The Tenderness of Wolves (17 page)

I follow him, stumbling in the unfamiliar moccasins he insisted I wear, determined not to complain, ever, no matter what.

Although rare, it is not unheard-of for visitors to arrive at Himmelvanger out of the blue; usually Indians calling to trade goods and news. Per makes them welcome; they are neighbours, and one must live in peace with one’s neighbours. And they are God’s children too, even if they live in squalor and ignorance like so many pigs. Sometimes they come when their relatives are sick and their remedies have failed them. They come with sombre faces and desperate hopes, and watch while the Norwegians dole out tiny doses of laudanum or ipecac or camphor, or apply their own traditional remedies, which usually fail them also. Per hopes this is not going to be one of those times.

The white man extends a frozen hand. He wears spectacles whose metal frames are rimed with frost, giving him a startling appearance, like an owl.

‘Excuse the intrusion. We are from the Hudson Bay Company, and we are on business here.’

Per is even more surprised, wondering what on earth the Company could want with him. ‘Please, come in. You must be frozen. Your hand …’ The hand he shakes is livid with cold, with no strength in it, like a pork chop.

Per backs away from the door, allowing them into the warm haven. ‘Do you have animals?’

‘No. We are on foot.’

Per raises his eyebrows, and leads them into a small room near the kitchen, where he calls for Sigi and Hilde and
contrives hot stew and bread and coffee to be brought for the men. Sigi’s eyes are round with curiosity at the sight of the two strangers.

‘Good Heavens, Per, the Lord is sending us all kinds of guests this winter!’

Per responds a little sharply–he doesn’t want gossip and rumour spreading, not until he understands what’s going on. Fortunately the men don’t seem to understand Norwegian. They smile the foolish grins of the hungry and weary, rubbing their hands and falling on the food with fervent cries of gratitude.

As warmth begins to creep back into his hands, Donald experiences sharp, tingling pains, and examining them in the firelight they look livid and puffy. A woman brings a bowl of snow and insists on rubbing his hands with it, gradually bringing them back to painful life. The woman smiles at him as she ministers to him, but doesn’t speak–Per explains that they are Norwegians, and not all of them speak English.

‘So what are two Company men doing here in November?’

‘It is not Company business, exactly.’ Donald is finding it hard to keep the smile off his face–he can’t believe their good fortune, not only at finding a habitation, but finding one of such civilisation, and a cultivated man like Per Olsen to talk to.

‘Are you on your way somewhere?’

His tone reflects the unlikelihood of this. Donald tries not to speak with his mouth full of almond cake. (Almonds! Truly they are blessed here.)

‘We are making this journey because we are following someone. We have followed his trail from Dove River on the Bay, up to the river that cuts through the plateau, and then the trail led here.’ He looks at Jacob for confirmation, but
Jacob seems shy in the others’ presence, and merely inclines his head.

Per listens gravely, and then leaves the room for a while. Donald assumes he has gone off to consult with some of the others, because when he comes back, he is accompanied by another man, whom he introduces as Jens Andreassen.

‘Jens has something to tell you,’ he says.

Jens, a shy, slow-moving man with a tongue that seems too large for his mouth, recounts how he found the boy on the river bank, close to death. He brought him to Himmelvanger where they have been caring for him. He says this in Norwegian, and Per translates, slowly, making an effort to get the words right.

Donald can feel the protectiveness in Per; Francis is the lamb who was lost, whom God has shepherded into his care.

‘What do you suspect him of? What has happened?’

Donald doesn’t want to reveal all the facts. If Per has taken an interest in the boy, he doesn’t want to antagonise him. ‘Well, there was a serious attack.’

Per looks up, his pale eyes bulging; when he translates for Jens their eyes meet in shock.

‘It is not certain that Francis is guilty, of course; but we had to find him. The boy’s mother is extremely worried in any case.’

Per frowns. ‘Who is Francis?’

‘The boy. His name is Francis Ross.’

Per considers for a moment. ‘This boy says his name is Laurent.’

Donald and Jacob exchange looks. Donald feels a cold shiver of certainty travel down his spine.

‘Perhaps it is not the same one,’ Per suggests.

Donald raises his voice in his excitement. ‘The trail leads here. It’s quite unmistakable. He is an English youth with black hair. He doesn’t look English, more … French or Spanish.’ That is how Maria described him.

