The Blood List (12 page)

Naomi brought out some warm rolls and butter.

‘Good morning, Master Barnaby,’ she said evenly.

‘Good morning,’ he said, focusing his attention on splitting the roll.

‘Naomi!’ Juliet called from the floor. ‘Your arms are longer than mine: is that something right at the back by the wall?’

Naomi got to her hands and knees beside Juliet.

‘I think it’s just a butt—’ she began, but then something slipped from her apron pocket to clink on the flagstones.

Barnaby saw the bewildered look that passed between the girls before Naomi got up and announced that the crucifix had been found.

She had barely spoken before Abel emerged onto the landing.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Where was it?’

Naomi swallowed and looked at Juliet.

‘Under the dres—’ Juliet began, but Naomi spoke over her, directing her words to Frances. ‘It was in my apron pocket, Mistress. I don’t know how.’

Abel gave a little gasp but Frances just frowned. ‘How odd. Well, I think we’re done, girls, if you could clear the table.’

‘Odd indeed,’ Abel said, coming down the stairs. ‘How could it have got there?’

Naomi blinked rapidly, as if the sun was in her eyes.

‘It might have fallen off your shelf, Master Abel,’ Juliet said evenly. ‘While Naomi was polishing the floor.’

Abel gave a derisive snort. ‘That seems unlikely, don’t you agree, Mother?’

‘The important thing is that the chain was found,’ Frances said with a strained smile. ‘So get about your work, girls.’

With simultaneous
Yes’m
s Juliet and Naomi hurried to the kitchen.

That morning Barnaby was to have an introduction to the accounting ledger. A local man clerked for his father but Henry insisted that it was vital for a merchant to understand his own business
and they duly traipsed over to the clerk’s cottage which was, fortuitously, right around the corner from the Boar.

Barnaby nodded and
mmm
d as the clerk explained each column and row, the concepts of profit and loss and cash flow, and the necessity of obtaining receipts for all moneys paid and goods
received. He tried to concentrate but his mind kept wandering to the brownish stain near the gutter of the ledger and wondering whether it was gravy or blood. The cut on his belly tingled and he
thought how much he would prefer to be outside on that sunny pew again, using his hands to make something solidly useful, rather than his brain, which seemed to him as if it must be made of cold
porridge. It was a mystery to him (and, he suspected, his parents) how a woman of his mother’s education and a man with his father’s natural quickness with figures could produce such a
dolt of a son.

It was a great relief when they retired to the Boar and spent a pleasant hour or two drinking beer and listening to the barmaids gossiping about a witch coven that had just been uncovered in
Stalyridge, a village a few miles away. The witches had all been taken to Grimston for trial and would certainly hang. Barnaby wondered if their names had been on the list in the forest.

The following week a merchant colleague of his father visited the house. Barnaby made sure he was breakfasted and out of the way well before the man’s arrival, in case he
was asked his opinion on anything business-related.

He sat on the back step sharpening his hunting knives while Juliet washed the linen and Naomi churned butter. Mid-morning Juliet announced she had forgotten to pick up some lace she needed to
repair one of Henry’s collars and would pop into the village.

For some reason, when she left the atmosphere in the back yard changed. Barnaby’s hands became clumsy and once or twice he nearly cut himself. For her part Naomi seemed to have forgotten
how to use the churn and kept jerking the staff too hard so that the lid clattered up and down, frightening the chickens.

Having chattered happily away to one another all morning the conversation dried up and all Barnaby’s attempts to restart it sounded, to his ear, either terminally dull or stupid. Once he
said that a cloud drifting past the church spire looked like a rabbit’s tail and then blushed furiously: all clouds looked like rabbits’ tails. Fortunately Naomi just said,
‘Hmm,’ as if she hadn’t really been listening.

It was a great relief to him, and perhaps also to Naomi by the way she leaped for the gate, when the Widow Moone came begging.

Soon the widow was enjoying a tankard of small beer and a large slice of pie at the kitchen table. The sun was now high in the sky and the way it flashed off the blades gave Barnaby a headache
so he put away his rabbit-skinning knife, half done, and followed them into the kitchen. After helping himself to the pie, and pouring himself some of the better beer from the pantry, he sat down
at the table opposite the widow. But watching, and listening to her eat, took away all his appetite.

