The Tenderness of Wolves (41 page)

‘For God’s sake, I keep telling you I don’t know! But it’s gone, there’s no doubt about it.’

Low murmuring from Stewart.

‘Christ, I don’t care. You promised! You’ve got to help me!’

Some more muttering–something about ‘carelessness’.

I am in the corridor, tiptoeing closer, praying to the god of creaking floorboards.

‘It has to be one of them. Who else would do that? And there’s something else … Half Man–you’ve got to keep better control of him.’

The murmuring gets even lower. For some reason, this chills me more than anything. I don’t dare go closer. What does Nesbit mean by ‘half a man’? Is he insulting Stewart? Or someone else?

Heavy footsteps approach the door. I scuttle past, and make the dining room door safely before anyone comes out. From his chair by the fire, Moody looks up as I come in.

‘Mrs Ross. There is something I would like to discuss with you …’

‘Just a moment …’ I put the coffeepot down. Outside, all seems to be quiet. ‘I’m sorry Mr Moody, I seem to have forgotten something. Excuse me a moment.’

His face droops in the narrowing rectangle as I close the door.

I walk back down the empty corridor. Stewart’s door is shut. I knock on it.

‘What is it?’ Nesbit’s voice. Very bad-tempered.

‘Oh, it is I, Mrs Ross. May I come in?’

‘I am rather busy right now.’

I open the door anyway. Nesbit looks up from the desk–I have the impression that he had just been sprawled forward over it; his face is sweaty and pale, his hair more dishevelled
than ever. I feel a stirring of sympathy. I remember what it is like.

‘I said …’

‘I know, I am sorry. It is just that I feel terrible. I have broken the milk jug, I am so very sorry.’

Nesbit looks at me with a frown of mixed incomprehension and irritation. ‘For goodness sake, it really doesn’t matter. If you don’t mind …’

I take another step inside the room and close the door behind me. Nesbit flinches. There is a murderous look in his eye; a cornered animal.

‘Have you lost something? I know how vexing that can be. Perhaps I can help you?’

‘You? What are you talking about?’

But almost as soon as I closed the door, he got the idea. I have his full attention now.

‘Why would you assume I had lost anything?’

‘He keeps it for you, doesn’t he? He makes you beg.’

It is as though I have torn away a mask; his face is so white it is almost blue. His fists clench; he wants to strike me but he dares not.

‘Where is it? What have you done with it? Give it to me.’

‘I will give it back, if you tell me something.’

He frowns, but it gives him hope. He stands up and takes a step towards me, but doesn’t come too close.

‘Tell me who needs to be controlled. Who must not be spoken of?’

‘What?’

‘The first night, I heard you telling a woman not to speak of him. Who were you talking about? Just now, you told Stewart to keep better control of him. You said he was half a man. Who? Tell me who it is, and I will give it back.’

He deflates. His head turns this way and that. He half smiles. Something in him seems relieved.

‘Oh. We didn’t want Moody to find out. If it gets back
to the Company … One of our men has gone mad. It’s Nepapanees. Stewart is trying to protect him, because of his family …’

‘Nepapanees? You mean he isn’t dead?’

Nesbit shakes his head.

‘He lives on his own, like a wild man. He was all right until a few weeks ago, but now he’s quite crazy. Maybe dangerous. It would mean terrible shame for his family. Stewart thought it better if they believed him dead.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s all. Ha …! I mean, it’s terrible.’

‘And he’s been away … hasn’t he, recently?’

‘He comes and goes.’

‘Three weeks ago …’

‘I don’t know where he goes. He returned about ten days ago.’

I don’t know what else to say. Or ask. He looks furtively at me. ‘Can I have it?’

For I moment I consider smashing the bottle on the floor, because something has gone wrong and I can’t put my finger on it.

‘Please.’ He takes another step towards me.

I pull it out of my pocket and hold it out: the bottle I took from beneath his mattress yesterday while he was with Moody. He grabs it, checks it to see if I’ve stolen any–a reflex, momentary action–then turns away and drinks from it. A remnant of dignity wanting to preserve some privacy. It takes a while for it to work that way, but perhaps he has no other. He remains in that position, staring at the curtains.

‘And where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. Far from here, I hope.’