Per purses girlishly red lips. ‘It sounds like him.’

‘What else has he said?’

‘Just that … and that he was going to a new job, but his guide left him. He says he was going north-west with an Indian guide.’ Per’s eyes flicker towards Jacob for an instant.

Per turns to Jens and explains this to him. Jens speaks again, in answer to some question.

‘Jens says he thought it was strange to find him alone. This boy cannot … could not get here alone, in this weather.’

‘Why not?’

‘The boy was so exhausted, so … worn. He could not have got so far unless he was helped or … forced.’

Guilt is a strong spur, thinks Donald.

‘I did think,’ Per goes on, ‘it was strange. He said he needed the job for money, but he had quite a lot of money on him, over forty dollars. He had this too, and was very concerned to keep it with him.’

Per picks something off the floor that Donald hasn’t previously noticed; a skipertogan, a leather bag the Indians carry round their necks for tobacco and tinder. He opens it and shakes out a roll of paper money, and a slim, palm-sized tablet of bone or ivory, covered with scratched figures and dark little markings. It’s very dirty. Donald stares at it, his throat constricting, and holds out his hand.

‘This belonged to Laurent Jammet.’

‘Laurent Jammet?’

‘The victim of the attack.’

‘You say “belonged”.’ Per stares at him. ‘I see.’

Donald immediately understands Maria’s description of Francis when they are shown into the sickroom. A dark, pretty young woman stands up as the door opens, gives them a suspicious look and walks out, her skirt swishing insolently against his trouser legs. The boy watches them without speaking as they sit down, and Per introduces him. Against
the white sheets his skin is sallow, almost Latin in appearance. His hair is black and rather long, his eyes a deep, striking blue. Maria also said that he was handsome; a handsome child. Donald has no idea whether Francis could be called handsome, but there is nothing childish about the hostility radiating from him. The blue eyes stare without blinking, making him feel ungainly and awkward. He takes out his notebook and then adjusts his chair, and the notebook slithers off his lap onto the floor. He curses inwardly and picks it up, trying to ignore the tide of warmth flooding his neck and face. He reminds himself who he is and what he is here to do. He meets those eyes again, which now slide away from his, and clears his throat.

‘This man is Mr Moody, of the Hudson Bay Company. He has come from Dove River. He says your mother and father are very worried about you.’ Per is trying to be reassuring.

‘Hello Francis.’

Francis nods slightly, as if Donald is mostly beneath his notice.

‘Do you know why I am here?’

Francis glares at him.

‘Your name is Francis Ross?’

Francis drops his eyes, which he takes for assent. Donald looks at Per, who is staring at the boy, wounded.

‘Um … In Dove River, did you know a man called Laurent Jammet?’

The boy swallows. His jaw muscles seem to tense, Donald notes, and then, to his surprise, he nods.

‘When did you last see him?’

There is a long pause, and Donald starts to wonder whether he is going to speak at all.

‘I saw him when he was dead. I saw the man who killed him, so I followed him north for four days, but then I lost him.’

His voice, when at last he speaks, is flat and quiet. Donald stares at the boy, excited and incredulous in equal measure. He has to remind himself to go carefully, take things one step at a time; to wait until one foothold is firm and steady before taking the next, like walking through the hellish bog. He settles the notebook more firmly on his lap.

‘What … Um, tell me what you saw, exactly … and when this happened.’

Francis sighs. ‘The night I left. It was … many days ago. I can’t remember.’

‘You have been here five days,’ prompts Per gently. Donald frowns at him. Per returns his look with one of blameless mildness.

‘So … five days before that, maybe? I was going to Laurent Jammet’s cabin. It was late, and I thought he wasn’t there. Then I saw a man come out and walk away. I went inside, and saw him.’

‘Saw who?’

‘Jammet.’

He swallows again, with apparent difficulty. Donald waits a long time for him to start again.

‘He’d just … died. He was warm, the blood was wet. That’s how I knew the other man was the killer.’

Donald scribbles down what Francis says. ‘This … other man–did you know him?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see what he looked like?’

‘Only that he was native, with long hair. I caught a glimpse of his face, but it was too dark. I couldn’t see much.’

