Slammerkin

  Grief was a pricey business. Before darkness he knew he would have to go down to Rhona Davies on Wye Street—the town's only dressmaker, now—to order mourning weeds for himself and the child, and the servants too. Then the house would have to be filled with drink and meat for the Watch. Not that he had any desire to invite the neighbours in to gawk all night at his wife's body, but that was how these things were done.

  Pain, obscure and tentative, in his leg. Not his real leg but the one the barber had cut off forty years ago. What had they done with that blackened limb, Thomas wondered now. Was it buried somewhere, maybe in the vegetable patch behind the old house on Back Lane? What he remembered was the sound of the saw skidding against the bone. And his boy's mind racing, then as now, full of plans and queries: What trade could I follow that doesn't need two legs? How will I make up for what I lack? And, ticking away in his childish heart, the real question: Oh Lord, how will you repay me?

  After dinner, when Abi had taken away his untouched plate, Mr. Jones let his eyes meet his daughter's for the first time. In her soft fat face, her eyes were so like her mother's. How could he never have noticed?

  'Fafa,' she said warily, 'where did Muda go?'

  The silence pulled them all together like a net. 'To heaven, child.' His words came out heavy with breath.

  A pause, as Hetta pressed her finger to a crumb and swallowed it. Mrs. Ash stared into her lap. Daffy scraped back his chair as if to leave the table. Then Hetta asked, 'Did she fall in the river?'

  The nurse took a sharp breath, as if to rebuke the child, but the master's answer came smoothly. 'No.'

  A longer pause. The three adults stared at the child as if she were a thundercloud coming their way.

  'Did a big rat eat her up?' she asked, playing the dreadful game.

  Mrs. Ash's hand shot out to cover Hetta's mouth, but her father got there first. His elbows strained against the tablecloth; he held her tiny face between his hands. His nose was almost touching hers. 'No, it wasn't a rat.'

  Hetta tried to nod. Her cheeks were squashed.

  'It was Mary Saunders killed her. Do you follow, child?'

  Mrs. Ash stirred in her chair as if her stomach pained her. 'Mr. Jones—'

  'Child?' he repeated. He had to be sure Hetta understood. Right now he didn't care if it appalled her; he needed to hear the truth spoken, and be sure his daughter knew it.

  'Our maid Mary?' asked Hetta, tears shuddering in her eyes.

  'That's right. Mary Saunders killed your mother dead.'

  And the child's face collapsed as if he'd punched it.

  'Tell us this, and quickly, did the black have a hand in it?'

  'No,' said Mary, before she understood what the constable meant.

  'The black claimed she found the body. She had a stain on her sleeve.'

  Mary caught a glimpse of escape. The lie that might save her; the syllable her life might hang on. Temptation opened like a chasm, dizzying. How easy it would be to give them what they wanted, to let them believe that Abi was at the back of it all...

  She was suddenly repelled by herself. Wasn't one killing enough for her? 'No,' she said, more firmly than before.

  The constable shook Mary like a rag. 'You'll get no benefit from shielding the heathen.'

  'I'm not. I'm not shielding anyone.'

  'Was it not the black's idea, at least?'

  'Abi did nothing. Said nothing.' Mary's words came out like gasps. 'I swear. She knew nothing. No one's to blame but me.'

  'A girl of sixteen?'

  'I've got the woman's blood all over me,' she shrieked then, flapping her heavy skirt at him. Blood browned to the colour of mud, in great arcs and puddles across the white velvet, the silver snakes, and apples. 'What more proof do you fools need?'

  Mary thought it would all be over quickly, after that. But as she waited in the basement of the courthouse, stripped down to her shift and a blanket, she came to realise her mistake. By the end of the morning she'd been committed for trial at the yearly assizes, but no one thought to tell her when that would be. There was no hurry, after all; she understood that now. She was not important.

