Is (22 page)

A footway led from the gallery to the lane at the back where Dr Lemman’s trap was tethered. They got the old man out, with some difficulty, by means of Aunt Ishie’s wheeled sled.

‘Stupid old clunch. I knew he’d go and overdo the dose if I was not there to supervise – ’ Lemman was muttering. ‘I knew he’d make a mull of it.’

‘Didn’t he mean to do hisself in?’ asked Is.

‘Not to my knowledge . . .’

‘Where were he and Aunt when Roy blew up the house?’

‘Out. They’d had a warning from an associate of Kingy’s – that fellow Gower – don’t know why
he
turned neighbourly all of a sudden – surly Friday-faced devil in the general way – Good, that’s right, heave his feet in, and then we’ll be off.’

‘Where to?’

‘The library.’

‘The
library
?’

‘Your aunt and grandpa have a notion to take up quarters there; not a bad plan, I dare say, it’s in middling good repair. And I believe there’s even an old printing press down in the basement, which your grandpa –
if
he survives this crazy freak – ’

Aunt Ishie was already crouched in the back of the trap beside the huddled form of Grandpa Twite. Is clambered in beside her and clasped her hand. But Ishie looked resigned, even calm.

‘If your great-grandfather dies, I shall take it as meant,’ she explained, ‘and shall consider that he brought it on himself, teasing poor Roy.’

‘
Poor
Roy?’

‘Oh, such a hopeless, wretched, unlovable creature!’ Aunt Ishie sighed. ‘I suppose it is almost always that kind who change the course of public events, because they have nothing better to do with themselves.’

‘D’you know what he did? He locked up Mrs Macclesfield in the library basement, among all them books! Soon’s we get there I’m agoing to let her out – ’

‘That’s a good child; no, Mrs Macclesfield should most certainly not be left in there . . . Ah, here we are. Now, Chester, if you can just help me up the stairs with Papa – ’

There were two flights of stairs to be tackled; the imposing steps outside, leading to the bronze doors, and then, even steeper, the double marble ascent curving in elegance from the entry hall. Although it was a cold day, they were all heated and panting by the time they had hoisted old Mr Twite to the top of the second flight.

‘Only hope it’ll have been worth it, fetching him up here,’ growled Lemman.

As soon as Aunt Ishie and the unconscious old man had been established in the Head Librarian’s office, Is said,

‘Now I’ll go and look for Mrs Macclesfield.’

She had been exceedingly anxious to get away for the last ten minutes. All the time they had been laboriously heaving Grandfather Twite from step to step, she had been aware, inside her head, of Mrs Macclesfield’s piercing, piteous, continuous cry for help, a soundless moan. Then, suddenly, just as they reached the door of the office, it had stopped. Now what could that mean? Is hated to think. Had the supply of air suddenly run out?

‘Yes, do hurry,’ agreed Aunt Ishie. ‘Take a candle, you had better – ’

She had a stock of household goods already collected here: lamps, candles, blankets and provisions, Is noticed.

Hurrying downstairs with the lighted candle, Is retraced the route along which she had been taken earlier that day – it already seemed a long time ago – by the two guards, down the basement stairs and along the silent passage-way among the stacks of books. But now there was no light ahead to guide her. And there seemed to be a dreadfully confusing number of passages to choose from. Is tried to follow a course straight forward, relying on the good sense of direction that she had acquired in Blackheath Woods, but it was hard to be sure that she was keeping to the same route, for she began to think that in the meantime somebody else had been there, disturbing the stacks and shifting them along on their tracks, so that the distances between them were different. If only she could find the opening where Gold Kingy had sat, with the table and chair; but those were gone, the space had vanished. Who could have taken the furniture?

Where are you? I am looking for you everywhere, she sent out in a soundless call to Mrs Macclesfield. But no answer came back. And the candle, which had been little more than a stub to start, was beginning to burn low . . .

