The Shadowcutter (11 page)

“That is nonsense, Vernon, and you know it. Justice will not be served if you abandon this business now. And I don’t suppose your conscience would allow you to do that anyway.”

“Naturally I would like to take the matter to the end. And I will do all I can, of course, but it may be difficult.”

“It strikes me,” said Lord Rothborough, “that is the only thing we can do, in the circumstances. Now if this was some lesser matter, I would say, yes, step back, let them do it, watch them flounder and fail, then do the job yourself and show how much better equipped you are for the task. If one was pragmatic, that would be a course open to one. And it would achieve a great end – which is to demonstrate that the county force is in desperate need of reform, or ought perhaps be absorbed into the superior urban force. However this is the wilful murder of a young woman, and time is of the essence. We cannot afford to let others fail.”

“Do you think that desirable, ultimately?” Giles said, taking in the implications of his speech. “That the Northminster force take over the county force?”

“Yes, very much so, and I think you do too.”

“It isn’t something I had much considered, to tell you the truth.”

“Have you not?” said Lord Rothborough, as if surprised. “You certainly ought to. Put it on your agenda, Major Vernon! And consider yourself for the post of its future chief! This is not a time for false modesty. Action is required.”

Giles went up to his room and with the Duke on the writing table, he sat and tried to write his notes and his letters. But his mind felt clouded.

He no longer felt like the great organiser, burning with reforming, administrative zeal, concerned with public order and the creation of a new institution. His mind had begun to travel down different paths. He had discovered the fascinating puzzles made by human wickedness. He was beginning to learn the strange and secret language of the deviant and the criminal, and to imagine, by extrapolation, who these people were, why they acted as they did.

Why had an unknown person smashed that poor girl’s head against the walls of the cave? He could picture the crime in mind, with devastating clarity, but there were still a thousand unanswered questions to which he longed to find the answers. It was not just a matter of justice and doing the best for a dead woman. It was more than that. It gave him a shameful but visceral thrill to know that he had it in his power to apparently break the unbreakable code. Nothing, he realised, had ever filled him with such satisfaction as the pursuit of murderers.

He sat back in his chair, a little astonished at the conclusion to which he had come. To have found, at the age of forty, what he had been put on the earth to do. He was not to be a soldier, nor an administrator, but this strange beast: a man who hunted murderers.

Chapter Nine

Felix was relieved to find Martinez’s condition had not significantly degraded since his visit the previous evening. He had been much cheered by a long visit from Mr Bryce, who was still at his bedside when Felix arrived.

“Managed to persuade him that rest was the best thing for him, though it was a struggle,” Bryce said, speaking to Felix alone on the landing before he left. “He is full of notions, doesn’t seem to see what a state he is in. I suppose for a young man it’s hard to accept that this might be...” he shrugged. “Poor gent!”

“If he is careful, he might prolong his life,” Felix said. “But it is a gamble, even in the best circumstances, and these are not. If he were at home and with his family around him, the prognosis might be slightly more cheerful.”

“He shall have to make do with us,” said Bryce, “and Major Vernon.”

“Just us,” said Felix. “Major Vernon has been called away on business.”

“That is a pity,” he said. “I had better get home. I shall come back this evening. Mrs Bryce has been making baked custard for him. Give him a bit of strength, maybe?”

“A good idea,” said Felix.

When Bryce had gone, Felix sent the nurse away and made a thorough examination of Martinez.

“I am glad you are managing to rest better. Is there anything else you need to make you more comfortable?”

Martinez managed a wan smile and shook his head.

“I am more than comfortable –”

Perhaps because he is used to the austerities of a friar’s cell, Felix thought.

“It is a pity there is no pretty view from this window,” said Felix. “Might you think of moving lodgings? It would do you good.”

“I have pretty views in my head,” Martinez said. “When I close my eyes, I see the gardens of my mother’s house. That will do for me. And this place is secret, which is...”

“Secret?”

