The Misbegotten (56 page)

Since the lovers’ tree Starling was determined to prove steadfast and true to her sister, so she didn’t keep cajoling her to speak, but only tried to cheer her. She fell back on that childish recourse of pretending all was well in hopes of making it so; begging Alice to read with her, to teach her poems, to go with her on walks and errands – all without success, until that cloudy day, when at last she agreed to go out. They went into the village, and Starling noticed Alice staring into the faces they saw, as if calculating, or searching for something. On the way back Starling waved and called out to a familiar barge travelling west, and Alice grabbed at her arm.

‘Do you know that man?’ she said, as they stepped back to allow the plodding horse to pass.

‘Yes, that’s Dan Smithers,’ said Starling.

‘Would he do a small favour, if you asked him? Is he an honest man?’

‘I think he would. I think he is.’

‘Then bid him take this letter for me, and send it on from Bath,’ said Alice, urgently, pressing the folded paper into her hand.

Starling ran on a few paces, and called out.

‘Mr Smithers! Will you carry this letter to Bath for us, and send it on?’

‘What’ll you pay me, bantling?’ Dan called back, taking his pipe out from between his teeth.

‘I have a farthing . . . and I can sing you a song, if you like?’ At this the bargeman laughed and moved to the edge of the deck, reaching out to take the letter.

‘Keep your farthing, girl. Only a goosecap would cast chink over water.’ He tucked Alice’s letter into his shirt and drifted on his steady way.

‘Will he do it?’ said Alice, watching the bargeman’s retreating back with a strange, hungry look in her eyes. ‘Will he send it?’

‘Of course.’ Starling shrugged. Alice sighed then, and the hand that held Starling’s squeezed it tight, as if for courage.

‘Then we shall soon see,’ she said; words as desperate and hopeless as a faithless prayer.

‘Jonathan Alleyn got that letter – it was that which brought him rushing back here, from Brighton,’ said Starling. The frosty ground she sat on was eating into her flesh, but she could hardly feel it.

‘Well, it made no difference,’ said Dick.

‘It did to him. It did to Mr Alleyn.’

‘It made no difference to Miss Beckwith.’

‘Why did you kill her?
Why?
She was good . . . only ever good! She was my sister.’ Starling could hardly speak for the grief crushing her.

‘I never meant to! Do you think I meant to?’ Dick erupted to his feet. The brandy bottle flew from his hand and landed in front of Starling, the last drops splattering out. ‘Do you think I
meant to?
I did not. I . . . she was kind, like you said. I wanted her to love me.’ He laughed again, high-pitched and strange.

‘You’re mad.’

‘I was meant to make her love me, and the bitch made me
want
her to! How’s that for a twist of fate.’ He lurched to one side and retched violently, sending a spew of rancid brandy onto the riverbank. ‘But by God, she was stubborn.’ He coughed, spat, wiped his chin on his hand.

‘She wouldn’t betray him. She wouldn’t betray Jonathan Alleyn.’

‘Clung to thoughts of that Hopping Giles like a nun to Christ’s bloody cross. She only agreed to meet me because I swore I would open my own veins if she refused. She tried to talk me out of it – out of all the devotion and unending love I professed, as ardently as any bleeding poet. She sat patiently and listened to me harp on, and then told me sweetly that it could not be; that her heart belonged to another for all of time, even if they could not marry. When I said I would drown myself in the river if she didn’t consent to an elopement she just gave me a look, all grave and sedate, and said “Do not, sir, I beg you. Only try to forget me, and find another to love.” ’ He strained his voice into a grotesque parody of Alice’s.

‘She was true to him,’ Starling whispered. ‘When she would not betray, did Mrs Alleyn bid you kill her?’

‘No! Not . . . not baldly put, not like that. I knew she desired it, though. But I never meant to. I only . . . thought to frighten her. To scare her into obeying me, and accepting me . . .’

‘To
scare
her into loving you? You’re a pitiful fool, Dick Weekes.’

‘And you were my whore, Starling,’ he sneered at her.

‘What did you do to her?’

