Authors: Frances Hardinge
She would need to act quickly, before Jeanne exposed Faith’s true, dark colours to everyone on the island. Exposure no longer terrified Faith. She felt a numb resignation when she thought
about it. Instead, she only hoped that she would get her chance to play her last cards before those at the excavation learned about her.
There was no carriage to pick her up that day, of course, so she put on her outdoor clothes, picked up her sketchbook and set off on foot down the road.
‘Miss Sunderly!’ Ben Crock looked astonished as Faith appeared at the dig some time later, her skirts dusty and her face shiny from the heat of the sun. He cast a
look down the road behind her. ‘Did you walk the whole way, miss?’
‘My father’s inquest takes place this afternoon,’ answered Faith, a little out of breath from all the climbs and descents of the road. ‘Afterwards I do not think my
family will stay on Vane. This may be my last chance to visit the dig.’ She thought of Myrtle, and made her own eyes round, vulnerable and uncertain. ‘Do you think the gentlemen will
turn me away?’
Crock looked indecisive for a moment, as if considering whether he himself should be sending her home. There was no handy carriage to do so, however. Faith was counting on his reluctance to
force her back along the road on foot.
‘I do not think that will be a problem, miss,’ he said, casting a glance down into the little gorge. ‘The gentlemen are distracted today. Yesterday the tunnel broke through
into the shaft. We have been clearing the rubble to take a closer look.’
‘Have they found anything?’ asked Faith, her manner politely curious. In truth she knew as much as he did. Paul had told her all the latest news from the dig.
‘Some of the gravel is running down through cracks – there is another cavern down below the base of the shaft, just as we thought. There is a thick layer of breccia though, so we
shall be using a barrel of powder to blast our way down.’
‘I suppose all the gentlemen will be here for the explosion?’
‘I am sure they shall, miss.’ Crock’s mouth twitched in what was almost a smile. ‘I do not think any of them would want to miss it.’
Faith thought the same. If there was a chance of breaking into an exciting new cavern, all the gentlemen scientists would want to be ‘in at the kill’. They would certainly not trust
each other not to start stealing bones for their own collections, or naming fossils after themselves with extreme prejudice. Everybody important to the excavation would be here this day. She was
counting upon it.
As she walked into the little gorge, she won a couple of curious glances as she had on her first day, but everyone was too busy to question her presence.
Uncle Miles, who was hovering like a schoolboy by the tunnel, caught sight of her and blanched. Faith gave him a small, flat smile like a dead fish. She could still feel the bruises of his
fingers on her arms. He found a hundred places to look that were not her.
She passed Dr Jacklers, who looked uncomfortable but had the good grace to bow.
‘Good morning, Dr Jacklers,’ Faith said mildly. ‘How is Miss Hunter?’
‘Well enough to be making light of her doctor’s advice.’ The doctor’s brow creased. Evidently this was a sore point.
Faith was relieved to hear it. If Miss Hunter was vexing Dr Jacklers again, there was probably hope for her recovery.
Down in the gorge, Lambent was striding about with his fly-whisk. Both Clay and Paul were present, the latter laden down with a camera stand and a carry-case. There were more navvies than
before, and they were busy heaping sacks of sand and gravel around the mouth of the tunnel, creating a low, horseshoe-shaped wall.
The ‘Bedouin tent’ had been removed from its place by the tunnel, but looking up at the top of the ridge Faith could just make out its billowing roof. Evidently it had been relocated
next to the mining-basket winch.
Faith settled herself on a rock in a corner, opening her sketchbook. In a short while, Paul Clay wandered over, and settled his tripod on the uneven ground. Neither looked at the other. Nobody
watching could have guessed at conspiracy between the curate’s stony-faced son and the rector’s shy, dowdy daughter.
‘Is she here?’ murmured Faith, trying not to move her lips too much.
‘Yes,’ muttered Paul, staring intensely at the foot of his tripod. ‘They moved her tent up to the high ground to keep her safe from the explosion, and to give her a front-row
seat when people go down in the basket. Are you sure the ghost trick will work on her?’
If Faith was right, she was dealing with two murderers of different temperaments. One had distracted her father, one had struck a killing blow. One was terrified of the rumoured ghost, one was
content to wander the ‘haunted’ area and be mistaken for a ghost himself. A follower, therefore, and a leader. A weak link and a strong.
