Tale of Raw Head and Bloody Bones (9781101614631) (53 page)

I blinked. The Vision disappeared. The quarter-Gate Lanthorns blazed bright in the wet Darkness; around me the night Street drippt.

I turned at once and fled ere I was robbed.

“I am going home.”

Thus Nathaniel had said. And it was exactly, precisely what I desired to do, now. I wanted to be back with my Katherine in mine own House, where everything would make Sense; but I knew that even were I to pack up all my things and bargain my way aboard the very next Mail, I should not arrive home in less than two Dayes time.

I could not stand to return to my Room at the Red Lion, where the Horrour of my failed Experiment yet lingered in the Scent of Simmins’ Body. Instead, numbly, almost blindly, I hastened thro’ the dark London Streets toward Bow Street. I did
not glance to my left or my right, but only in the one Direction: forward.

I arrived at the Fieldings’ House all out of Breath and muddy from my Shoes to the Hem of my Greatcoat, and mounted the front Steps to hammer hard upon the Door. To my Surprize, it was opened almost at once. I pushed past Liza and made my Way to an hall Chair, into which I collapsed, mine Hands shaking as if with a Palsy.

“Mr Hart!” exclaimed Liza. “Mrs Fielding! Oh, Madam, come quick!”

“I am not injured,” I said at once, cutting off the Misunderstanding I perceived mustering, like Xerxes’ Army, beyond the Pass. “Nor have I been robbed, Liza. Do not sound any Alarum, there is no Necessity.”

Drawing a long Breath, I permitted My Self slowly to relax into the Fieldings’ high backed Chair, becoming gradually conscious of its bracing Support against my Spine, my Weight descending thro’ its sturdy Legs into the solid Floor.

Why have I come here? I thought. I can tell the Fieldings nothing of my Misadventure; there is nothing they could reply in any Case that might restore me to My Self, or the Feeling to my poor Isaac. Oh, what have I done? I have sacrificed him on the Altar of mine own Ambition, and for what?

I had not been sitting long alone when Mary Fielding appeared out of the Kitchen, pulling off her Apron. She took me thro’ into the sitting Room where previously I had met with her Husband and her Brother-in-law; tonight, however, the Room was empty.

“Where is your Husband, Mrs Fielding?” I asked, surprized.

“He hath been called out on some Business, and Mr John with him,” Mary said.

“Business to do with his Police Force?”

“I suppose so,” Mrs Fielding answered. “He doth not tell me very much, as you may imagine. But I am certain if you want to see him, he will be back soon, for ’tis very late. Would you like something to drink, Mr Hart? If you don’t mind my saying so, you look as if you have met with a Ghost.”

I did not refuse, and so Mary poured me a Glass of Wine, and patting me gently upon mine Hand, insisted that I sit on the Arm-chair nearest to the dying Fire, whilst she began energetically to stoke its Embers.

Perhaps, I thought, I was waiting for the Brothers to return; but if I was, it was with a desperate Trepidation, for I knew not what I should say if either one of them were to challenge me.

What will I do? I thought. I did not wish to abandon my little Simmins, as—I now perceived, with sinking Heart—I had abandoned my Katherine; but I knew I would be unable to endure one Minute longer in the Hound, nor even in London itself, for I would have to do both in the Knowledge that my continued Residence was futile. Reason, Duty, Shame and mine own sudden, desperate Need all told me that I must return to my Wife, and tend to her; indeed, that I ought never to have left her. I had not been a Brute, but in mine intellectual Arrogance and vain Ambition I had fairly impersonated one; and the Situation in which I now found My Self was the Consequence of that. I had wilfully ignored every Plea and Protestation she had made; and she had been right.

“Mary,” I said, watching her. “I have reached a Decision. I shall be returning to Berkshire upon the Morrow.”

Mary Fielding turned, the Poker in her Hand a black Crease against the blue flowered Linen of her Dress. “Oh, Mr Hart!” she
exclaimed. “I am surprized. But I shall confess that I am very glad to hear it!”

“What?” I said. “Wherefore?”

Mary gave a little Laugh. “I speak merely as a Woman, Sir. I know how hard it must be upon Mrs Hart to be left alone at such a Time, and I can only think how happy she will be at your Return. For my Part I shall be sorry to see you go, but my Sorrow is a small thing compared to her Joy. That is all.”

“You are too good, Mrs Fielding,” I said. “Indeed, you are too good.”

