Bellman & Black by Diane Setterfield Page B

am getting married tomorrow, he told the candle, snuffing it out. He laid down his head and whispered “I am getting married tomorrow” to the pillow. And then, in the moment before he fell asleep, the thought came to him of a drunken night in the Red Lion: I’ve covered her up, nice and cozy .
    But it didn’t keep him awake. He was getting married tomorrow.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

    W illiam Bellman no longer drank at the Red Lion. He played no more games of cards behind the fulling stocks. He had paid his debts, settled his slate. That part of life was over. At the age of twenty-six, the young man had a regular income, health, and the liking and respect of his fellow men. After five years of marriage, he had discovered more reasons to be in love with his wife than he knew on the day he had married her, and when they argued they did it rapidly, effectively, and made it up with good hearts. His daughter Dora was a healthy child, curious and quick to learn, and his baby boy, who in good Bellman tradition they had just named Paul, laughed at everything and grew strong.
    Life was good to William Bellman. Even those who did not know him but only saw him in the street could not help but be struck by the impression he gave of himself: here is a man who is healthy, happy, and successful said his gait, and even his clothes, from his hat to his boots, seemed to have a word to add about the positive qualities of their bearer.
    William was not unaware of his good fortune, but being more given to action than contemplation, he enjoyed his happiness rather more than he thought about it.
    Others were not so lucky.
    There came a hammering at the cottage door early one winter’s morning. William opened the door and snow blew in. It was Mute Greg, snow on his shoulders, shivering and with urgency in his eyes.
    Was it a fire? Had there been a break-in? Were the machines wrecked? It could not be unrest among the workers: he’d have known. Other millers then, jealousy . . .
    William piled his clothes on over his nightshirt and ran with Mute Greg back to the mill. When he was heading toward the buildings, Greg took his arm and tugged. Not that way. He drew a circle with his hand in the cold air: the wheel.
    There was no separation between the sky and the land. There was only snow. The only things not white were the oaks. In the upper branches were black clots of twigs, last year’s rooks’ nests. A few mill hands awaited them. These were the men with no homes, who slept in the mill, huddled around the stove that heated the warming plates for the first part of the night. If it was bitter cold they moved then to the seg barrels, put up with the foulness of the stink for the fermenting heat.
    William stood by them, and they considered the wheel. Something was impeding its movement. A branch, most likely. Perhaps the weight of snow had made it fall. Or else someone’s timber stack had toppled and a log had rolled into the water, been carried down river, jammed the wheel. Or some desperate soul had stolen a barrel of beer and after drinking the contents had dumped the barrel in the river for fear of discovery.
    Will took off his coat and jacket. Hesitation could only make it worse. He lowered himself in a single shocking moment into the water, and only frowned at its bitter sting. Quickly, before the cold could stun him absolutely, he waded to the wheel and peered at the dark shape through the splash and spume, trying to get a sense of its length and its lay. He must get a firm grasp on it in the first moment, before his hands were too cold to know what they were doing. He plunged his arms in to the shoulder, took hold, and heaved.
    The first effort achieved a minuscule shifting. At the second the obstacle came free. A hand flailed out of the water and gave William a thump on the mouth. For a second William thought it was his ownfist, benumbed by the cold. He dragged the waterlogged cadaver to the edge; the men grasped the drowned man by his