‘Is this true?’

‘Yes.’

I can just see the bottle in his hand. What would I not give to take it from him, and drink?

He doesn’t look at me again. His voice is low, already composed again. It brings me back to myself. I leave him standing by the desk, his back to me, but with shoulders squared and defiant.

I walk back to the dining room. Nepapanees a madman. Nepapanees Jammet’s insane killer? This is, it seems, what I wanted to find. But I feel no triumph. No satisfaction. I don’t know what to think, but I can’t keep from my mind the picture of Elizabeth Bird, sitting in the snow, deliberately scalding her flesh out of grief.

Stewart comes to her house when they get back. He looks concerned, like a father with a wayward child; ready to be indulgent, but only up to a point.

‘Elizabeth, I am so sorry.’

She nods. It is easier than speaking.

‘I have been trying to think what might have happened. You found the place?’

She nods again.

‘I am sure his spirit will be at peace, wherever he is.’

Now she doesn’t nod. Murdered men do not lie in peace.

‘If you were worried … Of course you can stay here. You need not worry about your future. You will always have a home here, as long as you want.’

She is aware, without looking straight at him, of his horrid blue eyes, like the glinting bodies of flies that feed on carrion. He is looking intently at her, trying to sap her strength, trying to bend her to his will. Well she won’t look at him, she won’t make it easy. She makes a sideways movement of her head, hoping he will go away.

‘I’ll leave you. If you want anything at all, please come and ask.’

She nods for the third time.

She thinks: in Hell.

Outside, she hears English voices: Stewart telling the moonias: ‘I’d leave her if I were you. She is still in shock.’

The voices start to move away. Elizabeth jumps up, from sheer contrariness, and goes outside.

‘Mr Moody … Please come in, if you wish.’

The two men turn, startled. Moody’s face is a question. Elizabeth, unsure why she rushed out like that, feels foolish.

Moody insists on sitting on the floor, like her, although his movements are a little stiff.

‘Are you all right? Is it better?’ Her gaze goes to his midriff, where she bandaged his wound four nights ago. A lifetime ago, when she was still a man’s wife. ‘It was a bad wound. Did someone try to kill you?’

‘No.’ He laughs. ‘Or, well, it was a moment of passion, deeply regretted. A long story. And I came to see how you were. If there is anything I can do to help …’

‘Thank you. You were kind, the other day.’

‘No …’

Elizabeth pours tea into enamel mugs. She tastes again the river water, bitter with treachery. Perhaps the deer was a sign: I am killed. And you have to find me.

If only she could pray for guidance, but she cannot go to the wooden church. That is Stewart’s church and she has an aversion to it. She never thought about her faith much, before. She assumed it was there under the surface, carrying on without conscious effort, the way her lungs breathed. Perhaps she neglected it too much. Now that she needs it, it seems to have withered away.

‘Do you pray?’

Moody looks at her in surprise. He considers his answer. He doesn’t just say what he thinks he should, but really seems to give it thought. She likes that, along with the way he doesn’t rush to fill every little silence.

‘Yes, I do. Not as often as I should. Not nearly.’

Just then, her little girl stumbles in through the front door. She has only just learnt to walk.

‘Amy, go back to Mary. I’m talking.’

The child gazes at Donald before toddling back outside.

‘I suppose we only …’ His voice trails off. ‘I mean to say, we turn to God only when in trouble or need, and I have never been in great trouble or need. Not yet, thank God.’

He smiles. He looks troubled now, puzzled. His words slower, as if he’s having difficulty ordering them. Something has happened.

‘I cannot.’

He looks at her, questioning.

‘Pray.’

‘Were you born a Christian?’

She smiles. ‘I was baptised by the missionaries when I was twenty.’

‘So you knew … other gods. Do you pray to them?’

‘I don’t know. I never really prayed, before. You are right. I never had the need.’

Moody puts his tea down, and folds his long wrists across his knees. ‘When I was a young boy, I became terribly lost, in the hills near my home. I was lost for a day and a night. I was afraid I was going to wander in the hills until I starved. I prayed then. I prayed that God would show me the way home.’

‘And?’

‘My father found me.’

‘So your prayers were answered.’

‘Yes. I suppose there are some prayers that cannot be answered.’

