The Tenderness of Wolves

  ‘I guess.’

  I smile at her, and she almost smiles back. She has a peaky little bony face with smudges under the eyes. No one will ever accuse her of being beautiful.

  ‘Mrs Ross? Did you go on with your schooling?’

  ‘Yes I did. It’s well worth doing.’

  It’s almost true. I certainly might have done, if I hadn’t been in an asylum at the time. Now she’s looking at me with a shy sort of admiration and I am filled with a desire to be what she thinks I am. Maybe I could be a sort of mentor to her–I’ve never thought like this before, but it’s a pleasing thought. Perhaps it is one of the compensations of getting older.

  ‘Francis should go on with school. He’s really smart.’ She blushes with the unaccustomed effort of expressing a personal opinion.

  ‘Well, maybe. He won’t talk to me at the moment. You’ll find out: when you’re someone’s mother they don’t listen to you.’

  ‘I’m not going to get married. Ever.’

  Her face has changed again–the dark shadow is back.

  ‘Do you know, I can remember saying the same thing? But things don’t always turn out the way you think.’

  For some reason I am losing her. The tears well up in her eyes.

  ‘Ida … I don’t suppose Francis talked to you before he went on this trip? About where he was going, or anything like that?’

  The girl shakes her head. When she lifts her face again I am stunned by the raw pain in her eyes. Sorrow and something else–is it anger? Something about Francis.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  I go home feeling worse than when I started. I don’t really expect Angus to come back with Francis, and when, long after dark, he arrives home alone, I feel no surprise. His skin is slack with weariness and he talks without looking at me.

  ‘I got to Swallow Lake. Saw traces of someone going–more than one person, clear as day. But he’s not there. And no one fished there, I’d swear to it. Went straight through. If that was Francis, he was running.’

  And you came back, I think to myself. You turned your back and walked away. I stand up. I’ve already decided; I don’t have to think any more.

  ‘Then I’ll go after him.’

  To give him credit, he doesn’t laugh like most husbands would. I don’t know if I secretly want him to stop me, at least to argue and beg me not to leave, not to do something so foolish and brave and dangerous. Anyway, he doesn’t. I think about the Company men at Caulfield–they’ll be up at the farm first thing, to see if Francis is here. Looking with sly eyes at our faces to see how afraid we are. Well I haven’t the energy to pretend any more. I will look them in the eye and show them I am scared.

  I am scared to death.

  Donald and Jacob arrive back in Caulfield late in the morning, and Donald arranges for a cart to collect Jammet’s stashed wealth. Ashamed of his earlier suspicion, he sends Jacob alone to bring back the chest, which makes him feel better, and has the added benefit of making him available for lunch with Mrs Knox and her daughters. But they have barely started on the pork before he puts his foot in it.

  ‘I was wondering if I might meet Mr Sturrock here when I came back,’ he begins conversationally. ‘I believe he is an old acquaintance of your husband’s.’

  Mrs Knox looks at Donald with a start of alarm. ‘Mr Sturrock …? Thomas Sturrock?’ The girls exchange rapid, meaningful glances.

  ‘Well, I don’t know his first name, but … I was told he knows your husband … I’m sorry, did I say something …?’

  Mrs Knox has gone decidedly pale, but she sets her mouth into a firm line. ‘It’s quite all right, Mr Moody. I am surprised, that is all. I have not heard that name in a long time.’

  Donald looks at his plate, abashed and confused. Susannah is glaring at her sister. Maria clears her throat.

  ‘The explanation, Mr Moody, is that we had two cousins, Amy and Eve, who went for a walk in the woods, and never returned. Uncle Charles brought in several people to try and find them, and Mr Sturrock was one of them. He had a reputation as a Searcher–you know, for finding children who had been kidnapped by Indians. He looked for a long time, but never found them.’

  ‘He spent all of Uncle Charles’ money, and he died of a broken heart,’ says Susannah quickly.

  ‘He had a stroke,’ says Maria to Donald.

  Mrs Knox tuts quietly.

