The Canary Keeper, page 30
‘We should return to Company House; I assume that’s where Vinge is heading. If we hurry, we might be able to catch the Committee members leaving. We can see which way they travel.’
*
Fenchurch Street is empty; the clerks and merchants have all left for the night. The apple-seller has vanished too, undoubtedly to spend the coins she’s earned from supplying information to Solomon. But the brass lamps in Company House still blaze. A line of Hansom cabs waits in the street. Solomon and Birdie retreat to the squalid alleyway. Birdie sticks her hands deep in her pockets, trying to keep them warm; the beaver on the roof has shifted and shows the wind is blowing directly from the north. Thankfully, they do not have long to wait. The voice of the Master slices the chilly air.
‘Sirs, we shall meet again next week.’
The door of a cab slams shut, the crack of the whip is followed by the clip of hooves. A cab speeds by, heading west. Birdie is about to step out to watch which way it turns, but Solomon pulls her back into the shadows of the alley.
‘Wait.’
There are low voices coming from Fenchurch Street. A second cab departs and passes. The conspiratorial murmurs grow louder. Footsteps approach. Two frock-coated Committee members hurry past. Solomon raises an eyebrow.
‘Shall we follow?’
Birdie nods; these city gents are unlikely to lead them through the back alleys of the Steelyard. They leave a safe distance and trail them along Fenchurch Street. The two are deep in conversation, top hats almost touching as they march, barely looking where they place their feet, as if it’s a route they regularly follow.
Their quarry swivels left into Bell Inn Yard, right along St Michael’s Alley. Solomon drops back, Birdie slows her pace to match. They lose sight of the pair.
‘They’re heading to Change Alley,’ he says.
She’s heard of the passage; a cut-through between the Royal Exchange on Cornhill and the post office on Lombard Street. Traders gather there to exchange news and buy and sell their stocks and shares.
‘Garraway’s Coffee House,’ he says. ‘The informal office of the Company.’
His homework is thorough, she notes.
‘Ready for a warm drink?’ he asks.
‘Am I dressed for the part?’
‘Garraway’s hosts all sorts – the rich guzzle champagne. The less successful hang around sipping coffee and hoping to pick up some titbit that will make their fortune.’
*
Garraway’s occupies a corner. The room is dimly lit and the wood panelling dark. The air is fuggy with tobacco and the smell of roasting coffee. The two Committee members are easy enough to spot through the smoke, even though they have seated themselves around a table in a gloomy corner – they have been joined by a youthful dandy who is hard to miss in his carnelian cravat and emerald coat. His voice is as vibrant as his attire. He speaks in an ostentatious whisper and is enjoying the gossip he is sharing with the two older men, along with the champagne bottle that sits in a bucket on the table, from which he regularly fills his glass.
The table beside the trio is empty. Solomon crosses the floor briskly and grabs a seat. Birdie follows. She stares intently at the menu as she listens to the conversation at the neighbouring table.
‘How long has Hawkes been Treasurer now?’
‘Ages. The shareholders adore him.’
‘Hardly surprising; since he’s held the position, the value of their dividend has increased ten-fold.’
A waitress approaches Solomon. He orders two coffees.
‘Anchovy toast?’ he asks Birdie.
She nods, too absorbed in her neighbours’ conversation to speak.
‘Well, the Hudson’s Bay Company does have a monopoly on the fur trade in the Nor’ West, so it’s hardly surprising the shares have held up well.’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t take anything for granted. How many other Committee members have ever ventured to Rupert’s Land? He’s made numerous trips.’
‘Ah yes, the field visits to make sure the accounting and management practices are in good order.’
‘You sound sceptical.’
‘You must’ve heard the stories about the Company’s treatment of the natives.’
‘You’re suggesting he goes all that way just to torture the aboriginals?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. How else do you think they keep costs down over there?’
‘Indeed. There are all sorts of strange rumours circulating about his activities in the Nor’ West.’ The taller gent glances nervously over his shoulder, then leans in to his colleagues. Birdie strains to hear the whispered conversation.
