by P. N. Elrod
Though plenty of candles lighted the place, recognition came slowly to him. The last time he’d seen me I’d been in roughly the same plight he was in now: injured and with other people deciding his fate. A change of clothing and posture made a significant difference in my appearance.
“ ’Oo’re you?” he asked with only a ghost of belligerence. There wasn’t sufficient force in his voice for it to be a demand.
I studied him long, then said, “Jonathan Barrett. The man you kidnapped and tried to kill.”
The color draining from his face made the bruises seem that much worse. His one good eye grew wide and his jaw sagged and the breath fled from him as though I’d struck him hard in the belly.
“I—I didn’t ever want t’ ’urt you, mister—” he began.
“Never mind that. I’m not interested. All I want is for you to listen to me.”
“Listen?”
I leaned closer. “Yes . . . listen . . . .” I went on, speaking steadily, calming him, putting him in a state that would make him eager to answer any question, even if the reply sent him more swiftly to the gallows.
His expression went slack, a disturbing vacuity, as though I’d stolen his soul, leaving behind a living but empty vessel of a body.
Ignore it, I thought. “Now—you’re going to tell me about your friends, Ash, Tully, Able, Seth, and Drummond.”
“Tell you . . . .”
Now that I had him in so helpless a state, it was hard to keep my emotions in check. I sensed that if I allowed myself to let loose of a single shard of my anger, the result for Knox would be distressing indeed. I did not wish to have a Tony Warburton of my own.
“Everything,” I said, putting all my concentration into it until my head hurt and I had to ease off.
“Wha . . . ?”
He’d need guidance. I couldn’t expect to get useful information from him unless I came up with specific questions. Well, I had no end of those; which one first?
Before I could draw breath for it I was interrupted by the abrupt sound of glass breaking. My gaze shot to the small window behind Knox. One of the panes was gone; bits of it lay on the floor. The crash made me jump and after that I froze, staring. Nothing happened for what seemed like a long time, but could only have been a second at most. I started to move, though I had no idea exactly what to do. Go to the window and look out, perhaps. I was too startled to call to the soldiers outside. There was no time, anyway. The brief second passed and then came the hard, harsh bang of pistol fire.
Knox instantly slumped forward.
I must have yelled. The door burst open and men crowded in, but it was over. They found me with my back pressed against the wall, as though trying to melt right through it. They wouldn’t have been far wrong, either. My first instinct was to vanish. Had there been a second pistol aimed at me I’d have certainly done so.
Knox sprawled across the table with a terrible wound on one side of his skull and his brains and blood spilling from a much larger hole on the other. Questions were shouted at me. All I could do was point at the window and one bright lad finally got the idea and bellowed something to Nash. Much noisy confusion followed as some went to peer through the opening and others left to run outside.
The bloodsmell was everywhere, choking me as it filled the room like invisible smoke. One image impressed itself upon my over-taxed brain: the stream of blood flowing across the table and falling over its edge to the floor. I clearly heard the soft drip-drip-drip of it as it formed a ghastly puddle almost at my feet.
Then Father was suddenly there, looking as sick and horrified as I felt, but there, and dragged me out, thank God.
I trembled, chilled through by sudden inner cold. Father got me to the common room and made me sit close before the big fireplace, somehow managing to wrest a sanctuary for us from the general tumult. I shut my eyes against it, held onto his hand and shuddered.
“It’s all right, laddie,” he murmured just loud enough so that only I could hear him. That drew me away from the worst of it, and soon after, either warmed by the fire or by his soothing voice, my shivering eased.
Beldon emerged from the death room, his grim expression confirming what we knew, that his patient was beyond earthly help.
He knelt before me to peer into my eyes and asked if I needed anything. I gulped and began to laugh in his face.
Father gripped my shoulder tightly. “Jonathan, behave yourself,” he said in a severe tone.
That worked, helping steady me. “I’m all right,” I said and was reasonably sure I meant it. Another gulp and I was able to haltingly tell them what little I knew.
“My God,” said Beldon. Both men were clearly shocked.
“Where’s Lord James?” I asked.
Father pointed toward the outside door of the inn where many of the soldiers had gone. “As soon as he understood the situation, he was off to the hunt.”
Glory-seeker, I thought. “He’s welcome to it, if he doesn’t get his head blown. . . .” My gaze was drawn back toward the room, but I couldn’t see anything of Knox’s body because of the many other people trying to get in for a look. Just as well.
“I’m going, too,” Beldon announced and hurried away. Father and I followed him through the front door.
There wasn’t much wind, but it slapped enough to sting. I resumed shivering with a cold that was more imagined than felt, but there was work to be done. I walked around the building until reaching the little window. It was small owing to the expense of glass at the time this part of the inn had been built. It had shutters inside, but they’d been pushed back to let in the meager winter light and no one had bothered to close them again; otherwise the assassin might have been stymied.
