The Shadow in the North (23 page)

"Tell me about Mackinnon," Jim said.

"We met at a charity performance he gave at Nether-)rigg. At our house. We managed to meet later and . . . ^ell, I must have fallen in love. It was so sudden. We vere going to get married and go to America. A woman :alled Mrs. Budd helped to arrange it and saw to the awyer and everything. But then when it came to going way, somehow Alistair couldn't decide, and it turned )ut that I couldn't get at my money, either, so we had lothing. My father tried to have the marriage declared nvalid. But there were no grounds for that because ve'd. . . we'd spent the night at the boardinghouse vhere he was staying. So the marriage was legal in every vay. I suppose it still is. And now ..."

Her voice broke, and she started to cry softly. He :ouldn't help it; he put his arms around her and pressed ler face gently into his shoulder. She was so light—her varm, clean hair was so soft—^and it was so strange.

that moment, like something in a dream. Before he knew what he was doing, he kissed her.

Nothing happened. The moment passed; she leaned away slightly, and the two of them were separate again.

"But your father," Jim began haltingly. "If he knows . . ."

"Its money," she said. "Mr. Bellmann is going to pay him lots of money when we're married. He doesn't know I know that, but it's obvious. And he's so deeply in debt that he daren't refuse it. He's looking for Alis-tair, too, now. If they don't find him before long ..."

Her voice broke again with sheer misery. He tried to put his arm around her, but she gently evaded him, shaking her head.

"If I marry Mr. Bellmann I'll be a criminal," she said. "A bigamist or something. And if I don't, then Papa will go to prison. I can't tell anyone about it. But \^ they do find Alistair they'll do something terrible. I know they will. . . ."

They walked on. Somewhere a bird was singing. The sun on her face, with its clear midwinter hght, only showed how perfect the soft bloom of her skin was, how delicate the bones under her cheeks and temples. Jim felt dizzy and weak, like someone recovering from a serious illness, and he knew that this moment couldn't last long; the coachman would soon complete the circuit and come up behind them.

She said, "It's like our winter garden here, as if nothing else exists. Im with you, but I feel alone. I wish the

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Id pleasure gardens were still diere. Like Vauxhall or 'remorne. Then I could go there in disguise and see he lights in the trees, and the fireworks, and watch the lancing."

"You wouldn't have liked Cremorne. It was cheap

ind shoddy and dirty at the end, before they closed it.

till, it was all right at night when the dirt didn't show.

fou don't like doing things, do you? Only watching

hem. Aren't I right?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said. "Quite right. I don't hink I've ever done anything that was good." She vasn't pitying herself, just telling him a fact. You stopped the carriage, though." Yes. I'm glad I did. I don't know what he'll say. He'll )robably tell my father—^well, he certainly will. I'll say I ust wanted to walk." Tliey moved on a little way, and hen she said, " You do things. You're a deteaive. And a )hotographer."

"Not a photographer, really. I ... I write plays."

"Z)f?you?"

"All the time. But no one's put one on yet."

"Are you going to make a fortune?"

"Bound to."

"And be famous? Like Shakespeare?"

"Course I am."

"What are your plays about?"

"Murder. Same as Shakespeare." But not real murder, le thought; he'd never written about a real person, eally getting killed, and the sickening shock you felt

when it happened. It would be too horrible; worse than vampires by a long way.

They drifted on a little farther. He'd never known such happiness, or such apprehension.

"You know," he said, "you're . . . lovely. Beautiful. I can't find the words for it, but I've never seen anyone like you. Never, anywhere. You're the most—perfect . . ."

To his surprise her eyes filled with tears.

"I just wish . . .," she said indistinctly, and sniffed. "I just wish there was something else to say. I'd rather be in disguise. Or in a mask. It all comes back to that, to being heautifuir

She made the word sound loathsome.

"You're just the opposite of someone I met the other day," he said. "Well, she's not ugly, but she's got a birthmark right across her face, and she hates anyone to see it. And she's in love with ..." With your husband, he thought. "With a bloke, and she knows he'll never love her, and that's the only thing in her life."

"Oh, the poor girl," she said. "What's her name?"

