Chapter Three
Up in his bed, Arram turned over. There was shouting in the marketplace below his window. That would be Copeland again; the bastard liked to do his rounds in the darkest hours before morning so that no-one was about to help any of his victims.
Arram turned over again. There was no getting back to sleep again now. It was earlier than his usual hour to get up, but dawn was not far off. He heaved himself off the bed and began to dress quietly. No point waking the wife. He might as well open the shop up for the day. Going down into the inner part of the bakery, it was far colder than it should be. He opened the oven doors. The fire was out and there was no kindling stacked by the firebox.
He sighed. The sooner Geralt married that young lady of his, the better for all of them. Arram went out into the little courtyard round the side of the house where the kindling was stored. As he thought, Copeland was standing right outside the shop. Coming back with an armful of wood, he saw that the moneylender and his bodyguard were walking down past the tavern; the gods protect whoever he was going to see now. Arram shut the door firmly behind him and got on with lighting the fire.
Mary lay in her barrel with her eyes screwed shut. She hardly dared breathe. Copeland was within arm’s reach of Nereia. All he had to do was turn round. She waited, and the seconds stretched out like years until she couldn’t stand it any more and had to look. Copeland stood at the corner. Of Nereia there was no sign. Blakey appeared, nearly walking into the baker who came out of his shop and disappeared into his courtyard. Copeland had that look on his face which meant serious trouble for someone, but strangely enough, Blakey looked as if he wanted to laugh.
Mary lay as quiet as she could while they walked along the road towards her, passed the pile of barrels in which she was hidden, and turned out of the street. She lay there until the footsteps had faded out of earshot. Only then did she dare wriggle out of the barrel and creep to the water-trough. The bundle was still beside it; and sitting in the bare gap behind it was Nereia.
“Reia!” Mary gasped and with a jolt, her older sister came back to life.
“I’ve never been that scared before. He could have seen me.” She shuddered, and got up quickly. “Come on!”
The two fled across the marketplace with its staring windows, and along the road which led towards the docks.
“What happened?” Mary asked as they paused on the other side to see that no-one was about.
“I was right behind him.” Nereia had to fight the urge to laugh hysterically. “Arram came out of his house just as Copeland turned towards me, so the door blocked his view. I was in plain sight all the way down the street but he didn’t look back again.”
“I thought we were dead!”
“We are if he comes back - that sort of luck doesn’t happen twice!”
They flitted along one street after another, racing against the rapidly lightening sky. By the time they neared the harbour, vague sounds of life were coming from most houses as the inhabitants woke up, lit fires, and started the day.
“Quick - the pier!” hissed Nereia. Though the tide was in, Mary was able to climb down the rotting ladder once used by passengers of small boats. Nereia passed down both bundles, and Mary lodged them in a corner of the criss-crossing beams, as she searched for a place to wait out the long day.
And then Nereia yelped, as a hand fell on her shoulder.
Copeland, stalking up the hill to the Widow Birchbeck’s dilapidated house, was choking with rage. He was unsettled by being outfaced by Blakey, and something he could not define was nagging at him. Copeland had learned that when something nagged at him it tended to be significant; but rage was clouding his judgement, eroding away his precious self-control.
He enjoyed his reputation as a man of the most unpredictable temper, as it kept people off-balance; but normally he was under iron self-control, something he had imposed on himself ever since he had seen what had happened to his raging, yelling mother. Now his control was loosening and that frightened him, but the rage that caused this was down to Blakey. He must have taken lessons from that damned thief - wait… A mental chime alerted him to - he wasn’t sure what but it was to do with Nereia. Copeland stopped in his tracks.
Instead of walking along the track which led to the Widow’s house, he followed the old hawthorn hedge.
“I thought we were going to see the Widow Birchbeck?” Blakey sounded once more the mindless bodyguard but it was too late for that; Copeland was watching now.
“We were. Now we’re going to see Nereia.”
“Goodness, Bet, you did make me jump-” Nereia laughed shrilly.
“Nereia, you must listen to me; Emma says they’re going to lock you up! You have to lay low for a while.”
