The journey from London had been uneventful, even pleasant thanks to the continuation of the temperate weather. To call the route north a road would be to give it ideas far above its station, for it was little more than ground that was slightly less rough than that which bounded it on either side, and in winter it would have been a rutted mass of mud and filth where a carriage could very easily become bogged down. Flynt had ridden it more than once in that condition and even Horse had found it heavy going, and she was as sure-footed as any of her species could be. On this trip, even though the sun had baked the trail hard, he still made sure that he walked her behind him for long periods to ensure he did not overstretch her strength. She was a game girl who would forever give him her all but he would never risk overburdening her. In any case, he didn’t feel time was of the essence, Templeton believed himself safe and there was no evidence to suggest that any other searchers knew of his location, so Flynt was at liberty to take his leisure during the journey.
He slept in inns when he came upon them, barns or haylofts when he did not and under the stars when he had to. After the turbulence that was London both night and day, he welcomed the silence of the English countryside as well as the solitude, just he and Horse and the occasional exchange of pleasantries with a fellow traveller. It gave him the breathing space, both literally and figuratively, to consider events, in particular the motives of Gabriel Cain, a matter on which he pondered at length but reached no clear conclusions. His old friend’s reappearance in the city could simply have been circumstance, and had certainly been fortuitous, given the assistance he had subsequently offered in dealing with the Trasks, but that chance meeting in the tavern could also have been a contrivance. Consideration had to be given to the individual described by Lemuel Gribble who had been making inquiry regarding Templeton. It was most certainly within the realms of possibility that there were other fair-haired men in London who wore the black of the puritan, but was it likely that two such similar coves would have expressed such an interest in the missing lawyer? If Gabriel was indeed Gribble’s previous interlocutor, then that could mean he was working for the Fellowship. Such was not outwith the realms of possibility, for though Gabriel’s company was entertaining and he was most sturdy in a fight, he would always pursue coin and had little compunction about from whom he would accept it. Thoughts of such a betrayal stabbed at Flynt’s chest. There were few people in this life he trusted but until that night in the Rookery, when he suspected him of silencing Romulus Trask, he would have said that he’d had more faith in Gabriel than in any other man. Yes, he made himself free with other men’s wives, but Flynt tended to see this more as a reflection of his own fear of committing to one person than a comment on the virtue of the ladies in question. Those already wed were simpler to keep at arm’s length, at least figuratively, than single ladies who might expect some manner of promise before clergy.
So Gabriel could be working for the Fellowship, but the possibility that he could be the individual Wild had called the Wraith was somewhat confusing. If so, why would he be interested in Templeton if his target was Flynt? Gabriel had claimed to have heard someone moving in the Rookery, but it could have been a fabrication to cover the fact that he himself had slit Trask’s throat. Later, he made it look as if he was headed for a night of abandon with the Covent Garden Nun but had he in fact followed Flynt to Charing Cross, where he despatched the man Simms and vanished into the night?
And yet… and yet…
Doubt there was and Flynt was uncomfortable with that. Like most people, he preferred certainty. He had doubt enough over his own failings.
Flynt’s mind was in turmoil as he considered all this. Gabriel’s possible, perhaps probable, betrayal was hurtful but the idea of the Wraith, whoever he be, had deeply unsettled him. Charters had observed that many individuals had been intent on removing him from this earth and he had always emerged as the last man standing. Most of the attempts had been made by brutish louts who preferred ambush, such as the man in the Golden Cross’s stable, but this mysterious individual seemed unlike those others, at least according to legend. There was an intelligence working, cunning and underhand though it may be. The notion that he would remove anyone standing between him and his target spoke of ruthless determination, which was something Flynt understood. Toying with his victim, however, suggested a distemper of the mind, and that was what was so disturbing. Flynt’s mother’s mind had been unbalanced, thanks to her abuses at the hands of Moncrieff’s dead father, and that instability had led her to take her own life while he was in swaddling. Gideon had told him that Moncrieff the elder had been a cancer on the world and it had been right that Flynt had cut it out. He had never known his mother, knew only what Gideon and the aunt who had raised him had said of her, but it was possible that he had inherited both the delicacy of her nature and the callous heart of his real father. He knew that within him, there were two sides in constant tumult.
