Tangled Web

by Lee Rowan

  “History, sir, on the advice of my father. I think he had the intention that I should go into politics or the diplomatic service, but I have no such ambitions. I am not indolent, but I have no gift for persuasion.”

  Carlisle bit his lip, and refrained from pointing out to the younger man that he had convinced a man he’d never met before to take on a task that he absolutely no interest in performing. “What would you do, if you had the time and funds to indulge your fondest dreams?”

  Brendan gestured toward the vista before them, plowed fields stretched across a gently rolling land, with a row of old trees shading the curving road on which they traveled. “This. If your groom had need of an apprentice, I would happily live in an attic room above your stable, keep your stud-books in order, scoop oats into feed-bags, exercise your splendid beasts… but such things are either too low for my noble bloodline—that’s my father’s view, not my own—or too rich for my purse. If you want an honest answer, that would be my heart’s desire. But my mother wants me to preach the Gospel, and James thinks I should study architecture.”

  “You seem to have a willingness to help your fellow man,” Carlisle observed. “Could your mother’s wish be a true measure of your talents?”

  “No!”

  Carlisle raised an eyebrow at his sharp tone, and Brendan added apologetically, “I do love the grandeur of cathedrals, but it is an artistic sensibility, not a spiritual one. It seems to me that a minister of the church must, at the very least, be convinced of doctrinal truth, and I do not have that conviction. I would not be able to preach from the heart; I’d be a whited sepulchre.”

  “A doubting Thomas, perhaps. You hardly seem old enough to be full of corruption, even if you had the inclination.”

  “If not, it’s only because I haven’t had sufficient time. I am no saint, sir… and I don’t care deeply enough about religion to preach it without feeling like a hypocrite. Now, my brother’s suggestion—to build a church? Yes, I might like to attempt such a project. But whatever Power gave me my love for horses neglected to give me any facility for mathematics.”

  Carlisle chuckled. “A serious oversight, I fear.”

  “Indeed. I am aware that without maths and engineering, an architect is nothing but a child piling blocks one on another. I’d wind up mashing someone flat with a marble cherub.”

  “I wish the fellow I had in last year to do some work in my kitchen had been blessed with your ethics,” Carlisle said wryly. “My cook and kitchen maid very nearly smothered from the effects of his ill-fitted smokestack.”

  “It’s easy to have ethics if they keep one from tackling a difficult job,” the young man said, rather cynically. “No, I expect that I’ll wind up at my family’s country seat, helping my brother manage the estate. It’s a better life than most men have… and every family should have an eccentric uncle, don’t you think?”

  Carlisle made a noncommittal response. He was puzzled at such diffidence in a gentleman who could not be much above two-and-twenty. At that age he had already been a Captain of Hussars, full of ambition and hopes for the future—but those hopes had been dashed by the time he was thirty. Perhaps young Townsend was wiser to set his sights at a less lofty goal.

  “Is this the village?” Brendan asked.

  Lifting his eyes beyond the road just ahead of his carriage, Carlisle nodded. “Yes, that’s Southfield. There isn’t much to it. A church, an inn, a smithy and hostler, a bake-house… Hello, what’s this?” A chaise was drawn up to the inn, with a post-boy holding the horses. “It seems the coroner has made good time.”

  “Shall I stay with the carriage?” Brendan asked as they came to a halt on the side of the street opposite the inn.

  “Yes, if you would. I’ll only be a moment.” He handed the reins to Brendan and leapt gracefully to the dusty road.

  CHAPTER 7

  Brendan watched Major Carlisle cross the road and disappear into the inn. He thought the village seemed strangely quiet, but that most likely meant everyone was crowded inside to see what was afoot.

  He noticed a water pump and bucket just below the signpost, with its slightly lopsided, winking owl, so he drove the horses to a wider spot in the road and brought them around, heading back the way they’d come. That done, he pumped a little water and gave the beasts a drink. It was something to do besides think about his own errors.

