Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  She pocketed the lead and shook out her hand, staring with a bit of surprise that it had worked so handily.

  Just as Clanton said it would. She shook her head in wonderment — the myriad ways to strike a man, and to what effect, playing over in her head.

  The chest she was searching for was in plain sight — why should it be hidden when there was a guard sitting right beside it and, if the scuffle of a shoe she heard from the hallway told her true, one in the hallway as well.

  The lock yielded easily and the spring-loaded trap was one Clanton would box her ears for if she couldn’t disarm it in a trice.

  Cat’s eyebrows rose at the contents — she must have hit the group near the point where they’d transfer this chest to someone higher up in the gang, as it was full of bags of coin. She cleared those out quickly into her own bag, tied that to the end of the rope, and then slipped back out the window, easing the shutters closed behind her and taking the time to set the latch again. When the man in the tavern came up for bed, he’d be in a state to explain the missing gains — or the guard she’d left behind would be when he woke. She spared not a moment’s care for how those two might be treated by their employer, for they were at the business end of taking the day’s profit from honest merchants.

  She got to the rooftop and pulled up the rope with money-laden bag, grunting at the effort.

  There may be something in this take-from-the-thieves-and-scoundrels that satisfies Emma — lord knows few honest merchants would have this much for so easy a taking.

  Rope and pack in hand, she skittered across a couple rooftops, then down to an alleyway where she arranged her skirts and clothes to hide anything out of the ordinary. That done, and looking like nothing other than a girl making her way home from a hard day’s labor, she made her way back to her inn and up to her room.

  By morning, she was in the cart and on her way home feeling quite satisfied with her trip.

  Chapter 38

  The cart clattered into the inn’s courtyard at midafternoon and Cat tossed the reins to the stableboy. He gave her an odd sort of look, but she ignored it, already on her way to the cottage.

  With the amount of coin she’d taken, they would have enough ready money that Cat wouldn’t need to gain more until the following spring — and with Master Bryant agreeing to send some few designs by post, she’d have little other reason to leave. Both of which would please Emma.

  She nearly skipped with happiness as she neared the cottage door and called out.

  “Emma!”

  She entered, the cottage door squealing on its hinges, which was unlike it and sent a chill down Cat’s spine that had little to do with the sound.

  The cottage was empty and dark — no fire burned in the hearth and no lanterns were lit. The curtains were all pulled tight against the afternoon sun, which was also unlike Emma — she’d normally have them full open until after nightfall when she’d pull them closed against the dark outside, as though fearful someone would peep in unseen.

  “Emma?”

  Cat’s eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and the condition of the cottage told her all was not right.

  Chairs were overturned, drawers pulled out and emptied, the contents of the pantry strewn about and all opened, so that flour and eggs and honey coated the floor nearby.

  Cat froze for only a moment, then dashed inside and up the ladder to the loft.

  “Emma?”

  The loft was in a similar state — the mattress sliced and its stuffing flung about.

  Cat slid down the ladder in a panic. This could not be, she wouldn’t accept it — what could have happened?

  Robbers, she decided, come one night, but Emma wouldn’t have stayed. Who would with such a mess and fearful of robbers? She’d be at the inn, with the Brimhalls, safe as any and only waiting for Cat’s return to —

  The light in the doorway darkened even as Cat turned from the ladder. Sarah and Scottas Brimhall stood there, alerted by the stableboy who ducked around them to peer into the cottage.

  Brimhall’s head was bandaged, his right arm in a sling and bound as well.

  Cat stared at Sarah’s face for a moment, hoping beyond hope that she misread the look of sorrow and sympathy there, then Sarah moved to the side and the light fell on the table — the table Emma used for her cooking, to make her tarts, and where she and Cat had their meals.

  The light highlighted the table’s surface, now marred and gouged with rough-hacked lines

  R

  “It was three days after you left,” Sarah said, but the words seemed to buzz in Cat’s ears and made no sense.

  They’d got her to the inn, sat her at a table, and shooed away the other guests, something that Cat would never imagine Scottas Brimhall doing. Yet here he sat in his empty taproom, pouring her a mug of his best brandy, kept under lock and key for those few visitors who’d not accept a local beer or what poor wines he stocked.

  “Wait ‘til she’s drunk a bit, Sarah,” he said. “She’s not hearing you.”

  He wrapped Cat’s hands around the mug and helped her raise it to her lips.

  “Drink,” he ordered. “Two good gulps, then let it sit a moment.”

  Cat did, coughing and nearly choking at the first, but Brimhall tipped the mug again and she drank.

  The liquor burned her throat but settled in her stomach and sent out tendrils that barely warmed the chill that filled her.

  Brimhall waved a hand in front of her face.

  “You there, girl? You with us now?”

  Cat nodded. She was, surprisingly. The buzzing in her head had stopped and she could focus on what Sarah was saying, though her head still felt like it was wrapped in cotton.

  Brimhall nodded and Sarah began again.

  “Three days after you left,” she repeated. “Scottas heard a scream, he thought, and went to check on Miss Emma to see she was all right — then when he didn’t return straightaway, I went and found him laid out on the cottage floor.”

