Edward Kane and The Voice of the Spider. Chapter 3: The Creature Had Taken a Different Form

At this point, the Head Faculty Servant – Manville – ever-aware of any breach of propriety within the curtilage of the Advocates Library – appeared. Stony faced, with a voice that could have chilled a burning coal: ‘I take it that all is well, Mr Collins?’ Collins blushed and pointed to his neck: ‘Frog in throat, Manville.’ The Servant gave a smile that was not a smile, nodded and turned away.

Kane and Collins waited until Manville had left the room then, simultaneously, cupped their hands over their mouths and shuddered like schoolchildren who had been caught in the act. Collins leaned forward and whispered: ‘You must forgive me, Edward, but given the singular nature of your narrative, I have no idea of the nature of your task here. I mean to say, what does the old lady actually want you to do?

Kane thought for a moment, then leaned forward: ‘Collins – I haven’t a clue.’

This was too much for Collins. He leaned back in his chair and uncontrollable tears of mirth began to roll down his cheeks. He squeaked: ‘The voice of the spider…”’

Manville re-appeared at the door.

****

That first consultation had proved inconclusive, and the lady could not continue – her grief apparently still raw over the death of a spider some 70-odd years ago – so it had been agreed that solicitors of Blane and Urquhart would provide a written statement to clarify the instructions.

Thus it was that four days later, a supplementary letter of instruction and bundle of papers found their way into Edward Kane’s box. The Advocate clutched the precious missive to his chest, scurried into the Library, sat down at his desk and undid the pink ribbon surrounding his papers. He thought that he could hear Lady Carmunnock’s voice in the narrative before him:

‘It was not the spider – as a spider – as such. It was watching a helpless little creature being destroyed on the whim of a bully. And that brings me to what I want here…’

Kane had an impatient thought: At last…

‘I want to adopt a child.’

At last – we get to the meat and potatoes of the matter.

‘It is well known that my husband derived the bulk of his wealth, not from any inheritance left him, but from his mercantile enterprises. Especially the factories for the glassworks. He was well-regarded as a kind master. Especially to the children employed at the works. I say with no false modesty that I did encourage him to be more lenient with the young workers, given my own fondness for children and I am proud to say that we reduced the working hours of the younger children to eight hours per day some years before the Act of Parliament followed.’

Kane looked up from his papers and nodded. The 1833 Factories Act had reduced the working hours of the older children to twelve hours per day and the nine year-old children now had the easier shift of just eight-hours.

He continued to read:

‘Last month, it was the anniversary of my husband’s death. I was invited by the foreman of the works to a visit to our glass factory in Salamander Street.’’

At this point, the young Advocate saw a smudge in the ink on the page. It looked as if it had been left by drops of tears. The tale continued.

‘I was given a brief tour. The factory was in very pleasing condition, although I had to smile as I realised that every area shown had the smell of fresh paint. It was at the end of the visit when it happened. I saw it again. The spider. The same spider that had been cruelly killed when I was a girl of ten…’

Kane sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. The old lady was clearly off her chump. He let out a long sigh. Did this mean that he would have trouble getting paid? He went back to the papers:

‘I say “the same spider”, but this time, the creature had taken a different form. This time, it was a girl aged eleven. The factory was in the process of installing a new furnace, and so the old furnace was being dismantled for the scrapyard, I was told. The old furnace was lying on its side. It had a large, circular opening, much like the circle on the ground that had contained the spider of my childhood. The foreman of the factory, a Mr Boylan, was showing me the new furnace, when – unannounced – a young child, a girl, began to crawl out of the opening of the old furnace. Apparently, the child had hidden inside during a rest period, and – exhausted – had fallen asleep. And when she emerged, crawling out of that hole, covered in dirt and soot, I had the overwhelming feeling that this was a spider, a human spider this time, crawling out of its circle.’

Edward Kane closed his eyes. He could see the inky black figure crawling out of its hole. He resumed his reading.

‘The foreman, Mr Boylan, no doubt embarrassed that the child had interrupted the visit of his esteemed guest (me), walked over to the child. And punched her in the face. Full-force. It reminded me of those bare-knuckle boxers that I would sometimes see in the back courts when I was a child. The child was knocked to the ground. I saw a gash below her mouth streaming with blood. Boylan, the foreman, made his way towards her again, but I instructed him to leave her alone. We resumed our tour, leaving the child on the ground. I asked Boylan why he had taken such extreme action against the child and he responded that this was not the first time that the child had “slacked off”. And, besides, the child was his daughter.’

Tomorrow in The Scotsman: Patria Potestas

Edward Kane and Mr Horse: Volume II of the Collected Short Stories. Available from Amazon and Kindle