Black Wreath (6 page)

Nine

The Pursuit

V
andeleur and McAllister ran, panic-stricken, back towards the safety of the college. For a moment, James felt he should stay and explain that what had happened was an unfortunate accident. But who would believe him? Instead, he backed away quickly, slipped into a laneway and walked back towards the college, making sure no one noticed him.

Vandeleur and McAllister had run down Dame Street and hadn’t dared stop until the night porter had admitted them into the college. They’d run on towards Library Square and only when they had gained it did they come to a standstill.

‘I think we’re safe,’ Vandeleur said, his breath coming in desperate gasps. ‘No one there knew us’.

McAllister nodded, out of breath. His face was white, the horror of what they had done only now beginning to dawn on him. ‘Is he dead, do you think?’

‘Indubitably,’ Vandeleur replied, not entirely without satisfaction.

McAllister groaned. ‘If only we hadn’t brought these damned swords!’ He looked down and found that his coat was spattered with bloodstains.

‘Quickly,’ he shouted at Vandeleur. ‘We must hurry!’

They ran to McAllister’s room, where the young student immediately began to wipe at the stains on his clothes. Vandeleur, now that the initial excitement had abated, was less hurried; he seemed to want to contemplate the fruit of his actions a bit longer. When James arrived, he was dispatched to fetch hot water to try to remove the blood from their clothes. When he came back, Vandeleur still had made no attempt to clean his weapon. James looked at it with horror. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened.

‘My dear fellow,’ Vandeleur was drawling to McAllister. ‘I’m sure he was a man of no account. I don’t know why you’re troubling yourself.’

‘He was a man!’ McAllister shouted at him. ‘Isn’t that enough? We have taken a man’s life?’

Vandeleur shrugged.

James asked leave to speak.

Vandeleur glared at him. ‘Why do you keep this wretch?’

‘Oh shut up, Vandeleur. Yes, James, speak up.’

‘Did you meet anyone in the tavern? Did you talk to anyone?’

‘I can’t remember,’ McAllister said.

‘Did anyone see you leave?’

‘Only the dead man,’ McAllister said.

‘And he won’t be giving evidence to anyone,’ Vandeleur said, a smile on his face.

As he said this, the blood drained suddenly even farther from McAllister’s already pale face.

‘Oh my God!’

‘What is it?’ Vandeleur looked up.

‘
Quis separabit
!
Quis separabit
!’ McAllister’s words came out in a near-shriek.

‘Ah,’ Vandeleur said. He looked slightly less composed now. ‘Our names on the table, carved for all to see.’

James saw at once how serious the situation was.

‘There’s no time to lose,’ he said. ‘Once anyone remembers you were there and sees your names, this is the first place they’ll come looking. Who else but students would carve their names like that?’

‘With a Latin inscription to boot,’ McAllister acknowledged. ‘We’re doomed, then.’ He sagged visibly, all animation banished from his features.

‘You should go now,’ James said. ‘You should both go. And you shouldn’t be seen together.’

‘Go where?’ Vandeleur snarled at James, but before James had a chance to reply there was a sudden commotion on the cobbles below. James rushed to the window. He saw four sheriff’s men in the square outside, the college porter with them. They were making for the entrance to the building where Vandeleur’s rooms were.

‘They’re here,’ he said.

Vandeleur ran to the window and when he saw where they had gone his habitual composure seemed to desert him. ‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘this is very inconvenient. Why on earth are they taking such trouble?’ He became agitated as he furiously tried to work out the best course of action.

For a moment, James thought he might brazen it out and march up to them, but Vandeleur clearly wasn’t as foolish as he sometimes seemed.

‘I think a spell away from college is called for,’ he said and, after the briefest of farewells, disappeared down the stairs.

James gathered up the two swords that were still on the floor.

‘I’ll put these in the attic, but in the meantime, sir, you will have to conceal yourself. I’ll tell them you have not returned.’

