived to adulthood, Phoebe, Thomas, David, and the youngest, Jessica.
She moved her finger along the careful handwriting. Jessica had married Walter Lacey. Her mother had given her the Bible as a wedding present, and Jessica remembered how proudly and carefully she had entered the name of her firstborn, Sarah, called Sally, born October 30, 1891. There was another line underneath ready for the next entry, and Walter had written Sylvanus. The foetus had not been viable, but according to the church he had lived long enough inside her to have a soul and his christening and burial had been simultaneous. Jessica pressed her own breasts. If the infant had gone full term, he would have been suckling now.
She stood for a moment and touched the Bible reverentially. She had witnessed her mother many times gain solace from what she insisted was the word of God made manifest, and Jessica desperately needed guidance. She opened the book at Proverbs and without looking ran her finger down the page, continuing as prayerfully as she could until she felt the impulse to stop. She looked down. She had halted at chapter 30, verses 15–16.
The horseleach hath two daughters, crying Give, give. There are three things that are never satisfied, yea, four things say, It is not enough:
The grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is not filled with water; and the fire that saith not, It is enough.
The words became shards of glass in her throat.