Donald writes, keeping his face neutral. ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

This one takes a long time. ‘Perhaps.’

‘What about his clothes–what was he wearing?’

Francis shakes his head. ‘It was dark. Dark clothes.’

‘Was he dressed like me? Or like a trapper? You must have formed some impression.’

‘Like a trapper.’

‘Why were you going to Jammet’s cabin?’

‘We were friends.’

‘And what time was this?’

‘I don’t know. Eleven. Midnight maybe.’

Donald looks up, trying to watch the boy’s face at the same time as writing down what he says. ‘Wasn’t that rather late?’

Francis shrugs.

‘Did you often visit him at this hour?’

‘He didn’t go to bed early. He wasn’t a farmer.’

‘So … you saw the body. And then what did you do?’

‘I followed the man.’

‘Did you go home … pack?’

‘No. I took some of Jammet’s things.’

‘You didn’t think to tell your parents? Or ask anyone for help, someone better qualified to deal with such a thing?’

‘There wasn’t time. I didn’t want to lose him.’

‘Didn’t want to lose him. So what things did you take?’

‘Just what I needed. A coat … Food.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Why? What does it matter?’ Francis lifts his eyes to look at Donald again. ‘Do you think I killed him?’

Donald looks back, calm. ‘Did you?’

‘I just said–I saw the killer. He was my friend. Why would I kill him?’

‘I’m just trying to find out what happened.’

Per shifts, warningly. Donald wonders whether to push the youth further, or to accuse him outright. He is probing in the dark like a novice surgeon, not knowing where to find the vital organ of truth.

‘He is very tired.’ This from Per. The boy does look spent, his skin taut over his bones.

‘Just a moment longer, if you please. So you say that you went to this man’s–Mr Jammet’s–house at midnight, found him dead, and followed the man you thought was his killer, but you lost him.’

‘Yes.’ The boy closes his eyes.

‘What is the piece of bone?’

Francis opens his eyes again, in surprise, this time.

‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know what it is.’

‘You brought it with you. You must have had a reason.’

‘He gave it to me.’

‘He gave it to you? It’s valuable.’

‘Have you seen it? I don’t think it’s valuable.’

‘What about the money? Did he give you that, too?’

‘No. But I needed help to find the … man. I might have had to … pay someone.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Pay someone for what?’ Francis rolls his head away. ‘What did you have in mind?’

Per clears his throat and glares at Donald. He closes the notebook with a reluctant snap.

Outside, Per takes Donald by the arm. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to think of his health. He was close to death when Jens brought him in.’

‘That’s quite all right.’ This is not what Donald actually thinks, but he is here as a guest, after all. ‘But I hope you’ll understand that, under the circumstances, I have to place him under arrest. With the money in his possession, and so on.’

Per has a habit of leaning slightly towards whoever he is talking to, which Donald realises must be due to shortsightedness. Up close, with his prominent pale eyes, Per even seems to smell faintly of goat.

‘That is your decision, of course.’

‘Yes. It is. So … I would like to arrange to have a guard outside the room.’

‘What for? He can hardly leave Himmelvanger, even if he could walk.’

‘Right. Well …’ Donald feels foolish, suddenly aware of the snow falling outside the window. ‘As long as we can keep an eye on him.’

‘There are no secrets here,’ Per says gravely, with a coy glance at the ceiling.

Andrew Knox stares out of the window at the falling snow with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he is aware from a certain amount of sisterly teasing that Susannah has got herself involved with Donald Moody, and is therefore concerned in a fatherly sort of way about the young Company man out in the bush. On the other, he is relieved to think of the prisoner’s tracks disappearing under a blanket of snow. It is dry snow, the true winter snow that once set in will hide the ground until spring. Of course he bemoaned it with Mackinley and the rest, and helped organise volunteers into search parties to establish at least which direction the fugitive might have taken. After they set off, Knox took Adam into the study and gave him a long lecture on the seriousness of his error. Adam vehemently protested that he distinctly remembered chaining and locking the door, and Knox allowed that there might have been some other explanation for the escape, and for that reason Adam would not lose his position. Adam’s expression was a mixture of righteous protest and resentful gratitude; they both know he is in the right, but they also know there is a limit to how much you can argue with your employer. Life is unfair.