The Tenderness of Wolves (24 page)

‘What I actually said was that I had seen your idea of justice with my own eyes.’

‘You don’t deny it then?’

‘I saw it and it disgusted me. So I took steps to avoid a travesty of justice. That is what you would have made.’

Scott looks at him, as if he hadn’t believed it before but now finds the courage to confront him. ‘Are you saying that you … let the prisoner go?’ He sounds more indignant that anything.

Knox takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. I decided that was the best thing to do.’

‘Have you gone quite mad? You have no authority to do such a thing!’ This from Scott, who is looking rather ill, as though he has eaten some green potatoes.

‘I am still the magistrate here, I believe.’

Mackinley makes a small noise in his throat. ‘It is a Company matter. I am in charge of it. You have deliberately perverted the course of justice.’

‘It is not a Company matter. You sought to make it so. But if the Company did have anything to do with it, then the justice should be even more impartial. That was not going to happen while you had that man locked up.’

‘I am going to report you for this.’ Mackinley’s colour is heightened, his breathing deep and fast. Knox studies a split in his left thumbnail as he answers, ‘Well, you must do as you see fit. I am not going anywhere. You, on the other hand … I think it is time you found alternative lodging in this town. I am sure Mr Scott can help you with that matter, as with so many others. Good evening, gentlemen.’

Knox stands up and holds the door open. The two men rise and walk past him, Mackinley with his eyes set on a fixed point out in the hallway, Scott following with his eyes on the floor.

Knox sees the front door close behind them and listens to the creaking silence of the house. He is vaguely aware of the two men pausing outside and talking in low voices, before they move away. He feels no regret about what he has done, no fear. Standing in his unlit hallway, Andrew Knox is aware of three things at once: a sort of trembling looseness, as though a lifelong tether has been suddenly untied; a desire to see Thomas Sturrock, who at this moment seems the only man who could possibly understand him; and the fact that for the first time in weeks, the pain in his joints is entirely gone.

Snow falls for the next two days without cease, and each day is colder than the last. Jacob and Parker go out one morning and return with three birds and a hare. God knows how they managed to see them in this weather. It’s not much, but it is a good gesture, since the Norwegians have all these extra mouths to feed.

I spend the time sitting with Francis, although he sleeps a lot, or pretends to. I worry about him; and about the injury to his knee, which is swollen and obviously painful. Per, who claims to have some medical knowledge, says it is not broken, just badly sprained, and only needs time to heal. With patient questioning–Francis volunteers nothing–I manage to extract some sort of account of his journey, and I am amazed and moved that he managed to get so far. I wonder if Angus would be proud of him if he knew. Before I came, he was chiefly looked after by the woman whose name is Line, but now I have taken over these duties. She did not seem pleased when I arrived, and seems to avoid me, although I saw her talking with great intent to Parker in the barn opposite. I cannot imagine what they would have to say to each other. I have to confess that an uncharitable thought entered my mind: after all, she is the only woman here without a husband, albeit through no fault of her own. And she is, admittedly, rather good-looking in a dark, foreign way. When we were introduced she greeted me with a hostile look. I thanked her for taking such good care of Francis, and
she demurred, in excellent English, but with a sullenness that I could not understand. Then I realised that by my arrival I had usurped her and sent her back to the common chores where, presumably by reason of her widowhood, she is ordered about by the married women. Francis says she has been very kind, and is fond of her.

Either Moody, or more usually Jacob, sits on watch outside the door, as though they are waiting for me to scream that Francis is attacking me, whereupon they will rush in and save my life. I have revised my first opinion of Mr Moody. In Dove River he seemed kind and diffident, an unwilling law enforcer. Now he has a peevish impatience about him. He has assumed the mantle of authority and wears it without grace. I have asked to speak to him in private. So far he has managed to avoid this, by claiming pressing work duties. But after two days of unrelenting snow everyone knows that there is nothing for him to do but wait, and I can see this in his eyes as he toys with the idea of trotting out another excuse.

‘Very well, Mrs Ross. Why don’t we go to … ah, my room.’

I follow him down the corridor, and the woman Line passes us, giving Moody a nasty look as she does so.

