Ingenious pain, Andrew Miller [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗

a tinder box and there must be a great deal of wood about.

The word 'wolf leaps into his mind like the beast itself. Childhood wolf stories. Childhood dreams of animals with spiky fur and ice-coloured eyes, slouching, watchful, scenting the dreamer in the forests of sleep. No Mama here to vanquish the horror with a lullaby. This, thinks the Reverend, looking round at his companions, might be a good moment to recover the comforts of prayer, and he has formed a single, silent 'Our Father', the words cumbersome, large as eggs in his mouth, when all prayer, all thought, is instantly suspended.

Says Mr Featherstone: 'Was that . . . ?'

The second shot is more distinct than the first. The coach halts; no one speaks. A cry? They hold their breath. They hear only the beat of their own hearts, the sweep of the wind.

The Reverend says: 'Hunters?'

'In this?' scoffs Mrs Featherstone.

'Perchance it was a signal?' says the Reverend. 'A traveller in distress. Should we not investigate, monsieur?'

Mr Featherstone asks: 'Are there bandits in these parts, monsieur?'

About shrugs. Shrugs again. 'I regret, some things are unknown even to About.'

Mrs Featherstone says: 'Why does one of you not look into it? Why do you all just sit?'

'Surely, dear,' says Mr Featherstone, 'my first duty is to protect you.'

About says: 'Bravo, monsieur. For myself, I have been out once and did not care for it. My stockings are still quite wet.'

They look towards the Reverend. He holds their eyes a moment then buttons the neck of his coat, forces open the door at his side, and drops, lightly as he can, into the roaring world.

The coachman grips a blunderbuss across his lap. Only his eyes remain unmuffled, humanly alive. His coat is crusted with snow and the snow sits thickly in the gutters of his hat.

The Reverend says: 'Let us go forward together!' He speaks in German, seeking, as the snow thrusts at his face, the appropriate grammar. Imperative or conditional? The driver shakes his head; a small gesture of unshakable resolve.

The Reverend turns away, pats the nearest horse, a sorrel. He feels the warmth through his new gloves. Poor beasts. How unhappy they look. His hands sheltering his face, he gazes forward, up the road towards Riga, then walks, leaning into the storm, twenty yards before he remembers he has no weapon. He stoops, picks up a branch, wipes the snow from it, holds it like a musket. Through this weather it might be mistaken. No more shots now. No sign of life at all.

How far is he supposed to go? He must not lose sight of the coach. It would not take long to become lost then; to wander off the road, lose all sense of direction, steadily colder, weaker. Lying down he would be covered in minutes. Buried till the thaw, some

peasant with his dog coming across the frozen corpse in spring. A lonely place this. The whole land giving off a continuous low moan of absence.

He looks back. Mami Sylvie, though much obscured, is still visible. Ten more paces, then back. He counts them out, reaches seven, and stops. Something is moving in the storm ahead. A man? Two men. One standing, one lying in the snow. At the side of the road there is a vehicle, a chaise, wheels deep in the snow. One horse.

Grasping his branch, the Reverend approaches. Whoever they are they do not look like cutthroats. More like the victims than the perpetrators of an outrage.

'HALLOOOOO!'

The man has a pistol, briefly points it at the Reverend's face, then lets his arm drop to his side. The Reverend moves closer. He lets go of the branch.

'Dr Dyer?'

They are standing together now in the road. Dyer's cropped head is gashed, gory.

'Dear sir, what calamity is this? Are you robbed?'

'You know me, sir?'

'I saw you in Paris. Place Royal.'

'I did not see you.'

'The Reverend Julius Lestrade, sir. Is this your companion? Is he badly hurt?'

'That is the postillion. My "companion" shot him while he made his escape.'

'Shot him?'

'Having first struck me and filled his pockets with my gold.'

The Reverend kneels in the snow beside the post-boy. No boy this, but a man in his fifties, shocked, frightened. The ball has struck his wrist and exited by his elbow. When the Reverend looks up, Dyer is leaning into the coach, pulling out a bag, a travelling

bag and another, smaller, of green baize, which faintly jangles as he lifts it.

'I assume, Lestrade, you did not walk here from Paris.'

'Indeed not. The coach is yonder.'

'Then I should be grateful if you would assist me to the nearest town. If you know of me then you know where I am bound.'

'I fear we shall none of us get far in this. Aha! Here they come!'

Mami Sylvie creeps silently towards them. Mr Featherstone is sat up beside the coachman. Featherstone has the blunderbuss at his shoulder. Thinks the Reverend: It will be a miracle if I am not shot in this adventure.

'HO!'

'HO THERE!'

The wounded postillion is carried inside the coach; Dyer follows, the blood making a crazy web over his face. The remaining horse from the chaise is tethered to the basket at the back of the coach. Mr Featherstone elects to stay up with the driver. Inside the coach the Reverend fusses ineffectually with the groaning postillion. Mrs Featherstone offers a handkerchief to Dyer to wipe his face. He wipes, hands back the cloth. Mrs Featherstone receives it, drops it discreetly by her feet.

Says the Reverend: 'The rogue shall not get far in this.'

'The devil looks after his own,' says Dyer. 'I swear that when they come to hang him the rope will snap. Where are you headed?'

'Wherever at all we may reach. We are told there is a monastery . . .'

There is an excited cry from Mr Featherstone. About pulls down the window.

'La,' says Mrs Featherstone. 'Can that be it? That ruin?'

The building looks like the hulk of an ancient ship. Two central towers, two low wings, one