I thought I caught a whiff of gun powder on the air, but discounted it as imagination. The breeze would have swept that away by now. Several soldiers were gathered at this spot and I recognized a few, including my sometime German tutor, Eichelburger. He and the others made much ado over two prizes, one a pistol, the other a length of wood.
“What is it?” I asked in German.
He hefted the pistol, holding it so the light coming from the broken window fell upon it. I moved closer and realized I’d not been mistaken. The smell of powder lingered around the thing. “This he dropped, the killer. This”—he waved the piece of wood— “was used . . . the glass to break.”
I translated for Father and Beldon and turned back. “Where is Lieutenant Nash?”
Eichelburger gestured at the empty yard around the inn and what lay beyond.
“Did anyone see who fired?”
He shook his head. “Him we find.”
I did not share his confidence and broke away to walk toward the limits of the yard. The wind carried vague sounds of men crashing about in the dark.
“It’s hopeless,” I said to Father when he caught up with me. “They can’t see a thing in this. They need help.”
“Good God, you’re not thinking of—” But he saw that I was. “Jonathan, you’ve had enough for one night. You’ve had more than enough for a lifetime.”
“Perhaps so, but I must do something.”
His patience must have been thinning, but he was willing to stretch it a bit more. “Do you now? Really?”
I took stock of myself. I’d been badly shaken, but was far from overwhelmed by the unpleasantness and told him as much. Somewhere within I felt my spine stiffen, raising me up. The chill within fled. I was strong enough for this.
“Those bastards plucked me up, carrying me off like stolen livestock, and came that close to killing me. And just when I thought I might be able to serve them back, they took that away as well. They’re low enough to murder one of their own. I’m a fool wanting to find the killer of a killer, but if I stand idle, waiting for Nash to come back empty-handed, as doubtless he will, I shall go mad from it.”
He frowned for a long time, then finally half-lifted his arms as if to give in. “You’re no fool, laddie. I know how you feel. I’d like to come along, but ’twill be better if I stay. This lot around the inn are running around like headless chickens. They’re wanting someone to argue ’em calm again. Just don’t let yourself be seen. The soldiers out there are liable to be skittish. And for God’s sake, be careful.”
On that point I gave him my most solemn word of honor to do exactly that.
* * *
There had not been a fresh snowfall in the last day or so; the ground was well-churned by dozens of passing feet, and I wasn’t enough of a skilled woodsman to tell old tracks from new under these circumstances. But I also wasn’t planning to trail anyone if I could help it. I walked quickly, taking the general direction of the soldiers. They were out of sight and nearly beyond hearing; I deemed it safe to let myself fade away and rise on the wind.
Practice told me about how high I was: a little above the treetops. There I took on just enough solidity to see and hoped that none of the hunters below looked up.
I spotted a few of them, gray shapes on gray ground, in a hurry, yet trying to be cautious. Willing myself ahead, I saw more and more, and by their movements discerned they were part of Nash’s troop. None of them was purposefully rushing forward in the way a fleeing fugitive might.
An hour passed, they searching below, me circling high above and ranging far ahead of them. Neither of us saw anything. They headed north, toward the coast, and once there covered the shoreline, but I could have told them it was useless. No boats had been launched that I had seen. Though the killer had had a good head start and just might have escaped that way, I was not inclined to think so. He’d probably gone to ground in any number of places. Nassau County was loyal, but there were pockets of sedition here and there that a rebel would know about. They were a thick lot with one another and carefully shut-mouthed. Whoever had done for Knox could be sheltering in any of a hundred innocuous buildings between the inn and the Sound.
Faint from my skyward exertions, I returned to Glenbriar and found Father and Beldon waiting for me at The Oak. Lieutenant Nash had come back a little earlier, just as weary and tremendously disgruntled.
“I’ll hear your story of what happened, if you please, sir,” he said to me. He was clearly ill-pleased that I’d gone off on my own again, but made no mention of it.
I told him, unable to add any more details, though he very much wanted them.
“You saw nothing through the window?” he asked, barely on the polite side of exasperation.
“Only a vague shape. The candles in the room made reflections on the remaining glass. I glimpsed the smoke, but that was all. At first, I couldn’t take in what I’d seen or what had been done. It happened so quickly, hardly a few seconds passed and it was over.”
We were in the common room, surrounded by a few more soldiers and many more townspeople. Cold as it was, the front windows were open, and others outside had draped themselves over the sills to catch the news.
“You found no sign of where he’d gone?” I asked in turn.
Nash scowled mightily. “My men are still looking. Lord James thought he saw something and took himself away after it.”
“Not alone, I hope.”
“No, certainly not.”
Mr. Farr, supremely unhappy that such an awful murder had occurred in his house, pushed forward. “What I want to know is why anyone would do such a wretched thing. I run a respectable place and this—” He clenched his hands, shaking them for want of words to express his outrage and fear.
“Revenge, possibly,” said Dr. Beldon. “There are people aplenty hereabouts who would be happy to send someone like Knox to hell.”