But whether he lay on a cot in a roadside inn, on a bed of hay or on the hard ground, he knew he could not dwell on such matters. As Gabriel had once said, an excess of introspection tends to lead a man into corners of his mind that are not meant to be explored. We do what we do because it is what we do, he had opined. But that memory brought his mind back again to Gabriel and the Fellowship. Gabriel and the Wraith. Could they really be one and the same? Or was it all a confluence of fortune, the chance convergence of unrelated incidents, brought together by a mind grown too used to perfidy? Round and round the thoughts would go, twisting and coiling in his mind like the ouroboros symbol, the serpent eating itself, until Flynt knew not where they began or ended.
He did find some peace of mind when he’d been accompanied for a little way by a post carrier. They had met in an inn where the midlands gave way to the north country and the man had struck up a conversation with him as they shared a table, each dining on a meal of bread, cheese and ale. Despite the warm day, the fire was roaring, for pork was roasting, the skewer powered by a turnspit dog running in a wooden wheel set into the breast of the fireplace, far away from the heat of the flame so as not to make the animal too uncomfortable. A chain ran from the wheel to the spit to turn the meat and ensure it browned evenly. Fat spat from the flesh and hissed on the hot stonework of the fireplace, the metal clanked and the wheel rumbled as the dog performed its function. The animal was small, its hair light brown, its front legs slightly crooked but its body was strong. It would have been bred specially for the work, but Flynt still hoped that it was not maltreated. He had seen canines undertake such labour many times and each time had had studied the animal for signs of abuse, but this one seemed happy and healthy. The old man had noted his scrutiny and commented upon it.
‘Old Spinner there is in fine fettle, lad, don’t thee worry about that,’ he’d said. ‘That’s a decided apt name for that creature, given his occupation, don’t thee agree? Our friend the innkeeper may have many faults but he loves that creature as if he was family, on that you have my oath. He even takes him to church with him. Can’t say if t’dog gives voice during hymns as I’m not from these parts.’ He held out a hand. ‘The name’s Addison Severs, postal carrier t’gentry and all else beside.’
Flynt shook the hand. Severs was much older than others of his occupation that he had met previously. His hair was thick and white, his face weathered by many days and nights riding from north to south. The old man swiftly proved himself to be most garrulous and though Flynt himself leaned towards the taciturn, after a few days of his own garbled thoughts for company, he welcomed the man’s chatter.
‘Addison, being son of Adam,’ he’d explained concerning his name. ‘My old sire, he’d be Adam, me not being descended from nobody hailing from biblical times, y’understand, don’t let this white mane fool you, lad. And thy name, sir, what would it be that they call thee?’
Jonas told him and the man sucked at the pipe that seemed forever protruding from between his lips or held in his hand as though it were part of him. ‘Another biblical antecedent, is Jonas. Some call him Jonah, did thee know that? Does thee know thy holy book, lad?’
‘Well enough,’ Jonas said.
Addison gave him a sideways glance as he popped a final bit of cheese into his mouth. ‘There’s them that know it well and them that know it well enough and well enough be good enough for me, not being much of a one for prayer. He was swallowed whole by a sea creature, tha namesake were. Got vomited out after three days and three nights. Seems he wasn’t such a tasty morsel, was Jonah.’ He chewed on the cheese and grimaced. ‘Something he shares with this here cheese, I’d say, and I don’t care who hears it.’
The last few words were for the benefit of the innkeeper, who merely laughed, obviously knowing Addison well. The mail carrier seemed a most relaxed individual. The others who followed his profession, and Flynt had encountered a few in his travels, had been most energetic, if not galloping their horse to the next change station then at least keeping it at a steady canter. When he and Addison set out together, agreeing that as they were both heading north they could spend some time in each other’s company, this man seemed satisfied to walk his animal rather than force it to exert itself. Flynt could not tell if this was due to Addison’s own lethargy or concern for his mount’s wellbeing. No matter, he enjoyed sharing the road with him and as dusk began to gather, they made camp beside a brook. As darkness grew around them and the song of nature stilled, they discussed the continuing fair weather, the condition of the roads, and the state of the kingdom. Or rather, the man seemed to hold an almost unbroken monologue.
‘I’ll tell thee this, and I don’t care who hears it,’ he said, his pipe clamped tight between his teeth as he stared into the small fire they had built in order to cook a rabbit he had shot. ‘I don’t have much of a notion for yon king down by London way. I don’t care if he’s from Germany or the moon, I don’t hold with him. He don’t give as much as a Dutchman’s damn for this here land, does he? I hear he’s left us, gone back to Hanover. Now, I ask thee, is that any way for the king to be, that no sooner has he set his backside – and a right ample backside it is, I hear tell – on’t throne then he’s off back from whence he came? It’s not right. It’s not being proper, is it? And I hear his grasp of the king’s English isn’t too tight, neither. Does tha think that right, Jonas lad?’
