by Lee Rowan
Once they had cleared the city congestion, Carlisle relaxed slightly. “We shall be on the road the rest of the day,” he said. “I don’t demand you martyr yourself to my whims, though; I expect I’ll call Edward up to take my place when we stop to rest the horses, but if you’d rather be out of the wind at any point, just let me know.”
“Thank you, but I would not trade this for the world.” Brendan suddenly realized he did not know how long the trip would be, or even where they were going. “Will these two be able to take us all the way there, without changing them for another team?”
Carlisle nodded. “Yes, of course, touch wood. They can do up to fifty miles in easy stages, but my place is a shade under thirty-five miles away, and I’d not push them further.”
Brendan was impressed. “What stages, sir? How do you ration their fodder?”
Carlisle cast him a sidelong glance. “A horseman, are you?”
“Merely a student of the art, sir.”
“Aren’t we all?” Carlisle said with a smile. “I’ll make a stop after ten miles, give them a drop of water and a bit of hay, nothing that will lie too heavy on their bellies. By the time they’re ready for a longer meal, and a rest, so will we be. I don’t like to leave them on the road unless I must, but there’s a reliable hostler at the Knight’s Inn, about halfway home. He’ll give them a rub-down and a bait of corn while we have a leisurely meal, and they get corn again after six or eight more miles. After that, they know they have their own stalls and warm mash waiting—you’ll see how they fly.”
“My father’s head groom does something similar,” Brendan said. “My father is not as punctilious, but he and my brother tend to leave the horses to Spencer’s care—that’s our groom. I’m the odd one in the family—I’d as soon live over the stable.”
Still smiling, Carlisle said, “I’m glad you caught me before I left town. Even without this situation arising, I’d have been on the road in a day or two. My prize mare is due to foal soon, and I mean to be there for the event, if I can. Silly, I know; my own groom, Matthews, knows more about horses than I ever will, but I do like to be on hand to lend moral support.”
“I should do the same,” Brendan admitted. “Perhaps it’s due to being herd creatures, but the beasts do seem to take heart from having a trusted owner nearby.”
“Indeed. They’ll gallop into hell for you if you give them your confidence.” Carlisle’s expression shadowed for a moment. “That was why I finally had to leave the cavalry. War is hell on men, but at least we go into it knowing what to expect. Our horses trust us, and we use them like machines.”
“So James said—he called it a waste, but it’s worse than that.”
“Indeed.”
They rode on in silence for a little while, and then Carlisle said, “We’ve time enough to converse, now, and a clear road. Shall we return to your problem?”
Brendan sighed. “I suppose we must, though if you preferred to go on talking horses, I could not find it in me to object.” He watched the team’s shoulders moving steadily, in order to avoid looking at the man beside him, and forced himself to say what had been on his mind since he first saw Carlisle’s face. “There is one thing I must ask you, sir, and I should have thought of it from the start. I realize that the activities of that club are not only…distasteful, but quite illegal, and so is neglecting to bring it to the attention of the authorities. I am still not certain I should have imposed upon you for your assistance. If you would prefer to reconsider your decision to help me—”
“Not at all.” Carlisle guided the team to one side of the road as a post-chaise approached from the opposite direction. When it had passed, he said, “Mr. Townsend, the club you describe is not a place that I would ever choose to visit for my own entertainment. Nonetheless, I have served with many different sorts of men… and one or two were that sort, and I have to say that they were just as brave in the field and far less trouble on furlough than most of their skirt-chasing colleagues. Whatever the law may say on the matter, I don’t feel I have a right to sit in judgement.”
Brendan had not realized how tense he was until Carlisle’s words soothed his fear. “Thank you, sir. What do you think we can do?”
“The first thing I wish to do, when we return to London, is to contact a gentleman I know who will be able to find out who owns the buildings in that district, and see if we can discover whether the fellow who’s running the establishment is actually the owner.”
“And then?”
