‘You must not take me for a fool, my dear.’ His expression was almost kindly. ‘You have been careless, Mistress Firle, and that I cannot tolerate. Your servant might have killed me.’
‘She was sick. I told you of it yesterday. That was why we sent for Dr Hill. Then she disappeared. Believe me, we have tried to find her.’
‘Apparently, with singular lack of success,’ he drawled. ‘Well, it is no matter, since the girl is dead…’
‘There was no need to kill her,’ Sophie whispered. ‘You might have shot her in the arm—’
She heard a low laugh. ‘Dear me! What a sentimentalist you are! Alas, it is as I feared! You have no stomach for this business.’
‘At least I can use my head!’ she cried. ‘What have you gained by this…this murder?’
‘Only a certain degree of satisfaction. I had not allowed for this unfortunate incident. Now it must change our plans, which does not please me.’
‘I don’t see why it need change anything,’ she told him in despair.
‘Don’t you, Mistress Firle? You surprise me, since you have claimed to be able to use your head.’
Sophie looked at him. He was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes. They were as hard as sea-washed pebbles.
‘Perhaps I should explain, since you seem unable to understand me. I no longer trust you, madam. Are you about to assure me that you will overlook this unfortunate occurrence? That you will find some reason for the disappearance of your servant? That our partnership will continue in an amicable fashion? I think not, my dear. I can see it in your face.’
‘Won’t you give me time to think about it? It has been a shock to me…’ Sophie was playing for time, but even as she spoke she knew that her pleas were useless.
‘Don’t waste your breath!’ Harward turned away. ‘We cannot use this place again. Now you will go back with us. I suspect that we may have need of you. Every instinct tells me that here is something havey-cavey about this business.’
Sophie was close to breaking point. She caught at Harward’s sleeve. ‘I won’t!’ she shrieked. ‘You shall not take me from my son.’
For answer he signalled to the nearest man, and Sophie shrank away. She knew the creature by the ugly weal which disfigured the left side of his face. This was the man who had attacked her and received a beating for his pains.
Sophie screamed aloud. Then a fist connected with the point of her jaw and she fell into darkness.
When she came round it was to find herself beneath a pile of packages. Her head was pounding, and her jaw was so painful that she thought it must be broken.
So much for Hatton’s assurances, she thought bitterly. Surely he’d heard the shot which had killed Nancy? The sound must have carried clearly in the still night air. Then she recalled that the tunnel was deep underground. The earth must have muffled the gunfire.
But he and his men were keeping watch. He’d told her so himself. Perhaps they hadn’t been close enough to see her being carried to this cart. One bundle would look much like another.
She shifted her position slightly in an effort to ease her aching limbs. Then she realised that her hands and feet had been securely bound. Harward was taking no chances. If she escaped, he must know that it would be all up with him.
She groaned as the cart rumbled over a patch of stony ground. Before their journey was over the violent shocks were likely to break every bone in her body. It could not matter now, she thought in despair. She was being taken to her death. Harward would never let her go, knowing that her testimony could convict him of murder.
The tears rolled down her cheeks as she thought of Kit. The child would have no one now.
‘Hush up!’ a gruff voice mumbled. ‘I don’t want to be told to knock you out again…’
‘Why not, you pig?’ She recognised the voice at once as that of the man with the scar across his face.
‘I could have hit you harder, ma’am. And ’twas me as wrapped you in the blanket and settled you on these soft bundles.’
‘Am I supposed to be grateful to you?’
‘You might well be. I left your brooch in the cellar, so’s they’d know as we’d taken you.’
Sophie was silent. She was thinking hard. The man sounded almost apologetic, but she didn’t allow herself to hope. He was an unlikely ally.
‘Why did you do that?’ she asked at last.
‘I owes you one. Yon Mester Harward would have blinded me, if you hadn’t stopped him.’
‘Will you release me?’ she whispered.
‘No, ma’am, I can’t do that. He’d kill me for sure.’
