It wasn’t much but it would have to do.
He approached the road from the east, his way guided by a large stone obelisk on the ridge where the roads met. It was an ancient monument, said to date to the time of the earliest Christian saints of Cornwall. It stood nine feet tall and was made of grey granite but mottled black in places by centuries of weather.
The north and south faces had been carved with sinuous plaits, from the plinth up toward the top, where the carving spread out around a hole in the stone, making it resemble some kind of ancient needle as much as a cross.
Wilkinson had chosen the rendezvous location well. The windswept ridge provided no obvious ambush points and clear views for miles around.
Nowhere for any of Ridgeway’s men to cover him, either…
A black carriage waited beneath the cross. Adam reined in his horse to a stop a good ten yards away.
A figure emerged from the back of the carriage and approached until he was only five yards away. Adam wheeled his horse about to half-face the direction he’d come from. At the first sign of a threat, he would urge the horse back down toward the valley.
“Hardacre!”
Adam recognized Dunbar’s voice. He didn’t acknowledge the hail. After all, who else would it be at three o’clock in the bloody morning?
“Wilkinson wants to see ye.” The man nodded his head toward the carriage.
“Tell him to come out here.”
The man grunted and started to turn back when the carriage door opened. Major Wilkinson emerged from the coach.
“Do come along, Hardacre. We have business to transact. It’s too bloody cold and late to be arguing about it in the middle of the road.”
Adam ignored Dunbar and, instead, spoke over his head to Wilkinson.
“Nothing doing. The minute I get off my horse, your thug here kills me and steals the plans. I want my safety guaranteed.”
“You have my word as an officer and a gentleman.”
Adam waited a moment, then reluctantly dismounted.
“Tie your horse to the back; we’re going on a journey.”
Adam’s heart beat a little faster. It was risky. He would have no idea where he was going. Worse still, no one else would know either.
“Come now, The Collector is waiting.”
Adam unbuckled the satchel from his saddle and swung it over his shoulder. He led the horse to the back of the carriage and secured its reins to a rail.
“I’ll be takin’ that from ye.” Dunbar lunged toward the satchel. Adam blocked him with a forearm fend.
“The hell you are, you bracket-faced lobcock. This stays with me.”
Wilkinson stepped between them before extending his arm to invite Adam into the carriage. Wilkinson entered behind him and closed the door. They were the only two inside the small brougham. The windows were covered with black velvet curtains. A small carriage lamp was the only source of illumination.
“You showed such a reluctance to being blindfolded last time we met, I thought this would be more suitable,” said Wilkinson.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
The major offered him a faintly amused smile before stretching out his legs. “You might as well make yourself comfortable. We’ll be traveling for a while.”
*
Olivia had woken from her half-doze as Adam gently removed himself from her bed. She’d kept her eyes closed while she listened to the sound of him slipping on his coat. She felt a gentle caress on her cheek before his lips touched where his fingers had been.
Even now, five days later, the tenderness of the act was enough to bring tears to her eyes.
And yet better their parting should be like this; more eloquent than an awkward goodbye.
She drew a deep breath and pulled her distracted attention away from the window that overlooked Lemon Street.
She sat in a small room at Peter Fitzgerald’s office. Before her were journals and bound ledgers, along with various plans. Fitzgerald had been as good as his word. Everything his office held on Kenstec House had been brought to her by his clerk Foskett, who told her with some enthusiasm that he had been instructed to be at her disposal.
She pulled up the short, lilac-colored floral sleeves of her day dress so they sat above her elbows and opened the first ledger. It dated from 1787 and contained a trove of information about the household expenses approved by Squire Denton. He’d been newly married to Mistress Caroline then.
Whatever his sins, it seemed Denton was prepared to spend lavish amounts of money on the comfort of his new bride – the cost was in the hundreds of pounds, and that was without factoring in the cost of building the tower.
To renovate the interior to suit the new mistress’ modern taste, traditional oak paneling which had been there since the time of Elizabeth the First had been taken out of the drawing rooms. The walls were to be refinished with paint or wallpaper. Tudor windows with their myriad diamond-shapes of glass held in place by lead cames were replaced by large-paned sash and case frames each containing a spring balance that made it easy for the slightest built parlor maid to open and close the windows.
The ledger made a reference to house plans. Olivia scanned across the desk at the stacks of paper and bundles of scrolled documents wondering how she could reunite the two.
After a full day scouring through dusty old tomes, she was exhausted. She gave in to the swaying motion of the Truro-to-Ponsnowyth coach and closed her tired eyes a moment.
When she reopened them, the stone entrance pillars of Kenstec House caught her attention ahead. Through the window of the coach, she watched them come closer into the view. She had not returned since that day there with Adam.
At this moment, she felt she was seeing the house now as a stranger to it.
Trees and hedges no long tended by gardeners were beginning to grow wild; vines rose, clinging to the stone pillars like a covetous lover. It wouldn’t be too long before the entrance was overgrown. Whoever bought Kenstec would also need to be prepared to pay even more to restore it back to its splendor.
