by Jan Needle
Worst of all, he thought — with a familiar twinge of pity for himself — was the next step, unavoidable. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, he would have his carriage readied to set out for Langham
Lodge to tell Sir Arthur Fisher. Good, in one way, that the body found was Warren and not his nephew, but… No — Sir Arthur would still hope, and so must he. These men, he told himself, were taken for a reason and Yorke, not Warren, was the senior and could still against the odds turn up. Sir Peter had no warmth for Arthur Fisher in particular, finding him a little acerbic and puritanical for his taste, but strangely, over this, he felt he recognised the kind of pain that was involved. Maybold had no sons nor other young close relatives, but he had a wife, who tortured him. Gazing into the dying embers of the parlour fire, inhaling brandy fumes from his cupped glass, he saw Laetitia as a wayward child who was similarly lost to him. Beloved, lost, but the focus of eternal hope.
Tomorrow morning — this morning, it was after one o’clock — he would go and tell Sir Arthur he must not give up the fight.
*
The journey back to London cost Will Bentley and Sam Holt quite dear in time and money. They had only been walking for about an hour after parting from Shockhead Eaton when they guessed an alarm had been raised, for the sound of horsemen galloping, on such roads at such an hour, was a thing to be remarked on. They took immediately to a ditch, getting wet about it as it was shallow with a dire lack of cover. Neither could raise his head enough to see for certain, but they agreed four horsemen clattered by, and they were riding hard. Out of the mud, they looked comical, but were not inclined to laugh.
“Bastardy,” said Sam, in a conversational voice. “I had hoped for longer before they found us out. They weren’t looking though, they were going too fast for that. I guess they’re gathering, then dividing into posses.”
Will was wringing water from a sleeve. The flat landscape was not made for hiding in, and his nerves were fluttering.
“Eaton said this road was hardly used,” he said. “Do you think we ought to trust him?”
“Oh no,” said Sam. “The man’s a liar. Let’s take any road except the ones he recommended. You choose.”
“But there is no — “ William broke off, as Sam shot a grin at him. “You jest too much,” he added, rather sourly. “And what if we go to Flaxton and his kinsman is waiting not with mounts but magistrates? Why did he not come with us? We should have ordered him.”
Sam had started off along the road again, but faster than before.
“Aye,” he said. “And he’d have quaked. Whatever else he is though, Shockhead ain’t magic, is he? When we get to his cousin’s we’ll be the first. Come on, play the man, there!”
They strode at their best pace (it damn near killed Will, with his normal legs compared with Holt’s lanky ones), which led them fairly quickly to some better cover, and another road the boatswain’s mate had mentioned. This was deep and narrow, hardly suitable for mounted men at speed, so they felt more confident, although they saw too many people out in the fields for comfort. At a crossroads in about two hours they came upon a positive gang of roughheads who may — who knew? — have been on the keevee for them, and they went to ground until the way was clear. It was mid-afternoon before they got to Flaxton, a distance, Eaton had said, of only about ten miles, which they recognised by the broken steeple on the church that he had told them of. On the outskirts they had to hide for ages because some horsemen rode in ahead of them. Even without their blue coats, which they’d bundled up when heated by the walking, they’d have stood out from the local country sorts like broken thumbs.
Worse was to follow when they reached the cousin’s farm. The dogs were called off quick enough, although Sam got a bitten hand, but the woman who had control of them was as suspicious as anybody could have been. Eaton’s name was acknowledged only grudgingly, their claim to be officers of the King was greeted with a sort of grumpy hauteur, and she suggested anyone could have picked up a pair of Navy coats in any gutter. What’s more, she said, news was abroad of two criminals who’d escaped, and probably there would be rewards. Sam, who had retained an extraordinary good humour throughout all this, smiled very broad and then produced his purse. Things began to change.
