The Honours (15 page)

CHAPTER 9

THE INSCRUTABLE MR KUNG

June 1935

D
elphine walked the track into Pigg, buzzing with secrets. Rain had fallen that morning and the big walnut tree over Mr Wightman's shop was fragrant and dripping. Outside the forge yard, an upended pram rusted beneath a sign for Spratt's Patent Dog Cakes. The pram's wheels had been removed; horse parsley sprouted through a rip in its black belly.

She entered through a fog of brushwood smoke. Mr Wightman was shoeing cartwheels. He had finished the dreary bit with the machine and the rollers, and was heating each iron tyre on a bonfire to make it expand. She watched him hammer a tyre onto a wooden wheel then douse it in water; it hissed like a goose and coughed great bushes of steam as it shrank and tightened. He repeated the process, shoeing four more wheels of different sizes. Without waiting to be asked, Delphine tossed sticks onto the fire when she felt the heat dwindling.

When he was done, Mr Wightman stepped back and rubbed his buckled forehead with a rag. He rolled himself a cigarette, then snatched a twig out the fire and blew on the end for a light. He paused between drags to take the cigarette from his mouth and frown at it sceptically, as if he thought it were somehow trying to cheat him. Once he was halfway through, he looked at her.

‘All right?'

She wiped a twist of hair from where it had caught in the nook of her eye, and nodded.

‘Good.' Mr Wightman's head had a deep dent just above his right eye. He said it was from where he'd been kicked trying to shoe a horse with the misleading name of Punch. He wore a leather apron and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms decorated with glossy pink-white scars.

Delphine loosened the drawstring on her bag and rummaged through a drift of envelopes until she had retrieved one, two, three, four large keys. Mr Wightman held out his hand. She gave him them one at a time. His skin had the same tough, grainy texture as a pig's. He held each key to the light, like a jeweller.

‘I'll get them done this afternoon.'

‘Thank you.'

He tipped his head back and took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘So they've got you running errands for them?' He looked at her.

‘Yes.'

‘Not got domestics for that?'

‘No. I mean, yes, but I said I'd do it.'

‘Do you want me to send my bill to the Hall?'

‘No. I have some money. They gave me the money.'

‘They've been losing a lot of keys lately.'

‘Yes.'

He dropped his cigarette and scrunched it out with his heel. ‘How's the crab hook?'

‘Good, thank you.' A fortnight earlier, Mr Garforth had given her a birthday gift – a broom handle with a bit of thin iron rod attached to one end, twisted into a hook. He'd had Mr Wightman make it for her, and though it was clearly the work of a few minutes, she treasured it because it had been her only present. Mother had given her a smart blue skirt, a hairbrush decorated with a butterfly and an atlas for her studies, but those didn't count because they were things Mother thought Delphine ought to have, not what she had wanted.

‘See you later, then,' he said.

She walked out of the forge. Wiping her nose, she sniffed the
webbing between her thumb and forefinger. A metallic tang mixed with woodsmoke mixed with vinegar.

She only ever borrowed the keys. It was not stealing, and besides, she was acting in the defence of the realm. If she was to gather the proof she needed, she had to get access to every room in the house – especially the locked ones. Time was running out. She had not managed to get back into Propp's study, nor his bedroom, but when she did, his ticket to the gallows was all but assured.

She closed her eyes and, for a while, walked blind. Her bag felt light. As she reached the edge of the village, she heard voices.

Two children – a girl, perhaps ten, in a frayed, sloe-blue frock, and a boy around six, naked except for a pair of red underpants, his hair wild like a savage's – stood by an open gate, engaged in passionate, noisy debate over the terms of their game.

‘You be the Queen Snake,' said the boy, ‘I'll be the clockodile. And I have to catch you.' He made snapping gestures with his rigid, tanned arms.

‘No,
you
can be the crocodile, and I'll be the hunter.'

‘No, you can be the clockodile and I'll be the hunter. No, the tiger!' The boy began to spin.

‘No, I'm the tiger.' The girl started giggling. ‘And you're the
monkey
.'