If she was truly serious about recording the manor’s history, she would sketch some more aspects. But Olivia knew if she went back, it would remind her of Adam. She tried to convince herself this week was no different to other weeks when he was away in Plymouth; he would return soon.
Except it was different, and she knew it.
I was under strict instructions to bring some documents with me. It would be my hide if I lost them.
He’d made light of the scroll she had picked up off the floor, but the more she recalled his words the more ominous they became.
Under strict instructions? From whom? What were those documents? What had Adam gotten himself mixed up in?
Would Harold know?
She grimaced. Adam had told her to tell no one of his business and yet she had done so in the search for information about his son. And now, she entertained the thought of speaking to this friend about…what, exactly?
That she feared Adam had become involved in bad company? Ridiculous, to be sure. But something was wrong. She could feel it in her bones.
The coach to Ponsnowyth pulled up at the inn. It would be a few hours yet before meals were served. She would put away her notebooks before taking a stroll down to the river before supper.
She greeted Jory who was coming down the stairs. On reaching the landing, Olivia looked down the passageway. The door to Adam’s room was wide open.
Her spirits brightened.
He’s back!
She heard the sounds of him moving about and headed for the door.
The man who stood in the middle of the room with his back to her was not Adam.
“Who are you?” she said sharply. “What are you doing in here?”
The stocky man turned swiftly, a snarl on his face softening a little as he eyed her up and down. Clearly, he regarded her as no threat to him.
“This is Adam Hardacre’s room.�
�
“Not any more. He’s movin’ out.”
“Moving out where? Who are you?”
“An old friend what’s come to help him pack.”
“Then why isn’t Adam here?”
“He’s on business. Hardacre asked me to fetch his things and ship them along.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The man did not bother to introduce himself, nor did he take kindly to being questioned.
“Why didn’t Lieutenant Bickmore come?”
The man grunted and ignored her, instead rummaging through the wardrobe and dropping clothes into a small trunk. She looked on in increasing fury.
“I demand that you stop now and explain yourself. Right now! I’m calling for the innkeeper.”
She shouted Jory’s name. Heavily booted feet took the stairs two at a time. Jory came at a clip down the corridor toward her.
“I caught this thief in Adam’s room!”
The man inside the room slammed the lid of the trunk violently, his face dark.
“Tell yer guest here not to make unwarranted accusations.”
Jory laid a hand on her shoulder.
“He’s all right, Miss Olivia. He came with a letter from Adam this mornin’.”
Olivia was aware of her shocked expression and she forced herself to calm down.
“This here is Dunbar,” Jory continued. “He’s a servant of Adam’s new employer. He’s all right. I’ve seen him around here a few times. Hails from Falmouth, don’t ye.”
“There or thereabouts.” Dunbar grunted his agreement.
“I…suppose…I mean if you’re vouching for him, Jory.”
The innkeeper gave her a sympathetic smile. “Come on down to the parlor and have a cup of tea with me and Polly. Ye can read the letter for yerself.”
Dunbar barely concealed his look of triumph. He reached for Constance’s cube writing box.
No! He can’t take that!
At that moment, Olivia couldn’t say which “he” she meant – Dunbar or Adam.
Olivia surged forward. “Stop! That belongs to me.”
“Then what’s it doin’ in Hardacre’s room?” Dunbar’s disbelief dripped like acid. “Show us yer letters in it.” He arrogantly went to open it. It was locked.
She thought swiftly and lied. “I lost the key. Mr. Hardacre offered to try to open it for me.”
Dunbar glanced sideways to Jory who now stood at her shoulder.
“It does belong to Miss Collins. It be a gift from her late employer. My wife was there when it was given to her.”
Olivia took possession of the box, cradling it to her chest.
“Well then,” said Dunbar. “Since that appears to be all, I’ll be takin’ my leave.”
He bent down and snapped the catches on the trunk before hauling it up onto his shoulder.
“I’ll pass on yer regards, shall I?” he sneered before shouldering past between her and Jory.
Olivia swallowed, her chest felt tight. Her breath came in shallow pants.
“Oh Jory, I can’t believe Adam would just leave like that,” she said hoarsely. “He wouldn’t. Not without saying farewell in person.”
“He’s done it before,” said the innkeeper. He went to the door and looked down the hall, where he gave a sour look to Dunbar’s retreating back and then looked back to her. “When he were a lad, he disappeared for a few days. Then a letter arrived sayin’ he’d joined the Navy. Broke his father’s heart, it did.”
“But that was different. Adam was pressed against his will by Squire Denton. You know that. And he was a boy then.”
“And now he’s a man of the sea.” Jory replied. “Twenty years of his life and he didn’t come home but twice in all that time.”
Jory shook his head as though that were the end of the matter and left the room.
Olivia listened to his familiar footsteps return downstairs. She closed her eyes and rested a cheek on the cool wood. If Adam wanted his writing box, he’d have to come and get it himself.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As far as cells went, it was rather comfortable.
Adam even had a bed, a chair, and a wooden table with a washbowl and ewer at his disposal. A chamber pot sat on a shelf under the table.
