Homecoming

1856, London

Being as old and well-traveled as I am, it must be said that many evenings escape me, blending together due to my myriad adventures. I’m often faced with the awkward encounter of someone telling me that we met at a dinner party or some other event. I of course nod and reassure them of my complete recollection of such events, even though that is hardly ever the case. But there is one night in November, years ago, that has stuck with me.

I had been invited to do a reading in the backroom of a well-known pub in the West End of London, and had entertained a crowd of around 40 to 50 people with my reading of the first chapter of my latest novel. Afterwards the audience milled around, many with drinks and some with books for me to sign. I remember it was raining heavily that night, and though the backroom gradually emptied, the main pub remained full and noisy, the hum of conversations vibrating through the walls as I started to pack up my things.

‘Have you got a pen?’. I turned around to see a man around my age, wearing a flat cap and a shooting jacket approaching me with one of my books. Through the dim candle lighting, it took me a moment to properly register his weatherworn face and sheepish smile.

‘Arnold? Is that really you?’ I asked, astonished, and his smile grew broader.

‘You remember me.’ Arnold said, visibly touched.

‘Of course I do. I’m surprised to see you all the way here in London - do you still live back in Kensingtonshire?’

He did, and it turned out he had travelled quite a way to London to visit his daughter Josephine and her new baby.

‘She lives only a few streets over from here actually,’ he said proudly. ‘Found herself a decent husband that does well for himself and the two of them. I was walking past here when I saw a sign saying you would be here - and I thought, could it really be the Edwin Carnegie that I knew?’ He laughed. ‘I was supposed to go back last night, but I thought I had to see for myself, so I stayed. I’m headed back tomorrow.’

‘I’m honoured you extended your stay to see me.’ I said, and gestured to an empty table and chairs next to the fireplace. ‘Do you have time for a drink?’

Over the next few hours Arnold filled me in on what had been happening back in the village - his wife had been ill and wasn’t up to making the journey down, but Josephine went back several times a year and would bring the baby next month. He told me about a new school being built, how the local businesses were doing, and I shared a few stories of my travels across Europe, particularly in Portugal and France.

‘So you aren’t in England much then - is that why you haven’t been back?’

‘I spend most of my time travelling around Europe.’ I had a peripatetic lifestyle.

There was a brief silence.

‘But you never came back. It’s been, what, 20 years? And you never came back again.’

I stared down at my glass, sifting through my thoughts to find what to say. After some hesitation, I decided to tell the truth - at least, the easiest truth for him to hear. ‘It was too difficult for me. After what happened. I just wanted to forget it.’

—

Kensingtonshire, 1834

My father, had he still been alive, would have surely joked about the prodigal son returning home. Mr. Chamberlain, had he still been alive, would have joked about how my writing was far from the classics he had spent much of my formative years educating me on, just as he had the last time we saw each other.

‘I’m just saying,’ he had said, feigning distress, ‘that I put a great deal of time into making sure you read all the classics, Homer, Socrates, Plato, and these works that are worthy of study thousands of years later. Now, I am not saying that that bumbling adventurer isn’t—’

‘Not bumbling,’ I corrected him, ‘Winston Finch may be eccentric, but he is not bumbling.’

‘Oh, just eccentric then - my mistake!’ He laughed. ‘Well, the paper they’re printed in is an excellent substitute for firewood at the cottage when I run out.’

I smiled to myself as I saw the bookshelf he had dedicated to my work - my one published book, and the periodicals that featured my serialised work, all neatly and carefully organised. The most recent manuscript I had sent to him was on the small table next to his armchair.

Mr. Chamberlain’s cottage was small but comfortable, and it had a lovely little garden. Having arrived the night before, I was only just starting to assess what I wanted to keep as the early morning light filtered in. Most of his possessions were books.

I was running my fingers along the book spines of one of the shelves not containing my works when there was a knock at the front door. As I approached, I saw my childhood friend Jack through the front window.