“I need to be away from prying eyes, from those people who –” He sighed. “You are wondering why I am here, I am sure?”

“Yes, but you must not speak if it tires you,” Felix said noting the struggle in his tone.

“I want to speak of it. I must. Since it is clear to me that my time is limited. God and his angels are calling me, that is true, is it not?”

“Your condition is grave, but with care, anything is possible. Such cases, when the individual has the determination to go on, often defy expectations.”

“But they still die?”

Felix swallowed hard and said, “Yes, I regret so.”

“Do not trouble yourself, dear sir, for this is a truth I have known a long time. I have carried this burden of my infirmity and its meaning with me for some time. This is why I am here, to see to something important until it is too late. And it is growing late for me, which is why I must speak.” His voice was a faint whisper now and so Felix leaned forward to hear him better. As he did, Martinez took his hand and pulled it against his chest. He stared at Felix with his glassy, sunken eyes, and said, “I pray to sweet Jesus, God the Father and the Holy Spirit that all my sins will be forgiven me! That I will be spared the eternal torments of hell-fire.”

Felix felt that these statements implied that some sort of confession was ahead and that it was not for him to hear it. He was not a priest, he could offer no consoling words, no benediction nor absolution.

“I have done many foolish things, many wicked things and I will pay my dues for them in purgatory. But then, I do believe, one day, I shall be admitted to the sight of the angels and of Our Lord. But for now, I must contemplate my last worldly actions, and I cannot die until justice is done. There is a great wrong to be righted. I would have acted long ago had not my timidity and this wretched body of mine prevented it. It was true that for a long while the truth was not clear, and when it was made known to me I scarcely believed it, but it is the truth and it must at all costs be made known.”

His voice was fading fast, and his breathing was exhibiting a dangerous rattle. Felix was worried if he spoke any more he would bring on a spasm.

“Don’t speak any more,” he said. “Find a little more strength before you go on.”

Felix made him rest back on the pillows for a while, and sat there, but it was no good. His breathing grew agitated and soon he was in the grip of a violent spasm. The basin was soon stained with blood and the man was in clear torment which Felix could do little to relieve. It only had to be endured.

When finally, he was free of the spasm, his mouth began to form words.

“It must wait, sir, it must wait.”

Martinez, who really had no choice, acquiesced, and allowed himself to be directed. Felix wiped him down with a wet rag, for he was sticky with fever, and he fell into a languid exhausted state which might soon lead to sleep. Felix mixed up a little brandy and opium in a wine glass and was about to give him a spoonful or two to speed the process, when Martinez pushed his hand away.

“Dona Blanca,” he said, in the faintest whisper. “Dona Blanca. Tell her that...” Then he began coughing again, and this time so violently that there was no controlling it.

Within moments it was clear enough this was more than spasm. He was in the grip of a life-threatening cardiac attack, of such intensity that his already weakened frame had no power to resist it. In less than a minute he was insensible in Felix’s arms – he had reached out to support and assist him, but it was in vain. He checked frantically for any signs of life, but the pulse was gone, the heartbeat too.

His shirt soaked through with the man’s blood, Felix laid him back on the bed, and checked again for life signs. The man was dead. There was no doubt about it.

He staggered up from the bed and looked down at the wretched body on the bed, his nightshirt soiled, his face stained with blood and vomit.

No prayers, no priest – for such a man it was surely a horrible death, to go unshriven to the grave. Felix cleaned his face again, closed his eyes, straightened his limbs and then pulled the sheet over him. He felt sick and miserable. He had failed to help him. It was a wretched end.

He took the rosary beads and cross from the table by the bed and laid them on Martinez’s chest, feeling woefully ignorant of the correct forms in such a case.

He went to the window and opened it as wide as he could, thinking of an old story about allowing the souls of the dead to escape. Outside the late afternoon air was no cooler than the stuffy air of the room and there was no breeze to carry Martinez’s soul anywhere. The man was trapped there forever, in his body which no longer worked, in a dirty attic, with his great secret only half-told to someone who was not capable of understanding it. He looked back and expected to see him standing there in his nightshirt, a new-made ghost, whispering at him for ever more: “Dona Blanca. Dona Blanca...”