‘I only struck her. Just a blow, to that pretty face. I shook her a little first, and made threats . . . She said if I loved her I would let her be, so I gave her a blow across the chops, and she fell down, and . . . and . . . it wasn’t enough to
kill
her! It wasn’t enough for that! But she was pale as death itself, lying there on the ground, and she gasped like a landed fish. The only colour she had was the blood on her teeth. I thought she was playing me for a fool . . . I thought she was feigning injury. But then she . . . she stopped gasping.’ He shook his head as if bewildered. ‘Dear God but I’ve seen her gasping like that, and those red teeth, in a thousand dreams since then.’ He shuddered. ‘But it wasn’t enough to kill her . . . it wasn’t! I’ve hit enough women to know what force to use.’

‘You dog.’ Starling could hardly speak. Her body was shaking so hard her teeth rattled in her skull. ‘You
dog
! Her heart was fragile . . . it could not stand a shock, or too much agitation.’

‘It wasn’t my fault. She wasn’t supposed to die.’

‘Where?’ The word was a barely unintelligible moan.
‘Where?
’ Starling tried again.

‘Here. Just here. She lay where you lie now, more or less,’ he said woodenly. He shook his head again, and tears bloated his eyes. For some reason, the sight of them made Starling angrier than she’d ever been in her life.

‘No, where is she
now
?’

Slowly, unsteadily, Starling got to her knees, and then to her feet. She curled her hands into fists, though it seemed to take every last bit of her strength. Dick ignored her, still staring at the spot on the ground where Starling had sat down. He tottered; staggered to keep his feet.

‘At least, I thought, Mrs Alleyn would love me for it. What better way to get the girl out from under her feet? But none of it.’ He stooped to pick up the brandy bottle, nearly pitching forwards as he did; peered into it and then cast it into the water with a feeble overarm throw when he found it empty. ‘This is my place,’ he mumbled. ‘We were dismissed soon after. Father, and me along with him. I’d made myself a murderer at the age of eighteen, for her, but she didn’t even want to see me after. Didn’t even let me kiss her any more, or touch her breasts like before. She’d made me think . . . she’d made me think I could have
all of her
, if I did as she asked. She made me think that.’

‘All this time . . . all this time . . . Where is she now, you bastardly gullion?’ Starling shouted, finding a storm of rage to give her strength. With a snarl she flew at him, clawing at his eyes with their lying tears. Befuddled and slow, Dick fought her off, clumsily trying to grab at her hands and strike her at the same time.

‘All this time you’ve been plaguing Jonathan Alleyn, and for
naught
, Starling! For
naught
! I can’t say that hasn’t cheered me, from time to time.’ He grinned at her then, a cruel and sickly expression.

‘
Bastard!
’ Starling screamed, and with all her strength she shoved him in the chest, wanting nothing more than for him to vanish; to be no more. Dick reeled backwards, caught his heel on a root and launched full length into the river.

The splash was a huge white plume in the gathering dark; the sound seemed impossibly loud. Starling stood on the bank, chest heaving, and watched as Dick surfaced, coughing and spitting and shaking the water from his eyes. The water wasn’t deep enough to drown him.
More’s the pity. But I should run. I should run before he climbs out
. But Starling was rooted to the spot. Dick stood, and the black water was at his chest; he seemed to have trouble breathing.

‘I’ll choke the bloody life from you, you bitch!’ he said, but his voice sounded thick and peculiar, and as he began to wade towards the bank his movements were jerky and slow; like it was deep snow he strode through instead of water.

‘Where is she now? What did you do with her?’ said Starling. Dick didn’t reply. His attention seemed to have turned inwards, to his own body. Spasms juddered through him; he scowled in confusion.

‘Cold,’ he muttered, through chattering teeth. ‘It’s too cold. My legs . . . cramp has my legs . . .’ He stumbled then, and the water closed over his head again. ‘Starling, help me!’ he called when he surfaced, panic creeping into his voice. ‘I haven’t the strength!’

‘Seems to me a man in the prime of life, who knows just how much force to use when he hits a woman, should have no trouble climbing a riverbank,’ said Starling, icily. ‘Unless he’s drunk himself weaker than a kitten, of course.’ She stared down at Dick, not moving, not blinking.

‘Help me!’

‘I will not.’ Dick’s face had gone as white as the fog; his breath came in snatches, hissing out between locked jaws. He made for the bank again and this time reached it, his fingers snapping the thin ice where water met earth. He scrabbled at the bank, found a root and curled his fingers around it, but when he pulled at it his grip slithered free. He stared at his hands as if he no longer owned them.

‘Starling, help me. Please. Pull me up, for I cannot do it. I cannot.’ His legs rose in the water behind him, floating of their own volition. He craned his head back to keep his face clear of the surface. His puffing breath made little scuffs on the water.