She bolted the food like a starved dog, packing her mouth so full she could barely close it as she choked down huge hunks of pastry and meat.

‘Slow down, Mistress,’ Naomi said. ‘There is plenty more.’

Barnaby fixed her with a disapproving glance – it was
their
pie, after all – but she turned back to the sink without glancing at him.

After the pie Naomi offered the widow some rhubarb crumble with the fresh cream from her own father’s cows. Barnaby was about to protest about the cream, which he liked a great deal, when
Abel came in. Crossing the threshold he came to an abrupt halt and drew in his breath.

‘What is this creature doing in our house?’ he
demanded.

Naomi opened her mouth to reply but Barnaby spoke over her.

‘We are giving alms to the poor, brother,’ he said evenly. ‘As the Bible commends us to.’

Abel ignored him and turned on Naomi. ‘This woman is a witch!’ he hissed back. ‘Get her out!’

Naomi appeared not to hear him and stayed where she was, stirring ale over the fire.

Juliet entered through the back door, humming to herself. She stopped humming and visibly paled when she saw the Widow Moone at the table, slurping the thick yellow cream through her gappy
teeth. After rapidly crossing herself Juliet curtsied and greeted the widow politely.

The widow did not reply: all her attention was focused on the finger she was using to wipe every last smear of cream from the side of the empty bowl.

‘Juliet!’ Abel hissed. ‘Eject this woman from the house immediately!’

Juliet shook her head and breathed, ‘Not I, Master Abel, I would not provoke her ire for anything, and you may have me beaten for it if you wish.’

Abel looked ready to snatch up the rolling pin there and then and take her up on her suggestion but instead he gritted his teeth and walked right up to the table.

‘Depart, woman,’ he declared. ‘You have had your fill.’

The widow squinted up at him with one milky eye.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘’Tis the Nightingale Runt.’

Abel’s mouth open and closed. The widow leaned back in the chair.

‘Instead of turfing me onto the streets, Runt,’ she continued, making Abel wince, ‘ye should be falling at my feet in gratitude.’

‘Do not call him that, Mistress,’ Naomi said quietly, ‘Gather your belongings now: it’s time you were off.’

The widow said nothing, only fixed her eyes on Abel, who had turned pale.

‘Begone,’ he managed finally, but his thin voice was drowned out by the simmering of the ale.

The widow rose from the table. Her skirts were as threadbare as fallen leaves in winter: no more than a filigree of brown lace. From her shawl hung strange trinkets: the skull of a mouse, a
mermaid’s purse with its curled horns woven into the wool, a desiccated sea horse, a hank of yellow hair plaited with red ribbon.

As she advanced around the table, Abel shrank back but seemed unable to unstick his feet from the flagstones. She passed Barnaby’s chair and he was struck by foetid smells he
couldn’t recognise. His back felt wide and vulnerable as she moved behind him.

Juliet gasped as the widow took Abel by the shoulders and smiled into his fearful eyes.

‘G . . . get your f . . . filthy hands off me,’ he stuttered through stiff, white lips.

But the widow merely raised her hands to his cheeks and held his face.

‘These filthy hands,’ she said, her accent almost too strong to understand, ‘eased your poor twisted guts, stopped you shitting green slime, and prevented your father from
leaving you upon yon midden heap.’

Abel stared at her.

‘’Tis true,’ she chuckled. ‘He woulda sent you the way of t’other one were it not fer your poor ma, comin’ to me in a lather askin’ if I might find a
way to bring you some comfort afore all the villagers ganged together to throw you in the lake.

‘
“Not that Nightingale Runt screechin’ again!”
they’d shout when you passed, hollering your guts out. Yer father could barely stand to be in the same room as
you. He used to go out with that pretty brother of yours all day and only come back when you’d cried yourself out and your poor mother was dead with exhaustion from rockin’ and
nursin’ you.’

The bubbling of the ale grew louder and wisps of stream drifted from the pot to curl around the widow’s wild hair.

‘Lying bitch,’ Abel whispered.

‘Careful, Runt,’ she said quietly. ‘Or maybe I’ll see fit to bring back them there gut twisters.’

Her hand made a sharp movement up by his hairline. Abel cried out and jerked his head free.

