Turning the Stones Read Online Free PDF Page B

triumph, for I find there is a thrill in carrying off this theft without a consequence.
    The landing overlooks the vestibule and I have a useful view of its activities. It is filling now with passengers preparing for departure, but no one runs from the dining room on behalf of the ham.
    So intent am I on guzzling, it takes perhaps a minute or two for me to realise that I am not alone in my hideaway. A lad of about thirteen or fourteen has crept to my side. He grins at me and whispers from behind his hand in the style of a conspirator, ‘How are you, madame ? All right?’ He has a pasty complexion with a downy smudge on his upper lip and bright eyes. His scrunched-up face looks familiar to me, but I cannot place it. He widens his eyes in wordless entreaty, and I offer him the remaining slice of ham.
    He crams it into his mouth and the two of us stand in silence, chewing.
    He wipes his fingers on a gaping coat that is dark blue with a hint of the military about it and doffs his shaggy high hat, at which his wild hair springs free. He says, ‘Your humble servant, madame ,’ and describes with the hat an intricatearabesque. As he bows, an odd pendant falls free of his neck and dangles on a leather thong. It looks like a rusty nail.
    A self-important clamour out in the yard announces the arrival of the coach.
    The lad asks, ‘Do you take the Bristol stage, madame ?’ I explain that I would if I could, but the day coach is full. He sighs, ‘Ah yes, that too is my difficulty,’ and smoothes the nap of his hat with gnarled, thin fingers that look like they have already worked through three lifetimes. His voice is familiar to me, too. Is not this the youth who sat next to me for one or two stages before the highwaymen came and, in fact, caused my gin to spill when he came aboard the Demon near Slough?
    A servant has thrown open the George’s main entry door to accommodate the flow of passengers, those departing and those coming in with faces creased and costumes crumpled from the journey. A bell begins to toll dolorously to mark the hour. The Bristol coach will soon depart. The boy is speaking to me, but I cannot make out his words.
    Because there is a roaring in my ears. It is caused by the blood rushing through all my channels to the aid of my heart, which has nearly stopped dead. Is this what it feels like to be hit by a thunderbolt? The pain of a jumping fire followed by stone-cold shock?
    Advancing into the vestibule below is terror made flesh. I am too horror-stricken even to whisper his name. The sight of him produces in me an overwhelming desire to evacuate my bowels like a sheep being driven into the killing shed.
    I was right to be so frightened at every turn in the road. He was always coming after me. He will enjoy bringing me before the watch, he will have made it his personal businessto do so. But most of all he will lap up the spectacle of my hanging, I know that without a doubt.
    In he saunters, pulling off his hat, and looks about, oozing confidence, and turns to usher someone forward …
    My God, has the shock of seeing him robbed me of my senses? I could swear that Eliza Waterland has followed him into the vestibule. There she stands in her three-cornered hat and her blue riding habit. Eliza!
    I am too far distant to make out the expression upon her face, but she seems the picture of misery. Her arms are wrapped around herself as if she is very cold or is trying to hold herself together. What is she doing here? It perplexes me utterly to know why she should embark on this chase. Is it to satisfy her curiosity regarding my disappearance? How I wish I could run to her now and reassure her and bring her away from the monster at her side. It anguishes me to see her with him. But I cannot reach her without signing my own death warrant.
    A voice penetrates my daze: ‘ Madame! Do you hear me? I know a way to ride that Bristol coach, full or no. I could be putting you on to it for only a little shilling.’
    I