A Broken Vessel (21 page)

“Yes. As I was saying, Mr. Fiske had a lucid period Saturday morning and wanted very badly to see the post from his shop. I wasn’t surprised—he’s so devoted to that shop of his, he can never bear to be away from it long. In fact, he spends a deal more time there than he does at home. Anyway, he was in such a pother about the post that finally I said I would go and get it, if only to stop him making such a fuss.

“I was walking up Eastcheap toward the shop, when I saw Caleb again. He was moving away from the shop in the other direction, and disappeared round a corner before I could get a good look at him. But this time I was sure beyond all doubt that it was Caleb. I hurried into the shop and asked Mr. Fiske’s apprentice if a young man had just been in, but he said no. I expect Caleb came looking for Mr. Fiske and turned tail when he realized he wasn’t there.”

“Did he notice you, either that time or the previous time you saw him?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. He would have given some sign. The fear of God would have come upon him! He knows what to expect from me, if he ever falls into my hands.
If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out!
the Bible says.

“I went straight home and told Mr. Fiske I’d seen Caleb for the second time in a week. He had the brazenness to tell me I must be mistaken. Mistaken! ‘Do you think I’m a fool?’ I said. ‘Do you think I don’t know my own son?’

“He went on implying I was imagining things. He insisted he hadn’t seen Caleb since we came to London, and had no idea where he was. I’m sure he was lying. He’s protecting the boy, just as he did two years ago, when he put the constables off the scent long enough to let Caleb get away. He’s always denied it, but I knew better. The village knew better, too—that’s why we had to move away and come to London, where nobody would know us. Even if Mr. Fiske hadn’t been suspected of helping Caleb escape, how could we live with the disgrace of having a son like him?”

“I thought nothing was ever proved against him,” said Harcourt.

“Proof—that’s all humbug! A game lawyers play. Any fool could see he was guilty. A young, strong girl like that doesn’t drown in a shallow stream. Even a drivelling half-wit like her would know enough to get up and come out. Somebody held her down in the water—the surgeon who examined her body said so. And Caleb was the last person seen with her. What more proof could anyone need?

“Of course Mr. Fiske could never bear to think ill of him. Always saying what a meek boy he was, what a proper-behaved lad. Well, he seemed meek enough, but the devil was in him, in spite of all I could do to drive it out. Hardly a day went by that I didn’t give him a beating or a box on the ear or lock him in the coalcellar, and still I couldn’t make a good, God-fearing Christian out of him. Especially with Mr. Fiske standing about wringing his hands, feeling sorry for him. Taking his part.

“I don’t know what to do now, Mr. Harcourt. Ought I to go to the authorities and tell them I’ve seen Caleb in London? He was suspected of murder and—that other unspeakable crime—in our village. He would have been arrested if he hadn’t run away. Surely the London magistrates would want him captured and punished?”

“You mustn’t do anything hasty, Mrs. Fiske. Remember how little opportunity you had to observe him. The first time, you caught only the merest glimpse, and the second time he was walking away from you.”

“Yes, but I know it was Caleb!”

“And of course I believe you,” said Harcourt, with his beautiful, practiced earnestness. “But the authorities might not, especially since your husband says he knows nothing of Caleb’s being in London.”

“Well, of course he would lie for Caleb—he has before.”

“And that was very wrong of him, but he isn’t as strong in his principles as you are. The weak are too often apt to mistake condonation for compassion.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Harcourt! So you think I ought to say nothing about seeing Caleb?”

“I think you would be drawing scandal on yourself to no purpose. I know you would gladly sacrifice your own comfort and worldly position—even give up your only child to disgrace and punishment—for sake of what is right, but surely you ought not to jeopardize your good name and your husband’s success in his trade, to pursue what really amounts to a chimera. You have a responsibility to the many people working with us in our cause, who look upon you as an inspiration and an example.”

“I never thought of it in that light, sir. I daresay you’re right—I won’t tell anyone about Caleb for the present. But I’ll keep my eyes open. If Mr. Fiske is having aught to do with Caleb behind my back, I’ll know of it—and the law will know of it, too! I don’t want to pull an old house down on our heads, but Caleb is a grievous sinner. He’s flouted all I tried to teach him. He must be caught and punished!”

Harcourt murmured sympathetically. Sally realized he was trying to put an end to the interview, and thought she had better get out of her hiding-place and back to work. She opened the door of the matrons’ closet a crack. Finding the coast clear, she slipped out and hastened upstairs to the workroom opposite the chapel, where she was supposed to be helping a group of inmates hem sheets.

“Kind of you to join us,” said Wideawake Peg.

Sally curtsied saucily.

“You’re in high feather now,” Peg retorted, “but Himself’ll make you sing ‘oh be joyful’ on the other side of your mouth when he hears you’ve been missing from work above half an hour.”

Sally itched to grab hold of Peg’s black locks and yank for all she was worth. She was out of temper with her already. For the past two days, ever since their conversation near the boghouse, she had been keeping an eye on Peg, and prowling around the back gardens whenever she got the chance, in the hope of learning more about how Peg smuggled things into the refuge. But she had had no luck—Peg was too clever to leave clues behind.

She kept her temper. This was no time to get herself thrown out of the refuge. “All right,” she grumbled, “what’ll you take not to snitch?”

“A shilling, and cheap at the price, I’m thinking.”

“If I wants to get shaved, I’ll go to a barber’s.”

“Suit yourself,” Peg shrugged.

“Oh, all right!” Sally plunked herself down in a chair and took up a needle and thread. “I’d take her for a highway robber,” she whispered to Florrie, “only she ain’t half civil enough.”