Even when the husband returned, however, negotiations dragged slowly. This man, less miserable than his wife but just as mercenary, could sympathise with their problem, so he said, if they would sympathise with his. He could see his way to hiring out two horses, but how would he ever get them back? If they rode to London then clearly he would lose the beasts for ever (he spoke of London as of some hell of vile and foreign dreadfulness), and if they went to Chatham and from thence picked up the stage, what then? He would have to trust them to leave them at an inn, he would have to trust the innkeeper not to sell them on but hack them back, and if the two gentlemen (said with remarkable disdain) were apprehended when they reached the town or on the road before, would he not be held responsible for aiding and abetting? Thus it was that they became the owners of two broken-winded nags, with blankets but no saddles, at a price a gipsy would have blushed to ask. A knockdown price, he told them earnestly, because they had been recommended by his kin. Nobody else would have had them for that money…
They left in full dark, on a dire, moonless night with enough rain, at least, to wash their outer garments, and their progress was desperately slow. The wife had sold them supper the night before, and sold them bread and cold bacon and some beer for their sustenance, but by the time they saw the dawn they both felt starving. They figured out they were well to the west of Chatham, but they were still avoiding all but the smallest roads, so they could not be sure. After discussions they decided they might breakfast at an inn, but as they approached one, two men in army coats hove into sight the other side of it, and turned into the yard. Probably coincidence, almost certainly they were not seeking them, but neither was keen to risk it. They found a shepherd’s hut beside a stream, hobbled the horses, washed, and slept a bit. Later that morning, six miles further on, they bought a breakfast off a farmer’s wife, then slept an hour more.
By now one horse was lame, but both of them were determined that they must press on. While they had slept, the wife had sent a lad to seek her man, and Sam awoke to find him examining the crippled horse. He was a big man, ill-favoured, but a different proposition than they feared. As Sam shook Will awake a smile transformed his hairy face, and he greeted them right heartily. They’d sounded out the woman, who had heard of nothing suspicious on the road, and nor had he, apparently. Navy men en route to join a ship, they said, and he asked no questions, save where did they get so poor a horse and would they like a trade for her?
“If she’s so poor, why trade?” asked Sam. “She’s lame and damn near worthless.”
The farmer nodded happily.
“I have a worse,” he said. “She’s due for knackering, but she’ll last a day or two, by which I mean she’ll walk to London easy, for what she is ain’t lame. Your horse will soon find its feet given a day or two of rest, then’ll suit me champion for a light job I’ve got on. And me wife’ll throw another meal into the bargain, this one free. What say you?”
“Have you got a razor?” Will asked. Food sounded good, but some luxuries were even pleasanter to contemplate. The farmer, who was bearded, stroked his chin.
“Oh aye,” he said, “I do. I have the steel, but not the application and I like my nose. We have a bit of soap though, and hot water, an’ you want it?”
The deal was struck.
*
For logic’s sake, and the sake of duty, both Will and Sam knew fine well what they should have done. With two horses that could achieve a reasonable pace, and no longer afraid to use the high road out of Kent, they should have struck out for the south Thames bank as near to London as the nags would take them without collapsing, then hired watermen to pull them up to town. Biter; most probably, would be moored by the receiving hulk, and they could lay along her and prese
nt themselves as fit for work or punishment, as Kaye should deem appropriate. Neither of them could frankly contemplate such action.
“Sam,” said Will, as they jogged along the muddy road near night
fall, “if I said Dr Marigold’s — what would you say?”
He knew Sam now, and they were friends. It fell into Will that he had never been so comfortable with one his own age. He trusted him to laugh, to mock at the suggestion; but he trusted him.
Sam mocked.
“Deborah!” he said. “My God, Will, one sight of that maid’s quim and you were lost for ever! How will it sound at the court martial, do you think? ‘I realised on the London road I had to get a look of it. I knew my good commander would fully understand.’ It seems not fair I have to hang as well, just for friendship’s sake!”
“There is Annette,” said William. “You’ve paid more for the horses than I have, so I could treat you.”
The rain had stopped but the road was like a bog. The heavy traffic of earlier had died away so the going was easier, but both men were exhausted. Light-headedness brought its own rewards.
