The Shadow in the North

"Did I mention that I loved you?" he said. "I've loved you ever since you came along that horrible road on the Kent coast, with Mrs Holland after you. You remember the tent you hid inside?"

  "I remember everything. Oh, Fred, it's been so long." He kissed her again, gently this time, and pinched the candle out.

  "We're lucky," he said.

  "We deserved it," she whispered, and lay close in his arms.

  Mr Windlesham's carriage drew up at 47 Hyde Park Gate to let him out, and then trundled around into the stable behind.

  He gave his coat and hat to the footman, and a minute later he was shown into a large study.

  "Well?" said Axel Bellmann, from behind the desk.

  "He's there. There were some playing-cards on the kitchen table. They might have been playing a game, of course, but they were laid out as if someone had been doing tricks with them. As soon as I came in, she tidied them away. And when I brought up the subject of Scotland, the young man glanced involuntarily towards the stairs."

  "And everything else is ready?"

  "Everything is prepared, Mr Bellmann."

  The financier's heavy face moved slightly, and the likeness of a smile appeared.

  "Very good, Windlesham. Will you have a glass of brandy with me?"

  "That is very kind of you, Mr Bellmann."

  It was poured and handed, and Mr Windlesham sat down, arranging his coat-tails carefully.

  "Were they taken in by your proposition?" said Bellmann.

  "Oh, no. Not for a moment. But it held their attention for the necessary time." He sipped his brandy. "You know, Mr Bellmann," he went on, "I am really quite favourably impressed by those two. It's a great pity there's no prospect of making terms with them."

  "Oh, it's too late for that, Windlesham," said Axel Bellmann, sitting again, smiling. "Far too late for that."

  Chapter Twenty

  SLEEPLESSNESS

  Jim couldn't sleep.

  Mackinnon snored gently on the camp bed by the door - an infuriating noise; Jim felt like throwing a boot at him. The complacency of the man! All right, he'd done his bit in the fight - but there was no need to snore about it. Jim lay awake and cursed.

  It was partly, of course, Lady Mary. That kiss. . . And to know that a moment like that, so strange and out of time, would never come his way again. He was tormented with love for her. How could she have married. . . Oh, don't think of that; it was hopeless.

  And it was partly the pain of the cut on his cheek. What the doctor had done to it he couldn't imagine, but it blazed and throbbed and ached till he felt like crying out. The only thing that relieved that was the thought of the blow that had felled Harris.

  And it was partly something else. Something was wrong. After fretting at it all evening, he'd finally worked out where this uneasiness came from. It was the painters. It wasn't just that he didn't know them - it was that they didn't seem like painters, somehow. They had the right gear and the right clothes, but all they seemed to be doing was shifting things about and waiting for him to leave.

  Things weren't right.

  Damn silly case this had been all round. Who was going to pay them? Who was going to thank them for clearing it all up? Was a grateful government going to come forward and press expenses on them? Rot and blast and shrivel Bellmann, Wytham, Mackinnon, the whole bloody lot of them.

  He was wider awake than ever. And on edge with nerves, as if he'd learnt that there was a bomb in the room with a fuse burning low, and he couldn't find it. All his senses were preternaturally sharp: Mackinnon's breathing rasped at his nerves, the bedclothes were too hot, the pillow too hard for his cheek. . . It was no good. He'd never sleep now.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and felt for his slippers. He'd go downstairs, sit in the kitchen, do a bit of writing, have a cup of tea. Mackinnon stirred on his camp bed as Jim stepped over him, so Jim told him sotto voce what he thought of him, and magicians, and Scotsmen in general. He unhooked his dressing-gown from the door and went out on to the landing.

  He closed the door quietly behind him - and sniffed.

  There was something wrong. He ran to the landing window, overlooking the yard, and pulled back the curtain.

  The yard was ablaze.

  Unbelieving, he stood still and rubbed his eyes. The new studio wasn't there any more - instead, a wall of flame billowed upwards, roaring softly; and the lumber in the yard - the planks, the barrows, the ladders - they were on fire too. As he peered down horrified he saw the back door fall open, and flames gush out from inside the building. . .

  Three steps took him to Frederick's door. He flung it open, yelling, "Fire! Fire!"

