by Joan Smith
The men, still silent, began carrying the boxes to the waiting wagon, while Kirby stood watching. Twelve men, twenty-four crates, each requiring a man on either end. One crate was put into the gig. It took them only four trips to finish the job, after which all of the Gentlemen but one disappeared into the night. The men in the wagon drove away, leaving the gig and one man behind. But it was only the gig she was interested in now. She watched, waiting.
Amy was still on the qui vive when the right hand man, whom Kirby addressed as Gash, returned to the beach, “Are they off?” Kirby asked.
“Aye, smooth as silk.” He chuckled at his little pun.
“No sign of the Revenueman?”
“Nay, Rankin was slipped a tip the lugger was coming in just before dawn. He’s home resting up so he won’t fall asleep when he’s arresting us.”
“We’ll be on our way, then,” Kirby said, and turned to go.
Her tree chose that moment to emit a suspiciously loud creak, that was more like the crack of a pistol. “What’s that?” Kirby cried, drawing out his weapon. “Have a look, Gash. It wouldn’t be the Preventiveman acting smart, would it?”
Gash advanced to the tree, while Amy stood paralyzed with fear, with her heart throbbing in her throat. There was no place to hide, no place to run. If she moved from behind the tree, Kirby would see her. Behind and around her was unprotected beach and the sea. She reached for the pistol in her pocket just as Gash’s arm shot out and grabbed her wrist. He saw the pistol and wrenched it from her fingers, slid it into his waistband.
“It’s just a lad,” he called to Kirby. “But he’s up to mischief. He has a gun.”
“Bring him out and let’s have a look at him.”
Amy ducked her head low, thinking she might have a hope of mercy if they thought she was just a curious boy. Gash began dragging her out from behind the tree. Her only hope was George, but she knew in her heart that George was no match for these two hardened criminals, A whimper of fear caught in her throat.
“Timid little lad, ain’t he?” Kirby laughed, walking toward her. “Let’s see if we rec’anize him.” He reached to pull off her hat.
The following moments seemed like a nightmare, or a dream. A wild shriek rent the still night air, and at the same instant, a monstrous raven with a wing span of three yards came swooping down from the branches of the deformed tree and enfolded Amy in its wings. She couldn’t have been more terrified if the giant bird had taken flight, carrying her aloft into the night. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear, she couldn’t even breathe with her head smothered in the black folds of the creature’s wings. But she could feel its heart beating wildly, fast and strong, against her breast.
She waited, hardly daring to imagine what would come next. She moved her fingers, and felt not feathers but a woolen weave. A man’s coat. A gentleman’s coat, to gather by its soft smoothness, and the creature’s embrace, pressing her close against him, felt more protective than menacing. Almost lover-like? But that shriek when it seized her – that had sounded inhuman.
From within the muffling folds of the wings she heard another inhuman cacophony as Kirby and Gash ran off, screeching incoherently from fear, as if they had seen Satan himself.
Amy was shivering, more frightened than she had been by Kirby and Gash, yet strangely exhilarated too by this unique encounter. She didn’t dare to move, hardly to breathe. What manner of creature had saved her – was it demon or demigod – and for what purpose? The creature’s wings loosened, she gulped air into her lungs and with trembling fear, she lifted her eyes to see the face of her rescuer.
Another whimper, more terrified than the first, caught in her throat. The thing had no features, just a black mask without even eyes. Then its hand reached out and pulled the mask down.
“You!” she gasped, seized by consternation and humiliation. “Where did you get this costume?”
A sardonic smile touched Ravencroft’s thin lips. In the shadowy night, he looked diabolic, “Why, it is only a cape, and a black neckerchief to cover my face.” He brushed back the hair that had fallen over his eyes.
While she was still trembling, he pushed her aside without another word and went after Kirby and Gash. George, alerted to the excitement by the howls of the fleeing Gentlemen, ran forward to see what was afoot.
