The Peacock Throne (30 page)

Eventually, he and Lord Wellesley drifted away to discuss what steps they could take next. Men were already scouring the countryside searching for the ladies. Every servant had been discreetly questioned. No one had seen anything, either at the ball or anywhere else. The sole clue that had been unearthed had come some hours earlier, when one of the soldiers had found Miss Garrett's dance card in the garden. Even that proved nothing; she might have dropped it during her abduction, or she might have dropped it earlier in the evening. Who could say?

Marcus and Wellesley debated again and again whether they could turn over the throne in good conscience, and on the other hand how they could consider not turning it over when lives were at stake. Mindless discussion. Marcus hadn't the slightest intention of allowing Miss Garrett to remain in the hands of some fiend. He would find some way to reach her regardless of Wellesley's reluctance to trade the throne.

Danbury took no part in the conversation. Indeed he seemed scarcely to hear them. All his attention was directed on studying the note.

“There is no way to keep such a decision secret. If we give in to this fiend's demands it will soon be obvious to one and all that the throne has disappeared, and Britain shall be accused of losing it…”

“I have it!” Danbury sprang to his feet jubilantly.

Marcus whipped around and joined Danbury in examining the note.

“I shall kiss the clever minx when I see her again.”

Marcus stiffened, but Danbury's excitement drew him, in spite of himself, as he waved the scrawled note.

“Look, gentlemen; look. You'll notice first the short structure of the lines. There is plenty of space for her to have made the lines longer but she wanted to draw our attention to specific words. Look at the last word of the first line.”

“Aware?” read Marcus.

“Yes, but see she has left a slight gap between the ‘a' and the rest of the word. Now look at the last word of the second line.”

“House,” supplied Lord Wellesley.

“Yes, don't you see? Warehouse. They must be in a warehouse. Now, see, she went on. Look at the spacing of these words.” He pointed at the note emphatically. “They begin to run together, except for the last word, which has a curious little break in the middle.”

“Nor the astute,” the two men read the words aloud to themselves. Marcus said triumphantly, “Northeast! She meant they travelled northeast!”

“Precisely, and then there is the bit about the eggs and dress: all things that didn't happen, so we need to look at the individual words. Gentlemen, I think she is trying to tell us they are being held in a warehouse somewhere northeast of here. A warehouse that contains indigo, cotton, and saltpeter.” Triumph blazed in every line of Danbury's features.

Marcus nodded, his heart bounding within him. It made sense. Yes. Yes, they had it at last. A starting point.

Lord Wellesley groaned. “Sir, we are in India. Every warehouse in Calcutta holds indigo, cotton and saltpeter. They are the primary exports.”

Marcus's delight faded, but Danbury remained dogged.

“This information is valuable, sir. It narrows the field of search a great deal.”

“But I fear it does not narrow it enough.”

Marcus intervened between the two. “Lord Wellesley, there is an aspect of this situation which causes me great concern. But perhaps with this information we can turn it to our advantage.”

“Yes?”

“I fear there is a traitor in our midst. Both Mrs Adkins and Miss Garrett are intelligent individuals. They could not have been lured away by someone they did not know and trust to some extent. The ladies must have gone at least part of the way willingly; no one could have abducted them by force from the middle of the dance floor. In addition, these infernal notes keep popping up in what one
would assume were secure locations. It's too much to suppose this spy can break in and out of Government House at any hour of the night or day without leaving the slightest evidence behind him. The French are good, but not that good.”

“I see your point.” Lord Wellesley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I hate to think of such a thing, but it is a possibility.”

“How do we use this to our advantage?” asked Danbury.

“If we know who has had access to Government House at the times these notes were left, and we can find out who has interests in a warehouse to the northeast, we can begin narrowing down our suspects.”

“Who do we trust to help us with our investigation?” asked Wellesley.

“I suggest you use only those men in whom you place your utmost trust. If duty kept them from the ball last night, then so much the better.”

“We must proceed with the utmost caution. Lyd… Miss Garrett no doubt risked her life to give us this information. The fewer people who know of it the better. If the spy gets any notion we are getting close he will move them and any advantage will be lost. He may even kill Miss Garrett,” said Danbury.

Lord Wellesley pushed away from his desk. “This spy is a clever fellow. He won't give us time to plan. He is going to keep us off balance and move matters along quickly. Caution must be our first concern but haste our second.”

Lying on their skimpy pallets, Mrs Adkins and Lydia discussed their situation at length. After some hours they gave up on futile speculation. They needed to sleep. Whatever they faced they would handle it better rested. But while this was a good idea in theory, in practice it wasn't so easy.

Lydia tossed and turned. The pallets were better than sleeping directly on the hard packed earth, but not by much. In any event, her senses strained for the sound of movement in the corridor. The waiting for something worse to happen made it difficult to truly contemplate sleep. Eventually, however, exhaustion overwhelmed her.

