The Raven's Seal: A Historical Mystery

A   T O P   F I V E   M Y S T E R Y

Published by Top Five Books, LLC

521 Home Avenue, Oak Park, Illinois 60304

www.topfivebooks.com

Copyright © 2012 by Andrei Baltakmens

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews—without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

eISBN: 978-0-9852787-6-2

Cover design by Megan Moulden

Book design by Top Five Books

Cover image courtesy of Getty Images

Illustration of Airenchester by Jeffery Mathison

With cities, it is as with dreams: everything imaginable can be dreamed, but even the most unexpected dream is a rebus that conceals a desire or, its reverse, a fear. Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else.

—Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

Contents

Book the First: Setting Snares

I. The Quality of Airenchester

II. A Call and a Challenge

III. A Play of Blades

IV. Captain Grimsborough Reports

V. Courtroom Scenes

Book the Second: The Eminence of the Bellstrom Gaol

VI. A New Mode of Society

VII. Refreshing Company

VIII. Introductions and Reports

IX. Humble Requests

X. Mr. Palliser’s Shadow

XI. Under the Sign of the Black Claw

Book the Third: Jackals and Lions

XII. Superior Lodgings

XIII. Means and Contrivances

XIV. Mister Ravenscraigh’s Interest

XV. Hours and Days

XVI. Detecting the Scent

XVII. On the Watch

XVIII. Closing In

XIX. Brought Down

XX. The Case Reversed

Book the Fourth: The Raven’s Seal

XXI. A Prison Fever

XXII. The Rogues’ Tribunal

XXIII. The Captain’s Sabre Goes to Work

XXIV. Execution

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

A Hangman for Ghosts Excerpt

More from Top Five Books

BOOK THE FIRST

SETTING SNARES

CHAPTER I.

The Quality of Airenchester.

THE OLD BELLSTROM GAOL crouched above the fine city of Airenchester like a black spider on a heap of spoils. It presided over The Steps, a ramshackle pile of cramped yards and tenements teeming about rambling stairs, and glared across the River Pentlow towards Battens Hill, where the sombre courts and city halls stood. From Cracksheart Hill, the Bellstrom loomed on every prospect and was glimpsed at the end of every lane.

Yet one night (a very dark night, and fiercely cold) at the failing end of 1775, the Bellstrom Gaol was no more than a dim line on the hill, pierced by the glow of banked fires behind its barred windows and one gleam of candlelight in the top chamber of its highest tower.

Lady Stepney held a great entertainment at her place in town. Brilliant flambeaux flared on the cobbled drive. A row of carriages wound along the street, and the drivers sat, hunched on their high seats with their coat collars turned up, and took what cheer they could from the music and loud voices heard at the windows. The air was cold and hard and clear, like the fine lead crystal laid on the tables. Darkness gathered behind the riverside warehouses and about The Steps, but the quality of Airenchester moved in a finer medium, in the brilliance of countless flames.

Mayor Shorter attended, among many worthies. He stood before a snapping fire and gallantly took the hand of any man passing. Here were the masters of Airenchester: merchants, bankers, and magistrates, its grand families in cheerful concord, takers of punch and conversation. The quality talked and fanned themselves, joined the quadrille or sat at cards, chattering and laughing, passing, curtseying, and bowing. Yet it became a little hard to catch one’s breath in the press and stir of the crowd, and the hot flames of the candles were reflected in acres of plate silver, facets of crystal, gilded mirrors, brilliant threads on coats and gowns, and bright eyes. No one noticed that a little bird had slipped inside and become mazed among the chandeliers and painted arches, and desperately fluttered against a closed window.

Mr. Thaddeus Grainger might have seen the sparrow, if he had raised his eyes one more time, as if casting up among the heavens for some fantastic engine that would pluck him from the company. He stood in a corner, behind a knot of animation and laughter in which he took no part. Mr. Grainger was a young gentleman of a good height, well-featured, and dark. Though his coat and collar were a touch plain, he was finely dressed. He glanced up again, weary of what he found below. Indeed, there was something careless in his stance and expression. He had an excellent name (among the quality of Airenchester), a commendable fortune in property, scant ambition, a great deal of idleness, and perhaps too fine a sense of his failings and too much pride for his improvement.

He shrugged and stepped forward, but before he had gone far, Lady Stepney was before him.

You are not escaping! she exclaimed and rapped him with dire playfulness on the chest.