No, but I would bet on it.’ Faith thought of all the memento mori in Mrs Lambent’s reception room. ‘She thinks she is at death’s door, so she spends most of her life
peering through it into the gloom. She is up to her nose in prayer books and well-wishing wreaths.’
‘We will find out soon enough. When we tighten the screw.’ Paul suited action to words and gave the screw of the tripod a few quick twists. ‘And how sure are you of
him?’
Faith managed not to glance towards the towering figure of Anthony Lambent.
‘Agatha is a loyal wife,’ Faith said under her breath.
A wife cannot always rein in her husband’s impulses,
Agatha Lambent had said,
but she must always strive to protect him from the consequences.
‘She had a motive for hating my father, but no reason to want the Tree,’ she went on. ‘
He
does. He is a collector, a natural scientist . . . and he is standing for
Parliament. Nobody can spread lies like a politician.’
‘Then we need to get him out of the way.’
Faith’s plan was to put strain on the ‘weak link until it broke. There was no hope of doing that with the ‘strong link present.
‘When they have opened up a hole into the new cavern, all the gentlemen will want to be the first lowered down.’ Faith narrowed her eyes. ‘We need to make sure Mr Lambent gets
his way.’
At last the barricade of sandbags was judged sturdy enough. A barrel of gunpowder was rolled carefully into the tunnel, and then everybody emerged from the darkness but Crock.
The gentlemen and labourers took up crouched positions in a ditch behind the barricade, all attention focused upon the mouth of the tunnel.
As a lady, Faith was moved to safety behind a crag, and as custodian of the precious camera, Paul withdrew behind another. Neither of them stayed there.
They met behind the huddle of tents. Faith swiftly pulled a bulky bag out from its hiding place between two rocks and handed it to her co-conspirator. Paul took it without a word and scrambled
up in the direction of the road.
Peering cautiously around the nearest tent, Faith was just in time to see Crock come hurtling out of the tunnel. As she watched, he vaulted the barricade of sandbags and threw himself flat on
the other side.
‘It is lit!’ he called out. ‘Everybody stay down!’
Faith ducked back. There was a shattering bang that shook her in spite of her readiness. A dull dry patter twitched and jerked the tent canvas. She tasted sand.
When she risked another look, the cave mouth was invisible behind a gauzy spreading cloud of smoke and dust. Those lying behind the barricade had handkerchiefs over their mouths and were
coughing vigorously. The distraction and drifting haze allowed Faith to sneak back to her ‘safe seat’, then re-emerge more decorously and obviously.
The navvies entered the tunnel to clear the loose rock. A few barrows of rubble later, Crock reported that the newly blasted hole had indeed revealed another chamber below.
‘I think the hole is wide enough to take the mining basket, sir,’ he told Lambent. ‘We can lower it from the winch at the top, right down the shaft and into the new
cavern.’
‘Excellent news!’ Lambent rubbed his hands. ‘Crock, prepare the basket. You and I shall delve the depths and see what treasures your explosive has loosened for us!’
‘Ah . . .’ Clay cleared his throat, and tentatively raised one hand to gain a finger-hold on the conversation. ‘I wonder if Crock would not do better aloft, supervising the
mechanism? I would be glad to join you in your descent, Mr Lambent.’
‘Or perhaps myself?’ Uncle Miles suggested quickly.
‘Sir.’ Crock was shading his eyes and staring up towards the road.
With an irregular clap and clop of hoofs, a solitary horse was wandering down the incline. Its reins trailed.
‘Is that my bay?’ Lambent stared. ‘How did it become untethered?’
The horse shook its pale mane and continued its aimless yet relentless amble along the ridge towards the ‘Bedouin tent’. Faith could not see Mrs Lambent, could not guess how she was
reacting. Crock clambered up to intercept the horse, and after a few snorts and nervous shifts it let him draw close and take its reins.
‘There are boots in the stirrups!’ called down the foreman. ‘Stuck through backwards!’ He took one out and examined it closely, then stiffened. He glanced towards Faith,
but it was a look of concern, not suspicion. Then Crock clambered back down and showed the boot to Lambent, whispering in his ear. Faith knew that they must be poring over the monogram.