"Isabel. But, look, we're going to have to stop old Bellmann. You know what he's up to.^ You know what he's making up there in Barrow? You can't marry a monster like him. Any halfway-decent lawyer would be able to prove they were forcing you into it against your will. You won't get done for bigamy, don't worry about that. The safest thing all round would be to come out with

t, make it public. Damn your fathers debts; he got limself into the mess, and now he's putting you hrough this hell to buy himself out of it. But until it's >ut in the open, no one's safe—especially Mackinnon."

"I'm not going to give him away," she said.

"What?"

"I shan't tell them where he is. Oh—"

She was looking over his shoulder, and despair sud-enly flooded her lovely features like the shadow of a loud racing over a sunlit garden. He turned, and saw he victoria returning. The coachman hadn't seen them et.

Jim turned back urgently. "D'you mean you know /here he is? Mackinnon, I mean?"

'Yes. But—"

'Tell me! Quick, before the carriage gets here! We've ;ot to know—can't you see that?"

She bit her lip and then nodded quickly. "Hamp-[ead," she said. "Fifteen Kenton Gardens. Under-—un-er the name of Stone—Mr. Stone."

Jim brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. t was all ending so fast.

"Can you come here again?" he said.

She shook her head helplessly, eyes on the carriage.

"Write to me, then," he said, scrabbling in a pocket 3r one of Fred's cards. "Jim Taylor. That address, fomise."

"I promise," she said, and with a last troubled look

took his hand. Their hands clung as their bodies moved apart, and then they were touching no longer, and she stepped out of the trees. Jim stayed where he was as the coachman pulled the little carriage up. He saw her look back once, timidly and swiftly, and he didn't see any more, for something strange had happened to his eyes, and he wiped them angrily with the back of his hand as the carriage moved away and vanished in the traffic near Hyde Park Corner.

Isabel had sat without a word as Sally told her of Mackinnons marriage, and she'd merely nodded and followed silently as they went out to the cab. She got in beside Sally, still silent, and covered her face with the veil.

"How's your wound?" Sally said after the cab had moved out of the square. "Is it very painftil?"

"I hardly feel it," Isabel said. "It's nothing."

Sally knew she meant In comparison with what you ve just told me. Isabel was nursing the little tin box as if not even death would part her from it. They'd thrown some clothes into a large carpetbag and left at once for Burton Street; there would be a lot of rearranging of rooms to do, and Sally was anxious to get Isabel busy as soon as possible in order to take her mind off Mackinnon.

When they arrived, they found confusion in the yard. The glaziers were leaving the studio, and the decorators were bringing their materials over to make ready for an early start on Monday, and the two groups of

nen were passing back and forth and getting in each )ther s way, and Webster's temper was beginning to fray.

Sally showed Isabel to the room she was to have: a leat little place on the top floor, with a dormer window >verlooking the street. Isabel sat on the bed, still clutch-ng her box, and said, "Sally?"

Sally sat down beside her. "What is it?" she said.

"I mustn't stay here. No—listen—^you must let me ;o away. I bring bad luck to people."

Sally laughed, but Isabel shook her head passionately nd gripped her hand.

'No! Don't laugh! Look what I've done already—to riy landlady, to you, to your dog. It's me, Sally, *I swear ! There's no good luck where I am. I was born cursed, bu must let me go away and be on my own. I'll find ome little place out in the country somewhere—I'll irork on the land. But I mustn't be with you and your lends. I'm no good to you. ..."

"I don't believe that for one minute. Look, at the ery least you're a godsend to the shop. They're desper-te downstairs for someone who can deal with the cleri-al work, and I know that's not what you're best at, but ■ you could help us with it for a while you'd be worth our weight in gold. Honestly, Isabel, I'm not just in-enting a job for you out of charity—the work needs oing. I know the news about Mr. Mackinnon hurt ou. But the hurt will go in time, and meanwhile we eed you here."

Finally Isabel gave in; she hadn't much strength to

argue, in any case. She asked to be shown the work she was to do, and then sat down, silent and pale like a prisoner, to do it. Sally was troubled.

But she didn't have time to tell Frederick about it, because no sooner had he come back from Mr. Temples than Jim arrived.

"I've found Mackinnon," he said. "He's in Hamp-stead. We'll have to fetch him, Fred. You better bring your stick. ..."