“Aye, true,” said Sam. “That is a fine prospect. You’ve not seen Annette yet, have you? Not ‘had the pleasure,’ so to speak. She is not plump and gorgeous like your one, more a whippet, muscle and lean flesh. Like this poor old horse was, maybe ten year ago: a very splendid, brisk, and noble ride! A treat indeed Annette would be. But talking of them — will these old nags make it that far?”
“We could take a boat still,” Will responded. “Abandon them at the ferry steps, or sell them, trade them for the passage, maybe. And I doubt we’ll hang, Sam. Only Shockhead knows where we got to, and that was days ago. Or was it yesterday? And when will Shockhead bother to return?”
“Another one mad for the doxies,” laughed Sam Holt. “Well, it is shame on us, for sure!”
Will did not argue, but for him it was not shame. It had wrenched his heart to leave her, and his heart was craving, now they were on the road to London, to take up with her where they had left it off. Her face was plain before his eyes, and her black eye was faded to pale brown, which meant, she’d said, she’d soon be put to whoredom if she weren’t lucky; but even that was not what hurt him, it was just her absence. He had tried to sort it out in the days and nights since he had seen her, whether it was her beauty he was mad for or something else he did not understand, but it was questions still, not answers. All he knew with certainty was that he had to go to Marigold’s and not the Biter, and that was all about it.
“On the other hand,” he said, “if we take a boat and see the Biter, might we not tend to stop? Out of sight is out of mind they say, but pulling past her when we ought to be on board… Just possible someone might even see us.”
Sam snorted.
“If you believe in miracles,” he said. “There’s a better reason for not using the watermen, though. The tide’s against us, isn’t it? It will be running hard out for hours yet, as I compute it, which will add to the expense. We’ve got the horses, they are paid for, so why not ride ’em? Although a hull beneath would ease my aching arsebones, to be sure. I’ve rowed against the Thames ebb in my time, for longer hours than I’ve sat this blasted horse, but my bum’s never been in half the state it’s in today!”
Sometimes they talked, sometimes they rode in the silence of companionship, once they stopped at an inn and took some beer and bread and cheese. As they approached the outlying villages the roads grew busier again, and in places they wished they had not lost their weapons to the law, although they did in truth appear too dusty and unkempt to be prime targets for the robbing bands. By the time they reached London itself the pace had grown funereal, both horses limping and in urgent need of rest. They entered the road of Dr Marigold’s with great relief, but did not try to urge the horses on. When they dismounted stiffly in the yard, both beasts dropped heads immediately, one almost staggering as it balanced on three hoofs. An ostler sauntered up to them.
“Christ, sirs! Come far, have we? Them nags is bollocksed, beg your pardon!”
He had taken them for some sort of scruffs and neither of them, for the moment, cared. They wanted beer, hot water, food. And, for Will Bentley, Deb.
“Look after them,” said Samuel, roughly. “Treat ’em like the King’s own, they’ve done very well. Old Marge is in, is she? My friend here needs her, quick.”
The way he spoke, the cut of his blue coat maybe, asserting through the highway filth of miles, made the ostler more aware of what they were, or might be. He stooped to pick up reins.
“Aye, she’s in the usual place, I think. She may go armed though, isn’t it, after last night’s shenanigans. Go easy, sirs, is my advice.”
His expression was expectant, his gay speech a question, scarcely veiled. From their blankness, he knew they did not know.
“Why, you have been away a pace!” he said. “Oh, such excitements as we’ve had, sirs! Indeed, some people think we all should carry guns, only Marigold won’t pay, will he?”
Will had an odd sensation, of creeping flesh, of weird anticipation, though God alone knew why. Sam similarly, it would seem. Without a hint of warning he shot out his hand to seize the ostler’s tunic, just beneath his adam’s apple. Suddenly his face was pressed up to the man’s, his expression intense.
“What excitements?” he demanded, low but sharply. “What’s happened here? Tell quick.”
The man pulled back, frightened, and Sam let him go.
“Pardon,” he said. “There was an armed band, sirs, last night. There was shooting, and they took a maid. One of Mrs Putnam’s, he said he owned her, he said she’d run away. The leader of the villains, sirs, there was seven of them, our men were overwhelmed.”