‘No! You're the monkey and I'm the bunky.' The boy chuckled like a drunk, whirling.

‘There's no such thing as a bunky!' The girl tried to grab the spinning boy but he twisted out of her grasp and spun faster. She laughed, piercingly, explosively. ‘Tommy, stop!'

‘I'm a monkey, I'm a bunky, I'm a lunky, I'm a tunky,' round and round and round, and the girl, perhaps his sister, fell crippled with hysterics, suffocating, collapsing in the dust as he danced and danced.

Delphine watched these strange, thoughtless creatures as she might have watched tribesmen from the Peruvian jungle or Martians, their rituals and their happy, untamed weightlessness utterly opaque to her.

The girl rolled over and spotted her. For one impossible second, Delphine believed the girl would say, ‘Come, play with us', and the
two children would teach her how to be a snake, a queen, a tiger, a clockodile – the knack of it, the magic.

The girl's expression became solemn. She stood and, as if noticing dirt for the first time, brushed down her frock. She looked to the boy.

‘Come on, Tommy.'

She grabbed his little brown hand and led him swaying through the gate.

Delphine watched the gate click shut. She imagined the rich, vast land beyond. A gust rushed across the village. The trees of Pigg exhaled.

She had her afternoon planned out:

i. memorise all genera of the order
Chiroptera
native to the British Isles, ready for Professor Carmichael's test

ii. eat the Mars bar she had wrapped up in her hankie (disguising the action, if necessary, by pretending to blow her nose)

iii. use her new keys to search the rooms on the east wing first floor for evidence

iv. help Mr Garforth with his feeding rounds

As she opened the door to the long library, she heard a
whap
, like someone hitting a tennis ball. Mr Kung turned to look at her. He was at one of the bookcases, dressed in a crisp suit. He had just slapped a book shut. It sat between his palms. He looked a little like a vicar about to lead the congregation in prayer.

Delphine felt herself wince under his gaze. Most adults in the house did not see her – she was like a spectre, or a servant – but he was looking straight at her. He smiled and let the book dip. She nodded.

‘Hello,' he said, giving equal weight to the two syllables.

Delphine nodded again. Mr Kung nodded. She waited for him to turn away, but he continued to stare. She nodded a third time, then, clasping her hands behind her back, walked over to the Nature section. Mr Kung watched. Delphine turned her back and pretended
to scan the shelves for
A Guide To British Animal Life
. She could feel his eyes on her. She felt sure he sensed her anxiety – that, in some horrible way, he was feeding off it.

She heard footsteps. She froze, then realised they were heading not for her, but the far door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him exit with quick, purposeful strides, hands behind his back, just like hers. The door clicked shut.

Her heart was galloping. Had he been holding his hands like that to mock her? She counted to ten, then dashed to where he had been standing. She scanned the shelves for the book he had been reading.

It took her several sweeps. The spine was dismal grey-brown, and blank. Its dullness worked like camouflage. She took it to the window, where the light was better.

The book was plain, with no title. The first page had a brown water stain and a signature she could not read. The next couple of pages were blank. On the next, she found the title:
Transportation And Its Practice
–
A Guide By A. Prentice
.

Her shoulders sagged. What had she been expecting?
The Opium Smuggler's Compendium
?

Delphine stood on tiptoes and slid the book back on the shelf. The letter, the channel, the tunnels. The old Earl's supposed madness. Delphine felt as if she were teetering on the precipice of something.

As if something dark and hungry were about to burst out of hiding.

CHAPTER 10

BETTER DROWNED THAN DUFFERS

June 1935

D
elphine walked from the powdery dunes down to the hard sand of the beach. Razor clams and whelks crunched beneath her feet. The full moon sat low in a cloudbank, burning.

She snagged a dry tangle of seaweed with her crab hook and hoisted it high above her head. It hung against the moon like a fright wig, gnats and bluebottles scribbling at its edges. She spun it once, twice, and hurled it back towards the dunes, where it crashed and slewed apart.

