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  A maggot feeding on the dead,

  And feasting on calamity.

  Don’t think you’ll end my sovereign power –

  ’Tis you whom worms will soon devour.

  D

  Tabitha read it twice again. Who would have sent her mother so vile a threat? But as she glanced upwards, the rowan cross confirmed the truth: her mother had been terrified, had pleaded with her to return – and she had done so too late. She closed her eyes tight, and rocked herself in the chair. For a long spell she hated her own self, her vanity and self-regard.

  The loathsome verse still lay on her lap. Who might this ‘D’ be? Her mind raced through a dozen possibilities. Then, reaching into the bottom of the box, she found the current edition of De Angelo’s almanack.

  Tabitha opened it with a new wariness. There were the usual familiar pages: the twelve signs of the zodiac, the high water tables, the list of kings and queens and the astrological judgements upon the year. And there, as she had always done, her mother had neatly penned her observations, in the margins and spaces of every single day.

  The year of 1752 had begun dully enough, save for a remark, at Ash Wednesday, that she had awaited Tabitha’s letter for a whole month. Otherwise, it was much as any other year: ‘I visited Old Seth, he is gaining strength,’ and ‘I wrote in the Book of Mortalities how Mistress Cox did die in childbed.’ She almost slipped over the first indication of her mother’s unease:

  1 May Day. Beside this, her mother had written: Woke tonight in great fear. I know who killed Towler, and why.

  Towler? Who was he? She knew no one of that name in the village. Was he a newcomer, or a passing traveller? She read on rapidly until, a month later, her mother’s cramped handwriting spoke again of her fears. Tabitha lifted the candle and read the words twice, to be certain of their import:

  8 June Whitsunday. I believe the culprit has marked me. He looked at me, hard and knowing. He followed me here this night and I stood silent behind the door, very afeared.

  Tabitha hurried on, rifling through pages. Here was another:

  24 June St John the Baptist. D followed me silently in the woods but I retraced my way to Nanny Seagoes and stayed with her.

  With sinking spirits, Tabitha saw her own name again.

  15 July St Swithin. I wrote this day to Tabitha and told her to hurry. I long to have her here.

  A few days later, she asked again: When will Tabitha come? D is so well regarded here that I can make no accusation.

  Then, only three days ago: I am more easy. D paid me no heed today upon the High Street; perhaps it is all a lonely woman’s fancy.

  And there it was, yesterday, the final entry, on the day on which she had drowned.

  30 July Day Before Lammas Eve. D watched me today with a secret eye when no one else was looking. I must stay indoors till Tabitha comes.

  Tabitha clapped her hand over her mouth and swayed, her gorge rising. When she laid hands upon this D, she would rend him limb from limb. Wait – had he not killed the hapless Towler? She ploughed back again through the pages. Though Towler was not a name she knew, surely his death must be in the Book of Mortalities. She must alert the constable tomorrow, and this D must be arrested for his murder.

  Then she found the very first entry, and almost laughed aloud at the oddness of it.

  23 April St George’s Day. Towler, Sir John’s favourite hound, died today very sudden from a violent fit. The gamekeeper rebuked me for enquiring the cause, making an ill jest that I need not enter a dog in the list of mortalities.

  What in the Devil’s name was a dog’s death to her mother? The doctor’s words returned to her: ‘Your mother’s mind was disordered since the springtime.’ Tabitha leaned back in the chair, her thoughts chasing each other. Lonely women grew fond of cats and dogs, of tame blackbirds and squirrels; yet such soft-heartedness had never been her mother’s way. She had been the quick-witted daughter of a radical preacher, a clever woman with a sharp eye for her neighbours’ follies. She would no more grieve over the death of a hunting hound than the neck-twisting of a cockerel.

  Suddenly the candle fizzed and died; a grey dawn seeped into the room, casting shadows across the bed. Her mother’s corpse seemed to have shrunk in the night, her cheeks sunken to the skull, the skin a waxy death mask.

