No, of course he didn’t. A line of gooseflesh paraded down his arms just thinking of the way Groat had coerced Daisy Lee’s whereabouts from her manservant at Morden Hall. Applying pressure was one thing. Groat struck so fast, so unexpectedly, it was anybody’s guess if the old manservant would ever see properly again, and he did it all with a devilish grin that said he relished having an excuse to strike.
“Suit yourself.” Sebastian wheeled about and stalked into the inn. An apple-cheeked serving girl directed him to a man in deep conversation with a woman in an apron near the kitchen door. She clutched a wooden spoon in one hand and tucked her head, nodding now and then, clearly repentant about something. Pish. His business was far more significant than the state of some overcooked potatoes or underdone pork.
He advanced and poked the man in the shoulder. “You the innkeeper?”
The man turned and looked from him to Groat, then back again. “I am. Can I help you gents?” Seizing on his distraction, the woman behind him scurried off.
Sebastian threw back his shoulders. He had no way of knowing for absolute certain if Ward and the woman had been on last evening’s coach, but it was always better to play a hand with confidence. “I’m looking for some people that were on the coach from Lydford. A man and a woman. Or two women, perhaps.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Well, which is it?”
The words were snipped short, the tone harsh, as if the innkeeper had better things to do than stand here talking to him. An affront of the highest degree. There was nothing more important than to bring justice to Oliver Ward.
But God was merciful—and so was he. “Doesn’t matter. The point is I’m looking for a pair.” He stepped close, as graciously as his own Lord might, and smoothed the innkeeper’s lapels with his fingertips.
Then snugged the man’s cravat knot tight—very tight. “There now.” He retreated a step. “What say you?”
The innkeeper spluttered, his fingers desperately tugging to loosen his neckcloth. Finally, he cleared his throat and glowered while edging back and gaining space. “If you must know, most of those passengers have checked out by now. I believe there is only one couple left.”
Perfect. “Room?”
“Four. Just down the corridor. But I will not have you harassing my guests. Understand?” He puffed out his chest, a rather bland show of courage, but one that Sebastian could respect.
“My good man.” He smiled, and when he reached out to pat the innkeeper on the shoulder, the man flinched—just as the manservant had when Groat had pressed him. Of course, this was entirely different. “I assure you harassment is not at all what I am about. As you see, I am an officer of the law.” He waved his arm in front of the man’s eyes, duty band yet on his sleeve. “So go about your business, and I shall go about mine. Am I understood?”
The fellow’s face drained of colour. “My pardon for the misunderstanding, Officer. Had you stated your profession first off, I’d not have questioned you so. This is a law-abiding establishment. I don’t want any trouble here.”
“No trouble at all. Carry on.” He turned to Groat. “Why don’t you step outside and cover the back door, in case they slip past me. Not likely, but it pays to be cautious.”
Groat scuttled away without a word, and good thing too. The eerie clack of his teeth every time he spoke was starting to crawl beneath Sebastian’s skin.
Setting off in the opposite direction, he entered the corridor, then pulled his gun, keeping it low and at the ready. Door four was at the end of the passageway, near a window. He’d have to keep an eye on that. Convicts would as soon jump through glass than go peaceably.
Near door three, he slowed and padded the rest of the way on soft feet. At door four, he stopped and pressed his ear against the wood. A woman’s voice leached out, followed by a bass reply.
Sebastian eased back, heart pumping fresh waves of blood hard and strong through his veins, exciting a rash of little tingles up his legs. It was always like this moments before a catch. Right before he pounced. It was a heady feeling, like sipping a dram of good Scottish whisky, and for the space of a few breaths, he savored the rush of warmth and anticipation.
Then he cocked his gun and kicked in the door.
The woman inside screamed. The man stumbled backwards, eyes wide, clearly caught off guard. Both of them had grey hair—real grey. Not wigs. Not fake.
Even so, Sebastian barreled in and scanned behind the door, then lifted the bed skirt, and finally trotted over to the window and glanced out at the stable yard where the iridescent coat on Groat’s back caught sunlight and bounced it back. Bah!
Whirling, he tipped his hat at the old couple. “Your pardon, ma’am. Sir.”
A host of emotions propelled him out the door, down the passageway and across the taproom. A small bit of confusion. A boatload of irritation. Rage and fury and some disgust. But not one shred of chagrin or humiliation surfaced. The old couple could flap their jaws all they liked to the innkeeper about his abrupt entry into their room, and he’d still not apologize. He’d only been doing his job. No… God’s job. Bringing justice to this wicked world was godly work—a calling and a curse, that.