Flynt didn’t believe a response was required so he merely smiled in acknowledgement.
‘And be it true that he has two mistresses? That seems downright unchristian to me. Two mistresses. One is bad enough but two seems greedy. Keeping them happy and a wife, I’m surprised that t’fellow has such an ample backside. To my mind his manhood should be worn down to a nubbin by now.’
A much-needed laugh vibrated in Flynt’s chest. It felt good to listen to this man.
Addison smiled for a moment as he considered the state of King George’s member, then inquired, ‘I neglected to ask thee, lad, much as I enjoy having thy company at least until the morrow, where thee be headed on these fine summer days and nights?’
Flynt saw no reason to lie. His suspicious nature had already considered and rejected the possibility that Addison was not as he seemed. Being alert was one thing, but the notion of the Wraith could not have him seeing phantoms everywhere. ‘A village by the name of Gallowmire, a little way north of here.’
That silenced Addison. He took his pipe from his mouth and set himself to staring at the flames for a few moments. Flynt sensed a change in the man’s mood. Mention of the village had for some reason made the man uneasy.
‘Have you heard of it?’
Something that could have been a sigh dropped from his lips. ‘Aye, lad, I know yon place. What business would thee be having there?’
‘I seek a friend, who is staying there for a while.’
Addison ruminated further. ‘This here friend of thine, does his blood hail from’t village original?’
‘No,’ Flynt said, ‘he’s simply visiting.’
Another pause for thought. ‘Has tha been there previous, lad?’
‘No, I’ve never had the pleasure.’
Addison’s laugh was short but devoid of mirth. ‘Pleasure? Nay, there’s damned little pleasure to be had in that place. If I was thee, I would be turning yon fine-looking beast back in opposite direction, and be leaving Gallowmire well to my back.’
‘It’s not welcoming to strangers?’
‘Strangers are viewed with suspicion no matter where tha goes, whether it be north, south, east or west.’
‘But it’s worse in Gallowmire?’
Addison plucked a burning twig from the edge of the fire, then set the flame to the bowl of his pipe, puffing some life back into the tobacco. When it was sufficiently lively, he threw the twig back. ‘Their view of strangers be worse than most, I reckon.’
‘Why is that?’
The man looked across the flames at Flynt for the first time. ‘It’s a bad place, lad. I carry all life in my bag. Birth, death, marriage, news of good fortune, news of bad fortune, but I say this, and I don’t care who hears it, there is only that last in Gallowmire.’
Flynt edged forward. ‘But why say that, man? You must have reason.’
The hesitancy with which the man now spoke was at odds with his earlier conversation, suggesting that on this subject at least he did care who heard his words. ‘I have doubtless said too much, lad. Tha has business and thy friend to consider so I expect thee cannot go back, but I would urge this – Gallowmire is a cursed place and thee would be well advised to steer clear of it. If there be a little piece of hell on earth, then that piece goes by’t name Gallowmire.’
They had parted at first light, Addison to the north-east, Flynt north-west. The man had grasped Flynt’s hand before they went their separate ways and stared into his eyes as if he were attempting to communicate another warning but made no further verbal comment regarding Gallowmire. He would be wise enough to know that he could not divert Flynt from his path. In fact, no sooner had he delivered his damning condemnation the night before, he announced it was time for sleep, wrapped himself in his greatcoat and turned away. Sleep had eluded Flynt for a time as he examined Addison’s words. What could be so wrong at Gallowmire that would provoke such dire counsel? And if it were such a dreadful place, did Lemuel know and, if so, why would he allow his friend to seek refuge there?
When sleep came it was filled with dreams of a village he had never seen where all was grey, populated by dead-eyed men and women, their bodies gnarled and suppurating, the sky under which they dragged themselves black and threatening, the land around them blighted, the vegetation twisted. Among the faces he saw Gabriel, smiling and gesturing to him to come closer, but in his hand he held a dagger, dripping red. Moncrieff also appeared, standing on the edges of the scene, leaning on a wolf’s head cane that came to life under his hand and snapped and snarled at those who came too close. Then there was another figure, forever in shadow, but moving to and fro, his tread deliberate, sure and steady, as he watched and waited.