  “It was one man,” Brimhall said, his eyes narrow. “I’ll swear to that, but how one man took me down I’ll never recollect. All the lamps was out and only the coals in the hearth, so it was dark, but I’ve fought in the dark before — know how the shadows work. I had my cudgel and swung, but —” He held up his arm. “— sliced clean. Then a blow to my head and I was down.”

  “I found him like that,” Sarah said, “arm and head bleeding —”

  “Like to take half my ear off,” Brimhall added.

  “Miss Emma was gone,” Sarah said. “No one saw a coach nor heard a horse a’tall.”

  Chapter 39

  Roffe — for that was certainly who had taken Emma, Cat didn’t think he would send Clanton for such a thing, he’d come himself — had done a thorough job of searching the cottage. All Cat’s carefully secreted caches of coin were emptied, and all of her devices deliberately taken up and smashed to bits. She found the charred remains of her drawings and designs in the cold hearth.

  Her father had been nothing if not thorough in the cottage’s destruction, she thought the only reason he hadn’t set the place afire was that a charred shell would be less distressing to come home to than the destruction he’d wrought.

  Cat picked idly through the debris for only a few minutes before concluding there was nothing left of any real value. She had the coin in the cart and whatever she might recover from the solicitor, Jessel, and that was all she had to mount her rescue of Emma. That Roffe had taken Emma to lure Cat back, as well as punish her, she had no doubt.

  She left the cart and horses with the Brimhalls and took the coin they offered. She had a moment’s thought to refuse, but with all her caches looted by Roffe, she’d need the few shillings.

  “And they’re yours again, should you come back,” Sarah said, her eyes questioning.

  Cat only nodded, she didn’t want to make promises she couldn’t keep, nor think about the future until after she found where Roffe had taken Emma. That would be her focus and her on
ly goal now.

  She took the post coach to meet with Jessel and retrieve what funds he still held. He asked no questions at all, merely thanked her for her business and wished her well, assuring her his services were available to her should she ever need them again.

  Then a series of post coaches to London, in a more roundabout way.

  She had the Orphaned Daughter and the Flowergirl, still, along with what of her roof-running gear had been in her bags instead of the cottage. After visiting Jessel she picked up a new friend, whom she dubbed the Weary Traveler — a deep-hooded cloak that hid her face in shadows.

  She pulled that close about her and bowed her head so that few of the others in the coaches dared disturb her — those who did seemed discomfited when she turned the cowl’s shadowy front to regard them and said simply, “Thank you, but I fear I must rest.”

  The cowl would also give her what shelter she might have from any of Roffe’s men watching for her to alight there.

  She gave some thought, upon seeing a group of them working their fields beside the post road, of going in the guise of a nun, but dismissed it — best not to steal from God when just starting out on this particular journey. Though she did make a note that such could prove useful — after she’d got Emma back and dealt with Roffe.

  Once back in London she let a poor set of rooms, after assuring herself she wasn’t being followed from the coach, and took a moment to relax. Her thoughts had been a whirl of planning for the whole trip and she wanted to give them time to settle.

  She’d have to move fast, though, for her stash of coin was much diminished. Oh, there was an impressive row of guineas in her travel bags, along with bags of other coins, but she’d learned this last year on the run that none of it ever lasted as long as one thought it would.

  The memory of her first encounter with Roffe came to her, and how she’d perched on that rooftop weighing his purse and dreaming — thinking that the coin it carried would keep her nearly her whole life.

  She’d learned since then — there was never enough coin. They ran through one’s fingers like water and she might as well cup her hands and try to carry moonbeams from one window to the next as think she could hold onto wealth.

  A good deal of what she had now would have to go to hiring help and gathering information — where Roffe was and where he was keeping Emma, as well as how many men he had guarding them both.

  The trouble was, she knew no one in London but Roffe and Clanton and those they’d introduced her to — who would surely be Roffe’s men. and report to him as soon as she contacted them.

  Well … nearly no one else.

  Cat huddled next to the chimney, her roof-running clothes blending into the shadows, and watched the building across the narrow alley.

  The gang was nearly all inside and if whoever’d taken over after Brandt kept them to the same sort of schedule — which he would, she thought, because the boys did like to know what was expected of them — then they’d be doing the shareout soon. Everyone would put their day’s takings into the pile and the new leader’d decide what would go to the gang as a whole and what would go to each member — after kicking up to Marven, the next higher-up, of course.

  Their lookout on the other roof was watching the alley and the market street, not the other rooftops, so Cat’s hiding place was in no danger of discovery.

  Given the boy’s attention, she thought she might be able to turn cartwheels without him noticing, which was all to her good.

  She ran and leaped over the alley below, landing on the gang’s roof with a muffled thump that finally drew the lookout’s attention, but it was too late for him.

  Cat grasped his arm as she came up from her roll, spun him around, and pressed him firmly to the brick of the building’s chimney. She put the dull side of her knife blade to the back of his neck. She didn’t know him — he was young, maybe six or seven years old, and must have come on after she left.

  “Still and quiet, yes? And you’ll be all right.”

  The boy nodded carefully.

