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  ‘Highly unlikely,’ replied John Good. ‘No, no. Not the way it caught fire so quickly. Two or three minutes, and it was going like a torch, so the fair people say. And that would suggest kerosene; and that would suggest that somebody set fire to it on purpose. What we have to ask ourselves is why somebody might have set fire to it on purpose.’

  ‘Well,’ challenged Henry. ‘Why, in your opinion?’

  John Good took out a damp-looking handkerchief and spent a long time investigating his nose. Then, frowning at whatever it was he had managed to dig out, he folded his handkerchief up again, and said, ‘The only reason why anybody ever destroys property that might be material to a criminal charge is in order to eradicate evidence. You say, the chain broke, and that Doris was thrown off the Whirler inadvertently. We say, perhaps she was thrown off because somebody was getting up to irresponsible high-jinks; and putting her life in peril. You say, where’s the broken chain, then? And we say, burned. Just one chain in a whole heap of chains, lying in the ashes. You say, where’s your evidence then? And we say, here.’

  With that, John Good stood up, and went to the doorway, and called out, ‘Cotes! Bring that in here, will you?’ Then he turned, and smiled at Henry, smoothing his hands together as if he were rolling out very thin strips of pastry.

  A short bustling man in a brown duster coat appeared, and hurried to the middle of the room, where he held up a battered red kerosene can, as if he were auctioning it.

  ‘This can was found close to the Colossal Whirler after it was burned down,’ said John Good, with dry satisfaction. ‘And this can, coincidentally or not, bears the indented initials FR; which Mr Johnson at the hardware store tells me are the initials of Fenchurch Roberts. So, this can belongs to the Roberts. “FR!” it says, as clear as day; and that is proof enough for me that one of the Roberts was guilty of arson. Here’s the very can, out of which the incendiary liquid was so criminally poured! A can marked “FR” for Roberts, and no doubt carried by a Roberts, no question at all, I’d say, for only a Roberts would have harboured such a destructive interest in the Colossal Whirler; at least if that Roberts were worried that somebody might examine the Whirler, and discover that his tall tale about the death of Miss Doris Paterson was not quite as he had told it. Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘This is poisonous nonsense,’ said Henry. ‘Dad, tell these people to leave.’

  Fenchurch propped his fists on his hips. ‘They can say what they came here to say,’ he replied. ‘I want to hear for myself how low my friends are capable of stooping. You, Frederick, of all people. And you, Mr Paterson. You know how fond Henry was of Doris. You know as well as I do that he wouldn’t have touched a hair of her head.’

  ‘The evidence says otherwise,’ Mr Paterson retorted.

  ‘Evidence? What evidence? An empty can? What evidence is that?’

  ‘I’m afraid we have a witness, too,’ Frederick Makepiece said, as apologetically as he could manage. ‘Henry was seen walking towards the fairground with the can; and returning without it, after the blaze had begun. It was Mrs Fairbrother; you know how sleepless she is. The eczema.’

  ‘We have quite enough evidence to bring a prosecution,’ said John Good. ‘In fact, we have no alternative; especially since Mr Paterson is pressing us to go ahead. If we succeed, you see, then Mr Paterson’s own case against you will have every chance of being successful, too.’

  Frederick Makepiece said, ‘I’m sorry, Fenchurch. None of us care for this business any more than you do. But we are all the custodians of justice; and if criminal damage has been committed, then we are under a moral obligation to punish it, no matter who the culprit might have been. You do understand our position.’

  ‘Your position, as always, Frederick, is bent over double with your head stuffed down your britches,’ fumed Fenchurch. ‘Now, I suggest you leave; and if you have any criminal charges to make, then make them properly, and formally, and in the accustomed fashion.’

  ‘We did actually wish to avoid that,’ said Frederick Makepiece.

  ‘Although we can make them, and we will, if necessary,’ added John Good, with dreary relish. He smiled, and kept on smoothing his hands.

  ‘Come on then,’ said Henry, tautly. ‘Say what you have to.’ He was very close to the brink of losing his temper; and it was only his father’s hand on his arm that prevented him from shouting at all of these puffing hypocrites to get out of their house.

