I understood. He was just like my master in that respect. People needing help rang a bell at the crossroads and I was usually sent to find out what they wanted.
All I could see beyond the post was a grey wall of mist, but I heard the gurgling of a stream somewhere below. At this point the canal was elevated above the surrounding fields. From the towpath a steep grassy bank sloped down into the mist.
‘It’s only about ninety paces or so to the edge of his garden,’ Mr Gilbert said. ‘At the foot of this bank there’s a stream. Just follow it. It flows right under the house and used to drive the waterwheel when it was a working mill. Anyway, good luck. I’ll probably see you again next time I’m passing by with salt – or cases of wine,’ he added, giving me a wink.
With that, he untied the horses and walked off into the mist. Once more there came the muffled sound of hooves and the barge glided away northwards. I remained standing there until the sound of hooves faded away altogether. Then, apart from the babble of water below me, I was enveloped in a blanket of silence. I shivered. I’d hardly ever felt so alone.
I scrambled down the steep bank and found myself on the edge of a fast-flowing stream. The water surged towards me before rushing into a dark tunnel under the canal, no doubt to reappear on the other side. The visibility had improved somewhat but was still no better than a dozen paces in any direction. I began to walk upstream, following a muddy track in the direction of the house, expecting it to loom out of the mist at any moment.
But all I could see was trees – drooping willows – on both banks, their branches trailing into the water. They immediately impeded my progress and I kept having to duck down. At last I reached the perimeter of Arkwright’s garden, a seemingly impenetrable thicket of leafless trees, shrubs and saplings. First, however, there was another barrier to cross.
The garden was bounded by a rusty iron fence: sharp-pointed, six-foot palings linked by three rows of horizontal bars. How could I get into the garden? The fence would be difficult to climb and I didn’t want to risk being impaled on the top. So I followed the curve of the railings to the left, hoping to find another entrance. By now I was beginning to get annoyed with Matthew Gilbert. He’d told me to follow the stream but hadn’t bothered to explain what I’d find or how to actually reach the house.
I’d been following the railings for a few minutes when the going began to get very soggy underfoot. There were tussocks of marsh grass and pools of water, and in order to find slightly firmer ground I was forced to walk with my right shoulder almost touching the railings. But at last I came to a narrow gap.
I stepped through into the garden, to be confronted by a trench filled with water. The water was murky and it was impossible to say just how deep it might be. It was also at least nine paces across – impossible to jump even with a running start. I looked right and left but there was no way around it. So I tested it with my staff and, to my surprise, found it came no higher than my knees. It looked like a defensive moat but was surely too shallow. So what was it for?
Puzzled, I waded across, quickly soaking the bottoms of my breeches in the process. Thickets were waiting for me on the other side but a narrow path led through them, and after a few moments it opened out onto a wide area of rough grass, from which grew some of the largest willow trees I’d ever seen. They emerged from the mist like giants, with long thin wet fingers that trailed against my clothes and tangled in my hair.
At last I heard the babbling of the stream again, before catching my first glimpse of Arkwright’s mill. It was bigger than the Spook’s Chipenden house but size was the only impressive thing about it. Constructed of wood, it was dilapidated and sat oddly on the ground, the roof and walls meeting at strange angles; the former was green with slime, while grass and small seedlings sprouted from the gutters. Parts of the building looked rotten and unsound, as if the whole structure were just biding its time, waiting for its inevitable demise in the first storm of the winter.
In front of the house, the stream hurled itself at the huge wooden waterwheel, which remained idle, immobile despite the furious efforts of the torrent; this rushed on into a dark tunnel beneath the building. Looking at the wheel more closely, I could see that it was rotten and broken and probably hadn’t moved for many a long year.
The first door I came to was boarded up, as were the three windows closest to it. So I walked on towards the stream until I reached a narrow porch enclosing a large, sturdy door. This looked like the main entrance so I knocked three times. Perhaps Arkwright was back by now? When nobody came in response, I rapped again, harder this time. Finally I tried the handle but found the door locked.
What was I supposed to do now? Sit on the step in the cold and damp? It was bad enough in daylight but soon it would be dark. There was no guarantee that Arkwright would be back before then. Investigating the body in the water might take him days.
There was a way to solve my problem. I had a special key, made by Andrew, the Spook’s locksmith brother. Although it would open most doors, and I expected the one before me to present little difficulty, I was reluctant to use it. It just didn’t seem right to go into someone’s house without their permission, so I decided to wait a little longer to see if Arkwright turned up after all. But soon the cold and damp began to seep into my bones and changed my mind for me. After all, I was going to live here for six months and he was expecting me.
The key turned easily in the lock but the door groaned on its hinges as it slowly opened. The mill was gloomy within, the air damp and musty and tainted with the strong odour of stale wine. I took just one step inside, allowing my eyes to adjust, then looking about me. There was a large table at the far end of the room, at the centre of which was a single candle set within a small brass candlestick. I put down my staff and used my bag to wedge open the door and allow some light into the room. Pulling my tinderbox from my pocket, I had the candle lit within moments. That done, I noticed a sheet of paper on the table, held in position by the candlestick. One glance and I could see that it was a note for me so I picked it up and began to read.
Dear Master Ward,
It seems that you have used your initiative, otherwise you would have spent the night outside in the dark, an experience that would be less than pleasant. Here you will find things very different to Chipenden.
Although I follow the same trade as Mr Gregory, we work in different ways. Your master’s house is a refuge, cleansed from within; but here, the unquiet dead walk and it is my wish that they do so. They will not harm you, so leave them be. Do nothing.