E.J.S.
‘A riderless horse with boots backwards in the stirrups?’ said Clay in a hushed tone. ‘I have heard of such a thing at military funerals.’
Lambent stared unmoving at the boot for a few seconds. Then he marched over to Uncle Miles and proffered the boot, inches from his face.
‘What are you about, Cattistock?’ he demanded sharply.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Confusion made Uncle Miles’s face look rounder.
‘What manner of game is this?’ Lambent shifted his weight and seemed to grow taller and broader, swelling with suppressed feelings. He shook the boot. ‘This, sir, is a boot. A
thing, sir, of leather and nails. It is not fading like smoke in my hand. It is not a phantasm of ether. It is an object as solid as you or I, and I daresay if I were to clout you in the face with
it, it would leave a print.’
Uncle Miles took a hasty step backwards. ‘I do not understand you, Lambent!’ he protested.
‘It is a boot,’ Mr Lambent continued, his voice dangerously quiet and taut, ‘that has made its spectral journey, I believe, from
your
family abode.’
Faith had never previously seen Lambent angry. After the basket incident he had been outraged and severely out of countenance, but that had not been anger of the same dye. Now that his fists
were stealthily clenched, Faith realized how large they were. For a moment she sensed strength, barely controlled strength, like a river foaming against a lock and threatening its own banks.
Like most creatures at bay, Uncle Miles looked around for support or allies and found none. At the last his eye fell upon Faith, and something moved sluggishly behind his gaze, perhaps a
realization that she could in fact have brought the Reverend’s boots to the site . . .
‘Get out!’ snarled Lambent.
‘But I was promised—’
‘No, I do not wish to hear it! Begone!’
With one last suspicious glance at Faith, Uncle Miles fled with as much dignity as he could muster.
‘We have wasted enough time.’ Lambent gave a gruff, lionlike noise of frustration in his throat. ‘Crock, make the basket ready. I shall descend with Clay.’
‘Hold, please!’ The doctor, seemingly undaunted by the magistrate’s ill-temper, was still nursing some squat and bitter grievance of his own. ‘We have not discussed who
should descend first. You are too high-handed, Lambent!’
‘High-handed? Doctor, this excavation is on
my
land, and paid for from
my
purse.’
‘And you have already seen fit to recompense yourself for that!’ the doctor answered through his teeth.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Lambent’s voice was low and cold.
‘I am simply saying, sir, that various little birds have told me that not
all
our finds make it to the sorting table, and not
all
our finds return from your house after
they are varnished.’ The doctor had the cold, tight voice of somebody who thinks he is being tactful. Faith could not guess which of her rumours he had heard, or in which form.
‘How dare you!’ thundered the magistrate.
Faith could see that in another moment Dr Jacklers was likely to find himself thrown out of the site in Uncle Miles’s wake. That did not suit her purposes.
She let her knees buckle, and dropped to the earth as a deadweight.
‘Miss Sunderly has fainted!’ Feet pounded the dust towards her.
She was raised to a sitting position and offered water. The doctor forgot his anger and tutted over her pulse.
Faith waved a vague hand in the direction of the ‘Bedouin tent’.
‘Shade,’ she whispered plaintively.
She was helped up the slope and guided to a chair beside Mrs Lambent. The magistrate’s wife did not look at her. As usual she was wrapped to the gills, but today the eyes that peered out
above her shawls seemed uncommonly bright and apprehensive. Her hands toyed absently with cards in front of her, like a blind seer telling out her Tarot.
They were not Tarot cards, however. They were miniature scenes, prints of the photographs taken throughout the excavation, delivered to her that morning by Paul Clay. They rippled and leaped
slightly in the breeze.
‘Mrs Lambent.’ Paul had appeared before the magistrate’s wife. He delivered a small bow, with the solemnity of a funeral mute. ‘My father is sending me back to the
parsonage for more chemicals and wondered if you would like me to bring anything back from town for you.’
‘No, thank you, Master Clay.’
Paul bowed again, turned to leave, then stooped, straightened with a photograph in his hand and added it to the pile face down without so much as glancing at it. It was done deftly and
naturally, so that anybody might think he had noticed it lying on the ground.