Outside, he stomped down the cobbled stretch to where it opened into a back courtyard. He waved Groat over, then leaned against the wall and pulled out a cigarillo and a match. A few short puffs later, he inhaled a soothing mouthful of smoky tobacco.
Groat drew up beside him. “Well?”
He turned, sucking in a drag and blowing out a small cloud. “It wasn’t them.”
“I told you there was no guarantee they were even here to begin with. That manservant said Bath, he never said this particular—”
“Any ha-pennies to spare, sirs?” A tug on the back of Sebastian’s coat accompanied the rude interruption.
A tug? Someone seriously dared touch the hem of his garment? This was not to be borne.
He pivoted, about to strike, then stopped midmove. A boy stood before him, about waist high, smudgy-faced and stringy-haired, and wearing a sack coat that came to his knees.
Sebastian squatted to eye level with the lad. “Tell me, where’d you get that coat, boy?”
“I didn’t kipe it.” He lifted his pointy little chin. “It’s mine!”
“Hmm… You know what happens to liars, boy?” Like a strike of lightning, he snatched the little urchin by the collar and yanked him close. Then slowly, he lifted his cigarillo, burning end facing the brat, and rolled it between his two fingers, driving home the possibilities as he edged it a hair length away from the lad’s cheek. “Liars burn, boy. They burn forever.”
The boy squinched his eyes shut, but didn’t move, not a jot. Smart lad.
“I—I swear I din’t steal this coat, sir,” he squeaked out. “A man gave it to me, he did. Just last night.”
Even without touching the burning end to the boy’s flesh, a red mark grew. A little closer and a slight sizzle would be heard, followed by a white hot circle of miniscule bubbles. His grin grew in anticipation… and he froze. Groat had grinned too, as he had struck the manservant.
“Let him go,” Groat rumbled. “We don’t need him.”
Sebastian jerked his cigarillo away from the boy yet didn’t loosen his grip. “But he might know something. It’s Ward who gave the boy this coat, I know it. It’s the same fabric as the old man’s pants back at Morden Hall.”
“No matter.” Groat flicked his fingers, batting aside his objections, teeth clicking with each word. “I think I know where they are.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Women are sentimental creatures, and there’s a particular keepsake Miss Lee left behind at the theatre. If she is indeed in Bath, she’ll eventually show up there. Your man may still be with her, and if he’s not, well… I’m sure you can persuade her to talk.”
Sebastian released the boy and stood, not caring that the urchin sped away. Groat was right. He could be very persuasive.
We are shadows,
Oliver and I. Keeping to the sides of buildings. Walking neither too slow nor too fast. Heads down, we refrain from eye contact with those we pass. I am as eager to avoid running into Wendell Groat as Oliver is Constable Barrow. Though I’d scanned a morning newspaper, dreading to read an article calling for my arrest, the only missing person mentioned in any depth was some French marquis. Apparently, Oliver and I weren’t newspaper material.
Yet.
Still, I keep my head down, as does Oliver. But as we cross Milsom Street, I look up. The pull of glancing down booksellers’ lane is too much, the call of the past too overwhelming. Even were I blind, the smell of books and ink permeating the air would lift my head. A girl may leave her home, but home never leaves the girl. Good or bad, childhood marks the heart indelibly.
I turn my face and pick out the faded blue sign five shops down. The door of Rag and Bone Books stands open. Even without peering in, I see in my mind’s eye the grey-tufted head of my father shelving a copy of Oliver Twist or Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women, completely engrossed in his work. The bookstore is his breath. Anything outside of it may as well not exist, even his only daughter. That is why I didn’t hurry to send my letter, assuring him of my safety. I doubt he knows I left the stage, left the city, left his life. The bitter truth ought to smother any love I may feel for him. But it doesn’t. My little girl heart still yearns for his embrace.
“Is there a problem?”
Oliver’s low words warm my ear, and I jolt to the present. Gracious heavens! How long have I been standing still, gawking down Milsom Street?
“No.” I force a small smile. “No problem at all.”
Skepticism flashes in his eyes, but thankfully he turns and continues down the pavement. I follow, and just like ten years ago, I am both relieved and melancholy to leave my old neighborhood—yet that soon changes to horror when we turn south. The farther behind we leave the city center, the closer I press to Oliver’s side.