Mrs Fielding coloured. “You confuse me with mine Husband, Mr Hart,” she said. “I am not good, altho’ I have tried to be. To be truly good requires Strength of Character, and I am weak, and ignorant, and make foolish Mistakes. I am an Embarrassment to Mr Fielding, and he should not have felt himself obliged to marry me.”

“Whence comes all this!” I exclaimed, astonished.

Mrs Fielding sighed unhappiily, and returned the Poker to its Box.

“Mary,” I said, rising and crossing the Room to grasp Mrs Fielding squarely by the Shoulders. “You are truly one of the best Women I have ever met. Why, what other Housewife would have taken in a freakish Gypsy Brat, and nursed it a full daye out of naught but the Goodness of her Heart, when she had her own Children to consider, and Christmas, and an Husband whose waspish Temper doth him no Credit, tho’ he be the finest of Men in every other Wise. I will not allow you so to demean yourself.”

Tho’ I had spoken kindly, Mrs Fielding’s Eyes opened as wide as if I had given her the harshest of Scoldings, and she drew back from me half a Pace before saying, in a careful and measured Tone: “Mr Hart, I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Egad,” I said. “What meanst by that? Surely, you must remember the Babe?”

“Sir, I do not remember ever taking in any Gypsy, at Christmas or at any other Time. I am certain Mr Fielding would have had much to say upon it if I had.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“I have no such Recollection, Mr Hart,” Mary repeated, patiently, as if I had been a Child—or a Lunatick.

“Madam,” I responded, when I had got back my Tongue. “Either your Memory holds with all the Permanence of Sand upon a Beach, or else you lie; for the Incident was extraordinary, and hard to forget. I recall it as vividly as I recall the Words you spoke five Minutes since. It amazes me if you do not.”

“I do not, Mr Hart.”

I studied her Face, a cold Panick stirring within my Gut. I could not ascertain from her Expression whether she was lying or verily had no Memory of my little Bat. Then I realised that I had upon me that Sketch which I always carried in my Waistcoat, and mine Hand flew to it. “Mrs Fielding,” I said. “Mary. Here is a Portrait of the Child, done by your own Hand upon the Night of her Stay. Dost not see? Dost not, now, remember?”

Mary pulled away from me, quite violently, and crosst brusquely toward the sitting room Door. “Look at it,” I pleaded, catching her by the Hand and thrusting the Paper before her Eyes. “Mary, look.”

“Oh, Mr Hart,” Mary cried. “Please, do not insist!”

“I do insist,” I said. “Nor shall I desist until you have told me exactly what you see upon this Paper.”

Mary tried once more to pull away and then, to my great Relief, turned and cast her Gaze once over the Drawing. “I see you, Sir,” she admitted, reluctantly. “Holding a Babe.”

“The Babe, yes; the Gypsy Babe, the Bat.” Mine Hands shook upon the Paper. “Do not you perceive her Wings? They are quite clear.”

“No, Sir,” Mary answered, levelly, and turned her Face away. “I do not see any Wings.”

“What? But they are there—look!”

“They are but the Corners of the Blanket,” Mary said.

“’Tis quite evident,” I said, growing angry at her Refusal, “that they are no such things. Do you at least agree that the Picture sheweth the Gypsy Babe?”

“I do see a Babe,” Mrs Fielding cried. “But, oh, Mr Hart, I am sure ’tis mine own Child.”

Her Hand flew to her Mouth; stifling a Sob, she pushed roughly past me, and fled from the Room.

*   *   *

I returned to Shirelands Hall via the Oxford Mail forty Houres later. I did not see Mrs Fielding again before my Departure, neither did I have the Opportunity to take my leave in Person of the Brothers. I left my Card. This seemed, and almost certainly was, from me, enough.

I sent a Message by the willing Hand of the Pot-boy to Captain Simmins, in which I explained the Change that had come upon my Circumstances in result of Dr Hunter’s Dismissal of mine Appeal, and told him that I no longer deemed it fitting that I should remain in London. I concluded the Missive with my warm Affection, and issued an Invitation to Simmins to call upon me at home whenever he should be so able; but altho’ I could not deny that I still felt a great Pull toward that tender Youth, my Repulsion from him was now greater, and I hoped in mine Heart
that he would not accept it. The Thought that I had injured him was nearly more than I could bear; but the Idea that I was compleatly powerless to put right this Injury was so far beyond my Endurance that I did not let My Self consider it at all. I told My Self that his Paralysis was certainly trivial in Nature, and undoubtedly temporary in Duration, and that I, now, had more urgent Matters waiting upon mine Attention at home. I had abandoned Katherine; I had betrayed her; and all when she had been in her greatest Need of me.