“Then… If he’s but a hired manager, the owner should be informed of his misbehavior—preferably by your friend, since he is the one who’s been threatened. If Dobson does own the place, we must question your friend as to details, and lay our plan accordingly. One way or another, this fine specimen must be made to understand that he is not going to have his way.”
The rest of the trip went as Carlisle had described. They maintained a reasonable pace of perhaps six or seven miles an hour, and his host seemed content to let the conversation return to more pleasant subjects, pointing out landmarks here and there. Brendan was happy enough to relax, observing Carlisle’s effortless handling of the ribbons—he was clearly one of those men who could sense a horse’s every mood through the reins—and enjoying the bright spring sunshine. The coming green of a new season combined with the confidence he was beginning to place in his new acquaintance to lift his spirits out of the depths to which they’d sunk in the past couple of days. Perhaps there really was a way out of this unsavory muddle into which he had blindly allowed Tony to drag him.
It remained to be seen, however, whether he would be able to avoid disgracing himself in the eyes of the handsome, self-assured gentleman beside him. The instant attraction he had felt at their first meeting had not diminished one iota. Hopeless, to be sure, and probably better so. His first attempt at the love surpassing that of women had landed him in a pickle, and he was not about to make that mistake again.
He did wish that he might stop wanting to try.
“My lord, I regret to say I cannot fulfill your requirements.” Dickie Dee was exerting every bit of self-control he possessed to maintain the obsequious tone appropriate to his lowly station. It was a struggle, since the pompous fool before him, whatever his social rank, was nothing more than a filthy, bum-fucking sodomite. But His Lordship was willing to pay for the privileges of membership, and, Dobson reminded himself, it would not do to offend a customer.
“What do you mean? I’ve seen that lad here half a dozen times, and there was nothing shy about him. If it’s money he wants—”
“I am afraid that is not the issue, my lord. It appears the young gentleman,”—he said it in a way that let His Lordship know that a man who’d behave that way was nothing of the sort—”realized that he acted outside the bounds of discretion, and has decided to mend his ways.”
His visitor answered with a snort of laughter. “What rubbish. What utter rubbish! A young buck who drops his drawers for any yahoo isn’t going to mend his ways, and we both know it.”
Dobson shrugged. “The Arbor is a private club, my lord. I have no authority over its members. As you yourself observed, he has been quite regular in his attendance at our little gatherings. I’m sure that if you are patient, he will return.”
He could not see all of his visitor’s face—as always, he had donned his mask before entering the club—but he could see the cunning grin. “Come now… I know you have his name and direction. I’d pay handsomely for that, and no one need ever be the wiser.”
Dobson let himself appear to consider the offer. Ah, this was rich—to watch this powerful bastard haggle for what he wanted, to stand before his desk hat in hand, humbled. After a suitable moment, he shook his head, feigning regret. “But, my lord, that is one thing I cannot possibly give you. I am no procurer! If I were to sell his information to you, what surety would you have that I might not offer your own name to another? This is a sacred trust, sir!” And more to the point, a very profitable one.
“Damn your sacred trust!” The gentleman stood glaring for a moment, then brought his fist down on the desk. “You must convince him.”
“I shall do what I can, my lord. I can do no more.” Dobson maintained a façade of virtuous blandness, staring back until the visitor stormed from the room. Then he let out a tremendous breath and sat back in his comfortably upholstered chair, his eye catching the portrait on the wall opposite.
“Uncle Godfrey, you filthy old sinner,” he said aloud. Though he should not blaspheme the old man. It was Godfrey Dobson who had, over the course of several years, turned a run-down tavern into an inconspicuous, highly profitable molly house. Upon his death, the establishment had fallen into the hands of his nephew and only living relative, and Dobson had taken to it like a duck to water. He had been more than a little appalled to learn that his reclusive uncle had apparently been a sodomite himself—he could not doubt the enthusiastic eulogies when the Cock and Bottle had been re-opened after a brief period of mourning and legal matters—but he had resigned himself to making quite a good living from immoral sources. After all, if he did not provide drinks to the bastards, and a place to rut, someone else undoubtedly would.