With that, James raced upstairs to the attics and hid the swords in a roll of old carpet in a dusty corner, then raced back down. As he reached the landing outside McAllister’s room he heard footsteps on the stairs below. He rushed into the room. McAllister stood frozen by the bed, an abject statue, rooted to the spot by fear. James had already chosen him a hiding place in his mind’s eye as he was hiding the swords. On the wall beside McAllister’s bed hung a large tapestry from his father’s estate, a hunting scene, perhaps intended to remind him of home as he fell asleep. James had helped McAllister put it up. There was an alcove set in the wall, where the student had kept books and various personal effects, but there had been nowhere else to put the tapestry, so in the
end McAllister had cleared out the alcove and they’d hung the tapestry over it.

‘You never know,’ James had said with a grin, ‘You might need a secret place to store things.’ He hadn’t thought that the secret thing would be McAllister himself.

‘Quickly,’ he said now, pulling the tapestry aside. ‘Get in and squeeze yourself as far back as you are able.’

McAllister mutely obeyed and climbed into the narrow space, and James smoothed over the tapestry as best he could, praying that the searchers’ curiosity wouldn’t extend to it.

The door burst open and the sheriff’s men came thumping in, swords at the ready, followed by the porter.

‘Where is he?’ the first of the sheriff’s men panted. He was quite out of breath from all his running, and the others weren’t much better.

‘Who are you?’ one of the men asked, pointing his blade at James’s chest, but James remained calm.

‘Do you mean Master McAllister? He went out about an hour ago. He said he wouldn’t be back until late this evening. He said he wanted to see the puppets in the Capel Street playhouse. I am his skivvy.’

‘Puppets? Did you say puppets?’ This information seemed to enrage the four swordsmen. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea.

‘I’ll give him puppets when I see him!’ the first said. With that, he lunged at the bed with his sword and ran the blade through the mattress, then ran the pillow through for good measure, scattering feathers all over the room. The other men
began to search every corner, running the curtains through, emptying the clothes chest and spilling out McAllister’s waistcoats, hose, smallclothes, wig, a hat, and various papers on the floor. They examined the papers. ‘Poetry!’ one of them said in disgust.

They lifted the rug from the floor and examined the floorboards; they scanned the ceiling, opened books and flung them to the ground.

James could feel the sweat sticking to the back of his shirt. He forced himself to stay calm in the maelstrom of searching and destruction. He kept his eyes away from the wall where the tapestry hung, terrified that even a glance might lead them to the hiding place.

‘Nice picture,’ he heard one of the men say suddenly, and his blood ran cold.

‘Hunting,’ another said. ‘Very fitting. We’ll run him to ground and no mistake, and someone can make a picture of that.’

‘Does your master carry a sword?’ one of the men asked abruptly.

As the sheriff’s men turned their attention away from the tapestry, James nearly wept with relief.

‘The carrying of swords is forbidden by the provost,’ the porter said, speaking for the first time. James noted that he was eyeing the sheriff’s men with some distaste. He looked James straight in the eye, and James saw something he couldn’t quite interpret, a slight narrowing of the eyes, enough to indicate that whatever might happen in the city, the college was a
separate jurisdiction, and the officers of the city had no business floundering around and cutting up its bedlinen. Did the porter suspect McAllister’s whereabouts? James hardly dared to return the man’s gaze.

In the meantime, the sheriff’s men had tired of their ransacking.

‘We’re wasting time,’ one said, ‘we should seek him out at the playhouse.’

The others seemed to think that this was a sensible suggestion, and the men began to leave. As they were doing so, their leader suddenly lunged at James and caught him by the neck so that the boy gasped for breath.

‘If we don’t find him, we’ll be back for you. Mark my words, you’re not too young to swing for murder yourself.’

The sheriff’s man flung James back on the bed, where he lay until they had all left. Getting to his feet, James watched from the window until he saw the men crossing the square, and only then did he beckon to McAllister to come out from behind the tapestry.

Ten

A Strange Meeting

H
is time in the college was over, as was McAllister’s, and if they didn’t act fast their very lives would be in danger.

‘This is all a terrible mistake, James. I can barely recall what actually happened. There was an argument and then … it all fades. If only I hadn’t brought that damnable sword!’

McAllister went to the window and looked down forlornly at the square. ‘It’s all over now,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have hidden. I should have given myself up. I am a gentlemen after all, and gentlemen don’t cower under beds.’