And yet, I thought, I have not abandoned her at all, nor would I; and my Fingers found again the folded Corners of Mary Fielding’s Sketch. Mary might have proved herself Peter; I never shall.

The Oxford Mail was uncomfortable, the Journey long and the Company rude, but I cared naught for any of this. I averted mine Eyes from the Goose throated Woman with the haughty Stare, who was without Question some kind of upper Servant, and I blanketed mine Ears to the Lectures of the Parson seated opposite, who may, for all his seeming Lack of such Qualities, have been an honest and a compassionate Man.

I looked only upon, and listened only to, mine own Heart, beating within my Chest like a battle-Drum; and it appeared to me that ’twas as dark and hollow as a very Cave.

I left my Luggage at Oxford, to be sent on or collected later, and for the Sake of Speed purchased a fast grey Mare to ride alone across Country as far as Faringdon, which Town was, as far as I could judge, at the distant Edge of Viviane’s Influence. I planned from there to send a Letter to Shirelands asking for the Coach, and continue thus. Packing only my Money, my Papers, and my surgical Instruments inside the Mare’s saddle Bags, I quitted the City at a brisk Canter along the high Road, which
thankfully had not been rendered so boggy by the six Months of constant Rain that it could not be travelled at above a Walk. Thus it was that within an Houre of my first Arrival at Oxford I was among Fields again, the clouded midsummer Sky flickering unbroken over mine Head.

Arriving after a long Time at Faringdon, I took a Room in the Town’s largest Inn, and after stabling my Mare in the Back settled My Self in the well-lit publick Room to compose my Letter. The Room was quite busy, it being early in the Evening, and I perhaps ought to have taken My Self up the Stairs for this Purpose, but the spitting log Fire drew me close, as the Fire at the Bull had seemingly drawn Nathaniel, and would not let me go; so I sate quiet upon the Chimney-seat, my Paper upon my Knees, and wrote my Newes, whilst about me the country Conversation ebbed and flowed.

By these Means, I learned that My Sister’s Husband Barnaby continued, in Spite of the sodden Condition of the Chalk and the swollen Nature of the River Coller, to disturb its Course; and that his Actions were no more popular among his immediate Neighbours, and their Tenants, than they were with me. There was a general Apprehension that the faster flowing River being created by Barnaby’s supposed Improvement would do great Damage to the Farmlands that lay opposite it and downstream; and since these had recently been made subject to Inclosure, Livelihoods could be lost. I quickly discovered that the Men working for Barnaby had been drafted in from as far abroad as Wiltshire, with the Exceptions of two who, living upon Grange Land, had no other Landlord to appease, and survived by taking casual Labour. Of one of these, a Man by the Appellation of Matt Harris, I knew nothing, good or ill; the other was Joseph Cox.

Cox, I discovered, had married that Rebecca Clifton whose moon-faced Bastard was supposed Nathaniel Ravenscroft’s. The Pair did not agree. I heard many Reports of Joe’s excessive Drunkenness, and the rough Music to which Rebecca was often subject. These Newes came as no great Surprize to me, for I had ever thought Cox capable of Evil, but I disliked them none the less for that, and Cox the more.

I compleated my Letter and, having addresst it to my Wife, gave it to the Landlord of the Inn to have it sent as soon as possible; then, mine Ears ringing with Gossip, I retreated to my small Chamber.

I sate beside mine open Window, listening to the low Thrum of Insects in the Ivy, as the Sunne set in the western Distance, lost behind the glowering Thunder-clouds, and bethought me that the Morrow’s Scouring of the Horse, and all its associated Revells, must surely be undone.

As I sate, I became slowly aware that I could hear, thro’ the Window or perhaps only in mine own Head, the Sound of one, lone, distant Drum, beating regular as a Fist upon an heavy Door, a doubled Blow; one-one, one-one, one-one. I put mine Hands to mine Ears, but the Sound was not extinguished. By this, I understood that it must be extant within my Mind; it was an Hallucination of the Kind that had tormented me so many Times before. Yet strangely, perhaps, I was not afraid.

An hunting Horn sounded; loud, loud, yet far off in the Vale below the Horse. The triumphant Fanfare wound spiralling thro’ mine Hearing like Eden’s Serpent thro’ the apple Tree, like Mistletoe upon the Ash. Forgetting everything I had been thinking about, I leapt to my Feet. The Atmosphere, suddenly thunderous, choked me. I must leave, I thought, at once; and there seemed to me
nothing strange at all that I had thought thus. I must away, outside, away, in search of some Location where I might refresh my sore Lungs with an Atom of cold Aire.