by M C Beaton
Hannah entered the bedroom quietly half an hour later. Mr Fletcher had recovered consciousness. Lizzie was sitting beside the bed, holding his hand.
‘I would like to ask the pair of you if you plan to wed,’ said Hannah.
Mr Fletcher made a feeble noise of protest, for he still had fears of looking like a fortune hunter, but Lizzie said defiantly, ‘Yes.’
‘I wish you both all happiness,’ said Hannah, ‘but I beg you, Mrs Bisley, to make an announcement of your engagement at dinner. Once Captain Seaton realizes all hope has gone, then he will trouble Mr Fletcher no further.’
‘I will do it,’ said Lizzie firmly. ‘Where is the captain now?’
‘Down below with Lord Harley, still protesting his innocence. Did you notice that great bruise on his chin this morning?’
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘I wonder what happened?’
Hannah was about to say she was sure Lord Harley had punched the captain, but then decided against it. Lizzie was too tender-hearted and might rush to the captain’s side and ruin everything.
‘I think he fell over when he was drunk,’ lied Hannah. ‘Don’t forget to make that announcement at dinner.’
The doctor arrived just after she had left and advised Mr Fletcher to stay in bed, after bandaging his head.
The rest of the party assembled around the dinner-table. Lizzie got to her feet and, in a trembling voice and without looking at Captain Seaton, announced her engagement to Mr Fletcher. No one knew what to say, for it was hard to offer hearty felicitations when the rejected lover was seated at the table. Mrs Bradley pressed Lizzie’s hand and said, ‘Well done, m’dear,’ and everyone else murmured some sort of congratulations, except the captain, who glowered into his wine. It began as a silent meal, for everyone was thinking about Captain Seaton at the same time as they tried to pretend he wasn’t there. The captain was indulging in what appeared to be a massive fit of the sulks. Emily found herself wishing the staff had not turned up, so that they could all be back in the friendlier atmosphere of the kitchen.
But the coachman, Old Tom, could not bear a silence for long. ‘You ladies and gents may think this here storm is a great occurrence, but us coachees is used to disaster and adventure. Yus. Why, I mind when I had a fight on me hands. I’ll tell you how it happened. ’Twas when I was driving the Exeter Defiance, the coach what belonged to Mrs Anne Nelson. That lady owned several of the Flying Machines, but it was me what took the Defiance on the Exeter run. Well, as you know, them toll-keepers is supposed to pay over the tolls they collect every Monday morning. But this here toll-keeper at Ilchester was a gambler, and so he had been using the money to play dice. So the trustees told their clerks to serve notice to the guards o’ the coaches not to pay the toll-keeper any money. Now that there toll-keeper, he was desperate for the money, and so to make sure he got it, he closed the toll-gates afore the coach arrived. As we was coming up to Ilchester toll, Jim Feathers here, he blew on the yard o’ tin, but them gates stayed tight shut. Well, what was we to do? Coach had to get through. So we paid this robber the three shillings. But he was in league with the other toll-keeper further on, so he got a pony and trap and rode ahead o’ us and told that there toll-keeper to bar the gates there.
‘I wasn’t having none o’ that. Enough’s enough. I got me tool-box and climbed down to chisel the bolt off the gate and them two toll-keepers come at me, one o’ them swinging a gurt pike. Jim Feathers here, he come up with the gun and smacks the one wi’ the pike over the head with the butt and I land me bunch o’ fives in the face o’ the other. There ain’t no stopping the Exeter coach.’
‘It is stopped well and truly now,’ pointed out Hannah. The coachman paid her no heed.
‘I never race my cattle,’ he said, ‘but there’s some can’t resist temptation. Now Harry Lyndon was the best coachman in the whole length and breadth o’ Engand and he was on the Portsmouth run and famous for being sure and steady. But one day at the Wheatsheaf at Liphook, disaster fell. He’d been a calm man all his life and was getting on in years, but just as he was changing his horses, two coaches passed him, one, the Hero, and the other, the Regulator, and as they passed him, one coachman cocked a snook at him and the other stuck out his tongue. Now Harry had a fresh team of thoroughbreds hitched up and he was determined to show these cheeky young fellers, as he called them, a thing or two. So he sprung ’em. He passed the Regulator as it was going up Rake Hill. Now he had t’other rival in his sights and he sprung them horses more than ever until a poor soldier on the roof was being thrown up and down like a shuttlecock on a battledore. There was a lady inside the coach screaming like a banshee, but Harry could see nothing but his rival and he drew alongside o’ him at the top of Sheet Hill.