Now there came another disquieting phenomenon. Somewhere, not too far away, Is thought she began to detect a stealthy footstep. At first she had taken it for an echo of her own tread, but it fell at different intervals, it was heavier and slower.

I don’t like this place one bit, thought Is; I’d hate to be shut up in here. She stood still and tried to avoid breathing while she waited and listened for the step to sound again. Yes: there it was, closer now. Somebody was following her, stalking her in the darkness. I know a game worth two o’ that, thought Is, and blew out her candle. Dark, thick as soot, settled round her. If I keep still for long enough, Is decided, Mr Footfall can’t help giving himself away; I bet I can hold my breath longer than he can.

She was right: after an interval she heard a stealthy shuffle and a suppressed cough. Is, by now, found that her eyes had adjusted to the dark sufficiently to see the upright line of a stack fairly close to where the sound had come from; she put down her candle and, in two tiptoe strides, swung herself round the stack and made a grab with her right hand at what lurked behind it. Unexpectedly, the stack slid sideways in its groove, unbalancing the other person, who fell heavily, letting out a stifled oath:
‘S’wounds!’
and dropping something with a clatter. Is, pouncing on this, found it to be a tinder-box and struck a light. To her complete surprise, the person lying on the floor turned out to be Mr Gower.

‘Well, jell me!’ exclaimed Is, while he, looking extremely harrassed and put out, as much at the loss of his dignity as anything else, picked up his pince-nez and climbed slowly to his feet. ‘I never thought it would be
you
, mister, playing hide-and-find here in the dark!’

He made no reply to that but, after frowningly scrutinising her for a moment, demanded, ‘You were here, were you not, this morning, when your uncle had my sister-in-law shut up in this repellent place?’

‘Sure, I was; that’s why – ’

‘Can you remember what number of row – ?’

‘Ah, now, that’s sharp,’ said Is approvingly. ‘Yus; now you come to name it, where Gold Kingy was sitting, at his little table in the middle, that row was K30. I know that’s so, cos I remember thinking K for Kingy.’

He took back the tinder-box from her and lit a candle of his own, holding it up to the nearest stack, which was R17.

‘Ah,’ he muttered, ‘then I have come by far too far – ’ and began working his way back towards the entrance. Having re-lit her own candle from his, she followed.

‘You come to let her out, then, mister? I thought you was on Gold Kingy’s side?’

‘My affiliations are no business of yours whatsoever,’ he snapped.

‘Suit yourself, mister. – Now, this was where Uncle Roy sat this morning, for here’s a drop o’ candlegrease on the floor. Somebody musta moved the table, that’s what foxed me. Wonder who? And I reckon it was down this way they took Mrs M – a good long way, till they was almost outa hearing.’

But though they followed the row K30 to its extreme end – among dark, rusty, mouldy, half-empty stacks, and rotten, sodden volumes – they could find no sign of the imprisoned lady. Mr Gower called out, once or twice, in a cautious undertone: ‘Susan? Are you there? Susan?’

And Is sent out her silent mind-message. But neither of these received any reply. Nor, thank goodness, did they come on what Is had feared they might find: poor Mrs Macclesfield’s body, perished for want of air; although Mr Gower moved all the stacks in turn and hunted with great persistence.

‘My wife will certainly expect it – ’ he muttered. ‘What is that you just picked up?’

‘Dunno – feels like it might be a locket.’

He lowered his candle and Is exhibited her find. It was, in fact, a small heart-shaped case on a slender chain.

‘Yes, that belonged to my sister-in-law. You had best give it here.’

‘And welcome,’ said Is, handing it over. ‘Well, mister, I reckon some other body musta nipped in ahead and unbuckled Mrs M an’ spirited her off somewhere. You can tell your lady at least she’s outa the brig.’

He merely grunted in reply. It was plain that he had hated his errand, hated the fact that it had failed, and particularly hated being obliged to hold a conversation with Is. Blowing out his candle, he made for the stairs to the hall, which could be seen dimly ahead of them.