The sound of the key turning in the lock instantly roused Lydia from the fitful sleep she had attained. Feeling at a disadvantage sitting on the floor, she stood to face their kidnapper, stooping to help Mrs Adkins do the same as he entered.

“Good morning, ladies. I trust you slept well?” Dr Marshall came in with the air of a physician attending his patients.

“I cannot imagine why you would think so,” Mrs Adkins said in a tone meant to freeze him in place.

“Tut, tut, there is no call for incivility. I brought you breakfast.” The doctor extended a package and a small ewer of water.

Lydia would have liked nothing better than to fling the parcel at his traitorous face, but they would need the food. It was wiser not to cultivate his displeasure. She stepped forward and accepted the meal, murmuring thanks she did not feel.

“Now see, Mrs Adkins. Miss Garrett knows how to behave.” He turned to Lydia. “But of course she is the kind of woman who knows which side her bread is buttered on. Adept at pleasing a man, isn't she?”

Lydia's cheeks flamed as if he had slapped her.

“Do not regard him.” Mrs Adkins put an arm around her shoulder.

Lydia could not be mollified. “At least I have not betrayed all those who have a natural claim to my loyalty and affection.”

“Affection.” Dr Marshall turned a mottled shade of red. “Do not speak to me of affection. The English are the coldest, most undeserving race on the earth.”

“How can you say that? I have seen no Englishman treat you with anything but courtesy and kindness.”

“You know nothing. The English system is constructed not on kindness, but on predatory self-interest. My father, the respected baronet, is nothing but an abusive wastrel.” Bitterness dripped from his words like rancid honey. “But merely because of his status as an Englishman, the brute had the right to wrest me from my mother, whom he treated as a harlot. He made my childhood a misery until I prayed to God to die.” A vein pulsed at his temple, and his eyes were watery.

Lydia stared at him steadily. She could almost glimpse the frightened little boy he once had been. Her heart softened for a moment as she imagined his boyhood. It must have been an agony; but did that justify his subsequent behaviour? “I'm sorry for your distress, but you are a doctor. You should value human life more dearly than anyone, and yet you have murdered to advance your cause.”

Marshall shook his head, disdain radiating from him. “Miss Garrett, you are utterly naïve. The one thing being a physician has taught me is that human life is cheap. None of the tinctures and potions we apply cure anyone. They merely alleviate the symptoms,
if
the sufferer is lucky. Children die all the time when, contrary to all rights, their loutish parents survive.”

Marshall paced the small confines of the room. The vehemence of his feelings spilled over into his tone. “Ask any poor young girl who has got herself into trouble, and you would know that the price to end a human life is much less than the cost of an additional mouth to feed if the child were allowed to live. And if all this is not enough to prove the point, then go into any rookery in the city and you will discover precisely how little a life is worth. Men will slit your throat for a farthing.”

Lydia opened her mouth to argue but the doctor continued. “No. I shall thank you not to sermonize. The only way to get on in this world is to take what you want. Your platitudes cannot deter me.”

“And what is it that you want?” Lydia asked mildly.

Marshall stopped in mid-stride. He looked at her with such contempt that what remained of her compassion for him shrivelled. “I shall restore the glory of my mother's family, and I will see that England receives the recompense she deserves for her tender care of her children.”

“And you believe this is the best means by which to accomplish that goal?”

“Of course it is. General Bonaparte has given me his personal assurance that my service will result in the restoration of our family lands.”

“But surely possessions alone will not suffice to make you happy?”

“Enough! This is no debate in the House of Commons. Eat, and if you so desire, pray that your friends obey my commands, and that you see another day.” Having delivered what he apparently believed to be an effective parting line, he whirled and stalked away.

“Let's see what he has brought us to eat. It is a good sign. At least he does not mean to kill us immediately. Otherwise, why bother to feed us?” Mrs Adkins took the bundle from Lydia, who still gripped it in numb fingers. “Naan.” Mrs Adkins held up a flat, round disc. “It is the local kind of bread. It can be quite good if it's fresh.”

“The proverbial bread and water,” said Lydia in weak jest.

Mrs Adkins smiled obligingly.

Lydia could not shake the unsettling effect of Dr Marshall's passionate discourse. What an unhappy wretch. Had he ever known love? Bitterness had eaten away his soul like lye, until nothing remained but his rage and pain.

They sat on the floor as if at a picnic, though without the same sense of frivolity. Now that the sun was up they could see that the windows were not as tightly boarded as Dr Marshall might have wished. Thin slits of sunlight filtered through, allowing them to examine their cell more closely. Fed and somewhat rested, they considered their situation anew.

“It seemed hopeless last night, but perhaps we can engineer an escape. Those boards look old and dry,” said Lydia with an appraising look at the windows.

The door behind them flew open and banged against the wall. Lydia started, biting her tongue. Their guard, the driver from the night before, stood in the doorway with a basin of water and an incongruously fine linen towel.

“Monsieur says you will want to wash.” He stalked into the room and set the items down, carelessly sloshing water. “I will bring drinking water later.” With this surly pronouncement he left.