  Tabitha stood broad awake in the grainy light. Her mother had been the only soul on earth who had cared for her, fed her, consoled her. She looked outside at the brightening sky, hearing the chirrups of waking songbirds. Someone hereabouts had harried and frightened her mother, or perhaps worse. But he had not taken Tabitha’s return into account. Her first step must be to identify D, discreetly, privately, without arousing a jot of suspicion. And if D could be proved to have raised a finger to harm her mother – by inflicting a fatal head-wound, for instance – she would not leave Netherlea till she had avenged her, and brought the cowardly monster to justice.

  SIX

  A Riddle

  A house I am, but not of size

  To take in more than one;

  I’m often viewed with wary eyes,

  Though I’m a foe to none.

  Four sides I have, but of what made

  Depends not on his voice

  Who is to sleep within my shade –

  It’s left to others choice.

  Though freehold is my small estate,

  No vote it e’er can give;

  Yet thousands, fattening in state,

  Upon my inmate live.

  The 1st day of August 1752

  Lammas Day

  Luminary: Day is 14 hours and 42 minutes long.

  Observation: Mars is returned to the Quadrant of Saturn.

  Prognostication: The month will see much use of Fraud and Deceit.

  Contrary to the almanack’s prediction, it rained on Lammas Day; low clouds hung smoke-grey, spitting out spots of rain. Tabitha pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders, waiting at the cottage gate for the parish men to take her mother to the churchyard. Dully, she noticed the door latch was broken, the wooden rod had been snapped in half. She ached for a bumper of brandy, or a quick tot of Madam Geneva. Lord, the gaiety of the hot London streets seemed as distant as the moon.

  The handcart trundled into view, bearing the ugly parish coffin. She followed it at a sombre pace through the rain, her back and skirts growing damp. After a jolting passage across the river, they reached the village, where a sprinkling of mourners appeared with heads bowed at their doors. By the time they reached the graveyard, a rain-spattered huddle had formed behind her, mostly crones and old fellows leaning on canes. She nodded at those she recognized, mortified that she could afford neither a bite to eat nor a sip of ale for them. Nanny Seagoes waited at the lychgate, muttering to her how sorely she would miss the widow; and her mother’s aunt, an upper housemaid at the hall, stepped forward and pressed Tabitha’s hand through fine white gloves. That was the worst of it – having no mourning clothes. Her London friend Poll had owned an elegant black silk, very low-cut with ebony ruffles, that made a great show for a funeral or a hanging. If she could have worn such a gown, Tabitha felt she could have borne anything, even this dreary gathering.

  Keeping her eyes low and her hands clasped, she took her place by the graveside. Was her father anywhere close by? she wondered. Her mother used to leave flowers and a little heap of smooth river stones at his grave. Then the bishop’s man had visited and ordered all such churchyard trash to be removed. In later years she had forgotten to ask her mother exactly where Father lay. Now it pained her to think of man and wife cast apart, even in death.

  Remote and dull, she heard the parson begin the service, only rousing herself when he raised his white finger in reproof. Widow Hart, he said, though she had striven to serve the Lord, had been guilty of turning a blind eye to lewdness. He is throwing scorn on me, Tabitha thought, twisting her mother’s pink wedding ribbon tighter and tighter around her fingers. Dilks, she repeated fiercely in her head. D, D, D. Had the parson s
truck her mother a blow to the head and then thrown her into the river? Thrills of fury prickled all over her skin. Yet now was not the time to set a match to that powder. Instead, she stood grimly beside the burial pit.

  Her mother’s bundled body was lifted from the public coffin and lowered down upon a sheet into the wet clay. At a sign, she cast a nosegay of rosemary into the grave, mumbling a farewell. Cold damp earth fell in spadefuls on to the wretched bundle, but could not conceal a thin foot, with yellow toenails, that poked forth from a rip in the shroud. Tabitha pressed her fist to her mouth, making a supreme effort not to shame her mother with tears. She wanted to spit in the eye of the whole poxy world.

  Gruffly, the parson informed her that it was now her responsibility as searcher to complete the Book of Mortalities. Devil take it, her duty to note the reason for every death in the parish had slipped entirely from her mind. While he concluded his business with the gravedigger, she made her way to the vestry. The leather-bound book was laid out ready on the table. She glanced at the sad records, touching the pages like a talisman – her mother’s writing was as neat as any clerk’s, filling page after page of the book. So this was the world her mother had inhabited: a dreary room, filled with dusty ledgers and ancient quills, old wax and candle stumps.

