The journal was still in his pocket. Would it be better or worse to finish reading it while he waited? It might prove so interesting he would not notice the time or hear any strange sounds. On the other hand, it might kick-start his imagination into conjuring up a whole new raft of macabre visions.
Instead he opened his own notebook with the idea of scribbling down a few ideas for the Wilberforce Histories. Having dealt with the Elizabethan Wilberforce, it might be as well to skip over the complex and often gruesome religious brangles of the next few decades, and move on to the Civil War, although Michael thought he would leapfrog over Charles I’s beheading. But there was no reason why the seventeenth-century Wilberforce could not don a dashing Royalist outfit, and even partake in one or two roistering adventures with the exiled Charles II. Michael wrote this down, then sketched out a scene in which Wilberforce rode into London with the restored King and had a popular song written, detailing his brave exploits. He considered this last possibility, then crossed it out, because his energetic editor would probably leap on the idea and demand the song itself, complete with the music, and might even harry the publicity department into putting out a CD. Michael did not think he was equal to writing a semi-pop, semi-Restoration jingle, so instead he drafted a later scene depicting the Fire of London, which Wilberforce was instrumental in helping to subdue. ‘And Master Wilberforce organized chains of men with buckets of water from the River Thames itself.’
Having dealt with this, Wilberforce next assisted Samuel Pepys to disinter the cheeses Pepys had buried in his garden to preserve them from the fire’s ravagings, after which the two of them went on to eat oranges with Nell Gwynne. Re-reading this, Michael deleted Nell Gwynne, whose robust way of life might be thought a bit too colourful for seven-and eight-year-olds.
He closed the notebook. It was just on seven. Would it hurt to glance at Maria’s journal again? It might even provide one or two answers to the Hall’s strangeness, and those answers might be reassuring. He would scan a few more pages, and if anything started to be eerie – if Maria Porringer showed signs of developing a taste for lacing her narrative with the macabre – he would close the book and return to Wilberforce.
The journal resumed its tale two days after the macabre attempts to execute Esther, and the first pages had been written in Porringer’s shop.
Friday 18th
11.00. a.m.
This has been a difficult time for everyone, and I think it will continue to be.
I had intended this to be a record of the execution of Esther Breadspear, and of my own part in the event. (Also, of course, of Mr Porringer.)
However, in light of the bizarre and macabre happenings in the condemned cell, I now feel it would be prudent to set down a proper account of the aftermath. People gossip, tongues wag, and although I do not intend this report to be made known in any general way, I think it prudent to have an honest record of everything, against any future accusations.
Mr Porringer and I returned to our own house yesterday. As he said, business was business, and we had our customers to consider. As I write this, he is in the shop, weighing out pills and potions. He is not bustling around quite as briskly as usual, and his nose has the strawberry hue which is always an indication that his digestion is severely upset. Not that it can be wondered. He has eaten nothing save a little bread and milk for the last twenty-four hours.
I am in the parlour, awaiting a visit from Mr Augustus Breadspear, who has requested a private interview.
3.30 p.m.
I do not know what I had expected from Mr Breadspear’s visit, but it was certainly not the proposal he outlined to me.