by Cindy Anstey
“Matt! The red-haired man is getting away!” she screamed, almost certain Matt had not seen the spill onto the road through the veil of hooves and wagon wheels. “The warehouse!”
Matt blinked at her in confusion and then his brows shot up.
“Run!” she shouted, pointing to the bottom of the lane. “Follow the road around; there’s a door on the other side of the warehouse.” If she could have, she would have done the job, but the horses were still thrashing. She could not get by them. “Run!” she screamed again, thankful to see him nod. Thankful until he cornered the wall at the bottom of the lane, disappearing from sight. Then she was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding.
After an agonizing minute, perhaps two, the horses tired of fighting their equipage and the weight of the wagon. They lowered their heads, found an odd rhythm—more of a hop and skip—until at last they were back in harmony, walking slowly forward. The hub of the wagon wheel scraped against the wall, gouging a groove into the red paint until Kate grabbed the collar and then the noseband of the nearest horse. She did not have the weight to bring them to a halt, but she did have the voice of authority. And she used it, shouting, “Whoa!” loud enough to wake the dead … Though it stopped the horses, no assistance came running.
By the time the horses, the wagon, and Kate had stopped, they were partway across the lane. Rather than try to back them up, Kate guided them around the corner and tied the reins to the far fence. With a quick glance at the wine barrels in the back of the wagon, Kate lifted her skirts almost to her knees and raced after Matt.
When the wind pushed her hood off her head, Kate ignored the sharp bite of snow that was turning into ice pellets. She grabbed at the sidewall to guide her around the corner without slowing down and raced toward the back door of the wine warehouse. But she did not need to cross the threshold. Heading out of the lower door, footprints in the newly fallen snow showed a trail leading across the road and cutting into the field. A second set joined them on an oblique angle and then continued between the stubby stalks of hewn corn. Without hesitation, Kate ran across the road and into the field, adding a third set.
The trail led directly between two cottages and out onto Toller Road on the far side. It turned left, back toward the main road, but then it deviated. Grabbing a gulp of air, Kate bent over, hands on knees, and breathed … and stared at the footprints. Cutting across the road once again, the trail led up the drive of a farmhouse—the Closton farm, if Kate was not mistaken. But rather than lead to the house at the top of the hill, the trail curled around back.
Straightening, Kate lifted her skirts and set off again. Behind the house, the trail led in and around the barn. The prints were confusing, one set on top of the other. It was hard to understand, hard to make out which was which. Eventually, a single set ran down the hill on the opposite side of the farmhouse.
About to follow, Kate jumped in surprise, pivoting toward the barn once again. The large red door banged and shuddered. It rattled, and an eerie cry of anger filled the air. The cry formed words that sent Kate rushing to lift the bar that had been wedged against the door.
“Let me out of he—! Oh Lud, Kate! Excellent, did you see him? He led me in here, locked the back door … and as I struggled, the villain—”
“Circled around and trapped you inside.” So thankful to see that Matt was hale and hearty, Kate wanted to throw herself in his arms … but he was in a tear, hardly aware of her intense relief.
“Exactly. Knew just what he was doing, the fiend. Unflappable. Did you see him?”
“No. But—”
“I called after him,” Matt said as he scanned the ground and then looked up at Kate, puzzled. “Havey-cavey business—I tell you! He heard me call, looked back twice … and smiled. Can you imagine? I’m calling for him to stop, asking if he’s seen Johnny … and he smiles, as if it’s a game. Doesn’t even ask me who Johnny is. What kind of person does that?”
“A malicious one,” Kate said, glancing up at the sky. The temperature was marginally cooler, and the hail was turning to thick snow. “Hurry, Matt. Before we lose the trail.”