‘If it isn’t Edwin Carnegie.’ He beamed at me as I unlocked the door. He looked the same as I had remembered - tall, burly and bright-eyed. ‘How long has it been?’

‘Far too long,’ I said with a smile. ‘Come and have a cup of tea with me in the garden.’

‘I’m so sorry about Mr. Chamberlain,’ Jack looked at me with kind eyes as we sat down outside. ‘I know he was like a second father to you.’

I watched as a small bird pecked at some leaves on the edges of the yard. ‘I didn’t know he was sick. Otherwise I would’ve come back to see him.’

‘No one in the village knew he was sick either.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I thought you might be coming back - I heard that he left you the cottage.’

I nodded. Mr. Chamberlain never married or had children of his own, so when his solicitor contacted me, I was shocked that he had passed on, and was touched that he would bequeath to me his estate in his final days.

‘Are you staying here long? Do you think you might move back?’

‘I’m not sure. It could be good for writing here. But…I guess that I’m used to the city…I haven’t really thought about it yet.’ I paused. There was something about the cottage and being in the village that was comforting, even though I hadn’t lived in the area for such a long time.

Jack stayed long enough for a second cup of tea, but then reminded me that he had to get back to work at some point. ‘Not all slackers like you writers’, he said with a wink. ‘While you’re here, you should stop by the town and come see us. It’ll be fun.’ He then clapped me on the back and went on his way.

Deciduous trees swayed in the light, cool breeze outside as I watched birds pecking at twigs and branches, in all likelihood building a nest - settling down. Could I settle down here? I wondered.

I was sauntering through the garden back to the cottage when my stomach started to grumble, alerting me to the fact that lunchtime had long passed. I set off on the 15-minute walk into the heart of the village.

—

I walked along this path many times during my childhood. There was a small fork in the road where going to the left would take me to my old childhood home; I can’t remember if I decided to go there, or if my body just naturally went in that direction, out of habit. My mother died during childbirth, and my father, who was mainly a farmer but worked other odd jobs, raised me in a small home nestled just at the edge of the village. He was not a learned man, but he taught himself to read. And he was stubborn. Having known Mr. Chamberlain for some time working odd jobs for him, he approached Mr. Chamberlain to ask if he could help me with an education. Mr. Chamberlain was a housemaster at the boarding school Stonyhurst College, and my father was convinced that he was the right person to help me achieve what my father couldn’t.

‘I’m telling you, he’s a very clever boy,’ my father was insisting.

Mr. Chamberlain listened as my father listed out qualities he felt I had, and then said, ‘Let me spend some time with Edwin. I’m here for the summer, so perhaps we can start by going over some books a couple of hours a week.’

I could feel the discomfort emanating from my father. ‘I appreciate the offer. I cannot afford to pay you a fee, but I could work for free.’

‘It wouldn’t be work for me, so there would be no reason for me to charge. If Edwin or I don’t feel it’s working out, then we will stop.’

Two weeks before the end of summer, Mr. Chamberlain invited my father to join one of our sessions, where he showed him some of the books we had been reading.

‘You’re right, Ronald. Edwin is bright. And I think you enjoy learning, don’t you Edwin?’ he turned to me, and I nodded vigorously. ‘I think he’d do very well at Stonyhurst.’

My father’s face beamed with pride, but I could also see the worry.

‘Before you say anything,’ Mr. Chamberlain cut in quickly, ‘I think I could get him a scholarship for tuition and boarding. But I know that might be difficult for you both, being away from one another. Why don’t you go and talk about it together, and come back and let me know what you think tomorrow?’

I was eleven. I didn’t want to leave my father.

‘You’ve got to go, Edwin,’ he insisted as we walked home. ‘A clever boy like you - I’ve seen it since you were young. There’s no telling what you could do, where you could go.’ He gestured at our small house as we approached it. ‘I’ve spent my whole life working with my hands and this is the most I can do for you. But I want more for you than that. These boys that go to Stonyhurst can do anything when they leave. You could even be Prime Minister one day.’