  A moment later the parson appeared and stood at her shoulder. ‘I need to oversee the first entry. A drowning is something of a rarity.’

  She hesitated, glancing quickly at his pouchy, wrinkled features. ‘There was a wound to her head. Might not that have been the means of her death?’

  ‘You heard the doctor’s reasoning. Drowning.’ His mouth set spitefully. ‘I’ll have no disputatious women here.’

  She wanted to argue, but only sighed and bent over the book.

  ‘A new page?’ he asked sharply. She lifted the sheet, showing him the previous page – filled to the last line with cramped records. Very slowly, he told her what she must write: Thirtieth day of July 1752 – Elizabeth Sophie Hart – Widow of Ambrose Hart – Aged forty-five.

  He watched her dip the quill, then tap away the surplus ink to get a neat line. ‘Don’t make a blot,’ he rasped. ‘Now, at the end, you must give the cause of death. Write Drowned.’ He was standing so close she could smell his mouldy breath.

  He watched every stroke, from the great curl of the initial ‘D’ to the final flourish. As she lifted the quill, the bell rang out the time: it was three o’clock and the walls seemed to shake around them. Parson Dilks’ mud-spattered boot tapped impatiently. ‘Come along now.’

  ‘The ink must dry. You said there must be no blots.’ She smiled guilelessly into his ugly face, but he responded not one whit to her charms.

  ‘As soon as it’s dry, place the book back in the chest.’

  When his footsteps had fallen silent, she slumped down upon the bench, feeling a dull pain pulse in her skull. Only when all was still did she lift the scribed page and delicately prise it apart from its predecessor. The tiny dabs of wax she had slipped between the pages had performed their deception well; it was a trick she had seen a dozen times, performed by false-letter men, or by swindlers inserting fake deeds for signature. With extreme care, she tore out the newly inscribed page, and screwed it up tightly into her pocket. Then she began writing again, exactly the same record – but now in its proper place, on the right-hand page below the last entry – Thirtieth day of July 1752 – Elizabeth Sophie Hart – Widow of Ambrose Hart – Aged forty-five.

  Her quill hesitated above the page. This book would be her mother’s only memorial; there would be no headstone carved for her. Tabitha would not end her mother’s life with a lie. She set the quill aside, leaving a blank white space where the cause of death should be written, and hoped no one would consult the book for a good long time. Briefly, she prayed under her breath that she could soon return and scribe a true and honest cause of death.

  Placing the Book of Mortalities back in the box, she noticed the Book of Baptisms lying there, too. Idly, she lifted it out, and leafed through pages completed in neat copperplate by the parson. She found it quickly enough, a second Elizabeth Sophie Hart – though this one, now known as Bess, had been baptised on 10 January 1751. In the space for the name of the child’s mother was written Tabitha Hart, with Absconded inscribed in small letters beside it. She felt a stab of mortification to see it written plain like that, like a rebuke to a fugitive. Where the child’s father’s name was generally stated, that space also remained an obstinate blank: taunting, provoking, empty.

  SEVEN

  A Riddle

  Before the birth of either Time or Place,

  I reigned a despot over boundless Space:

  But though I did my ancient throne resign,

  Still half of this vast globe is mine;

  To me the stars their brilliant lustre owe,

  While drowsy mortals take repose below.

  Me poets love, and crafty villains prize,

  When they would hide an intrigue from your eyes;

  I blind the sight and can confuse the brain,

  Pray reader tell me, what’s my name?

  The 3rd day of August 1752

  Lammastide

  Luminary: Night increases to 9 hours and 53 minutes.

  Observation: Saturn sets 34 minutes after 11 at night.

  Prognostication: Females in general may face shame and other calamities.

  Nat was drawn to Tabitha’s cottage in the manner of a moon captivated by a planet. Finding a grassy bluff within sight of the hovel, he threw himself down on his back. Above him spread the whole celestial panoply pulling him into infinity. He trained the lens of his telescope along the curvaceous windings of the constellation of the Serpent. Then he fixed his eye upon glittering Andromeda, and next on Saturn’s yellow sphere.