  ‘The point is,’ said Frederick Makepiece, carefully, ‘the point is that all of us would rather avoid a scandal. A fuss, do you know what I mean? And Doris’s death—well, I’m afraid it has all of the makings—particularly with Mr Paterson here so angry about it—and the Colossal Whirler, well, the fair people are stirring up all kinds of a hubbub. And we do have our community to think about; and our friendship, too. You and I, we’ve been friends for nearly thirty years, haven’t we, Fenchurch? And you can’t say that a friendship as longstanding as that doesn’t have certain loyalties, and certain duties, each to the other, can you?’

  ‘So what do you see as your loyalty and your duty to me?’ asked Fenchurch, in a bald voice.

  Frederick Makepiece raised both hands, pink, like a pig’s trotters, and allowed his face to sink slowly and apologetically into his double chins. ‘My loyalty, as I see it, is to give young Henry here an opportunity to make amends.’

  ‘Make amends for what?’ snapped Henry. ‘For burning down a criminally dangerous sideshow? A damned infernal machine that actually killed the girl I wanted to marry? You want me to make amends for that?’

  ‘Would you say that counted as an admission of guilt?’ John Good asked Frederick Makepiece laconically, with one eyebrow raised halfway up his forehead, like a hairy caterpillar crawling up a pumpkin.

  Frederick Makepiece wobbled his chins to say emphatically no, and to keep your smug remarks to yourself, John Good. He said to Henry, ‘I’ve spent most of the morning talking about this, I’ll have you know, ever since that oil-can was discovered, and Mrs Fairbrother said that she’s seen you sneaking off to the fair. Mr Paterson here was dead set on taking you up before the court, and prosecuting you for manslaughter and criminal damage and everything else; and you can believe me that if the court didn’t hang you, they’d certainly lock you up for the rest of your life. But Mr Paterson is prepared to see my point of view about duty and loyalty to old friends; and to respected and long-standing members of our community. For your own sake, and for the sake of avoiding a scandalous trial, but most of all for your father’s sake both the county and Mr Paterson are prepared under particular circumstances not to press charges.’

  Fenchurch was very silent, his shoulders hunched, his eyes smudged dark, but staring at Frederick Makepiece with continent anger.

  ‘What then do you see as my loyalty and duty to you, Frederick?’ he asked.

  Frederick Makepiece gave him a tight, lopsided smile, and thrust his little fingers together. ‘Henry should go away for a while. Maybe south. I hear Charleston is particularly pleasant at this time of year. Or west, even; to try something new. But he should go away, and keep away. That would satisfy Mr Paterson; after all, think of it, does Mr Paterson really want to come face to face, every single day of the week, with the man he believes was responsible for killing his daughter? No—hear me out, please, I know how you feel, but it’s true. It’s better all around, if Henry goes away for a while. Perhaps not for ever. But for long enough for tempers to cool down. Even John Good here will accept that solution, despite his criminal evidence; and will happily strike any record of this matter from his notebooks.’

  ‘Exile, then, that’s what you’re talking about?’ Henry demanded.

  Frederick Makepiece blew out his cheeks in amusement. ‘Exile, that’s rather a strong word for it. You’re not the Count of Monte Cristo, after all.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Henry, as sourly as he could, ‘I still have your copy of that, Mr Makepiece. You can take it with you when you leave.’

&nb
sp; ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Frederick Makepiece. ‘We’re leaving now. Come on, gentlemen, let’s give young Mr Roberts some time to think this over. But please, Fenchurch, don’t let him leave it too long; or Mr Paterson here may well change his mind about bringing an action; and Mr Good may not be left with any alternative.’

  ‘You are the custodians of justice, after all,’ Henry quoted him, sarcastically.

  ‘Yes,’ retorted Frederick Makepiece, looking at Henry sharply. ‘We are.’

  ‘Your hats are in the hall,’ said Fenchurch; and with that, the meeting was at an end. Henry opened the door for them, and one by one they left, Frederick Makepiece and John Good each giving him an embarrassed and uncomfortable nod. Mr Paterson was the last of the three to leave; and he paused for a moment and stared at Henry as if he could joyfully strangle him.