And so it was settled. When we told Mr. Chamberlain the next day, he said ‘Let me see what I can do’. And a few months later I arrived at Stonyhurst on a scholarship, suddenly put in a completely different world with imposing, tall buildings older than anything I’d ever seen before, and more books than I ever thought possible.

And I became lost in it. I only went home a total of five times before my father died three years later.

As I neared the area of my childhood home, I was surprised to find that, instead of an assortment of small houses, there was a textile mill.

—

‘Oh yes, a lot of those old places are long gone.’ Sophie said disapprovingly. ‘Factories, mills - you know that Lord Cunham would jump at the opportunity to burn the village to the ground and replace it with silk factories if he could get away with it.’

‘I’m honestly surprised that the number of drawlooms in Kensingtonshire hasn’t already surpassed the number of people.’ We both laughed for a moment.

Sophie had gasped and given me a huge hug when she saw me come into her shop looking for bread and cheese. Then she smacked me on the arm, quite hard. ‘I can’t believe how long it’s been since we last saw you. I’ve had a whole family since then!’

She was right. I smiled ruefully and apologised profusely as she introduced me to her three year old daughter, Josephine, who was hugging her leg. “ I have another one too, Grace, who’s nine years old.” Then she smacked my arm again. ‘Seriously, that’s how long it’s been - shame on you!’

‘I’m sure I must have met Grace when she was a baby,’ I said as I grabbed some bread. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s…not well.’ Her tone shifted. ‘My mum’s taking care of her.’

‘Not anything too serious, I hope?’

‘We’ll see. She’ll be up and ready to go soon enough. I’m sure you’ll see her another day, if you stick around long enough.’ She went quiet for a moment and then smiled. ‘Hey, do you remember that big pond where we used to go with Arnold to to skip rocks and chase frogs? I took Josephine the other day, and…’ I spent the next two hours happily listening to Sophie tell me stories about her children and our childhood while I helped out in the shop.

—

My next stop was the tavern. I remembered, even without Sophie telling me, that it was run by Jack, and I thought I’d better stop by to say hello so Sophie couldn’t get to him first and land me in another telling off.

‘I’ve read some of your stuff, you know,’ Jack beamed as he poured me a drink. ‘Love a good adventure story. It’s just annoying when they come out in bits and pieces because I want to know what happens next.

‘That’s exactly what I - and more importantly my book publisher - want to hear. But don’t worry, I’m on to full books now.’

‘Writing anything new?’

The truth was I had been trying, but been wrestling with a bit of writer's block. ‘I’m working on a new book, but still searching for inspiration.’

‘Ah. Don’t tell Sophie that, or she’ll ask you to, I don’t know, name a character after her or something.’

I laughed. ‘She already has; well actually, she asked me to name a character after Grace.’

Jack shook his head. ‘Makes me angry thinking about what happened to Grace. I know Sophie’s optimistic, but…’ he trailed off.

The situation sounded much more serious than Sophie had let on. I asked Jack whether he could shed any light on what had happened.

‘She didn’t tell you? There was an accident at the mill. A child that age has no business working around machines in conditions like that. That Lord Cunham has a lot to answer for.’

From what Jack described, Grace hadn’t been working at the mill for very long - just a few months - when the accident happened. To cut costs at the mill, the workers were forced to clean machinery while it was still running. Grace was performing this task and severely injured her hand, arms, legs and face. Lord Cunham, who was the Lord of the Manor of our village and the nearby hamlets had apparently seen the fortunes of those who capitalised on industrialisation rise beyond his own, and had made a hasty and disorganised attempt to get his own piece of the pie. His tenants had largely been split on the idea; some saw it as an opportunity, while others wanted to stick with what was comfortable and traditional. As a result, Lord Cunham placed a great deal of pressure on tenants to provide labour, regardless of whether they were children who were not old enough, to do heavy physical work on farmland.

