James Blaylock - The Aylesford Skull

“I’m a-going on into the marsh,” he said, “now that you’re settled.”

She nodded at him, recognizing the look in his eye – the same squint that he had worn when he was laying into Lord Moorgate with his fists, and although she admired his resolve, she feared it as well. She saw the pistol in his hand now, with a long barrel, a wicked looking thing. “You’ll take care of yourself, Bill? You’re no good to me nor anyone else if you’re shot dead or if you’re taken up for shooting someone else.”

“I’m no good to myself if I don’t do what I must, Mother.” He stepped out into the hallway, then turned back to the room and said, “You’re a good woman, and I’m main glad to have found you.”

Before she could answer he shut the door quietly. She listened to his footsteps dwindle away down the hall. His words remained in her mind, however. There was something doomful about them, as if he had said what couldn’t wait, because there mightn’t be a chance to say it if he waited.

Here she sat, soaking her corns. Yesterday morning she had lain in the darkness in just this same condition, knowing that she must act, but not acting, as if she were a thing of clockwork that had wound down. Her goal had changed somewhat, but it was equally urgent. It was true that Kraken was now acting for her, and he was a capable man, but that didn’t make the pill go down any easier.

She soaked her feet until the water grew cold, and then dried them, mopped up the floor with the towel, and pitched the cold water out the back window onto the lawn below, surprising two goats that were cropping grass. She saw the ostler at work near the stable, and thought of the coach into Strood and then on to Maidstone, which was next door to Aylesford, no great distance to the south.

Her corns felt tip-top now, all things considered, and she regretted having stayed behind. The wild idea came into her mind that she might catch up with Bill if she hurried – except that he had a half hour’s start and would be moving quickly. Probably he was already making his way north through the tunnels that he had spoken of. She couldn’t abide the idea of going into a tunnel at any rate – spiders and bats, no doubt, and eternal darkness. The very thought of it brought her dreams back into her mind, and she slammed the door on them.

Resigned to her fate, she took up the quill and turned to the paper and ink, thinking hard about what she meant to write. Plain speaking was best – no false hope. Language , she thought, was as often as not meant to deceive as to speak the truth, but there could be no deception here . She wouldn’t be guilty of the crime of euphemism.

Mrs. St. Ives, she wrote. We’ve never met, and yet we’re thrown together, perhaps by fate, if it’s fate you believe in. I believe in something more than that, which is helping oneself, if only I can find a way. We both have a son named Edward, and the man that murdered my son is the same man who has taken yours. We have a bond, I mean to say, and I must share with you what I know. I’m writing to tell you that last night I saw your boy Eddie, and he was unhurt. He’s still in the hands of the man you know as Narbondo, who is feeding him and treating him well for all I could see. I tried to take Eddie back and failed, and we’re now looking for Narbondo in the Cliffe Marshes, where he’s gone to ground, perhaps to further his schemes. It’s my belief that he’ll return to London, and soon. Bill Kraken is in the marsh now searching for him. You know Bill, I believe, and so you know he’s a good man, who would die for any one of us. I was told that Professor St. Ives came into London, but I don’t know his whereabouts. There’s a very marvelous boy, too, who is doing his part and has the gumption to prevail. We’re all of us hard at work, is what I mainly wanted to say, with saving your boy Eddie as our one contentious goal. If it comes into your mind to go into London, you can get word of me and what I’ve learned from my dear friend Mabel Morningstar, who lives above the Ship Tavern, Lime Street, the City.

Your friend and neighbor, Harriet Laswell of Hereafter Farm, writing from the Chalk Horse Inn, Cliffe Village.

She reread it, was satisfied with the missive, and went downstairs to ask the innkeeper about the post, thinking to buy a penny stamp and post the letter straight into Aylesford, to Hereafter Farm. “I’m in a great hurry,” she told him.

He shook his head. “Aylesford, ma’am? Sure enough it’s close by, but the post is roundabout, you see, what with the sorting and sending on. I doubt it’ll reach Aylesford for days.”

“That won’t do,” she said, disappointed. “It’ll be of no consequence then.”

“Send it with the coach, ma’am. It’s due any moment. I don’t mean to come it too high, but a few shillings might speed your letter on its way directly. It puts in at the Chequers in Aylesford, you know.”

“Splendid,” she said. “Can you lend me a slip of paper and a pen?”

“Certainly, ma’am.” The man found the items and laid them on the countertop, where she jotted down a quick note, waved the ink dry, and folded it.

She brought out a half crown and two shillings from her purse and pushed the coins toward him. “If you could just ask the coachman to give the shillings to young Sweeney, at the Chequers. He’s to run the letter and this note out to Hereafter Farm and pass it on to the boy Simonides. The half crown he’s to keep for himself, with my thanks.”

“That’s generosity, ma’am. He’ll do it happily enough, will old Bob.”

Mother Laswell trudged back up the stairs to her room. With luck, and if Simonides did his part, Alice might play her hand yet, although God knew what cards she would come to hold. “A mother should know,” Mother Laswell muttered, worried now that Alice might end up coming to harm. She frowned at the sudden doubt. Life was like a stage play, with something doomful waiting in the wings to put in its appearance on stage. “For good or ill,” she told herself out loud, “a mother should know.”

She settled herself in her chair and picked up Mrs. Gaskell, hearing the coach rattle into the yard before she’d read to the bottom of the second page. She laid the book down, distracted with anticipation over the letter, and went to the window, seeing that the goats were still engaged in their supper. A man and woman descended from within the coach, along with old Bob, the coachman, who walked in through the back door of the inn while the stable boy stood with the horses. Two minutes later she was happy to see the door open again. A man came out – a commercial traveler, from the look of him – followed by the coachman, who was apparently a slave to his pocket watch. The passenger climbed in through the door, held open by the stable boy, and the coachman climbed up onto his seat, and without any delay the coach rattled away down the road. It came into Mother Laswell’s mind that she had saved a penny on the stamp, although at the cost of a crown and two shillings. She smiled at the thought, and at the relief of having accomplished something.

The back door of the inn opened again, and the innkeeper stepped out, followed by another man – the man who had been sitting on the bench next to the lending library. His back was to her again, and she willed him to turn around so that she could see his face. Instantly he did her bidding, or so it seemed, for he looked in the direction of the departed coach, and in that moment she knew him – the man Fred, he of the ravaged face, who along with his friend Coker had escorted her out of Angel Alley last night. He glanced upward now, as if he saw her watching, and she moved out of sight. Moments later she risked another look, but he was gone, and so was the innkeeper, the yard empty of life aside from the two insatiable goats.