“Nothing of importance here, I think. Well then, sir. Shall we dine?”
Normally when the shop bell rang while they were at table, Jane would go into the public room and let them know if the master was required. Since she had now left for her parents’ home, Susan leaped to her feet when they heard the bright brass chime in the parlor and dashed into the shop before her father could put down his napkin.
She had forgotten about the yellow-faced man. He closed the shop door carefully behind him and pulled down the blind, then turned toward her with the same unpleasant smile of the morning. She came to a sudden stop in front of him. He took a step forward and bent down to her.
“And what is your name, young lady?” His breath smelled like Shambles Lane where the butchers threw the meat that had spoiled.
“Susan Adams.” This seemed to amuse him.
“Adams, is it? That’s charming, charming. And is your father at home, Susan Adams, and your little brother?”
“Can I help you, sir?”
Susan turned to see her father, his coat off and his eyes severe, coming into the room. He came up behind her and gently moved her out of the way. She slunk gratefully behind him a little, glad he kept his hand on her shoulder.
The man looked deep into her father’s eyes for what seemed a very long time, before saying, “I believe you can, sir. I was told to give you a message from the Hall.”
Susan saw the man move, and heard her father grunt as he did sometimes when picking up a bundle of scores. He pressed down suddenly on her shoulder and she stumbled under his weight; they landed heavily on the floor together. She struggled to sit, and looked up in confusion. The man was standing over them, still smiling. He was holding something in his hand she had not noticed before, red and wet. She could hear her father breathing hard, ragged. She turned to him; his hand was pressed to his side where he had been struck, his eyes wide with surprise. She looked up again at the yellow man for explanation. The man looked back.
“Stay easy, child. It’ll all be over soon enough.”
She could not move, but her hand found her father’s and she felt it grip her own. Jonathan, bored at being left so long, wandered into the doorway.
“May I eat the pie crust if you do not want it, Papa?”
The yellow man looked up quickly and smiled his twisting smile. Susan thought he must be very old. His skin was deeply cracked, like porcelain badly repaired. The hat he wore low over his wig was greasy and shone in places.
“Hello, Puppy! Come over here and see us a moment.” There was an urgency in his voice now. Susan tried to open her mouth, her voice was whispering.
“No, Jonathan.”
“Now, don’t you listen to your mean old sister, my boy. Come when your betters tell you to.”
Susan could not see her brother, she could only watch the glint of the man’s eyes. Without taking them from the little boy, the yellow man wiped his knife on the inside of his coat. Susan felt her heart throb as if for the last time.
Just then, the brass bell rang again, and Mr. Graves walked in with his usual quick step.
“Alexander!” he said excitedly. “You won’t believe the progress of the mob. They are making an attempt on-Good God! What is this?”
The yellow man gave a yell of rage, and spun round toward the door. Susan saw Graves start toward him, blocking his way; the yellow man’s arm swung up in a wide arc, and Mr. Graves staggered back, falling onto his side. The yellow man ran out into the street; the door rattled behind him. Jonathan began to scream. Graves struggled onto his knees and crawled over to Susan and Alexander.
“Dear God! Dear God! Alexander!”
Susan looked down at her father again, and saw a red alien bloom across his waistcoat, just where their clasped hands lay; even his cravat was stained and that had been clean on this morning. Jane would complain at the extra work.
Mr. Graves groaned, then looked up at her. “Susan? Susan! Listen to me! Are you hurt?”
His face had a long thin slice of red across it, beaded here and there like jewels on a string. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her.
“Are you hurt, girl?”
She looked at him in surprise. He seemed a very long way away. Jonathan was hysterical. She must keep him quiet or he would wake Mama, and she needed her rest very much now. She shook her head. He held her gaze.
“I’m going to fetch a surgeon. Lock the door behind me, and only open it for me, you understand. For me!” He turned to the crying boy. “Jonathan, go and fetch water for your papa.”
He put his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Don’t move. No! For God’s sake-don’t try to speak, man.”
Alexander tried to lift a hand. His stertorous breathing formed into words. The two men looked at each other.
“Care for them, Graves.”
“I swear it. Now …” he stood and dragged Susan to her feet, forcing her to let go of her father’s hand, which made her yelp in protest like a kicked dog. He held her shoulders again, and looking her straight in the eye, said: “Come to the door, Susan. And lock it behind me.” She managed to nod. “And remember: you must not open the door again to anyone till I get back. Will you remember that?”
She nodded again and he pulled her to the door, waiting outside, his eyes wild with impatience till he heard the lock being turned, then set off down the narrow street at a run.
Susan watched him go, almost wondering why he ran so fast, then turned back to her father. She dropped on the floor beside him and gently lifted his head onto her knee. She tried to give him a little of the water Jonathan had brought from the table, weeping whenever he spilled a drop in his hurry. It was difficult, for her hands were all slippery and red, but she thought a little went in between her father’s lips. Jonathan burrowed into her side, and Susan shifted a little so he could get close to her. When she moved she was sorry to see the red had become a pool and her own dress, and Jonathan’s breeches were steeped in it. She set down the water glass and with great care took her father’s hand again. Jonathan took the other. Alexander’s breathing became more ragged still, and slower. He forced his eyes open and swallowed.
“Susan …”
She did not move. Everything was very far away, as it is just before sleep. The world swam in and out of existence around her. She stroked her father’s hair. It had become disarranged when he fell, and he thought it always so important to be neat.
“Susan …” His voice was so deep, it hardly sounded like him at all. “Listen … there is a black wooden box under the counter, hidden under the Bononcini scores.” He paused and shut his eyes again. The breaths were single gasps now. Susan continued to stroke his hair. His eyes opened again, and fixed on hers. “You must take it with you wherever you go … Talk about what you find in it with Mr. Graves.” Again he closed his eyes, again the sucking gulp of air. Stuff trickled from the corner of his mouth, red and thick. Jonathan began to cry again and hid his eyes. “Do not blame me, Susan …”
She did not speak, but continued to stroke his hair. A memory came back to her of lying ill in bed as a child. She remembered the cool of her mother’s hand smoothing her forehead and her singing to her. Her father gasped again, and a tremor ran through him; she felt her hand held almost painfully tight, then his grip suddenly relaxed. Jonathan gulped, and looked up at her.