  Henry said, ‘No matter what you believe, Mr Paterson, I loved her; and I love her still.’

  ‘If what Doris felt was the effect of your love,’ replied Mr Paterson, ‘God help anyone who feels the effect of your hatred.’

  Henry closed the door behind him. His father was standing at the end of the hallway, his hands clasped behind his back, watching him.

  ‘Well?’ said Henry.

  Fenchurch shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. They seem to be quite confident that they can prosecute you; and even get you thrown into jail.’

  ‘But why? Why should Mr Paterson want to do that? And why should Makepiece give him so much support?’

  ‘You’re underestimating William Paterson’s influence,’ said Fenchurch. He sat down in his chair, and dry-washed his face with his hands. Then he looked up at Henry, and went on, ‘They’re as thick as thieves, those two, Frederick Makepiece and William Paterson. Always have been, although they don’t make much of a show of it. I’ll bet you didn’t know that Mr Paterson was godfather to Frederick’s granddaughter Mary. And I’ll bet you didn’t know that they both own the old Kenley gristmill out at Woodford; jointly, as partners. So you can imagine that if Mr Paterson’s riled up at something, Frederick’s going to do everything he can to make sure that he gets whatever satisfaction he demands.’

  ‘But Dad, you said it yourself. I wouldn’t have hurt Doris for anything.’

  Fenchurch slowly shook his head. ‘Grief takes different people different ways. People like William Paterson, they have to look for somebody to accuse. That’s their way of getting rid of all of those feelings of frustration. There isn’t much you can do about it. He needs to find somebody to accuse, and you’re the obvious culprit.’

  Henry went to the oak wall-cupboard, took out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a very stiff drink. On the wall next to the cabinet, there was a pious engraving of Mary, at the foot of the cross. Such pain! thought Henry. And such pain exists; through human cruelty, and through human ignorance. He shuddered as he drank, partly because of the whiskey, and partly because he knew that Mr Paterson wanted him dead; as dead as Doris, deader. Sending him away in exile must have been a very unsatisfactory compromise, as far as Mr Paterson was concerned. Frederick Makepiece must have had a hard time persuading him.

  ‘I had a good day with the Pierces,’ Henry remarked, walking across the parlour with his drink in his hand, and sitting opposite his father. Outside, the sky was still light, that pale nostalgic turquoise of summer evenings, stirred by clouds.

  Fenchurch looked away. ‘I shouldn’t have let them in,’ he said.

  ‘Dad, they’re your neighbours. If you’re going to go on living and working in Bennington, you can’t turn them away.’

  Fenchurch said, ‘You sound as if you’re thinking of leaving.’

  ‘It may not be such a bad idea, when you come to consider it.’

  ‘I don’t want you to run away, Henry; and I don’t want you to be chased away, either. I won’t allow it. You have a right to stay here in Bennington; and if you’re accused of anything, you have a constitutional right to a fair hearing. You know what the Bill of Rights guarantees you: due process of law. And that you shall have, I swear it.’

  ‘Dad,’ said Henry, tiredly. ‘I really don’t want the due process of law. I don’t want to defend myself against any of them, not Paterson, nor Good, nor Makepiece; not on the grounds of bereavement. I know what I was guilty of, and what I wasn’t guilty of. Why should I have to stand up in court and fight against Mr Paterson, just because he needs to find somebody to blame for Doris’ death? Why should I have to explain to Mr Good and Mr Makepiece that I burned down the Whirler because I was sad, and because I wanted revenge, and because I wanted to make sure that the people who were really responsible for killing Doris were quickly and properly punished? I don’t have to explain any of that to anyone. My grief is my own, and it isn’t open to discussion, not by you, not by William Paterson, not by anybody; and especially not by the courts.’

  Fenchurch watched him for a long time; judging in the way that only a father can judge his tiredness and his agitation. This boy that he had carried on his shoulders, on windy days down by Sadawga Pond; this boy that had sung to him, clear and high, while his mother sat in her rocking-chair and smiled, while the rockers went click-clock, click-clock, on the shining wooden floor. This boy that had said to him once, ‘I love you,’ and then run away, uncatchable, as all children eventually are, through grass and heat and thimbleweed, on a day that he had believed then was going to be endless. But no days are endless, and boys grow up, and Fenchurch understood now that Doris’ death, whether Mr Paterson had accused him of recklessness or not, meant that Henry would have to go.

