Deceit (6 page)

The horse slows down as if grateful for the
shade and Silas does not quicken him. He seems content to let him amble along… a kindness and that worries me, for he is not a kind man.

Christophe is still fast asleep. I feel the baby pressing down and the need to pass water has become urgent. I cannot hold on any longer. So I have to ask Silas to stop the cart. He says nothing, but the horse is brought to a stop. And a slow smile spreads across his face as if he has turned over a stone and found a hoard of gold coins there. The wood seems to press in around us and even the horse seems disturbed by it, stamping his hooves and flicking his mane and his eyes rolling back in his head.

I shake Christophe again and this time he mutters in his sleep, “
Qu’est-ce-que…?
”

But still he does not wake and so I turn to get down from the cart… but Silas is there before me, holding out his hand. I refuse it and jump down unaided, then hurry off into the woods.

I am just finished passing water and my legs are trembling a little with the effort of squatting, when I hear a shout and a dull thud and the sound of horse’s hooves skittering on hard earth. I run… and I see Silas and Christophe on the ground
by the cart and Silas is straddled over Christophe with his hands about his neck.

I do not even stop to think, but draw my knife out of its hiding place in my bodice. Even as I stab down into Silas’s back, all I can think of is how hard it is to push a knife through a leather jerkin and through muscle. Both my hands are around the knife hilt and I press down with all my weight. Blood spurts up and sprays onto my dress, covering my hands. Silas’s body goes limp and is a dead weight and Christophe struggles to push him off… which he only does with my help.

I pull Christophe to his feet, asking wildly, “What shall we do? Bury his body? Yes we must bury it where no one will find it!”

I shake Christophe’s arm when he does not reply, but he is staring down at Silas’s body and when I follow his gaze, I see that Silas is not dead. His hands are moving, scrabbling in the dirt. He pushes up with one hand and reaches around to his back with the other and clutches for the hilt of the knife.

Christophe and I stand motionless in horror as Silas tries to pull the knife out. It is terrible to stand and watch any creature in pain and suffering.
And though I am the one who has stabbed him and even though he is a bad man, guilt and disgust at what I have done flood through me.

But Christophe is made of sterner stuff. I am his chief concern and the baby I carry, so he pulls me away and pushes me up onto the cart and then springs up himself. And then we hear his voice… Silas calling out to us, “Dr Nicholas Benedict will find you… be… assured… of that. I hear he offers a very great reward for your capture.” His voice is weakening now, each word costs him dear. “I… sent… word from Woolwich… that I… had found… you… and the Frenchman.”

I look at Christophe in horror. So that is why Silas had been trying to kill him! He hoped to take me back to Nicholas and claim the reward. A great deal easier if Christophe were dead. But how had Silas found out about us? My first thought flew to Ralf. It must be Ralf who had betrayed us.

“I should not have…” I start to speak, but falter. Christophe, thinking I mean that I should not have left Silas alive, is looking at me with a mixture of love, sadness and pity.

“If you had killed Silas in cold blood,” he says,
“then you would be a murderer and no better than the Doctor.”

Though he speaks the truth, I still believe it would be better if Silas were dead, for now we are in even greater danger. I start to laugh at the thought of it. Hysteria bubbles up and out of my mouth like froth on ale. Then I stop suddenly, as if I had been slapped. I look at Christophe and his face is set and hard. Then silently he takes up the reins and urges the horse on… at a fast trot now. I turn to look behind me and watch and watch until Silas is as small as a black mote in my eye. I blink and then he is gone altogether from view.

W
hen Claire got home her dad was there. And the house was oddly silent.

“Where’s Mum? Where’s Micky?” He didn’t answer, just took her hand and led her into the front room. Sat her down on the sofa, still holding her hand.

“There’s news, Claire. The police have arrested someone. A man.”

Claire’s heart leaped.
Maybe
… and for a moment there was relief, euphoria.
Robert! They’d arrested Robert! Thank you. Thank you
.