Should I flee such fair captivity? he asked, smiling lazily.

It was hard to make out much of Lady Stepney, besides an impression of lace and silky stuff, perfume and coiled hair (not much of it her own), dazzling jewels, and some small stretches of whitened flesh.

You won’t charm me, young Grainger. Her fan fell again, as Lady Stepney made a cut that would gratify a fencing master. You must dance again with Miss Pears. I foretell a fine match there, a prosperous match. And I think I have yet to see you pass a civil word with anyone else.

They have passed enough words with me, he retorted. Throwsbury bores me with corn and some business concerning drainage, Grantham with hunting and dogs, and I have barely avoided Tinsdowne and a lecture on divinity.

You are a wicked man, charged Lady Stepney.

I plead innocence, he cried, with a bow.

Nonsense. I won’t hear you. Take another glass at least and join Mrs. Marshall. She is desperate for a partner at piquet.

Mrs. Marshall can find an abler opponent than me.

The fan recoiled, and Grainger concealed a wince, but the mist of finery that constituted Lady Stepney did not relent.

Mr. Grainger, when you get a wife, she will correct your negligent ways. We shall make you respectable.

You set this speculative wife a terrible task.

Ghastly man! Come in and speak to Miss Pears. She will be inconsolable if you pay her no more attention.

My regrets. It is very close. Some cool air will restore me.

The fan made a sword-cut again and lighted on his shoulder. Grainger inclined his head minutely. Young Massingham will attend this evening, confided Lady Stepney. He presents rather well. His mother lately remarried a baron, you know. I hear he has an eye for Miss Pears.

He is no rival of mine, said Grainger coldly.

Fie! You wear it too lightly.

I think you are as keen to make scandals as matches, my lady.

The fan twirled and touched him on the chin. Horrid man. You don’t know me at all. I shall let you go and think of you not one bit more.

And with an airy turn and a lifting of the heels, Lady Stepney, gown, fan, jewels, and all, departed, leaving Thaddeus Grainger with his hand on his chin. For a moment he held this musing stance, and then, with a shake of his head, he too took his leave.

THADDEUS GRAINGER descended the stairs, hat and cloak in hand. Gusts of heat and music rolled down from the open doors, but the night air cooled him, and his eyes cleared. Another party, newly arrived, four or five gentlemen, came up with heavy footfalls and loud talk.

Mr. Grainger paused to let them pass and sketched a bow, a trifle unsteadily.

The first to approach him was Piers Massingham. He was a year or two younger than Grainger. Handsome, though with a narrow cast of features, he was of the same idle order: apt to his pleasure but acutely conscious of his position. He crossed before Grainger, who was forced to check his motion on the stairs.

Pray, do not let me detain you, said Massingham.

Rest assured, I would by no means tarry on your account.

You are in haste, noted Massingham, standing easily and toying with his gloves.

Indeed, no, rejoined Grainger, smiling thinly without a trace of pleasure.

Mr. Grainger, said Massingham loudly, is set on an assignation, and we have thoughtlessly delayed him.

A general snigger erupted from the three behind him.

Not at all. I give you good night.

Of course. Kempe, don’t dither. Step aside and let Grainger pass.

And so the one went down and the many came up; the one down into the sharp, still night, to pass the rows of carriages and along the road, the many up into the whirl and merriment, the rousing music and the staring lights.

MR. GRAINGER continued on foot, descending from Haught into Turling and the low town. Many carriages rolled abroad, as the best of Airenchester took their pleasure, for Lady Stepney’s was not the only place to call tonight. Link-boys scuttled through the streets with their lanterns to light the way for well-dressed gentlemen. Grainger’s mood improved as he got in among the scrawl of streets and dim courts clustered in genteel chaos nigh on the river and in the daylight shadow of the Cathedral spire.

He came into a small, dark square, where old-fashioned houses with steep roofs and carved gables leaned against each other. All was quiet. He searched about by the thin light of the half-moon and gathered up a handful of fragments of a shattered cobblestone. He stared up, counting audibly under his breath, until he found the one high window he sought. Then he took a stone in hand and lofted it against the glass.

The stone struck the pane and rattled away, but the noise did not disturb the repose of the square. Grainger selected another shard heavier than before, aimed, and loosed it at the same target.

He was testing a third missile when the little window opened a fraction.

Who’s that? cried a voice.

William, are you asleep?

Not a bit. I happen to be standing at my window, conversing with a madman.