And it was his own ingenuity that had brought The Arbor into existence. The Cock and Bottle was a molly house, nothing more or less, and it had survived for some time by a policy of admission by recommendation only, and judicious bribing of the Watch. But Dobson had not misjudged the desire of the socially superior for the opportunity to look down on the riffraff. A few hints to the more prosperous-looking patrons, an offer to some of the better-mannered commoners of an easy job with the opportunity to meet well-heeled gentlemen, and The Arbor had been launched with no fanfare whatever to a most appreciative clientele.
Dobson congratulated himself again on his initiative. The businesses were paying well, even if he had to rub shoulders with some of the lowest scum in High Society, and he was sharp enough to know that such a lucrative endeavor could not last forever. But the beauty of it was that it did not have to. Between the prices he was able to charge for drink and private rooms, and the membership fees, he should be able to retire in five years.
Or possibly even sooner, if he could lever that sulky Hillyard brat into indulging his childish desire to show off. Or, if he could not, he might at least squeeze a pretty penny out of Hillyard Senior in exchange for banning his wayward son and keeping quiet about it. What a pair. The old man an arrogant nouveau-riche, the young man a drunken sodomite.
“What is the world coming to?” Dobson asked Uncle Godfrey’s portrait. “Perdition, nothing but perdition.”
And what a fortunate thing for him that perdition was so profitable.
CHAPTER 6
Philip Carlisle was up at dawn the next morning, his usual habit when he was in the country. Throwing on the clothes he kept for messy stable activities, he passed through the kitchen to drink a hasty cup of tea and collect a couple of scones, which he ate on his way to the stable to see La Reine. His servants, accustomed to this excessively casual behavior, merely nodded tolerantly and prepared themselves to give proper service to Mr. Carlisle’s young guest. Surely the son of a viscount would stay in bed until a respectable hour, and stay where he belonged until he was awakened.
Unaware of his servants’ regret for his lack of consequence, Carlisle dusted the crumbs from his fingers and slipped into the stable. Most of the horses had been turned out into the field so the stable-boys could begin the daily task of cleaning their stalls, but he could see Queenie’s lovely sorrel head peering inquisitively out of the foaling box, her blonde mane draped coquettishly over one eye.
“How are you, my dear?” he asked, laughing aloud when her ears pricked at the sound of his voice. “Still waiting your time?”
“It’ll be soon, Major,” said the horse in a strangely unfeminine voice—and then Matthews’ grizzled head appeared over the stall door. He went on, “The little darlin’s bagged up, and just look at ‘er. She knows something’s about to happen. This week, my word on it—or I’ll be standin’ drinks at the Owl.”
“That would be a first, would it not?” Carlisle asked.
His groom grinned. “Not the first time I’ve been wrong, sir—just the first time I’d bet on it.”
Carlisle opened the box and stepped inside, stroking the side of Queenie’s satiny neck as she gave him a companionable nudge. He could see some of the changes Matthews spoke of—the mare’s sides were bulging considerably more than they had been when he’d last seen her two weeks earlier, and he could detect a difference in her stance. She sidled, leaning against him just a bit, and that surprised him.
“Aye, she’s been a little clingy-like, Major,” Matthews said, watching them. “Got a touch o’ nerves, don’t know what’s to expect. I’ve been sleepin’ here the past two nights.”
Carlisle noticed the hammock, folded up and hung from a hook beside the door. “Good job. You have the boys ready to help?”
“They’re ready, but this bein’ her first time, I figured you’d take that watch.”
“Indeed I will, but I’m not too proud to ask for an extra hand. Do you mean to turn her out?”
“Aye, sir, a beautiful day like this. Only I thought you’d want to see her first.”
“You know me too well.” He stepped back as Matthews swung the door wide, and Queenie followed along behind as they walked toward the big door that opened into the paddock. “I wish I could stay, but I’m off to see Sir Thomas Livingstone.”
Matthews gave him an inquiring glance, but said nothing.
“It seems the free-trade boys have been playing a bit rough while I was away,” Carlisle said.
