SECRETS

“Well, Mr Childermass,” said Drawlight with a smile, “it seems that we all have our secrets.”

Childermass, busy with Mr Norrell’s correspondence did not look up. “Do we?” he replied in a tone of voice that indicated that he had no interest in the subject whatsoever.

“Oh yes, indeed,” murmured Drawlight, leaning over the others shoulder to discover what he was writing and finding that it was only a dull letter to the Admiralty explaining why Mr Norrell could not perform the magic they wished; namely to make cows swim like fish so that sailors could eat fresh beef every day without the mess and inconvenience of keeping them on board the ships.

Childermass sighed and set his pen down. “I assume you have something you wish to say to me. Well then, say it and be done, I at least have work to be doing.”

Drawlight ran his finger along a bookshelf, touching each volume in turn. “Work? Do you not know that I too have been busy? As you well know, I have been to Hurtfew. Did you think I wasted my time there?” He turned away from the books and smiled a dazzling white smile. “No, Mr Childermass, I did not.”

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “Indeed not,” he replied. “You caused no end of disruption, troubling the servants when they were trying to perform their duties, as I am trying to do now. So, say whatever it is that you want or leave me in peace.”

The white smile vanished and Drawlight sat down at the other side of the little table. “Very well,” he said. “I have always believed that negotiations such as these should be done with delicacy. However, if you wish to disregard all taste and decency I will state my purpose clearly. Mr Childermass, you have secrets and I have learned them.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand and gave a small laugh as though he expected to be praised and wished to appear modest in his acceptance of it. “Servants talk,” he continued, “and it was I to whom they spoke. Did you think you could hide your secrets from me? I always find out.” He steepled his fingers before him in an attitude he believe gave weight and gravity to his words, as though he were a judge, stern but fair, willing to have compassion for the man before him. “Do you wish it to be known that you are a bastard, the natural son of a nameless stranger? That the mother who bore you in shame and disgrace was hung as a thief and you yourself barely escaped dancing at the end of the hempen rope? What would your master say if he knew his trusted servant was a thief and the son of a thief? Think of that, Sir, think of that!” He leaned back and allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. “And there is more, much more. The name of Childermass is not common and is remembered when heard. You went from bad to worse, it would make you shudder to hear some of the stories that were told to me!”

Childermass, who had remained silent and still while Drawlight spoke, sighed and stared into the fire. “And what is it that you are offering me? Your silence? And if so, what is your price?”

“Price?” Drawlight repeated, pursing his cupid lips in a moue of disapproval. “Such a crude word, Mr Childermass. Let us just say that you and I could be kind to each other, and there is nothing kinder than fellowship between two friends.” So saying he leaned across the table and stroked a lock of the other mans hair, twisting the ragged dark length around his finger.

For a long moment John Childermass remained very still, but as Drawlight’s little finger traced a line down his cheek, with a movement faster than the small mans eye could follow, he gripped Drawlight’s wrist and slammed it down upon the little table, scattering pens and paper across the carpet.

“Be very careful!” Drawlight cried in a voice high and tight with fear. “I will tell what I know, do not doubt me, Sir! I beg you, I will speak out!”

Childermass barred his teeth in a grin. “Will you indeed? And do you think Norrell will care when you tell him that which he already knows? I tell you, he will not. He cares only that I do my work, that I find books for him and go where he will not. He thinks nothing of my mother, my childhood or my past.” He released Drawlight and sat back, leaving the smaller man rubbing his wrist, examining his sleeve for fear the ink had splashed and stained the white linen.

“Then I will tell,” he said, sulkily, “and we will see what will happen.”

Childermass shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, you were right about one thing, Mr Drawlight. We all have our secrets, and I have discovered yours!”

“Mine? But I have no secrets!”

“Then you will not mind me telling that which is commonly known. That in your lodgings above the Shoe-makers you have letters purloined from your friend Mr Lascelles, and from Mrs Goldstone, Mr Milverton. You have items of apparel that once belonged to Lord Lacey and objects of greater and lesser value that once graced the homes of almost everyone of your acquaintance. You do not, any longer, have letters, objects or books that belonged to Mr Morrell. I have retrieved them and returned them to their proper places. I also took the precaution of removing a few items of your own correspondence, items you would not wish to be seen if you would avoid the censure of all those whose acquaintance allows you to live as you do.”

The blood drained from Drawlight’s face as he considered which of the many incriminating letters Childermass might have taken and his eyes glanced wildly around the room as though searching for a way of escape and finding nothing but the faintly sneering face of his enemy staring back at him. He licked his lips, “Well then,” he said at last in a hoarse whisper, “well then, Mr Childermass, what is the price of your silence?”

Childermass smiled his sideways smile and gripped Drawlight’s face in his rough hand. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sure I can think of something.”