  She'd never been out to Monmouth Gaol before; she'd never had cause. It was away up the Hereford Road. The constables took her in a wagon, with her elbows roped behind her. The wind made a tear run from her left eye. Her face itched. The wagon crawled past a few solidly built new houses, a couple of cottages. Then the town of Monmouth ran out, and there was nothing but bare land. Mary had the impression she was going into the wilderness, crossing into a country beyond time.

  And after all, what did it matter where she was taken? Her path had run out. Her story was told. What she thought of as her life had ended and there was nothing to take its place.

  The funeral was on the third day. There was a tremendous turnout that afternoon; Inch Lane was clogged with mourners. The Morgans sent their carriage to park at the corner of St. Mary's Street, as a mark of respect—though they didn't take the trouble to come in person, Mr. Jones noted bitterly. When the men had hoisted the coffin out of the narrow house, they put it down on the ground and set out beer and bread on it. It was Dai the Grinder who drew the short straw from Mr. Jones's clenched fist, and had to be the Sin Eater. He took a mouthful of the dry bread and washed it down with beer. Mr. Jones tossed him a sixpence; Dai picked it out of the mud. Then they all moved in to spit at him, and he pushed through the knotted crowd and shambled away. 'All my wife's sins go with the Sin Eater,' announced Mr. Jones loudly. He hoped the Devil could hear him. He hoped it was true.

  And who was to take away his own sins? What he couldn't forget, what he couldn't tell a soul in the world, was that May night behind the Crow's Nest, where he let his breeches down and gave in to the monster that lurked in the belly of every man. His mouth was full of dust now. Without his wife, what was Thomas Jones but an aging cripple, a one-legged buffoon, the dupe of a skinny young whore?

  No one could stop him lifting his corner of the coffin, along with his wife's three cousins and a nephew. He shed one crutch, and flattened his shoulder against the smooth beech. He knew he was impeding their progress. Every time he leaned on his crutch and swung forward, the coffin leaped as if something live was trying to get out. Sweat formed a spiked crown around the edge of Mr. Jones's wig. He'd lost all trust in his senses; he couldn't tell if the sky impaled on the spike of St. Mary's was grey or the earth underfoot was brown.

  The mort bell was tied to a yew outside the church. The Reverend Cadwaladyr was clanging it wildly as if warning of invasion. His face looked like raw meat. Had he been crying? He'd always been soft on Jane, her widower remembered.

  Chrysanthemums, dried to brown around their edges; the south corner of the churchyard was strewn with papery flowers from the last burial. There was little room left in the Jones plot on top of all the children's coffins. The men filed to the left now, the women to the right, just as they did in church. Mr. Jones took up his position like a pillar, beside the head-stone, which had a freshly chiselled verse.

  Here lie the bones

  of Jane Jones,

  murdered.

  He'd wanted something more than that. Something to begin to describe her: virtuous wife and beloved mother, or deeply mourned by all who knew her, or who by her uniformly estimable actions has earned eternal rest. Maybe even whose untimely death calls out to heaven for vengeance. But there wasn't much room on the stone, and every letter had its price, and Mrs. Ash had persuaded him that his wife wouldn't have liked extravagance. He had insisted, though, on having her trade emblems carved on—bobbin, bodkin, and shears—for all the mason had grumbled that it wasn't customary in the case of a woman.

  A chill breeze moved through the trees; the first whiff of autumn. 'Oh God,' recited Cadwaladyr gruffly from his broken-backed prayer-book, 'I believe that for just and wise reasons thou hast allotted to mankind very different states and circumstances of life, and that all the temporal evils which have at any time happened unto us, are
designed by thee for our benefit.'

  Mr. Jones heard the words, as he had many times before, and suddenly didn't believe them. What benefit to anyone was this particular temporal evil, this incongruous death? He fumbled in the recesses of his mind for his faith, but it was gone. He no longer believed that his Maker would recompense him for all his losses. The bank was empty.

  'Then the weary are at rest,' read Cadwaladyr, his dark circled eyes glancing up from the page, 'and the servant is free from his master.'

  But Jane was gone to the master from whom no one was ever set free, thought her widower. All round him, the people of Monmouth were joining in the old familiar prayers, but he was calling God new names, and not holy ones.

