by Jan Needle
“A bed?” said Will, bemused.
“With or without a trollop in it?” laughed Margery. “Annette is busy for the moment, but she’ll likely strike a deal. What, both of you at once, for all the night? It is a narrow bed as you well know, Captain Sam!”
“Now stop!” said Will. “Sam, what are you saying? Stop.”
There was real concern on Margery’s plump face, but only for the state she saw him in. She reached out to touch him, but he almost flinched. Sam made a noise of sympathy.
“It seems a better way than going back on board, that’s all,” he said. “What if Slack Dickie wants a fight? I’d rather face that in the morning, wouldn’t you?”
“What morning? When?” Will shook his head. “Sam, we have to ride to Surrey, to Sir A’s! If we are quick, who knows, we might save her! Good God, man, Dennett is a murderer this time, you do not think to leave her to her fate?”
Both Sam and Mrs Putnam were uneasy. To Sam it looked like crystal that whatever was intended on Deborah would by long ago have been achieved. Margery, more cynical, thought the younger of the two men must be drunk, or slightly mad. Whatever — as she told it later — he was living proof that love existed, being so distracted he could hardly walk straight; although maybe, she conceded, he was merely saddle-sore. She could also see a customer at the end door to her corridor, and needed them away.
“La, sir!” she said to Sam. “Go down to the stable and see Rich. If you’ve rid so far you’ll need new horses, and he’ll find a patch of straw for you, no doubt. If I was you I’d go and have a drink instead. Now shoo away. There is a gentleman.”
She indicated a door beside her and almost pushed them through it to a stair. On the second or third tread Will stumbled, which Sam seized on for his argument. They needed sleep, they needed rest, to go on was absurd.
“If it’s done it’s done,” he said, trying not to sound unkindly. “If it ain’t we’ll get there just as soon tomorrow if we’ve had a rest. We don’t know where this justice lives, if that’s where Dennett’s taken her, but Sir Arthur’s Tony might have found it out, and we can’t arrive at Langham in the middle of the night, can we? It’s help we need, not getting shot.”
“But will you come?” asked William. “What of Kaye? What will he do to us?”
This cheered Sam up, apparently. The thought of thwarting Kaye appealed.
“There are more important things than Captain Kaye,” he said. “Anyway, he don’t know where we are unless Eaton’s back, which I severely doubt, and the journey could have took us longer, couldn’t it? Let’s get our heads down in the straw, get two hacks, and be away first light. Whatever way it goes, we’ll be back on Biter by tomorrow night or so. Let him call us liars if he dares!”
From Rich they got makeshift beds, some bread and cheese, and a trade-off for their nags which suited all of them. Will did not think to sleep, his mind was filled with Deb and awful possibilities. But he slept, and did not even dream.
*
Amelia Wimbarton, wife of a justice, a learning lady, not long ago a beauty, had only this to hold on to now: her husband loved her, oh yes he did indeed. When she found out it was not true, the effect it had was terrible. For the while at least, however, it did save Deborah’s teeth.
Deb reached the house unconscious in Marcus Dennett’s cart, because finally it was the only means by which he could transport her. He had tracked her down without enormous difficulty, although it had cost him dearly and risked him meeting several men he would have avoided at all costs, one reason for steering clear of London as he did with assiduity in the normal way. He had hired locally for the raid on Dr Marigold’s, as Jeremiah had his own reasons for avoiding certain parts and Dennett his for keeping dark his destination. He gave the steward gold as a collateral — an arrangement Jeremiah forced on him — to keep him waiting with the cart south of the river while the mountebank and his hired posse went by horse. One of the men was badly cut, and Dennett himself had to shoot poor Cecily when she ran screaming at him, but the expedition was a quick enough success, with Deborah clubbed nearly senseless early on, so quiet as they came across the bridge.