“What?”
“It’s true, Emma told me.” Bet looked around. “I have to go. If anyone sees I’ll get into trouble, but you’ve been good to me-”
“Don’t worry, Bet; by tomorrow we’ll be out of here. It was really brave of you to tell me. I won’t forget it.” Nereia embraced the girl swiftly, then hesitated. “Listen, if you’re ever in any trouble, go to Mickel. I don’t know whose side he’s on exactly, but I suspect he’d help if you needed it. You take care, now.”
“And you!” Bet gathered her thin shawl over scrawny shoulders. “It looks like you already knew; I’m glad. I won’t tell anyone I’ve seen you.”
Nereia’s thoughts were awhirl. She’d acted just in time if that was what Copeland had in mind. She watched Bet walk along the pier. Then the girl raised a hand in greeting to someone, and Nereia ducked down the ladder quickly to avoid being seen.
Stalking down to the tumble-down stables, Copeland felt his hackles rise. Something was wrong and he knew what it was before he even got to the door. The Widow Birchbeck was his last call of the morning; dawn was here. Nereia had always started early but even though most people would be up by now, there was no smoke rising from the chimney. He rounded the edge of the thick hawthorn only to find the door open. He stormed into the building and threw open the warped shutters to look around in the grey light.
“Nobody home?” drawled Blakey.
“As you say.” Copeland’s voice was pure acid. “Nobody home.”
He cast unbelieving eyes from the empty clothes-chest to the wobbly chair by the fireplace where, last time he was here, the girl Mary had sat lovingly tying off the ends of her...
“Embroidery!” he snarled as it all fell into place.
The piece of cloth she’d been embroidering, and the designs on it.
That scrap of material in the marketplace - a pile of embroidered cloth - no, not a pile of cloth, but a bundle, tied up.
They had been under his very nose, he thought in raw disbelief. If he had not been blinded by the exchange with Blakey he would have caught them then and there.
If it had not been for Blakey...
His head pounded suddenly with wild fury, but with an effort of willpower he clamped down on it and turned from the empty room to his bodyguard. “I hope you’re feeling slightly more capable than you were earlier,” he snarled, “because you’ve just acquired a job. And while you’re doing this one, Blakey, everything else can wait.”
“Reia?” Mary’s voice came from the darkest corner of the stinking, shadowy space.
“It’s all right.” Nereia climbed gingerly down the slimy rungs of the rotting ladder.
“There’s rats down here, Reia, rats the size of the Widow’s terrier.”
Nereia chuckled, swinging herself around to clamber up among the begrimed beams. “If the Widow’s terrier was here, there wouldn’t be any rats!” She pulled herself up next to her sister, who had made herself as comfortable as possible.
“Are we safe now?” Mary flinched as a pair of boots at the far end of the pier made the planks echo. The sound died away slowly.
/>
“I think so, for the time being. All we have to do now is wait.”
And wait they did, among the stench of rotting seaweed and dead fish as the sea went slowly out, in the gathering heat of one of the few dry days they’d had all summer. Nereia was thankful for small mercies; the stink was enough to ward off any pangs of hunger but rain would have made the wooden structure more slippery and precarious than it already was. She shifted her weight slightly. The beams upon which she perched were not comfortable, and they were going to be here in the stinking darkness for several hours yet.
“Talk to your girls,” Blakey said to Madam. “Someone must have seen something. There’ll be a reward for anyone who can tell us where they are. Mr Copeland wants them found. He’s very unhappy.”
Madam shuddered as he left the room. Blakey rarely had to say things more than once.
She didn’t know what had possessed the girl. She was a damn fool to have tried to run and, worse, to have taken that sister of hers. One thing was for sure; Copeland would show little mercy. Need her or not, he couldn’t afford to have people think escape was possible. Those girls had better get away or die in the attempt, because Copeland wasn’t known for his restraint, and judging by Blakey’s massive understatement, Copeland was... well, very unhappy indeed.
“Emma!” she called. “Get the girls together. I have to talk to them right away. Mr Copeland’s angry, and we want to be seen to be doing what we can.”