The cold in William’s gut was horrible. No point in asking who it was, he knew. Sam, much more experienced, who knew such things were not uncommon where men used maids as earning things and would fight to save their property, thought he also knew, but asked.
“Deb? Was it the dark one, Deborah?”
The ostler nodded.
“And was she hurt?” said Will. “Was anybody shot?”
“Aye, sir,” said the ostler, almost frightened by the intensity of the question. “One maid has died. Not that one, though, not the buxom one, she was just took away. A poor maid that was her friend and lost her teeth. She tried to stop it, sir, and she got bulleted in the face. Some might say — ”
“Oh God,” said Will. “Oh God, oh God, Sam.”
“Marge thought it were relief,” the ostler mumbled. “But if you knew her, like…”
“Come on, Will,” said Sam, taking his elbow, gripping firm. “We’d best go in and talk to Margery.”
NINETEEN
Mrs Putnam, that most jovial of women, no longer had a smile upon her face. They found her in her corridor at her table, from a distance looking as if nothing had changed. But when she saw tall Sam she rose, and when she recognised his companion she raised her arms then dropped them to her sides, a hopeless gesture.
“Mr Sam,” she said. “And Mr Silence. Now here’s a pretty turn-up for the books.”
Will stood in front of her, but saw no comfort in her face. He tried to speak but had nothing to say.
“She is all right,” she said. She put a hand towards him. “Not Cec, poor thing, but your one, Deborah. It was she they came for, but they wanted she alive. She will be back again, she might, you never know.”
“What?” said Sam, Will staying wordless. “Margery, what can you mean? Why will she come back, is not she kidnapped by the little rogue?”
“What, do you know him?” Her face cleared slightly. “Why then, there must be hope! I only meant she’s run away before, and could again.” To Will she said, as if explaining, “When maids run off to London to earn a crust they don’t go home again, do they? She’ll turn up in some vile house or other when this man’s sick of her or she gets free, and Marigold has spies aplenty, he’ll find her out. Dr Marigold thinks highl
y of Deb, as I’ve told you. You did not believe me though, I guess.”
Some vile house, thought Will, horrified. Then thought, no, it’s not so bad as that, because it must be Dennett who had got her.
“He’ll have taken her back to that villain’s near Sir A’s!” he said to Sam excitedly. “Mistress, when did this occur? A small, ill-favoured man with dirty hair? No wig, pockmarks? Sam, it is Dennett for a thousand pound!”
“It was five or six of them or more,” said Margery. “In cloaks and hats and such. The one who got her was exceeding small I think. I did not see to notice. Poor Cecily, you see. A ball — ”
Sam cut across her.
“But it means he wants her teeth!” he said to Will. “Else why come for her and risk Marigold’s heavy boys? Christ, Will, that woman’s teeth must not have took, and Deb was second string! Dennett’s done like Margery says they do, he’s combed the houses till he got wind of her. She’ll be back in Surrey long — ” He broke off. Will’s face was sick. Sam continued carefully. “If it was last night, Will, she’s likely been at the magistrate’s some good long time, all afternoon at least. Of course, there’s no saying he’ll have done the operation. There’s no saying they could hold her down to even try. She’s a good strong fighting girl.”
“She’s a devil for the running, too,” Margery put in. “Whatever,” she said, abruptly and direct to Will. “She’s only a poor whore, ain’t she? What matter if she an’t got teeth, so long as she can eat? Some men like whores to have no teeth, some toothless maids find better ways to earn their bread than whoring. She is a good tough girl, I liked her and it’s a crying shame. Poor Cecily is dead though, and that’s far worse.”
Will was distracted, he could not take it in. His bones ached, and his heart and head, he was exhausted, he was thirsty. Mistress Putnam, having said her piece, stood four-square in the passageway, uncompromising.
“Well,” said Sam Holt, mildly, “it is a crying shame, Margery, that is a fact. What o’clock is it, dost think? Midnight or later? We have had a long and bitter ride. Is there a bed that we can purchase for the night?”
