Authors: Jean Rowden
With only half her mind on the children, she led them to the lake and allowed them to waste time standing in the shade of the willow trees, watching the fish that rose for flies. From this vantage point she’d seen Lady Pickhurst walking through the gardens towards the ruins, in the company of one of his lordship’s guests.
‘Please may we go through the elm avenue?’ She hadn’t noticed Rodney Pengoar return to her side, leaving his sister throwing twigs into the water.
‘Miss Eliza, stop that if you please. Young ladies do not throw sticks. It’s time we returned to your studies indoors, Master Rodney, but we shall go by way of the avenue and the vegetable garden if you wish.’ This would bring them to a little-used path that skirted the ruins on the opposite side, and might give her a chance to speak to her cousin again, if her ladyship didn’t linger in the ruins too long.
In this she was disappointed. As they turned from the lower end of the elm avenue she caught a glimpse of Jonah, carrying a lighted lantern into the tower; evidently his visitors wished to ascend its heights, which meant he would be occupied for some time. With her attention drifting again, the children had stopped to admire a large fungus on a beech tree, and rather than admonish them, she lingered too, feeling a sense of shame. It was not in her nature to spy, but she was worried about Jonah.
The glow of light glimpsed through the narrow windows showed where the explorers were, its progress slowing as they neared the top; she knew the steps were old and worn. Suddenly somebody appeared at the base of the tower. It was Lady Pickhurst. Her face was unnaturally flushed, and she almost ran to the arched passage that would take her back to the gardens. As she vanished another figure burst from the tower. It was Jonah; even at a distance she could see his expression, and guess his thoughts. Phoebe blushed with embarrassment, both for herself and for her cousin. After a few moments the large man’s shoulders drooped and he returned the way he had come.
A light was showing from the highest window in the tower, and very soon after that a head appeared over the parapet. Phoebe recognized the guest who had been escorting Lady Pickhurst. She bit her lip. Jonah and her ladyship had evidently been alone for some time. She knew what the gossips would make of that. If he wasn’t careful her cousin’s clandestine involvement with Lady Pickhurst could ruin them all.
‘I
fear my friend is adamant,’ Mortleigh said. As if
reluctant
to approach her, he stood just within the room, while Lucille kept to her seat by the window, her glance straying now and then to the garden. ‘He insists on returning to London this very day. Since I doubt he’s well enough to sit a horse all the way to Hagstock, I must ask for another indulgence; I beg you’ll order a carriage for us.’
‘Us? You go with Mr Laidlaw?’ Lucille tried to feign indifference. She didn’t want Mortleigh to leave, and the depth of her emotions unsettled her. What she had heard at the peephole was intriguing; it seemed there was some mystery surrounding their visitors, and that made her even more reluctant to let her lover go.
‘Only to make sure he gets safely to the train. I’ve offered to send my man to London with him, and once Laidlaw is home and being cared for, Tomms can return. Since my poor friend refuses the attentions of a local physician, I feel I must do all I can to deliver him safely to town. I have no wish to be a nuisance, Lady Pickhurst, but if you will lend us some small conveyance, that would suit very well. I prefer to drive myself.’
Lucille rose to look out of the window, so he couldn’t see her face. ‘You, then, are in no such hurry to leave?’
Mortleigh came closer at last, and lowered his voice. ‘How
can you ask that? Bewitched as I am, every mile I travel away from you will be a torment, and only the knowledge that I shall be returning will make it bearable.’ He spoke now in a husky murmur that awoke memories of the brief terror he’d inflicted upon her, and the heights of passion which followed. To hear such words from him was balm to her soul.
‘I shall return unencumbered,’ he whispered, ‘and I shall drive the horses hard, in the hope of joining you for dinner. No doubt Lord Pickhurst will be tired tonight, worn out by his duties as magistrate. If not, there’s that little bottle; you only have to say the word.’
She gave him no direct answer, though thoughts of the night made her pulse quicken. ‘You wish to leave at once?’
‘The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll return.’
With a decisive nod she pulled the bellrope. Orders were given, and Mortleigh went to help his friend prepare for the journey. Lucille walked about the room, unable to be still, her thoughts in turmoil. Mortleigh had no idea that she’d overheard his conversation with his friend. He’d been lying. Had it been for her sake? Laidlaw had expressed no wish to leave Knytte, although it was true he was very agitated. His concern had been that his illness, whatever it might be, needed immediate attention. It was clear that Mortleigh and his servant, Tomms, had done their best to care for him, but it was Mortleigh who refused to have the local physician summoned, despite acknowledging that Laidlaw’s condition was worsening.
Listening at the peephole, Lucille had flushed as Laidlaw laid the blame for his troubles on his companion. ‘Your whoring has cost me dear, Mortleigh. Didn’t I warn you against it?’ This puzzled her; Laidlaw was angry about the time Mortleigh had spent with her, but she couldn’t see how it was connected to his illness.