“He’d have been sent there soon as we were done with him,” Nash grumbled. “First those two escapes and now this fellow shot before we could hang him. Mark me, I think his own rebel friends murdered him so he wouldn’t betray them to us.”
This inspired a rumbling murmur of agreement from the crowded room. Not one of us—least of all I—had any doubts over the viciousness of the so-called patriots who troubled the whole county. That they should turn upon one of their own to save themselves was a dreadful and cowardly act, but not terribly surprising.
Nash was not only partial to his idea, but more than willing to act upon it. “Mr. Barrett, I’ll want a complete description of the men who kidnapped you, as much as you can remember right down to the least scrap of clothing on their backs. Write it out. I want something I can pass along to my men. I’ll be finding these traitors if I have to turn over every stone in the county.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAY 1777
“You’re more quiet than usual,” observed Elizabeth.
“I didn’t know it was usual for me to be quiet.”
“It has been lately. What’s been bothering you?”
“Long days and short nights.” For me, such a complaint had quite a bit different meaning than it did for other people.
“And nothing else?”
“Waiting for Nora to reply, or at least for Oliver to send a letter. It’s been ages.” Plenty of time for my duplicate packets to find their way to the Warburton family in Italy and for them to pass it to Nora. I worried that my letters had gone astray somehow, undelivered while I sat half a world away impatiently fuming for an answer that would never come.
“I thought it might be because of those men,” she said.
That was how the household had come to refer to Ash and the other cutthroats. “Why should you think that?”
“Because that’s when you started being so quiet.”
And also when I discovered Norwood’s liaison with Molly Audy. I didn’t like having the knowledge, and keeping it a secret affected my behavior with Elizabeth. I was tempted to unburden myself about it, if not to her then to Father, or perhaps even Beldon. But since that time Norwood had not gone whoring again. Of that I was sure since I’d made a habit of “questioning” Molly whenever I paid my respects. At least, a whispering voice in my head said, he hadn’t been whoring with her. With all the soldiers around, there were any number of camp followers about, and if not as pretty or as skilled as Molly, they were cheap. I remembered her mention of his parsimony over the price.
A little “talk” between myself and Norwood might clear the air and either cancel my doubts or confirm them. If the latter, then he and I would have a much more serious talk, indeed. But I’d been putting it off, as one does any potentially unpleasant task.
“You haven’t said much about it.” Elizabeth brought me back to the present with her misplaced assumption about my reticence.
“Haven’t really wanted to. Or needed to,” I added, looking up at her with as much reassurance as I could muster.
She met my eyes over the mound of sewing piled before her on the dining table and hopefully saw that her gentle concern was appreciated, but not necessary.
“What about yourself?” I asked. “Getting nervous?”
“Only about whether I’ll have this finished in time.” She indicated the yards of satin and silk.”
“You will.”
“So everyone tells me.”
“The others would help if you’d let them.”
She smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you. Sewing my own wedding dress has long been a fancy of mine, and I’ll not ask others to share it with me.”
The initial formalities had come and gone months ago. Lord James Norwood asked Elizabeth if he might petition Father for her hand in marriage and had been answered in a most positive manner. Father had granted permission in his turn, with the reluctance and pride all fathers experience when they must give up their daughters, and since then the house had been busy with preparations for the wedding. Much of it had to do with making many new clothes for the bride, and while Elizabeth had gratefully accepted help
for her other dresses and things, she’d reserved the most important project for herself.
It was taking longer than expected. Amid the housecleaning, the and the thousand other details that seemed to arise when two people decide to join forces, Elizabeth hadn’t had much time for her project. She rose early before the sun to work and was still at it long after dark. I kept her company then, for the time was fast approaching when we would no longer be able to have these quiet talks. Soon Norwood would sweep her away and things would never be the same again. Well could I understand Father’s mixed feelings in the matter. I was happy for Elizabeth’s happiness, but sorry for myself at losing her.
I’d discerned a slight edge in her tone, or thought I had. “Has Mother been troublesome?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just wondered if anything had happened today.”
“No. She’s been quiet enough.”
True, very true. Since that one talk I’d had with her, Mother had continued behaving with remarkable restraint. She still ignored us as much as possible, but was otherwise almost civil. There was a marked lessening of her biting sarcasm, no shows of temper, no tantrums, no berserk fits, and far more important to me, no laudanum turning up in Father’s tea. He commented now and then about the change in her, but thought it to be a result of Elizabeth’s physical confrontation with her last December. I knew better, but still did not care to enlighten him about it, and if he’d guessed, he kept it to himself. As he cautiously (and more discreetly) resumed visits with Mrs. Montagu, I found a great easing for any strain my conscience might have felt over the matter.
“What about her toady, then?” Things had been rather uneasy between Elizabeth and Mrs. Hardinbrook lately. The lady’s disappointment at Elizabeth’s marrying Norwood instead of Beldon had festered into bitterness.
“She’s a fool and a wretch,” Elizabeth said in a low voice. She flushed deep red and promptly pricked her finger on her next stitch.