The distant sea was sleek, stippled with milk-bright flakes. Delphine imagined it surging inland, filling the crooked channels of the salt marshes, inundating the woods, flooding the secret chambers beneath the estate and finally seething through the corridors of Alderberen Hall itself, tearing down fine brocade and fittings and portraits, washing conspirators from their beds then receding, dragging the whole rotten edifice with it, leaving only mud – miles of stark, honest mud.

On the dark sand left by the ebbing tide was a pair of black leather shoes. The beach was empty. She claimed salvage rights.

She sunk her crab hook into the sand, dragging it behind her as she began a loose circuit of the shoes. They were smart men's shoes.
Indeed, they appeared to have been recently polished. They sat side by side on a folded newspaper.

Her crab hook scored a spiral winding inward. She stopped.

The laces were clean and black. She picked up the shoes. Apart from a few grains of sand in the stitching around the toe, they were immaculate. The soles looked brand new. It was as if a shoemaker had left his workshop door ajar and, spotting their chance, his latest creations had made a break for the seaside. The surrounding sand was packed into muscular ridges; there were scuffs that might have been footprints, but they petered out after a couple of yards. She was about to pick up the newspaper, imagining it might contain some vital clue, when she noticed a man in a grey suit, standing in the sea.

The tide was a long way out. She only spotted him because he reached up to steady his bowler hat. After that he stood still, one hand on his hat, the other by his side. He had his back to her. The water was up to his calves. His trousers were not rolled up.

Delphine watched. The man did not move. He was camouflaged, grey suit against grey sea.

She put down the shoe, then reached into her bag and retrieved the field glasses she had found lying around at the back of a locked chest of drawers in Dr Lansley's room. She put the cold metal to her eyes, twisting the eyepieces until the image focused.

His black hair glistened in the moonlight.

She watched. He stood, as if waiting. She considered shouting.

He took a step, wobbled; the slack hand went out for balance. He took another step. He began to walk.

The water was up to his knees. Delphine knew he would give in and turn back – this early in the summer, the sea was perishing.

She stood on the flat, wide beach, the full moon blazing. Any moment, he would turn and spot her. He might think she was trying to steal his shoes. The water was up to his backside.

She had a crazy thought:
He's not going to stop
.

She tweaked the focus. His outline sharpened. Water was creaming round his waist. The fingers of his left hand trailed in the water.

Mr Garforth had warned her about the lethal riptides in this area.
Breaks in the sandbars created currents that could drag even strong swimmers away from the shore in less than a minute. It was the kind of grisly warning that Mother came out with all the time.

The water was up to Mr Kung's belly. His left hand was submerged. The field glasses made it feel as if she were watching a scene in a film.

She lowered them. Mr Kung was still there.

‘Hey!' she called, startling herself. The word came out small and hoarse. He did not react. ‘Hey!'

A gust frilled the smooth water into dragon scales. Mr Kung waded deeper.

Delphine turned and ran.

She hammered on Mr Garforth's door and peered through the thick window. The cottage was dark.

Moonlit nights brought out poachers. Mr Garforth said the problem had got worse over the past few years, on account of jobs being scarce. He said they worked in gangs. He said he understood that a man must feed his family and that he felt no ill will. Then he told her about the time he had surprised a man setting snares for rabbits and winged the fellow as he ran away. When Mr Garforth finished the story, his eyes got a faraway look and he chuckled.

She hared across the marshes towards Prothero Wood, hoping to catch Mr Garforth patrolling the feed run. It had rained earlier and the ground was doughy. She vaulted trenches, silver ribbons of water flashing beneath her feet. The wind was picking up. Ahead, a belt of ash trees lapped at the damp air.

She took a shortcut between dense-packed trees and dropped onto the track bisecting the wood. She squinted against the darkness. Pussy willows curled and rose on either side, forming a tunnel that looked as if it had been left in the wake of a monstrous, slithering crocodile.