Emma, at her post outside the door where she could listen through the keyhole when necessary, hurried away. She was thinking hard. She thought she knew who had been talking to Nereia, but she couldn’t think how to pass on that information without incriminating herself in the matter. Emma didn’t often talk too freely, but this time she should have watched what she said; the only person she had told about the preparation must have passed the information on. The little fool! she thought. Now she’s got both of us into trouble.
The debris brought in by the tide swirled about the foot of the pier, and the water stirred darkly around the wooden pilings beneath them. A few times Nereia had to shake Mary who was falling asleep in the heat and darkness. Nereia couldn’t help but wonder at the younger girl; herself, she was so screwed up with anxiety that every footfall seemed to be that of Blakey and every voice that of Copeland. The day wore on and on and on, seemingly without end. She wondered how long it would take before they were missed. Hopefully Copeland would put her absence down to defiance. If so, it might be a few days before anyone really realised that they had gone. It was unthinkable that they should run, of course, which hopefully would work in their favour, but as the long day lasted and lasted Nereia had full leisure to think about what would happen if they were caught.
Shaking Mary awake again, she passed the jar of water to her sister. She took a sip herself before putting it back into her bundle, but it wasn’t the heat that was making her mouth dry and her stomach queasy. At least the tide was on its way back in now. They would have to wait until the tide came in, slowed and started to go out again before they could make their move. Luckily even full tide shouldn’t be too high, she thought; at least that was something in their favour.
“Has anyone seen Bet today?” Emma asked along the docks on her route through town, as she called all the girls back to the brothel for instructions. Emma was no fool; if Bet told her where Nereia had gone, she could claim the reward money herself.
No-one had seen Bet that morning, “but you could ask Niccolo,” one of the girls suggested. “He was up early this morning.”
“I’ll bet he was,” leered her friend, “and if you’d give him the chance, I’m sure he’d be up early every morning!”
Emma ignored their laughter as she hurried off in search of the young fisherman. She hoped that Bet hadn’t been stupid enough to go with Nereia and Mary. The punishment for helping them would be bad but it was at least likely to leave you in one piece. What the punishment for running would be Emma couldn’t guess, but it would have to be enough to dissuade anyone from trying again.
The fisherman put down the knife with which he was gutting his catch.
“Bet? Yes, I saw her this morning. She was out early, down by the docks. She was talking to someone on the end pier when I saw her.”
“She was? The lazy little sluggard.” Emma smirked, no sign on her face of her growing excitement. “Who was that then?”
“I didn’t really see.”
“What did they look like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Some girls; a tall one and a pretty blonde one about the same height as Bet. Was there something you wanted to know or are you just chattering? I have work to do.” He picked up the blood-smeared knife again and with a flick of his wrist sent a string of fish entrails flying into the water, where the seagulls squawked and fought over it.
“Nothing much. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Emma walked back along the harbour’s edge, considering carefully what to do next.
Blakey paused a couple of hours after midday for a quick tankard of ale to wash down the dust in his throat. There was no sign of the sisters, but the whole town would be on the look-out for them now. He hoped fervently that they were far away, because the moment they showed their faces he’d be sent for. Copeland would make an example of them, and after his lapse this morning the bodyguard could not risk letting them off lightly. Blakey drank the last of his ale. Let them get away, he thought, let them get away...
“No, all the boats were out this morning, Emma,” the harbourmaster told her, “the whole fishing fleet. They didn’t get back till later on. Do you think those girls got away by sea?”
“I don’t know. I just thought it might be worth checking.” Emma shrugged nonchalantly.
The harbourmaster shook his head.
“Blakey’s already been here. They couldn’t have got on the fishing boats, there are no passenger ships in the area, no trading vessels have left recently and the only other boat of any kind is that rotting wreck that used to belong to old Benson, before Blakey saw to him.”
“Could they have taken that one?”