  Donald is stunned. From Susannah’s face he understands that this is what she began to tell him the day before, stripped of embellishments. And that she is annoyed at having her story taken from her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he finally remembers to say. ‘What a terrible thing.’

  ‘It was,’ says Mrs Knox. ‘Neither my sister nor her husband ever recovered. Maria is correct in saying that he suffered a stroke, but he was only fifty-two. It broke him.’

  Susannah gives her sister a triumphant look.

  In the ensuing silence, the only sound is Donald’s fork clashing against his plate, and suddenly feeling boorish for continuing to eat, his fork hand hovers uncertainly in mid air. Even his chewing sounds horribly loud, but now that his mouth is full, there is not much he can do about it.

  ‘I hope the pork is to your liking,’ says Mrs Knox with a firm smile; she is not a hostess to be knocked off her stride by anything.

  ‘Delicious,’ mutters Donald, acutely aware that to his left, Susannah has put down her fork.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ says Maria. ‘Seventeen or eighteen years. But you haven’t said, has Francis Ross returned? Or will you be setting off into the bush tomorrow?’

  Donald feels a rush of gratitude to her. ‘The latter, at the moment–he has not come back. His parents are worried about him.’

  ‘Do they think he has disappeared, like …’ Susannah stops before she finishes.

  ‘Francis Ross is always running off into the woods. He’s quite the native. He must know them like the back of his hand.’

  ‘Either way, we will clear up the matter by finding him. Jacob is an excellent tracker. A few days’ delay makes no odds to him.’

  Now, after lunch, Donald sits in the study, going over his notes from yesterday and adding the events of the morning. He has just decided to go and find this man Sturrock and question him, when Susannah comes in without knocking. He jumps to his feet, and manages, unbelievably, to knock over his chair in his haste.

  ‘Damn! I’m sorry, I …’

  ‘Oh, dear me …’

  Susannah comes to help him pick it up and they end up standing very close, both laughing, their faces only inches apart. Donald backs away, suddenly terrified that she will sense the hammering of his heart.

  ‘I came in to apologise,’ she says. ‘We have been such miserable company for you, and you know, I had hoped it would be different, the next time we saw you.’

  Her face is quite serious, but there is a faint pinkness in her cheek. Donald is hit by the utterly amazing conviction that this beautiful girl likes him, and this awareness washes over him like the aftershock of strong brandy. He hopes he isn’t grinning like an idiot.

  ‘You have nothing to apologise for, Miss Knox.’

  ‘Please, call me Susannah.’

  ‘Susannah.’

  It is the first time he has said her name to her face, and it makes him smile. The feel of her name in his mouth, and the sight of her face looking up at him, sears onto his heart like a fiery brand.

  ‘You have been the most charming company, and a welcome diversion from all this … business. I am … glad I came–I mean glad that Mackinley chose me.’

  ‘But I suppose you will go tomorrow, and then we will not see you again.’

  ‘Well … I expect the Company will need to keep an eye on things here, so … Who knows, I may be back sooner than you think.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  She looks so forlorn that he is emboldened to add, ‘But, you know, what would be wonderful … is if you would write to me, and, and … let me know how things are here.’
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  ‘You mean, like a report?’

  ‘Well … yes, although, I would also like to know … how things are with you. I would like to write to you, if that would be agreeable.’

  ‘You would like to write to me?’ She sounds charmingly surprised.

  ‘I would like that very much.’

  There is a moment when they are breathless in the knowledge of what they are saying, and then Susannah smiles in response.

  ‘I would like that too.’

  Donald is insanely elated, full of a power and energy he had forgotten existed. He gives thanks, urgently and silently, as, hardly knowing what he does, he rushes out of the house, finding paradoxically that he wants to be alone to celebrate his new-found happiness fully. He walks to Scott’s store, assuming that whatever goes on in Caulfield, John Scott will know about it. He bursts in through the door, trying to keep the foolish grin from his face–a man has died, after all–to see a slender, round-faced woman behind the counter. She looks up at the sound of the door and her first expression is one of fear, quickly masked by a blank neutrality.