“He’s only young.” Claire’s face fell. Not Robert then. “He’s been locked away for the last five years and he’s only just got out. He was seen in the park that morning, hanging around the playground. He’s confessed, Claire. Matthew…” Claire’s dad’s voice choked up. “Matthew’s…
He says he’s buried Matthew’s body in woods near Box Hill. He says he didn’t mean to kill him. Matthew was crying and he put his hand over his mouth and nose. He just wanted him to stop.”

Claire’s legs went from under her and she wanted to throw up. Her brain scrambled. Matthew dead! Had Robert been lying then? And she found herself praying that he
hadn’t
been lying, because if he’d been telling the truth then there was still hope that Matthew was alive.

“The police are out at Box Hill now.”

Three days! Robert had given her three days.

“How long will…?”

“I don’t know, love. This
man
has gone with the police. He says he will show them where Matthew’s…” Her dad broke down. He crumpled and his legs gave way. He sat on the very edge of the sofa and held his head in his hands and sobbed.

Claire could feel the tears rolling down her own cheeks. She sat next to her dad and put her arms around him and pressed her head into
his shoulder. Such a terrible conflict of emotion. Terror that Matthew was dead and fear that he wasn’t and she would have to do as Robert wanted and trade the casket and the 21st spell for her brother’s life. And of course she would do it, though she knew that without
her
, Robert would not be able to open the casket and its power would be safe. She knew it… and
Robert
knew it too.

So… and this made fear trickle down her spine like melting ice… maybe he wouldn’t just want to trade
Matthew
for the casket. Maybe he would want to trade Matthew for
her
and the casket. Could she do that – put herself in Robert’s hands again? Was she brave enough? She didn’t feel strong at all, but the alternative was unthinkable. However much fear she was feeling, it would be nothing compared to Matthew’s.

But right this second there was nothing she could do. Not until the police had been to Box Hill and satisfied themselves that Matthew wasn’t there. And if he wasn’t, then she would have to act. Tell Joe? Ring Jacalyn and hope Robert hadn’t been right about where her loyalties would lie? Persuade her mum and dad that she wasn’t insane? Talk to the police? Maybe she should do
all
of
those things. And maybe if she did, Robert would find out and Matthew would die anyway.

The police had been digging out in the woods at Box Hill and so far had found nothing. The atmosphere in Grandma’s house now was so palpable that Claire felt as if she could reach out a finger and touch it. Suffocating, airless, fetid – making Claire feel as if she had woken up from a nightmare and was trapped inside a giant duvet and however hard she struggled she could not get herself free of it.

No one except her mum could sit still for more than a minute. And her mum was only laid out on her bed because she had been drugged up to the eyeballs and didn’t even know what day of the week it was.

Claire’s dad was staying in the house too. Lindsay had said he ought to be with his family… and besides she was really busy with work. Claire had watched her dad on the phone to Lindsay, heard him actually beg her not to go; to be here with him. He needed her. And Claire had thought how ironic that was… how they had needed him too and he hadn’t been there for them. For a split
second she’d felt, what was that German word people used?
Schadenfreude
. Happy that her dad was miserable. But the feeling was gone in a flash and then she just felt ashamed. Of course her dad would want Lindsay with him. Just as she wanted Joe with her. And where was Joe anyway? What was he doing? She hadn’t heard a word from him since they’d had that row about her bunking off school. Not even a text in reply to the one she’d sent, saying she was sorry.

We are travelling as fast as the poor horse will go. Sweat flecks his coat and his breathing sounds harsh and ragged. We are out of the woods now and follow the chalk road heading towards Gravesend, which is on the river too. A great many people pass by the town at each tide and I know from gossip overheard in my father’s shop that all boats must stop there for the searcher of the customs to come on board. But there will be a guard boat with watchmen on board. They will visit all the boats at anchor out on the river, so I do
not think we will be able to stow away. And if we cannot stow away, will we find anyone willing to take us on board their ship? For there is a rumour that outbreaks of the plague are increasing again and spreading to the east of London.

