The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

  “You are out of order, sir!” the magistrate bellowed, vaulting from his chair. “What is the meaning of this charade? Unmask at once! Reveal yourself!”

  Simon doffed his tricorn hat, removed his mask and bowed from the waist, triggering a collective gasp that rippled through the spectators, prompting another demand for order from the magistrate, punctuated by another furious assault upon the bench with the gavel.

  “L-l-lord Kevernwood?” he spluttered, sinking back into his chair. “Have you gone addled, sir?”

  “No, Your Worship,” Simon replied. “The countess speaks truth.”

  “Of course you would say so,” the magistrate scoffed. “How dare you interrupt these proceedings with your bizarre theatrics? Can you possibly think such a display will work in her favor? Leave this court at once, sir, or I will have you removed!”

  “No, Your Worship, I can prove it!” Simon shouted, as the magistrate nodded to the bailiff.

  “Simon, no!” Jenna shrilled.

  “Silence!” the magistrate commanded, raising his hand. “Your Worship,” Simon continued, “I know that she speaks the truth firsthand, because she did the same to me.”

  “To you, sir?”

  “To me, Your Worship,” Simon parroted. “It is, in fact, the manner in which we met. The man that Biggins shot on the road to St. Enoder was not the Marsh Hawk. Oh, he possessed her father’s pistol right enough, because he was the brigand who caused the baronet’s death, but he wasn’t the Marsh Hawk. He was only a ne’er-do-well by the name of William Hatch, who bears a physical resemblance to me and meant to capitalize on that. You see, I am the Marsh Hawk, my lord—at least I was—and the countess held me up last spring in the same manner as she did Hatch. I bear the wound to prove it.”

  Without further ado, Simon loosened his cape and shirt, exposing his shoulder wound before the flabbergasted magistrate’s wide-flung eyes.

  As a fresh uproar arose, a groan from the dock turned Simon’s head, and he sprang to Jenna’s side as she swayed and sank to the floor out of sight.

  “Jenna, the pistol!” he whispered close in her ear as he crushed her close in his arms. “Where is that deuced pistol?”

  His eyes, lit with feral lights, searched her face. His ragged heartbeat pounded against her, while his trembling hands roamed her body like a starving man groping a platter of food. The heady scent of his tobacco blended with the faintest trace of wine assailed her nostrils, just as it had on the night that seemed a lifetime ago on the old Lamorna Road, and she groaned again.

  “Simon, what have you done?”

  “Your arm . . . are you all right?” he pleaded. “You’re burning with fever.”

  “Whatever possessed you?” she moaned, nodding against him.

  “I’m trying to buy us some time,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “You’ve got to tell me—the pistol, Jenna! We need it if we are to get your case adjourned to Serjeant’s Inn for deliberation.”

  “I-it was in that sack, Simon. I’m certain of it,” she insisted.

  “Take them down!” the magistrate thundered.

  A swarm of bailiffs armed with truncheons descended upon them then, and Jenna felt herself lifted. Others were dragging Simon away. The courtroom was in pandemonium. Milling figures swam before her. Spectators shouted in her face. The gavel banged incessantly. The magistrate had grown hoarse from shouting over the thunderous din. Above it all, the last thing she heard before she lost consciousness was Simon’s thunderous voice demanding that a surgeon be summoned to tend her.

  He hadn’t abandoned her after all. Nothing else mattered, and she succumbed to the blessed release of oblivion.

  “My lord, that display just now was foolhardy at best. Whatever possessed you?” Biggins railed. The Runner had spirited Simon away to his office once the bailiffs released him.

  “It worked, didn’t it?” Simon flashed. “Hah!” he erupted, as if to himself. “They didn’t believe me—they laughed in my face—took me for a desperate husband trying to save his bride, the lack-wits!”

  “I-it’s true, isn’t it?” the Runner breathed, as though a light had gone on in his brain. “It’s all true, just as Marner said. You are the Marsh Hawk!”

  Simon glanced at him. “The Marsh Hawk is dead, you nod-cock. You shot him yourself on the road to St. Enoder, remember? It’s best for all concerned that you let him stay as he lay—unless, of course, you fancy exposing yourself as the inept laughingstock you truly are.”

