Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [53]
And then I remember the corpse outside.
“Wait here,” I tell him, and I rise and go in search of Mary.
I find her in the kitchen scouring platters, her face still flushed with pleasure. Samuell holds the portrait up admiringly.
“Your friend is a magician,” he says.
“He is a painter, Samuell. And he is not my friend,” I reply self-consciously. Samuell smiles somewhat archly.
“Tell him I should like my own portrait done.”
“You can tell him yourself,” I say.
“Perhaps I will,” he says, picking up the jug and disappearing into the other room. I am relieved when he goes, as I wish to speak with Mary alone.
“I need your help,” I say.
She looks at me and in an instant divines my purpose. She shakes her head a little ruefully.
“We’ll not be long,” I say. “And no one need know.” She eyes me steadily, wipes her hands upon her apron.
“Samuell will skin me if he learns,” she says, but I can see from the glint in her eye that she is not unwilling. She reaches under her kirtle and takes out an iron ring, upon which hang two keys.
“For whom do you do this?” she asks. “Your master? Or him?” She nods again toward the other room.
“For neither,” I say.
“You cannot think that she would want it,” she says.
“I have no cause to think she wouldn’t,” I reply.
“Perhaps she would be flattered,” she says with a smile. “I was.” She hands me the ring. “It is the larger of the two. But take care not to disturb her,” she says warily. I give her hand a squeeze of thanks, take the key, and slip away.
Once outside we fumble in the darkness at the stable door, the chill reaching down our necks like a cold hand. The padlock is old and rusted, and the key unwilling in the lock. I struggle with it for a minute, and then the painter steps forward until he is right behind me, and I feel his hand on mine. But instead of taking the key from me, he merely guides my hand with his own, slowly working the key in its place until the padlock springs open. For a moment we stand there, our hands still joined in midair, the key held tightly in my fingers. And then he takes a step backward, releasing me.
When I remove the padlock the stable door swings inward of its own accord. We peer inside for a moment, can see almost nothing in the darkness. I have brought a flint and taper from the Great House, and we move inside and bar the door before attempting to light it. Again my hands fumble in the darkness. I feel them tremble slightly as I try to light the taper, and am grateful that he cannot see. This time he waits patiently by my side, does not interfere. And when I finally succeed, I raise the taper with relief. We pause, scan the room in the feeble light, and see the corpse laid out upon its sledge in the corner, as if it is awaiting us. We cross over to it and I hold the taper while the painter unties the rope which binds the blanket to her body. When this is done he turns to me uncertainly. I nod and he slowly draws the blanket from her body. I move closer so that the taper casts a neat circle of light down upon her.
But I am not prepared for her death-face, for it is cold and rigid like the mask of a player; her features are grotesque and the life has long since vanished. I stare at her, thinking of the woman I have spent the past few days remembering: the woman locked within my mind. For she is no more here in front of me now than she was this morning in my master’s library.
I turn to the painter and he stands immobile in the half-light, his eyes stunned. Perhaps he, too, was not ready to face death.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
He nods slowly, then moves a step closer to the body. “Please . . . the taper,” he says in a whisper-thin voice. I hand him the light and he holds it out at different angles, catching the light upon her face. At length he hands it back to me and pulls the sheaf of paper from his satchel, together with a lump of charcoal. He sketches quickly, purposefully, and I can barely make out his impression