James was disturbed by McAllister’s mood. He seemed to be willing his own destruction. ‘Better to cower in a hidey hole than swing at the end of a rope,’ he said simply.

‘What?’ McAllister’s eyes were wide, frightened.

‘There’s every chance they’ll hang you for murder. It’s not a pleasant death.’

‘Nevertheless …’ McAllister’s couldn’t believe he would be found guilty.

‘Look,’ James said. ‘A terrible thing was done. The wrong was more likely Vandeleur’s than yours. But you’re mixed up in it, and a trial might make little distinction between the two of you. And even if they don’t hang you, your life will be over. You’ll be disgraced forever. You may as well be dead.’

‘But what am I to do then?’ McAllister cried out.

‘You must leave right now, before the sheriff’s men return. Gather whatever you cannot do without and come with me.’ James was surprised by his own decisiveness. He didn’t have time to puzzle out the rights and wrongs of it. Someone else would have to do that. He didn’t want McAllister to die, and that was all the justice he was concerned about.

‘But where will I go?’

‘Have you got money?’ James asked. ‘You’ll need as much as you can get your hands on.’

McAllister nodded. He had a good deal of cash, and what he lacked he could depend on his bank to supply, if his family stood by him.

‘You must go to the colonies, and you must leave immediately.’

James had no idea how this was to be accomplished; he only knew it had to happen. The first thing was to get McAllister out of the college, and the rest would somehow follow. Of his own future, after this day was out, he didn’t dare think, but even as he spoke he could feel as if something in himself had shifted. Whatever happened, he knew that quick
thinking and quick acting would be part of it, and that his only sure home would be in his own resourcefulness. It was a lonely idea, but there was hope in it too.

McAllister fell into the rhythm James had set, bundling a few clothes and private papers into a portmanteau.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m ready.’

They had, James reckoned, about half an hour before dawn would begin to shift the college into its morning life and the square below would begin to clack with footsteps and chatter. James went out onto the landing to make sure no eyes or ears were near, then beckoned McAllister. They went down the stairs and out the back door, and then along by the Anatomy House. From inside that grey building came a sudden sharp laugh that chilled both to the bone. They stopped dead and waited, but no one came out. They could hear a faint murmur of voices from within, but whoever was there was intent on their own business and had no interest in who might be passing outside.

‘They must have a fresh body for dissecting,’ McAllister whispered to James.

There was nothing unusual about this. McAllister had on several occasions gone to witness a dissection in the great theatre inside, but now the thought seemed to fill him with horror. They hurried past until they came to College Park.

McAllister, now full of urgency, made to run across the wide expanse of the park, but James pulled him back. ‘What if we should be seen racing across the park like a pair of thieves? We should move swiftly but normally, as if it were
our ordinary business to be here. That way, if we are observed, no note will be taken of it.’

McAllister seemed unconvinced, but agreed. They walked the tree-lined paths around the perimeter of the park. A faint light edged the trees as they walked down the avenue. They would soon reach the rear entrance gate, after which they could melt into the waking city. As they turned the corner at the bottom of the avenue, their spirits lifting at the prospect of escape from immediate danger, a figure suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, on the path in front of them. McAllister moaned with fright. James stood transfixed, not daring to move any further forward. The figure was brown and somewhat stooped and was making straight for them. It had a cane in its right hand, which it now began waving at them.

‘Who is it?’ James hissed.

McAllister looked dead ahead, his body slumped from fear and exhaustion. ‘It’s the provost,’ he managed to whisper from the side of his mouth.

Dr Baldwin! What was he doing here at this time of the morning? James had never met the provost but he had heard many fearsome stories about him, of parties broken up, students expelled for bad behaviour, terrible tongue-lashings, and even beatings, all administered by him. To meet him here, now, as the dawn began to come up over the college, was the worst possible fate that could befall two would-be escapees.

‘What, who goes there? What fellows are you and what is your business in the park at this hour?’ the shape shouted in a hoarse voice.