  “Good,” Cat said. “Now you stay right there and I’ll whistle for you when it’s time to come down. I’m only going to have a talk — who’s leader now?”

  “Os — Osraed,” the boy stammered.

  That was surprising. Cat would have thought Dome, for Osraed was none too bright. He’d done well enough as Brandt’s second, but that only entailed taking orders.

  She made her way down the stairs, avoiding the ones she knew creaked, until she saw light ahead, then slowed and eased her way to look. The gang was all gathered around a couple of lanterns and the sight of it brought back a lot of memories for Cat — some good, most bad, and all more than she needed to deal with just now. The only memories of this gang she had need of were the ones that would help her get them working for her.

  She threw her hood back and stepped into the light.

  The gang numbered about two dozen now, she thought, ranging from the littlest of perhaps five — still small enough to fit through near anything but old enough to follow instructions — to Osraed and Dome, who were not much younger than Cat. She’d have been second under Brandt if she hadn’t seemed so scrawny — and hadn’t avoided the attention — both those boys were still bigger than she was now.

  Osraed had pride of place nearest the lamps, a pile of coin in front of him and he was adding to it what another boy’d just handed him when Cat stepped out.

  They all looked up, some startled, some merely suspicious. A few hands went to belt knives, but Osraed held his hands up to still them. He rose and turned to face her.

  “For someone who run off, you sure come back a lot, Runt.”

  “It’s Cat —” No, that wouldn’t do at all. She needed to establish their roles immediately and it wasn’t as equals. “It’s Miss Catherine now, Osraed, and you’ll remember it.”

  “Will I?”

  “If you don’t wish to wind up like Brandt,” Cat said.

  Osraed’s eyes narrowed. “Last I saw Brandt, he was about to have a taste o’your poke-hole.”

  Cat smiled thinly. “And note that was the last you saw of him.”

  “You had help,” Osraed said. “Someone knocked us all about and run off with you — weren’t you alone, for sure.”

  “I was a bit distraught that night, Osraed. I won’t be caught unawares again.”

  Osraed matched her smile. “Won’t you?”

  The faintest scuff of boot upon wood warned Cat that Dome, who she’d noted making his way behind her in the shadows, was lunging for her.

  She side-stepped his rush, caught his arm, rapped it sharply as Clanton taught her to send the knife clattering to the floor, and sent him staggering into Osraed.

  She stooped to pick up his knife and tossed it hilt-first back to him as soon as he recovered.

  “You always did shuffle your feet too low, Dome,” she said.

  Osraed drew breath, perhaps to order the whole gang to go for her, but she pulled her hand from her pouch and the glint of coins stopped him. His mouth stayed half-open as she approached and let a rain of pennies fall to his pile of coin with a rapid clinking. She let fall enough that every boy there could see himself with a full belly the next two days or more, even with Marven’s share sent up.

  “There’s more,” Cat said to Osraed. “Not with me, so shall we talk about how you get it?”

  The gang was celebrating their good fortune by sending a runner out to bring back sausage and bread, but Osraed pulled her aside as soon as the boy was off.

  They stepped out onto the rooftop, where they could have a private talk, and Cat caught sight of a figure nestled against the chimney.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Garwin!” Osraed bellowed. “You worthless dung-head! What’re you doing?”

  The boys head barely moved, but he nodded slightly at Cat.

  “I told him not to move,” Cat explained. “Go downstairs, boy!”

  Osraed sniffed as the boy went past. “An’ clean
your pants!” He turned to Cat. “Well, you’ve impressed the young ones, at least.”

  “But not you?” Cat asked.

  Osraed settled himself on the roof’s edge and looked out over the dark and vacant market. Cat sat beside him.

  “You lied to us, Runt,” Osraed said. “Why should I trust you?”

  Cat frowned and watched him out of the corner of her eye for a moment. Osraed had always been a believer in the truth, but there was more to him now. She was surprised he was the gang’s leader, after Brandt, and he seemed less … dunderheaded than ever she knew him.

  “When last we met,” Cat said, “you were holding me down while Brandt tore at my skirts, Osraed. Trust isn’t in it.”

  “You’re jumping to the last of what’s between us, Runt, when we’ve still to deal with the first. You lied to us for years.”

  “I should have told?” She grasped her chest and shook them at Osraed. “What would have happened to me if you’d all known about these? Bent over for Brandt and any others who wanted a taste, then sold off to the buttock-brokers, that’s what!”

  Osraed grunted. He reached into his pants and drew out a flask, opened it, and took a drink, then passed it to Cat.

  She took it and drank, surprised at the taste — apple brandy, and not a harsh one. She looked at the flask for a moment, frowning, and passed it back.

  Osraed drank. “You stole that purse from us,” he said. “That was a big score — we were counting on it for the week. Marven was none too pleased we came up short.”

  “There was nothing in it — naught but some rusty, iron disks.” She shook her head and snorted with laughter. “Believe me or not, but it’s the truth. That man — the one we took it from — he was … planning something.”

  Osraed grunted. “Something for you?” he asked.

  Cat nodded.

  “He have anything to do with this work you want of us?”