‘Sophie and Arnold only agreed to let Grace work there because they were told it would be safe. They also needed the extra money.’

‘So what is Grace’s condition now?’ I asked.

He didn’t know. Sophie was ashamed that she had put Grace in that position in the first place, so no one had seen Grace and Sophie wouldn’t talk about it.

‘Maybe she’ll talk to you,’ Jack shrugged. ‘You were like a brother to her.’

I winced at those words as I walked back to the cottage. Jack hadn’t meant it in the way it made me feel, but I was embarrassed by my long absence. Everyone had been living their lives - including me - but coming back and hearing that I had been needed made my absence feel traitorous. I saw flowers starting to bloom along the side of the path. ‘The beautiful thing about nature is that it’s for everyone,’ my father used to say, ‘No matter who you are, you can appreciate a beautiful tree and sit under it just the same as everyone else.’ And there was so much nature here. What could be better than that?

—

That night, I dreamt I was back at Stonyhurst.

I was walking through the lush estate grounds, late for class. I passed by teachers and classmates speaking with each other about the holidays and deadlines and Latin grammar. I listened to classmates talking about shooting at their country homes and estates. I saw Mr. Chamberlain and we spoke briefly about an upcoming assignment and how I was surely going to do well in my test in Ancient Greek.

Suddenly, I was in my room - an attic, used as a storage room prior to my stay at the college. I had my quill and parchment and was writing to my father. I regaled him with all sorts of stories from the college and how I’d been doing and how much I loved this life that I was living. I promised to be back in the summer, after I’d finished all my work.

Before I knew it, I was sitting under a tree doing my classics homework when I saw Mr. Chamberlain walking quickly towards me. He knelt down and told me that my father had died.

When I woke up, it took me a moment to remember I wasn’t in London.

—

Whilst it wasn't conducive to sorting out the cottage or my writing, I found I enjoyed being useful helping out in Sophie’s shop and in Jack’s tavern.

‘If it wasn’t for that accent you’d fit right back in,’ Sophie teased me.

I protested that it wasn’t that different, and Sophie rolled her eyes. ‘Of course it is, you being at Stonyhurst for all those years and then down south for so long.’ She could see I looked uncomfortable and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t hold it against you.’

I’d been wondering how Grace’s recovery was going, but didn’t want to make Sophie feel uncomfortable. So I asked her questions about what Grace was like.

Sophie’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh she’s always been the loveliest, easiest child. When I was pregnant with Josephine she helped out so much, and then she tried to help take care of Josephine after she was born. She’s clever too, and she loves to draw.’

‘I’d love to meet her. Do you think I’ll be able to?’

Sophie didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘She wants to meet you too. I told her that you were back, and of course she’s heard stories about all of us growing up together before, so she asked if she would be able to see you. But you know, she had an accident.’

I nodded, and let Sophie tell me what happened. It was the same as Jack had told it, but she told me how much pain Grace had been in, and how scary it was for them. ‘When I was told it was cleaning the machines, I assumed they wouldn’t be on - who would make a child do that? And Grace never said anything to me because she knew we could do with the extra money.’ Sophie burst into tears.

‘It sounds like,’ I said gently, handing Sophie my handkerchief, ‘Grace could do with some cheering up. And maybe you too. Can we go see her?’

—----

Grace was sitting up in bed when we came into the room she shared with her little sister. She had dark, curly hair like her mother, and an infectious laugh that rang out when I told her silly stories of things Sophie had done when she was the same age. Her face was still healing, and her right hand and arm were bandaged up; her blanket covered her legs, which I assumed had received similar treatment.

‘You’re very brave,’ I told her. ‘I write adventure stories, and none of my characters have ever been as brave as you.’

‘I was really scared,’ Grace looked down at her bandaged hand.

