Midnight is a Place (24 page)

"To write on, do you mean?"

He nodded.

"I have some blank account books of my husband's that you are welcome to use. Over there in that corner, see? I brought them, thinking I might keep a diary in them, but then I found more interesting things to do. You are welcome to them, my dear boy." She paused, looked at him thoughtfully, and then said, "Now, I ask myself, does this belong to you? I found it, and have been keeping it, somehow expecting that the owner might come back looking for it."

From the wooden chest she produced a brown leather book—the book that he had believed burned.

Lucas found that he was unable to speak. He gave Lady Murgatroyd a throttling hug, and went back to bed, from where he could see a star, just one, stuck in the middle of his tiny grating window.

He slept.

While they were building the stable, Lucas had—rather cautiously—suggested to Anna-Marie that there was not much use in her trying to keep on her cigar trade if the boys of the town were determined to stop her. He had been afraid that her hot temper might make her wish to go on battling against their unfair persecution, but luckily the practical side of her nature came uppermost.

"No: I do not see any point, if they are going to take away all my work and spoil it; I do not wish to work for nothing.
C'est de la folie, cela!
In the morning I shall ask the advice of
Grand'mère;
she knows so much; I am sure she will think of some good plan."

This was such a relief to Lucas that he did not even consider discussing Anna-Marie's occupation with Lady Murgatroyd, but went off to bed easier in his mind than he had been for weeks, and slept dreamlessly until the gentle silvery notes of "London Bridge Is Falling Down" woke him at half-past five.

From here, it was no farther to the Market Square than it had been from Haddock Street, so he need start no earlier. He had persuaded Anna-Marie that there was no purpose in her getting up so early, as she was not coming with him. Lady Murgatroyd had made him some chestnut porridge the previous evening, cooking the chestnuts over the fire in a little water until they were boiling, then placing the pot, which was made of heavy earthenware with a lid, inside a padded box, thickly stuffed with hay. To his amazement, for though she had told him the porridge would be ready for breakfast, he had not really believed her, he found it still hot in the morning, and perfectly cooked. It made a delicious breakfast, completed by three more gingersnaps.

He had on his outer clothes and was on the point of leaving quietly through his own little door when Anna-Marie darted silently into his room.

"Good-bye, dear Luc! I could not let you go off without saying
bonjour,
" she said, and gave him a hug. "Take care! And find something nice in that nasty place."

He went off feeling warm, well fed, and cheerful, in spite of being bound for the sewers; how different from leaving Haddock Street with its smell of boiled dirty potato peelings and atmosphere of grudging dislike. Now his mind had so much to occupy it that he hardly knew where to begin.

In fact he did not notice that Gudgeon greeted him with a scowl and seemed—even for Gudgeon—unusually surly.

Anna-Marie had returned to bed after saying good-bye to Lucas, and even gone back to sleep for a short time, but the baby woke at seven and wanted to play; so after that there was no more sleep. Bet was just old enough to scramble out of her cradle and crawl about the floor, strong enough to overturn anything that could be upset and to break anything breakable if it were left within her reach.

She did, too, seem to be passionately fond of stuffing anything into her mouth: sand, ashes, moss, earth, charcoal, the bracken lining of Anna-Marie's bed—the more unsuitable it was, the better she liked it.

"
Grand Dieu!
" panted Anna-Marie at the end of an exhausting hour. "How,
Grand'mère,
an old lady, ever kept up with you, I cannot imagine.
Je n'ai aucune idee.
"

"Day, day," repeated the baby, happily thumping a wooden spoon against the copper can in which Lady Murgatroyd fetched water from the spring in the park.

"
Grand'mère,
" said Anna-Marie, when they had fed the baby her bread and milk and were eating their own (the bread made by Lady Murgatroyd twice a week, the milk fetched from a farm on the moor), "
Grand'mère,
what can I do? As work, I mean?"

"You are sure that you would not rather stay here and help me? Others of your age would still be going to school. You are quite young."

