The Devil in Clevely (Afternoon of an Autocrat) (30 page)

When he had left his hovel, carrying the gun, he had no intention of using it; he meant to frighten Amos, to scare him thoroughly and force some kind of explanation from him. Now he had found his own explanation, and there stood the rogue, entirely unrepentant, not attempting any explanation and not looking in the least scared. 'If you reckon you're gonna gloat over your ill-got gains, Amos Greenway, while the rest of us starve on the parish, you're mistook. I'm gonna shoot you for the damned treacherous swine you are!'

Even then he might not have done it had not Amos stood there so exasperatingly calm. As it was, he swung the old gun into position and pulled the trigger. There was a flash, a muffled kind of explosion, a strong smell of gunpowder and a cloud of blue smoke which hovered for a moment between the two men and then drifted outwards over the heads of the crowd and inwards, across the workroom, to the kitchen door from which Julie, her tea forgotten, was fearfully peeping. As the smoke cleared Amos could see Matt again, standing there holding out his scorched and bleeding hands, and the twisted broken thing which had been his gun lying at his feet.

'You'd best come inside,' Amos said, reaching out an arm. 'You, Bert, take his other side; the rest of you go home.'

They helped Matt on to the bench by the work-table and Amos called Julie to bring water and something for a bandage. Matt then showed his mettle. White-lipped, he said: 'We don't want no water, Amos; gunpowder's the best cleaner. I've put a pinch and sparked it off on many a wound afore now. Jest you tie me up. And you, Bert, get out and find me a drink of some sort, somewhere, for the love of God.'

'Julie'll make you a cup of tea,' Amos said. Julie did; she also, remembering Matts several kindnesses to her in the past, produced the big black bottle of the medicine which was so effective for easing her pains, and gave him, since he was a man, a double dose, which soon did its merciful work. Then the four drank tea together, even Amos drinking the strong, heavily sugared beverage gladly; and presently Bert took Matt home. It was generally agreed that nothing but a miracle had saved Amos and Matt and those nearest to them from death, mutilation or blindness, and the jubilation was in no way mitigated by thoughts about quick death being preferable to slow death by starvation, which seemed to be the fate in store for many Waste-dwellers just then.

As soon as his hands were partially healed and he felt capable of carrying on the campaign Matt attempted to talk to the Squire again; but Richard, wary perhaps of such attempts, stayed in London the whole of that spring. So Matt drove into Baildon again and was again kindly received and listened to by Mr Turnbull, who said, yes, he had received the papers and, yes, he had noted what they said, and then mentioned that he had taken on himself to advise Sir Richard and the commissioners to make some allotment, however small, to the Waste-dwellers.

'I could only advise, you know, because all that side of the business was nothing at all to do with me; and because, except for the two who had papers, none of you had even the shadow of a legal claim. But I think I explained that before.'

'Seem to me they took your advice, sir, and made some allotment--twenty acres; but all to one man, Amos Green way, the cobbler. Now why should that be? Twenty acres divided out among us all would hev done us well and satisfied everybody. Why all to one and nowt for the rest of us?'

'That is a question quite beyond my power to answer. Greenway has no claim that I know of, and the land granted him came from Sir Richard's personal allotment of the Waste. Sir Richard may have had some private reason--I understand that Greenway is a very industrious workman.'

'So are we all in our way; and we are dependent on the Waste, which Amos ain't. He could cobble shoes anywhere.'

'Yes, I admit that it seems very hard. But I have to tell you frankly that you have no redress, no hope of redress. The distribution was done legally and justly, and you would be best advised to accept it and to look out for some means of making a livelihood when the Waste is fenced, as it will be very soon.'

A more discouraging interview could hardly be imagined, and Matt had to stiffen his courage to attempt the next one. He braced himself and early one evening walked up to the Manor again and asked, this time, to speak to Lady Shelmadine. He'd seen her about and rather admired her looks--her hair was pretty; and it was well known that she had been more than ordinarily kind to the bailiff when he had his accident. A pretty woman, thought Matt--knowing nothing of the circumstances--might well have some influence on her husband, and a kind woman might be disposed to use that influence in the cause of right and justice. He was astonished at himself for not having thought of it before.