  Villain.

  Whoreson.

  Turd.

  The holy bargain made as the saw bit through the boy's leg had been broken.

  Then again, how could he prove that there'd ever been any such bargain? The Maker didn't speak, not in words. Not forty years ago, not now. What a fool that boy Thomas had been, to have mistaken God's silence for assent.

  The air roared in Mr. Jones's ears. The coffin was lowered now, all the way down, bumping against the others. He stepped up with the first handful of dirt. He threw it down hard, as if to wake his wife, or his Maker, or anyone at all to answer him.

  Poor man, thought Mrs. Ash. Pity was sugar under her tongue.

  It wasn't that she lacked feeling. She'd been crying on and off for three days and nights, ever since she first saw that purpled body on the kitchen floor. Her heartbeat was still rapid with the shock of the sight. To think of it! We know neither the day nor the hour. Of course she grieved for Mrs. Jones, who hadn't been the worst of mistresses, not by any means; the house would sound hollow without the light movement of her feet.

  What gall the Reverend Cadwaladyr had, standing up there as pious as a monk, when the shillings in his pocket came from pimping for a murderess! Nance Ash had trekked the five miles to the vicar's house yesterday, to tell him about his curate's shameful connection with the girl who'd killed Mrs. Jones. But to her mortification he'd told her that Cadwaladyr's actions as master of the Crow's Nest were not under the aegis of the Church—and that the case was bad enough without her meddling.

  But how comforting the curate's prayers were, still.

  For we must needs die,

  and are as water spilt on the ground,

  which cannot be gathered up again;

  neither does God respect any person.

  Nance Ash nodded her head at a pious angle. There was a hidden pattern, a reason for all this horror, even if most mortals were too blind to distinguish it.

  Behind her ribs was joy. A tiny, parched kernel, but joy nonetheless. Now was it come, the hour of her redemption? Now would the servant be granted her just reward?

  Well, Mr. Jones would need looking after, she argued with herself. The man would really have to marry again, for his own sake as well as the child's. A virtuous woman, someone old enough to share his burdens. But still young enough, perhaps, to bear his son.

  Nance Ash's heart was thumping. She was only half-ashamed to allow these thoughts so soon. She cradled them to her breast. Head bowed, she prayed that good might come out of evil. She cast a glance at Mr. Jones, and nibbled her lips to make them redder.

  The gravediggers stood by the door for spade money. The mourners, filing out, gave more than they could afford, as a mark of respect.

  Daffy hung back till everyone was gone, fingering the little paper bag in his pocket. He shivered in the chill of the empty church. For three days he'd felt as if he had a fever. To have had connection with a murderess—to have come within a whisker of marrying a monster—Once more he shut his eyes and thanked his Maker.

  The Skyrrid soil in the bag was damp. He scattered a handful on the coffin in the open grave, so his poor mistress would rest easy. Not all of it, mind; he saved a good sprinkle, in case his cough came back this winter. You should always hold a little in reserve, he knew; you never could be sure what evils lay ahead.

  Outside in the sun, he was brushing the mountain dust off his hands when he sensed someone walking by his side. Blonde hair, pink freckled skin. He stared at his cousin Gwyn. It had been months since they'd exchanged a word.

  'Daffy,' she murmured.

  'Gwyneth. A fine crowd,' he added, to get them past the awkward silence.

  Her knotted hair was full of light. She nodded, her pale eyes low. 'She was well thought of, your mistress.'

  'I never served a better,' said Daffy.

  After a little silence, Gwyn said, 'They caught the girl, I heard.'

  'Aye.' His walk slowed; he felt sick.

  'You must have known her as well as anyone,' said his cousin, letting her curiosity show.

  He gave a small, exhausted shrug.

  'Would you ever have thought it of her?' she asked, eyes shining.

  Daffy started to shake his head, then stopped. 'Now I think of it,' he said unwillingly, 'there was always something about her.'

  Gwyn's sky-blue eyes widened. 'Vicious?'

