Jane Steele(31)
“What I mean to say is, we hated Mr. Munt—every student, better than half the teachers, the domestics. Isn’t it much more likely that someone he wronged took revenge?”
“He ought to have been at the sermon during that time,” I insisted, abruptly no longer amused, “so it would have been the perfect occasion to burgle his sanctum. It was a complete accident that he was present at all. Someone else was there, someone up to no good, and Mr. Munt caught them.”
My words skated so close to truth telling that I sliced my eyes to Clarke; shrugging, she nodded.
“You’re probably right, but I’m right too—that person could have been any of us.”
I pretended to ponder this theory—as if I were upset at the implication that such a monster could hide in the skin of a young girl or a teacher undetected, when in fact I was upset at the fact we could at any moment be dragged back by our hair. The village inn rose before us, half-timbered and sagging at the roof like the shoulders of an ancient farmer, a comfortable pile of lumber emitting a faint aroma of meat pie. Clarke sagged in concert with the building, swallowing audibly in her ravenous state, even as I stiffened.
“What is it?”
“An idea,” said I, gazing with impetuous hope at the vehicle resting on the cobbles. “Come along, we’re filling you with a hot meal.”
As Vesalius Munt was only my second murder, in the immediate aftermath I imagined that a black reaction would set upon me with razor teeth; such was not the case, however. My mind was piercingly clear, and I recognised the shabby manure-spattered coach which had carried me to purgatory at age nine as soon as I glimpsed it, thinking, Here—if we are very lucky—perhaps is an ally.
The instant we entered the tavern, Clarke leaning weakly against my arm, I spied him: Nick, the driver who had conveyed me here so long ago. Swiftly, I ushered us to a table. A cheerful wench wearing an apron which perhaps had been used to muck out the stables previous to dinner service grunted at my order and, upon her departure, I leant across the table to grasp Clarke’s frail hands.
“Eat your curry when it arrives, slowly. I need to speak with someone.”
“Who could you possibly know here?” Clarke asked, but I was already striding towards the coachman.
Nick sat, nursing a pint, staring at grooves carved in the bar by time and dissolution. The same forces had done a workmanlike job with his face, for his mouth was bordered by stark crevasses, and his oncered nose had abandoned its unheeded alarums and subsided to a sulky yellow.
“Nick, I think.” I nearly coughed at the ripe cloud surrounding him. His boots were worn, which gave me hope, and his fingernails were cracked. “It’s a long time ago we met, but I hope you—”
“I dun’t know ye,” he slurred, slurping at the beer. “I live on the highway, Lunnon to Manchester, Manchester to Lunnon, picking up fares. Never a respit’, never two nights i’ the same bloody place. Unless yer a sprite after hauntin’ my carriage, and ye look a sprite right enough, by Jesus, I dun’t—”
“You brought me here when I was a girl. I gave you a potted rabbit luncheon I couldn’t eat for nerves.”
“Chestnut—he’s a horse, mind—knows me better than me own pillow, us having spent considerable more time together, and I’ve never clapped eye on ye before. I tell ye, I never stop moving—”
“‘The world is a hard place, and I live in it alone,’” I whispered.
Flinching, Nick narrowed red-rimmed eyes at me. “By George,” he husked at length. “Is that ye in the flesh, then? The wee miss wi’ the tragic eyes I dun brought here from Highgate House? Yer alive?”
“And in need of your help.”
Nick spat, recalling to my mind his alacrity at this skill. “Help, ye say? What daft breed o’ thickheaded are—”
“I gave you a basket full of food once. Now I’ll pay you six shillings to carry my friend and me to London.”
“Stomached enough o’ Lowan Bridge, then?” he puzzled, wiping his brow with his wrist.
“You couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate phrase.”
“And now I’m meant to risk my hide when Vesalius Munt hasn’t let a charge disappear in nigh—”
“He’s dead.” My eyes brimmed—for myself and Clarke, for dread of shackles and scaffolds. “There will be no consequences to you, Nick, upon my honour.”
Were I to picture my honour, I imagine it might resemble a less attractive than usual tadpole; Nick owned no inkling of this, however, and his bleary eyes boggled.
“Mr. Munt dead? The shite-arsed bastard what bilks the factory lads from here to three counties hence?”
“Bilks them?”
“Bilks them!” Nick cried, livening at last. “Aye, he never delivers a meal at discount save he’s less ten portions promised. Says as benefactors can’t give beyond their means or they’d turn paupers themselves! I’d love to see that feller stuck through the—”
“Someone beat you to it. Oh, please, Nick! We can’t go back, and you know how hard the world is.”
Nick considered, thoughtfully gathering spittle. I thought then that kindness had not deserted him, and I think now that he needed my money, for he did not look well. We are all of us daily decaying, after all; the speed is our only variant.