  John Scott is not there, but Mrs Scott proves nearly as helpful. Donald notices her distracted air, and tries to concentrate as she tells him that Mr Sturrock is staying in their house, and may be there now, she can’t say.

  ‘You’re welcome to call and see. The maid is there …’ Mrs Scott breaks off, as if she has just remembered something. ‘No, I will send a message, that would be better.’

  She disappears through a door at the back. Donald stares out of the window at a sky that looks like curds and remembers Susannah’s soft mouth.

  Thomas Sturrock has a way about him that Donald warms to–when told the man was a Searcher, he assumed he would be an old woodsman with coarse manners and the sort of tangy humour he has to endure at the Fort, and he is pleasantly surprised at the refined gentleman he encounters instead.

  ‘I wonder if I could ask, how did you end up in such a line of work?’

  They are drinking Scott’s bitter coffee, in two chairs that Mrs Scott has placed by the stove. Sturrock stares into his cup with disappointment before replying.

  ‘I’ve done a few things in my time, and I’d written about the Indian way of life. I’ve always been a friend to the Indian, and someone knew this and asked me to help in a case where a boy had been taken. And that worked out, so other people asked me. I never set out to do it, it just came my way. Too old for it now.’

  ‘And the item you have come to look for, do you have any written proof that Jammet wanted you to have it?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t planning on getting killed last time I saw him.’

  ‘And you weren’t aware of any enemies he might have had?’

  ‘No. He would drive a hard bargain, but that’s no reason to kill a man.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘When he first showed me the bit of bone, I asked him if I could copy down the markings on it, and he could tell I was interested, so he refused, and said he would sell it to me.’

  ‘But you didn’t buy it then?’

  ‘No. I was, you see, temporarily out of funds. But he agreed to keep it until I could pay him. I have the money now, but, of course …’–he spreads his hands helplessly–‘I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘I will talk to Mr Knox about it. We haven’t found a will. If Mr Knox is agreeable, I dare say he could sell it to you. That is, assuming we find it.’

  It suddenly occurs to Donald to wonder if Sturrock has already looked for this piece of bone. He remembers the footprints by the cabin. Three sets. Three people who came to look at the cabin last night.

  ‘That’s generous of you, Mr Moody. I appreciate that.’

  ‘What sort of thing is it? Is it something from Rome or Egypt?’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure what it is. It doesn’t seem to be anything like that, but that’s why I need it–I intend to take it to some museum men who know about such things.’

  Donald nods, still unsure as to why Sturrock is so interested in this thing. One thing he is certain of, though, is that if someone is keenly interested in a thing, it is as well to tread warily. Could it be that Sturrock had arrived earlier and Jammet had refused to sell him the bone, so Sturrock killed him? Or had Jammet already sold it to someone else? Whichever way he adds it up, Sturrock doesn’t seem a likely killer. But it is also true that there has been no sign of this object, which clearly has a value. In which case, who has it now?

  Donald leaves the store with Sturrock’s assurance that he will stay in Caulfield for the next few days. He wonders why it did not occur to him to ask about the Seton girls–perhaps because he finds it impossible to believe this gracious-mannered man is the grasping fraud portrayed by the Knoxes. He wonders–not for the first time–whether his inexperience leads him to form favourable impressions too easily. Should he be more suspicious, like Mackinley, who takes against people on principle, assuming that sooner or later they will disappoint him–and is usually proved right?

  On his way down the road he sees Maria carrying a basket. He raises his hat and she smiles slightly. She seems decidedly less hostile since this morning, but he still wouldn’t have risked speaking to her had she not spoken first.

  ‘Mr Moody. How is the investigation proceeding?’

  ‘Er, slowly, thank you.’

  She pauses, as if waiting for him to say something, so he finds himself saying, ‘I have just been talking to Mr Sturrock.’

  She doesn’t betray surprise, nodding as if she expected it. ‘And?’

  ‘I thought he was charming. Educated, sensitive … not at all what I expected.’

  ‘I suppose he had to be charming to swindle my uncle out of all his money–there was quite a lot, I believe.’