  The room was empty. He called up the narrow stairs to the top floor: "Fire! Wake up! Fire!"

  Then he ran down to Webster and Sally on the first floor.

  Frederick heard his first shout and sat up at once. Sally, beside him in the narrow bed, woke with a start.

  "What is it?" she said.

  "Jim -" he said, and pulled on his shirt and trousers. "Sounds like a fire - get up, love. Quick."

  He opened the door as Jim came hurtling down the stairs. Jim blinked with surprise to see him coming out of Sally's door, but didn't pause.

  "It's bad," he said, hammering on Webster's door. "Fire, Mr Webster! Get up, now!" he shouted into the room. "The new building's ablaze, and I think the kitchen is too -"

  "Right," said Frederick. "Run up to the top and make sure Ellie and the cook get down as quick as they can - oh, and Miss Meredith too. Is Mackinnon awake? Bring 'em down here to the landing."

  There was only the one staircase, which led through a door at the bottom into the kitchen. Frederick looked down, and then turned back to Sally. She was at her door now, tousled, sleepy, beautiful. . . He seized her in the doorway and crushed her to him and she came to him without hesitation. They kissed more passionately now than they'd done earlier; but it could only last a second or two.

  "Bring your sheets into the other room," he said. "I'll run down and see if we can get out through the shop."

  But as he reached the bottom of the stairs and felt in the darkness for the door, he knew it wouldn't be possible. There was a fierce roaring from the kitchen and the heat, even through the door, was appalling. He opened it, just to be sure - and knew at once that he shouldn't have done so, for the flames leapt at him like a tiger, knocking him backwards and seizing his whole body. He slipped and fell, rolling blindly through the open door, and felt as he crashed to the floor something fall heavily across his neck and shatter. He groped for the door, pulled himself up, and stumbled back through before slamming it shut. He was ablaze. He beat at himself - his shirt was gone - his hair was crackling - he tore off the burning sleeves and hit at his head to extinguish the flaring hair before stumbling back to the landing again.

  "Fred! You all right?"

  It was Jim, with Ellie the maid and Mrs Griffiths the old cook, both wide-eyed and trembling. Frederick didn't know if he was all right. He tried to speak, but there was something wrong, as if he'd swallowed some smoke. Sally came out of Webster's room and ran to him with a cry of fear. He held her gently away and mimed the tying of sheets together.

  "Yes - we've done that -" she said, and he thrust Ellie at her, and then the cook, and she understood at once, bless her, and took charge.

  Webster's room was over the old studio, overlooking the street. Frederick didn't know whether the fire had reached there yet, but Sally's room was over the kitchen, and didn't seem as safe. As Mackinnon came down, shaking, Frederick shoved him after the others, and fought for breath.

  "Help the women out - climb through window - stairs no good -"

  "I'm no climbing! I cannae stand heights--"

  "Burn, then," said Jim, and turned to Webster. "Chuck your mattress out," he told him, "and sling him out after it. Here, Fred -" He pulled Frederick aside. "Trouble up there," he said quietly. "Miss Wotsit. She's locked herself in. Says she wants to stay, if you please. Here - you all right?"
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  Frederick nodded. "I was a bit dizzy," he said hoarsely.

  "Where you been?"

  "Down the bottom. Smoke. Can't get through. Come on, then. I suppose Bellmann's responsible for this."

  "Them painters," Jim said, as they hurried up the first flight of stairs. "I thought they were wrong from the start. I should've got up earlier - I knew there was something wrong. Here - you've got a hell of a cut on your neck, mate, d'you know that?"

  "Something fell on me," Frederick mumbled - and then came a cry from below, and a rending crash, as the floor of Sally's room collapsed into the kitchen.

  "Wait there," said Jim, and darted down.

  Mackinnon had got out, and Mrs Griffiths had clambered bravely down the flimsy sheets, but they were having trouble with Ellie. She'd got halfway out, and couldn't go any further.

  "Go on, you silly great girl!" Sally was urging her, but she just gasped and blinked and clung in terror to the knotted sheets.

  "You'll have to go down with her, Jim," Sally said.

  "All right. But you go first - show her how it's done."