Linda received him kindly and listened to his story, which was more succinct and less full of rancour than she had expected when he began and she realised the reason for his visit. When he had finished she began gently, 'I will, of course, speak to Sir Richard about you and the rest of them--I promise you that; and if I thought any persuasions of mine could have any effect ...' She broke off, imagining exactly what the result of such pleadings would be. 'It's Sir Richard's land,' she said, 'and if he has decided not to make any allotments, as it seems he has, I'm afraid that nothing I could say would change his mind.'

'But you will try, my lady? Afore thass too late, if you don't mind my saying so.'

'I'll write to him tomorrow. Ill put the case just as you have put it to me. But...I do beg of you, don't pin your faith on my efforts.'

Seen close to she was even prettier than he had thought, because her eyes were so soft and gentle-looking--in fact not unlike old Ripper's; and when she smiled, as she did when bidding him good night, she was very sweet-looking indeed. It was funny--Matt thought--that she should have so little faith in her powers of persuasion; he knew several lumpish women with faces like the hindquarters of a cart-horse who got their own way with their menfolk every time. And it wasn't because 'the gentry' were different; everybody knew that Lady Fennel ruled Ockley, and not by sweet smiles and saying 'please'. Them that smiled and said please--like poor old Julie Green-way--most often didn't get much, Matt reflected; and that brought him back to the hopeful-hopelessness which had led him to go to the Manor. If this failed, what else could they do? What'd become of them when their front doors opened on the highroad and their back doors on the fenced-in Waste? What'd become of Shad's new donkey and his own old horse? You could pay for beasts to be pastured, of course; but then to turn that necessary extra penny you'd have to work the poor beasts to death--and yourself too. My God, Matt thought, we are all in a mucky mess, and that's the truth.

That evening, when Hadstock paid his routine visit and had said his piece, Linda mentioned Matt Ashpole's visit and its reason. 'It really is dreadfully hard for them, and I do feel sorry; but of course there is nothing I can do. I can write, of course, but I can't alter something that has been done legally.'

'No. All progress has to be made over somebody's dead body,' Hadstock said.

'They won't all die, surely?'

'No, no, of course not. Don't look so horrified,' said Hadstock, adding, just too late, 'my lady.'

'I only meant,' he went on, 'that all change hurts somebody.'

'You do think that enclosure is progress?'

'Beyond all doubt. The open-field system was the right, the only one when men, even while they worked, had to be ready to beat off their enemies, human or...well, wolves, for example. Once these times were past it became a clog, preventing improvement, chaining the best man to the pace of the slowest. Enclosure was bound to come and was bound to hurt somebody; but they'll adjust themselves--the Waste-dwellers, I mean--and in the end--not yet, but eventually--more produce per acre will make food more plentiful, and cheaper, and the poor will benefit by that.'

'And that will be a good thing. I speak feelingly,' she explained, 'because I know what it is to be poor. Enclosure was partly to blame for that. My father was a clergyman, quite unbelievably unworldly, so he took no care of his rights, and when Didsborough was enclosed he lost almost all his tithe and received nothing in exchange. So we were poor, but we were a very happy family.' Her voice, though she did not know it, took on a wistful, nostalgic note.

'I'm glad of that. I mean, my lady, that a happy childhood is a wonderful, enviable thing; something that--if you don't have it--nothing that comes later can make up for it. I missed it...'

'Were you poor?'

He laughed, briefly, harshly. 'No; quite the reverse, in fact.' He looked her in the face and seemed to make a sudden decision. 'Not to put too fine a point upon it, my lady, my father, like many others of his kind, was scrupulously careful to provide for his illegitimate children, of whom he had a great many.'

'Oh, Hadstock,' she said, using the surname in such a warm, intimate way that it might well have been a term of affection. 'I am sorry I asked. At least, I mean only that I am sorry if it made you tell me something you would rather not. Though really, if you look at it sensibly, it doesn't...doesn't make any difference; not really, does it?'