‘I’ve heard he likes to show off his training in the trade.’
‘What trade?’
‘Don’t you know? His family come from a long line of skinners. That’s how he got his foot in the door of their guild. Though I should imagine it took some arm twisting to get himself elected Master five times.’ He dabs his mouth with his napkin. ‘He’s rumoured to demonstrate his skills on… human subjects.’
One of the gentlemen splutters. ‘Surely not.’
‘I’ve heard he once displayed the flayed corpses of some recalcitrant native trappers like dead crows on a fence.’
The trio sit back in their chairs, arms folded, momentarily shocked into silence by the details of their own gossip. Birdie stops her face from registering disgust, but cannot prevent the image of a skinned cadaver pinned to an icy tent pole flashing before her eyes.
The dandy is the first to move. He reaches for the champagne, empties the bottle in his glass. ‘Well, I doubt whether the Governor of Canada cares too much about the fate of the natives, but he’s almost certainly eyeing the Company’s monopoly on the fur trade in the Nor’ West and wondering why some British company run from London should be allowed to continue extracting the spoils from his doorstep. If the Canadian Governor makes enough fuss, that will be the end of the good times for the Company.’
He swigs the champagne. ‘And I’ll tell you something else for nothing. Hawkes knows it too. I’ve heard he’s investing heavily in Canadian rail companies. He’s stripped Rupert’s Land of every skin he can get his hands on. And now he’s looking for more pies in which to stick his fingers.’
He drains the last drop of the bubbly.
‘Well, gentlemen, thank you for the conversation. It was most illuminating. No doubt we’ll meet again tomorrow.’ He smirks and adds, ‘At Skinners’ Hall.’
He pushes his chair back, tips his top hat, swivels and leaves without waiting for his companions’ farewells.
The waitress arrives with coffee and anchovy toast. Solomon nudges the plate toward Birdie.
‘Eat,’ he says.
She shakes her head; she’s afraid that if she crunches the toast, she won’t be able to eavesdrop on the continuing conversation at the next table.
‘Well, it seems as if Hawkes’ behaviour is even more reckless in America than it is over here.’
‘But the Company’s shares keep rising, despite the rumours.’
‘Hawkes isn’t scared of rumours. He starts them himself. I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s boasted that he knows how to persuade the severest of school matrons to succumb to his charms.’
Birdie gasps and rapidly covers her gaping mouth with her hand.
The waitress presents the gentlemen with a bill. One of them digs in his coat pocket, hands the young girl a note. She bobs and scoots away.
‘If his charms are so persuasive, why isn’t he married?’
‘He was until ten or fifteen years ago when his wife’s body was found in the cellar – beaten and mutilated. A botched burglary, the police concluded at the time, as I recall. Maybe he’s been too distressed to look for another,’ he adds with a scoff.
‘With that history, would any father in their right mind hand their daughter to him anyway?’
‘If the price was right…’
‘Perhaps he’s worried that if he takes another wife, he would have to curb the amount of time he spends with prostitutes.’
The other waves his hand dismissively. ‘What married gentleman doesn’t spend time with prostitutes?’
‘Not every gentleman insists that they are barely old enough to dress themselves.’
‘I’ve been told he likes to hear them scream.’
The taller of the city gents stands and brushes his trousers. ‘Well, I suppose I shall be attending this Master’s Blessing Ceremony tomorrow. No point in getting on the wrong side of Hawkes. Or Vinge.’
‘Quite so.’
Birdie watches the two men leave the coffee house and disappear down Change Alley.
Solomon whistles softly.
‘So, our man’s name is Hawkes, and he’s the Treasurer of the Hudson’s Bay Company as well as Master of the Skinners.’
She glances around the coffee house; nobody is paying them any attention.
‘He is a monster,’ she whispers.
He wrinkles his nose. ‘I suppose he takes his pick of the young girls before they are packed off to Belgium.’