Moody’s room has the same monastic quality as mine, only his belongings are strewn wildly on the furniture and floor as though he has just been burgled. He sweeps his clothes off the chairs and throws them on the bed. As I sit down I see on the desk beside me an envelope addressed to Miss S. Knox. I find this interesting. I am sure he did not intend me to see that; and this is confirmed a moment later when he scoops all the papers on the desk into an untidy heap. He fusses over the mess for a few moments and I reflect that under different circumstances I could feel sorry for him. He is only a few years older than Francis, and has arrived in this country recently and alone.

He clears his throat a couple of times, before speaking.

‘Mrs Ross, I fully understand your concern for Francis. It is only natural, as his mother, that you should feel that.’

‘And it is only natural that you should want to find a perpetrator for this terrible crime.’ I say, pleasantly enough, I think, but his face changes to a look of harried irritation. ‘Francis too wants to find the man responsible, as he has told you.’

Moody composes his expression into one that suggests patience and tolerance under trying circumstances.

‘Mrs Ross, I cannot tell you all my reasons for holding your son as a suspect, but those reasons are very pressing. You have to believe me.’

‘I would have thought that, of all people, you should tell
me
what they are.’

‘It is a matter of justice, Mrs Ross. There are very good reasons for my actions. Murder is a very serious crime.’

‘The footprints,’ I say. ‘The other trail. What about that?’

He sighs. ‘A coincidence. A trail that the … that your son followed to find a place of safety.’

‘Or the murderer’s trail.’

‘I fully understand your wanting to believe your son is innocent. It is natural and right. But he fled Dove River after the murder with the dead man’s money, and then lied about it. The facts point to one conclusion. I would be neglecting my duty not to act on it.’

I hold my breath for a moment, trying not to show my surprise. Francis didn’t tell me about any stolen money.

‘It would surely be just as negligent not to pursue other possibilities. The trail may be the murderer’s … or it may not. How can you find out if you don’t follow it?’

Moody sighs through his nostrils, and then rubs the bridge of his nose where his spectacles wear two red dents. He has no desire to do anything at all about the other trail.

‘In the current conditions, my duty is to get the suspect to
a secure place. Further investigation will have to wait until the weather permits it.’

He seems pleased at this speech, having put the onus on his duty, rather than on himself. He even allows himself a slight smile, as though he rather regrets having these matters taken out of his own hands. I smile too, since that is the way things are going, but I no longer feel inclined to spend any sympathy on him, lonely young man or not.

‘Mr Moody, that is no excuse at all. We must follow that trail, because when the weather permits, as you put it, there will be nothing left to follow, and your duty is to find the truth, and nothing else. You can leave Francis in the care of the people here, or if you don’t trust them, then leave your colleague to watch him. Parker will follow the trail, and you and I will see where it leads.’

Moody looks astonished and angry. ‘It is not for you, Mrs Ross, to tell me how to do my duty.’

‘It is for anyone to point out a dereliction of duty in a case as important as this.’

He stares at me, surprised at being spoken to like this. I can tell I am pressing on a nerve; perhaps he has already thought about the trail and it bothers him. I suspect him of having a tidy mind, and those footsteps leading off into the wilderness are a nagging loose end.

‘After all, if you are right …’ I can’t bring myself to say it. ‘If you are right, you will know that you have eliminated every possibility, and your conscience will be clear. Besides, if it comes to a court of law, the presence of the trail and the possibility that it gives rise to … well, it would throw your conclusions into question, at least, would it not?’

Moody stares hard at me, then his eyes go to the window. Even there he seems unable to find an answer.

When I ask Francis about the money, he simply refuses to talk. He sighs sharply, implying that the answer is obvious
and I am a fool for not seeing it. I feel a surge of the old irritation with him.

‘I am trying to help you. But I can’t if you won’t tell me what happened. Moody is convinced you stole it.’

Francis looks at the ceiling; at the walls; anywhere but my eyes. ‘I did steal it.’

‘What? Why on earth?’

‘Because I needed money if I was going on a journey. I might need help to find the killer. I might have to pay for it.’

‘You had help at home. Money at home. Why didn’t you take that?’