But it was a losing battle as the weather outflanked them as easily as the red-haired young man. By the time they had raced back down the hill to Toller Road, the snow on the ground was starting to accumulate. They chased after the fading marks until they reached the main road, and there they disappeared entirely. The snow came down in a blanket, concealing the red-haired man’s footprints and their hopes of finding Johnny.
chapter 13
In which the day goes from sinking snow to drenching danger
Holding her hood in place, Kate glanced up and down the road. While it was fairly quiet, the neighborhood was not deserted, not like Toller Road had been. A man and child hurried across the street near the circulating library, a clutch of ladies stepped into a carriage waiting in front of the blacksmith’s shop, and a couple looked out at the weather from under the overhang of the glove shop. However, there seemed to be no fleeing figure wearing a cap over his red hair.
Snow dripped down from Kate’s hood, landing on her nose and then sliding down to her chin in a never-ending stream. She was miserable, and it had nothing to do with the damp conditions.
“Best get inside.”
Kate turned to see old Dame Symons standing in her cottage doorway across the street, waving. It was a welcoming gesture, kindly meant on a cold, wet day. The poor lady had no living family in the area anymore—her son having left for London five years earlier—and was known to open her heart and hearth to strangers … well, not people from away, but those in the neighborhood that she didn’t know overly.
“Thank you, Dame Symons, but I’m afraid we must get back to Shackleford Park.” She paused for effect, not wanting her desperation to startle the old lady. “Did you, by any chance, see a young man run by here a few minutes ago? Dressed in browns with a tartan cap?”
Dame Symons stepped back into her cottage, dismissing Kate and her inquiry with a shake of her head.
“Now what?” Matt huffed.
“Back to the mews? The wagon was full of wine barrels. Should we check to see if Mr. Niven … well, make sure that he is all right? That he’s not in the warehouse … The red-haired man was stealing his wine.” Kate squinted in the general direction of the wine shop, but the curve of the road prevented a long view. “Though why was the shop furniture gone, too? And what does this have to do with Johnny, if anything? Bother! This makes no sense, no sense at all.”
“None.” Matt shook his head. “Let us see to the wagon horses, then check the warehouse and then Niven’s apartment.”
And so saying, they took themselves down the road, walking quickly, trying to appear pushed into such an unseemly pace by the wind and the sleet and not fear for anyone’s well-being. As they passed the church and village green, the stitch in Kate’s side eased, and she had the capacity to hasten more … almost running again.
Finally, turning down the lane by the Candy Bowl again, Kate came to an abrupt halt. The wagon was no longer tied to the fence, no longer tied to anything. “Of course,” Kate said, flapping her hand toward the nonexistent vehicle. “The wagon is gone. The horses are gone, and the wine is gone.”
“They were all together.”
Kate gave Matt a withering look as she started running toward the mews. “He must have cut through one of the yards. He is no stranger to Tishdale.”
By the time they approached the warehouse, the ground was a sodden mess. The deep snow offered no clues by way of footprints. A cursory glance told them the building was empty; a thorough search proved it to be true. The warehouse was entirely devoid of barrels, crates, and any equipment necessary for a wine merchant. Though there was hay in the loft, the stalls were empty. Scattered around were frayed ropes, broken furniture, a split hitching post, manure, and the general sense of a messy and hasty leave-taking. Of Mr. Niven—and Johnny—there was no sign.
Scrubbing at her face, Kate sighed with fr
ustration. She glanced Matt’s way, and they nodded to each other. Time to check the apartment above the store. Climbing the stairs with a heavy heart, Kate dreaded what they might find. She no longer expected a simple explanation. The whole situation was fraught with peculiarities and now two missing persons. Hoping for the best had gotten her exactly nowhere.
Not surprisingly, there was no answer to their pounding. The door was locked, and trying to peek under the window curtain proved useless. The room beyond was dark; it was impossible to see if it was still furnished … or if a body lay in the middle of the floor. What a morbid thought.
“Mr. Niven has moved!”
Kate and Matt whirled around to see Mr. Gupta leaning out of his apartment, two doors down, with a large umbrella over his head. “Come, come in out of the wet.” His gesture was very enthused.
Kate needed little encouragement. A respite, even one of short duration, was quite welcome. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Gupta. It is a bit raw today.”
