Upon seeing that I spoke to my mother Robert stretched his arms wide, swivelled his beady eyes about his head a few times, then stood up with a mighty grunt. He shuffled out the door in the direction of his shed and was gone.
We were left there, my mother and I, in sad silence. I let the question sit, knowing that she would answer it once she was sure that the words she planned were the best she could think of. I sat myself on the other side of the room with my hands between my knees and looked away.
Finally she spoke. ‘They wrote it in here, at the table.’
I looked at the table.
‘He told me to leave them alone,’ she said quietly, nodding her head in the direction of the back room. ‘I went in there.’
I looked towards the back room. My grandmother lay in there with her eyes closed, breathing quietly.
That was it. My mother said no more.
I asked everyone in Cocksmouth if they had seen my father, or could tell me in what direction he had gone with the two men. All that I established was that they had headed south, on the main road to London. I stopped at Byddle and Haremear, the next two villages along the road, but learnt nothing new. Since my face was not known in those parts it was optimistic to expect that I would be told anything — if indeed there was anything to tell.
Fact was — my father was missing.
Chapter Thirteen
Pulegium when dry is said to flower in midwinter. Costaeus tells the same story and says there is a similar example in the case of the Black woodpecker, whose body hung up by a string has been observed to shed its old feathers in the Spring and grow new ones. Both these stories are not worthy of belief.
It took us three hours to get to Epsom — the roads were frozen into hard ridges. I was bounced up and down between roof and seat like a rubber ball. After much experimentation I found a comfortable position with one arm wrapped around the frame of the coach window and one leg held out straight across the seat. Dowling sat opposite me with his baggy, blue cloth cap pulled down over his ears, eyelids drooping, trying hard to stay awake. His guts must have been full of iron shot. My teeth started to rattle.
He was a good man to have on your side, I reflected, even though he was so filthy smelly. When I’d told him what I found at Cocksmouth he had fussed over me like a big, fluffy white hen — assuring me that he would talk to the Mayor, that he would be successful in commandeering enough men to scour the roads between here and Cocksmouth. It was some comfort insofar as I knew it was all that could be done. But they would not find him. Someone had taken him.
We hit a ridge so hard that my legs left the seat and my head hit the roof with such force that I saw lights twinkling before me. I cursed so loudly that Dowling opened one eye and frowned at me disapprovingly. Hill! The knock had juggled my brains and Hill’s face appeared before me. I had told Hill that I was going to Cocksmouth before I was locked up in the Tower. Hill, my great friend, who was now snug in Shrewsbury’s pocket. I felt an urge to stop and persuade the driver to turn round, go back to London so that I could find Hill, make him talk to me. I sat staring out of the window, not looking at the terrible dreary scenery we passed. No. He had urged me to go to Epsom. It was the only advice he had. If he wanted us to go to Epsom, then we would go. Let’s see what he had in store for us. Though I felt like the man that takes an hour to step out onto the ice, only to crash through it and drown.
When we arrived I climbed out of the coach onto Ormonde’s driveway with legs of jelly and something trying to drill its way out through my forehead. Dowling stepped out sleepily and took a deep lungful of cold, clean air before smiling happily. The only sound was that of crows complaining in the distant woods. It was an angry, lonely noise that cast a morbid tone upon the frosted fields and the silent, square white house with its big, black empty windows. I noticed a patch of catmint nestled in the grass close to the front door. If you set it, the cats will eat it; if you sow it, the cats can’t know it.
Another old servant wandered out of the front door to meet us. The world was full of doddery old servants it seemed. With great enthusiasm Dowling stepped forward to greet him. They had a laugh and a joke about something. It gave me time to empty the contents of my stomach discreetly behind the coach. Our coachman shook his head and regarded me with offended eyes, like it was some comment upon his wretched driving. I spat the last of it and immediately the air tasted fresher and my soul breathed easier.
Dowling appeared at my shoulder. ‘He says that William Ormonde is not at home, but that he will ask if we may talk with Mary Ormonde.’
The servant stood waiting for us, blinking anxiously. Once he saw us walking towards him, he turned and trotted back towards the house, hurrying to be first across the threshold. Inside it was much colder and darker than I remembered it. Tapestries hung on the walls I had not noticed the last time, old and frayed, colours faded. Water dripped somewhere, its slow rhythm the only sound to be heard.
Dowling took off his hat and stuck it in his pocket. ‘A man might hear a mouse sneeze.’
‘We don’t receive many visitors. Just Mr Ormonde and his daughter.’ The servant coughed breathlessly and bowed again. He led us past a square, wooden staircase with dark polished surface down a dingy corridor. At the end of it was a large room with good light soaking through long windows. Mary Ormonde stood amidst a collection of old embroidered chairs. The room smelt damp and I could almost feel the water clinging to my skin, pervading my clothes. I imagined the chairs to be wet to the touch.
‘Please sit,’ Mary Ormonde gestured. She still wore mourning clothes, a dark dress that fitted snug about her hips. Her eyes were still bright green, and still stared straight into my soul. Smiling at me gently, she stood calm like an old friend. ‘An unexpected visit,’ she said.
‘Aye.’ I sat down on one of the chairs. It seemed to be dry.
Her scent drifted up my nose and I immediately started to think about renewing intimate acquaintance. She sat with hands folded neatly on her lovely lap. ‘What happened to your head?’
‘I was hit on the head in the process of seeking who it was killed your sister.’
She nodded and looked at us both enquiringly, as if to ask why we had come back when all was been and done. ‘The man Joyce.’
Dowling spoke with a low sombre tone. ‘We think that the Lord Chief Justice has hung an innocent man.’
‘An innocent man?’ She pursed her lips and sounded very disappointed. Like someone’s dog had died. Then she resumed her previous pose and looked at us both with that enquiring gaze again. No sign of remorse. Then she lifted a finger into the air and pursed her beautiful lips again. Those lips transfixed me, luscious and ripe. ‘If this man Joyce did not kill my sister, then why was he hung for it?’
‘There lies a question, madam.’
‘Indeed. Lord Keeling himself tried Joyce, I understand.’
We both nodded.
‘My father has known Lord Keeling all his life, you know. They grew up together. Lord Keeling lived in Epsom when he was a little boy.’
There are moments in your life when the same object you have been looking at for months or years suddenly appears different. Breasts are a good example. A baby boy would never suckle on a breast in quite the same way if he had the same perspective on it that he later develops. This is nature and the way that it is intended, of course. It would be no good at all otherwise, else all the little boy babies would never stop drinking milk and would grow up to be very fat. This was one of those moments. William Hill had sent us here for a reason, and Mary Ormonde was going to tell us what that was.