‘Have you ever been to Astley’s Amphitheatre? Ever seen them Roman chariot races? Well, it was like that, said Harry. Down a steep hill they raced, neck and neck. At the bottom of it was a post-chaise, and that terrified post-boy only saved his neck by driving into a ditch. Now Harry, he saw a place on the opposite rise where he could safely pass the Hero. Victory was nearly his. But do you know what that young whippersnapper what was driving the Hero did? He pulled his horses right across the old coachman’s leaders’ heads and they pulled the coach all the way up a bank.
‘Fortunately, no strap or trace or buckle was broken, but Harry couldn’t get nearer the Hero but the back boot all the way to the next stage. But that young coachman lost his job, for three of the Hero’s horses never came out of the stable again. Old Harry, well, he never raced again.’
‘What became of him?’ asked Hannah, her odd eyes shining.
‘Died in harness, you might say. Up on the box, arter having brought his team safely home to London, and he snuffed it, just like that, with the reins in his hands. Had to wrench his hands open, he had such a grip on them reins. That’s how I’d like for to go.’
Conversation became general. Everyone began to talk about how they would like to die. Mrs Bradley said she would like to die in her sleep; Hannah, anywhere at all so long as it was quick; Emily said she would like to be so very old that death could come as a friend; Lord Harley glanced at her in surprise but said he would like to die in the arms of a pretty woman. He had meant to be flirtatious, but Emily, imagining him in the arms of some opera dancer, glared at him. Captain Seaton, who seemed unsnubbable, said he would like to die in battle, and the rest agreed with Emily.
Hannah suggested a game of cards after dinner provided no one gambled. There were protests at that suggestion, but it was at last decided it was better than doing nothing at all, and they moved through to a large round table in the taproom and played cards until the landlord brought in a bowl of punch and suggested they all have a nightcap, ‘courtesy of the house’.
‘And so he should,’ said Captain Seaton, ‘considering we have all been working as his servants without pay.’
‘All except you,’ said Hannah, but the captain was flushed with wine and had forgotten his earlier misery and paid her no heed.
Emily refused the punch. Hannah had made a jug of lemonade, which was all Emily had drunk at dinner and she felt the better for it.
Everyone began to yawn and an early night was proposed.
They all made their way upstairs, with the exception of Lord Harley, who sat clutching his head. He felt very groggy and was sure he had not drunk all that much. He also felt sure he would wake up in the morning feeling like the devil if he did not do something about himself. He went out to the privvy and was very sick indeed. He splashed his face with water from the pump and then made his way upstairs. Mr Fletcher was lying fast asleep.
Lord Harley still felt groggy. He undressed quickly and climbed into bed and was fast asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Emily lay awake reading. She had had to help Miss Pym to bed, a Miss Pym who kept staggering and saying in a thick voice that she would never touch hard liquor again.
The lurid romance continued to hold Emily’s attention until la
te into the night. She put down her book, her heart suddenly hammering hard. There were sinister bump-bump-bump sounds coming from the staircase. Emily slowly sat up in bed. This was what came of reading gothic stories. They made even the most ordinary of household sounds seem sinister. She waited, listening. From downstairs came dragging sounds and then a door opened and closed.
She was just picking up her book again when she heard a sound like wheels coming from the inn yard.
Emily climbed down from the high bed and went to the window, which overlooked the inn yard. She drew back the curtains. She looked down and then stifled a scream.
The yard was flooded with bright moonlight. A man was pushing a handcart, and on the handcart lay a body.
Emily flew to the bed and shook Hannah. ‘Wake up!’ she cried. ‘Oh, please wake up.’ But no matter how hard she shook Hannah, that lady could not be roused.