The old gentleman smiled at her significant understatement. “Indeed, my dear.” He opened the door wider.
As much as Mr. Gupta assured them that the water did not matter, Kate could not be persuaded to step next to the fireplace; it was on the far wall. She would not drip across the kind man’s floor. However, Mr. Gupta would brook no argument about her mittens. They were placed on a rack by the fire and a dry pair offered as a replacement.
“No, no, worry not. I shall get them from you in due time. They are too small for me, belonged to my late wife. The color is a bit bright; Shanti loved red. I notice most English women wear dark colors on their hands … dull grays, browns, and the like. Not cheerful in the least. But these, yes, these make you warm just looking at them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gupta. They are lovely—and, as you say, very warm.”
Mr. Gupta nodded with a faraway look in his eye.
“You said that Mr. Niven has moved, Mr. Gupta.” Kate glanced briefly at Matt, noting the tension in his jaw. “Do you know his new address?”
“Oh dear, dear. Sorry. I can’t tell you. I saw him running about yesterday; seemed to be in a hurry. Too much of a hurry, if you know what I mean.”
Kate nodded with what she hoped was an encouraging expression.
“Yuletide and before the new year, rushing to load a wagon with little care if something breaks … well, it doesn’t speak of a planned removal. Too much haste. I thought to ask if Niven needed any assistance, but I saw that his delivery boy was with him.”
Kate swallowed. “The red-haired young man?” she asked casually.
“Yes, oh yes. That’s the one. Rolland, I think is his name. Odd fellow. Not sure I like him.”
“Oh?” The wordy question was Matt’s contribution to the conversation.
“No, no, not … no. A month or two ago, I asked Rolland if he might like to do deliveries for me on occasion, too. He said that he wouldn’t work for a—well, he was rude. Quite unnecessary—a simple no would have been sufficient … I haven’t talked to Mr. Niven very much since. And now he is gone. Would you like some tea? That would warm you up.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Gupta. It is very kind of you, but we must be going. We need to find Mr. Niven … or Rolland. We have some questions.” Kate could see the curiosity on Mr. Gupta’s face but thought it best to leave well enough alone. “Though where we go from here, I really don’t know.” She sighed very deeply and turned toward the door, ushering Matt ahead of her.
“You might start at the blacksmith, my dear. Rolland works for Mr. Belcher as well. He might know what’s about.”
Matt stopped and slowly pivoted. “Really?” He glanced down at Kate. “Wasn’t Mr. Belcher at the Gambling Goat when Johnny was there?”
Kate nodded. “But how does that signify?”
“I’m not sure, but it does behoove us to pay Mr. Belcher another visit. Though this time if we ask after Rolland instead of Johnny, we might get an answer.”
* * *
BACK ON THE main road, Kate glanced toward the blacksmith shop, though it was not visible from where she stood, and then swiveled her head to stare in the opposite direction.
“If we rush back to the manor now, there might be a few comments about our delay but no dire consequences. However, even if our conversation with Mr. Belcher is short, we will have taken far too long.”
“Yes, but we have very little new information to add to this conundrum. I think we should carry on. I’m sure Mr. Ben will understand, though I’m not as confident about Mr. Ernest.”
“Mrs. Beeswanger will not be happy, but I am almost certain the girls will intercede on my behalf.”
“Almost?” Matt asked.
“Quite sure … nearly.” Kate looked up at Matt with a worried frown entrenched on her forehead. “It’s like choosing between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
“There is no need for you to risk your future. I will visit the blacksmith—”
“I appreciate the thought, Matt, but Mr. Belcher does not know you.”
“I was there when you were asking about Johnny. Right by your side.”
“As I said, Mr. Belcher does not know you … other than as a silent companion of two days ago. That will not be enough to persuade him to discuss Rolland with you.”
“Folks are terribly suspicious in this part of Kent.”
“You will find it the same everywhere.”
“Not on the coast…,” Matt started to say, frowned, and then curled his lip up in disgust. “You could be right.” Then he sighed. “I leave the decision in your capable hands.”