‘Then will you loosen my bonds? They are much too tight.’
‘Aye! Give us your hands!’ He hugged at the ropes which bound her.
Sophie repressed a cry of pain as her circulation was restored. ‘And my feet?’
Again he loosened her bonds. ‘Don’t let on if he comes back,’ he warned. ‘There’s many another as will be glad to take my place in the cart and you know what that could mean.’
Sophie shuddered. Harward might consider that rape was no more than suitable repayment for her failure at the inn.
Now she resolved to try to make a friend of her companion.
‘Why do you stay with him?’ she asked. ‘You know that you risk imprisonment and transportation, and even, in the worst case, death?’
‘Ain’t got no choice, ma’am. There’s no work for such as we. The fishing’s gone, and mining too. My bairns had empty bellies…’
‘You do this for your children?’ Sophie warmed towards the man.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He seemed to be struggling for words. ‘That night…when I came at you…well, I’m sorry for it. I’d taken too much drink.’
‘You have already made amends,’ she told him. ‘Do you know where we are going?’
‘Lunnon, Mistress Firle. But I don’t know where…I ain’t been this way afore.’
‘So this is your first run…your first attempt at smuggling goods?’
‘Aye, and it’s like to be my last. I hadn’t reckoned on murder.’
‘Poor Nancy!’ Sophie’s voice broke on a sob. ‘It was a wicked thing to do.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Her companion did not argue.
‘What is your name?’ she asked.
‘It’s Walter, Mistress Firle, but they call me Wat.’
‘Well then, Wat, how long will it be before we reach the city?’
‘They wuz reckonin’ on many hours, with maybe a stop or two along the way.’
‘Will you stay by me?’ Sophie was clutching at straws. Wat was her only hope of rescue.
‘If I can. You’d best get some sleep.’ It was clear that the conversation was at an end.
Sophie didn’t argue further. The man had taken a fearful chance in leaving her brooch behind, and also in loosening her bonds, in spite of his fear of Harward. She must not antagonise him. Wat had given her one small glimmer of hope. Later she would speak to him again.
She burrowed deeper among the oiled silk bags. It was bitterly cold and the rising wind was merciless. It sought out every crack in the wooden sides of the wagon, but at least the packages gave her some protection.
Her head still ached, and her jaw was tender, but at least the shaking which had rocked the whole of her body had stopped. She tried to take deep breaths, willing herself to be calm.
As long as Harward thought she might be useful to him, she was in no immediate danger, but if Nicholas tried to rush the wagons in a bid to rescue her, Harward would despatch her out of hand. She was too dangerous a witness to be left alive to send him to the gallows.
She wondered if Nancy’s body had been found. The pool of blood at the entrance to the tunnel was clear evidence that someone had been killed or injured.
Now she prayed that in his agony of mind her lover would do nothing foolish. She’d had no time to count the numbers of men within the cellar, but they could not be less than fifty. Others had awaited them outside,
loading the wagons and holding the heads of the ponies.
With every mile that passed, others came to join them. She’d heard the whispered greetings and she marvelled at their disregard of danger. A band as large as this could not pass through the Sussex countryside unnoticed, even at night. Perhaps their strength was such that no one dared attack them.
She tried to comfort herself with the thought that Nicholas too was expecting reinforcements, but not until they reached the outskirts of the capital. That might be too late for her, especially if he lost their trail.
She didn’t know London well, and she had no wish to know it better. On her rare visits she’d been appalled by the stench of refuse mixed with the horse droppings which littered the streets. She and her mother had carried pomanders, but even at the time she’d wondered if those small bags of aromatic herbs were of much use as a guard against infection.
Then there was the noise. How her ears had rung with the clanging bells of the muffin-men and the pie-sellers and the shouts of the beggars who pressed in upon their carriage.
She tried to remember if they’d passed through Southwark. She knew that it was south of the river and that it was an insalubrious area. Her mother had pulled down the leather curtains to shield her from the gaze of the blowsy strumpets who called from every window. It had seemed to Sophie to be a warren of narrow streets and alleyways.
