“…to think such a person of ill repute might be here in our little corner of the world. Scandalous! Not to mention the reward that’s sure to draw an unsavory sort.”
My ears tingle. Are they speaking of the man who is even now laid up in my sitting room? I sidestep down the counter, feigning interest in the tins on a shelf as I draw closer to the women.
“How much is offered?”
“Fifty pounds.”
“Fifty! Are you certain?”
My thoughts exactly. What on earth has the man done to merit such a price on his head?
“I saw it with my own eyes.” The soprano’s voice pinches tighter. Without looking at her, I imagine the pride radiating off her stiffened shoulders. Her words lower, making it hard to hear and forcing me to turn towards the pair. As I suspected, indignation ripples her lips as she speaks. “The paper’s there for all to see, right on the wall of the Castle Inn, though I suppose other coach stops along the route are plastered with it as well.”
Mrs. Porchdale harrumphs. “I don’t feel safe anymore, what with criminals running hither and thither. Why, who knows when one might—William! I said quit staring.”
My gaze drops to the boy. So does the other woman’s, but just as quickly, her eyes narrow on me. Her head angles. Her lips part. One brow edges higher.
I turn away, biting my lip. Please, God. Please don’t let her recognize me.
Mr. Blandin pivots and lays a paper sack on the counter in front of me. “Here you are, madam. That’ll be one shilling.”
“Thank you.” I yank out some coins and shove them towards him with one hand while snatching the parcel with the other. “Good day.”
I dart away without a second look, waving off Mr. Blandin’s “But your change!” as I pull the door shut. Outside, I fill my lungs with deep breaths, slowing my pulse. Of course the woman couldn’t know me. It is an irrational fear. Is not the fact that I may be housing a fugitive worth fifty pounds not a more pressing concern? I bypass Black Jack and cross the road, making my way to the Castle Inn. There’s only one way to positively identify the stranger, who may even now be stepping across death’s threshold.
Outside the inn, a public coach with six high-steppers parks in front of the door. Three women chatter together as they leave the confines of the carriage, a servant loaded with hat boxes and packages trailing them. A tall gentleman puffs on a cigar then belches out smoke like a chimney while he waits for his portmanteau to be handed down from the pile of luggage atop the coach. Two other men chuckle their way through the inn’s front door, speaking of pints and pies. The exchange of all these travelers kicks up road dust. Good. I shall be only one more face in the scurry. Nondescript. A nobody in a sea of humanity.
I edge sideways around a particularly rotund man who shoves the last of a pastry into his mouth. Once through the inn’s front door, I cling to the side of the wall. The lobby is cramped. The ticket seller at the podium collects money in a flurry. Did no one think to purchase their tickets before the coach arrived? No matter. It is easier to slip by unnoticed to read the parchment nailed to the wall at his back.
The words are large and bold at the top, then shrink in size and contrast. I drink them in, thirsty to know if the stranger is Constable Barrow’s escaped convict and what crime he has committed.
£50 Reward
Breach of Contract
The further I read, the more I choke, and my hand flies to my throat. I cannot breathe. The information is far worse than I expected. At the bottom corner of the paper is a hand-drawn likeness of the person of interest. Expertly crafted. One I did not want to see.
Mine.
Chapter Seven
Sebastian Barrow should’ve been a preacher. Everyone said so, from the first time he’d stood atop a crate as a four-year-old to convert the likes of his Skudge Alley playmates. And they were right. Every last one of them. But he’d shoved his arms into the blue woolen coat of the constabulary at twenty. Now instead of saving souls, he shackled and locked them away.
He jammed on his hat as he stalked through the inn’s public room, angry he’d overslept. Angrier still at the hole in his left boot. All because Oliver Ward had given him the slip for nearly a week. The blackguard. He had to be close. Sebastian felt it in his gut—and his gut was never wrong. He’d covered most of the hidey-holes in Lydford, even skulked about the old dungeon ruins at Lydford Castle on the off chance Ward was crazy enough to shelter in a former prison. But he’d not yet torn apart St. Petroc’s. Churches were notorious for housing castoffs. A soft-hearted reverend might even have tended the criminal’s wounds, nursed him to strength, especially if Ward had spun some sorrowful tale of woe. Sebastian would turn the place inside out.