“It’s still there.” He gestured across the harbour to a small half-ruined shell which rode low in the water. “Where could they go? The coast is Copeland’s for ten miles to either side of this place and to my knowledge neither of them know how to sail. If they’ve any sense they’ll go far away as quickly as possible; but short of stealing a horse, I’ll be damned if I know how they expect to do it.”
Emma left him and began to wander along the harbour to where the old boat was moored. Perhaps the trail was cold now, after all.
Copeland, meanwhile, was pacing about his office, back and forth, back and forth, his fury growing until he could barely breathe. “I won’t let them get away. I won’t let them. I’ll hunt them down.” His head swam with visions. He owned this town. He owned the people in it. He would not allow anyone to take that away from him, not now. “No-one can make me do anything I don’t want to. I’m in control here. You can’t escape. No-one makes a fool of me. Blakey will teach you the error of your ways, ha!ha!”
He stopped in his tracks, arrested by a less pleasurable thought. He couldn’t damage Nereia too much if he wanted to use her afterwards. And if he touched the sister, the thief would simply refuse to help. Her father had been the same, the sort to break rather than bend.
“Damn you, Raian!” At the thought of his cousin, Copeland’s fury surged. His head was pounding with the pressure of his anger so that he could hardly see. “Are you watching, you damned cuckoo? Have you seen what I’ve done to your beloved daughter? Always one to believe the best of everybody, even when there was no best - what do you think now? Oh, you’ll be impressed when you see what use I make of her. Perhaps the people she’ll betray were once your friends, what about that? Answer me, you bloody interloper! Answer me!”
>
He let out a cry and clapped both hands to his temples, squeezing until it felt as if his skull would break; then, abruptly, the pressure was gone.
...he felt a sudden dizzy stinging...
...there was blood on his hand, blood smeared on the side of his face, blood on the paper knife on the table...
...yes. Pounding his hand on the table, he had cut it...
...his head felt light and empty. Thoughts slipped out of his grasp...
He poured himself a glass of red wine, sat down at the desk, and drank slowly. Gradually his hands stopped trembling. He felt very dull, very tired. His head was too heavy.
Leaning forward, he laid his head on one arm and vacantly watched the slow thread of scarlet unwind from the gashes in his hand and snake across the table towards him. His eyes closed and his breathing deepened. The trickle of blood pooled on his papers, slowed; stopped. He slumped in an unconsciousness heavier than sleep, while the sunlight crawled across the wall behind him and afternoon became early evening.
Blakey was back at the Black Cat. “No news?”
“Nothing,” Madam replied. “Anyone else seen them?”
“No-one; Mr Copeland will not be happy.”
“We’ve done all we can. I’ve had my girls asking round all day, but no-one’s giving us any answers. The minute we hear anything, we will of course send someone along to you.”
“I’m sure you will.” He couldn’t allow himself to believe it yet; but if they weren’t found by this evening they might just get away. Every hour must surely be a bit more distance between them and Scarlock. Blakey hoped so.
“Mr Blakey? Any news?” Mickel spotted him from across the street and walked with him for a few yards.
“Nothing yet, but it’s only a matter of time, of course.”
“Of course. Any ideas where they might have gone? Where they might be heading to, I mean?”
“Nowhere obvious.” Blakey shrugged. “No friends outside here; no family except for Mr Copeland.”
“Mr Copeland?” Mickel gasped.
Blakey nodded. “Some kind of cousin. That big mansion on the cliffs was the family home till he sold it, though that was before my time. The younger girl was still a babe in arms when the parents died; their ship went down in that big storm about ten years since. Nereia started working for him that autumn.”
Mickel hesitated. “Er - if you hear anything, would you let me know? I need to tell the governess when to come, that’s all.”
Blakey regarded him levelly. “If they’re found, I don’t think it’s a governess they’ll be needing.”
“Well, if it’s a matter of sooner or later I’ll keep her on. A few weeks won’t make much difference, but if it’s not on at all I’ll send her back to the city. If that’s all right by Mr Copeland, of course.”