Birdie pushes the plate of untouched anchovy toast aside. She can’t rid herself of the image of Matron’s office in her old Rotherhithe school; the queer emblem of the Skinners dangling from its red ribbon. The silk petticoat. The fur stole.
‘He seems to have the whole city in the palm of his hand. Everybody is in thrall to him.’
Solomon nods thoughtfully.
‘The Master’s Blessing Ceremony,’ he says. ‘I think we should attend.’
Chapter 22
Margaret shuffles the pile of papers on the office table and creates a snowstorm of dust that shimmers in the low rays of the November sun. She coughs and pats her chest. She’s been suffering from a tightness in her lungs ever since Birdie departed. It’s the worry; fretting about Birdie, how she’ll manage without a book-keeper and, most of all, whether the twins are in danger. She believes Birdie will do her utmost to deal with this shadowy Master without increasing the risks to the bairns. But what can one woman, no matter how strong and canny, do against a powerful man and his mob who maim and kill with impunity?
The baakie lands on the office windowsill and casts a shadow across the flagstones. It stares at her with its unblinking yellow eye and taps the window with the tip of its curved beak as if it has a message for her.
‘What are you after?’
She hasn’t seen this bird since the day she and Morag helped Birdie escape. She can’t help smiling at the memory – Birdie made a handsome young man. She coughs and the black-backed gull flies away. She is reminded then that there is another reason for concern; there is something important she forgot to tell Birdie. Their last conversation about Tobias had been difficult for her; he had made her promise not to mention the Master to anyone and she’d been afraid that by speaking the Master’s name she might immediately invoke his vengeful wrath. Later, after Birdie had sailed, she remembered something else Tobias had said, and she’s been worrying about it ever since. There is one person, though, from whom she can seek advice.
Margaret hears the cook talking to the bairns in the parlour, the parrot squawking – repeating their names, making them all laugh. They’ll be safe without her for a couple of hours, she decides. She crosses the hall, removes her beloved husband’s overcoat from the stand and slips her arms inside. She calls to the cook and tells her she’s going to the warehouse. She’ll be back for tea she adds, and heads swiftly through the door before the bairns have a chance to ask if they can come with her and buy some sweeties on the way.
*
She hurries, head down; she has no wish to be waylaid by curious neighbours. Her feet find the path up Brinkie’s Brae; she knows the route without looking, though she has not trodden this road for many years. As she reaches the edge of the town, she halts and takes in the familiar view. Slate roofs fall away to the harbour behind her, the breakers pound the plunging cliffs of Hoy ahead. To the north-west, she sees the kirkyard. She averts her eyes from its grey walls and obelisks and looks beyond to the ness, where a puff of smoke twists from Morag’s chimney.
Morag sits on the bench outside her croft, as if she is expecting a visitor.
‘Margaret, it’s good to see you – and good of you to walk this way.’
‘You’re looking well, Morag.’
‘The air’s fresher here than in town. Do you want to step in-aboot or sit out here?’
‘Here.’
‘The kettle has boiled; I’ll make a cup of tea.’
Morag stands, offers her the bench. Margaret surveys the garden, the dead heads of the roses, the bare apple trees, the neatly tilled soil of the vegetable patch, the raven pecking at worms. Morag returns with a steaming mug, and they sit in silence for a while, watching waves roll across the sea.
Margaret turns to Morag, observes her craggy features and thinks she is softer than she looks. ‘Thank you for tending my family’s tombstones.’
Morag shrugs. ‘I didn’t want townsfolk saying you didn’t care for those bairns, when I know the truth is you cared too much.’
‘For many years, I’ve feared that if I visited their graves, I would be so ashamed, I’d never leave.’
‘We all end up in the kirkyard eventually. There’s no point hastening the journey.’ A shadow momentarily darkens the garden; a majestic sea eagle glides past overhead. ‘And now you have two more bairns that need you; they’re not returning to Labrador, are they?’