“Aye, Major, they have at that. I’ve done as you say—kept my head down, kept an eye on the boys—but there’s something strange afoot.”
“In what way?”
“Most times they have trouble, it’s from the outside—Preventives, or a Navy blockade. You know.”
Carlisle nodded. If a local turned up with a black eye or other infirmity, he often came by it dishonestly.
“This time… there’s nobody about who shouldn’t be. Old Ezra and his boys, Tom and Roger, seem to be in the middle of it—or they was, til Tom got laid out.”
They’d reached the door by now, and the two men stood aside while Queenie proceeded out into the paddock, her pale mane rippling as she lifted her head into the breeze. “You’ve no hint of who might have done that, have you?” Carlisle asked.
“No, sir, nor do I want to,” Matthews said frankly. “But there’s some as say it was done with a view to takin’ over from Ezra. A pity it wasn’t Roger they went for; for all he’s but a lad, he’s forever starting fights and acting the fool. Tom’s a sensible lad—or he was, if I heard right. Slipped away yesterday without waking up, they say.”
“Yes, so I understand. It’s a shame. Sensible in what way?”
“Agin’ murder. There’s some of these boys get pot-valiant, they’re ready to take on all the King’s horses and the men as well, kill anyone as tried to get in their way. Tom, he’d calm ‘em down, remind ‘em the surest way to bring on the soldiers was to start leavin’ corpses around.”
“True enough.” Carlisle allowed himself a last look at Queenie and the other horses enjoying a quiet graze, then reminded himself that it was duty first. “I had better go see Sir Thomas,” he said. “Young Townsend will likely be down here before I return. See what you think of him. He’s James Townsend’s younger brother.”
“Aye, Major. Good lad?”
“He seems to be. I let him take the reins for a spell and could not have asked for better; if he had the ambition, he’d soon be known as a top-sawyer. The boy’s got a good feel for the horses, and no inclination for useless flash. And I think if he’d had his way he’d have been down here last night, never mind it was past dark when we got here.”
“If he wants to ride?”
“Whiskey or Sailor, I think. He might be able to handle N
ightshade, but I’d want to be there if he tried.” The big stallion, black as night and sire to Queenie’s unborn foal, could be a handful even for Carlisle himself. “And now I must be off, or I’ll be here all day. Have one of the boys hitch Reverie to the dog-cart, if you would. I’ll drive myself.”
Matthews touched his cap and returned to the stable as Carlisle hurried back to the house. He’d have just time enough to dress properly and get himself over to the magistrate’s, three miles distant. Thanks to Matthews’ gossip, he probably had as much information now as Livingstone himself did.
As serious as this business was, Carlisle found it difficult to maintain the proper frame of mind to contemplate murder. The morning was glorious, the sun well up but the spring air still comfortably cool, and his lovely mare was about to give birth to a foal. By the time he presented himself at the door of Greenways, the magistrate’s rambling country house, he had just barely managed to subdue his high spirits.
Farnam, Livingstone’s butler, welcomed Carlisle in his usual stone-faced manner, and had barely started down the hall when Sir Thomas Livingstone entered from another room. “Major Carlisle. Thank you for coming. I know you’re an early riser, but would you care to join me for breakfast?”
“Sir Thomas.” Carlisle took Livingstone’s extended hand. “Yes, thank you. I had a bite when I first rose, but that seems a long time ago.”
Livingstone led him into a sunlit breakfast room, where a footman waited with a silver coffee pot. The man filled their cups, then left. The magistrate added a lump of sugar to his cup, stirred it thoughtfully, and sighed. “Where shall I begin?”
Carlisle thought his old friend, never imposing in stature, seemed even smaller today, and looked every day of his sixty years. “I arrived last night and found your message waiting. It’s murder, then?”
“Yes. That’s not official, of course; not until the coroner sits on the case. I may see him later today. I sent a rider to London as soon as Jenkins was brought in. It’s a pity it was Tom; from what I gather, there were plenty of others who’d have been better lost.”
