The Essex Serpent(36)

‘Ah – Mr Cracknell!’ she said: ‘Certainly I’ve heard of you, and of your loss last night. I am sorry – a sheep, was it?’

‘Sheep, she says! Sheep!’ He chuckled, and looked about for someone to share in her stupidity, and finding only the jay-winged angels above him bellowed at them ‘Sheep!’ and laughed a little longer. Then he stopped, as if remembering something, and leaned forward to grasp her by the elbows. His voice dropped, so that quite unconsciously she leaned in to hear him better: ‘They’ve told you then? They’ve told you and you listened well? About what’s out there in the Blackwater by moonlight and lately I’m given to understand by daylight, too, since it was noon when the St Osyth boy got taken and no clouds passing? They’ve told you, and you’ve seen it yourself perhaps, heard it perhaps, smelt it perhaps, like what’s on my coatskin now and on your skin also I’ll be bound …’ He drew nearer; his breath had on it both fish and decay; he pressed her deeper back into the shadows. ‘Oh I see you know, Oh I see you know: you’re afraid aren’t you? You dream of it, you listen for it, you wait for it, you hope for it …’ and having struck truth where he least expected it brought his mouth very close to her and crooned: ‘Oh what bit of wickedness it is, knowing the judgment’s coming and knowing there’s nowhere to hide and in the end you hope for it don’t you, you hope for it, you can endure it so long as you see it – might it be here now even, you think, having crept up over the threshold while we all bent our heads?’ The shadows thickened – the air grew chill – from a little distance Cora heard William Ransome’s voice; she searched for him, and could not find him. Cracknell swayed before her, obscuring her vision, crooning ‘Oh he don’t see it, he don’t feel it, he can’t help – no good looking over there, no good’ll come of that.’

‘Let me go,’ said Cora, touching her scarred neck, recalling what she’d said to the rector as they’d sat together where she stood now: I know punishment, I’ve learned how to stand it. Was it punishment she sought – had Michael so mistreated her she hoped for others to do the same – was she malformed now, misshapen, having been pressed and moulded so long? Or was it really that she’d sold her soul and must honour the transaction? ‘Let me go,’ she said, and put her hand on the pew to steady herself, and found it wet. Her hand slipped; she stumbled against Cracknell and felt the oily pelt of his coat, with its reek of salt and oyster – he stumbled also, and in steadying himself raised up his arms; his long coat opened and spread and showed its leather lining, black, greasy, with the flap of wings. ‘Let me go!’ she said, and the door opened, and there stood Joanna at the threshold, letting in the light, and Martha with her, and they were saying ‘Who shut the door? Who let the door shut?’ – and Cracknell fell into the pew, saying that really he was ever so sorry, only it had been a troublesome few months, what with the one thing and the other. ‘I’m coming,’ called Cora, then saying it again to be certain her voice came without breaking: ‘I’m coming, and we’d better rush, if we’re going to catch our train.’

Stella stood at the rectory window, watching children cross the common and hide between the branches of Traitor’s Oak. She’d coughed for much of the night, and slept very little, dreaming when she did that someone had come to her room and painted everything blue. The walls had been blue, and so had the ceiling; in place of the carpet were blue tiles vivid with light from the window. The sky had been blue, and so were the leaves of the trees, which bore blue fruit. She had woken distressed to find the same old roses on the wallpaper, and the same old cream linen curtains, and sent James out to pick bluebells from the garden. These she ranged on the windowsill with violets she’d pressed and dried in early spring, and the stem of lavender Will had once put on her pillow. She felt a little hot, though not unpleasantly; and while the bells tolled she carried out a ritual of her own. Touching each bloom with her thumb she said, singingly, over and over, ‘Lapis, cobalt, indigo, blue,’ but later could not explain why.





II

TO USE HIS BEST ENDEAVOUR





APRIL





George Spencer

c/o The George Hotel

Colchester

1st April

Dear Mr Ambrose

As you see, I write from an aptly named establishment in Colchester, where I’m staying for a time with Dr Luke Garrett, who you may recall introduced us last autumn at a dinner in Foulis Street given by the late Michael Seaborne.

I hope you will forgive my writing to you, and seeking your advice. When we met, we spoke briefly about recent Acts of Parliament designed to improve living conditions for the working classes. If I remember correctly, you expressed dismay at the lack of speed with which the Acts are being made into policy.

In recent months I’ve had an opportunity to learn a little more about the problem of London housing, in particular the crippling rents imposed by absentee landlords. I understand that the work of philanthropic charities (such as the Peabody Trust, for example) is of growing importance in combating the problem of over-crowding, poor accommodation and homelessness.

I am keen to find appropriate ways to make use of the Spencer Trust – I know my father anticipated that I’d do more than simply fund an extravagant lifestyle – and I am very anxious to secure advice from those more knowledgeable than me on how this might be done. I am sure you are already fully aware of the issues, but nonetheless I enclose a leaflet from the London Metropolitan Housing Committee for information.