by Stella Riley
‘And it’ll likely get worse pretty quick now it’s started,’ he said gloomily. ‘Even if the rain lets up, the water’s got nowhere else to go.’
As a result of this conversation, Lydia wasn’t as surprised as she might otherwise have been when one of the street boys who earned the odd coin running errands and delivering messages appeared at the door with the news that there was a problem in Duck Lane her head-man thought she ought to see.
‘What problem?’ asked Lydia. ‘It’s Sunday. No one should be working.’
‘Dunno about that, Miss. ’E just said to bring you word – and I brung it.’
She dropped a groat into the outstretched palm and the child took off like a bullet. Turning to Henry, she said, ‘I’d better go. Tell Peter I’ll need him, will you?’
‘Perhaps, Madam, it might be better to have Peter ascertain what this problem is?’ Henry suggested. ‘It’s already dark outside and Colonel Maxwell’s instructions regarding your safety were very explicit.’
‘I know. But Mr Potter has been concerned about the cellar and it’s more than likely he went in this afternoon to check and found it had got worse. The premises are my responsibility, not his – so I’ll have to go.’ She smiled, noting his obvious concern. ‘If I’m not back by supper, send word to the Colonel … but I should be home long before then.’
Outside, the rain had slackened to a light drizzle but the streets were running with water in which floated all kinds of assorted filth. Lydia clutched her hood in one hand and her skirts in the other as she tried to avoid the worst puddles. Nevertheless, by the time she reached Duck Lane her feet and hem were completely sodden.
There were lights inside and the door was unlocked. Pushing it open and realising Peter was even wetter than she was, Lydia said, ‘I’m sorry to drag you out like this. If you’d like to leave me here for an hour and go to get warm in the tavern --’
And that was as far as she got before hands grabbed her and something heavy and evil-smelling was cast over her head. An involuntary scream tore from her throat, only to be abruptly cut off as an arm was clamped about her waist, trapping her inside her cloak and driving the breath from her body. Shocked, blind and disorientated, she felt herself being dragged into the workshop, whilst from somewhere behind her came a rapid series of dull thuds and grunts.
She tried to call Peter’s name but all that came out was a strangled whisper.
Someone spoke, his voice muffled by the thing over her head.
‘Take her cloak, tie her hands and put her there.’
Hands were at her throat, yanking loose the ties of her cloak. Instinct made her twist violently, trying to get free. The fellow holding her merely laughed … and her cloak dropped to the floor, leaving her feeling as vulnerable as if she’d been stripped naked. Fear turned into sheer panic, drying her mouth and sending her heart pounding so hard she thought she was going to faint. She froze into absolute stillness, fighting to breathe and stay conscious. Her arms were hauled behind her back and her wrists swiftly tied with some kind of twine that bit into her flesh. Then someone shoved her down on a stool.
‘Good,’ said the voice. ‘Bring me a lock of her hair. There are shears on that bench. Do not remove the hood.’
The thing over her head pressed against her face as unseen hands fumbled at her hair, randomly pulling out pins until it tumbled down her back. Lydia’s breath came in rapid little gasps. The blindness was beginning to terrify her more than anything else, making her want to scream and go on screaming. She didn’t. She sat, huddled and still as any trapped animal while the scissors sliced through her hair.
All around her was silence. Then the voice spoke again.
‘Take that and go. You know what to do.’
‘Aye. All’s in place, just as you ordered.’
‘Of course. Should anything have been over-looked, I shall be … displeased.’ There was a pause, then, ‘And now, Mistress Neville, you and I will have a little talk.’
Lydia tried to moisten her mouth so she could speak. She said, ‘Who are you? What have you d-done with Peter?’
‘Your guard-dog is still breathing. How long he continues to do so rather depends on you. And so far you’ve been extremely stupid. Did you really expect that farrago of nonsense to deceive me for long?’
