Stef Penney - The Tenderness of Wolves

Espen gives them all a big, confident grin, and walks off between the trees. His footsteps vanish into the silence. The other horse, Jutta, emits a long equine sigh.

It is interesting to note the ebb and flow of personnel at the post. The way people divide up, or are drawn together. Just from my own observation, it is evident that Olivier is not popular with the other employees. He sticks close to Stewart, runs errands for him, even apes some of his mannerisms. From the others, there is a sense of distance between white and non-white, and it is as though Olivier is a turncoat who has gone over to the other side. Initially I thought they respected Stewart, and were even fond of him. Now I’m not so sure. There is respect, but it is of a wary sort, the kind with which you might regard a potentially dangerous animal. Norah hates him, and while she presumably cares for Nesbit, she is equally rude to both. She treats Stewart with such insolence it makes me wonder if she holds some sort of power–otherwise I cannot imagine how she is allowed to get away with it. And a few times I have seen the pretty one–Nancy–in the corridor here. Since she does not appear to clean or serve, I wonder what she has been doing. Cooking, perhaps.

I am waiting for something to happen. Two hours have passed since the search party returned. I have been hovering between my room, the kitchen and the dining room–I keep finding petty things that need to be addressed, a lack of kindling (because I have thrown it outside), or spilt coffee. I am very unpopular with Norah as a result, but just after six o’clock I am rewarded by the sound of shouting from Stewart’s office. The raised voice belongs to Nesbit; it has a hysterical note.

‘For God’s sake, I keep telling you I don’t know! But it’s gone, there’s no doubt about it.’

Low murmuring from Stewart.

‘Christ, I don’t care. You promised! You’ve got to help me!’

Some more muttering–something about ‘carelessness’.

I am in the corridor, tiptoeing closer, praying to the god of creaking floorboards.

‘It has to be one of them. Who else would do that? And there’s something else … Half Man–you’ve got to keep better control of him.’

The murmuring gets even lower. For some reason, this chills me more than anything. I don’t dare go closer. What does Nesbit mean by ‘half a man’? Is he insulting Stewart? Or someone else?

Heavy footsteps approach the door. I scuttle past, and make the dining room door safely before anyone comes out. From his chair by the fire, Moody looks up as I come in.

‘Mrs Ross. There is something I would like to discuss with you …’

‘Just a moment …’ I put the coffeepot down. Outside, all seems to be quiet. ‘I’m sorry Mr Moody, I seem to have forgotten something. Excuse me a moment.’

His face droops in the narrowing rectangle as I close the door.

I walk back down the empty corridor. Stewart’s door is shut. I knock on it.

‘What is it?’ Nesbit’s voice. Very bad-tempered.

‘Oh, it is I, Mrs Ross. May I come in?’

‘I am rather busy right now.’

I open the door anyway. Nesbit looks up from the desk–I have the impression that he had just been sprawled forward over it; his face is sweaty and pale, his hair more dishevelled than ever. I feel a stirring of sympathy. I remember what it is like.

‘I said …’

‘I know, I am sorry. It is just that I feel terrible. I have broken the milk jug, I am so very sorry.’

Nesbit looks at me with a frown of mixed incomprehension and irritation. ‘For goodness sake, it really doesn’t matter. If you don’t mind …’

I take another step inside the room and close the door behind me. Nesbit flinches. There is a murderous look in his eye; a cornered animal.

‘Have you lost something? I know how vexing that can be. Perhaps I can help you?’

‘You? What are you talking about?’

But almost as soon as I closed the door, he got the idea. I have his full attention now.

‘Why would you assume I had lost anything?’

‘He keeps it for you, doesn’t he? He makes you beg.’

It is as though I have torn away a mask; his face is so white it is almost blue. His fists clench; he wants to strike me but he dares not.

‘Where is it? What have you done with it? Give it to me.’

‘I will give it back, if you tell me something.’

He frowns, but it gives him hope. He stands up and takes a step towards me, but doesn’t come too close.

‘Tell me who needs to be controlled. Who must not be spoken of?’

‘What?’

‘The first night, I heard you telling a woman not to speak of him. Who were you talking about? Just now, you told Stewart to keep better control of him. You said he was half a man. Who? Tell me who it is, and I will give it back.’

He deflates. His head turns this way and that. He half smiles. Something in him seems relieved.

‘Oh. We didn’t want Moody to find out. If it gets back to the Company … One of our men has gone mad. It’s Nepapanees. Stewart is trying to protect him, because of his family …’

‘Nepapanees? You mean he isn’t dead?’

Nesbit shakes his head.

‘He lives on his own, like a wild man. He was all right until a few weeks ago, but now he’s quite crazy. Maybe dangerous. It would mean terrible shame for his family. Stewart thought it better if they believed him dead.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s all. Ha …! I mean, it’s terrible.’

‘And he’s been away … hasn’t he, recently?’

‘He comes and goes.’

‘Three weeks ago …’

‘I don’t know where he goes. He returned about ten days ago.’

I don’t know what else to say. Or ask. He looks furtively at me. ‘Can I have it?’

For I moment I consider smashing the bottle on the floor, because something has gone wrong and I can’t put my finger on it.

‘Please.’ He takes another step towards me.

I pull it out of my pocket and hold it out: the bottle I took from beneath his mattress yesterday while he was with Moody. He grabs it, checks it to see if I’ve stolen any–a reflex, momentary action–then turns away and drinks from it. A remnant of dignity wanting to preserve some privacy. It takes a while for it to work that way, but perhaps he has no other. He remains in that position, staring at the curtains.

‘And where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. Far from here, I hope.’

‘Is this true?’

‘Yes.’

I can just see the bottle in his hand. What would I not give to take it from him, and drink?

He doesn’t look at me again. His voice is low, already composed again. It brings me back to myself. I leave him standing by the desk, his back to me, but with shoulders squared and defiant.

I walk back to the dining room. Nepapanees a madman. Nepapanees Jammet’s insane killer? This is, it seems, what I wanted to find. But I feel no triumph. No satisfaction. I don’t know what to think, but I can’t keep from my mind the picture of Elizabeth Bird, sitting in the snow, deliberately scalding her flesh out of grief.

Stewart comes to her house when they get back. He looks concerned, like a father with a wayward child; ready to be indulgent, but only up to a point.

‘Elizabeth, I am so sorry.’

She nods. It is easier than speaking.

‘I have been trying to think what might have happened. You found the place?’

She nods again.

‘I am sure his spirit will be at peace, wherever he is.’

Now she doesn’t nod. Murdered men do not lie in peace.

‘If you were worried … Of course you can stay here. You need not worry about your future. You will always have a home here, as long as you want.’

She is aware, without looking straight at him, of his horrid blue eyes, like the glinting bodies of flies that feed on carrion. He is looking intently at her, trying to sap her strength, trying to bend her to his will. Well she won’t look at him, she won’t make it easy. She makes a sideways movement of her head, hoping he will go away.