  Fenchurch knew, too, that he wouldn’t argue against Henry’s going. It wasn’t a question of running away. Henry would never run away, not from anything. It wasn’t part of his nature. It was simply a question of looking for new possibilities, and new people. New passions, and new tragedies. Henry’s destiny had probably never lain here, in Bennington, as contented as he was. Contentment is one thing; fulfilment is something else altogether. What had Shakespeare written? ‘Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!’ And (Fenchurch smiled wryly as he thought it) farewell to my son, too; that son who loved me in thimbleweed days.

  He stood up. ‘You must go, then, if you want to,’ he said. Henry raised his head, surprised. ‘You won’t object?’

  ‘I’ll mind,’ said Fenchurch. ‘But I won’t object.’

  Henry said, almost apologetically, ‘I thought of going west. To California, perhaps.’

  ‘You’d carry on the same trade?’

  ‘Well, of course. But people must be dying there, as well as they do here. And perhaps we could manage a little business between us; you could send me Barre granite tombstones, and I could engrave them. Roberts & Son, nationwide monumental masons. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think you could do with some sleep.’

  They had a quiet supper together of beef broth and barley, which Fenchurch had made the previous day. The decorative clock above the kitchen table chimed nine before they had finished, and it was almost dark. They sat on the back verandah for a while, looking out over the tombstones, smoking, while moths pattered against the oil-lamps.

  ‘Tell me about Doris,’ said Fenchurch.

  ‘There isn’t much to say,’ Henry told him. He tried to picture Doris’ face. ‘She was pretty; and sweet. She had no experience of life, though. Nor of love, either. I don’t even know how much she loved me, because she had never loved anybody else. She probably didn’t love me very much at all. Not as much as she could have done. But I wanted to marry her, and take care of her, I don’t know why. I suppose I thought that I would never meet anyone quite like her again; and the trouble is, I don’t believe that I will.’

  Henry paused for a while, and then he said, ‘It was only last night that she died you know, Dad; and yet it seems like a century ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Fenchurch. ‘It was the same with your mother.’

  There was a longer pause, and then Henry s
aid, ‘I won’t go if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘Are you frightened of going?’

  ‘A little, if you want the truth. And I shall be sad at leaving you.’

  ‘Never be sad at leaving your parents.’

  ‘I shall be sad at leaving you, no matter what.’

  There was nothing else that either of them could say. The moon was very bright and full, and they sat on their verandah as if they were sitting on a floodlit stage. After a while, Henry lowered his head, and Fenchurch could hear from his muffled sobs that he was crying for Doris.

  Three

  He decided that he would leave on Friday morning, after Doris’ funeral. Jack Davies had offered to take him over to Troy in his surrey; and from Troy he would catch the four o’clock train south to New York. The Patersons had not invited him to the funeral, and they had ordered their headstone from Wallace’s, over at Brattleboro, but Henry was nonetheless determined that he should be there. They weren’t going to bury his bride-to-be without his having the opportunity to say farewell; and to throw a flower on her casket.

  He spent a quiet week, packing and tidying up his room, and finishing off his outstanding orders. On the headstone of old Stuart Keene, a tobacco-spitting reprobate who had spent most of his last years dead drunk in the back of the Hayloft Saloon, he chiselled ‘Seated With The Saints’, although he could imagine the saints all shuffling along a little to get as far away from Stuart Keene as politely possible. He also finished a small marker for Ellie Manson, died aged eleven months, of the croup, ‘Happy With God’.

  Very little conversation passed during the week between him and Fenchurch. It seemed as if there was no point in starting up new arguments, because they would never be able to finish them; and somehow the old arguments didn’t seem relevant any more. From the moment that Henry had decided to go, he had detached himself from Fenchurch, and from Carmington, and from all of those years of boyhood. He walked around town, down to the orchards, along by the river. It was so hot that week that the banks of the river were cracked and dry, and a violet haze hung over the mountains, and the fields were noisy with the chirping of crickets.