Page 9 of A Gathering Storm
What had prompted Hearn to chime in with that irreverent observation? As the conversation had continued, he hadn’t struck Ward as a joker. Quite the opposite, with his serious, intense expression. Christ, those eyes! With Hearn’s dark colouring, Ward would have expected the man to have eyes like sloes. But no, Hearn’s eyes were a light, silvery grey. That unusual gaze of his, coupled with his quiet stillness, made Ward think of a wolf. Watchful, intelligent, wary.
Wild.
Given the stories of ghost sightings and clairvoyance in his family, Ward couldn’t help but speculate that Hearn might well be sensitive to spirits—that he could, in fact, be the perfect subject for Ward’s experiments. Annoying then, that he seemed determined not to participate. Well, Ward had no intention of accepting his refusal so easily. He was at least going to give persuading him another try.
It wasn’t going to be easy to bring Hearn around. Most of the villagers had probably already decided Ward was a lunatic, or at the very least an eccentric, with his talk of breaching the veil between the physical world and the spirit world. That in itself didn’t come as a surprise. After all, hadn’t his own peers reached exactly that conclusion? Hell, each and every one of them had abandoned him following the debacle over Mrs. Haydn.
Unthinkingly, Ward’s hand went to his inside pocket. With his fingertips, he grazed the edge of the wallet that contained last year’s newspaper clipping. He didn’t need to take the clipping out to remember what it said. Every word of Professor Arnold’s letter toThe Timeswas burned into his memory.
Sir—I was most surprised to read Sir Edward Fitzwilliam’s letter of 16th inst. regarding the recent séances he has attended conducted by a Well Known American Medium. Sir Edward is a learned young gentleman who has justifiably earned, at the tender age of five-and-twenty, a considerable reputation amongst his peers, principally for his work in the physical and natural sciences. I have the utmost respect for Sir Edward’s work in this field, and it was therefore with the greatest dismay that I read his letter. Not only did he defend this lady, he even went so far as to suggest that her claims to have powers of clairvoyance were true, despite Dr. Jeffrey’s reports of clear evidence to the contrary during the séance he attended. Sir Edward’s letter reveals not only a lack of personal judgment in this instance, but a careless disregard for the responsibility men of learning bear towards their less educated brethren. It is for this reason that I feel I must denounce it, and him, in the most unambiguous terms . . .
Ward’s stomach churned just thinking of that letter—never mind the other five that had been published that week along the same vein—but he forced himself to remember every word. He refused to flinch from what had happened. He had to remember what he had vowed to himself: that he must be prepared not only to think the unthinkable, but to apply his knowledge to finding explanations for the unthinkable. Because therewereexplanations, of that he was quite sure.
Ward had hoped that money would be enough to persuade the people of Porthkennack to help him, but fear and superstition seemed to be keeping those who might need the money away, and it turned out Nicholas Hearn didn’t fall into that category anyway. Despite being referred to as aGypsy’s bastardby Hammett, Hearn held a respectable position as land steward to the Roscarrocks, the first family of the county. Ward could see that a man in that position might not wish to be seen to be helping a seemingly eccentric scientist with his work. But what if Ward met with Hearn alone? Made a personal plea for his assistance and explained properly what his work entailed? Surely Ward would have at least a chance of persuading him, particularly given what he was willing to pay?
He had to believe so.
It was only two miles from Varhak Manor to his destination and so, less than half an hour after setting off, Ward found himself approaching Hearn’s home, a white-painted cottage with a black slate roof. He made his way through the overgrown garden to the front door, scents of camomile and thyme drifting on the warm evening air.
Lifting his hand, he gave a peremptory knock on the heavy, old wood, and waited.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, then again, waiting several minutes. He tried, rudely, to peer through one of the tiny windows, but it was gloomy inside and he couldn’t see much of anything.
Damn it all, was the man out?