“You be needin’ a room again tonight, guv’nor?”
“I need it indefinitely,” he growled, without sparing a glance at the paunch-bellied innkeeper. Though he had nothing to go on other than the maybes and might-have-seens from two men out on the moor yesterday, he harboured a hunch that Ward was here. Somewhere. Tucked in a crevice like the snake he was. Sebastian’s hands clenched into fists as he neared the lobby. He’d find Ward—the scoundrel—and teach him what was right and good. That’s what preachers did.
Leaving behind the odour of sausage and ale, he entered the space between public room and front door, where two women and a boy huddled near the now-empty clerk’s station. He smirked. Stupid women. Could they not read a timetable? The next coach didn’t arrive until tomorrow morning.
“No!” The shorter of the two frowned at the other. “We cannot get involved in such scandal. Look, there’s a constable. Better he should handle this.”
Heaving a sigh, he averted his gaze and blew past them. He didn’t have time for jabbery women and their petty stolen hair combs or other such trivialities. He should’ve taken the time to remove the duty band from his sleeve—though officially, he was on duty and would continue to be until he finally hauled Ward back to prison.
He stalked out the front door, then spit a curse as sunlight blinded him. A pox on the sun. Hunting was always easier in the monotone greys of a cloudy day. Fumbling in his pocket for a match, he retrieved one, then lit his cigarillo and inhaled a few puffs before he set off for the stable. He’d find that scoundrel Ward and haul his sorry backside to prison even if he had to—
Blast! He roared as pain drilled into the sole of his left foot. Hobbling over to a bench near the stable door, he sank like a rock and lifted his foot for inspection. A nail head peeked from the center of the hole, blood leaking around the edges.
Gritting his teeth, he pinched the nail and yanked it out in one swift movement. Blood flowed freely then. Enough to wash out an infection? By all that was holy, he didn’t have time for this!
He growled as he limp-walked to his horse and cast a wild gaze about the stable. Where the blazes was an ostler when he needed one? Was the world full of nothing but layabouts and incompetents? He reached for his tack, and by the time he saddled his horse, his whole sock was squishy on the bottom. Good thing the apothecary was just down the road.
After a short ride, he dismounted and swung open the door of Blandin’s Dispensary. The bell annoyed him. So did the scowl on the shopkeeper’s face when Sebastian lifted his leg and thwunked his boot on the counter. Why such dismay? Surely the man had seen blood before.
“I need this fixed.” Sebastian spoke slowly, in case the fellow wasn’t truly the apothecary but some underling clerk.
The man frowned. “I am not a cobbler, sir.”
“Not the shoe! The wound.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “I am not a surgeon, either.”
“I don’t need a surgeon.” The words barely made it past his clenched jaw. Precious minutes were being eaten away with this folderol. “What I need is a bandage and a poultice to keep infection at bay. Is that something you can do?”
“Of course. You’re my fourth poultice in the past hour.” The man sniffed, his spectacles bouncing as his nose wrin
kled. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind bleeding somewhere other than atop my counter”—he lifted a finger—“there is a chair.”
Sebastian limped over and sat, then once again inspected his wound. The red flow had stopped, mostly. Satisfied, he lowered his foot and studied the apothecary’s back as the man worked. He appeared to know what he was about, reaching now for a glass vial and then a canister of some sort of powder.
“You said four poultices,” Sebastian thought out loud. “Is that an unusual number for the space of an hour?”
The man squinted at him over his shoulder, almost as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. After a huff, he turned back to his work. “Somewhat, I suppose. I don’t generally do so many in such a short time.”
Interesting. Why the uptick? Sebastian leaned forward in the chair. “Who were they for?”
“Mrs. Porchdale, Mrs. Graves.” He spoke in time with the grinding of his mortar and pestle. “And some woman I’ve not seen before. Wearing mourning garb. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the poultice she purchased would be too late if she’s already taken to wearing black.”