‘I d-don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t be tiresome, Mistress Neville. You have already put me to the considerable inconvenience of finding a man capable of de-coding the sheets you sent me … not to mention the time it then took him to decipher enough to reveal their utter uselessness. You would be wise not to try my patience any further.’
‘I didn’t m-mean to try it at all or – or to deceive you.’
‘And yet you have done both.’
‘I don’t know what you want!’ she cried desperately. ‘I’ve searched everywhere a dozen t-times and eventually f-found those sheets hidden inside the cover of an old l-ledger. I thought … they were in code and I couldn’t read them, so I thought they must be what you wanted. If they’re n-not --’
‘They are most definitely not.’
‘Then I don’t have the thing you want!’
‘I am very sure you do.’
‘No! Please – I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for. I’ve been through all Stephen’s papers at home and at the pewtery. The lawyer doesn’t have --’
‘I’m aware of that. I searched his office myself.’
The hood was beginning to stifle her and her face felt wet.
‘If I’d found what you want, you could have it. But I d-don’t!’
The owner of the voice sighed.
‘This is not getting us anywhere, is it?’
‘Because I can’t help you! Why won’t you believe me? Do you think I’d have let it get this far if I could have stopped it?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. We’ll see what happens when Colonel Maxwell arrives.’ A note in the smooth voice conveyed cold and implacable anticipation and a deliberate pause gave time for his words to sink in. ‘He should be here soon.’
* * *
When Quinn’s note arrived, Eden was alone in the house but for Mistress Wilkes and the kitchen-maid. Tobias had an engagement with his latest innamorata and Nicholas was supping in the Lamb and Flag with Troopers Collis and Buxton.
Since there was no superscription, Eden had no warning of what lay ahead. He merely broke the seal, opened up the page and then stopped breathing when a lock of soft, dark brown hair fell on to his lap. Ice invaded his veins and shock made his fingers clumsy as he reached down to pick it up. Forcing his lungs to start functioning again, he read the words.
Come to Duck Lane and come alone. I have watchers posted everywhere. One sign of Militia; one sign that you are being followed by a man who is not mine and the next thing I cut will not be the lady’s hair.
Equal parts of murderous rage and mind-numbing fear darkened Eden’s vision for a moment until he willed them away in order to make his brain function properly. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – risk Lydia. He had to do as Quinn said or at least appear to do so. Was there a way around that? Could he summon help to arrive once he was already in the lorinery? Not if someone was watching the house; and, in any case, who could he send? Alice? Hardly. And if he left the note for either Tobias or Nicholas to find – what then? It was only a little past six o’clock so Nicholas wouldn’t be back for hours and Tobias might not come home at all. Also, what would that achieve other than possibly getting them both killed? Two men couldn’t help him now. He needed a bloody army.
Thinking furiously, he threw on his coat, then took the stairs two at a time to his chamber. No point in taking sword or pistol. They’d disarm him – though perhaps not completely. Where was his damned knife? He found it lying at the back of the closet and slipped it into his boot. What else? A much smaller blade used for sharpening quills lay on the table. He spent precious minutes inserting it into the lining of his jacket beneath his collar, all
the time racking his brains for some other preparation that might help. Five minutes later, unable to think of anything else he could do, he ran back downstairs and out of the house.
Outside the pools of light cast by the lanterns over-hanging doorways, the street was black as sin. Eden didn’t stop to find out if someone was following him. He knew they would be. He tore along Cheapside, swerved into St Martin’s Lane and then raced the length of Duck Lane in the direction of the Holborn Conduit. Then, with the lorinery in front of him, he stopped to gather both his breath and his wits before he shoved the door wide and walked inside.
The first thing he saw was Peter – bound, gagged and barely conscious – lying a couple of yards from where he himself stood. The second thing was Lydia … and the sight of her made his heart stop for a second.
She was sitting on a stool, her hands presumably tied behind her and a thick hessian bag over her bowed head, below which her hair spilled out in wild disorder. No one was near her – though Eden was aware of a number of men standing idle around the edges of the room. She looked small and helpless and alarmingly fragile. Eden couldn’t allow himself to think just how terrified she must be. Instead, he turned to look at Quinn.