Where might he be? Back at the village inn? No doubt a lot of the village folk would repair there in the evenings for refreshment and conversation, and of course, Hearn lived alone. Perhaps he grew lonely, as Ward sometimes did? It could be isolating, living alone. Even for a man like Ward who was so very busy with his work.
He wasn’t sure he fancied venturing back to the inn. That scene with the fisherman who’d seemed determined to taunt him—and to rile Hearn while he was at it—hadn’t been at all comfortable, but he did want to see Hearn. Ward considered what to do, chewing his lip a moment, but at length he decided to go into the village, just for a look.
He set off down the road. Here at the edge of the village, it was terribly quiet. Just a handful of cottages and no children out playing, no neighbours chatting or pottering around. It seemed, in fact, unusually quiet for such a warm evening. Once he’d gone a little further though, Ward realised that it was quiet because something was happening in the village. The strains of some ramshackle music carried on the breeze. Distant voices too, and laughter, and the shrieks of children playing. Frowning, he wondered what the occasion was, then suddenly remembered: it was May Day.
May Day was an important occasion round these parts—Pipp had mentioned something about an Oss festival, he seemed to recall. No doubt the celebrations would have been going on all day, with a May Queen being crowned, perhaps dancing round a maypole, and much eating and drinking.
Hearn must be there. Possibly cheerful with ale and sunshine. It mightn’t be a bad time to try to get him alone so that Ward could make his plea.
As he drew closer to the centre of the village, the noise grew, the clamour of voices becoming more distinct. He followed the sound of fiddles, pipes, drums, and singing through the narrow streets and lanes of the oldest part of the village till eventually he emerged onto a wide open stretch of village green.
It looked as though everyone in Porthkennack was there. Families were scattered around the grass, eating and drinking and laughing, while a group of men danced some ancient country dance, hopping and crashing wooden staffs together. Beside them, a few girls played a complicated skipping game, while a pack of smaller children ran wildly around, darting between blankets and dancers and skipping girls and screeching whenever they caught sight of what looked to be a tall man with a horse’s skull for a head, shaking a staff decorated with ribbons and jangling bells at them.
That would be the Oss, Ward surmised, bemused. He looked about himself, noticing that the women were all dressed in simple light-coloured gowns and the men were all hatless and lounging on the grass in their shirtsleeves. Suddenly Ward felt very out of place in his high-crowned hat, elegantly tailored coat, and four-in-hand necktie, especially when he saw the curious looks being sent his way. Despite his growing discomfort though, he stayed where he was. He hated to give up, having come this far in the hopes of seeing Nicholas Hearn.
Just then, he caught sight of a familiar face. A young man walking towards him with a pretty young lady on his arm. It took him a moment to place the fellow, then he remembered—it was the clerk from Mr. Godolphin’s office, the one who had written up the agency agreement.
He stepped forward, catching the surprised young man’s eye. “Good evening, Mr.—” he hesitated an instant, then it came to him, tumbling from his mind to his lips with only the barest pause “—Gwynn. How nice to see you again.”
“Sir Edward—” Gwynn looked stunned at Ward’s unexpected recognition of him before hurriedly saying, “Ah—good evening!” He glanced briefly at the young lady at his side, adding, “This is Gracie—I mean, may I introduce Miss Grace Evans?”
Ward bowed politely to the young lady, who nodded back wide-eyed, then bobbed an inelegant curtsey.
Ward turned his attention back to Gwynn. “I wonder if you can help me, Mr. Gwynn? Do you know Mr. Hearn? Mr. Nicholas Hearn?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Oh good. Have you seen him this evening?”
Gwynn turned his head to scan the villagers dotted about the green, before returning his gaze to Ward. “He was certainly here earlier, but I don’t see him now. He might’ve gone home, I suppose, or he might have gone down to the mill stream. There was talk among some of the men about jumping over it for a wager. Gid Paget was in on it, and he’s a friend of Nick’s—Mr. Hearn, I mean.”