and has a market-basket full of greens wedged between her knees. The ’bus grinds its slow way past brilliantly lit shops and strolling crowds, and Charles eventually swings down the step at the bottom of Tottenham Court Road.
It is, perhaps, some five minutes later that he first gets the sense that someone is following him. It’s happened many times before, especially on fast-darkening evenings like this, but it’s no less alarming for that. He stops, and turns as if nonchalantly, but sees no-one. A minute later he steps quickly down his own small side street and slips into the shadow of a doorway. And now he knows he’s not imagining it: He can hear heavy boots, and even heavier breathing. One man only; that at least is something. He waits, his heart pounding, but when he springs out, grasps his pursuer by the throat, and throws him against the wall, he starts back in disbelief.
“Abel Stornaway—what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?—I could have killed you!”
The old man is leaning against the wall, spluttering. “Mr Charles, sir,” he gasps, his Scotch tongue tempered by the best part of fifty London years. “I never meant to startle ye. Yer landlady wouldna let me wait in yer room, so I was keepin’ an eye out—”
“—let me guess—from the snug of the White Horse?”
Stornaway smiles weakly. “A wee nip ne’er goes amiss on a night like this. And then when I saw ye go past I couldna keep up with ye. The legs bain’t what they once were, and that’s a fact.”
Charles looks at him. He is—what—seventy-five now? Even eighty? He has a pitiable old scarf round his neck and a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, but neither will be much good in thesefreezing temperatures. Whatever it is that’s dragged him from his comfortable fireside, it must be important.
“Look,” he says, “let me make amends for Mrs Stacey’s lack of hospitality. She is a kind woman at heart, but her infatuation with Gothic novels has her seeing ghosts and vampyres under every bed, especially after dark. Come back to my room and I’ll have her get us some hot coffee. And then you can tell me what this is all about.”
Stornaway is soon installed in front of Charles’s small fire, with a mug gripped in both hands and the powerful aroma of coffee filling the room. The cat wakes, stretches languorously on the bed, then turns himself slowly upside-down, inviting adulation. His companion takes his time to get to the point, but Charles is in no hurry and sips his own coffee patiently, stroking the cat and contemplating Stornaway. He bears all the marks of his brutal career: twisted fingers gnarled with scar tissue, a nose that’s been broken more than once, and the thin white mark of a knife wound running from his brow to the corner of his mouth. He was lucky not to lose the eye; Charles’s father even let drop, some years before, that another such encounter left him with a fractured skull and a metal plate holding his head together.
“It’s the Guv’nor, Mr Charles,” he says eventually, his face troubled.
Stornaway is not a man given to delicacy of feeling, or finding problems where none exist, and Charles is troubled in his turn, not least because it’s been rather longer than he cares to admit since he last saw his great-uncle. Maddox spent the summer on a long-postponed tour of northern Italy, but he must have returned to his house near the river at least six weeks ago, and Charles has still not found the time to visit. Given the relationship they have—or had; given what Charles said of him only yesterday (and every word of that was true), this lapse might strike you as rather odd. It mightstrike you, too, that there must be a reason for it that Charles seems rather reluctant to admit. What this might be we may yet discover, but it is, in itself, instructive: He may be a meticulous observer of the habits and behavioural patterns of other creatures, human or otherwise, but he is
It is, perhaps, some five minutes later that he first gets the sense that someone is following him. It’s happened many times before, especially on fast-darkening evenings like this, but it’s no less alarming for that. He stops, and turns as if nonchalantly, but sees no-one. A minute later he steps quickly down his own small side street and slips into the shadow of a doorway. And now he knows he’s not imagining it: He can hear heavy boots, and even heavier breathing. One man only; that at least is something. He waits, his heart pounding, but when he springs out, grasps his pursuer by the throat, and throws him against the wall, he starts back in disbelief.
“Abel Stornaway—what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?—I could have killed you!”
The old man is leaning against the wall, spluttering. “Mr Charles, sir,” he gasps, his Scotch tongue tempered by the best part of fifty London years. “I never meant to startle ye. Yer landlady wouldna let me wait in yer room, so I was keepin’ an eye out—”
“—let me guess—from the snug of the White Horse?”
Stornaway smiles weakly. “A wee nip ne’er goes amiss on a night like this. And then when I saw ye go past I couldna keep up with ye. The legs bain’t what they once were, and that’s a fact.”
Charles looks at him. He is—what—seventy-five now? Even eighty? He has a pitiable old scarf round his neck and a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, but neither will be much good in thesefreezing temperatures. Whatever it is that’s dragged him from his comfortable fireside, it must be important.
“Look,” he says, “let me make amends for Mrs Stacey’s lack of hospitality. She is a kind woman at heart, but her infatuation with Gothic novels has her seeing ghosts and vampyres under every bed, especially after dark. Come back to my room and I’ll have her get us some hot coffee. And then you can tell me what this is all about.”
Stornaway is soon installed in front of Charles’s small fire, with a mug gripped in both hands and the powerful aroma of coffee filling the room. The cat wakes, stretches languorously on the bed, then turns himself slowly upside-down, inviting adulation. His companion takes his time to get to the point, but Charles is in no hurry and sips his own coffee patiently, stroking the cat and contemplating Stornaway. He bears all the marks of his brutal career: twisted fingers gnarled with scar tissue, a nose that’s been broken more than once, and the thin white mark of a knife wound running from his brow to the corner of his mouth. He was lucky not to lose the eye; Charles’s father even let drop, some years before, that another such encounter left him with a fractured skull and a metal plate holding his head together.
“It’s the Guv’nor, Mr Charles,” he says eventually, his face troubled.
Stornaway is not a man given to delicacy of feeling, or finding problems where none exist, and Charles is troubled in his turn, not least because it’s been rather longer than he cares to admit since he last saw his great-uncle. Maddox spent the summer on a long-postponed tour of northern Italy, but he must have returned to his house near the river at least six weeks ago, and Charles has still not found the time to visit. Given the relationship they have—or had; given what Charles said of him only yesterday (and every word of that was true), this lapse might strike you as rather odd. It mightstrike you, too, that there must be a reason for it that Charles seems rather reluctant to admit. What this might be we may yet discover, but it is, in itself, instructive: He may be a meticulous observer of the habits and behavioural patterns of other creatures, human or otherwise, but he is
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