  He hauled Ellie in again and let her fall to the floor, sobbing, and then helped Sally out.

  "Give Fred a yell - tell him to carry on," he said to Webster.

  Webster called up, and heard an answer. "I hope he can manage," he said. "The building won't last long. I'll go and give him a hand -"

  "You stay here," Jim said. "I'll take Ellie down, then come back up meself. You make sure the knots don't slip."

  Webster nodded, and Jim sprang to the windowsill, as agile as a monkey.

  "All right? Sal?" he called down.

  The houses opposite were lit like a stage-set, and a crowd was already beginning to gather. Sally reached the bottom and called out that she was safe, and Jim turned back.

  "Come on, Ellie," he said. "Let's get you down."

  She clambered up hastily beside him.

  "Now then - get hold of the rope like this - that's it - I'll go down a bit, see, and give you room - good linen, this is, it won't break, I nicked it from a good hotel - that's it - good gal--"

  His voice receded. Webster waited at the top.

  At the foot of the top flight of stairs, Frederick had to stop, because the floor was sloping. Or at least it seemed to be sloping. The building sounded like a ship at sea, it was creaking so much. A muffled explosion came from the direction of the studio, and Frederick thought, "Chemicals - hope Sally's out -"

  But he pushed himself up the narrow stairs, dark and hot and swaying. Or was it him? This was a dream. When he reached the top, it was a lot quieter, as if the fire were a hundred miles away.

  It was hard to breathe. His strength was draining away by the minute; he could feel it leaking, like blood. Perhaps it was the blood. He raised his hand and banged at Isabel's door.

  "No!" came the muffled response. "Please leave me."

  "Open the door at least," he said. "I'm hurt. I can't struggle with you."

  He heard a key turn in the lock, and a chair being pulled aside. The gentle glow of a candle as she opened the door, and her loose hair and nightgown, made it seem like another sort of scene altogether, and only made him feel further lost, deeper in a dream.

  "Oh! You're - what have you done?" she cried, standing aside to let him in.

  "Isabel - you must come - there isn't much time," he said.

  "I know," she said. "It won't be long now. I won't come, you know. You've been so kind to me here. What have I got to escape for?"

  She sat down on the bed. Spread out all around her there were a score or more sheets of paper - letters, from the look of them, covered in dark bold writing. She saw him looking.

  "Yes," she said, "his letters. Reading them. . . It's always made me happier than anything else in my whole life. I'll never have anything better if I live to be a hundred. And if I do live - what have I got to look forward to? Loneliness and bitterness and regret. . . No, no, go, please, you must. Leave me. Please. You must go. . . For Sally. . ."

  Her eyes were bright, her whole expression sparkled. His head was swimming; he had to cling to the chest of drawers in order to remain upright, and he heard her words distantly but very clearly, like a daguerreotype in sound.

  "Isabel, you silly bitch, come downstairs and help me out if you won't come yourself," he made himself say. "Everyone else has left and the building's going to collapse any minute - you know I won't go till you -"

  "Oh you're so stubborn - it's mad - has he gone?"

  "Yes. I told you, everyone. Come on, for God's sake."

  She looked so excited, though, like a girl going to her first ball, flushed and pretty and young; or like a bride. . . He was almost afraid he'd died already, and this was some dream-state of the soul. She said something else, but he couldn't hear it. There was a roaring in his ears, like the fire - well, it might have been the fire - and this floor was creaking now too.

  He tore the curtain aside and pushed open the window. This room faced the street, like the landing window below; if they jumped - maybe -

  He turned to the bed. She was lying on it, her arms spread wide. She was facing him and her hair had fallen softly over her cheek and jaw, so that only her eyes and her clear forehead were visible; but he could see that she was smiling. She looked transcendentally happy.

  Suddenly he felt angry at the stupid waste of it, and stumbled across the floor, meaning to drag her to the window. But she clung to the bed, and he found himself dragging that too, until, sick with pain and exhaustion, he fell across her. It would be so easy to give up.

  Oh God, what a waste.

  The heat was intense now. The door was outlined in flames, and the floor was sagging and creaking like a ship in a gale. The air was full of sound - roaring, flailing sheets - of sound, like audible flames. All kinds of sounds were mixed up in it. Music, even. . . Bells. . .

