The Shadowcutter (21 page)

Giles bent his shoulders and followed his master for the evening into the thick of the crowd. They made their way into the tap room with some difficulty, past a bevy of ribboned women who were sitting on the long benches in the hall, eyeing up potential customers. One of them caught hold of Holt’s coat tail and was determined to pull him into her smiling, silky web.

“Later, darling,” said Holt. “Save yourself for me.”

The tap room was vast, but the crowd was equal to it. Giles scanned the room, looking for likely characters. He saw some faces he recognised from the shadier districts of Northminster, and realised he would need to be careful, despite his disguise.

They had decided that Holt to was to make enquiries for trinkets to pacify his missus after a quarrel. Something pretty and unusual, and as special as could be got. Holt got himself a glass of brandy and water, graciously allowed his hapless servant a small mug of beer, and then set to work making suitable sporting small talk with likely coves.

Within a few moments Giles felt his instincts concerning Holt to be vindicated. His impersonation was faultless – his manner calculated nicely to place him squarely as a man of honour in the shadow fraternities, so to speak. It struck Giles as so convincing that Holt might easily have made this life for himself, instead of that of a loyal soldier and then obedient domestic. Would he not prefer at heart to be his own master than always someone’s servant?

Sermons and society had always exhorted everyone that it was right and meet to stay in one’s allotted place, from birth until death, yet, in this world, this strange new-old world, where wool barons and gentry sprigs rubbed shoulders in a dirty old public house, ruled by a dubious, self-appointed meritocracy of criminal types, Giles wondered if those sacred hierarchies would last much longer. This new, demanding, railway-powered, nineteenth century world that could make an ancient custom like dog-fighting into something cruel and illegal, could surely also make a nonsense of all the old rules. Watching Holt at work, a man of talent, enterprise and intelligence, made him speculate.

“Lunn’s dogs – well, I shall have to see ’em first, but I take your tip sir, that I do. And with thanks!” Holt raised his glass.

It was then that Giles, who was leaning against a flaking plaster wall while his master sat in a huddle nearby, noticed John Edgar sitting in the far corner. He was with a couple of girls and had left off his velvet coat and frills, and was dressed plainly in a brown coat. He appeared to be simply enjoying a drink and the company of the two girls, and there was no reason that he should be there for any other reason than the fight. He, like Holt, had presumably heard the talk about it in the servant’s hall at Holbroke.

Yet Giles continued to watch him, and was glad that he did, for a few minutes later another man joined them, and sat down in the shadows, as if he did not wish to be seen. But it could only have been a coincidence, for one of the girls now joined him in the shadows. Yet there was something about him that Giles recognised, but he could not at once place him. He moved a little in order that he might see better, but the girl was now sitting on the stranger’s lap, her arms about his neck, effectively masking his face with her large brimmed-bonnet. All Giles could see was his white hand placed on her back, with a jewelled ring catching what light there was.

Holt left his conversation and was heading towards the bar. Giles joined him. They were alone and it was safe to speak.

“Edgar, the shadowcutter, is there. Do you think he would know you?”

Holt took his time and then glanced over.

“Probably not.”

“That man with him –”

“It’s one of those foreigners,” Holt said. “The Spaniards, from Stanegate.”

Giles looked again. Holt was right. The man was one of the noisy party at the Bower Well who had disturbed Laura, and possibly one of the exiled government of Santa Magdalena. What was he doing talking to John Edgar? How did they know each other? Had Edgar come and cut his paper portraits for the Santa Magdaleneans in their opulent chambers at the Queens Hotel? It was certainly interesting but it was not immediately relevant to the business in hand.

“Anyone I should go and talk to?” said Holt.

“You might try that fellow there – by the window. With the checked waistcoat and the red neckerchief. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Jim Saddleworth, who has form for housebreaking. By rights he should be on his way to Tasmania. I shall get him sooner or later. For now he might be a good source.”