“Lord Ravencroft!” he exclaimed.
“Which way did the gig go?” Ravencroft asked.
“Toward Easton. They whipped that poor nag till she flew like a Derby winner. We’ll not catch them.”
“I’ll catch them. Glover has my mount waiting nearby.” He cast a last taunting glance at Amy. “I suggest you take your mistress home, George. She is looking a trifle pale. Now you know why I didn’t want you involved in this, Miss Bratty. Let it be a lesson to you.”
His mocking speech had a wonderfully restorative effect on her spirits. “Get our horses, George. Run!” George looked uncertainly from one to the other. “Go, I say!” He went.
“Amy, for God’s sake, go home!” Ravencroft cried.
She tilted her chin. “I am home. This is my father’s beach. You go home!”
“You’re behaving like a child. Isn’t one brush with death a night enough for you? Have you any idea what would have happened if I hadn’t saved you?”
That was what galled her. That he had saved her. She had to redeem herself. “I would have saved myself. But I am very thankful, milord, even if you did scare the life out of me with that ridiculous performance, as if you were a giant bird.”
“It was two against one. I decided fear was my best weapon. These provincials are superstitious souls.” He looked around in frustration. “I shouldn’t leave you here alone, yet I can’t let Kirby get too far ahead of me.”
She tossed her head. “For goodness’ sake, go on. I’m not afraid.”
“You were shivering like a frightened rabbit. It would serve you right if – Bah!” He turned on his heel and left, muttering profanities under his breath.
Chapter Fourteen
Ravencroft was long gone by the time George returned with the mounts. They rode into Easton as fast as the elderly jades allowed, but didn’t overtake either Ravencroft or the gig.
“I wager they’re heading to Kirby’s place,” Amy said.
“If you’re thinking of going to his place – well, he’ll not leave the stuff unguarded,” George warned.
“No, we shall have to wait until he’s asleep to sneak in and look.” Already fatigue was overcoming her after her harrowing night. But to envision Ravencroft coming to tell her he had solved the case – it was not to be borne. She had to carry on.
She urged the nag along the deserted High Street of Easton, until the shops petered out into cottages. As they passed a laneway, she glanced down it and saw a gig. She drew into the shadows and urged George to do likewise. The gig was stopped. Two men got out and drew a long, heavy box out of the back. They carried it into a hedged yard. Within two minutes, they came out, slipped quietly back into the gig and drove away, down the lane, that led to another street. Amy watched as the gig turned a corner and the rumble of wheels over rough cobblestone faded to an echo.
“That was Kirby and Gash!” she whispered.
“By Jove, they’ve stashed the goods in that house they just came out of,” he whispered exultantly. “Let us go and have a look. It was the third house yard they came out of. These are mostly just little cottages.”
“That’s Mrs. More’s shop,” Amy said, with rising excitement. “She’s in on it, George! I hope the money is still there.”
“It’s got to be. That crate was full, and they didn’t take time to unpack it. They plan to be back tomorrow to do it. Either that or she’s in it with them. Dash it, she could be the one behind it all.”
“Oh no. I can’t believe that. If she is aiding them, they are conning her with some story. Or – George. She lets the two top rooms of her cottage. It’s one of her roomers. We must hurry along and see if we can spot him.”
George helped her down from her mount. They crouched low behind the concealment of the hornbeam hedge and crept forward until they came to the opening into the yard. George was in the lead. Seeing no crate within, nothing but a fading vegetable garden awash in moonlight, he beckoned Amy forward. The back of the house was all in darkness. They stood a moment, irresolute.
Amy was overcome with a memory of her recent fright at the bay. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. But she knew the Gentlemen weren’t here. If there was anyone, it was only Mrs. More’s roomers. She knew them both by sight from her visits to the modiste. One of them was a simple, good-natured fellow who painted houses and barns on contract. She acquitted him of being clever enough to be involved. The other was an elderly, retired clerk from London. He had a sly look about him. He claimed his doctor had sent him here for the sea air. As he was from London, he might have the connections necessary to distribute the paper forgeries. George could certainly handle him.