  Donald must have frowned, because she goes on: ‘I know my uncle was desperate enough to do anything, but a man of honour would have told him it was pointless to keep looking for the girls and refused his money. It would have been kinder in the long run. In the end he had neither his daughters nor anything to live on, and he … well, as good as destroyed himself. This was after my aunt died. I know it sounds terrible to say this but … I’ve always supposed they must have been eaten by wolves. Other people say so and I think they are right. Aunt and Uncle could never accept that, though.’

  ‘How could anyone?’

  ‘Is that so much worse than what they did think?’

  ‘I would have thought life, at any cost … is better than death.’

  Maria looks at him with those appraising eyes–like a farmer assessing a horse for broken wind. She’ll never find a husband if she looks at all men like that, he thinks, irritated.

  ‘Perhaps the wolves saved them from a fate worse than death.’ The cliché sounds, in her mouth, like a bad joke.

  ‘You don’t really think so.’ He is surprised at his boldness in contradicting her.

  Maria shrugs. ‘A few years ago, two children here were drowned in the bay. It was a terrible accident. Their parents grieved, of course, but they are still alive. They seem happy enough now–as happy as any of us are.’

  ‘Perhaps it is lack of certainty that is so hard to bear.’

  ‘Which enables the unscrupulous to prey upon your hope, until you are sucked dry.’

  Donald is surprised again by the things she says. He dimly hears his father’s voice, saying in that lecturing tone of his, ‘The desire to shock is an infantile trait that should disappear with maturity.’ Yet Maria seems anything but immature. He reminds himself that he doesn’t need to agree with his father any more; they are on different continents.

  ‘Mr Sturrock does not appear to be a rich man,’ Donald says, in a sort of defence.

  Maria looks past Donald down the street, then looks at him with a smile. Her eyes, unlike Susannah’s, are blue. ‘Just because you like someone, doesn’t mean that you can trust them.’ And with a bob of the head–almost a mockery of a curtsey–she walks away from him.

  Donald spends the res
t of the afternoon and evening combing through Jammet’s possessions, but, like others before him, he can find nothing that seems of relevance to his death. The Frenchman’s worldly possessions are stacked in a dry part of the stables, and he and Jacob, who supervised the emptying of the cabin in the interests of security, have sorted them into boxes and piles. It all adds up to surprisingly little. Donald tries not to think about how little his colleagues would be sifting through if he were suddenly swept off this mortal coil. There would be nothing at all to indicate these new but enormously significant feelings for Susannah, for instance. He vows to himself to write to her the instant he leaves Caulfield–absurdly, since they are still in the same house, and since Donald has taken the decision to wait until Mackinley and Knox have returned before setting out on what is probably a wild goose chase, he could be here for another day or two.

  He will ask for a picture of her, or a keepsake. Not that he is planning on getting himself killed, of course. Just in case.

  When I was a girl, while my parents still lived, I was troubled by what were termed ‘difficulties’. I was seized with paralysing fears that rendered me incapable of movement, even of speech. I felt that the earth was sliding away from under me, and that I could not trust the ground beneath my feet–a terrifying feeling. Doctors took my pulse and stared into my eyes before saying that whatever it was, it would probably disappear with the onset of adulthood (by which I think they meant marriage). However, before this theory could be tested, my mother died in unclear circumstances. I believe she took her own life, although my father denied it. She had been taking laudanum, and an overdose killed her, whether intended or not. I was increasingly plagued by fears until my father could stand it no longer and had me placed in a–not to put too fine a point on it–mental asylum, although it had a fancy name to do with exhausted gentlefolk. Then he too died, leaving me at the mercy of the unscrupulous superintendent, and I ended up in a public asylum, which was at least honest enough to call itself what it was.

  In the public asylum laudanum was freely available. First prescribed for the crippling panics, it became the thing I relied on, taking the place of parents or friends. It was widely applied to quieten troublesome patients, but I soon realised that I preferred to be in charge of administering it myself, and had to resort to guile to get it. I found it easy to persuade male members of staff to do things for me, and the superintendent–an idealistic young man called Watson–I could wrap around my little finger. Once you become accustomed to a thing, you forget why you wanted it in the first place.