‘Of course you’ll shield us,’ he said, softly.
And in that moment, seeing them both staring at one another, I saw what I should have seen at the start. Douglas Wilger was John Hurst’s son. The likeness was remarkable. Even the name was a clue – Wilger, or perhaps wilge, an old country word for willow – originally foreign, I believe. Mr Porringer had liked to know the old words for herbs and plants and suchlike, and I had learned some of them from him.
Hurst clearly knew who Douglas was. He had probably known all along, and that was behind his frequent visits to the Hall – and his help with the children’s schooling. I remembered, as well, how vehement he had been against Mr Breadspear when Douglas was burned.
But clearly Hurst had not been aware that Douglas himself knew, and equally clearly the discovery disconcerted him. Then he made the gesture of squaring his shoulders as if to bear a sudden and very heavy weight.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We both know who – and what – we are. But the immediate problem is with us in this room. Had you a plan in mind? For after the deed?’
‘We had.’
‘Also,’ I put in, for I had no mind to be kept out of any of this, ‘I should like to know about the presence of Rosie and Daisy Mabbley.’
‘It’s because of Rosie and Daisy that we did this,’ said Douglas.
‘Explain that,’ said Hurst.
‘She was after us,’ said Rosie, with a glance towards Esther’s body. ‘She wanted to kill us like she killed her own children.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ I said, sharply.
‘We looked like them, you see,’ put in Daisy. ‘We had the same kind of hair as her little girls.’
‘We used to lie in our beds and hear her,’ said Rosie.
‘You can’t have done.’ But I remembered how Esther would call incessantly for her murdered children.
‘We all heard her,’ put in another of the girls, and Douglas nodded.
‘Children, where are you? That’s what she used to whisper,’ said Rosie. ‘Children, I’ll find you in the end … So we ran away before she could catch us.’
‘In stories, children always run away from the wicked old witch who wants to eat them up,’ said the small Daisy.
‘Or the giant who wants to kill them,’ said another girl, and I sent an angry look to John Hurst, because this was what came of filling up children’s heads with fairy tales and nonsense.
‘Where did you go?’ asked Hurst.
‘To our mother’s cottage,’ said Rosie. ‘She let us hide there. She didn’t know why we ran away – we said it was because of her.’ This time the gesture was towards me. ‘We said she was unkind and she made us work hard all day. Our mother said she could believe it,’ said Rosie. ‘And she thought we were hiding until we could go to London to make our fortune.’
‘Where,’ murmured John Hurst, ‘the streets are, of course, paved with gold. Earth has not anything to show more fair.’
‘That’s what you told us,’ nodded Daisy. ‘That’s why we thought we’d go. Our mother’s going to come with us. We’re going to make our fortunes.’
‘May God pity me for what I said,’ remarked Hurst.
‘When you came looking for us, we hid in the loft of the cottage,’ said Daisy, looking at me again. ‘You never guessed, did you?’
‘No.’
‘None of us guessed anything,’ said Hurst, getting to his feet. ‘But now we have to deal with what’s happened tonight.’
Wilger said, with almost eagerness, ‘You’ll help us?’
Hurst looked at the boy who was his son for what seemed to be a very long time. Then he said, ‘You give me no alternative.’
‘And her?’ Wilger sent me another of the spiky looks. ‘We can’t risk her telling.’