It appeared to be a servant’s room built into the building’s rafters. The sharply-angled ceiling forced him to remain largely in the center of the room under the ridge beam when standing, lest he bang his head.
A number of small dormer windows, no more than two feet square, spilled light across the floor. If Adam lay on the floor beside them, he had a good view to the southeast where, in the mornings, he could see the shimmering glint of water – whether it was the sea or the mouths of one of the rivers, he couldn’t tell.
Four of the windows had opening panels, a small-hinged window that occupied half of the aperture – enough to let air in, but not enough to squeeze through and escape. The only means of entry and exit from the room was through the tall narrow door at the end wall. It was locked.
Of course, it was.
He hoped the routine was the same today as it had been for the past three days. Sometime after the long case clock chimed the seventh hour, one of Wilkinson’s men would unlock the door and escort him down for breakfast.
Surprisingly, they’d even let him keep a knife. However, he was accompanied everywhere he went in the house. Whenever he ventured out into the grounds, he was accompanied by three, all wearing pistols. He was not exactly a prisoner, but not a trusted guest either.
If he put his ear to the floor, he could hear the sounds of activity below. Again, if his “hosts” were predictable in their habits, the time would be about six o’clock. Someone would reactivate the chimes on the clock and the first sounds he would hear would be the strike of the quarter-hour.
Adam decided to occupy himself this morning with push-ups, which he would do until he heard the key inserted into the lock.
The satchel with the plans and other papers had been confiscated immediately and yet he hadn’t been interrogated right away. For two days, he had lived on the edge of fear that they’d seen through Bassett’s forgery and the next man who approached him would be his executioner. For those first two days, he’d spoken to no one. Not even Wilkinson.
Then the interrogations began. The Artemis warship plans were spread across Wilkinson’s desk and pored over from stem to stern, inch by inch, line by line. Questions were asked of everything. Adam answered what he might reasonably know, replied “Dunno” to others.
The morning sun filled the room with heat and light but there was little breeze to compensate. Adam increased the pace of his push-ups, puffing out air like a pump, raising sweat across his bare back and head, dripping from the week-long beard on his face.
Yesterday he decided to push back. He’d been wearing the same clothes for five days and refused to cooperate further until someone was sent for his things.
Sure enough, at seven o’clock, the door to his room was unlocked. Adam got to his feet and waited. Dunbar opened the door and shoved a small trunk along the floor with his foot.
Wilkinson entered the room behind Dunbar.
“There ye are, Hardacre, yer own clothes, as promised.”
Still keeping his eye on the two men, Adam squatted down and unlatched the trunk. There were his clothes, wrinkled where Dunbar, no doubt, had just tossed them in. He felt around and came across his leather shaving pouch, a small tortoiseshell box containing soap, and his comb.
“Nothin’ missin’, then?”
Yes. The writing box. He ignored Dunbar’s sarcasm and rose to his feet.
“No,” he answered, “that’s everything.”
Another man bustled past with a bucket, curls of steam rising from the hot water. He filled the ewer and left.
“Make yourself presentable,” said Wilkinson. “We’ll be back at the half-hour. After breakfast, I want to talk to you further about the gunning placements.”
Adam kept hims
elf at attention until the door was closed and locked before letting out a long sigh.
While the water cooled, he folded his clothes neatly, then retrieved his soap and shaving kit to begin making himself presentable.
For Dunbar to go to Ponsnowyth and back in a day meant they was no more than thirty miles away from Four Cross. That meant he was still relatively close to Truro and Falmouth – close enough, if possible, to get word to Ridgeway as soon as he had anything worth reporting.
Then there was the missing writing box. He paused a moment and put the straight razor down.
Had they held it back? He’d know soon enough if they had. Or…
Apart from himself, the only person in the world who cared about that damned box was Olivia. Was she there when Dunbar collected his clothes? Had she somehow claimed the box?
If that was the case, he hoped to God that Wilkinson and his crew didn’t suddenly get it into their heads that there was something of interest in it and return for it.
Damn.
Should he have confided in Olivia more? No, he dared not; revealing as much as he had to Harold was dangerous enough. All he could hope for was that if Olivia had the box and uncovered the code book, she would be sensible enough to deliver it into Harold’s hands.
Adam picked up the razor and continued shaving.
Olivia. He recalled the feel of her lips on his, the full, soft weight of her breasts in his hands.
Stop.
Adam gritted his teeth. It was over. There was no choice, it had to be over. His enterprise was too dangerous. One misstep even now and he could find himself with his throat slit or a pistol ball in his brain. And, in a couple of months, Olivia would formally accept Peter Fitzgerald’s proposal of marriage.
Hell and damnation!
Adam hissed against the sting of a cut and threw the razor into the bowl in anger. He picked up a towel, touched it to his neck, and glanced at it. It spotted red. He pressed the towel against the nick for a minute until he was certain the bleeding had stopped.
No.
There was no way he would let Olivia marry that grey old fool, not if he had anything to do with it.
Live And Let Spy Page 21
