Devil's Prize

by Jane Jackson

  She had known better than to offer help. She would get no thanks. Her father was more likely to curse her interference then accuse her of spying on him. Walking quietly along the landing to her own room she had closed her door and, leaning her back against it, listened to their erratic progress up the stairs.

  A thud followed by a series of smaller ones told her one of them had dropped something, probably a bottle or maybe a decanter. It bounced to the bottom but didn’t smash. She would make Treeve mop up the spillage in the morning. Maggie already had more than enough to do and Treeve was responsible for her father’s condition. Yet, as Treeve said when she tackled him about it, if mister ordered him to fetch brandy and threatened dismissal for him and Maggie if he refused, what was he supposed to do?

  Voices, one slurred and querulous, the other trying to placate and being shouted at, had indicated their advance along the landing to the master bedroom on the far side of the stair well. Eventually the door slammed. It would have taken Treeve an hour to undress her father and get him into bed. Though she had searched, all the while fighting guilt at intruding, she had not been able to find any brandy in his room. But that meant nothing. If it were there it would be hidden.

  Preparing for bed, Jenefer had dabbed her wrists with lavender water and closed her eyes while inhaling the fragrance. She recalled her mother claiming it soothed the nerves. But she doubted her mother’s nerves had ever been scraped and battered like this.

  Eventually all her anxieties had blurred into a multi-stranded tangle as exhaustion sucked her down.

  Now, hardly breathing, straining to hear, she wished she knew what time it was. A muffled crash made her gasp and she sat up, her heart pounding. Throwing back the covers, shivering in the chilly air, she reached for the flower-patterned bedgown lying across the bottom of the coverlet and pulled it on over her nightdress, her fingers unsteady as she knotted the sash.

  In the faint glow from the embers of her bedroom fire she fumbled for the saucer-shaped brass holder on her bedside table and lit the candle with a taper.

  As she opened her door she heard Maggie scream. Then a male voice growled an order. It wasn’t Treeve’s voice. Someone had broken in. Who? Why? What did they want?

  Fear and indecision paralysed her. Should she go downstairs? Or go and reassure Betsy? Or try to wake her father? She dismissed that thought immediately. Even if she were able to rouse him he’d still be fuddled and of little help. Where was Treeve? She could hear Maggie shouting and being shouted at in turn. Suddenly Jenefer realised. Maggie was trying to warn her.

  Her father kept a pistol in the desk drawer in his study. Fearing his dark moods and knowing how clumsy and careless he could be when drunk, she had begged him to let her lock it away safely in a cupboard. Offended, furious, he had reminded her that he was a soldier and knew perfectly well how to handle firearms. At the time his refusal had added yet another to her list of anxieties. But now she was grateful for his stubbornness.

  Shielding her candle with a trembling hand she crept quickly down the stairs, her nose wrinkling. The smell of brandy was strong. How much had spilled? It was too dark and the candlelight too weak for her to see.

  If she could just reach the study … She was half way across the hall when her heart leapt into her throat at the imperious summons of Betsy’s bell. She stopped, torn between reaching the pistol that would offer both protection and threat, and the equally desperate need to stop Betsy ringing the bell before the intruder heard it and realised others in the house were awake.

  Too late. Two men appeared at the far end of the hall. Both had pistols. One held a lantern high. The other held a struggling Maggie.

  ‘Run, Miss, run!’ Maggie panted.

  ‘Shut up, you daft besom,’ Maggie’s captor shook her.

  ‘You move one step and I’ll shoot ’e down,’ the man with the lantern warned Jenefer.

  Seeing their filthy, red-stained coats and canvas trousers Jenefer knew at once they were tinners. Their boots were old and scuffed. Each wore a shapeless felt hat and a grubby kerchief that masked the lower half of his face.

  Jenefer swallowed and forced the words. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Gemstones,’ said the one with the lantern.

  ‘Money,’ added his partner.

  Jen darted an involuntary glance towards the stairs as the bell rang again and Betsy’s voice called her name through the closed door.

  ‘That the cripple, is it?’ The man turned to Maggie. ‘Go and shut ’er up.’

  Jerking free, Maggie rubbed her arm. ‘I’m some sorry, Miss. I couldn’t –’

  ‘Never mind that,’ the man snarled, shoving her violently with his pistol barrel. ‘Get up they stairs.’ As Maggie hurried up the staircase, the tinner turned back to Jenefer. ‘Now tell us where your father do keep the stones and be quick about it.’