Grainger hurled another pebble, which clattered against the wall. The window was thrown open, and the head of Mr. William Quillby appeared, almost filling the frame. Quillby was near on Grainger’s age, a clergyman’s son encumbered by education and no fortune. He was, by profession, a scribbler and taker of notes, and to this end a journalist who followed society and the courts. On occasion he intervened sensibly in fractious coffeehouse debates, in consequence of which he was known to quietly entertain Views not always to the credit of authority, and on one side or another of the latest cause he and Grainger had first marked their acquaintance. His good humour well matched Mr. Grainger’s restless moods. William had a mass of brown hair, perpetually disordered and now tousled by sleep; a broad, honest face; and guileless brown eyes. He wore his nightshirt.

For God’s sake, stop that! he hissed.

Get up, William!

Another flying stone clipped the frame.

I am up! You’ll wake the whole house! Mr. Quillby lodged in the compact top-room of a respectable (if limited) establishment.

What?

I said you’ll wake the whole—no more stones, if you please!

I just wanted to see if you were awake.

Mr. Quillby returned to the window and said resignedly: Evidently I am. Evidently, I have no better way to spend my evenings but to wait on lunatics flinging masonry about.

Excellent fellow! For the first time this night, his coolness and airy manner were discarded, and Grainger grinned up at the open window. Let’s go out.

You have been out. To Lady Stepney’s, I assume.

I have been stifled and overheated; I have been condescended to; I have been courted and expected to pay court, in the name of good form; in short, I have been fatally bored—but I have not been out.

Are you drunk? asked Quillby.

No, no. Not in the least. I am merely a little short of the high mark of sobriety.

What time is it? Mr. Quillby did not soften his suspicions.

It is but midnight.

I thought it rang two.

So it did. William, come down, I implore you. You are the only worthy fellow in this town. The only fellow who is not a slave to good form.

I must turn in some work tomorrow. I have in mind a piece pointing out the most grievous abuses of the clothmakers—

Tomorrow, good! Work on it tomorrow. Admirable. Come down to the Saracen and tell me all.

I was asleep, returned Mr. Quillby, becoming querulous.

A good glass of Rhenish will settle you for writing, declared Mr. Grainger. The last chip in his hand sprang at the casement.

If you only stop that, I shall be down presently, said Mr. Quillby, resigned.

William, you are the best of friends, said Grainger, clasping his empty hands behind his back.

CLUSTERED BELOW the sheer face of Cracksheart Hill, The Steps lay within sight of the Bellstrom Gaol. There was no straight path from The Steps to the gaol, though it seemed to command everything below, for at the highest point of that district were nothing but hard cliffs and weathered reaches of stony wall, reaching to the base of the castle.

A prisoner forlorn in the lowest cells might stare out through hard bars onto the top of The Steps and behold a tumbling, toppling pile of steep little roofs, missing and broken tiles and slates, crooked, narrow chimneys set all askew, and the winding, constricted stairs and pinched lanes that made up that quarter. But the eye could not see the noisome drains and fetid puddles, nor apprehend the stench of rags or smouldering coal fires, or the foul air of close human habitation. A mass of rickety hovels, slumping walls, makeshift doors, cracked and winding stairs leading one to another in no order, uneven yards, and scavenged lumber was The Steps.

Closer to the river than the gaol, at the top of a coiling set of crumbling stairs, lay Porlock Yard, a frozen, muddy square, four slumping walls of blind windows and descending moss. In one corner, close to the ground, stood a door somewhat stronger than most, and behind it a dark lodging-room. Not entirely dark: in a little stove the coals were burning down to feathers of ash, and their glimmerings fell upon the grate. On a chair by an uneven table sat the sturdy figure of a woman, dozing, with a bundle in her lap that could only be a small child wrapped against the chill. Underneath the table, indistinctly seen, were three or four small heaps of clothes and blankets, twitching and shifting occasionally, and in the farthest corner of the room, on a low bed, was another figure beneath a heap of covers.

A far bell chimed. There was little silence to be had in Porlock Yard. At all hours there could be heard heavy footfalls on the rattling stairs, the shuffle of bodies stretched on those same stairs, the groan of timbers, the bellows of men and the shrieks of women, and the cries of children. The little room was uneasy with breathing. Another woman, more slender than the first, nodded and dozed on a three-legged stool by the stove. Every movement in the yard drew her out of rest.