‘Because what happened was really scary. That’s what makes you so brave.’

‘Mummy said you’re going to name a character in your next book after me.’ At this, Sophie gave me a meaningful and insistent look.

‘I am. And not just that, I’m going to base her on you. And that’s why I need to know a bit more about you, so that it’ll be realistic, if that’s okay.’

Grace beamed and had Sophie bring out some drawings she’d done before the accident. They were mostly of flowers, and very good for her age.

‘You should both come to the cottage later this week,’ I told Sophie as I was leaving. ‘That garden and fresh air would be really good for her as she’s recovering. There’s plenty for her to try drawing - perhaps with her left hand.’

‘We’d love to. But we can’t have her draw with her left hand.’

I paused. ‘Will she be able to use her right hand again?’

‘We don’t know.’ Sophie looked upset.

‘Then maybe we should start getting some practice in. I’ll come and help you carry her over. I just need to tidy up the cottage for a couple of days first.’

—-

Grace didn’t get much drawing done the first few afternoons in the garden, but she loved being outside and watching Josephine chasing butterflies.

I let Sophie know that I was going down to London for a few weeks, but that they should feel free to use the garden while I was away. ‘I’ll see if I can find some good art supplies for her. I always feel more inspired when I have a new notebook or pen for writing,’ I told her.

Sophie had a surprise for me that day. Her husband - Arnold, who we had both grown up with - was finally back from his trip up to Scotland.

‘I can’t believe how long it’s been,’ he said, beaming at me. As a leather merchant, he needed to travel, but had waited until Grace was stable enough. Because of the delay, his trip had been a longer one than usual. ‘Thanks for cheering Grace and Sophie up. Means a lot to me that you’re spending time with them here at Mr. Chamberlain’s cottage.’

We went inside and I showed Arnold my book. He’d read a few of my stories that had been passed on by Jack, which was more than I had expected. ‘We don’t forget about you just because you’re away,’ he laughed, and I felt another pang of guilt. Seeing Mr. Chamberlain’s correspondence with his ex-colleagues made me realise that I had never really written any letters to Arnold, Jack or Sophie or tried to keep in touch.

We spoke about Grace’s accident. Their understanding from the doctor that had seen her was she would likely require surgery on her leg so that it could heal correctly. They didn’t have much hope for her arm. But even if they could find someone to do the surgery, the problem was the expense. I offered what I could to help, but Arnold shook his head. ‘Appreciate it, but I can’t.

I urged him to set his pride aside. ‘I know it can’t cover everything, but it’s better than nothing.’

‘Sophie’s dad - you remember Jimmy? Well, he wants to go speak with Lord Cunham and ask if he will help cover the expenses, seeing as how it was his factory and work practices that caused the damage. That family has been living off the spoils of the hard work of our village for generations.’

I warned him that a man who was that callous with how he employed children was highly unlikely to help.

‘I agree. But Jimmy remembers Lord Cunham’s father. Now he was a good man, and he would have helped. He would never have let something like this happen in the first place. So Jimmy thinks it’s worth trying.’ Arnold sighed, shaking his head sadly.

—

London was the epitome of western modernisation, elegance and etiquette; such a contrast from the countryside. I felt sad that I was leaving that countryside where I had my childhood friends and the small town life, but glad I was returning to my home back in the city.

‘How are things back in your village?’ my friends asked, and my reply was always that things seemed about the same, even after a long absence.

Someone asked if I considered it ‘my village’. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about it,’ he said.

I gave the answer I thought I should give, which was that it would always be home since that’s where I grew up, though that wasn’t really how I felt. Stonyhurst was my main home for years before university, and then in London I found a new home.

‘Something set in the countryside could be interesting,’ my publisher said as he looked over what I had been working on. He asked when I was heading back. ‘Being there could be a source of inspiration.’

I was only supposed to be in London for two to three weeks, but ended up staying for a month before I decided I really needed to get back to finish sorting out the cottage.