‘Well?’ he snapped. And in a tone any of his troopers would have recognised, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Lydia’s head came up and she said, ‘Eden?’ Her voice was little more than a strained whisper. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes. I’m here. Have they hurt you?’
‘No.’
Someone materialised behind Eden, breathing heavily but managing to say, ‘Ran all the way here, he did. Had a … job keeping up.’
‘So I see,’ said Quinn coolly. Then, ‘Hatcher, Repton … check that the Colonel has not been followed and, assuming that he has not, tell the men to remain at their stations for a further hour. Rooster … disarm our guest but don’t hurt him. I want him fully functional for the time being.’ The empty dark gaze encompassed Eden. ‘I hope you have not been stupid enough to disobey my instructions, Colonel.’ A snap of his fingers sent one of his men to stand behind Lydia, toying suggestively with a slender knife. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t wish the lady to suffer for your mistakes.’
Eden made himself remain perfectly still while the big Scotsman checked his pockets and body for firearms. Then, in the hope of retaining his coat and his boots, he said, ‘I’m here and no one will follow me. Now let Mistress Neville go. You don’t need her.’
‘I disagree.’
‘Then for God’s sake, at least get that bloody thing off her head!’
‘In the event that she survives the night – which as yet is by no means certain – that bloody thing on her head, as you so eloquently put it, is there for her own protection.’ An almost imperceptible gesture brought one of his men forward. ‘Tie his hands.’
Eden instantly swung round and slammed his elbow into the fellow’s throat, causing him to double up retching.
‘That was foolish. Rooster … give the Colonel a lesson in manners, then restrain him.’
Without any warning, Rooster smashed one fist into Eden’s face and the other into his stomach. Then, before Eden could recover, his arms were wrenched behind him and held there in a vice-like grip while the other man lashed his wrists together.
Hearing both the blows and Eden’s grunt of pain, Lydia cried, ‘Stop it! I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted but hurting him won’t help!’
‘That is a matter of opinion,’ said Quinn, his tone verging on boredom. ‘Rooster … again.’
Two more blows which, being expected, Eden managed to make marginally less painful.
‘Don’t!’ Lydia stood up but was rammed back down by the unseen hands behind her.
‘There’s an easy way to make this stop, Mistress Neville. Give me what I want.’
‘I can’t!’
‘I remain unconvinced. Again.’
This time the blow landed on Eden’s barely-healed ribs and he had to clamp his teeth together so Lydia wouldn’t know how badly it hurt. Quinn, of course, noticed.
He said wearily, ‘Very heroic, Colonel. Let us see if you can remain silent while Rubens carves patterns on your chest.’
Lydia gave a small, sobbing gasp. Without removing his eyes from Eden, Quinn said, ‘He’s quite the artist, Mistress Neville – hence the name. Perhaps I should give you time to reflect on that. Chaff … put her below.’
The fellow with the knife grinned and hauled Lydia to her feet but the man leaning against the cellar door said, ‘Down there, Mr Quinn? There’s a good foot of water now – and it’s rising.’
‘So? She won’t drown, will she?’ came the careless reply. Then, to Chaff, ‘Once she is inside, you may remove the hood but leave her hands bound.’
Eden didn’t like the sound of that. But then he didn’t like her sitting here, blind and frightened, with a knife-happy killer standing at her shoulder either. He said quickly, ‘It’s all right, Lydia. Stay on the stairs. And don’t worry.’
Most of Quinn’s men sniggered. As always, Quinn’s own expression remained unchanged. He waited until the cellar door was bolted behind Lydia and then said, ‘I am going to enjoy watching my employees hurt you, Colonel. You damned yourself when you tried to cheat me with those forged pages.’
‘What the hell is it with you, Quinn?’ demanded Eden savagely. ‘Are you deaf or so completely bone-headed that you don’t recognise the truth when you hear it?’