"No," said Anna-Marie positively. "We have not enough money that I stay at home. And if Luc works it is fair that I work also. And others of my age also work. Certainly I wish to help you,
Grand'mère,
but it shall be after I get home or before I go. I would like also to learn singing from you and how to make that
potage de marrons
and many other things, but first we must have enough money so that we are not a burden on you,
Grand'mère.
After all, you did not even know that you had a grandchild."

"No indeed. It was the nicest surprise in the world. I had heard that the
Sea-Witch,
that was the boat on which your father went to France, had been sunk and all the people on her drowned, so I thought that he was dead."

"He swam to shore; he has told me about it many times. And
he
thought that you were dead,
Grand'maman;
he told me once that he read a piece in a newspaper about how
Grandpère
died just after Papa left home, and it said that you had died too."

"Pieces in newspapers are generally wrong," said Lady Murgatroyd sadly. "And look what a lot of harm they do. If it had not been for that, your father might have written a letter to me years ago."

"And come to visit you,
peut-être.
"

"I am not sure that he could have done that. But I could have gone to see him in France."

"Why could he not come to England? He would never tell me that."

"Well—you know about how Sir Randolph won Midnight Court."

Anna-Marie nodded. "Yes. And I think he was a
rrrogue to
do it so," she said vehemently. "If I had known when he was still alive, I would have told him so, to his face."

"And he wanted to fight a duel with your father, because people were saying Sir Randolph had cheated. But your father would not fight; he said he was not interested in whether Sir Randolph had cheated or not, and fighting would not prove anything, either way."

"I would have fought him, me," said Anna-Marie.

"Well—it is possible that he did have to fight him in the end. It is all quite a mystery. Your father was planning to sail to France in this little fishing boat, the
Sea-Witch,
leaving from the port of Shoreham. Two people went with him as far as the coast. Tom Grenvile, a college friend of his who had lent him a horse and some money, was one. Ah, poor Tom," Lady Murgatroyd sighed.

"And who was the other?"

"The other was a young boy, no more than fifteen years old, who was very greatly devoted to your father. He had run away from his home and his school, and he begged to be allowed to go to France. Your father said no, but he might come as far as the coast; he kept trying to persuade the boy to turn back, but he would not; your father did not know what to do about him."

"I should have been like that too.
Naturally
he wanted to go with Papa. And so, what happened?"

"When they came to the seashore—it was at night—there was an ambush."

"An
ambush?
But this is an adventure you are telling me,
Grand'mère.
"

"It certainly was. A whole party of men, five or six, were there, in masks, with swords, and they attacked your papa, and his friend, and the boy."

"They were sent by Sir Randolph. Maybe he was there too," stated Anna-Marie.

"It is possible. Certainly your father had no other enemies. But why, just the same? Sir Randolph had the house and everything else already; there was nothing to be gained by killing your papa."

"If he had cheated there was. In case anyone found out. But also I think it made him feel bad—horrible—whenever he thought of my papa. The only way
not
to feel bad—he believed—would be to kill my papa altogether."

Lady Murgatroyd looked at her thoughtfully. "You may be right."

"I
am
right," said Anna-Marie with certainty. "For he went on feeling horrible all the rest of his life; everybody knows that. And when he saw me—just before he jumped himself into the fire—he said to me, 'I shall tell your papa that I didn't much care for his slice of Clutterby Pie.'"

"Poor stupid man," murmured Lady Murgatroyd. "What a lot of harm he caused."

"But what about the ambush,
Grand'maman?
What happened?"

"Well, your father was a good fighter, when he was obliged to be. Two men of the attackers were killed. Your father's friend was very badly injured. And the boy was hurt too. Then the boat arrived, and the sailors came ashore, and the other men ran away.

"The sailors sailed the
Sea- Witch
along the coast to the town of Brighton, where there was a good doctor, and they carried the hurt boy and man ashore. What could your father do? He could not take them to France, hurt like that. He left all his money with the doctor and begged him to write to their families, telling them where they were.

"Then he went to France."

"It must have been
dreadful
for the boy," said Anna-Marie broodingly. "Wanting to go so badly, and then hurt and not able to, and sent back home like a child. Was he
much
hurt?"