‘I told you why I couldn’t come back.’

‘But … tracks don’t disappear that quickly.’

‘So you think it was me, too?’

He is smiling, that bitter, old smile.

‘No … of course I don’t. But–I wish you would tell me why you were there in the middle of the night.’

Francis stops smiling. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, long enough that I think I will just get up and walk away.

‘Laurent Jammet …’ he pauses ‘… was the only person I could talk to. Now there’s no one. I don’t care if I never go back.’

After some moments I realise I have stopped breathing. I tell myself that he is speaking without thinking, or that he wants to wound me. Francis has always been able to hurt me more than any one else.

‘I am sorry you lost a friend. And in such a way. I would give anything for you not to have seen that.’

His anger comes leaping out at me, childish anger on the verge of tears.

‘Is that all you can say? You wish I hadn’t seen it? What does that matter? Why does no one think about Laurent? He was the one who was killed. Why don’t you wish he hadn’t been killed?’

He flings himself back on the pillows, dry-eyed, and the anger is gone as suddenly as it appeared.

‘I’m sorry, my darling. I’m sorry. I do wish that, of course. No one should die like that. He was a nice man. He seemed to … love life.’

I am reminded that I hardly knew him, but this seems a safe enough bet. But if I think I am comforting Francis, or saying what he wants to hear, I am, as usual, wrong. His voice is a low murmur.

‘He wasn’t nice. He was callous. He would find your weakness and use it to make jokes. Anything to make people laugh, no matter what it was. He didn’t care.’

This sudden about-turn is more than I can follow. I have a sudden, dreadful fear that Francis is about to confess something to me. I stroke his forehead and say ‘shh’, as if he were still a child, but I do not know what to think. And so I talk nonsense, saying anything, just to keep Francis from opening his mouth and saying something I will regret.

Parker is in a barn with Jacob and one of the Norwegians. They seem to have cut themselves off from the drama going on across the courtyard, and are discussing ringworm, as far as I can tell. I feel awkward asking Parker to speak to me alone, now that we are back in a sort of civilisation. I catch a glimpse of the Norwegian looking at me, speculating, I am sure, about my marriage and my peculiar choice of companion. In the shadows of the barn I am reminded of the cold, dark warehouse. It seems a long time ago.

‘Mr Moody has no interest in following the other trail. We may have to go alone.’

‘It will be very hard. It would be better if you stayed here, with your son.’

‘But, there have to be … witnesses.’

I think I’ve put it carefully–without stating that I don’t trust him, but he is, in any case, not offended.

‘You don’t know that I would come back.’

‘Moody must be made to see … whatever we find. If only we could take Francis …’

Parker shrugs. ‘If your son was the killer, he would want to put the blame on someone else. Moody would not accept that.’

I know Parker is right. For the first time, I have a sense of hopelessness, of utter weariness. I have been struggling to climb a steep and slippery slope, but I have done it. Now the ground is starting to slide away beneath me, and I do not know what to do. I do not know that I can count on Parker to help me. I do not know why he should. Looking into his eyes I can see no trace of compassion–no trace of anything I recognise. Still, if pleading is the price to pay, I will do it. And a lot more besides.

‘You have to take me. I have to find proof that he is innocent. No one else cares whom they arrest as long as they have someone. I beg you.’

‘What if there is nothing to find? Have you thought of that?’

I have thought of that, but have no answer for it. I stare at his impassive face, at the eyes that seem to have no distinction between iris and pupil at all, but are all darkness, and feel a chill pass through me.

There is no intoxicating liquor of any kind in the Fields of Heaven. The elect have no need for artificial stimulants, or for a road to oblivion. They are at all times happy and serene. After being harangued by Mrs Ross, Donald speculates on just what he would give for a glass of the disgusting rum drunk in such quantities at Fort Edgar. Winter is drinking season; it smoothes the flow of endless nights when warmth is a distant memory. It makes endurable the terrible jokes your companions tell and retell. It makes the companions themselves endurable. Donald has half a flask of whisky that he swore to himself he would save for the journey back, but he is sorely tempted. He has a feeling that he will not be going back any time soon.