Since the incident with the bat, she had been wary of Prothero Wood. She steered clear of the tomb, but she could not avoid the wood entirely – she had to walk through it each day to reach Mr
Garforth's cottage. Her senses sharpened when she entered. It felt very much like enemy territory.

‘Hello?' she shouted. ‘Hello?'

Nothing. Cracks of sky glowed through the branches overhead. The moon was a headlamp in fog.

She hesitated. Snug in the belly of the wood, listening to the slow shhhhhh of the wind, she started to doubt herself. Maybe she had misunderstood. Maybe she had imagined it. The thought calmed her.

But she had seen Mr Kung, standing there. She had watched him through binoculars. What if she did nothing, and he died?

Delphine fumbled for a plan. Mr Garforth could be anywhere on the estate. She could run round till sunrise and still not find him. By the time she got to the Hall, it would be too late. It might already be too late.

She sprinted along the track, not sure where she was going. The track eased left then lurched right, dipping through slush and then flattening out. A shrew scurried across her path and she had to leap to avoid it; she skidded and when she looked up she saw Daddy.

He stood side-on to her, in the middle of the track, breathing smoke. He had no coat. His back was bent and his unbuttoned shirt cuffs hung like tattered bandages. He lifted an open palm to his mouth as if yawning; a red point of light sharpened between the first two knuckles. He lowered his hand, sighed smoke. His eyes were closed.

‘Daddy.'

He snapped upright. He cast around in the darkness, then found her. His face was pale. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out.

‘Hello.'

‘Mr Kung is in the sea.'

Daddy squinted. ‘Sorry?' He shook his head. ‘What do you want me to come and see?'

‘Mr Kung is in the sea.
With his clothes on
.'

‘Oh, right. Oh, well then.'

‘You have to come quickly.'

‘Right.' Daddy raised his arms slightly and glanced around.

‘Now!' Delphine swiped at the air, then turned and began running again. When she glanced back, he was following with clumsy, flat-footed strides. She slowed to let him close the distance then scrambled up the bank into the shortcut. She heard the gasp and crash as he beat his way through a holly bush.

‘Where are we going?' he said.

‘The beach!'

Once they were out on the salt marshes Daddy found momentum, pumping his arms. Delphine accelerated to two-thirds her normal speed and led him through the easy route – firm ground and plank bridges, no jumps. He kept pace. A crosswind kept trying to spin her clockwise, ruffling the reeds. The moon was out from behind the clouds, turning the dunes to caster sugar.

She pictured reaching the crest to see Mr Kung in a stripy bathing suit, perkily towelling himself off. Perhaps nocturnal bathing was normal in China. Perhaps he had just got overexcited – from what she remembered from her atlas, Inner Mongolia was a long way from the seaside. Or what if there was no trace of him at all? Daddy seemed to be in one of his placid moods tonight, but if word got back to Mother that she had faked an emergency – and worse, that she had exerted Daddy unnecessarily – the showdown would be apocalyptic.

Delphine fell onto her hands and knees as she hit the summit. The shoes were still there. She peered at the sea. The water was choppy – it was hard to pick out a figure amongst the slump and crunch. She moved to take out the field glasses then, remembering Daddy, angled her body to hide the bag as she removed them.

She saw Mr Kung. He was up to his shoulders. He still wore his bowler.

‘He's there! He's there!' called Delphine, pointing frantically.

Daddy staggered up towards her. He had a scratch on his forehead and his ankles were painted with mud.

‘Where?'

‘There!' said Delphine. She looked. Mr Kung had gone. ‘Oh my God.'

‘Where?'

‘He's gone under! He's gone under!' She was dashing down the dune, windmilling her arms. As the sand levelled out she broke into a sprint, focusing on the point where she had last seen him, but the sea was swelling, shifting, and she began to worry she was running towards the wrong spot. She slowed, searching for landmarks she could triangulate by, then something crashed into her shoulder from behind and she hit the sand.

She landed face down. When she lifted her head she saw Daddy running faster than she had ever seen him, stampeding towards the waterline.

‘Where is he?' yelled Daddy.

Delphine scrambled to her feet. ‘I don't know! He went under!'