It was afterwards, when the London men had got their pay and gone, that she came round sufficiently to give them trouble. They had decanted her from off a horse into the wagon before setting out for south, and Jeremiah and Dennett, having settled the cash questions, were talking almost amicably. Fiske, Jeremiah’s deputy, had stopped off at some bushes luckily, and as he rode to catch them up he saw the girl — bound but not inactive — slip-sliding off the tailgate of the cart. She hit the ground heavily but with little sound, and was struggling to climb on to her feet when the horseman made himself known to her, grinning fit to crack his face. Deborah, in pain and furious, let out a shriek and tried — he swore — to bite his leg before the horse’s shoulder knocked her flat into the mud. Then, hobbled like a grazing mare but her determination not a whit diminished, she bounced up once more and tried to jog and hop away towards the roadside and some cover. Retaken, she set up a screeching and a bellowing that could not be borne, busy as the road was at this time of evening. Despite her face had earlier been battered, but thinking she would no longer need her beauty anyway, Dennett clubbed her harder than before. Which saved her in one way, for Fiske had been so taken with her wild spirit, he had half a plan to creep in with her at some later stage for business underneath her skirt, but was put off by the quantity of blood and bruises.
Madly, though, Chester Wimbarton was not — which led Mistress Wimbarton to a despair far greater than the one she suffered from her rotting mouth. She was rotten by this time, in a state of self-disgust and pain that a weaker vessel, man or woman, could simply not have borne. When she had demanded of her husband that he track down the mountebank and get the second teeth, she had been able to face him. His love was her only touchstone, and — dressed in black — she had thought to impress him with her bravery, to achieve some transcendental beauty through her naked suffering. She had seen him flinch, his eyes slide sideways, the muscles round his mouth go rigid, but he had recovered, he had set the search in hand and would succeed, he promised it — and quickly. By the time Jeremiah returned home with the prize and hope, however, Mistress Wimbarton could not face even Dorothy and the other women with her face uncovered. She was in her room, fully clothed before the fire, a bowl of water by her for her weeping gums, a pomander and some burning cloves beside. She did not hear the horsemen coming home.
The wagon, by arrangement, was taken to the carriage house, where it could be kept from general eyes. This was not the only reason, for above it was a suite where the girl could be safely kept until everything was ready for the operation, and where Dennett could stay with her to get all set. While he and Jeremiah carried her upstairs, Fiske went to see if the master was astir and wished to come and see. He was, and did. Before he went, he crept to his wife’s door and listened, where he heard no sound.
Deb, laid on the bed, was not a lovely vision, but the master found himself dry-mouthed. She was dressed in a shift and cloak as they had picked her up and wrapped her at Dr Marigolds, she was shoeless, and she was caked in mud and dirt. Her face was pale as death, with dark patches round her eyes and darker bruises where the mountebank had struck her senseless. Dried blood caked her hair and ear and neck, and she was scarcely breathing. Chester Wimbarton, magistrate and man of standing in the parish, had a wild idea.
“How is Milady?” asked Dennett, at last. He had stood ignored for moments while the man had stared, and he had noticed Jeremiah’s look of sly contempt. The master turned his eyes reluctantly to him, then flapped his hand impatiently to dismiss the steward. Dennett, with an inkling of what was going on, also had a need to lick his lips. He smelled money.
“You see,” he said, “if she is too… far gone, it could turn out a little… difficult. Will you permit I…?”
Wimbarton did not reply, but his eyes were hard and pitiless. Dennett, checking that Jeremiah had
closed the door, went to the bed. Deb was breathing shallowly, and for an instant he was afraid that she might die. Hurrying, he turned the simple knot in the neck cord of her cloak into a mess of hard twists and loops, but hardly dared to bring a knife to bear. The smile he cast across his shoulder was rather sickly.
“My wife fears it is too late, they will no longer take,” said Wimbarton, levelly. “I told her that cannot be so, I have your bond.”
And thirty pounds, in both their minds but left unsaid. Dennett tried harder at the knotted cord.
“Indeed you do!” Said heartily. “Nay, it is not so easy, but… never say… die.”
The knot parted, and he hid his face by getting closer. Say die, indeed. Christ, had he gone mad?
“You said this maiden’s teeth were not so good,” said Wimbarton. “That’s why you chose the other one’s for my wife. I do not believe that, Mr Mountebank. I believe you saved her for her beauty, for the profit you might get from that. I believe you cheated me.”