Here, she guessed, the band of smugglers might break up, making their way to their destination in small groups, so as not to attract attention. Other than the Bow Street Runners, there was no organised force of men to halt them, but the authorities in the city could call upon the Militia or the Dragoons. Harward would know this well enough, and he would take no chances.
Then a thought occurred to her. Suppose her enemy had decided to use decoys? Some of the wagons might not carry contraband. How would Nicholas know which ones to follow?
If only she could think of a way to help him. Careful to make no sound, she began to tear at the lace upon her petticoat. She might be able to thrust a part of it through one of the gaps in the sides of the wagon. It would flutter in the wind.
She had got no further with this plan when the vehicles drew to a halt. Then she heard Harward’s voice. He was speaking to one of his companions.
‘I’d best check on her,’ he announced. ‘If I’m not mistaken, our little Mistress Firle has a quick mind. She may be plotting mischief at this moment.’
‘What can she do?’ a deep voice growled. ‘She’s bound tight, but if you like I’ll take Wat’s place to keep an eye on her.’
Sophie heard a low laugh of amusement. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Harward said. ‘I chose my man with care. Wat, above anyone, has no love for her.’
‘Don’t stir!’ the man beside her warned. ‘Pretend to be asleep.’
Sophie was happy to obey him. She froze as the covering of the wagon was drawn back, and a light illuminated the interior.
Harward studied her prone figure for what seemed an eternity.
‘You must have hit her harder than I thought,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Well done, Wat! Don’t take any chances with her. She caused you a severe beating.’
The covering was drawn back, and Sophie was plunged into darkness once more.
‘Aye!’ the man beside her muttered beneath his breath. ‘But she ain’t the one who gave me a scar I’ll carry till I die.’
Sophie waited until the wagons began to roll once more. Then she spoke to her companion. ‘Thank you!’ she said quietly.
His only reply was a grunt.
‘How many children do you have, Wat?’ she asked. ‘Won’t you tell me their names?’
‘What do you want to know for?’ He sounded surly, but she guessed correctly that any encounter with Harward terrified him.
‘I thought it would pass the time if we spoke of them. I have a young son of my own.’
‘I seen ’im,’ he offered. ‘Bright little lad he is, an’ all. You should never ’ave taken up wi’ Mester Harward, ma’am. Didn’t you know the danger?’
‘I had no choice,’ she told him. ‘He isn’t the easiest person to refuse.’
‘That’s true!’ he said with feeling. ‘Well, what’s done is done. There’s no use crying over spilt milk.’
‘You were going to tell me about your children.’
The man’s voice softened. ‘There’s Em’ly, and my little Amy. My lad is the youngest. ’E’s just a babe.’
Sophie couldn’t hide her dismay. ‘Oh, Wat, you asked why I had put myself in danger. What of you?’
‘I told you, ma’am. Did you ever ’ear your child crying wi’ ’unger? I couldn’t stand it no more…’
‘But, Wat, suppose that you were taken? What would happen to them then?’
‘They’d starve!’ came the grim reply. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be taken…’
A silence fell between them.
Then, greatly daring, Sophie spoke again. ‘There may be another way,’ she said cautiously. ‘If you were to help me, I could speak out for you. I have powerful friends.’
‘They wouldn’t be no use to a dead man. I can’t do it, ma’am. You wouldn’t get six paces afore ’e shot you down, an’ me as well.’
‘He’s going to kill me, anyway. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ he muttered. ‘You be useful to ’im, Mistress Firle.’
‘For how long?’
When he did not reply, she turned away and closed her eyes. Now that it seemed that her last hope was gone, she tried to help herself. She tore at the lace again, and the stitches gave at last, leaving a length of the fabric in her hand. Now she was in a quandary. Did she dare to use it?