Is lingered behind, thinking that she would wait a few minutes until he had left the library before returning to Aunt Ishie and Grandpa Twite. They would not wish their presence advertised.

At that moment something bit her leg and she let out a gasp of fright.

‘What?’ Mr Gower said, irritably, half turning.

‘Nothing – nothing, mister . . . !’

But she had felt teeth sink in her calf, no question. What could it be: a dog, a wolf, a boar, a wildcat, a giant rat? What other creatures might inhabit this underground maze?

Mr Gower strode on up the stairs and vanished from view. And then close by, not loud, but distinct, Is heard a familiar sound: the kind of caterwaul – half threatening, half playful – that a young torn makes, warning a stranger off his boundaries.

For a moment she felt desolate, longing for her friend Figgin and her own woods; then she spun round and, with heart beating fast, called softly, ‘Hey! Who’s there? Where are you?’

The sound came again from farther away, and to one side: ‘Morow! Wow!’

Is took a deep breath, gulped, and followed. The course that the creature led her was a jerky and confusing one, zigzagging among the stacks. As she turned a sharp corner, her candle died again, but then, luckily, she began to see a faint gleam of daylight ahead, towards which the beast – person? animal? – seemed to be making. And in fact a few minutes more brought Is out through a side entrance, up a crumbling flight of area steps into an alley. Ahead, to the left, a dark shape was just vanishing round a corner.

Putting on more speed, she went in pursuit.

By now the short winter day was nearly done. And the foggy dusk was made more obscure by a whirl of snowflakes; only the quick, jerky movements of her quarry helped Is to keep him – or her, or it – in view. Across ruined building plots, round corners, over blocks of stone, under tottering arches, up flights of steps, it bounded and gambolled. Showing off! thought Is crossly, as she slipped and stumbled in the rear.

Now they were on the edge of the town, were in little streets that looked more like country lanes. Soon Is recognised where they were, not at all far from Corso Mill, and five minutes more brought them to the ruined bridge over the millrace. The creature ahead ran out on to the broken arch of bridge and then, with a wild extravagant leap, cleared the gap and hurled itself across to the other side.

Is measured the distance with her eye. There was a twenty-foot drop below.
I
ain’t fool enough to try and jump that, she thought; it’d be downright stupid, plain susancide. I’ll jist stay on this side.

‘Hey!’ she called across the race. ‘I’m not acoming no farther. I’m fair tucked-up. You come back here!’ And she sat down on a bit of ruined wall.

A mocking meow came in reply.

‘Listen!’ Is called again. ‘I don’t mean you no harm! You must know that by now. Why don’t you come back and talk a bit, sensible? I won’t even bite you!’ rubbing her bruised leg.

She was answered by a chuckle. Now it was too dark to see across the white, racing water.

I’ll stay two more minutes, resolved Is, then I’ll step into the mill and tell the old gals what’s been going on. They’ll want to help Aunt Ishie and Grandpa.

‘So long then; I’m off,’ she announced, after a couple of minutes had passed; and she was standing up to leave when a skinny black form came flying back over the millrace and a strong hand pushed her imperiously down again.

‘Stay! Sit!’ commanded a voice that was perfectly human.

Is, with great composure, brought out the stub of candle which she had stuck in her pocket on leaving the library and re-lit it. By its light she looked at the person facing her.

He was a tall, bony boy. His hair, very thick and shaggy, fell round his face in a kind of ruff, and he had the beginnings of a beard; he had streaked his face with tar or black paint in tigerish stripes, and his jerkin and breeches were made from alternating stripes of brown and grey fur. But what mostly made him seem like a cat was the way he moved: the supple neatness with which he cocked his head, turned his spine and, as now when he sat down, tucked his hands and feet tidily out of sight.

Is took a long, careful look at his face through the falling snow; then she grinned.

‘
You
ain’t a cat, boy, whatever you may think,’ she said. ‘You’re my cousin. You and I are the image of each other. Your da once told me that. You’re Arn Twite.’