  “No! I’m right, aren’t I? It’s you! All along it was you.”

  “You and Marner gave me the name. I’m simply playing the game,” Simon growled. “Now where is that bloody pistol? You had best come up with it posthaste. You heard them back there—I have less than a sennight to produce that gun, and even at that there are no guarantees. You were the last one with that bloody sack. Where is that deuced pistol?”

  “A-actually, I wasn’t, my lord,” Biggins confessed.

  “What do you mean, you weren’t?” Simon demanded, crouching over the Runner’s desk.

  “M-Marner was.”

  “Explain! Be quick! I warn you, my patience ebbs low, Big-gins.”

  “That dreadful woman, Lady Jersey, and her shrieking abigail, my lord, she was carping at us—interfering with official Bow Street business. I . . . I had Wilby, Marner’s driver, give me a hand with the countess . . . she was unconscious, you see. He helped me put her in the carriage, and Marner collected the sack—at my direction, o-of course—then we took the countess on to St. Enoder, where we parted company. After I made my report, I hired a carriage, and brought the countess and the spoils here to Town.”

  “The gun, man—the gun!” Simon prompted, out of patience.

  “Th-that’s just it, my lord, there was no gun in the sack. Marner must have taken it.”

  “Marner, eh—or Biggins, perhaps? What was it you said, ‘it was a fine piece’? You stressed that point as I recall. How fine, Biggins? Come, come, you must have examined it quite thoroughly to arrive at such an assessment. Is it fine enough to tempt a Bow Street Runner to let an innocent woman dance the Tyburn jig?”

  “My lord!” Biggins cried, vaulting from the chair behind his desk. “Do you actually believe I’d sacrifice my career for a . . . a pistol, sir?”

  “No, but you might lie to save your career by covering up the theft of one. I strongly suggest that you make a clean breast of it, if such is the case—now, before I discover the truth. Because I will discover the truth, my man, and if my wife dies—”

  “My lord! I conduct the interrogations here,” the Runner interrupted hoarsely. “I think you’d best take your threats to Marner, sir. How dare you stand there and accuse me?”

  “Your association with the jackanapes has earned that for you, and believe me I dare. I have to dare, sir; you give me no choice. Now then, didn’t you say that Marner made mention of a manor house in the Channels—Guernsey, I believe you said?”

  “He did, my lord.”

  “Well, it would do you well to pray that we can intercept him before he sails.”

  “We, my lord?”

  “We,” Simon enunciated. “You didn’t imagine I’d let you out of my sight after this, did you? Besides, you’re working for me now, remember?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Before an hour was over, Simon had collected Phelps and hired a coach and four from the livery. With Biggins in tow, they were speeding along the highway on a course that would take them first to Kevernwood Hall.

  Though he was not allowed to visit Jenna, he’d been assured that she would receive proper medical care. After seeing her in soiled and tattered highwayman’s attire, he’d also managed to persuade the magistrate to allow her a change of clothing, which he would have Phelps collect at the manor and take back to Newgate Gaol.

  The touch of her soft, supple body in his arms, yielding to his embrace, would not leave him, for she’d clung to him until his loins responded even in that dire circumstance.
He was haunted, as ever a mortal could be by a ghost yet living; he had no peace. Would he lose her to the Tyburn Tree? He refused to accept it.

  But for stopping at coaching stations to change horses along the way, the trio drove straight through. Simon never slept, and though Phelps pretended to, he didn’t fool Simon for a moment. It was clear that the valet was keeping a close watch on the entire situation. By the time they’d put the second coaching station behind them, Biggins opted for a spell “up top,” as he put it, to keep the coachman company. Simon was well aware that his own black looks had driven the Runner aloft. He didn’t trust the man; it was that simple. Whether his suspicions were founded or not, remained to be seen. Guilty or no, the Runner certainly looked the part of a man with something to hide, and Simon was committed to making him sweat.

  Biggins had scarcely scrambled up to the top of the coach when Phelps addressed the issue by posing the question Simon had seen in his eyes since they boarded.