Lucille had been gratified when Mortleigh launched into a furious tirade, accusing Laidlaw of cowardice, of being eager to run away long before there was any scent of danger. ‘You call it whoring, but I tell you, Lady Pickhurst is a rare find, and I’m damned if I’ll regret a moment I spent in her company.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Laidlaw had replied, ‘since you’re not the one paying the price. This needs to be tended, and soon.’
The whole argument seemed illogical; neither man was in danger at Knytte, the idea was preposterous, unless the illness was wildly contagious, and threatened the lives of all who lived there. She had waited, breathless, eager to hear Mortleigh’s reply to this accusation, but she learnt no more. Mortleigh brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. He had turned away from his friend, stating his intention to ask for a carriage, and Lucille had been forced to race downstairs, so she would be innocently occupied in the morning room when her guest came looking for her.
Gracious to the unwanted Laidlaw, now she was to be rid of him, Lucille went to wish the invalid a comfortable journey as Tomms aided him into the landaulet. The man was pale, and his pace slow, but he didn’t look to be at death’s door. ‘I’m sure you will recover soon enough, once you are home,’ Lucille said. ‘Lord Pickhurst will be sorry to have lost your company. I hope you will visit us again, once you are well.’
The young man nodded, saying a brief word of thanks, and then they were gone, with Mortleigh at the reins; he hardly gave her a glance as he took his place. Lucille stood upon the steps, watching until they were out of sight. It would be hours before he returned. Only now, when it was too late, did she wish they had made more definite plans for the night.
Her need for him was like a physical sickness; she longed to
repeat the intimacies of the previous night, even if it meant creeping to his room once the household was asleep. Having lunched swiftly and without company, Lucille wandered back to the rose garden. She was alone here too, the gardeners discreetly vanishing when she appeared. Her imagination showed her a future she’d never dared hope for, and she paced agitatedly along the narrow paths between the flower-laden bushes.
Thoughts circled through her mind in ceaseless motion. Lord Pickhurst was old. He could die at any time. But she might wait ten or twenty years before she was free of him and by then she herself would be growing old. Her husband was forever boasting that his grandfather had lived to the age of ninety-three, while he was not yet seventy.
When she married she’d been prepared to make the best of her situation, but now there was Mortleigh; his arrival changed everything, or it could, if he was the kind of man she suspected him to be. Why should she not decide her own future? Fate might be kind, or it might be cruel; why should she not take some part in determining which it was to be?
Men had such privileges. The world had grown, so many things were possible, yet still the fair sex had few rights. The freedom that was guaranteed to men made them fickle; they had no fears of being left alone and impoverished once their natural attractions had left them. Mortleigh’s affections might soon fade. Lust and her seductive skills couldn’t be relied on to hold him forever.
At this point Lucille suddenly halted. There were other inducements. He was certainly a risk taker, and he had few scruples. Lucille rubbed her hands together as if to warm them, although the day wasn’t cold. A woman could be mistress of her own property, not necessarily surrendering all her worldly goods to a husband when she married. Unless she
had a son, Knytte and most of her husband’s estate would be hers when he died. It was surely a tempting prize for any man.
She walked on. Almost feverish with the ideas revolving frantically within her mind, Lucille hardly noticed that she’d wandered into the ruins; she turned a corner and found herself face to face with Jonah Jackman again.
Beddowes stood on a little-used road, trying to decide what he should do. He judged he was several miles to the northeast of the King’s Arms, having been thrown roughly from the parson’s rickety dog cart by Bragg and another man, with warnings not to return. He had been fed, though poorly, at the parson’s command, and there was a crust of bread stowed inside his shirt for his dinner.
Threats or no, the sergeant would have retraced his steps towards Trembury if necessary, but the encounter at the King’s Head convinced him it was pointless. Bragg had foiled Sir Martin’s ambush because he’d thought they were after smugglers. Aching and disgruntled, Beddowes decided he’d pass on what little information he’d gained as soon as he had a chance. The so-called brotherhood were powerful in this part of the country, and any help he could give would be welcomed by the customs men.
Staring along the road, which wound roughly from north to south, Beddowes couldn’t decide what his next move should be. The thieves might be anywhere, even on a train back to London, although if that was their intention, why make him travel so far to collect their booty? They would lie low, surely, for a few days, after so narrow an escape. From their voices and apparel they belonged to the gentry, or were able to ape them sufficiently well to fool those they met; they wouldn’t sleep rough. That wasn’t much help, for there were a hundred inns where rooms could be hired.
The sergeant often did his best thinking on his feet, but to walk north in search of the London road seemed like an admission of defeat; the crimes he’d been summoned to investigate had all taken place within fifty miles of where he now stood. He wasn’t ready to return to Scotland Yard just yet.
Beddowes made up his mind to see Docket, which meant heading for Clowmoor. Sir Martin’s secretary would be easier to contact than the Lord Lieutenant himself. He would take the next track to the west, although he couldn’t be too sure where it would take him; the unmade roads in these parts followed devious routes, winding around deep bogs and peat hags.