  He felt like the biggest fool of all time. He should never have intruded his petty troubles on this man. James had meant well, but he’d obviously had no idea that the Major was assisting the magistrate in his district—though this problem was clearly unusual; he could hardly believe that capital crime was an everyday occurrence in a little place like this.

  I should have stayed in town. Major Carlisle had to remain here, obviously. If he had time and willingness to help with Tony’s problem after the murderer was caught, well and good, but what sort of presumptuous puppy would equate a baseless threat of blackmail to bloody murder? He’d have to see if he might hire a carriage, or even book a seat on a stage-coach. The coaches were uncomfortable, but thirty-five miles would not be too severe an ordeal—the regular changing of horses would mean a fast trip, only five hours or so.

  It would be better for him to get back to London anyway—more specifically, to get away from Philip Carlisle. Brendan realized he was developing a severe case of hero-worship, exacerbated by lust. He’d found Carlisle attractive from the start and he had only fallen harder once they’d arrived. The way his eyes softened when he was speaking to his mare, the tone in his voice…

  One enormous favor Major Carlisle had already done for him: he had completely finished off the lingering attraction to Tony. That had been a youthful infatuation. This … This is a full-grown, genuinely idiotic infatuation. Yes, the man was so nearly perfect he hardly seemed real. Handsome, considerate, brave ... and uninterested.

  That was almost a relief. The more time Brendan spent with the older man, the more he admired him. He could never have a light, no-strings affair with Carlisle of the sort he’d been having with Tony.

  If Carlisle were interested. Which he was not. So you need to pack your bag, inquire about the stage-coach schedule—

  “Well, that’s that,” said a voice behind him. Brendan jumped. Carlisle had approached so quietly he had not noticed. “Shall I drive us back, or would you like to take the ribbons?” the Major continued.

  “I—Yes, certainly.” He got up into the driver’s seat as Carlisle climbed aboard on the opposite side.

  “We may as well return home,” the Major said. “For the moment, there’s nothing more I can do here.”

  “Has the coroner arrived, then?” Brendan asked.

  “Yes. His name is George Presgrave, and that is his carriage. He received a letter from Sir Thomas Livingstone the same day I did, and wasted no time. The jury is being selected now; the inquest will be held tomorrow morning. He’ll be stopping tonight with Sir Thomas, over at Greenways.”

  “I have no experience of such things,” Brendan said. “Will the inquest take very long?”

  “Oh, no, not in this case. There’s not much doubt that the verdict will be murder by person or persons unknown—the cause of death was clear and the injuries could not possibly have been accidental or self-inflicted.”

  “Did you find the men you were seeking?”

  “All but one. I had expected to find Ezra Jenkins at home—it’s his inn, after all, and his son who was killed—but he was nowhere to be seen. They say he went out an hour ago, and they’ve no idea when he will return. He is bound to attend the inquest tomorrow to give testimony, so I’ll see if I cannot talk to him then.”

  He looked so strong and resolute that Brendan wanted to either salute or swoon. He did neither. “Major, I have been thinking. My presence here cannot be a help, and is probably a hindrance. Would you advise me of the simplest way to return to London?”

  “Your presence is no trouble,” Carlisle said. “If you should wish to return—if you hav
e some family obligation—”

  “Oh, no. Merely that I do not wish to be in your way.”

  “Good heavens, why should you think that?” Carlisle turned, obviously surprised. “Mr. Townsend, I have been grateful for the pleasure of your company.”

  Brendan was equally surprised by his remark. “You are too kind.”

  “Not at all. You are the first gentleman to look at Queenie, see her obvious quality, and not turn up your nose in disdain when you learned that she has no lineage.”

  Brendan knew what he meant. His own father had that failing. The Viscount would pay twice as much for a thoroughbred scrub than he would for a much better horse which had no evidence of its pedigree. “Sir, that mare is a diamond of the first water.”

  “Without a paper to prove it, many would be blind to her virtues.”

  “The more fools they.”