The person on the low wooden bed coughed, stirred, muttered, coughed again, and turned all around. A dark head rose.

Cassie, is he back yet?

The younger woman drowsing on the stool shook herself. No, Father.

Damn the boy. Where’s he gone?

I don’t know, Father.

I think you do.

The girl did not reply. The bed creaked as the man shifted.

Fetch a light, child.

The girl rose, as softly as she could, and rummaged along a thin mantelpiece for a rushlight. She took it to the stove, leaning forward to open the grate. For a moment, the faint orange glow touched her face. It was a youthful face, though it had known want, weariness, and fear. The grey eyes were bright and clear; the line of brow and cheek strong, though haunted now by thought. From under the shawl some strands of the lightest brown hair escaped, which caught, by the dying embers, stray touches of red and gold.

She fired the wick from the ashes and brought it back to the table. The heavy figure in the deep chair was roused, raised herself, and the child in her lap mouthed a complaint. The woman’s face was thickened by age and veined and coarsened by labour and harsh wear. It had been handsome once, and the hair, with more red in it than her daughter’s, was threaded with strands of white.

What is it? said the woman. Is he back?

Not back, replied her daughter.

The stronger glow revealed also the head of her father, propped on one hand and an elbow, above a mass of worn covers and clean rags. The head was shaggy, seamed, and weathered. Along one side gleamed an old scar, got from a bayonet.

You know where he’s gone. The boy tells you everything, accused Silas Redruth.

I’m sure I don’t.

The two dark eyes narrowed on her. What a thing it is, to be an honest man with two defiant children! If you don’t know, you guess.

Leave the girl be! soothed Meg Redruth, hushing the child, who had grown restive in her grasp.

Mark my words: she knows!

The girl sat again and lowered her head. It may be he is at the Saracen. He thought to go there earlier and—

The Saracen! crowed her father. Bad company. Bad company. Plots and schemes are made at the Saracen. Half the evil in this city, mark you. What sort of thing is it for an honest man’s son to be at the Saracen? What time is it?

It’s late, Father.

Fetch him back.

Father—

Silas!

The whole mass, man and covers, rose, and one foot only touched the ground, showing an absence from the knee where the other should be.

Are you too proud, girl, to obey your father? Should I go myself? Should a father wait upon his own son to say, ‘By-your-leave,’ and, ‘An-it-should-please-you,’ to have his own boy back home at a respectable hour? Fetch him back, I say. Will I have two disobedient children?

No, Father.

Fetch him back. Here, where’s my boot, my staff?

Silas. My girl is a decent girl. Think on the hour, you old fool.

’Tis the hour when an honest man expects his kin to be under his roof.

The children under the table were alerted and called sleepily to their mother, who continued hushing the little one on her knee and had no more chance to argue.

The little lodging broke into a tumult of voices and complaint.

The girl stood. She was still dressed, for the room remained dull and cold even a few steps from the smouldering stove.

I will go, she said. Do not stir yourselves more.

Cassie waited until the old man had reclined on the bed, picking at the blankets and arranging them around his throat. The other children had to be quieted and persuaded to sleep again. Then she bent over the rushlight and extinguished its meagre flame. She tugged her mother’s shawl closer over the seated woman and wrapped it tightly about the baby as well, and then she went to the door, undid the bolts, and pulled it wide. For a moment the frost, the night, and the cold colour of the few scattered stars streamed in at the doorway. She peered into the uneasy silence of Porlock Yard.

Bring him quick, mind. Don’t linger! urged Mrs. Redruth in a low whisper.

You are a good girl, Cassie, said her father, relenting.

The girl shivered, drew her shawl tighter over her head, and stepped out into the fast wasting night.

THE SARACEN’S SHIELD, under the ferocious sign of a moon-shield and scimitar, balanced on the edge of the Pentlow in Calderhithe, and seemed to have a mind to get into the river altogether, as though to wash off the taint of its patrons, extending a set of rooms over green and rickety pilings. Here, the quality of Airenchester paused to carouse with the lower orders, though it is hard to say who gained the greater profit thereby.

The long tables were full, coins rattled, and tankards struck the benches; and in the corners, certain figures bent to their business and none came near. Mr. Grainger and Mr. Quillby had a settle by the fire and were pretty pleased with themselves at this discovery.

You left the Stepneys’ ball early, observed Quillby.

It was becoming intolerable, said Grainger. All flirting and convention. I would be free of that, at least.

There were no compensations for attending?