Poor Dennett’s face was like a rigid mask of ease and humour. He scrabbled at the cloak, to pull it open and away.
“She’s not so beautiful,” he said miserably. “Indeed, sir, she looks a very fright.”
He had one breast out of the shift, held like an orange or a pomegranate, carelessly. The skin was soft, translucent, but he was gripped by fear, his stomach tense and knotted. Wimbarton’s eyes were blank.
“You lie about this operation also,” he said. “My wife’s gums are black and foul, her breath is like a butcher’s cesspit. Drag this maid’s teeth out all you like, they will not take. You know it, I know it, the blindest halfwit knows it.”
“No!” cried Dennett. “On my mother’s grave, that is a lie! The thin girl’s teeth I thought were best but they were too — too narrow, possibly. Now this maid’s teeth — ”
He stepped back smartly at this point, pulling the shift and ripping it, exposing Deborah from the neck to the thighs, all perfection save some bruises and her bloody head. He was sure he knew the man’s intention, he would stake his all on it. What all he would have left if this evening’s business went wrong, he thought ruefully.
Outside there was a noise on the stair, then a loud cough. The catch lifted as Jeremiah’s voice said urgently: “Master, it is I! Milady comes, they cannot deny her!”
“Stay!” shouted the magistrate, but it was too late. Jeremiah stood in the doorway, and his eyes were fixed. As Wimbarton came towards him he moved backwards in caution, but his eyes were merry.
“You operate, I see!” he said to Dennett, who was scrambling to cover the naked woman. And, more quietly, “How well he knows the master.”
There was hysteria in Dennett’s movements, and hysteria clattering up the wooden stairs, Mistress Wimbarton and Dorothy and Joan. Jeremiah tried — not over-hard — to keep the door against them and was barged aside, while Wimbarton, having first moved to the bed, dropped back towards the wall a fair good distance, and watched as coolly as could be, his dark, thin face saturnine. Milady was majestic, eyes blazing above her veil, wafting in a heady mix of spices and corruption. Deborah was covered, just, but Joan, like a little country thing, let out a squeak.
Mistress Wimbarton, if she had had the power, would have shouted. Instead her voice came throaty-hoarse, not much above a whisper.
“Operate? Do you need her naked, then? What operate?”
She moved towards the bed like an attacker, staring at the girl. Dennett had a hand upon the cloth, but he let go, moving carefully away.
“My dear,” said Wimbarton. “Dennett is checking her condition, as there is urgency involved. The news is bad.”
“What news? She has still teeth! I see them! What news?”
She leaned across the bed and pulled at Deborah’s mouth, brutally.
“See?” she said. “My teeth. You have paid for them.”
“She would die,” said Wimbarton. “She has been bleeding, she is weakened, we must — ”
“No!” The sound she made was horrible, halfway between screech and croak. Above the veil her eyes were bright and furious.
“My dear — ”
“So if she dies, what difference? What care I, or you? Yes, husband. What care you?”
The steward, Jeremiah, had seen the signs and eased out from the room, not waiting for an order or an onslaught. He plucked Joan’s sleeve and she followed, reluctantly. Dennett, who had nowhere to go, decreased in size, sought invisibility.
But Wimbarton only shrugged, then moved towards his wife with open palms, exuding gentleness and sympathy.
“You are right, my love,” he said. “It is only it would be embarrassment, and me a justice of the peace, if we were to end up with the body of a whore about the place. Dennett says we ought to wait a day, when everything will be safer. The teeth are healthy, he has confirmed it. Everything will proceed to satisfaction.”
Dennett’s face had cleared, till Mistress Wimbarton, with her great directness, tore aside her veil. He saw her lips were tinged with black and yellow, her eyes alive with terror.
“But will it be too late for me?” she croaked, and the breath of mortality took him fully in the face. “Doctor. Look at me.”
Doctor! The mountebank moved up to her, and eased aside the dying lips to see inside the putrefying mouth, hoping the miasma she was exhaling did not bear the plague or bloody flux. Instead of gums with sockets she had… well, he could not see.
Marcus Dennett coughed.