An indrawn breath echoed around the workshop.
‘Again?’ asked the Rooster hopefully.
‘Presently. First – while he is still able to speak – I want to hear Colonel Maxwell admit what he did.’
‘Admit what? The pages I gave you were so well-hidden it took Lydia weeks to find them. They were also in Neville’s own hand and in codes he’d devised himself; so, in the absence of anything else, it was reasonable to assume they contained the information you were looking for. It’s hardly the fault of either Lydia or myself that they didn’t.’
‘But you knew they didn’t.’ For the first time, Quinn moved and strolled across the intervening space to look Eden in the eye from no more than two steps away. ‘The gentleman I persuaded to decipher them is a former colleague of yours from the Intelligence Office and he was most informative. He couldn’t identify the hand-writing as yours but he was very definite about your ability to construct those pages.’
This was a blow Eden hadn’t expected and it was a bad one but he shrugged it off.
‘It’s true that, given time, I could have done it. But time was in short supply – which is why I didn’t waste it breaking the codes. Since I’ve no more idea what was on those sheets than I have of what the ones you want contain – how the hell was I supposed to know they were wrong?’ He drew a steadying breath and tried to stop his mind racing. ‘If I had the bloody papers, you could have them with my blessing the second you let Lydia walk safely out of here. But I don’t have them and neither does she. Sooner or later you’re going to have to recognise that you’re asking the impossible. Meanwhile you’re clutching at straws, Quinn – and dangerous straws, at that. If anything happens to Lydia or me, there are plenty of people who will know in which direction to look.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Colonel. It is unproductive.’
‘I wasn’t. I’m giving you good advice. And for what it’s worth, here’s some more. If these papers exist at all – and, personally, I’m beginning to doubt it – there’s only one place they might possibly be. The same place, unless I’m completely mistaken, that you’ve been targeting since this whole mess began. Right here in the lorinery.’
Nothing shifted in the cold, expressionless face.
‘Do you think I haven’t looked?’
‘How the hell would I know what you’ve done? At a guess, you suspected they were here and tried to drive Lydia out of business so that you could take the place apart brick by brick if you had to. But you made the mistake of thinking y
ou were dealing with a meek little widow … and instead you found yourself up against a woman with steel in her spine and a personal crusade. If your thrice-damned papers are anywhere, they’re here. So if you’ve already searched the place, either you missed something or you’re chasing a myth.’ Eden paused and then, both eyes and voice expressing derision, ‘If you still think beating me to a pulp is going to provide what you want, then do it. I can’t stop you. But if I was you I’d be praying that Neville didn’t bury his secrets under the cellar floor.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
THREE
Sick with terror, Lydia sat on the stairs, three steps from the top and strained her ears for any sounds that might tell her what was happening. She heard nothing; just the echo of that spine-chillingly calm voice saying, “Let’s see if you can remain silent while Rubens carves patterns on your chest.”
Horror welled up inside her until she thought she might vomit.
He won’t do it, ran the refrain in her head. It was just a threat – a vile threat to frighten me. He won’t actually do it. Oh God, oh God – please don’t let him do it. And then, This is my fault. If I’d stayed at home, none of this would be happening.
It was a relief to be free of the hood, but the cellar was nearly as dark. The only light came from beneath the door at the top of the stairs behind her. She couldn’t see the water but smell and faint sounds told her it was there. The man had said it was over a foot deep. That meant it must be above the bottom step … maybe nearly at the second one. Since she’d never actually been in the cellar before, she didn’t know how many steps there were and therefore how long it might be before the water reached her feet. Eden had been down here, she recalled. He’d probably know. But Eden wasn’t here now. He was upstairs suffering God knew what.
Don’t think of it. If you let yourself imagine it you’ll go to pieces completely and that isn’t going to help. Think about whether there’s any way to get out of here. There might be one of those trap-doors to the street. Lots of cellars have them for taking in coal and such-like. If there is and if I could find it …