  “What do you hope to accomplish by bringing that . . . person along, my lord?” the valet queried.

  “I don’t trust the blighter enough to let him out of my sight,” Simon replied. “He’s safe enough up top. How far could he go that we couldn’t run him to ground in open country? But that’s as far as I’m prepared to go. Either Marner lifted that pistol, thinking to use it in some way as leverage to get to Jenna, or Biggins pinched the deuced thing and wants to cover it up to save his hide. If I cut him loose and he is guilty, he’ll disappear. I can’t take that chance, Phelps. He can go to blazes after I get my hands on that gun—not before.”

  “He will slow us down, my lord.”

  “Not ‘us,’ old boy;me. I’m not stopping at the Hall. I’m just dropping you off so you can have Molly pack a portmanteau for Jenna. You’re to return to London at once with it, and if I don’t get back there in three days, think of some way to stall for time.”

  “Me, my lord?” the valet cried, through a strangled gasp. “What can I possibly do?”

  “You’ll think of something, I have no doubt. You always come through, and we’ve been in tighter spots that this over the years, my friend. It’s just that the stakes haven’t ever been quite so high as they are this time. I’m counting on you, Phelps. Don’t let me down.”

  “You know I’d sooner lose my limbs than fail you, my lord, but that magistrate is a Neanderthal. If my lady couldn’t charm him—”

  “My lady charmed him well enough.”

  “Not without your . . . sacrificial performance. And that’s another thing! What would you have done if they believed you? Hah! Are you even certain that they didn’t?”

  “I’m certain, or I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. I’ve been such a colossal fool! I love her, Phelps. Without her, it doesn’t matter what they believe.”

  The barouche wheels had scarcely stopped rolling in the circular drive at Kevernwood Hall when Evelyn came flying through the portico attached to the conservatory. Her sprigged muslin gown tinted peach in the rays of the setting sun, she raced across the drive, reached inside and flung her arms around Simon’s neck, almost upsetting Phelps as he vacated the coach.

  “Oh, Simon, thank God!” she sobbed. “The doctor said he was going to be fine . . . and now—oh, Simon! He was nearly killed! Lady Hollingsworth has taken a fit of apoplexy. She hardly knows us. Why, the doctor has practically taken up residence. We thought you would never return, and none dared leave to come after you.”

  “Who was nearly killed? Calm yourself and tell me, Evy. What’s happened?”

  “Robert . . . I mean, the vicar . . . he—”

  “What’s happened to Rob?” he demanded, gently shaking her.

  “H-he’s been shot, Simon!” she wailed.

  “Shhh,” he soothed. Catching a glimpse of Biggins’s slack jaw and wide-eyed stare, taking it in with not a little interest, he said in a low-voiced aside to Phelps, “See that our Runner is made comfortable in the study. Instruct one of the footmen to dance attendance until I join him there once I’ve sorted this out. See that the coachman and groom are refreshed in the servants’ quarters while Molly packs my lady’s portmanteau, and then leave for London at once. I’ll handle whatever this is here.” Without waiting for a reply, he led Evelyn ahead, out of the Runner’s range of hearing.

  “Will you please tell me what the deuce you’re talking about?” he snapped, hurrying her up the front steps.

  “I . . . I saw your coach from the conservatory. I didn’t mean to fly at you like that. Please don’t scold me, Simon . . . it’s been dreadful!”

  “Where is Rob now?”

  “In his old chamber. You know, the one he used to use when we had the hunts.”

  “How bad is he?” Simon asked, streaking toward the staircase.

  Evelyn’s stutters bloomed into a helpless spasm of blubbering, and Simon scaled the stairs two at a stride, leaving her behind. On the landing above, Lady Jersey appeared, and he raised his hands and jutted his broad chin out in a desperate plea for an explanation from the woman standing ramrod rigid in his path.

  “The vicar was shot in a duel with Rupert Marner, Simon,” she said levelly.

  “In a—Rob?” he blurted, incredulous. “Was he foxed? Rob is a better shot on his worst day than Marner ever was on his best.”

  “He was back-shot, dear,” she explained.

  “Bloody hell!” Simon seethed, raking his hair with a rough hand. “What was he doing dueling with Marner in the first place?”

