Читать книгу The Poison Diaries - Maryrose Wood - Страница 9

23rd March

AFINE, CLEAR DAY, BUT A SHARP METAL SMELL IN THE air warns of a coming storm. I planted more radishes in the morning, also set bulbs of onions and garlic. The bulbs overwintered nicely in the cellar; they were dry and firm, with no sign of mould.

Took out my mending basket to repair torn stockings and found a

The sound of hoofbeats seems to come from nowhere, and gets louder so quickly I drop my pen to the floor in surprise. Father did not say that we would be receiving company, and now I cannot recall if the beds are made—

The hoofbeats get closer by the second. They must be headed here, for the nearest farm is two miles in the other direction.

“Father!” I call, as I half run to the kitchen to put away the breakfast things. “Someone is coming! Shall I prepare a meal? Shall I make tea?”

It has been almost a week since Father stole (for in my mind he did steal them) and planted the belladonna seeds. We have not spoken of it, nor have we spoken of much else in the intervening days. But the excitement of an unexpected guest makes me forget my resolve to punish him with my silence.

“Father!” I call more loudly. “Are you expecting company?”

We do not get many visitors at the cottage, only the occasional tradesman trying to sell us tin pots, or a matron from a neighbouring farm seeking a cure for the toothache. But every now and again the duke himself will appear, unannounced, with a small hunting party in tow. This land is the duke’s land, as is most of the acreage in Northumberland, and the fields and forests that spread over the site of the old monastery have long been the duke’s favourite hunting park. After an afternoon’s shooting, he and his guests have sometimes stopped here to gaze at the ruins, water their horses, and brag about the day’s kill.

Father lurches into the parlour with his hair standing every which way, as if he had spent hours running his hands through it in deep concentration. “I expect no one. And I do not wish to be disturbed, so whoever it is, bid them be gone.”

“But what if it is the duke?”

He listens. The hoofbeats are insistent, a hard gallop coming straight this way.

His face turns grim. “Whoever comes travels alone, and at reckless speed. It is not the duke, but it might be a highwayman. Stand back from the door, Jessamine.”

Father grabs his gun from the wooden box on the floor beside the entrance to the cottage, and unbolts the heavy arched wooden door.

He steps out into the courtyard. I am frightened, but my curiosity is greater than my fear, and I follow. We emerge just in time to see our visitor gallop up and pull his horse to an abrupt stop directly in front of our door, raising a choking cloud of dust.

The horse has been ridden too hard for too long; its mouth drips foam, and its neck and flanks are flecked with sweat. It whinnies and rears high in complaint at the brutal pull on the reins. The rider curses and yanks the horse’s head hard around.

I sneak closer behind Father so I can get a glimpse of our uninvited guest. He is a long-limbed, pock-faced man. Lashed to the saddle behind him is a large, shapeless bundle wrapped in a threadbare blanket and tied around with rope.

The man slips off the horse’s back and lands heavily on the ground. “Thomas Luxton?” he barks. “The apothecary?”

“I am he.” Behind his back, Father’s hand tightens on the gun.

“May I speak to you, sir?”

“You already have, sir.” Father seems to double in size until he fills the doorway. “What is your business? You arrive like a fire wagon racing to put out a blaze. But as you can see –” Father gestures in such a way as to reveal his weapon – “we have no need of assistance.”

At the sight of the gun, the man steps back. Then he sees me hiding behind Father. For a split second our eyes meet. I know mine are filled with fear.

He sighs and stamps the mud off his boots, then reaches up to remove his three-cornered hat. He wears a wig, as is the fashion, but when he takes off the hat he knocks his wig slightly askew. Suddenly I am no longer afraid, for how can one be afraid of a man in a crooked wig?

“Forgive me,” he says gruffly. “There is no need to defend yourself; I mean you no harm. My name is Tobias Pratt. I am sorry to disturb you and will not stay one moment longer than necessary. But I ask that you let me enter your home briefly, so that you and I may speak – in private.”