“If Mr Copeland says it’s all right, I’ll have someone tell you. But for now I have questions to ask and runaways to find.” The taverns again, perhaps? Blakey pondered as he strode away. Maybe now wasn’t an appropriate moment for that celebratory pint he had such a thirst for, but he’d drink in honour of their absence tomorrow night. It would be the first taste of hope he’d had in seven long years.
Mickel limped across to lean on the wall overlooking the harbour. It would be a beautiful sunset that evening. Over the sea the heavy purple clouds were sun-tipped a burnt golden-orange, but Mickel saw none of it.
His family? Copeland wasn’t just vicious, he was unnatural. How could anyone do that to family? If they hadn’t already got away, those girls were in serious danger. Mickel dropped his head into his hands. What had he got himself into? He had got involved, and now he had to choose sides, which wasn’t what he was here for.
But what choice did he have? Everything about who he was and how he lived, everything he felt was of any worth in this life; it all pointed him in the same direction. The best possible solution would be for the girls to make a clean escape; but if the worst did happen, and they were brought back Mickel would have to help them, in whatever way he could. Vansel would not be pleased.
Emma hurried to Copeland’s office. She had come to a decision; the lure of the reward was too much. She knocked; there was no answer, but she entered anyway.
“Mr Blakey? Are you there?” She poked her head round the door to the little kitchen where Blakey generally lurked but it was empty, the fire banked and crockery stacked in the sink. Still out looking for the girls. No matter. She climbed the stairs to Copeland’s office and knocked on the door.
“Mr Copeland? I may have some information, Mr Copeland.” No answer from in there either. The best course would be to wait outside until they came back. Emma hesitated on the top step for a moment. No-one was in the house - except her. No-one was there to see...
She started down the steps again. She must be mad to think of it! What would he do if he came back and found her in his office? But then, if she was quick, he need never know. Besides, she was in there often enough reporting on the Angel Feathers processing. She wouldn’t have to rummage; she had seen where he kept things. A swig of brandy, maybe a swift look at the papers on his desk; it wouldn’t take a moment. She needn’t even really touch anything, only sometimes, it was useful to know a bit more than the common herd did. And his brandy was better than the stuff they sent to the big houses on the hill.
Emma hesitated for a moment longer; then, throwing caution to the wind, returned to the office door. Tapping again just for form’s sake, she entered cautiously and got the shock of her life. Copeland was in there, slumped in a pool of blood at his desk.
“Mr Copeland? Mr Copeland?” She laid a hand on his shoulder. Still breathing, still warm; only unconscious. “Mr Copeland, are you all right?”
He stirred and muttered something. His eyes opened briefly, but only the whites were showing.
“Wait there, Mr Copeland, I’ll get you a cloth to mop up that blood!” She hurried down the stairs for a cloth and water, then cleaned the congealing blood from his face and bound his hand. The coolness of the cloth appeared to waken him a little and this time when he opened his eyes they were normal, if a little bleary.
“Here, Mr Copeland, let me get you a glass of wine.” She poured a glassful and brought it back to the desk. Supporting his head on one arm, she helped him to drink the first half of it; and then he pushed himself upright with an effort, took the glass from her and drank off the rest.
Dropping the glass onto the table, he passed one hand over his eyes and said thickly, “What is it? What’s going on?”
“Mr Copeland, are you all right?” Emma breathed. “You were lying in a great pool of blood with your hand all cut to ribbons.”
Copeland looked stupidly at his bound hand for a moment. “The hand. Yes. I cut it on the knife. All her fault, anyway. Bitch!”
Emma decided to press her advantage. “I cleaned up most of the blood, sir, but I think it went on your papers.”
Copeland looked up, apparently seeing her for the first time. “You.” He paused to think. “Emma. Yes. What are you doing here?” His voice was becoming clearer.
“Well sir, you offered a reward for information about Nereia and Mary. I’ve been asking around all day and I think I’ve discovered something.” Emma looked uncertainly at Copeland. He was much more awake now, but he had the strangest expression on his face. “Are you really all right, sir? I can come back later.”