  “Saving you the trouble.”

  “Damn and blast!” he said in an undervoice. “Where is Marner now?”

  “Rupert Marner is dead,” she informed him.

  Simon searched the woman’s eyes, which were dark in the shadows of twilight that had fallen over the stairwell, for the servants had not yet illuminated the landing. He nearly lost his footing. A low groan leaked from him, so charged with emotion it caused her to take a step back.

  “What is it?” she murmured.

  Evelyn’s wails had grown louder, and she motioned the girl toward quiet with an impatient hand gesture that did little to quell the din.

  “Rob killed him?” Simon said. His mind couldn’t take it in. It was like a nightmare. Evelyn’s sobs, though shrill, were no more than an echo behind the desperate thoughts tearing around in his brain—thoughts that demanded action from all quarters at once.

  “No,” Lady Jersey replied, her voice edged with caution. “The lieutenant killed him.”

  “Lieutenant? What lieutenant?”

  “A friend of yours, so it seems. Nathaniel Ridgeway, Earl of Stenshire. He’s staying on. He and the doctor are with Vicar Nast now.”

  “Nate Ridgeway . . . here?” Evelyn’s sobs had finally begun to invade his addled brain, and he gestured toward the girl behind. “My lady, please see to her,” he said. “Perhaps one of Mrs. Rees’s herbal teas will help. Once I’ve sorted all this out, I’ll want a word with you before I leave. But now, you must excuse me.”

  Dr. Arborghast was standing over the vicar’s sleigh bed, staring down, when Simon entered the bedchamber. At sight of him, Lieutenant Ridgeway came forward extending his hand. Simon gripped it hard, and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Nate,” he greeted. “What the bloody devil’s going on?”

  “Your friend here got himself back-shot in a duel with a coward on the Promenade at Plymouth,” he replied. “We thought he was out of the woods, but then infection set in, and he can’t seem to shake the fever.”

  “He’s got to shake it.” Simon decreed, uptilting his chin toward the doctor. “Arborghast?”

  “I’m not liking this relapse,” the doctor said. “He was getting on well at first. I’m not liking this at all.”

  “How long has he been delirious?” Simon asked.

  “Since sunup, my lord. Mrs. Rees is preparing another herbal poultice, and a tisane to bring the fever down, but if it doesn’t break soon—”

  “Shouldn’t he go to hospital?” Simon
interrupted.

  “No,” said the doctor, with a quick shake of his head. “I don’t want to take a chance on moving him again as he is. The trip from Plymouth has all but had its way with him. It isn’t necessary. Mrs. Rees is as able a nurse as he’d find at hospital, I promise you.”

  Simon looked in dismay toward the vicar tossing in the bed alongside. Emotion choked him. He could never recall seeing his friend so helpless, nor could he recall himself in so helpless a state—so powerless to make things right for the two people that meant the most to him.

  “I should be lying there in that bed,” he said ruefully. “I should have known he’d do something foolish like this. Who’s minding his church?”

  “The deacons,” the lieutenant said, laying a hand on his arm. “There’s nothing you can do here.” He nodded toward the doctor. “Come away and let the man work.”

  For a moment, Simon looked at him as though he were a stranger. Marner was dead, but where was the pistol? He had to find that pistol.

  “Simon?” the lieutenant prompted.

  “Come with me,” Simon replied, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his hammering thoughts.

  A sitting room adjoined the vicar’s chamber, and Simon had a bottle of brandy and glasses brought there. They drank, while he and Ridgeway exchanged accounts of the events that had brought them together.

  “So you see, I’ve got to find that pistol,” Simon concluded. “We pushed four horses at a gallop, only allowing an hour at each coaching station to get here in less than two days. I’ll need at least that much time to make the return trip, and that’s not allowing for broken springs, sprung wheels, and lame horses—not to mention the weather. I was fortunate coming down, but I don’t dare count upon providence to smile upon me so readily returning; not the way things seem to be stacking up against me. Time is running out. I’ve only got four days left, and one of those will be gone before I settle all this. What sort of weapon did Marner use in that duel?”