An image of a black gown rose up like a spectre in a graveyard. Sebastian’s gut pinged, suspicion rolling around with the porridge he’d eaten for breakfast. “Other than the woman’s clothes, what did she look like?”
“Rather striking.” Grind. Grind. “Dark hair. Luminous eyes.” A quick stir. “A particularly lilting voice, quite melodious.”
“She give her name?”
“No, but judging by her fine gown and the fact that she overpaid without a care for her change, I’d say she’s not from around here. Seemed to be in a hurry to leave, as well.”
Sebastian scratched his jaw, fingers rasping against his whiskers. It surely did sound like the high-and-mighty Mrs. Dosett had made a visit to town. “What was the poultice for?”
“An infection of some sort—which is exactly what you’ll have if you do not take a care with that foot.” The apothecary doubled back to the counter and set down a white roll of cloth and a small jar. “Here. Use the paste twice a day with a fresh bandage each time. Naturally I recommend you first wash the foot. Now then, that’ll be twelve pence, please.”
Sebastian paid the fellow and grabbed the items, then took care striding back out to his horse. He’d have to make a quick stop to his room for a fresh pair of stockings and to apply the salve, but then it was off to hunt for Ward. And if he wasn’t at the church, then perhaps a revisit out to Mrs. Dosett’s might not be a bad idea. Either someone in her house ailed, or she was sheltering someone who did.
And after days out in the elements, that someone very well could be Oliver Ward.
Nora is a miracle worker. By late afternoon, the stranger’s fever had broken. He is still unconscious of our movements, yet he looks better than this morning. His skin holds colour and there are no more oozings or odours from his wound. Perhaps he’s lived through the worst of it and can be on his way in a day or two.
I smile at Nora, who collects the basin and the last of the rags to be washed. “Thank you. As usual, your work is exemplary.”
She dips her head, and a hint of pleasure sparks in her dark eyes, then completely disappears as a knock echoes from the front door. Two callers in as many days? It is more than in all the months I’ve lived here.
I stay Nora with a touch to her arm. “I’ll get it. You finish here.”
With each step down the passageway, my pulse quickens, despite the reassuring cadence of Malcolm’s paws behind me. Has someone seen the likeness on the handbill at the Castle Inn and connected it to me so soon? By opening the door, will I usher in a past I have no wish to entertain? I blow out a slow breath, expelling my irrational fears. Save for the apothecary and the two women in his shop today, I’ve had no contact with anyone in Lydford, and none of them know where I live. The thought soothes, and I reach for the knob.
Yet as I open the door, once again my heart pounds. The blue-coated constable fills the doorway, the same as last night. In the afternoon light, however, his black beard is much bushier and his eyes are set far deeper beneath his great sweep of eyebrows than I first credited. He smells of tobacco and horses.
“Mrs. Dosett.” He touches the brim of his hat in greeting.
“Good afternoon, Constable Barrow.”
He says nothing more, though I suspect he cannot. He’s too busy studying me. His dark eyes memorize and catalogue each aspect of my face, from hairline to chin. He squints a bit and leans closer, as if he’s reading a mystery novel and cannot skip fast enough to the last page to discover the true felon. So unnerving is his stare, a shiver creeps across my shoulders. Has he seen the handbill?
With effort, I force my voice to a calm contralto. “I assume you have not yet found your convict?”
A small laugh rumbles in his chest. “Not yet. Might I come in? I have a few more questions for you.”
“No!” The word flies out too harshly, and I instantly curve my lips into a pleasing smile. “I am sorry, but my manservant is away. It wouldn’t be seemly for me to entertain you alone.”
“I am a constable, missus. You’ve nothing to fear from me.” He advances, his broad shoulders about to shove past me, when Malcolm—my blessed, fierce boy—immediately fills the gap and growls.
Constable Barrow looks from Malcolm’s bared teeth to me. “Call off your dog, if you please, madam.”