I saw Piers Massingham in a superior mood and gave him no satisfaction. There is some reward in that, I suppose.

Quillby frowned. You will bait him too much one day. He is ambitious and ill-tempered. I hear he has drawn blood in quarrels before this.

Grainger dismissed this with a wave of his hand.

I thought, perhaps, she was there? continued William Quillby, after a moment’s reflection.

My dear fellow, who do you mean? Are you looking for topics for the society pages? I could supply you a scandal or two.

Obliged, I’m sure, but you know quite well I mean Clara.

Grainger raised his cup and addressed it rather than his companion. Miss Grimsborough was there.

And how was she?

She looked quite fetching, not entirely fashionable, but charming.

Quillby allowed himself a sigh, lost in the hubbub of the room. He accounted himself an admirer of Miss Grimsborough’s, but no suitor. How an angel like that has such an Ogre and a Terror for a father, I don’t know. Captain Matthew Grimsborough, the young lady’s father, was master of the city watch, a dour, unyielding man, and the bane and perplexity of his daughter’s admirers.

But I have no name, and few prospects, to offer her, Quillby finished, downcast.

Grainger looked aside at his friend and said, You know more about this town, high and low, than anyone—which I esteem, if no other will.

That is all very well for you to say, said William, without rancour. But I have no property to draw on.

Grainger prepared to speak some further encouragement when he checked himself.

The street door had opened, and a girl came in. She was simply dressed and alone. The heat in the Saracen was fierce, and she let fall her shawl to her shoulders. A very fine profile, Grainger thought. The strong line in the cheek, the nose, the firm chin, the pleasing mouth, held his attention. She looked around. Grainger saw the set cast of her face: determined and undaunted.

My dear fellow, he said instead, can you pass the bottle?

The girl pushed through the crowd towards an open booth at the other end of the common room. A collection of low, suspect men lounged around a table on which were spread copper coins, tankards, clay cups, pipes, tobacco, and an unsheathed knife. Thick smoke stirred about them. She stopped behind a narrow-shouldered boy.

The bottle was set in his hand, but Grainger put it down.

The girl touched the boy on the shoulder and said something. He shook her off and did not look up. She tapped him the shoulder again, and he looked around. She spoke and gestured. He scowled and shrugged. The girl arched up, a flicker of anger in her eyes. She gestured again, towards the hill. A man at the table laughed and shook his hand at the boy. The girl folded her arms. Slowly, the boy yielded and stood from the bench.

Say, asked Grainger, who is that girl there?

Which girl?

Grainger leaned forward and pointed. That fine, angry girl, there, with that surly lad.

Quillby squinted at the shadows of the common-room. I don’t know her. I can’t say if she has ever been here before.

But what is her name? Grainger persisted.

How the devil should I know? Quillby drank and put his cup down. The boy is often here. He lowered his voice, and Grainger leaned closer to catch him. He runs errands and trails after Dirk Tallow’s crew.

Grainger caught the arm of the pot-boy.

Another bottle, sir? said the alert servant.

Presently. Who is that girl there?

A girl, sir?

Thaddeus, said Quillby, as though calling him away.

That girl, persisted Grainger. Look there. She is marvelously angry!

Don’t know her, concluded the pot-boy.

The young fellow, then, with her.

That! That’s just Silas Redruth’s lad, Toby.

Thank you.

And that bottle, sir?

Get on!

The girl and the boy were leaving. Near the door, the girl rested a hand lightly on the boy’s head in a gesture more tender than impatient.

As I thought, said William, hasty to conclude. But the girl, I think, is decent enough. What can you want with her?

Nothing. Nothing at all. Yet, she’s an extraordinary creature.

Surely you have no thoughts of her?

None. Not a thought in the world. I have not seen her before. It is the slightest thing. No matter at all. She is leaving.

Grainger turned to the cup and the dark green bottle, poured a fresh measure, and eased closer to the fire.

MORNING, and the shadow of the Bellstrom Gaol reached far across the city. A cold, clear dawn had intervened. The line of carriages outside the Stepneys’ place was gone, and the quality dispersed to their tasks and their pleasures. The lady of that house floated to her bed and would not come out before midday.