  'No, no.' He considered the matter as he walked a little nearer to the girl's side. 'But something more than a maid needs. She was ... troublesome.'

  Gwyn allowed the pause to lengthen. 'I heard a thing,' she murmured.

  'Oh?'

  'That she'd, you know, more than one way of turning a penny.'

  'I never heard that,' said Daffy, his eyes on the crowd that stretched ahead of them. Then he turned and looked at his cousin hard. 'What do you mean, exactly?'

  She went the loveliest shade of salmon pink. 'I don't know any details.' He could always tell when she was lying. 'But something to do with a tavern. And travellers.'

  Daffy shut his eyes for a second and suddenly could see her, Mary Saunders, cider tankard in hand, going down to the Crow's Nest every other night in all weathers to do Mrs. Jones a favour. Her black eyes, her long stride. Of course. His skin burned with embarrassment. For all the books in his possession, he still failed to read the stories written plain as day in the faces of the people around him.

  It didn't matter now. He had to change the subject before he gave himself away. He turned his eyes on Gwyn, her mild curves in her patched lavender gown. He might as well take his last good look now, before Jennett the Gelder got his stinking hands on her. 'So. Is your day set?' he asked, as civilly as he could manage.

  'My day?'

  Like a child with a scab, he knew he should leave it alone. But he went on. 'The date of—of your—'

  She interrupted him before he had to say the word. 'Oh, no.'

  'No?' he repeated, his voice high and bewildered.

  'That's all off,' said Gwyn.

  Daffy stopped dead.

  Her cheeks were burning pink again. 'Jennett's off to Norwich,' she said, 'to marry a widow with a bakery.'

  Daffy nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. A spark landed on the kindling of his heart, rested and glowed. He felt inflammable. He felt as if any minute now he might fall down in the street with excitement.

  Without risking any more words, they walked together up the street as far as the Joneses', where Daffy's master stood like a lightning-struck tree, accepting condolences from neighbours.

  Abi didn't attend the funeral. When Rhona Davies had arrived to measure the family for mourning weeds, Abi had stayed in her room and wouldn't come down. So now she watched the procession from the attic window.

  She'd heard Mr. Jones talk to Hetta of heaven, but those stories were for children. What would happen was, Mrs. Jones would be put in a hole in the churchyard and her spirit would go into the mud. When Abi died, on the other hand, she knew she'd be going back to her own country. Sometimes she longed for it: the bright heat, the wet colours. Always supposing her spirit would be able to find its way.

  In the lane behind the house, men were killing a pig; Abi waited for the screeching to end. Every year this sound told her that the long winter was coming and the st
ock had to be cut down. When she breathed in she caught a waft of the tanning pits in the back lane; fresh pig skins were beginning their slow decay to leather. Meat had to be salted for the fasting season. Soon the birds would be circling overhead, preparing their flight.

  Time to go.

  Just as Mr. Jones stumbled into his house and shut the front door on the crowd, Abi was slipping out the back way. Under her left arm she held the bag Mary Saunders had left behind her in their bedroom, filled with bright and gauzy clothes that Abi had never seen Mary in; she thought they must be what women wore in London.

  Hidden down her leather stays was the five pounds in silver the Quakers had given her, after considering the matter in silence during a month of meetings. She'd asked Daniel Flyte when he and his Society would expect to be paid back, and he had smiled peculiarly, and said, 'Not in this life.'

  Terror tightened now like a brass collar round her neck.

  Would she be pursued? She couldn't tell. It all depended on Mr. Jones. He might be too slumped in mourning to think about anything but his wife—but then again, he might take Abi's desertion as another treachery, and call in the professional slave-catchers from Bristol to bring her back in fetters. If there were pursuers, she thought they would probably expect her to take John Niblett's wagon to London. Instead she was going to catch a boat at Chepstow, go down the Severn and around the coast. She had prepared all the sentences she'd need to say. I go on master's business. Passage to London, please. I have money here. The Quakers had drawn her a map; she couldn't read the words on it, but she could point to the right roads.