Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [158]
A pause, as Hetta pressed her finger to a crumb and swallowed it. Mrs. Ash stared into her lap. Daffy scraped back his chair as if to leave the table. Then Hetta asked, 'Did she fall in the river?'
The nurse took a sharp breath, as if to rebuke the child, but the master's answer came smoothly. 'No.'
A longer pause. The three adults stared at the child as if she were a thundercloud coming their way.
'Did a big rat eat her up?' she asked, playing the dreadful game.
Mrs. Ash's hand shot out to cover Hetta's mouth, but her father got there first. His elbows strained against the tablecloth; he held her tiny face between his hands. His nose was almost touching hers. 'No, it wasn't a rat.'
Hetta tried to nod. Her cheeks were squashed.
'It was Mary Saunders killed her. Do you follow, child?'
Mrs. Ash stirred in her chair as if her stomach pained her. 'Mr. Jones—'
'Child?' he repeated. He had to be sure Hetta understood. Right now he didn't care if it appalled her; he needed to hear the truth spoken, and be sure his daughter knew it.
'Our maid Mary?' asked Hetta, tears shuddering in her eyes.
'That's right. Mary Saunders killed your mother dead.'
And the child's face collapsed as if he'd punched it.
'Tell us this, and quickly, did the black have a hand in it?'
'No,' said Mary, before she understood what the constable meant.
'The black claimed she found the body. She had a stain on her sleeve.'
Mary caught a glimpse of escape. The lie that might save her; the syllable her life might hang on. Temptation opened like a chasm, dizzying. How easy it would be to give them what they wanted, to let them believe that Abi was at the back of it all...
She was suddenly repelled by herself. Wasn't one killing enough for her? 'No,' she said, more firmly than before.
The constable shook Mary like a rag. 'You'll get no benefit from shielding the heathen.'
'I'm not. I'm not shielding anyone.'
'Was it not the black's idea, at least?'
'Abi did nothing. Said nothing.' Mary's words came out like gasps. 'I swear. She knew nothing. No one's to blame but me.'
'A girl of sixteen?'
'I've got the woman's blood all over me,' she shrieked then, flapping her heavy skirt at him. Blood browned to the colour of mud, in great arcs and puddles across the white velvet, the silver snakes, and apples. 'What more proof do you fools need?'
Mary thought it would all be over quickly, after that. But as she waited in the basement of the courthouse, stripped down to her shift and a blanket, she came to realise her mistake. By the end of the morning she'd been committed for trial at the yearly assizes, but no one thought to tell her when that would be. There was no hurry, after all; she understood that now. She was not important.
She'd never been out to Monmouth Gaol before; she'd never had cause. It was away up the Hereford Road. The constables took her in a wagon, with her elbows roped behind her. The wind made a tear run from her left eye. Her face itched. The wagon crawled past a few solidly built new houses, a couple of cottages. Then the town of Monmouth ran out, and there was nothing but bare land. Mary had the impression she was going into the wilderness, crossing into a country beyond time.
And after all, what did it matter where she was taken? Her path had run out. Her story was told. What she thought of as her life had ended and there was nothing to take its place.
The funeral was on the third day. There was a tremendous turnout that afternoon; Inch Lane was clogged with mourners. The Morgans sent their carriage to park at the corner of St. Mary's Street, as a mark of respect—though they didn't take the trouble to come in person, Mr. Jones noted bitterly. When the men had hoisted the coffin out of the narrow house, they put it down on the ground and set out beer and bread on it. It was Dai the Grinder who drew the short straw from Mr. Jones's clenched fist, and had to be the Sin Eater. He took a mouthful of the dry bread and washed it down with beer. Mr.