Supposing that Nicholas is even now at Woolwich? And what if Silas Becke is found alive at the side of the road and is taken back there?

I hear his voice in my head telling Nicholas, “
Stabbed in the back by your red-haired whore, protecting her French whore-master, and then they stole my horse and cart and headed for Gravesend!
”

I ought to have pressed his face into the earth until he suffocated. But Christophe is right… Nicholas would have done it in a heartbeat and thought nothing of it. How glad I should be that Christophe is not such a ruthless man. I press close to him and see him smile down at me and drop a kiss onto the top of my head, and I am glad. Truly I am.

The shoreline at Gravesend is marshy and low. Christophe stops the cart and we look down on the town from the chalk cliffs above it. Should we go down and hope to get passage on a boat
from there? Or cross the river on one of the boats that ferries chalk over to the county of Essex? We might travel then through Essex and as far as Harwich. Or would it be better to carry on in the horse and cart and hope to get to Dover? We could take a boat from there to France… No, the horse and cart will not do, for I am sure the poor horse would not last the journey. Yet stopping in Gravesend seems foolish now, for if Silas Becke is still alive he may yet tell Nicholas where we are heading.

But I know from the maps my father sold in his shop that there is a coach which travels from London to Dover and passes through Gravesend. We could take a risk and board it there. I am so tired, thirsty and hungry that it seems like a risk worth taking. I would gladly bed down in a nest of adders and think nothing of it.

“Please, please let us take the coach!” I am begging Christophe now and use guile to persuade him, saying I have the dragging pains again in my belly. I can see that Christophe is worried.

But after pausing to think on it, he looks into my eyes and says, “Then this is what we will do…”
And so we take the horse and cart into the town and onto the quayside where I crouch down on the steps that lead into the water and wash Silas Becke’s blood from my hands. The blood blooms out into the water and is gone. If only it were as easy to wash away the thought of him. There is blood on my dress still, but it has dried to a rusty iron colour and the dress is so filthy now it hardly shows.

We are to leave the horse behind in Gravesend and so Christophe, at my request, unhitches him from the cart and finds livery for him, in a stables nearby. Then, carefully, we go about laying the false trail. I pay for a ferry crossing over the river, for the two of us, choosing one that is crowded with people.

I hope the ferryman will notice the colour of my hair and remember me, should anyone ask about a red-haired girl. And when I speak loudly, saying it will not be long now before we are safe in Harwich, Christophe answers me in French. I see that the ferryman looks closely at Christophe then… but as ships from all parts of the known world stop here, he lets it pass and takes the money.

In the hurry and bustle, the ferryman does not notice that, though we board the boat, we slip off again separately. Christophe leaves first and then I follow, my hair covered over now with my shawl. Then I go to a draper’s shop and buy us both new clothes: a plain linen dress in a drab brown that makes me look like Martha, and with room enough for the baby to grow, and a white shirt and dark breeches for Christophe. I buy us new hats too. Straw for me, and black felt for Christophe. Both hats are wide brimmed so our faces will be shaded from view.

There is a schedule for the coach to Dover posted to the wall outside the Ship Inn and I examine it while Christophe goes to buy us food. The coach leaves Gravesend at six o’clock the next morning. That is too many hours away. We do not wish to linger that long here. Perhaps it would be wiser to board the coach at the next stop, Rochester, a distance of just seven miles? An easy walking distance, even in my condition.

I am just about to turn away from the inn when I hear a familiar voice. Martha’s! My first instinct is to leap out and shout and dance and hug her to my heart. Ralf must have given her my
message and now she has come looking for me. I
knew
she would not abandon me and my heart leaps with joy. But as I turn to her and she catches sight of me, a look of fear crosses her face and she gives a little shake of her head and a slight movement of the hand, which signifies that I should go away.