  “Indeed, but the world is run by such fools. That was a lesson I learned in the Army, Mr. Townsend. Some men—your brother is one—are everything one might expect from a noble lineage. Others…” He shrugged. “Too much privilege, too little responsibility—whatever the reason, some men may have a high ancestral name and be nothing but a burden in a crisis, while others of humble origin may prove themselves superior. I prefer to judge a man—or a horse—by quality of character rather than breeding alone.”

  “It’s easier with horses,” Brendan said, thinking of the muddle he’d left behind in London.

  Carlisle laughed. “Oh, is it not! I’ve known horses to do foolish things, but for sheer, incomprehensible stupidity or malice—or breathtaking wisdom or kindness—there is no match for Homo sapiens. And a man may be a blend of both. But to answer your original question, if you wish to return to London, I could ask Mr. Presgrave if he would be willing to take you up as a passenger. If you prefer to hire a post-chaise or catch a stage, I can have you driven up to Ashford or Medway. I would be happy to take you back myself, but I mean to stay here until Queenie has foaled, so you must make up your own mind on that account.”

  Brendan weighed the risk of displeasing his mother and sister against the chance to see what sort of foal that lovely mare would produce with the peerless stallion Nightshade as its sire. “Is she very near her time?”

  “Matthews believes it will be very soon, perhaps even tonight, and I’ve seldom known him to be mistaken.”

  “I see.” Brendan decided to pay close attention to his job. The road to Twin Oaks curved around at this point, with a copse of trees on one side and a shallow bank into an orchard on the other. A long visit was out of the question, but perhaps he could spare another day or two…

  “You need not decide at this moment,” Carlisle said.

  If his brother had uttered those words, in that humorous tone of voice, Brendan would have felt himself being made fun of. But with Carlisle, he had the sense that the older man perfectly understood the tug between family obligation and the temptation to await the arrival of a lovely foal.

  “It would be foolish to begin a journey today, in any case,” Carlisle added, “so you may as well sleep on it.”

  “Thank you, sir, I shall—Hey!” A thickset, rough-looking man had just appeared from a clump of trees, stepping into the road with both hands raised to flag them down. Brendan brought the horses to a halt as quickly as he was able, and the man stepped aside in time to avoid being run down. Brendan would have said something about his lack of caution, but he realized the fellow was looking at Carlisle. He also noticed that the man had a pistol thrust into his belt, and he looked as though he would not take much convincing to use it.

  “‘Good day to you, Major,” the stranger said. “If you have a few minutes, there’s something I’d like to say to you.”

  Carlisle’s expression was serious, but not alarmed. “Of course, Mr. Jenkins. How may I be of service?”

  So this was the Wise Old Owler himself, innkeeper cum smuggler-king. Brendan gave what he hoped was a polite nod; it earned him nothing but a sizing-up.

  “Introduce me to your friend?” Jenkins suggested.

  “But of course, my apologies. Mr. Townsend, this is Mr. Jenkins, owner of the Wise Old Owl, who has just suffered the loss of his eldest son. Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Townsend is the brother of a man with whom I served in the Penninsular War. He is here as his brother’s agent on a matter of horse-breeding.”

  “Can he keep his mouth shut?”

  Brendan suppressed an indignant retort, knowing that Carlisle needed to talk to this man.

  “He can, but I warn you—Sir Thomas Livingstone has commissioned me to investigate on his behalf, so you must bear in mind that I represent the Law in this matter.”

  “I thank you for the warning,” Jenkins said stolidly, “but this one time I’m on the side o’ the law.” His heavy jaw was set, and he showed no emotion, but Brendan sensed that it took him some effort to remain impassive. “You know my son was murdered.”

  “Yes. You have my condolences.”

  “Thankee. But what I’m here to ask for is your help. And the reason I’m here, instead of meetin’ you in my own place, is that I’m having to doubt my own men. I don’t want no word gettin’ out that I was here—I just want to tell you that the man you want is Joe Bowker.”