Holt did not have a chance. A pair of double doors at the far end opened and the crowd began to stream through into the dog pit beyond, formed from a partially roofed courtyard with rickety viewing galleries and raked seating below. It was an elaborate, if crudely-made, structure, with the lower rails stained with blood from previous combats. The dogs could be heard howling and barking off stage, a truly chilling sound.

Holt and Giles managed to jostle in with the rest of them, but Giles found himself shoved violently backwards by an intemperate little man in a green coat who complained loudly about “great tall buggers getting in the way of their betters!” Finding himself against the back wall, he asked the young man next to him, in his best Northumbrian manner, “Who the hell does he think he is?” The young man had the build of a navvy and sported the characteristic printed neckerchief that often marked them out.

“Oh, that’s Hutton, a gangman from over Lancrigg way. He’s sore ’cos he bought a bad horse and wants to win back his tin.”

“You work for him?”

The young man shook his head. “Not my line, and I wouldn’t if I could. Filthy temper and he doesn’t pay on time. Looking for work?”

Giles shook his head.

“Lunn’s dogs are supposed to be the business,” Giles said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said the young man. “I wouldn’t put my money on them.”

“I haven’t any money to put on anything,” Giles said. “I just like to know what’s what.”

“You’re not from these parts, are you?” said the young man, looking at him curiously.

“Just passing through,” Giles said. “Man, this is a fair crowd. You could find anyone here.”

“You’re right there,” said the young man. “Anyone and everything.”

“What if I were looking for a particular sort of fellow,” Giles said, after a moment. “The sort of fellow who might know what to do with some property I might have happened to come by.”

“Oh, I see,” said the young man with a laugh. “You would be passing through if that’s your line.”

“Know anyone?”

“Sorry,” said the young man. “Not my line.” Giles was glad to hear it.

“No harm in asking,” Giles said.

“No harm,” said the young man, smiling still. “Tell you something though, now I think of it – do you see that man over at the front there? That fair, burly fellow with the flash waistcoat?”

He was pointing at the man Giles had earlier identified as one of the Santa Magdaleneans.

“I see him,” Giles said.

“I heard a funny story about him. That he was handing out gold pieces – real gold pieces – that he bought a set of pistols off a friend of a friend of mine with gold pieces. I don’t reckon it’s true, but it’s a good story.”

“Where did your friend of a friend get the pistols?” Giles asked.

“Got them off some old widow for a farthing and sold them on for gold pieces – the crafty bugger. But I don’t believe it. The lad was always a boaster.”

The conversation go no further. The first pair of dogs were released into the ring and the noisy bloodlust of the crowd was unconstrained. Death was in the air and Giles was glad that he could see nothing of it.

Chapter Twenty

They returned to Holbroke about two in the morning and as Giles went into the bedroom, the moonlight was seeping into the room through the gaps in the curtain, crossing the room with white beams. He went to the window and opened the curtains a little wider, flooding the room with pale light. Laura stirred awake and saw him standing there, still in in that disreputable old riding coat. She sat up and wrapped her arms about her.

“It’s me,” he said, worried he might have frightened her. He had left the house in his ordinary riding clothes. “I told you I was going adventuring, just like I did in Canada. Do you remember that night?”

She nodded.

He went and sat on the bed.

“All of it?” he said, reaching out and stroking her bare arm. As he lent towards her she wrinkled up her nose, and covered her mouth. It was clear the smell of his disguise was a little too pungent.

“I’ll go and give myself a scrub,” he said, reverting to his accent. “I’ll no be a minute, lass.”

He went to the dressing gown and undressed, casting aside the offending garments with some pleasure. They were not agreeable to wear on such a warm night. He poured some water in the bowl on the washstand and sponged himself clean before reaching for one of the large, luxurious towels that were provided with all the typical prodigality of Holbroke.

He turned as he dried himself and saw Laura standing in the doorway. Her nightgown was slipping from her shoulders, showing the curve of her breasts. Her pale hair was gleaming in the unearthly light. The same beauty he had seen earlier, dressed in fancy dress, now showed itself in a more intimate, seductive light.

He went to her and kissed her, gently pushing down the nightgown down further from her shoulders, relishing the feel of her warm skin beneath his fingers.