Daddy did not hesitate; he ploughed into the sea with a chain of splashes like a Vickers gun strafing a pond. He lurched forward as the water dragged at his ankles, then drove himself onwards with sweeps of his lean forearms.

‘Where is he?'

Delphine halted at the water's edge. ‘Somewhere here, I think!' She waved her arm back and forth, indicating a wide cone.

Daddy was waist-deep, paddling with his arms. He looked around.

‘I can't see him!'

‘He was deeper! He went under!'

A blast of wind lifted the water into spikes. Daddy dived.

Delphine could not believe it. She stood at the water's edge, stunned and alone.

Daddy surfaced, mouth wide, filling his lungs. He dived. He came up again, swum a yard deeper, plunged. When he rose a third time he was gasping, tendrils of hair whipping droplets as he cast about.

‘I can't see him! It's too dark!'

A stammer pinned her tongue to the roof of her mouth: ‘I duh . . . ' She clenched, took a breath. ‘I duh-duh . . . '

Under again. Water rolled fizzing to her feet. She willed herself to step forward, to run in and help him, but her legs did not move. Another four seconds passed. Daddy did not surface. He burst up, spluttering, wiping hair from his eyes. He was treading water. He dived.

This time he came up quickly.

‘I can't . . . see him!' Daddy was weakening – she heard it in his voice. At night, the sea was freezing; dipping your head underwater felt like clamping it in a vice.

He dived. He came up breathing raggedly. He slopped hair out of his eyes, screamed. A wave lifted him up. He looked around. He was alone. He took a breath and ducked back under.

Delphine had her cardigan balled up in her fists. The tight, trapped feeling had spread from her tongue, down her jaw to her shoulders and chest. She wanted to yell at him to give up. He surfaced, coughing, slapping about for purchase. He let out a wounded cry. When he went under again, Delphine could not tell if he had meant to. His head tipped back and he sank.

A wave hid the place where he had gone under. When it had passed, he was still missing. She stared. Her vision narrowed. It was crazy to believe this sucking, plunging sea held two living men. They were gone. Her bladder tingled. She was going to collapse.

Daddy broke gasping, went under, surfaced, found his footing. Water streamed from his hair and nostrils. He was walking. He was yelling. She thought he was calling to her, but she could not make out words. His mouth was wide; his teeth glowed. He held something in his arms: driftwood wrapped in black canvas. As the water got shallower, his burden pulled him down to a stoop.

‘Gah . . . ah . . . gah . . . ah . . . ' Every breath was a hoarse roar. The tide was dragging at his legs. He shook water out of his eyes, looked around. He spotted her. ‘Help me!'

She ran into the sea. It was scalding. She gasped at the pain. Daddy staggered; the driftwood fell from his arms. She ran for him, steadied him. She looked down at the thing floating at his feet.

It was Mr Kung.

He was face down in the shallow water. She grabbed him under one of his arms. Daddy was huffing, shivering. He caught hold of Mr Kung by his other arm and, together, he and Delphine pulled Mr Kung out of the waves and onto the sand.

They laid him on his back. His spectacles were gone. His eyes were open and crusted with sand, cataracts of froth purling in the corners.
Blood and foam ran from his nostrils. Bloody water flowed from his mouth. His skin was the colour of tallow. He was not breathing.

‘Help me pick him up,' said Daddy. Delphine caught hold of the sodden lapels and heaved. Once they had lifted Mr Kung upright, Daddy swung him round and began squeezing him in a bear hug, letting his head loll.

Lots of water came out of Mr Kung's mouth. It splattered brightly against the firm sand. Daddy squeezed again. More water came out. Mr Kung's lips were slack and mauve. Phlegm hung in a silver beard. His eyes stared blindly. Daddy hugged him again and again. Water came out and each time Mr Kung shrugged as if to say it is no good, I am doing the best that I can.

Delphine wrung her hands in wretched, trembling prayer. Daddy lowered Mr Kung onto the sand, rolled him onto his back and shook him.