Blakey returned to Copeland’s office a while later. Everywhere he’d asked, the answers had been the same; no-one had seen the missing girls. This was the first remotely good thing that had happened in years. Perhaps it was an omen. Maybe it would all come to an end soon and he would be free. He frowned. That was almost too good to be true.
He entered the building but even before he got to the foot of the stair he knew that something was not right.
“Ah, Blakey!” Copeland stuck his hea
d through the office door. “Get rid of this, would you? It’s cluttering up my office.” He disappeared and Blakey heard the familiar squeak as he took his place in the battered leather chair once more.
Copeland was unnaturally cheerful. It rang slightly off-key. And once inside the office, Blakey stopped in his tracks. To his horror, he realised what had alarmed him; that smell, more a metallic taste at the back of the throat. Blood. Keeping his countenance with some effort, he bent down to study the huddled figure on the floor.
“Who was it?” he managed at last.
“Old Emma from the brothel.” Copeland’s eyes seemed empty and slightly too shiny. “Bring her down to the end of the harbour and have someone send Bet along. I have some questions for her. You might get rid of the carpet as well, and sort out someone to come and clean up. It’s disgusting in here. I can hardly get any work done. Well do it, man! I haven’t got all day! In fact,” he muttered with a shrill giggle, “I seem to have a considerable quantity less day than I usually have. I wonder where the rest of it went.”
Blakey rolled the bundle that had been Emma in the sodden carpet and hauled it down the stairs and outside, before going into the privy to throw up compulsively. After a few minutes he wiped a sleeve across his mouth, wiped his watering eyes and sat back on his heels on the stinking floor to think in the fetid darkness.
For the first time in seven years, Blakey was genuinely afraid. This was so far out of character for Copeland that the bodyguard had no idea what to make of it. A man who normally was so unwilling to get his hands dirty, and he’d done this! Blakey would have sworn that Copeland was incapable of any such thing; but if the man didn’t come down from whatever madness had him in its grip, Blakey was horribly worried that young Bet would end up resembling what was wrapped in that carpet. He put a trembling hand to his forehead to cool it. If Copeland’s sanity was gone for good, Blakey needed to kill him now. If it might return, then Blakey had to be on hand to control the situation. And those were all the options open to him. He retched again, but after a moment it passed. Getting to his feet, he brushed off as much of the stinking mud as was possible from the knees of his trousers. If he stopped too long, Copeland would leave without him and he did not dare allow that to happen just now.
He paused by the back door to duck his head in the rain barrel, swished a mouthful of water round his mouth and spat two or three times to clear it. Then he washed his hands, despite having the bundle to carry down to the harbour.
“Ready, Blakey?” Copeland was on the stairs. “Then let’s go!”
Nereia and Mary clung to their perch under the pier, watching the sunset blaze across the horizon. The copper sun faded to scarlet. The waves were fire-flecked, as if the sun were dissolving. The blanketing clouds were stifling in the still, heavy evening.
The piers would still echo with the heavy tread of tavern-bound sailors for some time yet, and the whores as they worked the taverns and the harbour; and then all would fall silent. In this time, Nereia would break into the vintner’s courtyard and wedge Mary into the claustrophobic space between wagon bed and axles before climbing in herself. It would be cramped for two but they couldn’t risk being separated, and neither of the sisters doubted that it would all be worth it.
And then, carrying over the water in the cool evening air, the voice Nereia had been dreading; Copeland. Mary clutched at her hand convulsively and the pair of them froze into utter stillness.
Heavy footsteps, getting nearer. Two people, by the sound of it; then Copeland’s voice.
“About here should do. Put it down, Blakey.” There was a thump. And then more footsteps; a lighter pair.
“Mr Copeland? You wanted to see me?” It was Bet.
“Bet… I was having a very interesting talk with Emma earlier on today. She seemed to think that I should ask you about our missing girls.”
Nereia shut her eyes in utter despair.
“She said that? I don’t know what she thought I could tell you, sir. If I’d have thought there was anything, I would have come to you at once.” Bet’s voice was squeaky with alarm.
“I’m so glad to hear that. Perhaps there might be something that you’ve forgotten? Some detail that you didn’t think important enough to tell us?”