  “I’ve heard the name,” Carlisle said. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He means to take over the business,” Jenkins said. “And well you know what business I mean, so I’ll not waste your time on that. What you need to know is, he killed my boy. I don’t deny I’d rather see him dead at my hand, but I’ve always fought shy of bloodshed—”

  “I rather think you mean you’ve avoided outright murder,” Carlisle interjected. “I can think of a number of injuries to government servants that have coincided with my pack animals going missing.”

  “Accidents do happen.” Jenkins’ jaw jutted out like a caricature from a broadsheet. “But if you’d listen—he’s threatened me and mine before this. I’m willin’ to give the law a chance, because my boy Tom—” His voice caught. “My boy, he told me he’d give the business his best shot, but he wasn’t going to be a murderin’ sort of man. He’d agreed to take the reins if I’d keep my neck out of the noose. I’ve come to the time of life where I don’t see too good at night, and—”

  “I hate to interrupt you,” Carlisle said, “but if you wish this meeting to remain private, we had better be quick about it or get off the road and out of sight. I appreciate your coming forward, but what I most need to know is where Joseph Bowker may be found.”

  “That I cannot tell you. If he’s doin’ what I told him to do, he’s down at the Thames, shipping some merchandise.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me if that merchandise happens to be legal?” Carlisle inquired mildly.

  “I don’t suppose I would.” Jenkins grinned suddenly. “Because it’s nothing I’ve ever laid eyes on. Now, if he’s not doin’ what I told him to do, I think he may be lyin’ in wait, hopin’ to bag himself another Jenkins, which is another reason I’m talkin’ to you.”

  “I see. Well, Mr. Jenkins, unless you have a witness to support your accusation, I may not be able to help you see justice for your son. Would you be able to communicate with me in any way, if you were to see Bowker back in the neighborhood?”

  “I might. Trouble is, I might not, because I think this Bowker’s got at some of my men. I don’t know who it is that I can rely on out of my own crew. My son Roger, I trust him, save that he’s but a lad of fourteen.”

  “That’s old enough to run errands.”

  Jenkins bridled. “And young enough to have his head bashed in. No thank’ee, sir! My wife’s keepin’ him close around the house, now, and I don’t blame her. What I’m thinkin’ is, if you can send that man of yours down to the Owl, I can have a quiet word with him when necessary.”

  Carlisle nodded. “That should serve. Or if you need to contact me in a hurry, send word that you’ve a barrel of beer ready to send along to Twin Oaks—if you have
one.”

  Jenkins’ face lightened slightly. “Oh, aye, we’ve got that.”

  “I’ll be at the Owl tomorrow, for the inquest. If there’s anything you need to tell me, you can do it when I offer my condolences.” Carlisle reached out his hand. “I do condole you, Mr. Jenkins. It’s no small thing, to lose a child. You and your wife keep young Roger under your eye until we have this matter settled.”

  The suspicious expression on Jenkins’ face softened, as if such sympathy was something he’d never expected. “I will, sir. And I thank you.”

  Carlisle nodded, and said, “Very good. Let’s get along home, Mr. Townsend.”

  With a nod to the smuggler at the side of the road, Brendan raised the whip once more and signaled the horses to move along.

  As Carlisle had expected, Brendan decided he would postpone his return to London for a day or two. James, he said, would understand his absence and make apologies to his mother and sister.

  According to Carlisle’s custom when he was at home, the cook had prepared a light repast of cold meats upon their return. The meal finished, there they were, the rest of the day stretching out before them.

  “I could offer you a game of cards,” Carlisle said, “but as we have both expressed disinterest in that pastime, I hesitate to suggest it. Billiards, perhaps?”

  “If you wish.” Brendan glanced out the window of the breakfast-room, which looked out upon a field behind the stables. “If I were not here, what would you do?”

  “Review my accounts,” Carlisle admitted. “This makes me very grateful you are here. Or if I could not bear to be indoors on such a beautiful day, I might go for a ride.”

  He congratulated himself on guessing rightly when the younger man’s face brightened. “Could we? I ride in London, of course, but that’s either watching for traffic every moment or idling along in the Park—not real riding.”