Number fifteen Kenton Gardens was a trim litde villa on a tree-lined road. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, presumably the landlady, who seemed surprised to see them.

"I'm not sure . ..," she said. "Yes, Mr. Stone is in, but the other gendemen said they weren't to be disturbed."

"Other gentlemen?" said Frederick.

"Two more gentlemen. They arrived about fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps I'd better go up and ask—"

"It's really quite urgent," Frederick told her. "If we could see Mr. Stone ourselves, we could explain."

"Well..."

She let them in and directed them to the front room on the first floor. They saw her back downstairs before they stepped quietly up to the door and listened.

They heard a voice—a thick voice, a voice that sounded as if its owner was having trouble breathing. It was saying "Ah, but you're such a sly bugger that we

can't trust you. What we'll have to do, I think, is break one of your fingers. ..."

Frederick leaned closer.

They heard Mackinnon say instantly, "If you do that, I'll scream. The police will come. I warn you—"

"Oh, you're warning us?" said the first voice. "That's interesting. I thought we were warning you. I see your point about the scream, though. That's just what you would do. What we'll do is stuff this towel in your gob, then you won't be able to. That's a good plan, isn't it? Go on, then, Sackville. Thrust it firmly home. ..."

Jim and Frederick turned to each other, eyes shining. Over the gagging and struggling sounds behind the door, Frederick said, "Sackville and Harris! Our lucky day, Jim. Got your knuckles?"

Jim nodded gleefiilly. This was exacdy what he wanted.

"In we go," he said.

Frederick turned the handle quietly, and they walked in.

Mackinnon was seated on a rush-bottomed chair with his hands tied behind him, his mouth filled with one end of a towel (the rest of it emerging like ectoplasm), his eyes bulging.

Over him stood Sackville, a frown of puzzlement on his grisly face. Harris, whose face looked as if a horse had kicked it, gaped and swallowed and took a step backward.

Frederick shut the door.

"Oooh, you are greedy," he said. "You don't know when to stop, do you? Look at your poor nose. I thought you'd have learned by now. As for you, Mac-kinnon," he went on, "you stay there. I want a word with you about my watch."

Suddenly Harris took a step forward and lashed at Frederick with the rubber blackjack he was holding. Frederick stepped aside and cracked him over the wrist with his stick, and then Jim was on him like a terrier, in an explosion of knuckles, knees, head, feet, and elbows.

Sackville flung Mackinnon's chair aside. The pinioned wizard crashed into the washstand with a muffled howl and then slid down sideways to face the wall, still gagged and bound to the broken chair, while Sackville seized another chair and swung it at Frederick. Before it could connect, Frederick jabbed his stick forward and into Sackville's ribs, throwing him off balance—and then they were fighting in earnest, hand to hand, face to face.

Sackville was a big man, but Frederick was fast and fit, and he had the advantage of not having learned to box. He had no inhibitions about not using his feet or not hitting below the belt; and as far as Jim was concerned, anything you did in a fight was fair, because if you didn't do it, the other bugger would, so you might as well do it first. And since the obvious target was Harris's nose, Jim went for it at once, and cracked his forehead smartly onto the bridge of it before Harris swept

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his legs away from under him and kicked him in die ribs.

The room wasnt large: bed, dressing table, wash-stand, chest of drawers, a couple of chairs, and a wardrobe comprised the whole of the contents and left little room to move about in. Harris and Sackville were made desperate by fear; Jim by frustration and anger; Frederick by the memory of Nellie Budds battered face, silent on a pillow in the hospital ward. None of them was in any mood to mind the ftirniture. Before long, most of it was lying in splinters on the floor, or crashing against the walls, or breaking over shoulders, arms, heads, and backs.

Mackinnon had dragged the towel out of his mouth and was squealing and wriggling in fear, still tied to his chair. Sackville fell over him, kicking him on the leg, and he yelled, but the breath was knocked out of him as Jim crashed down under a blow from Harris and struggled out of the way before he could follow it up.

Frederick had gone down under a blow from Sackville, come up dazed, and found the leg of a chair at hand; he'd just swung it against Sackville s head and seen the man fall when he felt a stillness in the room.