Margaret shakes her head. ‘I promised Tobias I’d look after them to my dying day, for the poor mother’s sake as well as theirs. I’ll keep that promise.’
The amber sun touches the waves on the western horizon and carves a golden pathway across the swell.
‘Why don’t you send the bairns to the school?’ Morag asks.
‘The Skaills have never done well at school.’
‘It would have helped Tobias if he’d learned to read.’
Margaret sips her tea, considers her response. ‘It’s never held me back.’
She stares resolutely across the headland and waits for Morag to make some scornful comment about her illiteracy, but Morag is silent. Margaret studies the coastline, its cliffs and geos, and finds herself thinking of Donald Shearer’s corpse lying in the cove nearby. She tuts. It annoys her that he was able to pull the wool over her eyes. Now that Birdie has gone, she feels exposed again.
‘Times have changed,’ Morag says eventually. ‘All the bairns go to school these days. You’re their mother now. You have to overcome your own fears and do what’s best for them. Send them to school.’ Morag gives her a sideways glance. ‘And if you like, I’ll teach you how to read and write.’
Margaret feels the heat rising in her cheeks, though she doesn’t know why; she was half hoping Morag would offer to help her read.
‘Thank you. I’ll think about it.’
Margaret observes the raven doing its funny dance; the blackness of its feathers and its pointy beak remind her of Birdie.
‘Is there something else that troubles you?’ Morag asks.
‘Birdie.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s something I remembered after she left.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘When Tobias arrived last autumn, he told me he was sailing to London to see what he could do about this man, the Master. He said he had to stop him.’
Morag shakes her head. ‘Folk often say Tobias was a bad man because he was always quick to throw a punch. But I think Tobias was a good man who got angry when he saw wrong being done. He didn’t always know what to do about it, though; he was too innocent, trusted the wrong people.’
Margaret agrees sadly. ‘I’m afraid that’s what he did in this case. Tobias said he would find a friend he’d met a while back when he sailed one spring to London, and he’d tell him all about it because he thought he could help.’
‘You’re afraid this friend wasn’t trustworthy?’
Margaret sighs. ‘He was a policeman.’
Morag’s brow wrinkles. ‘A policeman?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Did he tell you this man’s name?’
‘No. He said he worked for some part of the new London police force, that was all.’
‘The Met?’
‘Aye.’
Morag reaches into a pocket, removes a pipe and tin, stuffs the pipe with tobacco, lights it and puffs.
‘Birdie is brave and clever. She…’ Morag tips her head back, rests it against the wall of the croft. ‘She sees things others do not see.’
‘Second sight?’
Morag nods. ‘She’s wise enough to keep her visions to herself.’ Morag raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ve plenty of ancestors who paid a high price for having knowledge that the magistrates and ministers thought women should not possess.’
‘There were many who were burned,’ Margaret says, ‘for the crime of being clever. I’m relieved that Birdie has learned to keep her perceptions well hidden,’ she continues. ‘Though I’m afraid these gifts are not sufficient to protect against evil men with earthly powers and strong connections. I’m scared she’ll walk into a trap. And even if she escapes, she might unwittingly lead this Master back here to the bairns.’ She heaves a sigh. ‘Sometimes she reminds me of Tobias; she fights her corner, but there’s an innocence about her. She trusts the wrong people.’
Morag chews on the stem of her pipe.
‘Is there nothing you can do?’
‘Birdie has to determine her own path.’
‘Surely you know some way to help her and protect the bairns from harm? You could summon the wind.’
Morag squints at the clouds gathering like migrating geese above the Pentland Firth. ‘I met a shaman once who kept a snowy owl – it had been abandoned as a chick. He rescued it and raised it and then it refused to leave him. He told me the bird could fetch the snow.’ She reaches for her tobacco tin and refills her pipe. ‘I could find a way to ask him and his bird to help. Then, at least, it would be difficult for anyone to follow her.’
Margaret folds her arms, rests back against the croft wall while she considers Morag’s suggestion. ‘It would ease my mind somewey,’ she says.
