Page 95 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

‘What makes you think there’s a story?’

‘Well, it’s the only ornament you’ve got, so it must be special.’

He poured the tea before he spoke again. He would never be hurried. It was one of the things Alice found so restful about him. What Axe did happened at Axe’s speed. ‘’Twas when I was a nipper,’ he said. ‘Before I was prenticed to Mr Rowse. I went into service as boot boy to Mrs Eddowes, the solicitor’s wife.’

‘Is that the—’

‘Miss Eddowes that lives there now, she’s the daughter. Two girls there was, Miss Violet and Miss Mildred, and one boy, young Master Tom. Doted on him, the whole fambly, for all he was a rough boy, always in trouble. Teased them young ladies something cruel, spoiled their things. Always breaking stuff. Kicked a football in the drawing-room one time, smashed up a load o’ things off of the mantelpiece. Only bit what survived was a china shepherdess, and that was cracked on the base.’

‘That one?’

‘The same. Had a shepherd to match, but he was in shards. Anyroad, Master Tom, like I said, he was always in trouble. One time, he bet he could swim across the mill-race – mill used to be down the end of the village.’

‘Where Mill House is?’

He nodded. ‘Mill wheel was taken away – what? – ten years since. But the river was in flood that day, race was running fast. In Master Tom goes, but he couldn’t make any way, got swep’ down and hit his head on something – tree root or summat. Well, I was just passing, and when I see him go by unconscious, I jumps in. I was big for my age,’ he added reassuringly.

‘You rescued him?’

‘I got him to the bank, and others helped pull him out.’

‘Alive?’

Axe nodded. ‘Alive then. But he got pewmony and died a week later. They never got over it, the Eddoweses. Well, I left soon after, to be a prentice blacksmith, but Mrs Eddowes, she give me the china shepherdess to remember Master Tom by. Only I remember her by it. She was a real lady. Tom, he’d have come to a bad end, one way or the other.’

‘What a lovely story,’ Alice said. ‘Well, sad, of course – but you were a hero.’

‘Never thought about it,’ he said indifferently. ‘Just jumped.’

‘And you still do things for Miss Eddowes.’

‘Paying work, them gates. Where else’d she go for them?’ he said, but added in a mutter, ‘Keep an eye on her. She’s the last of them. Got no-one else to count on.’

‘What is it that she does – this philanthropy I’ve heard about?’ Alice asked.

‘Couldn’t say,’ said Axe. ‘More tea?’

‘Why does my mother hate her?’

Axe met her eyes. ‘She don’t. Not her.’

‘What do you mean?’ Alice begged, intrigued. But Axe wouldn’t tell.

James was lonely and bored. There was not much to do in the middle of the day and, far from joining forces, Marie had taken to disappearing when they were not wanted. He couldn’t talk to the hotel staff, who didn’t speak English. It seemed no-one in the whole of Paris spoke English, and he was used to a whole household to chat to. He took to wandering the streets, feeling quite hard-done-by, though he could not exactly pinpoint whose fault it was.

He found himself one day in a rough, run-down sort of area, where there were a lot of small warehouses and artisan workshops. A canal came down to the river and there was a complex of cuts, wharfs and locks. He watched the boats working for a bit, then, wandering on, came to a sort of street market. It was not selling food, but pots and pans, household goods, things of that nature. One stall caught his eye – several pieces of battered furniture were stacked around it, and an old and very dirty man was seated there mending a chair. The chairback consisted of twelve narrow spindles, and he was fitting them into the holes in the top-rail. James watched for a while and then, driven by the desire for human contact, said, ‘My dad was in the same trade as you. Making chairs. He was a wood turner.’

The man glanced up indifferently. ‘Comment?’ he said.

‘Mostly made legs,’ James said. ‘You know – legs.’ He lifted his own and slapped the thigh.

The man shrugged, and went on with his work.

A woman who had been standing a pace or two off came close and said, ‘You do not speak French?’

‘No,’ said James. ‘You speak English?’

‘Yes, I speak English good. My father, he does not.’ She gestured to the chair mender.