“Did I mention the devil—”
“And the deep blue sea? Yes, I remember something of the sort.”
“Are we seeing a connection between Johnny and Mr. Niven’s sudden removal because it fits, or are we trying to make it fit because we know not where to look next?”
“There is the red-haired young man.”
“But red hair is not as rare in these parts as it is in others.” Kate pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment and then looked back up at Matt. “Is Rolland Johnny’s red-haired villain … or is he an innocent delivery boy?”
“Who ran off as soon as he saw us coming.”
“True, but was that about Johnny? Rolland might have thought we were pursuing him because…”
“He was stealing wine?” Matt offered.
“Or he was helping Niven avoid a creditor.”
“Do I look like a creditor?” Matt asked, spreading his arms wide.
Kate turned to stare. It was not meant to be a serious question, but upon examination there was a possibility, slight possibility, that Matt could be mistaken as a man of means. His greatcoat was well cut and fit properly; it was made from a sturdy material not ruined in the rain. His cap was a shaped tweed, he wore midcalf leather boots, and he walked (and ran) with his shoulders back in a confident manner. He was rather impressive and made Kate want to step closer, much closer. But that was not the question … What was the question? Oh yes.
“You do not look like a creditor to me, but Rolland does not know you. He might have decided to run first and ask later. Oh wait, that doesn’t work. He saw me before you. I do not look like a creditor.”
“Indeed not,” Matt said with a great deal of warmth that caused Kate to pause in thought and stare back for a moment or two.
“Not. Indeed,” Kate repeated, gave her head a shake, and continued. “So Rolland did act strangely, and we need to know why. And if he can tell us of Mr. Niven, so much the better. For in truth, Niven’s questions might simply show him to be a nosy sort or genuinely interested in Johnny’s well-being.” Kate pictured Mr. Niven’s pursed mouth and lifted brow. “Though I have not heard Mr. Niven described as kindly or charitable before.”
“So do we chase after Rolland—assuming, of course, that Belcher can direct us to him, or do we return to the manor and keep our positions safe?” His tone of voice made it clear that Matt leaned toward the former.
“What I
want to do and what I should do are not the same.” Kate tried to chuckle, but it was lackluster at best. It was no joking matter. “We could rush back and inform Mr. Beeswanger.”
“Who would then send a note to the squire, and who might or might not pursue the matter.”
“Even if he did, there would be a considerable time delay. Rolland and Niven could be halfway to London or Canterbury before the squire bestirred himself. And of Johnny … well…” Kate pivoted so that she no longer faced the way home. “We have to talk to Mr. Belcher and let the cards fall as they may.”
Matt nodded solemnly, then offered her the crook of his elbow, and they hastened down the street in as casual a manner as possible.
* * *
SUNDAY WAS NOT a day of labor for the blacksmith, and so they did not stop at the entrance to the shop. They continued around the building to a small one-story addition jammed onto the back wall that served as Mr. Belcher’s home. It could not be described as cozy, quaint, or charming. Tools of the trade were scattered haphazard about the place. There was a general sense of neglect; the woodpile was tumbling over, paint was peeling from the door, and a fence, likely meant to enclose a garden, listed worse than a drunken sailor. And yet when the smiling giant of a man threw open his door, the room behind him was clean, warm, and inviting.
“Miss Darby, how nice to see you again … and so soon after your last visit. Still looking for that cagey young fellow?”
Kate disengaged her arm, glanced thankfully up at the deep overhang that protected them from the weather, and stepped forward with a feigned sincere expression. “Cagey fellow?”
“Yes. Chasing down a footman, weren’t you?”
Kate frowned ever so slightly and ever so quickly. Mr. Belcher was doing it up a little too brown. Anything odd in a town this size was discussed nine ways to Sunday—gossipmongers hid behind every bush, around every corner, and in back of every curtain. Mr. Belcher would know that Johnny had not been found. He knew his name as they had talked at the Gambling Goat, and he likely knew that the squire had been to Shackleford Park about the matter.