  She moved. Her hand found his, and clung.

  "Sally?" he said.

  It might have been Sally. She'd lain beside him like this. Sally was strong and fearless, and lovely, incomparable. . . Lady Mary was beautiful, but Sally outshone her like the sun. Where was she?

  Oddly enough, it felt like drowning. There was an area of terrible pain around him - he could feel it there - but it didn't quite touch him. Instead he lay inside it, trying to breathe, and the air came into his wounded lungs like water.

  He was going to die, then.

  He turned his head to Sally to kiss her for one last time, but she whimpered. No, that was wrong. Sally wouldn't do that. Sally was somewhere else. This girl couldn't help it. Get her out, and -

  He reached for the window, and the floor collapsed.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  INTO THE SHADOW

  It was still dark when they brought his body out. Sally had waited with the others in the shop across the road while the firemen fought the blaze. She'd wrapped herself in a borrowed cloak and held Webster's hand and had not said a word.

  They'd watched every movement the firemen made. Some time in the early morning it had begun to rain, which helped the pumps; the fire had blazed so swiftly and completely that it hadn't been able to sustain itself for long, and the firemen were able to move into the smouldering, sodden ruins and look for Frederick and Isabel.

  Then there was a shout. One man looked up and back at the shop across the road for a moment, and others clambered up to help him.

  Sally stood up and smoothed down her cloak.

  "Sure you want to?" said Webster.

  "Yes," she said.

  She gently freed her hand from his, gathered the cloak around her and went out into the road, into the drizzle, the cold, the smell of ashes.

  They were bringing him down so carefully that she thought he was still alive, except that there was no urgency in their movements. They laid him on a stretcher in the light of a flickering lantern and, seeing her, stood aside. One man took off his helmet.

  She knelt down beside him. He looked asleep. She laid h
er cheek beside his, and thought how warm he felt. She put her hand on his bare chest, where only a few hours before she had felt his heart beating, and thought how still it was now. Where had he gone? He was so warm. . . It was a mystery; she felt like stone. She felt dead, and he felt alive.

  She kissed his lips and stood up. The fireman who'd removed his helmet bent over and covered Frederick with a blanket.

  "Thank you," she said to him, and turned to go.

  She felt a hand on her arm, and looked around to see Webster.

  "I've got to go," she said.

  He was looking older than he'd ever seemed before. She would have embraced him, but she couldn't stay, or everything would collapse. There was something she had to do. She gently disengaged his hand, shaking her head, and left.

  For the next forty-eight hours or so, Sally moved about in a trance. One idea possessed her, and she was numb to all else - except for one or two moments when feeling broke through and nearly swamped her. But there was something she had to do, and she had to do it for Fred. And that was reason enough not to feel anything for the moment.

  She remembered nothing of the journey north, though she must have gone to her lodgings, for she had a bag with her, and she had changed her clothes. She arrived in Barrow later on Sunday night, and became sufficiently aware of her surroundings to notice the hotel-keeper's raised eyebrows at a young lady travelling alone; though not sufficiently aware to mind it.

  She went to bed at once. She slept badly, waking often to find the pillow wet and herself bewildered, as if she could feel things in her sleep, but not know what they were. She breakfasted early, paid her bill and, as the sun broke uneasily through watery clouds and gilded the dingy streets, she set out towards her destination. Not knowing the way, she had to stop and ask, but she found that she couldn't keep directions in her head for long, so she had to ask again. Little by little she made her way to the edge of the town, and then she turned a corner and found herself looking down at the birthplace of the Steam Gun, the empire of Axel Bellmann, the North Star works.

  It was a narrow valley filled with fire and steel, with the glint of railway lines in the strengthening sun, with the drift of steam and the clang of mighty hammers. A rail line led into it from the south and out of it to the north, and a dozen sidings were laid out between the buildings, with shunting engines moving lines of trucks to unload coal or iron or shift items of machinery. The buildings themselves were light, glassy structures for the most part, iron-framed and delicate to look at, and despite the presence of the chimneys and the locomotives, everything in sight was clean and glittering and new.