Alice brushed another layer of Langdon’s experimental fixative over the head of the pike. The mixture smelled of varnish and triple-refined spirits. She had done a neat job of severing the prodigious head, which was larger than she had anticipated. The pike had weighed over three stone, and it was unlikely that she would ever catch a larger. He had nearly foxed her again yesterday, running in under a hole in the bank half blocked with stones, but Alice had waded in after him, in order to keep the line straight and free. The battle had lasted twenty minutes, with Cleo and Mrs. Langley on the bank shouting advice.
The process of hardening the flesh required twelve coats of the varnish, inside and out, but because the varnish was so awfully hot, as Langdon had put it – chemically hot – it dried quickly, especially in the summer heat, and she had already applied the requisite number of coats to the inside of the scoured-out skull earlier today, which she had filled with a mixture of hide glue and smashed clinkers. She had thrust two bolts into it, which were now cemented tightly in place, and which would hold the head to its wooden plaque.
She had awakened before dawn this morning, unable to fall back to sleep, and had roused herself out of bed before her idle mind became active. She had set to work on the wooden table in the gallery, which had a view of the wisteria alley through the wire mesh over the windows. Now and then she pictured Langdon and Hasbro turning off the road and appearing beneath the wisteria, Eddie sitting between them on the seat of the wagon. She knew that picturing it wouldn’t make it so, but it was a picture that was welcome in her mind, and which kept out other pictures not so welcome. She turned the pike’s head to catch the sunlight coming in through the screen, wondering whether she had any glass eyes in her collection that would fit the empty sockets.
The door opened behind her now and Mrs. Langley entered, looking unhappily at the head of the pike. “The smell of that mixture is mortal!” she said. “You might perhaps take it outside, ma’am. We can set a table up in the open field, under a shade. It’s a lovely day.”
“You’re right, of course,” Alice told her. “I’ve become quite used to it, but now that you mention it my head is swimming.” She capped the jar of varnish, put her brushes into a bowl of turpentine and followed Mrs. Langley into the kitchen, where Cleo stood on a chair, mixing something in a bowl with a long wooden spoon.
“We’re making scones,” Cleo said. “With bits of cherries.”
“For a nice tea,” Mrs. Langley put in. And then, in a lower voice, she said to Alice, “I inquired in the village this morning about Mr. Marchand, ma’am, the zookeeper. He’s very much alive, apparently, although ancient. Living in Maidstone, I’m told. His younger brother Bennett keeps the books at the paper mill on Hanley Road.” She looked furtively at Cleo now, who was apparently paying no attention. “The younger Mr. Marchand has informed me that the… item of interest might indeed be purchased for a sum. A rather substantial sum, ma’am, but well within the stated limits.”
“Splendid,” Alice said. “You put our plan into motion, then?”
“I did. Are you certain it’s… That it’s quite… reasonable, ma’am?”
“No, indeed. It’s utterly unreasonable, Mrs. Langley, and therein lies its attraction. I’ve come to suspect that reason is a much overrated commodity.”
“Perhaps it is, ma’am. That’s enough stirring, Cleo. They’ll be leaden if they’re over-beat.”
There was a clattering outside, the unmistakable sound of a wagon rattling up the wisteria alley. Alice’s heart leapt into her throat, and she rushed into the gallery again, her hand to her mouth, her heart beating, nearly unable to breathe. But it wasn’t their wagon, and Langdon and Hasbro weren’t driving it. A boy she didn’t know sat on the seat. He reined up before the steps and climbed down, Alice already opening the door before he had a chance to knock.
“I’m Alice St. Ives,” she said without preamble. “Have you news of my husband?” She had almost said, “my son,” but caught herself, not wanting to tempt fate.
“No, ma’am,” the boy said. “I’ve got a letter from Mother Laswell, what just came up with the coach from the village at Cliffe.”
“From Mother Laswell? And who are you, then?”
“I’m Simonides, from Hereafter Farm,” he said, plucking off his cap. “She said I was to find you mortal quick and give you this, and I’m to say that the wagon is yours to command. I’m to drive you out to Cliffe Village if you choose to go. Old Binion here is what’s called a trotter, ma’am, bred up to it – tolerably fast and at your service.”
He handed across an envelope. Mystified, Alice tore it open and read it, and then read it again. She looked up at the wisteria alley and then glanced across the lawn to where Finn’s cottage stood empty in the sunshine, her mind revolving.
“Will you give me ten minutes?” she asked. “And then we must hurry.”
“Ten minutes, ma’am, and we’re off.”
Alice came out through the door in nine, followed by Mrs. Langley, who held Cleo in her arms. She and Cleo would be fine, Mrs. Langley told her, along with sundry other bits and pieces of advice as Alice had thrown things into her bag, including clothing for Eddie. From her seat beside Simonides Alice promised to send word from Cliffe, promised any of a number of things to Mrs. Langley and Cleo both.
As the cart clattered away, she looked back at the two of them still standing on the veranda, in her mind seeing herself standing there the day before yesterday, filled with unhappiness, watching Langdon racing away from her. She was no longer standing and waiting, however, which had been her fervent wish, but she had no idea exactly what she was doing, only that she had an urgent need to find out.