“We’ll try the door. Go quietly,” she cautioned.
George drew his pistol and advanced toward the cottage. He could see through an opening in the window curtains that there was no lamp burning within. Even while he watched, a dim light appeared. It moved about, suggesting a hand-held lantern.
“He’s in there right now!” he whispered over his shoulder.
“Is he alone?”
“I only see one lantern.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Then let us go in.”
“I’ll go first. If he gives me trouble, you can threaten him with your gun.”
“Kirby took it from me. Let me find a weapon.” She found a rake leaning against the fence and picked it up, brandishing the claw end.
“Stay behind me,” George said.
Amy felt it was unworthy of her, but she agreed gladly to take the more passive role. George tried the knob, it turned. He threw the door open wide and barged into a small kitchen, brandishing the pistol. “Hands up, Mister,” he said in a firm voice. “I have a pistol.”
Out of the darkness, a bored voice drawled, “Good for you, George.” Ravencroft lifted the lantern to show his face. Not that Amy needed any further proof than that voice. The flickering orange light lent his features a diabolical air. “Now would you kindly close the door – and put the gun away before you accidentally shoot Miss Bratty.”
“You, again!” Amy cried. She was so frustrated from the trials of this night that she could hardly contain tears of vexation. “How did you get here?”
“On horseback, as I believe I mentioned earlier,” he said, putting his pistol back in his pocket. A sneering smile moved his lips as he studied her. “You came to do a little raking, I see. “
She set the rake against the stove. “I didn’t see you behind Kirby.” He already had the case unpacked. Three bolts of silk lay on the table, three more on the floor, giving the little kitchen the air of an oriental bazaar.
“I was in front of him, actually. I rode to town through the meadow and beat Kirby here. I hid in the hedge outside until he and Gash left. I didn’t want to jump the gun and arrest them if all they were carrying was silk.”
“How did you know where to come?”
“By induction. The draper doesn’t sell silk. The ladies in Easton wear silk gowns. Where do they get them? Certainly not from London, to judge by their cut.” Amy simmered at this sly taunt. “Ergo, I induce the gowns – and the silk – come from the modiste. Then it followed that the modiste might have a deeper hand in this business – and in any case, Kirby was headed this way. There was nothing but silk in her crate, however. No forged bank notes. Help me put this back, George, and we’ll go.” He lifted a bolt from the table.
“Would the money be rolled up in the bolts of silk?” George asked.
Ravencroft’s hand stopped. He looked at George and an approving smile flashed across his countenance. “Possibly. Good idea, George. Let us have a look.” He lifted the bolt above his head and yards of glimmering emerald silk unfurled with a whisper. No shower of bills fell from its folds. They tested the other bolts – lovely scarlet and peacock blue and gold billowed around their ankles, within minutes, the floor was covered in a sea of swirling silk – but no money was found.
Ravencroft stood a moment, frowning into the empty case. Then he looked up. “Tidy up here, George. I’m going to follow the ‘Silk Trail.’ See if I can find a trace of the caravan carrying the big load.”
“Tidy up your own mess!” Amy said sharply. “George and I will go look for the wagon.”
“On those old jades you rode to the coalyard last night?” he scoffed. “You couldn’t catch a turtle.” He headed for the door before she could think of a setdown. With his hand on the knob he turned and said, “If you’re thinking of buying a few ells of this contraband, I suggest the green. It would match your eyes, and go beautifully with your hair.” There was a twinkle of amusement in his own eyes as he spoke.
Amy determined on the spot that she would buy any color but green, And it was her best color, too. “Go to the devil,” she snapped.
His smile stretched to a grin. “All in good time, ma’am. I’m not dead yet.” Then he was gone, and she was left to clean up his mess.