As the provost drew near, James made out a man of sixty or more years, his coat shabby, his stockings mud-spattered and clumps of thick grey hair sprouting from under his wig. The hand that held the cane was large and knobbly, and the arm looked strong enough to inflict a blow to remember.

‘Well, are you deaf?’ the provost raised his voice. ‘Who are you, sir?’

‘McAllister, sir, pensioner, Junior Sophister …’

How much more information did he want to give? James wondered despairingly. Did he want to lead him back to his rooms and up to the attics to search for the tell-tale sword in its cut scabbard?

‘And what are you doing here at this hour of the morning?’ the provost continued. ‘And with your portmanteau with you?’ He tapped it with his cane.

‘My father is taken ill, sir. I am summoned home.’

‘And where is home?’

This is the time to use your imagination, James thought. But McAllister was not someone to whom imagination came readily in times of need.

‘County Waterford, sir.’

There he goes, chapter and verse.

‘Indeed,’ the provost said, observing him keenly. ‘And is this the way to the Waterford coach?’

McAllister looked on the point of giving up, as if he might confess everything and throw himself on the mercy of the provost. It was rumoured Dr Baldwin had killed a man himself once in his youth in England, but that didn’t mean he
would be likely to forgive the crime in others.

‘Please sir, I asked my master if we might call by my aunt before we undertook our journey, since we may be gone some time. She lives nearby in St Patrick’s Lane.’ James knew this was a risk, but there was little time for elaborate invention.

The provost now turned his beady eyes on James, who had been, until that moment, as invisible as all servants are.

‘I am sure your master can speak on his own behalf. Do you usually make so bold as to speak for him?’

‘No sir, I am very sorry, sir.’

Dr Baldwin continued to eye them both balefully and looked in no way convinced by anything that he heard. Then his eyes lightened and lifted from them and, without another word, he moved off into the dawn, his cane clacking on the avenue.

McAllister immediately reached for a handkerchief to mop his brow. He was close to tears. ‘I can’t do this, James, I don’t have the strength for it.’

‘You must, sir. You mustn’t give up. We’re nearly out of the college now. And from now on, we’d better not be so quick with our names.’

McAllister nodded eagerly. ‘Of course, you’re right.’

Spurred on by their brush with danger, they walked quickly towards the gate that led out of College Park, and found themselves on the street where James had said his aunt lived.

‘What if he had decided to verify your aunt’s residence?’ McAllister asked.

‘No one’s curiosity extends as far as servants,’ James said simply.

McAllister gave him a sharp look but said nothing.

James led them on a circuitous northward route towards the river. In an alley off the quay they found an inn just opening for the day and they went inside the dark, tobacco-smelling room and called for food. As they were waiting, James inquired about the times of the packets to England.

‘Ten shillings will get you to Holyhead,’ he told McAllister on his return. ‘There’s a packet that leaves on the afternoon tide. But England will be dangerous; you’ll need to get passage for the colonies as soon as possible.’

McAllister nodded. He didn’t seem convinced.

‘I have the feeling that all of this is happening to someone else,’ he said. ‘The old McAllister and his life have vanished forever, and I have no idea what will replace them.’

He looked at James. ‘Would you come with me, James? You know you’re more than a servant to me. What is this city to you after all?’

It was a good question. What was there in this city for James other than hardship and possibly worse? Why not take the packet with McAllister and meet whatever new life it would lead to? Why not try his luck in the colonies? But McAllister’s question made James realise that, in spite of everything, his fate was bound up with this city. Only here could he claim his inheritance, when the time was right. Only here could he confront his uncle, only here could he find the justice that would restore him to his rightful position. After all, I am Lord
Dunmain, he thought to himself as he considered McAllister and his proposition. He didn’t much feel like a lord right now as he ate his dish of cockles, and he didn’t have as much as a roof over his head, but there was no doubt in his mind as he shook his head.

‘No, I can’t,’ he said. ‘I must stay here even if it seems hopeless now.’

He told McAllister to write to him at the bookshop in the piazzas; the owner would keep any letters safe for him.

‘Best stay out of sight until it’s time to take the packet. And be careful as you embark, in case they’re watching.’

McAllister nodded and smiled a little ruefully.

‘Stay well, James, and stay alive,’ he said.