I’d never seen Dr. Rannigan so angry. He shouted at me. He shouted that he knew exactly what I was doing. That I was clinging to every bit of strength I had in order to get through the trial. But that I’d really given up. That once the trial was over, I’d let myself die. Which was precisely my point. I’d rather die from illness than be hanged. But other than that, what’s the difference? I’ll turn to dust. The church bells will take an inventory of Briony Larkin: one chime for each year of life, eighteen chimes in all.
“I knows I been getting old,” says the Chime Child. “I maked a grievous misjudgment on poor Nelly Daws. I doesn’t got the stomach for judgments no more. But there don’t be no one else, an’ the judge, he be desirous for my recommendation.”
The spectators stir. It’s been a long trial, but at last, we’re getting to the end, which is bound to be satisfactorily gruesome.
“All you as be here today,” says the Chime Child, “you heared the candorous confessions o’ yon Briony Larkin. You heared most o’ the story an’ I heared it all. Briony telled me the bits what be particular an’ private to her. I knows the whole story, but I doesn’t got no answers. I got only questions.”
“Go ahead,” says the judge.
“This question, it be tricky-like to answer.” The Chime Child looks at me. “Supposing it be you, Briony Larkin, you what be judge an’ Chime Child today. How does you pronounce on your own self, innocent or guilty?”
I feel the press of spectators’ eyes as they wait for my answer.
“You should hang me.”
Why such mutter and stir? I’d been wondrous candorful, so what did they expect?
“What be your reasons, Miss Briony?”
“I told you about Stepmother and the arsenic. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“But she be an Old One,” says the Chime Child. “There be times us allows the killing o’ them Old Ones.”
“Not unless there’s a trial first,” says Judge Trumpington. “The system is flawed, we know that, but we can’t proceed without a trial. We can’t take the law into our own hands, Mrs. Gurnsey.”
Mrs. Gurnsey. It’s queer to remember the Chime Child has a real name. A real name and a real life. That she’s married and has children, that her husband is a fisherman, that she plants poppies in her garden.
“Us be at a trial right now,” says the Chime Child.
“Let me make sure I understand you correctly, Mrs. Gurnsey,” says Judge Trumpington. “You suggest putting the stepmother on trial?”
“Aye,” says the Chime Child.
There follows a long discussion about courtroom rules and how the judicial system doesn’t allow you to try a person if she’s not present to defend herself. But finally the Chime Child puts an end to it. “It don’t matter nohow. The stepmother, she be dead. But Miss Briony here, she be alive. She be the one us doesn’t want to kill if there don’t be no reason.”
Everyone’s sorry to have hanged poor Nelly Daws, but don’t let that prolong my trial. Please don’t. There’ll be no lastminute exculpatory evidence, I promise. Just let me lie down.
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain would lie doon.
“Did you never suspect your stepmother was one of the Old Ones?” says Judge Trumpington.
“Never,” I say. “She was always very kind to us.”
Something has happened. Judge Trumpington and the Chime Child look away from me, into the mass of spectators. Someone has risen. I see him only from the corner of my eye, but I know it is Eldric.
He doesn’t offer up his name, or beg pardon, or say a word about pleasing the court. He is already stepping forward as he says, “I believe I can help.” Judge Trumpington nods and says, “Please.”
Soon I shall be obliged to look at his face and I can’t bear it. Murderess. He knows me to be a murderess. I can’t bear it.
I look away. The spectators’ faces are splats of snow. My head is filled with white.
I don’t understand Eldric’s idea. He wants to make me a story. I will say the words, he will write them.
I say nothing. Judge Trumpington says nothing. The Chime Child approves.
Eldric lowers his voice. He speaks for me, alone. “When you wrote me into an understanding of Leanne, you’d a notion there was something about her we had yet to learn, had you not? I’ve the same sort of notion about the late Mrs. Larkin. Perhaps I can do the same for you.”
There’s nothing to understand. She was an Old One. I procured arsenic from Cecil, I poisoned her.
Eldric stands at the defendant’s box. He lays a sheet of paper on the ledge. Rose has given it to him. I recognize it as twin to one she gave me in the library. She wanted me to make it into a story. I associate it with the smells of sawdust and paint and polish. The smells of hope and life.
I face the Chime Child. Eldric faces me. The sooner I start, the sooner I end, the sooner I lie doon.
Eldric taps the pencil point onto the paper. He asks me to speak of the time I was ill. Not the Dead Hand illness, the earlier one, the long one, before Stepmother died. He isn’t accustomed to writing with his left hand. He grips the pencil so hard his fingertips go red.
What can I say about it? That I was ill, that Stepmother nursed me? Eldric taps at the paper. He taps it into a Tiddy Rex of freckles.
“She was very kind,” I begin.
“Let’s start with specifics,” says Eldric. “What sort of illness was it?”
That’s easy enough. It wasn’t an illness as much as an exhaustion. I awakened every morning wearier than before. One morning I was able to rise, the next I was not.
I pause frequently; I wait for Eldric to catch up. He writes like a child, dragging his left wrist across the paper. His fingertips have now gone white. He turns letters into spiders, sentences into valleys.
No one offers to help.
“What did she do to amuse you while you were ill? To help you pass the time?”
I say that Stepmother brought me paper and ink. That she thought it might be healing for me to write. Healing, that was her word. So although I was often too tired, although the writing often wore me down, it was difficult to refuse. She was so delighted to help. Delighted with everything I wrote.
“You’re saying, then, that the writing was not healing?” says Eldric.
I suppose that’s what I was saying, although it feels like a betrayal to admit it. “It ground me down, rather. I felt as though I were a music box in want of winding.” Yes, as though I were a music box and the tune were my life, playing more and more slowly with every passing day. Finally, not even I could recognize it. The notes were stretched too far apart. They were no longer notes, they were plinks. I wound down to a plink.
“You were unwinding,” says Eldric. “What then?”
My gaze betrays me. It moves to Eldric’s face. He looks much as usual, in obvious, surface ways. A month must be enough time for a strong young man to recover from the loss of his hand. But he looks different in underneath ways. Gone is the pounce and bounce. His eyes are dark, and although he smiles, he doesn’t mean it.
He hates me.
“Then I got better.”
He hates me because I murdered Stepmother. He hates me because the Dead Hand took my clumsy right hand and left me with my useful left. He hates me because the Dead Hand took his useful right hand and left him with his clumsy left. What’s a strong, fidgety boy to do without his dominant hand? What happens when there’s a Cecil Trumpington to knock about?
“Tell me about the fire.”
I know even less about the fire. “I can’t say why I started it.”
“Not the why,” says Eldric. “Just the details. How did you start it?”
I have two sets of memories about the fire. Both start with me dragging myself into the library. I hurry, best I can. I must do what I need to do before I am entirely unwound. My nightdress drags on the floor as though I’ve shrunk.