  The candle was shaking in Jenefer’s grasp. ‘There aren’t any stones.’

  ‘Want me to shoot you?’ The man threatened, raising his pistol. His hand, she saw, was rock steady. ‘Better still, I’ll shoot the cripple and you can watch.’

  Jenefer swallowed again. Her mouth was dust-dry and her lips felt stiff. ‘Do you think I’d risk my sister’s life by lying to you?’ Mortified, her skin hot and damp with perspiration, she told them the truth she had done her best to hide from everyone but her father. A truth he had simply refused to face. ‘There’s no money and no gems.’

  The second man stepped forward and punched her shoulder hard with a clenched fist. ‘Bleddy liar. Your father brought ’em back from India.’

  How did they know? ‘Yes, he did. But they’ve all gone. My father is a venturer. The gems were sold and the money used to buy cargoes of contraband. Thomas Varcoe organised it all. His uncle is a merchant in Roscoff. Mr Varcoe took the last of the gemstones to Truro over two weeks ago.’

  The men exchanged a glance. Then the one with the lantern threatened, ‘If we search the house and find anything –’

  ‘You won’t find anything because there isn’t anything to find.’

  ‘Maybe the cripple knows something you don’t.’

  ‘Stop calling her that!’ Jenefer shouted, her fear swamped by sudden fury. ‘My sister was injured in an accident. She can’t walk. So even if something had been hidden in the house – which it hasn’t – she wouldn’t know anything about it. I can give you food and clothes, but that’s all. There isn’t anything else.’

  ‘Think we’re stupid, do ’e?’ the tinner spat. ‘We been lied to by mine owners, gentry, and politicians. Why should us believe you? Where’s your father’s study?’

  Arguing was pointless. ‘This way.’ If she could just reach her father’s pistol. But she would need to divert their attention. How on earth was she to do that? Raising her candle she opened the door. The smell of brandy was even stronger in here.

  The back door crashed open, making Jenefer jump. Booted feet pounding down the flagged passage.

  ‘Maggie? Wha’d’e think you’re doing of leaving me out there? ’Tis bleddy freezing in that bleddy barn,’ Treeve bellowed.

  Startled, distracted, both tinners turned towards him.

  ‘Stop or I’ll fire,’ one shouted.

  While they had their backs to her, Jenefer seized the moment. Setting the candleholder on the paper-strewn desk her father would not let her touch even though he could never find anything, she wrenched open the drawer. Trembling violently she grabbed the pistol. It felt cold and heavy. She remembered to pull back the hammer but needed to use both thumbs. Holding the pistol with both hands she ran towards the door, gasping with fright as one of the tinners loomed in front of her and swung his lantern high.

  Her finger jerked on the trigger. The noise was deafening. Shocked, she screamed as he stumbled backward and fell sprawling. The lantern flew from his hand and smashed against the bottom stair. Treeve and the other tinner turned.

  ‘Jesus, miss!’ Treeve croaked. ‘You bleddy shot him!’

  Jenef
er dropped the pistol, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean – oh God, is he dead? Have I killed him?’

  The candle from the smashed lantern rolled into spilt brandy that had pooled beneath the bottom stair. A shimmering blue line snaked into the study and up the stairs and erupted in bright white flame.

  ‘Get back!’ the uninjured tinner waved his pistol, motioning Jenefer and Maggie away. ‘You,’ he snarled at Treeve. ‘Open the front door.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t –’ Jenefer cried desperately.

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ As he hooked an arm around his unconscious partner, Jenefer saw a dark red stain spreading down the fallen man’s filthy sleeve. Blood dripped steadily from limp fingers. Please, please let it be just a flesh wound, she prayed.

  Treeve opened the door and the tinner stumbled out bowed under the weight of his burden. Fuelled by the blast of fresh air, hungry flames leapt up the carpeted stairs and billowing smoke began to fill the hall.

  Panic swamped her. Should they try to fight it? No, get Betsy out first. What about her father? Trembling with shock and cold she clasped her arms across her body.

  ‘Treeve, Treeve! Push Betsy’s chair outside then try and wake my father. Maggie, we have to get Betsy.’