Thaddeus Grainger passed through his own hall. He had let himself in and carried the mud of the riverside and dead leaves across the floor. He had a good house in town, on a quiet avenue of plane trees and iron fences. The hall was rather dreary by morning, and the house partly shut up, for the elder Graingers had been dead many years: Mrs. Grainger in her second childbirth when Thaddeus was still a boy, and Mr. Grainger drowned crossing a river in the high lakes some time later. Thus, the son was master of the house and his father’s properties and income, but kept only a small staff: a butler and housekeeper, a married couple who had been with the family since his parents’ marriage.

You are home, sir, remarked Myron, passing beneath the stairs as Grainger went up with a cautious tread.

You greet the master of your house pretty coolly, said Grainger, stopping and speaking with great self-command.

You are free to choose your coming and going, of course, returned the imperturbable Myron.

I am going to bed. I don’t wish to be disturbed. I must call on the Pearses later.

But Mrs. Myron, added the butler, sat up for you half the night.

She had no cause for that, but I thank her and you, Myron, said his master, softly. It was the first wholly sincere thing he had spoken that night. I have had quite an unusual evening.

Then, sleep well, sir.

With no more to say, Grainger wearily ascended to his darkened room.

CHAPTER II.

A Call and a Challenge.

WITH ITS BACK TO the river, a tall old house had long been muddled up among the counting-houses, warehouses, and shops of Staverside. It retired behind small alleys and curious little mews, except for one courtyard, reached by a narrow lane and guarded by an iron gate, where a basin filled with slimy water was girdled with angry bronze dolphins. That morning found Mr. Massingham passing the basin with three of his nearer friends: Mr. Harton, Mr. Kempe, and a fresh gentleman, the youngest, of a reluctant disposition.

Shall I ring? said Massingham, with every appearance of nonchalance.

If you please, replied the young man.

Harton made no sign. He was broad-shouldered and proud of his whiskers. Kempe was slight, with a short nose and close eyes, and something strained in the compression of the lips, but he nodded his assent.

Very well, said Massingham, and rang the bell, afterwards striking the door with his cane for good measure.

The door was opened, presently, by a very small maid.

We are here to see your masters, declared Massingham. Announce us.

The girl curtsied and fled within, leaving the four to pass unaided into the house.

I don’t think we’ll wait, said Massingham.

At length, after climbing several stairs (Mr. Massingham seemed to know his way pretty well), they came into a parlour.

They entered the friendliest and brightest of rooms. The draperies on the windows, drawn back to admit as much of the sun as possible, were as colourful as can be. The ceiling, decorated in the Italian fashion, was bright and blue, and painted with clouds and a dizzy collection of cherubim. Friendly furniture, all white and gilt, upholstered in the merriest of reds, with nothing hard or dour about it, stood all around. Along one wall were tall shelves, with the friendliest and most mild books in profusion, and at the very back of the room were two small, unassuming desks.

Two elderly gentlemen had risen and bowed as the others came in. They had old-fashioned white wigs and old-fashioned coats and the appearance of brothers, smiling the friendliest and gentlest smiles of welcome, shaking hands with Massingham as though they were the closest of associates, and gesturing the rest to make themselves comfortable withal.

Only the younger gentleman had any difficulty at all getting into the room and would have seemed to prefer to address the floor, except that he made use of his stick as a sort of prop to hold his head up and nod to the two old gents as Massingham made the introductions.

Mr. Palliser, said Massingham, this is Mr. Withnail, and Mr. Withnail—

This is my brother, you see, quoth Mr. Withnail, with a twinkling smile.

The two gentlemen of whom I have told you, and who are so graciously prepared to assist us.

If you please, said Mr. Withnail (the other one), we have taken the liberty of preparing some papers. He pointed, delicately, to a frail chair set up at an angle to the smallest writing-desk.

A memorandum of our terms, added his brother.

Mr. Palliser, meantime, was rubbing his lips together and seemed not at all inclined to go to the desk.

Perhaps the young gentleman has some questions, said Mr. Withnail.

That we would be pleased to answer in any fashion, added his brother.

The young gentleman opened his mouth and closed it again, and then started, I would like to know…which is to say…in the case…

He left off faintly. Massingham was at his side, drawing him away with a light hand on his shoulder.

Come now, said Massingham, what is there to know?

The youth, indeed little more than a boy, with his collar too high and his cuff too long, could not find the means to reply but resumed his inspection of the floor.

You know that your affairs are disordered, said Massingham in a low voice. You owe sums here and there. They are of little importance to one of your credit and standing, but they are woefully disordered.

The boy nodded, disconsolate.