Mrs Adkins clutched her heart. “I thought for a moment he had heard us and come to put a violent end to our plotting.”

“So did I,” said Lydia, a little chuckle escaping—less mirth than the cusp of hysteria, quickly brought under strict control once more.

“If we are going to attempt an escape, we must be very careful. I do not think my heart could take another such scare. What are our options?”

“If you will listen at the door for the guard, I will go through the furniture to see if there is anything we could use as a tool or a weapon.”

Lydia searched the desks and other furniture thoroughly, but found nothing useful. A broken pen nib, a stray button and a quantity
of knotted string were the extent of her discoveries. Disappointed but undaunted she dragged a chair beneath the window and stood on it to examine the situation.

“There's no glass. It has all been broken out. If I had a knife or something like it, I think I could pry out some of these nails and remove the boards.”

She climbed from the chair and replaced it in front of the desk. Mrs Adkins joined her and they sat on their pallets in silent contemplation of the predicament.

“In the novels I have read, the hero pretends to be ill. When the guard comes in, he is overpowered and the hero escapes,” Mrs Adkins said.

“I don't think I could overpower the guard. Could you?”

“Not overpower him, but perhaps we could light the lamp. When he comes in, we could throw it at him and then run out.”

“That might work.” The scrape of a shoe in the hall caught Lydia's ear. “Wait. I think I hear him coming.”

They watched the door expectantly. The lock turned and the door swung open. The guard brought in the pitcher of promised water. “Monsieur will be back with lunch,” he muttered, before slouching back into the hall and closing the door behind him.

“Mrs Adkins, do you think you could charm him into leaving us a butter knife with our next meal?”

“Please call me Rosalie. If we are to die together, I'd like you to know my name.” She straightened. “Wait. I've had another idea. Help me take off my stays. The busk and boning might work to remove the nails. It would be better if we could escape without a confrontation.”

With Lydia's aid, Rosalie removed her stays and pulled out the long thin strips of whalebone that gave then their structure. When she had redressed, Lydia replaced the chair beneath the window and climbed back up while Rosalie took up position by the door. Lydia set to work diligently, wedging the edge of the whalebone under a rusty nail, and beginning to pry the nail loose.

The day grew progressively hotter, until it felt as if they were in a fiery kiln. No breeze or breath of air penetrated their cell, and they grew miserably overheated. Lydia took a break to drink from the provided pitcher. She had made progress, removing three nails from the bottom board, but it was agonizingly slow. Rosalie insisted on taking a turn wielding the whalebone and they switched positions.

By mid-afternoon, drenched with perspiration and exhausted, they had removed all the nails from the bottom board save two at the top, which they had purposely left in place. It would not do for the guard or Marshall to come in and find the board missing. Under the cover of night, they would pry out the last couple of nails in each board and make their escape.

“I do wish that whoever put these up had not been quite so thorough in his task,” said Lydia as she began on the second board. Far from the perfect tool for the job, the thin whalebone kept slipping. Her hands were scraped and bleeding in several places. Rust discoloured her fingers and she carefully kept from getting it on her dress. Quite apart from the natural instinct not to ruin a gown, she did not want rust stains on her skirts giving away their plans.

The bone snapped once more and Lydia's knuckles were again grazed, drawing blood against the rough boards. She gritted her teeth, but refrained from crying out.
God grant that we do not run out of whalebone before we run out of nails.

“Someone is coming,” whispered Rosalie.

Lydia jumped from the chair and shoved it back into place. The key rattled in the lock. She dropped the whalebone behind the desk and plunged her hands into the water basin. The door swung open, and a smiling Dr Marshall appeared.

“Did you miss me, ladies?”

Lydia did not respond, but continued to wash her hands and then her face slowly, as if unconcerned.

From the pallet, where she lounged as if she had lain there all day, Rosalie complained loudly about everything from the heat, to the food, to the lack of facilities.

Lydia took up the towel, patting her hands and face dry. She breathed a prayer of thanks that Rosalie had distracted the doctor and she had the chance to fold the towel neatly and hide any stray streaks of rust or blood.

“I fear I am not as proficient at hosting these little events as I might be,” Marshall said dryly. “Perhaps I will improve with practice. My friend Philippe tells me you have been very quiet today. What have you been up to, my dears?”

Finished with her ablutions, Lydia sat on her pallet. “We have been catching up on our needlepoint. What else?”

Marshall turned to her and smiled humourlessly. “Keep a civil tongue in your head or you might find it missing altogether.” He turned back to Rosalie. “Mrs Adkins, I do not believe you were awake when I informed Miss Garrett of the precariousness of her position. Her life is of little value to me—and only in so far as it keeps those who do value her in line. Pray remember this if you are tempted to try something I might not like.”

Lydia stared at the back of his head. His manner was markedly different from what it had been that morning. He seemed determined not to be drawn back into any sort of conversation.

Marshall left the room, calling to Philippe. “Bring in the food and allow the ladies to use the facilities, one at a time. I shall return later.”