She and George rewound the silk and placed the bolts back in the box, covered the box and slipped quietly out the back door to their waiting mounts for the dispirited ride home. As eager as Amy was to see the Cougar’s work continued, she almost hoped Ravencroft didn’t succeed in finding the wagon. She wanted to find it herself, to show him she was every bit as capable as he was.
When they reached Bratty Hall, Amy dismounted and handed George the reins to take the mount to the stable. “Thank you, George.”
“I enjoyed it, Miss Bratty. Just let me know if you need me again.”
She walked around to the library door and stepped in, leaving it ajar for George. The room was in darkness. She didn’t plan to light a lamp, but just slip up to her bedchamber. She took one step into the room and stopped dead. There, in the corner across the room, just where a pair of comfortable old armchairs sat, was a glowing red eye staring at her. She couldn’t hold in the light shriek of terror that swelled unbidden in her throat.
“It’s only me – again,” Ravencroft’s hateful voice said. She was coming to loathe the very sound of it. If he said he had found the wagon and recovered the paper money and knew who was distributing it, she would – well, it was just lucky for him that Joe Kirby had stolen her pistol. The red eye had disappeared but she caught a whiff of cigar smoke. His cigar had caused the red glow.
“If you care to light a lamp, I believe I can withstand the sight of you in that tramp’s outfit you favor for nocturnal doings,” he said in a polite, conversational tone.
“If you’re afraid of–”
“No, really you don’t look that bad, Miss Bratty. In my line of work I encounter many awful, frightening sights.”
“Afraid of the dark, I was going to say.”
“Ah, sorry. My mistake.” From the corner she heard him rise, heard the rasp of steel on flint as he prepared to light the lamp himself. The wick flared and he set the glass chimney over it, then turned to walk toward her.
It annoyed her greatly that he wasn’t even a tiny bit disheveled. His glossy hair sat smoothly on his head. His black cape slung over his shoulders looked elegant. He even had a diamond pin in his cravat. She was acutely aware of the contrast between her own awful disarray and his elegance. His eyes moved slowly from her misshapen slouched hat, over her rough fustian jacket and trousers to the mud-stained boots that were too large for her feet.
“Not really frightening at all,” he said, chewing back a grin. “Just slightly grotesque. You should be perched on a roof at Notre Dame.” He pulled off her hat and gazed critically for a moment at the tumble of auburn curls that fell to her shoulders.
She refused to be baited into arguing about her appearance. In a fit of pique, she grabbed the hat and rammed it back on her head. “Did you find
the wagon?”
“No. “
“Then if you just came here to insult me, I suggest you leave.”
“I came for your help.”
Her eyes widened to a stare. She couldn’t have been more surprised if he had said he came to propose marriage. Her first rush of gratification was followed by suspicion, “Why?” she asked bluntly.
“Because it is now perfectly obvious to me that you lack both common sense and judgment. You intend to pursue this matter with or without my approval. I would be sorry to see you come to grief.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “Sir George would have my head on a platter.”
“I am touched by your solicitude, milord,” she said in a mocking tone. “Do you have any specific suggestion as to how I might hel– how we might proceed?” She would not say “How I might help you.” That would sound as if she were a mere assistant. She intended to be an equal partner in the endeavor.
“Having failed to follow the money – if there was, in fact, any money to follow this night – we must try to learn who is distributing it.”
“As I have suggested all along,” she reminded him.
“There are two handles to the affair, one French, one English. I chose the course of following the money from its arrival in this country.”
“And now, having failed in that course, you are ready to take my counsel,” she said.
“A hit. A palpable hit, “ he conceded. Then added mischievously, “And are we any farther ahead?”
They were both silent a moment, thinking. “We don’t know for a certainty that Kirby is bringing the money in, or that every load of silk contains some money if he is the one responsible,” she said.
“Cocker has reason to think he is.” He mentioned the purchase of land and an interest in a tavern. “Who besides the bank, in the neighborhood, handles enough money to be distributing it?”
