The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,45

hanging low. He swung against the left temple again, putting all the weight of his body into the punch, and Walker went down.

He was supported to his corner and the wet sponge pressed to his forehead to revive him, but the two minutes passed and he did not rise to come forward. Looking across at him, Michael saw that he was conscious. The left eye was obscured by blood, despite the bathing, but the other was open and regarding him sullenly. Walker was beaten and he knew it—he had no heart for more.

Michael knew better than to utter any words. The men with Walker had faces of rage. He stood waiting a half-minute longer, then turned away. As he did so he experienced some moments of giddiness and a certain doubt as to whether the ground was firm enough under his feet. He backed against the wires of the fence for support. The corner of his right eye gave him pain, his ribs on the left side ached from Walker’s charge and the blood from his upper lip was still flowing, staining his shirt. He closed his eyes, and in a darkness shot through with fire he heard a girl’s voice: “A canna reach up so far, sit thesen down against the fence.” He opened his eyes to see Elsie Foster’s face before him, very serious and intent. She was holding the bucket and sponge. “Tha’s too tall for me to reach up,” she said, almost as if it were a failing on his part.

He sank into a sitting position against the fence. A moment later he felt the wondrous cool of the water on his brows and on his mouth. “Tha’s in a right mess,” Elsie said.

“She must have got wind of it somehow,” the cousin said. “Mebbe she heard some talkin’. She must have follered behind us. She took the bucket, it was nay use arguing, she’s a terror when she’s set on summat.”

Through the blessed touch of the sponge, he saw her face, full of care. “Can a call round nex’ Sunday?” he said, in something of a mumble because of the split lip.

Now at last he saw her smile. “A thowt tha’d never ask me,” she said.

12

Wednesday afternoon was the time in the week which Erasmus Kemp had chosen for his visits to his father-in-law, Sir Hugo, in the attic apartment of the house in St. James’s Square, where the old man was kept confined. The day and the time never varied, and it did not on this occasion, though later Kemp was dining at the Spring Gardens as a guest of Lord Spenton, to whom he was intending to make an important proposal—one that he hoped would be seen as mutually beneficial.

At the last moment, before leaving his office, he thought of the brass button lying in the drawer of his desk and remembered again how his cousin had struggled to say something, to answer some question, as he was dying. Something about hope. How had Matthew come by it? How had he come to be clasping such a thing in those last moments of his life? The mystery surrounding the button had endowed it with a sort of power in Kemp’s eyes, something you might touch to save you from danger or bring you luck. It came to him now that this encounter with Spenton, if it went well, might transform his life, and that he needed all the help he could get. He went to the drawer, took out the button and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

On this day he always quit the bank premises a little earlier than usual, leaving Williams, his chief clerk, in charge. Williams had grown old in the service of the bank and knew more about its affairs than anyone. He had virtually run the bank during Kemp’s absence in Florida. Now, with this new interest in the coal industry promising to bring about further absences, perhaps prolonged, Kemp was contemplating the offer of a limited partnership in the firm, though he had said nothing of this yet to Williams.

The two chatted for some minutes while Kemp waited for his horse to be brought from the stables. As usual on this day of the week, the clerk, who knew very well the significance of Wednesdays, made polite inquiries about Sir Hugo’s state of health, speaking in tones deferentially lowered, as if his former employer’s insanity were cause for enhanced respect. And Kemp answered as he always did,