“Sir? I... I really can’t think of anything...” There was a loud slap, the impact of flesh on flesh, and staggering footsteps just above their heads.
“Shall I refresh your memory? Emma told you about the arrangements that were being made. You were seen this morning talking to the thief and her sister. They disappear. I find that very suspicious, Bet, very suspicious indeed.”
“I just saw Nereia, and she’s always about early.” Bet’s voice was a petrified whisper. “I didn’t think anything of it really and I... I just forgot-” Nereia bit her lip as there was another impact, this time evidently hard enough to knock the child to the floor.
“You told her about the arrangements?” demanded Copeland.
“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know it was for her, I was just gossiping-”
“Don’t lie to me!” Copeland took on a new tone now, and it was more than usually menacing. “I know just what Emma said. She told me word for word. Look at her, do you think there was anything she kept to herself?” There was a sudden hiss of breath. “The fisherman saw you talking to them here. You were the only one who’s seen them. Tell me, where did they go?”
Suddenly Bet was gabbling hysterically.
“I saw them, it’s true, but they already knew, they didn’t tell me where they were going and I thought they must be getting a boat, but they didn’t tell me anything and I was only here for a moment and there wasn’t time! Please, sir, I would have told you only I was afraid, but that’s the honest truth, sir-”
“Don’t try to play tricks with me, girl! The whole fishing fleet was out already. There were no boats for them to take. The harbourmaster himself told us. Where did they go?” The tone was getting uglier. Nereia looked round desperately; there had to be something she could do - but a squeeze of her hand reminded her of Mary and she subsided into stillness again. If it was just her, she’d go back up that ladder and take the beating she’d provoked rather than let poor little Bet get into trouble for it but there was Mary to think of, and whatever punishment Copeland saw fit to mete out would fall heavily on Mary too. Nereia sat miserably and tried not to hear as Bet’s voiced scaled higher and higher.
“Please sir, I don’t know, I just assumed there would be a boat because they’d come here, but I told them about the arrangements and then I had to go, sir, I really don’t-”
“Well, Blakey, as your efforts are doing no good, it seems that I’ll have to take a hand in the proceedings myself,” Copeland interrupted. Nereia opened her eyes in surprise. Something very odd was going on here.
“Mr Copeland, I can hit her harder if you want, even break something if you think it’s necessary, but if the girl knew anything she’d have told you when she saw Emma.”
Nereia frowned. Was Blakey really contradicting his boss? And where was Emma? There had been no footsteps for Emma - oh. That added up to something Nereia really didn’t like the sound of.
“Blakey, are you trying to tell me what to do?”
“No, sir, not at all, sir; it’s just that-”
“It’s just that what?” There was a pause.
“Nothing, sir. I’m sure you know what to do best.”
“Good boy, Blakey! That was the correct answer. Now, girl, are you listening to me? I want to know where they went, and you’re going to tell me. First, let’s get rid of that thing, it’s starting to smell.” Something heavy was dragged across the boards above them, and fell with a heavy splash into the sea. Mary cried out softly; it was a body, and from the conversation, probably Emma. There was a little silence. The two girls froze but Copeland spoke again.
“Right, girl, now it’s your turn. Come here.” There was a whimper. “For every time you give me a
wrong answer, I will punish you for it. Once again - and think about this carefully before you answer it - where did they go?”
There was a pause. Bet whimpered quietly. The girl had no idea, but that wasn’t an answer Copeland was prepared to accept. “They - they went...”
“Yes?” Copeland’s voice was diamond-edged.
“They went to stay with some people...”
“What people? Where?”
“...Some people in Westerbridge... Their aunt and uncle...”
Copeland cursed. “Blakey, you may be right. I don’t think she knows at all.”
“No sir... Sorry sir...” Bet whispered.
“However, a wrong answer still merits punishment.”
“Mr Copeland-!” Blakey’s exclamation was drowned in a scream from Bet, and then a splash as she was pushed over the side of the pier and into the sea.