“Nay, excellent,” he said. His eyes, above her head, met those of her husband, who was faintly smiling. “Tomorrow will be excellent to do the deed.”
Ye gods, he told himself, and was ashamed. Ye gods.
*
Sir Peter Maybold, the Surveyor General, had done his duty by Sir Arthur Fisher only the day before Holt and Bentley rode up the long drive to Langham Lodge. They arrived well after breakfast time, but Sir A still had not emerged. Mrs Houghton had taken breakfast to him in his bedroom, and stayed to watch in silence as he picked at it. She was the only person in the house to whom he had told the awful news. Warren had been discovered, abused and dead, his nephew Charles Yorke was missing still. Sir Arthur, who had grown old and frail with the passing days, had grown frailer before her anxious eyes.
The two Navy men were greeted at the stable door by Tony, who marvelled at their villainous appearances, but buttoned his lips on any comment. He had watched the fat man turn up in his official coach the afternoon before, and seen him depart, all powdered wig and sombreness. He had his own ideas as to what the visit meant, and noted afterwards the continued absence of the master. Rumour did the rounds, unhelped by him, and the arrival of these two — and fairly well unkempt — could hardly be coincidence, he guessed. Indeed the younger, blond one, was pretty agitated.
Few words were passed though, save for greetings, and they went to a side door Tony indicated, where an underling of Mrs Houghton sat them down and went to find her out. Two minutes later the housekeeper arrived, scolded the women for not preparing coffee, and said the master would see them in his parlour on the instant. Something in her manner jarred with Samuel, and he asked outright if anything were wrong. Mrs Houghton eyed him, unsmiling.
“Aye,” she said. “I fear there is. But wait a moment and Sir A will tell. It is not appropriate that I should.”
So early in the morning, but there was a fire blazing in the grate. The great windows had not been opened, and after the fresh outdoors they did not relish the building fug. They sat, declined a drink or breakfast yet, and waited silent for a while. Will’s mind was full of Deborah, and the time he felt as draining rapidly away. Sam’s disquiet was growing by the moment, and he arose convulsively when they heard a tread outside.
Sir A stood in the doorway, for the moment like a shadow of the man he’d been. His face was sallow, his collar awry, and he had no wig upon his thin and grizzled hair. He glanced at Will, turned his eyes to Sam, and almost stumbled as he moved towards him. To Will�
��s surprise the men embraced, and the clasp seemed set to last for ever. It was not embarrassing, precisely, but he had a vague sense of loss that was discomfiting. And overlaid with a horrified awareness that the search for Deborah was being overtaken by events they’d find far weightier.
The embrace ended, but Sir A and Sam did not move far apart. Hands touching, they moved into the front part of the room where, suddenly, the old man detached himself, sitting heavily in an upright chair.
“Sam,” he said. “Mr Bentley. You have heard somehow? How glad I am you’ve come.”
Sam spread his hands.
“Sir, we have not heard. I guess, though, it is Charles. Has he…? Is…?”
“Pray sit! Pray sit!” said Sir A, distractedly. “Nay, my Charles, our Charles… well, he is as yet unfound, so we may still have hope. But the other Charles, good Charlie Warren. Oh God, Sam. The evil that men do.”
They waited, for Sir Arthur had covered his face, may even have been weeping. They avoided each other’s faces, but Will noticed Sam run a finger round inside his collar, clearing sweat. He found himself gazing longingly through the glass at the garden grass, scythed short at summer’s end.
“They found him stuffed into a hayrick,” said Sir Arthur, not distinctly. “Cut, mutilated, picked over by dogs. Not the work of men, of Christians, but of beasts. And in the name of what they call the free trade, may they rot in hell for that damned lie; they’d fired the rick to try and burn him. And where, and how, and when did my Charles die?”
Sam, eventually, cleared his throat.
“He may not… until they find his body, sir. There is always hope. There must be.”
Sir A raised his head. For a moment he seemed blind and deaf.
“Aye,” he said at last. “There must be hope, or what else is there? But you two. Sam, if you had not heard of this, what do you here, and so early in the day? You have been riding, you have been living roughly.