When he says “in private” , I think he must mean out of my hearing, for who else is here but Father and me? But the bundle on the back of Pratt’s horse stirs.

“Water,” it moans. Whether the voice is young or old, male or female, I cannot say.

“Shut your mouth, boy. You’ve had plenty of water today.” Pratt turns back to Father. “What I have to say will be of interest to you, Luxton, I swear it. Will you hear me out?”

Father says nothing, but stares at the pitiful, rag-swaddled creature on the horse.

“Water,” it moans again, but this time quite low and sad, as if it has no hope of being heard.

I would fetch the creature some water; what harm could there be in that? I am about to ask permission to do so when Father speaks.

“As you wish,” he says abruptly. “Come inside and say what you have to say. The sooner you are gone, the sooner I can get back to my work.”

“Father, ought I to get some water for…?” I nod my head in the direction of the horse and its strange burden.

“Leave the monster be for now,” Pratt interjects. “After you hear my tale, you may do with it what you will.”

“Tobias Pratt – your name is familiar to me; why is that?” Father and our visitor are seated at the table. I have already made the tea. Quickly and silently I put some biscuits on a dish, and stand aside to listen.

“I am the founder and proprietor of Pratt’s Convalescent Home,” Pratt says proudly as he shoves two biscuits at once into his mouth. “I imagine you’ve heard of it. It is a respected establishment here in the north.”

“Indeed I have.” Father waves away my offer of tea, so I pour a cup for Pratt and take my seat in the shadows. “You run a madhouse in the countryside, a few miles west of Haydon Bridge, do you not?”

Pratt shrugs. “Call it a madhouse if you will; I prefer to think of it as a safe and comfortable refuge for the mentally unhinged. Pratt’s Home has always been a well-run institution and, if I may say, a profitable business too. We take all comers, as long as their families can pay: lunatics, melancholics, would-be poets who’ve addled their brains with laudanum. We’ve seen quite a lot of that type lately, in fact.”

Pratt forces a smile that looks more like a grimace. One of his two front teeth is missing; the other is rotten and black, and the stink of his breath reaches even to where I sit, on my small stool near the fire. He pushes back his chair and stretches out his spindly legs. “So you see, you and I are both medical men, after a fashion, Luxton.”

The disgust on Father’s face is impossible to miss. “I consider myself a plantsman, first and foremost. And you sound more like a banker than a healer, frankly. But now I know who you are, and how you earn your keep. So I ask you again: what brings you to my door, Mr Pratt?”

“I have a story to tell you.” Pratt drains his tea and puts the cup down with so much force it rattles the dishes. “And a gift for you as well – although you may not want it, after you hear what I have to say.”

A thin blue vein throbs in a crooked line down the centre of Father’s forehead. “A gift I may not want?” he says coldly. “You are trying to intrigue me, Pratt. That alone is enough to make me show you the door, for I dislike being played with. If you have something to say, say it, and make sure it’s the plain truth while you’re at it. I have no patience for elaboration.”

For a moment Pratt looks as if he would try to argue; to his credit he thinks better of it. “Have it your way, Luxton. The plain truth it shall be. My tale is about a boy. A foundling boy, an orphan, no doubt. He’s a strange, half-grown lad. I don’t know how old; at a glance I’d say about as old as your daughter here – this is your daughter, is it not?” He jerks a thumb in my direction. “She’s a bit young to be a wife, to my way of thinking, but to each his own.”

I feel my cheeks redden. “The girl is no part of your tale; leave her out of it, if you please,” Father says harshly.

Pratt lifts his hands in apology and continues. “I meant no offence. This boy I speak of – he came to live with me nearly two months ago. Before that he’d been raised by a local friar; before the friar, God only knows where he was whelped. He’s not much to look at, a skittish, wild-eyed sort of waif. You know the type: flinches when you speak to him, never lifts his eyes from his shoes, a body so thin a strong wind could snap him in two like a dead branch.”

