‘For the honour of her family name,’ Rachel said.
‘Honour? What honour had she left?’ Starling replied, bitterly.
‘Precious little, indeed. Little enough to make the remainder all the more valuable, and to make her guard it like jewels, and do anything she could to keep word of what Alice had found out from ever reaching Jonathan’s ears. Bad enough that Alice should tell him she was Lord Faukes’s issue; worse beyond tolerance that she should learn the full truth from Duncan Weekes, and share that too.’
‘Then that old man killed her, as surely as his son did.’ Starling’s face clouded in thought. ‘But Josephine can’t have known, can she – what old Weekes told Alice that day?’
‘Duncan Weekes meant her no harm,’ said Rachel, firmly. ‘Alice… Alice must have written of it. In all those letters that were intercepted, and carried to Box instead. If Lord Faukes read them, then to be sure, Josephine Alleyn would have learnt of their contents.’
‘I have served her ever since Alice was lost. I have served that woman almost half my days.’ Starling drew in a huge, shuddering breath, and Rachel glanced at her in alarm.
‘What will you do?’ she said.
‘I will finish what you started.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have killed Jonathan Alleyn this day, you say-’
‘Not killed. I-’
‘And I have rid us of Mr Weekes. That only leaves the one who was behind it all. Because…’ Suddenly her face crumpled in anguish. ‘Because if Alice is dead, and Jonathan too; Dick Weekes… And Bridget lies dying… then I have nobody. I will not leave Josephine Alleyn in peace a second longer.’
‘You cannot mean to attack Mrs Alleyn… or do her harm?’ Rachel was shocked.
‘Harm? I had not thought to harm her. But then, why should I not?’
‘Because… your own life will be forfeit if you do!’
‘I… I don’t care.’ Starling got to her feet, her hands clenched into fists, resolution on her face. Rachel scrambled up beside her.
‘You must care! You must not attack her! Promise me!’ Rachel cried.
‘Why? Haven’t you heard your own words this past hour? Why should you care for her?’
‘I do not care for her! I care for you.’ Rachel grabbed at Starling’s arm to stop her leaving. Starling glared at her suspiciously.
‘What?’
‘If… if you go and do this, if you harm her and go to the gallows for it, then… then I too will have no one. Do we not have each other? Am I not your friend?’
Rachel released Starling’s arm and let her hand drop to her side. The cast-iron body of the stove clinked and popped as it heated. Then Starling broke off her gaze and turned again for the door.
‘Perhaps you are. But I must go, even so,’ she said.
‘What should I do?’ Rachel asked. Starling hesitated, looking back over her shoulder.
‘You can only wait. Not everything that goes into the river is found. I think that’s where Dick put Alice, once she was dead; like as not she was carried out to sea, all undetected. Food for fishes and… gulls.’ She swallowed convulsively. ‘If Dick is found, and recognised, they will come to tell you. You must seem surprised at the news, and grief-struck. Can you do that?’ she said. Rachel nodded. ‘It will be in the next few days, if it is at all. You can only wait.’
‘And then what?’
‘Your life is your own, Mrs Weekes.’ Starling glanced around at the room. ‘You have a home, and a business to run, or sell, or seek management for. I’m going now to Lansdown Crescent.’ She gave Rachel one more look, steady and sad. ‘I will send word.’
Starling closed the door behind her, and when the clatter of her footsteps had gone from the stairs, Rachel was left alone. She stood for a long time in the empty room. My husband is dead. I am free again. I am nobody again. But then, he only married me because I reminded him of Alice; I never was anybody in the first place. She stood until her legs felt wooden, as though the blood ran too slowly through them. Then, because there was little else she could do, she went to bed. She was exhausted, and sleep dragged her down before she’d even shut her eyes. Her last waking thought was laden with guilt and treachery and relief – it was knowing that her sleep would be undisturbed by Richard’s late returning and unwanted touch. But she dreamt of Jonathan, and the copper mouse. She dreamt that she was the copper mouse, that it was a figure of her that he’d made; her every tiny detail rendered in bright metal with meticulous care. She felt herself cradled in the palm of his hand, and there felt safe for the first time since her parents had died. She knew herself loved. Then she half woke to darkness, and remembered her last sight of Jonathan, crumpled and bloody on the frosty ground.
Starling had bade her wait, and wait was what Rachel did. She stayed indoors at first, and when there was a knock at the door she jumped to her feet, breathless with fear. But there was no news of Richard; the man who knocked was a client of his, trying the house when he’d found the shop floor empty and closed.
‘I would have words with your husband, madam, pray send him out,’ said the man. He was claret-faced and well heeled; all bluster and high dudgeon.
‘Mr Weekes is… not at home, sir.’
‘Then pray tell me where I may find him, for he has much to answer for. That last cask of sherry he delivered to me was supposed to be a mellow Lisbon, sweet and well aged – for that I tolerated his high prices. Instead it is new, and hot, and scarce drinkable – though I can taste the honey with which he’s tried to improve it… And the hogshead of rum I had from him is so well baptised a child might drink it and find it mild!’ The man raised a finger and pointed it steadily at Rachel’s face. ‘It will not do, madam – never let it be said that I, Cornelius Gibson, will stand to be bilked in this manner! I mean to call him to account, and you may tell him that, madam – he will be called to account, and word will spread that he is a pedlar of balderdash, and no honest man.’ With that, Cornelius Gibson stalked away down the steps, rapping an ebony walking stick smartly at his side. Rachel shut the door and leaned against it to catch her breath. When I am his widow will I be ruined all over again, by his debts and his frauds and dishonesty?
In the afternoon she went out in search of Duncan Weekes, but found him not at home, nor at the Moor’s Head, nor at any other inn she passed by. She went home again to her lonely vigil, but it was not for long. Moments after she closed the door there came a knocking at it, and something about its slow, ponderous rhythm gave her a shiver of prescience. This is no angry customer. They have found him. Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she opened the door to a tall, thin man in a brown coat and a greasy black hat. He had a hooked nose and pinched cheeks, and eyes like nuggets of coal.
‘Mrs Weekes?’ His voice was soft and oddly mellow. Rachel nodded. ‘Madam, I am Roger Cadwaller, the wharf constable. It is my sad duty to report that a corpse was taken from the river this day, and that some amongst the river traders have named it Richard Weekes, your husband.’ The thin man spoke without emotion, and paused as if expecting Rachel to comment or cry out. Then he really is dead. I must seem surprised, and grief-struck.
‘He… he has not come home,’ she managed, in a tiny voice.
‘No, madam. And will not, I fear.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He is with an undertaker, behind Horse Street. Will you come?’
‘Come? Why?’ Rachel’s heart lurched. Do they think I killed him?