When he’d been entrusted with the case, Beddowes hadn’t had much opportunity to study the notes the local police had made; perhaps it was time to begin again, and see if some clue had been missed. Half a dozen large houses had been robbed; if there was a pattern, some link between chosen time and place, perhaps he could hazard a guess at where and when the thieves might strike again. Then there was that intriguing reference, so annoyingly interrupted by Bragg. A pair of something of great value was to be among the next expected haul. A pair of candlesticks? Or earrings?
Deep in thought, Beddowes had walked no more than a mile before he heard the thud of hoofs and the rattle of a carriage behind him. The road was bad, and the carriage would demand the most level way; mindful of his part as a ragged and crippled tramp, he slouched to the edge of the ditch that ran alongside. Here he halted to allow the landaulet to pass.
Without reducing speed the vehicle came so close that he felt the stir of its passing give a tug at his ragged coat. He kept his balance upon the bank of the ditch, but almost as
soon as the carriage’s wheels had passed him, the reins were hauled in so viciously that the two fine chestnuts between the shafts threw up their heads in pain, one of them squealing in protest. The magnificent animals’ spanking pace was broken up into a frantic clatter of hoofbeats. Beddowes scowled and walked on, having no suspicion that this act of wanton cruelty had anything to do with him, until the driver threw the reins to a servant who had hurriedly dismounted from the rear, and leapt down from the box.
The road was dusty and the sun bright, which might have excused the wide-brimmed hat drawn down over the man’s brow, and the scarf wrapped across the lower part of his face, but the day was warm, and as he approached he pulled the scarf higher. Beddowes felt a prickle of apprehension on his skin, as if some sixth sense was issuing a warning. This encounter was not to be a friendly one.
‘You!’ the single word confirmed Beddowes’ fears. He had seen little of his attacker the night before, but he recognized the voice at once.
With no time to think, the sergeant’s hand went instinctively to his chest; there was no weapon there, but he drew out the package. ‘Is that you, y’r lordship? ’ere, I got it safe. I was lookin’, but I di’n’t know where to find you.’
His fist already drawn back to deliver a blow, the man halted, staring at the package. He snatched it, tearing it open to stare at the contents. Rewrapping them roughly, he strode to the landaulet and tossed the jewels to the man who sat hidden inside. ‘Check it’s all there.’
Within the shadows under the hood, Beddowes saw no more than an outline of a pale face, with feverishly bright eyes. ‘Is it him?’ a voice croaked. ‘By God, if I didn’t feel so damned weak I’d help you give him what he deserves.’
The sergeant recalled that one of Sir Martin’s men had
claimed to have scored a hit at the crossroads; evidently he’d been right. Cringing back, his eyes once more on the shrouded figure of the man who stood before him, Beddowes assessed his opponent. From his stance the man had studied boxing, and he already knew the strength of his grip. He had only one advantage; this man would expect little resistance from the crippled Fetch’n’carry Cobb. Even now, Beddowes was reluctant to give himself away. If it came to a fight he couldn’t be sure of success; there was the servant to contend with, and the injured man, who might be armed. This might be his last chance to keep contact with the thieves; lose them now and there was little chance he’d get close to them again.
‘You miserable piece of filth.’ He was seized by his ragged collar and shaken. ‘We were nearly taken last night. You sold us out.’
‘I never,’ Beddowes whined. He’d had plenty of time to invent his story, a different one from that he’d told to Bragg and his cronies, but that encounter had given him information which made his tale more credible. ‘It weren’t my fault. Them gents come by the gibbet soon arter I got there. What was I to do? They ’ad sojers with ’em, I couldn’t ’ardly run, could I? They said I’d do ’ard labour for the rest o’ me days if I didn’t do as I was told. I ’ad no choice, y’r honour. But they weren’t arter you, see, so ’tweren’t so bad. They was lookin’ fer a gang o’ rum-runners workin’ the coast ’ereabouts, tha’s what I ’eard, once all the shootin’ an’ the shoutin’ stopped.’
‘How did you get away?’ The fingers moved to tighten on his windpipe ‘I can’t believe they set you free, and never even searched you.’
Beddowes winced; his throat still ached from their previous encounter. ‘The fire got out of ’and.’ His voice was a barely audible whisper. ‘I crep’ down a dyke while they was beatin’ at it, and jus’ kep’ goin’. I ’eard ’em chasin’ arter me, but I ain’t
that easy to catch, not me. Listen, y’r lordship, I’ll take that package for you, jus’ the way you want, I swear.’
The smile that greeted this offer was somehow more frightening than the cold fury that preceded it, and Beddowes realized he hadn’t deflected the man’s original intent.
‘I think not. No, I think Fetch’n’carry has outrun his usefulness.’ He beckoned to the servant, who secured the reins before going to the rear of the carriage, where he lifted two wooden bludgeons from the boot. Giving one to his master, the man tossed the second from hand to hand, as if to show off his prowess with the weapon.