‘Tell me where she rests.’ Starling gazed down at him, feeling calm now, feeling safe.

‘If you help me out, I will tell you. I swear it,’ he said. The current had Dick’s legs, pulling, turning his feet towards Bath. His eyes bulged in fear and he flapped at the root with hands that would no longer flex. ‘Pull me out! Pull me out and I will show you the exact spot! Else you will never know, Starling! You will never know!’

‘No, tell me now!’
There are only seconds.
The current had edged Dick away from the bank. He stared at the root that might save him, splashed and paddled to no effect.

‘St-Starling, please,’ he croaked.
In seconds he will be out of reach.
Starling glanced around for a fallen branch with which she might hook him, but saw none. She took a step closer to the edge, closer to him, and hesitated, frowning in indecision.

Captain and Harriet Sutton were at table when Rachel was let into the hall by their elderly servant. She could no longer feel her hands or feet, or her heart. Her head was ringing and she couldn’t marshal her thoughts, or pick any one free of the tangled whole. Harriet came rushing out to her, alarmed, still swallowing a mouthful of food; her husband the captain was not far behind her, keeping a more tactful distance; and behind him Cassandra peeked out, keeping to the safety of her father’s shadow.

‘My dear, whatever has happened? You look terribly pale – come and sit by the fire, your hands are like ice,’ said Harriet, as she took Rachel through to the parlour.

‘Something terrible . . . I am so sorry.’ Rachel sat down, unsure what to say now that she was given the chance. The earlier events on the common had an unreal caste in her memory, as if they could not really have unfurled that way. ‘I am so sorry to intrude upon you like this, Mrs Sutton,’ she managed to whisper. ‘It’s only that I . . . I wasn’t sure where else to go.’

‘But, has something happened at home, my dear? Has something happened to Mr Weekes?’

‘At home? No.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘No, it is Mr Alleyn.’

‘Jonathan Alleyn?’ The captain broke in, brusquely. ‘What has happened to him?’

‘He is . . .’ Rachel swallowed; her throat was dry and tight. ‘He . . . I think he is dead.’

‘
What?
’ Harriet breathed. Rachel grasped at her friend’s hands when it seemed she might pull them away.

‘He killed Alice Beckwith! I never thought so . . . not truly . . .’

There was a hung moment; Captain Sutton was the first to break it.

‘Cassie, you are for Bedfordshire. Maggie,’ he called over his shoulder to their servant. ‘Take this young lady up to bed, if you would.’

‘But Papa, what about the butterscotch syllabub?’ Cassandra protested gently. Rachel looked up at the sound of her voice, and found the little girl’s dark, liquid eyes regarding her with curiosity and a touch of fear.
I must sound like a mad woman
.

‘You may take a dish upstairs with you. Go on now, be gone.’ Obediently, Cassandra turned and left them, her long hair swaying behind her. Captain Sutton came further into the room and closed the door behind him. ‘He killed Miss Beckwith? Are you certain of this?’ His tone was heavy with something like dread.

‘He confessed it to me! He said . . . he said . . .’ Rachel struggled to remember his exact words. ‘We were speaking of Alice – I’d given him back her last letter, you see. And he was . . . most upset by it . . . He fell . . .’ Rachel shut her eyes, because suddenly her head was lanced with pain. ‘We were up on the high common and he . . . slipped, and fell into a deep hollow. I think he must have hit his head. Harriet . . . there was so much blood!’

‘But you don’t know if he lives? How is this? Did you not stay to find out?’ Harriet was no longer holding Rachel’s hands but gripping them, so tightly that Rachel felt her finger bones grind together.

‘I . . . I’d been running from him. In the fog . . . Harriet, I . . . was frightened! He was so angry, and disordered . . . I thought he might do me harm, if I were to face him. After he fell, I found my way back down from the hill, and I sent the first men I encountered up to where Mr Alleyn was, to fetch him down. And . . . then I came here.’

Suddenly, Harriet Sutton released Rachel’s hands and put her own to her mouth, her eyes stretching wide. Her husband took a step forward and put his hand on her shoulder to steady her.

‘He was trying to fetch you back, on rough ground, in frozen weather and at sunset . . . you led him up there and left him struggling after you – a man made lame by battle? He will freeze, if nothing else!’ said Captain Sutton, with quiet intensity.