"Not fatally. His parents came and fetched him. I never saw him."

"But you saw the other one? That was how you heard about the ambush?"

"Yes. Tom had been very seriously hurt—stabbed through the lung—and he did not get better but died at the doctor's house. His parents went to be with him, and they were friends of mine and sent for me, so that I could hear about my poor Denny's last journey. By then, you see, we had heard that the
Sea-Witch
had been wrecked in a gale, and it was said that no one swam ashore."

Lady Murgatroyd's steady eyes moved to the fire and stayed there for a moment or two.

"And this friend, Tom Grenvile, he told how your father, when he was bidding them good-bye, said, 'I'm dished, now, Tommy, for I've killed two men'—and it was true, he had—'I'll have to stay out of the Isle of Albion.'"

"But he hadn't killed them on purpose!" cried Anna-Marie indignantly. "They attacked first."

"Yes, but Sir Randolph was a very powerful man at that time, even a friend of the king. And rich, too, of course, because he had won all that property. He might have been able to hire clever lawyers and tell some story that made it look as if your father had attacked first."

"On his way to France? That is not likely."

"Well," said Lady Murgatroyd, "it is all over now. And a long time
ago.
"

"I wonder what happened to the boy?"

"Haven't you guessed?"

"No, why?"

"It was your Mr. Oakapple."

"Monsieur Ookapool? Oh!" exclaimed Anna-Marie, "I always
knew
he was very good, and now I am sure of it. When I see him, what a hug I shall give him for loving my papa so much."

Then she pondered in silence for a while, and said, "But I wonder why—why
ever
—he should go to work as a tutor in the house of Sir Randolph. For he must have hated him worse than anyone in the world."

"Yes, I have been wondering that too," said Lady Murgatroyd. "But perhaps if we ask him he will tell us."

"Now,
Grand'mère,
" said Anna-Marie. "About my work. What can I do?"

"Well, you could do piecework at home."

"What is piecework?"

"Sewing—making shirts, trousers, that kind of thing."

"
Non,
"said Anna-Marie with finality. "I detest sewing. I would rather chop trees."

"I do not think they are using girls to chop trees. Well, I suppose you could go to work on the dust hill."

"What is that?"

"Have you seen the dustcarts that go through the streets? They collect the rubbish, and it is all taken to a big yard on the east side of the town, where it is sorted, and anything valuable in it is taken out and sold, and the farmers buy the street sweepings to manure their fields. They have a number of women and girls working there, sifting the dust."

"Well, I would certainly prefer that to making shirts," said Anna-Marie. "And I suppose one might always find something valuable—like Luc in the drains."

"It would not be very comfortable, though, in this cold weather. Piecework would be better. It is not very well paid, unfortunately."

"What about
Grandpère
's mill? Could I not work there? Luc says they take quite young girls, of my age."

"I suppose you could work there," Lady Murgatroyd said rather doubtfully. "It may be better since Sir Randolph died."

"Well, I will try the Mill," Anna-Marie decided. "For one thing, it is close, not far to walk. And if after all I do not like it, then I will work in the dust yard."

Lady Murgatroyd did not seem entirely happy about Anna-Marie's choice, but there were not a great many alternatives, for Murgatroyd's Mill was the only factory that took children of Anna-Marie's age.

"At all events, you may learn some things that may be useful to you later on, about how such places work. In case you ever come to run one yourself!"

"I shall never run such a place, me."

Anna-Marie gave her grandmother a kiss, and said, "I shall go now, directly.
Au revoir, Grand'mère.
It will not be so bad, for Luc has told me a little about it, so I shall not feel too ignorant."

Just the same, when she had crossed the snowy park, slipped through the gap in the wall, rejoined the main road, and run down the hill, Anna-Marie did feel somewhat daunted as she approached the high, black, forbidding fence and gates of the mill yard. However, dodging the loaded trucks that went rumbling along on rails right through the gate, she sidled in, and crossed to the little office where Lucas had conversed with Mr. Smallside. A sharp-looking man with red hair like a fox was now the manager, it seemed; he looked Anna-Marie up and down, and snapped, "What do you want?"