Goodman.”
“Should I be polite and call you Missus Russell?” she said, sounding sulky.
“I—oh, never mind, Mr Robert is fine.”
I had to agree, the usual formality did not fall naturally from the tongue when it came to Robert Goodman. She repeated her demand to be fed.
It occurred to me that perhaps I should be concerned by Goodman’s absence, but really, if the man wished to turn us over to the police, he could have done so the day before and spent the night in his own bed. I did not know where he had slept, but a glance at the table showed that he’d been in, leaving a basket of eggs. Odd, that I had not heard him stir about.
Estelle withdrew her hovering self far enough for me to struggle more or less upright. My skull gave a warning throb, but eventually I was standing. I tottered to the bedroom, propping a shoulder against the frame as I studied my pilot. He appeared to be sleeping as comfortably as could be expected, so I closed the door and went to search out the means by which to feed a small child.
I managed toast, although her efforts with the toasting fork were more successful than mine. I then had to scale a foot-stool to reach the pot of honey I could see but not stretch my arm for, then ascended the stool a second time when Estelle informed me that she and her two deer preferred the strawberry preserves. I was interested to see that much of the contents of the hermit’s cupboards were not willow baskets heaped with gathered nuts, dried berries and wild honeycomb, but ordinary store-bought jars and packets.
There was even a tin of aspirin tablets from the chemist, for which I was grateful.
By the time Goodman returned, three hours later, my headache had retreated and I was able to stand with something of my usual ease, walking over to help him unload his rucksack.
He had brought a large bundle of sausages wrapped not in butcher’s paper, but in the week-old news. I looked at it askance, but he mistook my doubt.
“A child needs meat, and your pilot, if he is to heal,” he said. “A neighbour killed a pig two days back. I knew he’d have extras.”
He was right: We had to eat, and last night’s bean soup would only go so far in building the injured American’s strength. Still: “You and I need to have a talk,” I told him.
“Very well,” he replied, taking a large black skillet from beneath the work-table.
I glanced at Estelle, underfoot as usual. “Later.”
“She wants to talk to you without me hearing,” the child explained to him.
Goodman let a rope of sausages spill into the pan, and asked her, “Is that rude, do you think?”
She thought for a moment. “Not very.”
He gave me a green twinkle. “You and I shall go for a walk after we eat,” he said.
We propped Javitz before the fire with Estelle, and I followed Goodman outside. He went to the shed that stood at a little distance, coming out with a hatchet stuck through his belt. He set off briskly across the meadow, to slip into one of the larger pathways that led to the outer world—this one distinct enough that a deer might be able to follow it. I followed. Twenty minutes later, his hand came out to stop me.
“Do you see?” he asked.
I looked at the trail ahead, circling past a rocky outcrop. “See—oh. The branch?”
One branch of a low-growing tree was tied back against the next tree with a piece of strong twine. Careful not to touch, I stepped around Goodman, searching the ground until I saw the fine, dirt-coloured twine: a trip-wire.
It was a booby-trap, not deadly but powerful enough to swat a person backwards down the path, breaking a nose or arm in the process. I looked up from where I was squatting to ask, “Do you have many of these?”
“It is a private estate. This helps keep away visitors.”
“So I should imagine.”
Satisfied that his warning had got through to me, he walked on.
After a time, Goodman slowed, and began to peer at the undergrowth. I decided this was as good a time as
“Should I be polite and call you Missus Russell?” she said, sounding sulky.
“I—oh, never mind, Mr Robert is fine.”
I had to agree, the usual formality did not fall naturally from the tongue when it came to Robert Goodman. She repeated her demand to be fed.
It occurred to me that perhaps I should be concerned by Goodman’s absence, but really, if the man wished to turn us over to the police, he could have done so the day before and spent the night in his own bed. I did not know where he had slept, but a glance at the table showed that he’d been in, leaving a basket of eggs. Odd, that I had not heard him stir about.
Estelle withdrew her hovering self far enough for me to struggle more or less upright. My skull gave a warning throb, but eventually I was standing. I tottered to the bedroom, propping a shoulder against the frame as I studied my pilot. He appeared to be sleeping as comfortably as could be expected, so I closed the door and went to search out the means by which to feed a small child.
I managed toast, although her efforts with the toasting fork were more successful than mine. I then had to scale a foot-stool to reach the pot of honey I could see but not stretch my arm for, then ascended the stool a second time when Estelle informed me that she and her two deer preferred the strawberry preserves. I was interested to see that much of the contents of the hermit’s cupboards were not willow baskets heaped with gathered nuts, dried berries and wild honeycomb, but ordinary store-bought jars and packets.
There was even a tin of aspirin tablets from the chemist, for which I was grateful.
By the time Goodman returned, three hours later, my headache had retreated and I was able to stand with something of my usual ease, walking over to help him unload his rucksack.
He had brought a large bundle of sausages wrapped not in butcher’s paper, but in the week-old news. I looked at it askance, but he mistook my doubt.
“A child needs meat, and your pilot, if he is to heal,” he said. “A neighbour killed a pig two days back. I knew he’d have extras.”
He was right: We had to eat, and last night’s bean soup would only go so far in building the injured American’s strength. Still: “You and I need to have a talk,” I told him.
“Very well,” he replied, taking a large black skillet from beneath the work-table.
I glanced at Estelle, underfoot as usual. “Later.”
“She wants to talk to you without me hearing,” the child explained to him.
Goodman let a rope of sausages spill into the pan, and asked her, “Is that rude, do you think?”
She thought for a moment. “Not very.”
He gave me a green twinkle. “You and I shall go for a walk after we eat,” he said.
We propped Javitz before the fire with Estelle, and I followed Goodman outside. He went to the shed that stood at a little distance, coming out with a hatchet stuck through his belt. He set off briskly across the meadow, to slip into one of the larger pathways that led to the outer world—this one distinct enough that a deer might be able to follow it. I followed. Twenty minutes later, his hand came out to stop me.
“Do you see?” he asked.
I looked at the trail ahead, circling past a rocky outcrop. “See—oh. The branch?”
One branch of a low-growing tree was tied back against the next tree with a piece of strong twine. Careful not to touch, I stepped around Goodman, searching the ground until I saw the fine, dirt-coloured twine: a trip-wire.
It was a booby-trap, not deadly but powerful enough to swat a person backwards down the path, breaking a nose or arm in the process. I looked up from where I was squatting to ask, “Do you have many of these?”
“It is a private estate. This helps keep away visitors.”
“So I should imagine.”
Satisfied that his warning had got through to me, he walked on.
After a time, Goodman slowed, and began to peer at the undergrowth. I decided this was as good a time as
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