“No!” The cry broke from Nereia before she was aware of it and, without stopping to think, she rolled off her seat and into the water below. There was no sign of Bet when she surfaced and, taking a deep breath, she dived into the murky, filthy harbour water to find her friend. Seeing a shadowy shape she grasped it and brought it to the surface, but it was not Bet but the remains of Emma that she held. With a cry she pushed them away and dived again. This time the pale hand that she grasped clutched back with a desperate strength and the shape she pulled to the surface clung to her, coughing and weeping, when they reached the piles on which the pier rested.
“Bet - I’m so sorry,” Nereia gasped, as she saw the gaping wound which ran the length of her friend’s face from the corner of her eyes to her chin.
“You came back,” sobbed Bet. “Why did you come back?”
“We hadn’t got away yet,” Nereia told her softly.
There was a shout from the opposite pier, and a splash. Nereia paid little attention. Bet had passed out, probably from shock, pain and blood-loss, and Nereia was having trouble keeping afloat. She’d sat still all day, and the sudden cold and exertion made her arms and legs cramp. There was nothing to be done about it, though, so she held on to the pier and to Bet as best she could.
“Nereia? What-” Mickel swam across to them.
“Copeland. He killed Old Emma, and what’s left of her is floating around down there too. It’s too late for me - he’s seen me now but Bet needs help. There won’t be any place for her in the brothel after this.”
“I’ll look after her,” he promised. “We have to get her to shore.”
They managed to support the unconscious girl to the slipway where there were people about to help with Bet. Mickel turned to Nereia.
“Go.” She did not give him the chance to speak. “Copeland’s going to get vicious and it’s better you’re not too closely associated with me. Bet needs you.”
Mickel’s gaze fixed on a point behind her. “Oh Nereia, I’m sorry.”
She turned to see Copeland and Blakey marching along the pier towards her, with Mary in between them.
“Listen, if you can, send her to me,” he urged. “She can keep Bet company, and at least she’ll be safe there.”
“Thank you, Mickel.” Nereia meant that with all her heart. “I will if I can. Now go, quick, before Copeland notices you. Go! I need you to be on his good side so you can look after Bet and Mary. Please, Mickel; just go.”
With a last look at her, Mickel heaved himself upright and limped away with the two fishermen who were carrying Bet. Nereia followed slowly up the slick ramp and sat, exhausted, on a crate to wait for Copeland and Blakey. There was no point running. They had Mary. And Copeland had just made his point remarkably well.
In a funny way, Nereia was not as terrified as she’d expected. The tension of waiting had been such that now the worst had actually happened, she was resigned to it. Her leg was still cramping, and she rubbed at her calf as she sat. The little crowd melted away at Copeland’s approach; whispers ran between one person and the next. They were back, the fugitives, and Copeland had them both. By the time the moneylender and his bodyguard reached Nereia there was no-one left in the vicinity. Everyone had an idea of what came next, and no-one wanted to see it.
Nereia continued to massage her cramping calf as the sun’s dark rays faded from the shore and the clouds drew down to the scarlet horizon. She shivered. The wind from the sea was cold, and she was sodden with stinking harbour water. She gave up on the cramp - pointless really - and stood up.
“Copeland,” she acknowledged calmly.
“Do you know, Nereia, I think this is the first time that I have ever been genuinely glad to see you?” He inhaled the cool air deeply. “What a beautiful evening. It seems a pity to waste it but I know you’ll be anxious to get on. Back to the Black Cat, I think; that’ll be the best place for it.”
The last vestiges of colour had faded from the sky. It was appropriate enough; darkness had always been Copeland’s time.
As they entered the brothel. Blakey paused to light a candle from the lamp.
“Downstairs.” Copeland gestured to a door, half-hidden behind a tawdry ornamental screen. Nereia opened the door onto a well of blackness and, as she turned to let Blakey light the way, Copeland punched her viciously in the face. He watched as she fell down the stairs and into darkness then, ignoring Mary’s cries, turned back to Blakey.
“Well? Are you going to go light the lamps, Blakey, or do I have to do everything myself?”