“Do you think we can be like that again?” she said. “As we were then?”

“I very much hope so,” he said, burying his face into her loosened hair and drawing her closer to him.

“But what if I –?”

“We will go gently,” he said. “There is no need to rush. We have all the time in the world.”

“Do we?”

“Yes,” he said, and kissed her again. She pressed herself against him, clamping her arms about him in a fierce, frightened way, as if she meant to squeeze reassurance from him. She was breathing fast.

“I want to be your wife again,” she said. “But I want to be a good wife, but I don’t feel I can be good. There is so much inside me that is so – confusing.”

“And with time that will grow less so, I am sure,” he said and smoothed her hair. “Shall we –?” He gestured towards the bedroom.

They got into bed together and she surprised him with an onslaught of kisses and touches, all signals that she wanted him fully. She seemed eager to lose herself in a storm of passion, and lay there, her nightdress thrown up, waiting for him.

He found himself hesitating. It was not that he was unaroused – that he certainly was, and it was in many ways everything he had hoped for, to find himself in this place at last with her – and yet, he was not entirely ready to act the husband.

“Giles?” she said, stretching out her hands up to him.

Her half-naked form struck him as over-slender and fragile. It was as if her illness had returned her to a girlish, virginal state.

He felt he might break her if he were too rough and there was the danger of her conceiving a child to consider. She was not sufficiently recovered for that, that was certain. He decided then that he would forgo his own pleasure for her own. He had said they would take matters gently, and now he would prove it. So he touched and stroked her and kissed her until she gave out the soft cries of satisfaction that had always given him so much pleasure to hear.

He was woken by the sound of urgent rapping on the door. He did not recall having fallen asleep, only that she had fallen asleep in his arms in a state of deep contentment.

“Major Vernon, sir?” It was Holt.

“What is it?” said Giles, not at all wishing to disentangle himself. Now Laura stirred.

“It’s urgent, sir,” said Holt.

“I hope so,” said Giles getting out of bed and going to the door. “Yes, what is it?”

“They’ve found a body in the gardens.”

-0-

“It’s Edgar,” said Lord Rothborough, striding across the lawn to meet him, the tails of his silk dressing gown flapping behind him. “One of Macgillray’s boys found him. Nothing has been touched, but I had them cover him up. It’s most unpleasant.”

There, at the base of a statue of Flora scattering stone flowers, lay a body-shaped mound, covered in sacking.

Giles crouched down, removed the sacking and frowned.

It was indeed the shadowcutter, lying in a pool of his own blood, his head smashed up. He covered him up again and went back to Lord Rothborough.

“I need Mr Carswell,” he said. “Can it be done?”

“It will have to be,” said Rothborough.

Chapter Twenty-one

“That is certainly an interesting contusion,” said Felix.

Now that Edgar’s body had been transferred to the game larder, where the light was better, he was able to see the full extent of the head wound. “Considerable force. Someone managed to do a lot of damage. Some of it may be even post mortem. As with the bruising on the lower limbs, here – I cannot say for certain yet.”

“So a violent confrontation – leading to unconsciousness, and then the assailant continuing the attack?” said Major Vernon.

“Making sure the job was done,” said Felix.

“What about blood? There is going to be blood on the assailant, I should think.”

“Yes, undoubtedly. Face, hands, clothing.”

“Any thoughts on a weapon?”

“It could be a club – or something resembling a club – something spherical on a shaft perhaps, but look at this – these lacerations at the edge of the wound. It is hard to picture what might have caused that.”

“Indeed,” said Major Vernon.

Felix took his glass, and began to look more closely into the head wound. Seeing a foreign body, he reached for his tweezers and extracted it.

“Now what is that?” he said.

“May I?” said Major Vernon, indicating the glass. Felix handed it to him. “It looks like a bit of ormolu – you know, that fancy metal gilt stuff you find on clocks, and desks, and so forth.”

“Of course,” said Felix. “And this place is slathered in it.”

“That’s a useful observation, then. Perhaps it is some sort of ornament, a statuette or some such.”