“The company of poets has taken its toll on you, Pratt,” Father says wryly. “Judging from your description, this urchin hardly seems a worthwhile addition to your household. Why did you take him in to begin with?”

Pratt squirms. “Well, you know how it is. There’s no end to the work in my business, and an extra set of hands is always welcome. And the scrawny ragamuffin scarcely ate, so he was no expense to keep. He never took any gruel or bread. Now and then I’d catch him eating a bit of rabbit or pigeon he’d caught on his own. I let him sleep in the coal bin and put him to work gathering firewood and doing errands for the cook.”

“So you took the child as an unpaid servant,” Father observes. “A slave, to put it bluntly.”

“Better that than freezing by the roadside!” Pratt retorts. “I could tell right off he was an odd one, but he did his work without complaint. After he got his bearings, one day he asks if he might start bringing in the afternoon tea for the patients. Like a fool I let him.”

“A fool?” Father interjects sharply. “In what way?”

Pratt wrings his hands as if he is trying to wring the words out of himself. “A fool, yes…I wonder what you will make of this, Luxton – the wretched brat cured my inmates!”

“Cured them – of what?”

“Of their madness! What else is there to cure a madman of?” Pratt rises from his chair and paces around the small room. “Mind you, these were hard cases. Babbling, gibbering maniacs who’d wrap their hands around your throat if you looked at them sideways. Women who cackled like hyenas and tore their hair from the roots. But within a fortnight after the boy arrived, the worst of the lot were lolling about the garden, reading The Times and exchanging pleasantries!” He leans close to Father. “Here’s the meat of it, Luxton: I’m convinced the brat put something in the tea.”

Silence, except for the crackle and sputter of the fire.

“Fascinating,” Father finally says, in a level voice. “What do you suppose it was?”

“Who knows? Who cares? Straightaway I told the witch boy, ‘Whatever tonic you’re brewing in that kettle of yours, I order you to put an end to it now. If England runs out of madmen I’ll soon go out of business, and that means you’ll be out of a home once more; how would you like that, you wretched pup?’Well, I thought I’d made my point clear as day, and that’d be the end of it – but the lad said nothing, just stared at his feet nodding.”

“And then?”

“That was two weeks ago. My inmates – those that are left – are docile as doves, but half the town has gone mad.” Pratt wipes the sweat from his forehead with his soiled sleeve. “Respectable matrons running unclothed in the streets. Grown men jumping off rooftops, screaming, ‘I can fly, I can fly!’ Now people are starting to look upon my business with suspicion. As if madness were contagious!”

It might only be the play of firelight on his features, but to me it looks almost as if Father is trying not to laugh. “Shocking,” he remarks, not sounding particularly surprised. “And did the boy have anything to say about this development?”

“I asked him, you may be sure,” Pratt says, clenching his fists. “I had to find him first; the guilty wretch had disappeared. I searched high and low, until I found him lying in a hayfield, happy as you please. I lifted him up by the shirtfront and shook him hard, and demanded to know what devilment he’d wrought this time! And hear what he says, in his smug, simpering voice: ‘I know nothing of devils, Master, but I did speak to an angel once.’ The cheek! So I shouted at him, right in his face so there’d be no mistaking my mood, ‘Don’t talk to me of angels! The whole town has gone loony!’And the imp shrugs his bony shoulders and says, ‘Business will be picking up then.’ You see what I’ve been up against.”

Exhausted, Pratt collapses into his seat at the table again, and props his head in his hands.

The light from the fire leaps and flickers. I burn too, with curiosity; what does Father make of this outlandish tale? He says nothing for a long time, and then gestures to me.

“I believe I am ready for that tea now, Jessamine.”

I leap up and pour. Father stirs his cup idly for a moment and then raises his eyes to Pratt.

“Who is this boy? Where does he come from?”

Pratt shakes his head. “No family that anyone knows of, or that he’ll admit to. As I said, he was living with a local friar when I came into possession of him. He answers to the name of Weed. It suits him, if you ask me.”