Men were trudging along beside the wagon. She could hear their muttered conversation. A single glimpse of her signal would be enough to bring Harward back. He was on edge already. She’d heard it in his voice, beneath the smooth attempt at a confident tone. He’d realise at once that someone must be following. For all she knew he might halt to arrange an ambush. Either way, it would be the end for both herself and Wat.
She must think of something, but her brain refused to function. All she could see in her mind’s eye was the image of Nicholas, with Kit upon his knee, laughing and secure in their mutual affection.
What a fool she’d been. Nicholas loved her truly. In her heart she’d known it all along. Why, then, had she sent him away with some trumped-up charge of an insult to her character? She knew the answer. It was cowardice. After her experience with Richard, she’d been unwilling to trust any man. Her heart had pulled her one way, and her head another.
A sob escaped her lips. She’d seized upon the first excuse to avoid another commitment. Now her darling would never know the depth of her regret. She’d left him without a word of love, and it was too late now to make amends.
‘Now, ma’am, don’t ’ee take on.’ Wat’s tone was kindly. ‘I ain’t said that I won’t ’elp ’ee, if I can see my way to it.’
‘You’ve just told me that I can’t escape,’ she told him in despair.
‘Not ’ere, ma’am, and not at this particular minute, but there’s a ways to go. They’ll be that busy when we reaches Lunnon… Maybe we’ll see a chance…’
Sophie reached out for his hand. ‘I won’t forget your kindness, whatever happens, Wat.’
‘T’weren’t nothing, ma’am. As I told you, I don’t ’old wi’ murder.’
The next few hours seemed endless, but as they reached the outskirts of the capital the roads were better. Soon they were rattling over cobblestones, and Sophie knew that they must be near their destination.
‘Now don’t you go a-doin’ nothin’ stupid,’ her companion warned. ‘Leave it to me to take a look about.’
Sophie was aware that they had slowed down almost to a crawl, and there was something else. The wind had died away and the noise from the street seemed to be curiously muffled.
She raised herself a little and tried to move h
er limbs. Stiff from many hours of lying bound in the bottom of the wagon, she could scarcely move. How long had their journey taken? Surely it must be daylight?
‘Where are we?’ she whispered. ‘Can you see anything?’
Her companion seemed to be enveloped in a haze of yellow mist. Now he loosened the covering at the rear of the wagon and peered out. She heard a muttered exclamation.
‘Danged if I can see a thing. In this fog you couldn’t find your hand in front of your face.’
Hope flared high in Sophie’s breast. ‘This may be our chance,’ she urged. ‘Come with me, Wat! We could slip away without being seen. I’ll make sure that you don’t suffer for your part in this.’
‘Where would we go, ma’am? I ain’t been ’ere afore, but I ’eard tell that the streets ain’t safe, especially in these fogs. We’d be knocked on the ’ead and robbed for sure.’
Sophie coughed as the acrid vapour caught at her throat. Her eyes were streaming, and she found it difficult to breathe, but still she tried to persuade him.
‘That may be better than what may lie ahead of us. Harward cannot allow me to live. You know that as well as I do myself, but won’t you think of what may happen to you?’
Wat didn’t answer her.
‘Suppose the Runners are waiting for you?’ she continued. ‘There’s always the danger of a trap.’
‘Mester Harward will see ’em off. There’s too many of us for they Redbreasts.’
‘But not too many to fight off a company of Militia, or a troop of Dragoons. Do you want to sit in the dock at Newgate, with your coffin in front of you, listening to a person preaching a last sermon, before they take you out and hang you?’
She heard a sharp intake of breath, but Wat had hesitated just too long. Fog billowed into the wagon as Harward raised the covering at the back.
‘Awake, my dear?’ he enquired. ‘I thought I heard you coughing. This fog is so unpleasant, is it not, but it is quite a feature of the London scene. I confess that I enjoy my trips into the country.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ she told him bitterly. ‘They must show a handsome profit.’
Meg Alexander Page 22