Arnold came to see me as soon as he heard I was back.

‘Did you manage to find someone to tell them about Grace’s situation?’

‘I did speak with a barrister,’ I told him. I had met one at a party hosted by a mutual acquaintance. Fortunately, he was able to provide me with enough information for Arnold, and I told him about the recent legislation designed to protect children.

‘The Factory Act?’ Arnold asked doubtfully. ‘But it’s not the first time they’ve had a law like that. It hasn’t helped us at all.’

The difference, my new barrister friend had assured me, was that the government intended to enforce the Factory Act and impose penalties on textile mill owners who didn’t follow the law.

‘I don’t know if it will work,’ I said, ‘But I think you could use it to convince Lord Cunham that there could be legal consequences for his actions and that he needs to change.’

Arnold was deep in thought. ‘And that he’s better off just making sure Grace is taken care of, otherwise we report him to the authorities.’

I thought about telling Arnold that approach sounded a little like blackmail, and that I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. But I was so relieved he was satisfied with the information I had managed to get that I didn’t want to disagree with him. I probably should have spoken up.

Instead I handed over a package with art materials for Grace.

‘She’ll love these. Thanks. You’re a real friend, you know that?’ He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze before heading out the door.

—

About a week later, Sophie told me that her father had arranged a meeting with Lord Cunham to discuss the situation. She asked if I could join.

‘You went to Stonyhurst and spoke to that barrister in London. He’ll see you differently and probably take us more seriously if you’re there.’

That made sense to me, and I wanted to help. So, the next night, Arnold, Sophie and her father Jimmy, Jack and I were in Jack’s tavern waiting for Lord Cunham to arrive.

Jack had marked the tavern as closed for the day and he stood behind the bar tidying up. The dimly lit room was quiet, and the stale smell of liquor hung in the air; Sophie looked nervous as she fiddled with a loose string on her dress.

‘What time is he supposed to arrive?’

‘Any time now.’ Arnold replied.

I leaned against the bar as we all waited. Looking around the room, I noticed how the wood of the furniture and floors looked worn and covered in scratches. I wondered how many events they had been witness to over the years, how many stories they’d heard. I imagined my father coming in and sitting at the bar at the end of a long day.

The doors swung open and the doorway was filled with the bulky figure of a man. As he approached his posture and his style appeared to be that of an aristocrat.

‘Lord Cunham. Thank you for meeting with us.’ Arnold spoke with the air of authority, though sweat was dripping down his temple. ‘Where would you like to—’

Lord Cunham waved a hand dismissively and was striding towards the fireplace, sitting down in the larger of two armchairs.

Jimmy, sat down in the other armchair, with Arnold standing next to him. Sophie, clearly uneasy and anxious, was keeping her distance for now. I stayed back.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Jack asked from behind the bar.

‘No. I won’t be here long.’ Lord Cunham waved a hand dismissively. ‘Well then? Let’s get on with it. Why have you dragged me down here?’

Arnold started by complimenting Lord Cunham on the success of his textile business. This pleased the man and he smiled. His teeth, glinting in the firelight, were sharp.

Then Jimmy started speaking. He mentioned how he had known Lord Cunham’s father and that he was a good man and had treated the local farmers and workers well in his time.

Lord Cunham closed his eyes. ‘You’re boring me. Get to the point.’

‘Well, sir, we asked you here to talk about Grace’s accident.’ said Sophie softly, taking a small step towards Lord Cunham. Behind her back, her hands were shaking.

The lower half of Lord Cunham’s face was obscured by shadows from the fire, so when his eyes opened at the sound of Sophie’s voice, he looked like a crocodile lying in wait, half-submerged in swampy waters.

‘What about it?’

Sophie gulped. ‘We were hoping you could help. Help us, help Grace. The accident crippled her and we don’t have the money to get her the treatment she needs.’