Scrambling into her clothes and tying the tapes with trembling fingers, Emily wondered what to do. Then she thought that it was all very simple. She would rouse the men.
She ran to the Red Room and hammered on the door. Silence.
She opened the door and went in. The room was in pitch-darkness. She opened the curtains and let the moonlight flood the room and then drew back the hangings on the bed.
Lord Harley was lying there fast asleep, but there was no sign of Mr Fletcher. All at once Emily was sure that the body in that cart had been that of the lawyer and that the figure pushing it had been Captain Seaton.
‘Wake up!’ she shouted at Lord Harley.
To her relief, he did wake up and stared at her dizzily.
‘Get up!’ screamed Emily, jumping up and down in an agony of fear and impatience. ‘The captain has killed Mr Fletcher and has gone to get rid of the body.’
Lord Harley looked at the empty space in the bed beside him. ‘Get the others,’ he said to Emily. ‘I will join you shortly.’
Emily ran to the room Lizzie shared with Mrs Bradley but could rouse neither of the women. She tried the coachman and the guard with the same lack of success. Back she ran to the Red Room, gasping that there was something up with everyone, for she could not get them to move.
‘Drugged,’ said Lord Harley bitterly. ‘We’ve all been drugged. It must have been the punch.’
‘I didn’t have any. Oh, let us go. Perhaps poor Mr Fletcher is not dead but only drugged.’
‘Calmly,’ said Lord Harley. ‘What exactly did you see?’
‘I saw a figure of a man wheeling a handcart through the yard and there was a body lying on the cart.’
Lord Harley pulled on his greatcoat and grabbed a lantern. ‘Then there will be tracks of wheels in the snow.’
‘Wait a bit,’ said Emily. ‘I am coming with you.’
‘No, this is no work for you, young lady. The whole inn cannot be drugged. There must be at least some of the post-boys.’
‘Then I shall come with you until you find help,’ said Emily stubbornly.
But the inn and the stables proved to be like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. The captain had done his work well. ‘They are so heavily drugged, it’s a mercy he did not kill them all,’ said Lord Harley.
‘Should we not check the captain’s room?’ ventured Emily. ‘It may have been someone else.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Lord Harley. ‘Who else could it be?’
They were standing in the inn yard. ‘Go back,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and wait for me.’
‘I am coming with you,’ said Emily, ‘and you cannot stop me. See! The marks of the wheels in the snow are very clear, and I shall not freeze. The weather has changed.’
And indeed there was a light warm breeze blowing and behind them came a soft thud as snow fell from the inn roof.
Emily found to her relief that the no longer frozen snow made it easier to walk. She hurried along, trying her best to keep up with Lord Harley’s long strides. The wheel tracks led them out of town and into the white arctic desert that was Bagshot Heath.
Three miles outside of the town, the tracks disappeared. Lord Harley swore under his breath.
‘There!’ cried Emily. ‘He has gone off the road. The tracks lead across that field.’
Too excited now to worry about possible danger, Emily plunged into the deep snow of the field. ‘It must have been hard going,’ she panted. ‘See where the cart has been pushed against the deep snow.’
‘Wait!’ commanded Lord Harley suddenly. The bright moonlight shone down over the field. ‘I think I see the cart. Get behind me.’
They moved cautiously towards the cart, but when they reached it there was no sign of anyone, dead or alive.
‘He carried Mr Fletcher from here,’ whispered Emily. ‘You can see the tracks in the snow.’
They ploughed on until the shape of a small barn loomed up against the surrounding whiteness. ‘I beg of you, Miss Freemantle,’ said Lord Harley urgently, ‘let me go ahead. If only I had remembered to bring my gun.’
He quietly approached the door of the barn. There was a smaller door let into the great doors, and it was bolted shut. Lord Harley slid the bolts back, opened the door and stepped in, holding up the lantern.
Mr Fletcher was lying on the floor among bales of hay. His wrists and ankles were bound.
Lord Harley set down the lantern on the floor and knelt down beside the lawyer, drew out his penknife and cut the bonds. Trembling, Emily, who had followed him in, came and knelt beside him as he bent his head and put it to Mr Fletcher’s chest. ‘Is he dead?’ she whispered.