“He’s just doing his duty, as are you.” I reach for Malcolm’s collar and hold him in place at my side. “I assure you, Constable, any questions you have for me can be as well spoken here as in my sitting room.”
A storm darkens the muddy brown in his eyes. “Are you hiding something, Mrs. Dosett? An injured man, perhaps?”
Little prickles tingle along my arms. I set my jaw and stare him down. “If I wouldn’t let the likes of you inside—a fine, upstanding man of the law—do you really think I would harbour a criminal?”
“I’ve seen stranger things, madam.”
Malcolm rumbles another growl, and I shush him before once again facing the constable. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Why did you buy a poultice today?”
My grip tightens on Malcolm’s collar. How on earth would he know that? “I do not see how that signifies.”
Once again his gaze sweeps over me. “You appear to be hale, so clearly you are caring for someone who is not.”
“Just because my manservant is away does not mean I don’t have other servants in attendance.”
He narrows his eyes to suspicious slits.
“Constable Barrow.” I clip out his name, refusing to be cowed by his interrogation. Never again will I fall victim to an intimidating man. “Plainly state your charges against me, and I will answer them in a court of law. Until then, I refuse to provide any more information pertaining to me, as is my right.”
Slowly, a gleam of white teeth grows in size as his smile widens. “Well, well… You are a well-educated woman, more so than most Dartmoor widows hereabouts.”
I arch a brow. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“Take it any way you like, yet now that we have your intelligence established, I can only assume you are smart enough to know that should you in any way aid an escaped convict, you will be indicted as well.”
“I understand.”
“Very good.” He nods.
Whew. At last the harrowing conversation is over. I release Malcolm’s collar and reach for the door. “I bid you good day, Constable.”
“Tut, tut. Not so fast.” He holds up one hand, halting my hasty retreat, and the other he shoves into his pocket. A scrap of fabric emerges, and he holds it out to me. “Have you anything to say about this? Found it not far down the road, next to a trampled area of scrub by the brook.”
I flex my fingers before retrieving the tattered bit of grey cloth. Reddish-brown bloodstains blemish the strip. It is part of Nora’s gown. Guilt rises hot up my throat. Should I tell this man everything? Come clean abou
t the stranger in my sitting room? Be done with thinly veiled accusations and innuendo?
I lift my face to Constable Barrow’s coal-black eyes and hard-lined face, and my stomach twists. There is no mercy in that cold gaze. No quarter would be given to the stranger—if he is indeed the convict. And if he is not, revealing the man now would only add to the constable’s questions of my character. I cannot afford a full-blown investigation into my identity.
Squaring my shoulders, I nod. “Yes, I know this fabric. It belongs to my maid.”
“Oh?” He cocks his head. “She took quite a fall, I’d say.”
I clench my teeth. What to say? While I am certainly not beholden to the bloodied man we rescued, I feel an inexplicable need to protect him, especially while he is in such a vulnerable state. But there’s nothing for it. I must tell the truth—yet maybe not all of it.
“My maid was chasing my runaway pony. Black Jack is notorious for his roamings.”
He grunts. “Is she badly hurt, then?”
“Nothing I cannot manage. Thank you for your inquiry.”
For a moment, he says nothing, just stands there, staring at me. “Very well, then. Good day, Mrs. Dosett.” He drawls the name unnaturally long.
“Good day.” Easing Malcolm aside, I shut the door, clutching the scrap of Nora’s skirt in my clammy hands. Clearly the constable suspects me, and as I bolt the lock, my shoulders sag. How much time is left until the world crashes down upon my head?
Wild to escape the answer to that question, I seek out my ragged copy of Jane Eyre and settle into the worn wingback in my room. Better to focus on someone else’s problems—even a fictional character—than dwell on my own. And it works for a while. I trade Morden Hall for Thornfield, lose myself in the intrigues of the mysterious manor home, until the swish of fabric and the light step of Nora pulls me from the story. She stands paces away from me, eyes wide and face pale. Her fingers ball up the edges of her apron.
The House at the End of the Moor Page 5