  He rolled on to his stomach. Soon his spyglass was fixed upon the cottage. The lovely Tabitha was still awake, judging by the golden light at the window. He could see only shadows, flickerings, a quiescent presence. Yet it was a pleasure to be so close to her. He had considered calling on her, explaining that her mother had welcomed him, and offering his assistance. No, he could not do it. The truth was, he enjoyed this secret state of attraction; a circling attendant in no danger of collision.

  He had few enough pleasures these days. Something was wrong with him, he was sure of it. Since his own mother had urged him to come to Netherlea he suffered violent, angry passions towards his neighbours. And now Widow Hart, his only friend, had died. He thought of the day he had first come across her in the church vestry and asked her advice in consulting the records. Her kindness made him regret not telling her the entire truth, claiming he wanted to see the Dove family’s history to make a fair copy for his mother’s Bible. What harm had it done? The lonely old dame had enjoyed showing him books of burial, marriages and births, and directed him to his mother’s birthplace at Red End. Arriving at the latter he had been shaken: the hamlet was a tumbledown ruin. Standing ankle deep in mud and dung he had asked himself: Who then am I?

  Widow Hart soon guessed what he was up to. ‘Courage,’ she had said once. ‘You will find your place in the world. You are like my daughter. A dullard’s life would suit neither of you.’

  ‘I scarce know what I want,’ he replied. ‘Only that I must be my own man.’

  She laid her thin fingers upon his arm. ‘Time is our greatest healer.’

  ‘Time is also our greatest teacher,’ he replied dryly, ‘yet he does have a habit of killing all his pupils.’

  Winged shadows flitted across the stars; a pair of tawny owls making tremulous cries. On the path below he could hear another creature moving as quietly as a leaf blown along the ground. He stiffened: there was no breeze tonight. Nat twisted around and listened hard, hoping the interloper would not see him. Suddenly the dark shape of a man loomed directly over him.

  ‘Who are you?’ Nat asked, feeling wholly to the disadvantage.

  ‘I wondered what you was, lurking in the grass. Starling, is it? Wan
t a drink?’

  The shape squatted down beside him and Nat sat up on the grass.

  ‘I know you. Your name is Darius, is it not?’ In the faint starglow he recognized the tar-black eyes of Francis De Vallory’s drinking companion.

  The youth took a long tug from a bottle and handed the cheap liquor over. For once, Nat took only a moderate sip, watching Darius all the while. ‘Your friend is not with you?’

  Darius grunted dismissively. ‘No. He don’t need to catch his own dinner. Be that a spyglass?’

  Reluctantly, Nat let him take a turn, directing him to a few notable objects in the sky.

  Darius lowered it from his eye. ‘That’s a mighty handy instrument. And you know what all them stars foretell?’

  ‘If you mean drawing up horoscopes, then no, I don’t. I study astronomy. There’s nothing magical up there. Observation and mathematics are my tools.’

  Darius snorted. ‘My family all has the second sight. And I’s known clever men who can read the future in the sky. What happens above must happen below.’

  Nat shook his head, irritated. ‘Tell me then, if the heavens are so easy to read, why these prophets always fail to accurately predict deaths and wars and disasters?’

  Darius leaned back on his elbows. ‘So you don’t believe the ancient paths? You would not care if I set a curse upon you?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Though Nat spoke coolly, the youth was needling him and he gave in to a foolish desire to goad him in return. ‘I’ll wager you a shilling. I will predict an event that will occur with absolute certainty. And you must do the same. Then we’ll compare the validity of your hokum against my observations.’

  Darius nodded; Nat could see the gleam of his teeth and eyes.

  They both rose and Nat handed him the telescope, pointing with his finger to the dark gap between the constellations of Perseus and Cassiopeia. ‘If I were a mountebank astrologer, I should say, “Hearken at this fireball which proves that a great calamity will soon befall us.” But as a rational man, I simply ask you to observe Nature’s glory and marvel.’