“And where is the friar now?”

Pratt glances at me, then looks away. “Dead. The friar died in his sleep, with no sign of illness as warning and only this boy as witness.”

Father stands. I can see from his face that he has had enough of this man. “It is an outlandish story, to be sure,” he says. “But I am confused; you mentioned something about a gift?”

“I mean the boy, Luxton. That’s him tied up on the back of my horse. I want you to take him off my hands.”

I bite my lip so as not to let out a yelp of surprise, but I bite too hard and the taste of blood fills my mouth. But Pratt called him “monster”, I think. Surely Papa will say no?

Father crosses to the fire. He does not warm his hands, but stands gazing into the leaping yellow flames. Without turning his head, he answers, “After all that you have just told me, what reason could I possibly have to give this Weed of yours a home?”

Pratt glances at me again, then turns back to Father and speaks in a low voice. “I know a bit about you, Luxton. People in my line of work, we talk to one another. I’ve heard about what your interests are, the research you do, your potions, your ‘experiments’—”

“Enough!” Father snaps. “I will not listen to this gibberish. Go, and take your miserable stray with you.”

Pratt rises and slaps his hat on his head. “The boy seems to know a thing or two about brewing a pot of tea. From what people say about you, I thought that might be reason enough to pique your interest.” He turns as he reaches the door. “Tell you what: you take him in and find out for yourself if he’s any worth to you. Then we’ll talk price. Once you’ve satisfied your curiosity, I don’t care what you do with him. Nor will anyone else; he’s a weed to be sure. Dispose of him as you wish.”

“A strange gift, indeed,” Father says, stroking his chin. “Very well. Only time will tell whether thanks – or payment – are in order, so you will excuse me for not offering either just yet.”

“You’ll take him, then?” Pratt seems both relieved and incredulous.

“For a while at least.”

“You’re not afraid?”

Father smiles. “From what you say, Pratt, he’s only a youth, and a dimwitted one at that. The deeds you accuse him of would require knowledge that few people possess, not to mention a deceitful and murderous spirit. The poor wretch hardly sounds capable.”

Pratt shakes his head. “For your sake, Luxton, I hope you’re right. But if you want my advice – keep him out of the kitchen.”

With that, Pratt strides to the door. Father and I follow him outside. The huddled figure still teeters and sways on the back of Pratt’s horse. Without offering so much as a word, Pratt unties the bundle from the saddle, lifts it off the horse, and heaves it to the ground.

As he does I catch a glimpse – a tangled mess of black hair above a pale, high forehead.

Pratt untethers his horse and swings himself up and astride. He looks down at Father and me, and then at the piteous figure in the dirt. For a moment it seems as if he might say some words of farewell.

“Hey-ah!” he grunts, then kicks his horse hard, and they are off.

Father and I stand wordlessly as the hoofbeats fade into the distance. A passing cloud covers the sun and sends a sudden chill across the courtyard.

“It is a shame your former master left in such a hurry,” Father remarks to the mysterious figure on the ground. “It seems he was eager to be rid of you. Yet with a few minutes of friendly conversation we might have persuaded you to tell him exactly what it was that you dumped in the village well.”

There is movement, wriggling. The mummylike wrapping loosens. First the dark, tousled hair emerges, followed by the high, pale forehead. Then two wide emerald green eyes appear.

My breath catches in my chest at the sight. I have never seen such beautiful eyes – like twin jewels. No monster could possess features of such beauty. All my fear of this new arrival dissolves in an instant.

Those hypnotic green eyes stare at Father, expressionless as glass.

“Was it monkshood, perhaps? Or angel’s trumpet? No matter; someone will figure it out eventually, though a few delirious villagers may leap to their deaths in the meantime. And you are called Weed, eh?” Father opens the door of the cottage and gestures for Weed to enter. “The perfect name for an unwanted sprout like you. Now unswaddle yourself from those rags, and come inside. I wish to discover exactly what sort of a gift you are.”