Gibbous House 25

The jewish tailor assured me I would be in possession of a gentleman’s wardrobe within a week and, as he had taken a pattern of the soles of my feet and various measurements below the knee, he assured me also of appropriate footwear to complement it. The man gathered his bolt of material, shears and other accoutrements and scuttled out like a cockroach startled by the sudden lifting of a carpet. I looked over at Maccabi who seemed in a brown study over a second tankard of porter. John Bill had put my retainer so far out of countenance that I considered revising my plans for the silent behemoth, should I be the owner of his livelihood.

‘Come, Maccabi: Are we ever to reach Gibbous House, or have you some further nonsense to keep me here?’

‘We have one more call to make, Mr Moffat, by your leave. It were better done before visiting the House.’

‘Well, let’s on with it, man.’

His eyes darted to the side and then he looked quite over my shoulder as he spoke:

‘Begging your pardon, Mr Moffat, but in truth, we cannot take possession today.’

‘Why not? It is mine by right even now, is it not?’

‘Most assuredly it is, however the tide will keep us from it.’

‘Tide? You’re babbling, Maccabi.’

‘Sir, We must needs visit Lindisfarne and the Reverend Ezekiel Harbinger of the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin.’

‘And for why? What has this to do with me?’

Regrettably, some of his smug self-confidence returned and he said:

‘You were counselled to read the papers, Mr Moffat. The journey is unavoidable I fear, and we must make haste if the Causeway is to be open for our crossing.’

My watch showed a quarter of four. Maccabi intimated that the tide would be in before seven. I strode out of the door and we boarded the carriage; the horse looked as miserable, as only a stabled beast could, when left to the bitter elements. I was informed that the journey was some 17 miles, when I questioned Maccabi’s liberal application of the whip to the nag’s back. The road north was poor as we took, not the turnpike, but a road more used to the farmer’s cart and his labourers’ feet. My faithful retainer eyed me from time to time, averting his gaze when it caught mine. Several times he seemed on the point of putting an uncomfortable question, but immediately thought better of it. It gladdened my heart that he seemed to be grasping the true nature of our relative stations at last.

When I had enjoyed his silence and discomfiture, for some two hours, we reached three cottages and a church beside a sheep farm, which the man informed me was named Beal. We turned onto the causeway road. After two further miles the phaeton rolled onto the muddied logs of the causeway. The north sea nibbled at the edges of the primitive crossing and I asked him if he thought we were in time to complete the crossing.

He thought for a moment and then enquired whether I could swim.