Why, Massingham roused him, you even owe something to Harton here, who is in a much worse state than you! Isn’t that right, Harton?

Harton, hearing his name, made a grunt of assent.

These two gentlemen, in a kindly, straightforward fashion, which does them all honour—gentleman who have my personal approbation and highest respect—have the means to guide you through your difficulties. They will consolidate your affairs in a direct, business-like manner to which your status as a gentleman need not answer. Have we not discussed this?

Again, the boy nodded.

Therefore, as a gentleman, consider your position. Set your affairs in capable hands.

If you say so, muttered the boy.

It is your choice, warned Massingham. You are free to leave at any instance. Come, this sulking and indecision is not manly.

Stung, young Palliser stepped towards the desk. One of the Withnails came towards him, bowing. If the gentleman has any doubts, he is most welcome to withdraw. He should feel no sense of obligation.

No, no doubts at all, said Massingham, with a hand upon the other’s back.

Palliser was set before the desk, and many curling papers surged before him. In the most considerate fashion, Mr. Withnail was at his side.

The quill on the desk was blunted and made a spot of ink on the parchment.

Kempe, said Massingham, fetch another pen, will you?

The fresh quill was brought, wordlessly; a few marks made. Then Palliser leaned in and signed his name two or three times.

Is that all? he asked.

Assuredly, that is all, said Mr. Withnail, smiling.

The gentlemen made ready to leave, all except Massingham, who had thrown himself onto a little damascene sofa by the window and lounged at his ease.

Are you not coming with us? asked Kempe, surprised.

I have a small matter to discuss with the brothers, said Massingham, brushing at the threads in the fabric. Go on, and I’ll meet you at dinner.

Of course.

The brothers, side by side, saw the three out of the parlour, and even stood on the stairs as they made their way down. Looking back (had any of them looked back, for Palliser was in a dark mood, Kempe equally thoughtful, and only Harton had a clear conscience), they might have seen the brothers Withnail still waving and smiling, the friendliest hyenas ever to hunt amongst this desert of brick and stone.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Grainger, having settled with himself that he must call on the Pearses, as good form required, was confined in an upright teak chair and pinned under the gaze of a mature aunt of the family, while Miss Miranda Pears played skillfully on the fortepiano. Miss Pears held her head tilted exactly while she touched the keys. Miss Pears, within a year or two of her majority, had pale skin, smooth shoulders and neck, and fine hair, somewhat between brown and blonde. Her father doted on her and had provided her with admirable accomplishments and the promise of an excellent income after marriage. Grainger, consequently, had no reservations about her expectations or her talents. Her company soothed him, sometimes interested him, and yet rarely moved him, which he found strangely irksome at times.

Miss Pears let a note trail off and said, Thaddeus, I don’t believe you are listening.

Nonsense, Miranda. I am enraptured. Your playing is wonderful.

I can never tell when you are making light of me, said Miss Pears, with a faint smile. I hope I should know better in the future.

Grainger arched his back and stretched his legs before him. Please continue. It is my mood. Make nothing of it.

Piers Massingham asked me to play the other night, after you left. He was quite particular.

Piers Massingham, announced the aunt, whose stare had not shifted from Grainger, has purchased two new riding horses.

Aunt Lucy, Miss Pears admonished, you do say the oddest things.

He was especially attentive to Miranda, added the aunt, unmoved by this reproof.

I’m not sure I care for his boasting, said Miss Pears. But he is determined to make himself most eligible. She glanced at Grainger from under her lashes.

Grainger shifted and raised himself to go and stand by the mantle­piece. I am sure he esteems you highly, as I do.

Miss Pears brushed the keys with her hand. A small, calm smile touched her lips.

Yet Grainger was discomposed by this last exchange, as though trumped in a game with cards he could but half read. He suggested another song, and stood behind Miss Pears to turn the sheets of music, before he made ready to take his leave.

At the gate, he happened to glance left. He saw Piers Massingham coming up from the end of the street riding a fine roan gelding. Grainger frowned with irritation and dislike, and turned quickly to his right. Should I yield my place in Miss Pears’ affections to this vaunting fellow, he thought angrily, or cast myself into an alliance which all sides agree has many advantages, except that I find nothing stirring in the prospect? He slapped his gloved hands together, once or twice, as he walked, and did not recover his usual lightness of temper until near the bottom of the hill.

AT THE END of Sessions Lane, an old water-pump squatted on a capped well. Early one morning the water-pump was in