The lord’s gaze started drifting from person to person, stalking his prey. But he remained quiet.

Arnold cut in, raising his voice. ‘Because the accident happened at your mill, sir. Grace shouldn’t have been cleaning the machines, especially when they were on.’

A brief silence followed.

‘It was her responsibility to take care of herself. It is part of the job. Any accident that occurred must have been a result of her own actions rather than the conditions of my factory. It is not my responsibility to help the victim of a freak accident.’

Jimmy clenched his fists and Cunham noticed this, setting his green eyed glare on him.

I watched with growing trepidation as they started to argue. Jimmy accused Lord Cunham of creating the horrible working conditions at the mill, for targeting poor families to get them to send their children to work there. At one point, he pointed to me, and said that they knew Lord Cunham could be prosecuted because of recent legislation disallowing the employment of children under nine.

Lord Cunham picked up the fire poker, looking down at its tip scratching the plank flooring as he dragged it towards himself. But he was still listening because when Jimmy said that he would go to the authorities and report Lord Cunham if he didn’t give them money, the man’s eyes snapped upward and locked on him.

‘Are you threatening me?’ he sneered, leaning forward in his chair. His hand gripped the firepoker, knuckles whitening.

Suddenly the lord sprang from his chair and he lunged toward Jimmy, dropping the firepoker and putting both hands around his neck.

It all happened so quickly. Sophie grabbed a bottle and hit Cunham over the head with it. Glass shattered, liquor spilled onto the ground. It did what she needed it to - Lord Cunham released his grip on Jimmy and clutched his hand around the back of his head. He turned and lurched towards Sophie, but tripped, hitting his head on the corner of the roughly hewn granite hearth.

He fell to the ground. Blood pooled around his head.

For a moment, we all stared at the body in shock. Then Jack checked and confirmed that he was dead.

‘I-I didn’t mean to–’ Sophie sobbed.

‘Of course you didn’t. It was an accident,’ Arnold reassured her.

The others started to discuss what they should do. While it was, indeed, an accident, the problem was whether anyone would believe that. There was the broken bottle, and the dispute over what had happened at the mill. The best thing to do, they decided, was to make it seem like it had never happened. They needed to dispose of the body, and Arnold and Jimmy knew a spot in the woods that could work.

Then they looked at me, their eyes filled with trepidation. I was one of them, but I was also an outsider. I looked at Sophie and thought of what would happen to her and Grace and Josephine. I told them I wouldn’t get in their way.

But I couldn’t help, either. I had never seen a dead body before, not even my father’s, and I didn’t want to be part of whatever they were going to do. I used the back entrance of the tavern to leave, and walked back to the cottage, my heart pounding.

—

I stayed in Kensingtonshire for the next month or so as I prepared my things and packed for the trip back to the city. I didn’t ask what they did with Lord Cunham’s body, and they didn’t tell me. I knew it was important to behave as I normally would, so I followed my usual routine of visiting the tavern to see Jack, and stopping by to see Sophie and Arnold most days. We awkwardly tried to carry on normal conversations though we avoided the blood-stained elephant in the room. Since Lord Cunham travelled for business quite often it took people a while to figure out that he had disappeared - people started talking about what might have happened to him only a few days before I left. On my last day, Grace gave me a drawing she had done of the cottage, with the garden. I leaned in and peered at it, and smiled that she’d drawn Sophie, Arnold and me together. I packed it with my things.

I told everyone that I was only going to London for a couple of months, and I may even have believed that at the time. But I never returned.

But that night in the backroom of the pub in London twenty years later, that no longer mattered. Arnold and I laughed and told each other stories late into night, the last ones to leave as the pub closed. As we stepped out onto the street, he gave me a hug.

‘Please give everyone my best,’ I said.

‘It was great to see you. You’ll come up to see us soon?’

I nodded. But we both knew that wasn’t true. I watched as he walked away from me in the drizzling rain, to his family, and I went the other way, to go home.