‘There,’ she said, holding up to the light the single dark hair she had plucked from his scalp. ‘’Tis all I need.’

For a moment everyone was still and silent. Barnaby could see Abel’s heart throbbing beneath his thin shirt.

Then, with a laugh, she tossed the hair into the air. It danced for a moment in the updraughts from the fire, then drifted invisibly down onto the flagstones.

The widow turned back to Abel and grasped his shoulder once more, this time giving it a little shake.

‘Be not so grave, Master Nightingale,’ she said lightly. ‘I were only a’teasin’ you! Sally Moone’s always been your friend, boy. Whatever your father and them
others said, I knew there were nothin’ wronger about you than there were about the last one.’

With that she patted his cheek, gathered up her meagre belongings and walked back out into the summer’s afternoon. Halfway up the path a crow bobbed up to her and she spoke quietly to it
before letting herself out of the gate and vanishing behind the wall.

The sudden hiss and billow of smoke made all of them cry out. The ale had boiled dry.

The next morning his mother noticed that one of her bracelets was missing: a pretty thing made from seed pearls imported from the Orient. As soon as the loss was announced the
girls checked their pockets and Naomi was clearly relieved to find hers filled with nothing but crumbs.

A systematic search of the house began so Barnaby retired to his room to finish sharpening his rabbit-skinning knife. His father had more plans for him today but he had no intention of suffering
more stultifying humiliation and would go and hunt coneys.

The cry made him jump so that the sharpening stone
slipped and grazed his knuckle. He swore and stomped out
of his room, certain it had come from Abel.

Sure enough his brother was standing on the landing, his face a mask of shock. He was pointing through the door of Juliet and Naomi’s bedroom.

‘What is it, my love?’ his mother called anxiously up the stairs.

‘Your b . . . b . . . bracelet!’ Abel stuttered. ‘I have found it!’

Barnaby went to stand next to him so that he could see into the room. Naomi’s bed was nearest to the door. The bottom corner of her blanket had been lifted up and spread across the bed to
reveal the shadowy space beneath. The bracelet was just visible, tucked behind one of the legs.

Frances stepped out onto the landing and came to join them.

They all stared at the bracelet.

Barnaby’s eyes flicked to his brother, who was shaking his head wearily. Barnaby’s lip curled, but before he could speak his mother called down the stairs, ‘Naomi! Come up
here, please!’

The shock on the maid’s face when she arrived was only matched by the dawning horror of what the discovery meant. She had been dismissed for stealing before. Now all serving work would be
impossible. If Frances chose to report her to the magistrate she could end up in prison. Possibly even hanged. But after telling the boys to go downstairs, Frances ushered Naomi into the bedroom
and closed the door.

Barnaby lingered to listen.

The voices inside were low and even. No, Naomi was not unhappy with the work. Yes, she felt she was adequately paid – more than adequately. No, she had not taken Abel’s crucifix and
she had never seen the bracelet before this moment. No, she had no reason to believe Juliet felt any malice towards her: after a shaky start the two girls were now very friendly. Frances sighed.
‘I do believe you, Naomi,’ she said, ‘and I hope these two incidents are merely unfortunate coincidences. Please be more careful from now on: check your pockets and keep your room
tidy, and perhaps we can avoid any more unpleasantness.’

‘Yes, Madam,’ Naomi said miserably. ‘Thank you, Madam.’

Barnaby hopped lightly down the stairs and was sitting at the table when Naomi came down. Her cheeks were flushed
and she kept her head bent as she crossed the parlour into the kitchen. Abel’s glittering eyes followed her all the way.

‘Barnaby was listening at the door,’ he said as their mother descended.

The next few days passed without incident, but the following Sunday Abel developed stomach cramps after breakfast and was too ill to go to church. His mother fussed over him so
much they were late leaving the house, but they had not gone far before Barnaby doubled over and cried out in pain.

Juliet flew to his side. ‘What is it?’

‘It cannot be the oysters,’ Naomi said quickly. ‘They were alive until the very moment they went into the pie.’

‘Oysters in July are always a risk,’ Juliet said, looking at her with reproach. ‘I’ll take him home, Madam.’

‘No, no,’ Barnaby said, straightening up with a wince. ‘It’s not far. I can manage alone.’