‘No, thank God, only drugged like the rest. The wine from the table was sent up to him. Look, there is a portmanteau there. I bet it holds poor Mr Fletcher’s clothes. The captain could then let everyone believe he had quit the inn, so that there would be no search for him.’
‘And he could come and finish him off at his leisure,’ said Emily, as Lord Harley began to chafe the lawyer’s wrists and ankles.
‘I do not think he planned on the warmer weather. All he needed to do was to leave his victim here, or so he thought, for a night in the freezing cold, and exposure would do the rest. Then he would untie him and, with his portmanteau beside him, it would seem as if our lawyer had taken refuge in the barn. It would be assumed that Mrs Bisley had forced the engagement and that he was fleeing from her. It was she, if you remember, who announced the engagement. The captain could simply say that Mr Fletcher had begged him to take the widow back because he could not bear the idea of marriage. I think I should carry Mr Fletcher as far as the cart and then wheel him back to the inn. Then I shall rouse the parish constable.’
‘What puzzles me,’ said Emily, ‘is that the fellow I saw pushing the cart was quite slight in build, whereas Captain Seaton is heavy and gross.’
‘Moonlight can be deceptive. What was that?’
‘What?’
‘Shhhh!’
Emily clutched at Lord Harley and they both froze. A rising wind blew across the snowy fields outside, and far away an owl hooted mournfully.
‘Nothing,’ said Lord Harley. ‘Well, let’s get our lawyer out of here.’
And then the door banged shut.
Emily let out a squeak of fright.
‘Only the wind,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and if you continue to hold me so close, Miss Freemantle, I shall become persuaded that you love me after all.’
Emily disengaged herself quickly. He walked to the door and pushed it.
Nothing happened.
He pushed harder and then heaved at it with his shoulder.
Then he turned and looked at Emily.
‘Someone has locked us in.’
Emily ran to him. ‘Try again. Perhaps the wind did blow it shut.’
He shook his head.
‘The deuce. He must have been hanging about and heard our voices.’
‘Why do you not break the door down?’ asked Emily in a shaky voice.
‘Because it is solid English oak.’ He walked back and picked up the lantern and
looked about.
‘Hurry! Hurry!’ pleaded Emily. ‘He will come back and murder us.’
‘Perhaps not. He will be hoping to make our disappearance look like a runaway as well, or I am not mistaken.’ He looked up at the ceiling. Far above their heads was a skylight.
‘Let me think,’ said Lord Harley, half to himself. ‘If I piled up bales of hay to a certain safe height, climbed up with you, and you then stood on my shoulders, you could get through to the roof, slide down, and open the door.’
‘Oh, I could, could I?’ said Emily, momentarily forgetting her fears. ‘Let me tell you, my lord, I have no desire to go back to London with two broken legs.’
‘The snow is piled around the barn in drifts and is now soft, and in any case, broken legs will mend. Oh, do not turn missish on me now, I beg of you.’
‘I am not missish. But you are expecting me to behave like a man.’
‘I am expecting you to behave like a woman of courage. I’ faith, why did the Fates land me in this pretty mess with you? Miss Pym would not have hesitated for a minute.’
‘A pox on Miss Pym,’ screamed Emily, feeling this comparison was the last straw. ‘Just get me out of here!’
He began to pile up bales of hay, putting a great number at the bottom to form a base. He had stripped off his greatcoat, coat and waistcoat, and was working away steadily in his ruffled cambric shirt, moving athletically and easily.
Slowly the piles of bales rose until he called down, ‘Up with you now. Be careful.’
Emily hauled herself up from one bale to the next, rather like a small kitten climbing a staircase, paws first and legs after, until she was at the top and facing him.
‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘I shall lift you on to my back. Open the latch of the skylight and then climb out. But put your head out first and look around and make sure he is not lurking anywhere about.’
She looked up at him, her eyes seeming enormous. ‘I am afraid,’ she whispered.
He caught her to him and put his arms around her. ‘We are all afraid at some time or the other, but we go ahead. Up with you. First, climb on to my back.’