  ‘What about the door, miss? Leave’n open, shall I?’

  Jenefer wanted to scream. If she closed it the smoke would soon make it impossible to breathe. But the freezing air was fanning the flames. ‘No, close it. Treeve, when you’ve put Betsy’s chair outside, get water from the kitchen and throw it up the stairs as high as you can reach.’

  ‘We’ll never get up there, miss,’ Maggie turned her panic-stricken gaze from the burning staircase to Jenefer, ‘let alone bring her down.’

  Jenefer could hear Betsy screaming. ‘We’ll use the back stairs. If Treeve can soak the carpet it might stop the fire reaching the landing before we can get Betsy out.’

  The front door slammed. Leaping flames lit the hallway and cast dancing shadows. Thick smoke billowed and coiled upward, burning her eyes and catching in her throat. Coughing, Jenefer held her nightgown and robe tight against her legs as she ran down the hall and through to the kitchen with Maggie panting along close behind her.

  Slamming the door, praying it would hold back the flames, she skirted the big scrubbed table and lifted the latch on the door concealing the narrow wooden staircase that led up to the first floor where Treeve and Maggie had their room. As she hurried along the landing, smoke thickened the air making it hard to breathe. She heard Treeve clattering up behind her.

  Bursting into Betsy’s bedroom, Jenefer saw her sister’s eyes huge with fear in the orange light of the flames.

  ‘Jen? What’s happening? I heard a shot and –’

  Jenefer heard a clank and rattle then the gush of water as Treeve emptied his bucket down the stairs, then the thud of his boots receding. She shut the door. ‘We have to get you outside.’

  ‘But what –?’

  ‘Two tinners broke in but they’ve gone now.’

  ‘But the shot –’

  ‘Later, Betsy, I’ll tell you later.’

  Maggie was already at the closet pulling out clothes. ‘C’mon, my bird, let’s get you dressed quick as we can.’

  As Betsy pushed back the bedclothes, Jenefer reached into the chest for a clean sheet, shook it open and laid it on the floor. Crossing to the chest she pulled the top drawer open, scooped out the folded underwear and tossed it onto the sheet, almost colliding with Maggie as she turned again to the chest.

  ‘Look, miss, us’ll be tripping over each other. I’ll get Miss Betsy ready and the rest of ‘er clothes. Go on, you see to yourself.’

  Reluctant to leave them, Jenefer knew Maggie was right. She hurried to the door. ‘Drop the bundle out of the window. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘Maggie, my needlework.’ Panic drove Betsy’s voice higher. ‘All my silks – there, on the chair.’

  ‘All right, my bird. Calm down now. I’ve put’n in with the rest.’

  Jenefer ran to her own room and emptied the contents of her own closet and chest onto a sheet ripped from her bed. Knotting the corners, she heaved up the lower sash window and pushed the bundle out. Pulling pillow and bedding from the mattress she rolled them up and tossed them out as well, sucking in deep breaths of cold clean air before she closed the window again. At least it wasn’t raining.

  Turning she saw flickering orange light at the bottom of the door. Puffs and tendrils of smoke curled into the room. She didn’t want to go out there. She had no choice. Betsy needed her. Grasping the doorknob, trying to ignore the roar and crackle of the fire beyond, she took a breath and pulled the door open. On the landing the smoke was thicker and the flames had almost reached the top of the stairs. Panic gripped her throat along with the choking smoke and her heartbeat drummed in her ears as she coughed and gasped for breath.

  Keeping close to the wall she stumbled along the landing to Betsy’s room. Her sister was sitting on the edge of her bare mattress.

  ‘Maggie, get your clothes and go outside,’ Jenefer ordered. Don’t try to save anything else.’

  ‘Never mind about me. Let’s get the both of you out first, ‘ Maggie urged. ‘How do’e want ’er?’

  ‘Jen, you can’t carry me. I’m too heavy. Where’s Treeve?’

  ‘Helping your father,’ Maggie said. ‘We’ll get on without’n.’

  Jenefer could only hope she was right. ‘Come on, Betsy, I’ll carry you piggy-back, like when we were little.’ She drew her sister’s arms over her shoulders then bent forward while Maggie boosted Betsy onto her back. Normally she and Maggie worked as a team carrying Betsy from bed to bath or chair. But there wouldn’t be room on the narrow staircase. She could feel her sister trembling and though every muscle protested, she gritted her teeth, determined not to pile guilt onto Betsy’s fear.