'It depends who does the looking,' he said bitterly. 'They don't think, these fine gentlemen in search of an hour's diversion; or if they think, they believe their poisonous money can make amends for everything. Bring the brat up in luxury, send it to school, make it an allowance--what more can be expected? All perfectly honourable. The stigma falls on the poor wretch who didn't ask to be born, should never have been born, or, being born, should be drowned at birth.'

'Oh, Hadstock, no. Don't say that. Surely life...to be alive ...' Embarrassment at the situation which her simple question had brought about, and a desire to comfort the man, banished all discretion. 'If you weren't alive,' she said, 'I should miss you very much. You've no idea how much I rely...and that reminds me of something I've wanted to ask you for a long time. You're so knowledgeable; can you tell me what there could possibly be in a locked trunk that could frighten a dog?'

The sudden change of subject seemed to leave Hadstock at a loss for a moment. Then he said, 'Do you mean Simon, my lady?'

'I mean Simon, and the trunk belongs to Mr Mundford; it contains things he wanted to store here.' She told him about the morning when Simon had entered the spare room and how he behaved. 'That night,' she said, 'I locked the door. But now every night when we go past-- he sleeps in my room, you know--he behaves strangely. Sometimes he scratches at the door and sometimes he slinks past it as if he were frightened. And I...well, I know it sounds silly...just a locked trunk--that is, two...but at night, alone in this part of the house...it gives me a creepy feeling. There's a strange smell, too, even though we opened the window; it doesn't go away. I think it comes from the trunk.'

'You're not suggesting...'

'Dead bodies?' She laughed rather uncertainly. 'Oh no. Though I believe Annie and Polly did start up some tales--Annie was there that morning when Simon...No, this is a strange smell, but not altogether unpleasant.'

'Do you mind if I go into the room and see, and smell? I'll take the dog. Here, Simon, come along.'

The dog raised his head and pricked his ears at the sound of his name but did not move from Linda's side.

'I will come too,' she said, adding as they went from the room, 'This is going to present a problem, I'm afraid, when the time comes for him to go home with you. But perhaps that won't be necessary, after all.' Richard's moods were less virulent nowadays, she thought, and also there was a difference between this large, strong, potentially fierce dog and a small fawning spaniel; even Richard would see that. That Simon was capable of ferocity she had proved several times, and that made his behaviour with regard to the trunk more remarkable and disconcerting.

As often before, Simon ran down the corridor and scratched at the door, growling in his throat as though some enemy were within the room; but when Linda turned the key and opened the door he did not attempt to enter with them but hung back, ceased growling, and took on a cowed air again.

Hadstock sniffed. Then he said, in a relieved voice: 'Why, it's incense; that's all.'

'Then how silly of me not to recognise it. Some churches...'

'This, I should say, is particularly strong and pure-- the best, and very expensive. And if I may hazard a guess, I should say that Mr Mundford has impregnated some clothes with it as a deterrent to moths.'

'And why should Simon ...?'

Hadstock hesitated for a moment.

'It sounds a long guess, but it is feasible. Race memory. Where his parents come from all churches smell of incense; and dogs are not allowed in church--are, in fact, kept out with shouts and blows. So a devoted dog, once a week, sees his master disappear into a place where he is not allowed; consequently he hates the place and the very smell of it. After many generations such a prejudice may be inborn and qualify to be called instinct.'

'I suppose it could. That is the only explanation, isn't it? Oh, thank you, Hadstock; you have relieved my mind.'

'What were you imagining?' Hadstock asked curiously.

'I don't know,' she said slowly. 'Something...well, evil, in some obscure way. Actually, to be honest, I never feel very comfortable in Mr Mundford's presence.'

'That may be prejudice too. All those old stories are bound to create an impression.'

'What old stories? I never heard any in connection with Mr Mundford. Did you?'

'Oh, nothing specific. Just a generally bad reputation.'

'In what way?'

'The usual way,' Hadstock said. 'Shall we lock this door again--for Simon's peace of mind?'

'If your theory is correct, the locked door and the scent within will only increase his prejudice.'

'Clever as he is, will he know that the door is locked?'

'For my peace of mind then, yes, please lock it.'

When they reached the spot where Simon was lurking Hadstock put out a hand and gave him a friendly clout.