Stef Penney - The Tenderness of Wolves

He began to feel a dull ache in his gut, and to notice how cold he was. The game forgotten, the players stood around awkwardly, lighting their pipes. But Donald met Susannah’s eyes, which were full of concern, and found that he no longer cared about the outcome of the match, or whether he had displayed rugged and manly qualities, or even that his lifeblood was now seeping through his capote, turning it brown. He was in love.

The wound had the strange outcome of making Jacob his undying friend. He had come to Donald’s bedside the day after the match, in tears, expressing his deep and terrible regret. It was drink that had made him do it; he had been possessed by the bad spirit, and he would atone for the injury by personally looking after Donald for as long as he remained in the country. Donald was touched, and when he smiled his forgiveness and held out his hand, Jacob smiled back. It was perhaps the first real smile of friendship he had seen in this country.

Donald staggers when he slides off his horse and tries to stamp some circulation back into his limbs. He is unwillingly impressed by the size and elegance of the house they have come to; especially thinking of Susannah, and how much more unattainable it makes her. But Knox smiles warmly at them when he comes out, then looks with ill-concealed alarm at Jacob.

‘Is this your guide?’ he asks.

‘This is Jacob,’ Donald says, feeling heat rise in his cheeks, but Jacob doesn’t seem offended.

‘A great friend of Moody’s,’ puts in Mackinley waspishly.

The magistrate is puzzled, since he is almost certain the last time he saw the man he was sticking a knife into Donald’s guts. He assumes he is mistaken.

Knox tells them what he knows and Donald takes notes. It doesn’t take long to write down the known facts. Tacitly they know there is no hope of finding the perpetrator unless someone saw something, but someone always sees something in a community like this; gossip is the lifeblood of small country places. Donald stacks fresh paper on top of his notes and straightens it with an efficient tap as they get up to visit the scene of the crime. He is not looking forward to this part and hopes he won’t disgrace himself by becoming nauseous, or–he tortures himself by imagining the worst possible outcome–what if he were to burst into tears? He has never seen a dead body before, not even his grandfather. Though this is unlikely, he imagines with an almost pleasurable horror the teasing he would endure. He would never live it down; he would have to return to Glasgow incognito, probably live under another name …

Thus engaged, the journey to the cabin passes in a flash.

News travels fast these days, thinks Thomas Sturrock. Even where there are no roads or railways, news, or its nebulous cousin rumour, travels like lightning over vast distances. It is a strange phenomenon, and one that might benefit from the attention of a diligent mind such as his. A short monograph, perhaps? The Globe or the Star might be interested in such an item, if it were amusing.

He has allowed himself to think, on occasion over the past few years, that he has become even more prepossessing with age. His hair is silver, swept back from a high and elegant forehead, worn slightly long and curling round his ears. His coat is old-fashioned but well cut and rather rakish, of a dark blue that echoes his eyes, no dimmer now than thirty years ago. His trousers are natty. His face is finely made and hawk-like, agreeably honed with outdoor living. There is a spotted and cloudy mirror hanging on the wall opposite, and it reminds him that, even in these straitened circumstances, he is a rare figure of a man. This secret vanity, which he grants himself rarely as a small (and, more importantly, free) pleasure, makes him smile at himself. ‘You are undoubtedly a ridiculous old man,’ he silently tells his reflection, sipping cold coffee.

Thomas Sturrock is engaged in his usual occupation–that of sitting in slightly shabby coffeehouses (this one is called the Rising Sun), making one cup of coffee last an hour or two. The musing about news and rumour have come from somewhere, he realises, when he finds that he is listening to a conversation being carried on behind him. Not eavesdropping–he would never stoop to such a thing–but something has caught his wandering mind and now he tries to work out what it was that hooked him … Caulfield, that was it, someone mentioned the name Caulfield. Sturrock, whose mind as well as his dress sense is as sharp as it ever was, knows someone who lives there, although he has not seen them for a while.

‘They said you’d never seen anything like it. Drenched in blood, all up the walls and everything … must have been Indian raiders …’

(Well, no one can be blamed for listening to a conversation like that.)

‘Left to rot in his cabin … had been there for days. Flies crawling over him, thick as a blanket. Imagine the smell.’

The companion agrees.

‘No reason for it, nothing was stolen. Killed in his sleep.’

‘Christ, we’ll be getting as bad as the States next. Wars and revolutions every five minutes.’

‘Could have been one of those deserters, couldn’t it?’

‘Traders ask for trouble, dealing with all sorts … Foreign, apparently, so you never know …’

‘What are we coming to …’

Etc. Etc.

At this point, Sturrock’s attention, already keen, sharpens still further. After a few more minutes of desultory doom-mongering, he can hold out no longer.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen …’

There are looks that he chooses to ignore as he turns to the two men: commercial travellers, judging from their cheap but ostentatious dress and generally low-class demeanour.

‘I do apologise. I know what a terrible bore it is when strangers butt in on one’s conversation, but I have a personal interest in what you have just been discussing. You see, I have some business with a trader who lives near Caulfield, and I couldn’t help noticing you describing–very graphically–a particularly shocking and tragic occurrence. Obviously I could not help but become concerned at such a story, and I only hope that it doesn’t involve my acquaintance …’

The two commercial travellers, both dull-witted men, are rather set on the back foot by such eloquence, not often heard within the walls of the Rising Sun. The storyteller recovers first, and glances down at Sturrock’s cuff, which is dangling over the back of his chair. Sturrock instantly recognises the look, combined with a downwards tilt of the head, a short meditative pause, and then back to Sturrock’s face. The man has just calculated the likelihood of financial gain from selling what information he has to this man–not great, from the state of the cuff, although the East Coast Yankee voice might be good for something. He sighs, but the natural delight in passing on bad news wins out.

‘Near Caulfield?’

‘Yes, I believe he lives on a small farm or something, the place is called something River … a bird or an animal, some such name.’

Sturrock remembers the name perfectly well, but he wants to hear it from them.

‘Dove River.’

‘Yes, that’s it. Dove River.’

The man glances at his companion. ‘This trader. Is he a Frenchie?’

Sturrock feels the coldness of shock clench his spine. The two men see it in his face. Nothing more needs to be said.

‘A Frenchie trader in Dove River was murdered. I don’t know if there’s more than one such there.’

‘I don’t think there is. You didn’t … hear a name by any chance?’

‘Not that I remember off the top of my head–something French, is all I recall.’

‘The name of my acquaintance is Laurent Jammet.’

The man’s eyes light up with pleasure. ‘Well I’m sorry, I truly am, but I think that was the name that was mentioned.’