  Maggie opened the door and Jenefer staggered as fast as she could along the landing. The smoke was thick and choking. Her eyes streamed and her throat burned. She couldn’t breathe and began to cough. Betsy was coughing and sobbing in her ear. Behind them the fire roared.

  Jenefer took the stairs one at a time, her hands against the wall on each side, her legs trembling uncontrollably. The back door stood open and she stumbled out into the fresh air, her lungs heaving.

  Blessing Treeve for having the foresight to bring Betsy’s chair round, Jenefer twisted so she could drop her sister into it. It was several moments before she could stop coughing. Then she straightened up, pressing both hands to her strained and aching back.

  Above the fire’s roar she heard breaking glass and a loud thud. Still gasping, Betsy grabbed Jenefer’s arm. ‘Father.’

  Whirling round Jenefer stumbled back into the kitchen. Her voice sounded cracked and hoarse as she shouted. ‘Maggie! Treeve?’ Smoke was curling under the door separating the kitchen and hallway. How long before the fire burst through? She had to reach her father. Surely Treeve should have got him out by now?

  She crouched low as she climbed the wooden staircase and tried to keep her breathing shallow. But her chest ached and burned from the smoke. Coughing, blinded by streaming tears, she reached the top of the stairs. In the light of the leaping flames she saw Maggie staggering backwards as she dragged an unconscious figure along the landing.

  ‘Father?’ Jenefer croaked, stumbling forward and falling to her knees.

  Glancing over her shoulder as she coughed, Maggie shook her head. ‘’Tis Treeve, miss.’ Her voice was raw, her face blackened and smeared.

  Jenefer grabbed one of Treeve’s arms and helped Maggie haul him towards the back stairs.

  ‘Coughing fit to burst a lung, ’e was,’ Maggie gasped. ‘Fell and hit his head on that there carved chest by the top of the stairs.’ She broke off, coughing and retching from the smoke. ‘I couldn’t leave’n there.’ She sobbed for breath. ‘If we can get’n outside, the fresh air might bring’n round then he can go for help.’

  ‘My fathe
r –’

  Maggie shook her head as another spasm of coughing shook her. ‘Dunno, miss. Didn’t see’n.’

  Jenefer helped her drag Treeve down the stairs and out into the back yard.

  ‘Jen!’ Betsy cried. ‘Are you all right?’

  Jenefer bent forward her hands on her knees as she gasped for air. Her head was spinning. But Betsy was safe. She could hear her sister’s voice. But it was muffled by her pounding heartbeat

  ‘I was so afraid. Where’s Father? Oh God, he’s not still in there?’

  Jenefer forced herself upright and turned towards the door. How was she to get him out? He was taller and far heavier than her. She couldn’t just leave him there to die.

  Her arm was grabbed and she was pulled backwards. ‘You can’t do nothing.’ Maggie croaked.

  ‘Treeve can help me,’ Jenefer struggled but Maggie’s grip tightened.

  ‘Heaving his guts up, he is,’ Maggie rasped. ‘You go back in there and you won’t never come out.’ She choked on another racking cough. ‘Miss Betsy needs you now.’

  Jenefer looked at Betsy huddled in her wheeled chair, her stricken face orange in the flickering light. Above them a window shattered and flames leapt out.

  ‘Father!’ Betsy howled.

  Jenefer’s hands flew to her mouth in uncomprehending horror.

  ‘There idn nothing you can do, my bird,’ Maggie said quietly. ‘’Tis all up with him.’

  How had the fire spread so fast? Jenefer shook her head, refusing to accept the immediate, obvious answer. No, surely he wouldn’t have, not in the house. But what else would have caused the fire to spread so quickly and burn with such ferocity? He had risked their good name, the shame of a court appearance, possibly imprisonment, or worse. She didn’t want to believe it. In any case it was no longer relevant. If contraband had been hidden, it had burned in the blaze. The doctor had warned that brandy would kill her father, and so it had.

  She glanced across at her sister. After their mother’s death, while Betsy was so desperately ill, she had bargained with God. Let Betsy live and I’ll take care of her. But with what? There was nothing left. The fire had consumed everything except a few clothes and Betsy’s wheeled chair.