I reach up for the ring and turn it on its braid; it feels hot in my hand. Then I hear his voice and Martha turns and I see Nicholas. Martha pretends to trip and fall, and though he shouts at her and pulls her roughly to her feet, he is distracted and I am able to slip into a nearby jitty.

I peer out… Martha and Nicholas are gone into the inn… and I wait for Christophe, in a state of agitation that even a sip of the laudanum does not quell. The ring is so hot now that it leaves a red mark at my breastbone.

The moment Christophe passes the end of the jitty, I pull him in and I do not need to tell him what has happened, because he says, “We must go this minute. I was in the baker’s shop when my ring grew hot as coals.
C’est inquiétant
. I’m anxious.
He
is here in Gravesend, is he not?”

Christophe peeps out into the street and we
are about to step from the jitty and hurry away when I see Martha again. She has come back out of the inn and is looking about her frantically as if she wonders which way she should go. Then she rushes away from us, up the street. Christophe is looking hard at me now, his hand on my arm. I think he is worried I will follow her.

“I would trust her with my life,” I say, but Christophe replies that we can trust no one. I do not believe that and though he might seek to sow a little seed of doubt in my head, I will refuse to let it grow. I
can
trust Martha. I know it. However, about Ralf I am not so sure. And Silas, well, if he still lives, then he will be after our blood and not satisfied until he has it.

So, in the darkness of the jitty, we hastily scrabble into our new clothes and, leaving the old ones behind, slip away from Gravesend and skirt the road to Rochester, keeping as well hidden from anyone passing along the road as we are able. And though we stop to eat and to doze a little, it is not long before we are at Rochester, a bustling place, for it houses the chief arsenal of the Royal Navy.

Warehouses and yards and storehouses are laid out beyond the city walls. They are almost like
a town in themselves. We pass by and through the gate into Rochester and look for cheap lodgings for the night. Christophe thinks if we choose carefully, find somewhere tucked away in a back street, we will be safe until the morning and then we will board the coach. God willing our plan will work and Nicholas will believe we have crossed the river into Essex and are even now on our way to Harwich. As for Silas Becke… what mischief can he make then?

The room is dark and hot, being up in the attic, and the bed is filthy and louse-ridden. But we do not complain of it, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves here. Though I do ask for a ewer of water and a basin and soap to be brought up to the room. It costs ten pennies, but the water at least is hot and, with Christophe turned away from me, I am able to strip to my shift and wash myself. Once I have finished, Christophe does likewise.

Then after we have taken a little food and drink (and I have taken a secret sip of laudanum) we lie down on the bed with our arms about each other and I rest my head on Christophe’s chest.

We are soon fast asleep. But with the heat
of the room and the bed bugs biting it is not a peaceful slumber. I am plagued by bad dreams. Images of Silas’s blood-soaked body leaning over me; his face ravaged and corpselike. His breath, which already stinks of putrefying bodies, causes me to shrink away from him. Yet he is pressing close and I claw at his face violently, crying out and saying the words of our Lord’s prayer over and over as if I seek protection from the Devil himself. And then I wake and Christophe lights a candle and I find I have been clawing at Christophe’s face. It is scratched and bleeding and he has a black eye. I am mortified, but he only laughs and says that it is a small price to pay for having me near him… and that he pays it willingly.

I look up at him to see if he truly means it, and I believe that he does. We kiss and I would willingly do more. My hands slip under his shirt; I feel his heartbeat strong and quick. He kisses me tenderly and his hands, though they are rough and calloused from working hard, stroke my face as gently as if he were touching the finest silk. He says that soon we will be safe in France and with his family, and then, if I should like it, we will be married and all before the baby is born. He takes
my hand from under his shirt and holds it in his own and I fall asleep against him and do not wake again until it is morning.