‘I would not pray for my husband to be brought back to life. I would only pray for justice.’

‘Justice?’ His eyes widen, fixed on her, as though she has a smut on her face. He seems fascinated, as if she’s suddenly said something of intense and vital interest.

Elizabeth puts down her cup. Neither of them speaks for a long minute, staring into the fire, which pops and hisses.

‘Amy. That’s a pretty name.’

‘She doesn’t understand why her father isn’t here.’

Moody sighs sharply, then smiles. ‘I am sorry. You must think me impertinent. I have just had the most amazing thought. Please tell me if I am wrong, but, I cannot keep it in.’ He laughs awkwardly, without taking his eyes off her. ‘I know the time is not right. But I can’t help thinking … Your daughter’s name. And your … I don’t know how to say this … Were you ever … were you once a Seton?’

Elizabeth stares into the flames, and a loud singing in her ears drowns the next thing he says. A surge of something like laughter threatens to choke her.

His mouth is moving; he is apologising, she thinks from a distance. Things she thought long forgotten are suddenly clear as glass. A father. A sister. A mother. No, not her sister. She never forgot her sister.

Slowly his voice becomes audible again. ‘Are you Amy Seton?’ Moody leans forward, flushed with excitement, with the thrill of an imminent and momentous discovery. ‘I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t want me to. I promise on my honour to keep it a secret. You have your life here, your children … I would just like to know.’

She doesn’t want to give him this pleasure. It is not his to take. She is not a bounty to be found and claimed.

‘Mr Moody, I don’t know what you mean. My name is Elizabeth Bird. My husband was deliberately killed. What am I to do? What are you going to do?’

‘Deliberately? What makes you say that?’

She sees him lurch, with difficulty, from one sort of excitement to another. It disagrees with him; he cannot take it. She seems to watch from a great distance as he gasps and clutches at his stomach, his face knotted up in anguish. His face is red. He should not have asked such a personal question. At length he recovers himself, panting like a dog.

‘What are you saying? That … Stewart killed your husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would he?’

‘I don’t know why.’

She stares at him. He must know something; she can see him calculating behind his eyes. Then he opens his mouth.

‘Excuse me for asking … Was your husband mad?’

Elizabeth stares, and feels very small and weak. She is crumbling, dissolving.

‘Did he say that?’ Tears are running down her face, whether from anger or grief, she doesn’t know, but suddenly her face is wet. ‘He was not mad. That is a lie. Ask anyone here. Half Man is the only mad one.’

‘Half Man? Who is Half Man?’

‘The one he doesn’t want us to talk about!’ Elizabeth gets up. It’s too much, all at once. She walks in circles round and round the fire. ‘If you’re so clever, if you can see so much, why don’t you open your eyes?’

‘If the weather allows, tomorrow I will leave.’

I stare at Parker with my mouth open. There is an immediate strong pressure around my chest, as when you suffer from croup; an unpleasant stricture that makes it impossible to draw a breath. My breathing has been short since he knocked on the door of my room and I let him in, wondering what he wanted.

‘You can’t! It isn’t finished.’

He stares back at me for an instant, challenged but not surprised. He must know me better than that now.

‘I think it is the only way to finish it.’

I did not know what I meant when I spoke, but now I do. We have all been relying on Parker to show us the way, from when we first met in Dove River until now. Moody too, however much he dislikes the fact.

‘How can you finish it?’

Parker pauses. His face seems different now: softer, less composed, or perhaps it is just the faintness of the lamplight.

‘In the morning I will somehow show Stewart the marker you gave me. Then he will know, if he did not already, that I was in with Jammet. I will tell him I am leaving, and if I am right …’ Here he pauses. ‘And if he is the man I think he is, he will not be able to resist following, in case I lead him to the furs.’

‘But if he had Jammet killed … he may kill you too.’

‘I will be ready.’

‘It’s too dangerous. You cannot go alone. He will not be alone–he will have this … Half Man with him.’

Parker shrugs. ‘You think I should take Moody?’ He smiles at the unlikelihood of this. ‘He needs to stay. He needs to see that Stewart follows me. Then he will know.’

‘But, but you are …’

I am trying to reorder the facts again. Proof … what proof could there be, other than Stewart confessing?