-0-

He did not get back to the Vernons’ lodgings for another two hours. Fortunately Mr Bryce returned promptly, as he had promised, with the egg custard. Being a local man, he was able to direct Felix to a reputable undertaker and found a woman to lay out Martinez’s body. The sullen landlady became slightly less sullen, and allowed a small private dining parlour on the ground floor to be used for the body to rest until the burial. Felix and Bryce carried Martinez down between them, so that he could be laid out. The woman who had come to do the job was a homely-looking, tender creature, younger than the women who usually practised that trade. She explained she had taken over from her mother who was too old for it now. Felix felt a some relief in leaving him with her – her kindness was palpable.

He walked back smoking a cheroot, which he reluctantly threw away before he went into the house. Mrs Vernon shared her husband’s prejudice against them.

Sukey Connolly came upstairs from the basement at the sound of the door.

“How is Mrs Vernon?”

“Resting. We went for a long walk and this heat tired her out. What happened to you?” she said, taking in his disordered appearance.

“My Spaniard died.”

“Oh heavens,” she said, and crossed herself. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. There was a part of him that would have thrown his arms about Sukey and wept on her shoulder. There was something about her, so straightforward and ridiculously wise, that he was tempted. “I must get clean.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you,” he said, heading towards the stairs.

“Go up quietly,” she said. “You don’t want to disturb her.”

It was a good point. The stairs were constructed badly and it was all too easy to hear anyone going up or down them. So he went as quietly as he could and into his little room which lay on the half-landing between the first and second storey. Major and Mrs Vernons’ rooms were on the next flight up. He closed his door gently and sat down on the bed to take off his riding boots. As he did so, he noticed another posy of flowers had been put in the room, this time in a small jug on the mantel. They were pale pink wild roses, already drooping miserably in their confinement, dying a slow death. From Mrs Vernon, he supposed, with a sigh. He would ask Sukey to take them away when she came in with the fresh water.

There was already some water in the jug on the washstand, at least enough to begin with, and so he began to strip off his clothes.

“Not yet, Sukey, I’m not decent...” he said, now quite naked, but the door continued to open. He turned and saw Mrs Vernon, dressed only in her shift, was standing with her back against the door. She had slipped in like a cat.

He grabbed the shirt which he had just thrown to the ground and held it against him, in all its bloody magnificence. It was the only thing covering him.

“Oh my God, are you hurt?” she said, seeing the blood. “What happened?” She took a step towards him, and he retreated, protecting his nakedness with the shirt.

“N... nothing…” he stuttered. He felt as if every inch of his skin had turned crimson.

“What happened?” she said again, apparently immune to the fact he stood there naked. It was the blood on his shirt that transfixed her. “You’ve been away so long. Please tell me you are not hurt.”

“No,” he said, and tried to shoo her towards the door with one hand. But she stood there and then began to look him over. It might have only been for a second or two, but it felt like a burning, eternity of mortification and confusion, to have her look at him like that, so innocent and yearning, and yet at the same time so dangerous. And as she looked, he could not help but notice her bare feet and legs, her tumbling, crinkled gold hair and the line of her form beneath her thin shift. Since she had begun to eat again, she had become less alarmingly angular, and there was healthy colour in her cheeks again.

He felt the desire in her long gaze and it disturbed him, not least because he felt the compliment in it, and he felt, despite everything, the natural response to it. She was a beautiful, vulnerable creature and she admired him. It was hard for a man to deal with that decently.

He wanted his dressing gown but it was hanging on the hook on the door behind her, and the room was too narrow for him to reach for it without tangling with her, which would have been fatal. So he continued to stand with his blood-stained shirt as his only defence against indecency

“I really think you should leave, now!” he said. He was aware that his voice sounded hoarse and shrill with anxiety.