Florrie giggled. “Where you been all this time?”

“I was meeting Wax-face in his office for a bit of threepenny upright.”

“Don’t make me laugh so! Peg’s looking. Really, now, where were you?”

What’s that to you? Sally wondered. “I was having a nap. I don’t get no sleep, on account of Red Jane snores fit to bring the house down.”

She bent over her sewing, discouraging further conversation. She wanted to think. Till today, she had never heard that the Fiskes had a son, much less that he was wanted for murder. Had he really drowned a girl in his village? And what was the other crime he stood accused of—the one Mrs. Fiske could not bring herself to name? Sally hoped he was not guilty. Mrs. Fiske’s account of his upbringing roused her to take his part. Her own father could be free with his hands, especially when he was boozing, but this cold-blooded beating of a boy, day in and day out, to save his soul, seemed much worse to her. All the same, the suspicions about him might be true. And if they were, his hanging about Fiske’s shop and the refuge was intriguing. Could he have had a hand in Mary’s death?

If anyone knew the truth about Caleb, surely it was Mr. Fiske. Mrs. Fiske had said he was nearly well—perhaps he would soon come to the refuge. If he did, Sally was determined to beard him. He had been fond of Mary—surely he would want to see justice done by her. And he would be a useful ally, if he could be trusted.

But that was a very great “if.” Suppose Caleb had had a hand in Mary’s death? According to Mrs. Fiske, there was nothing Fiske would not do to protect his son. For that matter, how could Sally be sure Fiske had not killed Mary himself? His affection for her might have been a blind—or the mask for a secret lust that had driven him to violence. He had been at the refuge on the day Mary died and could have poisoned the bottle of cordial. Next morning, when he came to examine her body, he could have brought an identical bottle of cordial and switched it for the poisoned one. When he was delirious, he had moaned,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry
. Was that a confession of guilt?

She did not know, and had no means of finding out till she could talk to Fiske. But while she waited for a chance to waylay him, there was something else she could do: she could keep an eye out for Caleb. He had been seen near the refuge once before—why shouldn’t he come back? Of course, it would not be easy to pick him out. Young men often lingered about the refuge, curious to get a look at the inmates. How could she tell if one of them was Caleb? Besides, she was so busy all day, she had little time to look out the windows. It was hard enough to appear at a front window long enough to make her noon signal. At night, though, she might be able to keep watch, at least for an hour or two. There was little chance that anything would come of it. But what did she have to lose?

The morning after Dipper’s conversation with Birkett, Julian sent Avondale a note saying that he had heard he was selling his horse Delilah. If so, would he be good enough to show her to him? Avondale wrote back promptly, offering to take him to see the horse tomorrow.

On Wednesday, the two young men went to the mews where Delilah was stabled. She was a beautiful bay. Julian admired but could not afford her; it cost him more than enough to feed and stable the horse he already had. But he walked around her like a serious buyer, asking the appropriate questions.

“She’s a fine bit of blood,” said Avondale. “I know there was never a fellow selling a horse who didn’t say so, but you can see it to look at her.”

“You seem in two minds about parting with her.”

“No choice! I’m deuced hard-up.”

“Indeed?” Julian lifted his brows. To express sympathy would be out of place; young men of fashion did not condole with each other about a misfortune so widespread and uninteresting as being in debt. “That’s rather an achievement. Anyone can run aground during the season, but it takes a singular imagination to find anything worth ruining oneself for at this time of year.”

Avondale laughed, but wincing a little, as though the movement opened a wound. “There’s no imagination involved, I’m afraid. It’s just the usual thing—debts of honour, tailors, wine merchants. Well, what do you say about Delilah?”

“I’ll have to think it over.”

“I’ll give you a day or two, but after that I’ll have to start showing her to other buyers. You understand.”

“Of course.”

They came out of the stables, blinking at the sunlight, and taking deep draughts of fresh air. “I heard the most curious rumour the other day,” Julian remarked.

“What?” Avondale looked at him quickly.

“Someone told me your father was hand in glove with a clergyman, and had taken to rounding up Drury Lane vestals for reformation.”

“Oh, you mean the What-do-you-call-it Society. Yes, that’s rather a lark, isn’t it? You mustn’t think the old man’s got religious in his dotage. He’s just amusing himself. He says that, after doing so much in his youth to support those girls in their chosen calling, he has a mind to rescue some of them, if only to make room for new blood.”

Julian regarded him thoughtfully. Avondale was leaning his hand against a post, his dark blue eyes alight with amusement. There was an easy grace about him—the confidence of one who knew his own beauty, and used it as an animal uses its strength or speed, to gain an advantage. Suspicions glanced off his charm, like arrows off armour. If the mention of the Reclamation Society disturbed him, he gave no sign.

“I thought I’d stop at a coffee-house,” said Julian, “if you care to come.”

“Can’t, I’m afraid. I’m dining at Caroline’s, and I’ve got to make myself presentable. You wouldn’t understand: you can come out of a stable looking as if you’d spent the day in the bow-window at White’s, but the rest of us have to prink to get the same effect. Speaking of Caroline, what the plague have you done to her? She’s been talking about you for two days.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You ought to fly the country.”

“Lady Gayheart is a very charming woman. Her brother may not be in the best position to appreciate that.”

“Wait till you know her better. She’s monstrous vain, and selfish into the bargain. If she weren’t such a stunner, no one would touch her with a pair of tongs. Well, let me know when you’ve made a decision about Delilah. If you’ve got any other questions, I’ll be glad to answer them.”