Despair walks with us on Avon Street, bending men’s shoulders where they skulk in doorways, hanging women’s heads as they shuffle past, carrying baskets of laundry to be delivered. Want and poverty drape a sooty mantle over everything. The ramshackle buildings cram together and lean over the streets, blocking out light and hope. This bleak slum is a stark contrast to the creamy stone buildings that make up most of the great city of Bath. But no wonder the poor are relegated to this rat maze. It hurts the sensibilities to witness such poverty. Those with means would not wish to feel guilt for their pleasures.
Next to me, Oliver carries my bag of belongings. It’s not much, but even a change of clothing, some tooth powder, a hairbrush and combs are a vast wealth compared to what these people own. Though I come from humble beginnings, I never had to scrape and scrounge for a bite to eat, not like the scavenger children we pass who pick their way through a refuse pile. Why has Oliver brought us here? Surely this cannot be the safe place he intends for our lodgings.
I peer over at him to ask as much, but he veers down a narrow space between two buildings where I must follow at his back. My shoes squish into greenish muck, releasing a stench worse than a quaking bog. I hike my hem and swallow a rise of nausea.
The passageway opens into a dismal courtyard. A mossy well stands at center, rocks falling off the side of one wall, a bucket green with scum clinging to the edge of another. I feel eyes upon us, staring out from darkened doorways and rag-covered windows, yet Oliver strides on, undaunted, as if he’s fully at home here in this place of filth and gloom. Puzzling, that. Politicians usually only deign to set foot in such squalid quarters when votes are to be had.
He swings right and pounds on a door, offering me a reassuring glance over his shoulder before the door jerks open.
A man in a purple velvet tailcoat answers, and I shrink closer to the safety of Oliver’s broad back. Great patches of the man’s coat are threadbare, giving him the appearance of a mangy whippet. He is as lean as one too, his cheekbones sticking out like handles on his face. His nose is sharp, his chin pointy, but none of that is as off-putting as the knife he grips. One swipe and Oliver will be cut down.
Oliver chuckles. “Is that any way to greet your old friend, Filcher?”
The man’s eyes narrow to slits. “Ward?”
“One and the same.”
“Well, I’ll be…” Slowly the knife lowers, and the man—Mr. Filcher, apparently—advances and grips Oliver’s shoulder. “Yer alive?”
“For now. May we come in?”
“O’ course! O’ course. Make yerselves t’home.” Mr. Filcher steps aside and sweeps his arm towards the open door. Then he dips a deep bow towards me. “My lady.”
I put on my best stage face, refusing to curl my nose at such hospitality even though he smells of gin, sweat, and burnt beans. I bid him rise with a lift of my fingers. “Please, this is your home, and I am your guest. No need for such formalities.”
He straightens, brows arching clear up to his greased-back hair. “Aye, miss. As you like.”
Inside, my stage face falters. The place is hardly larger than my tea closet at Morden Hall. In front of a hearth that holds maybe two pieces of coal sits a woman with a babe to her breast. She watches me without a word, but her pale eyes say it all, such is the fury crimping the skin at the sides. She hates me, this woman. Hates my gown, my earbobs, the shoulder cape secured at my neck with a ribbon. And that loathing grows when Mr. Filcher bustles in after us and lifts her by the shoulders.
“Get on with ye! Can’t ye see there’s a lady present?” He snatches the chair and delivers it to me as if I am Queen Victoria herself. “Here, miss.”
“Oh no! No, I couldn’t. Please let your wife—”
“Pah!” The woman spits on the floor. “T’aint no wife o’ his.”
Mr. Filcher grabs a broom and shoos her towards the door. “Off with ye now, luv. I’ve business to attend.”
Through it all, Oliver frowns. He says nothing, yet the green flecks in his eyes deepen—a sure sign much goes on in his head.
Mr. Filcher nudges the chair closer to me. “Don’t mind Mary. She needs to get her lazy backside off to the factory anyway. If she’s late to work one more time, she’ll get the boot, she will. So go ahead, miss. Have yerself a little sit-me-down.”
I glance at Oliver, who nods ever so slightly, then lower to the seat and offer Mr. Filcher a smile. “Thank you, sir.”
“Think nothin’ of it, miss.” Then he turns to Oliver, shaking his head. “Gotta admit, Ward, I din’t expect to see you gracing the streets o’ Bath again. Nine months nibbed in with bludgers and cutthroats would finish off most gentle folk. Course ye ain’t known for yer gentleness when punching about for a new law now, are ye?” Coarse laughter rumbles out of him.
Oliver smiles. “It’ll take more than that to bring me down.”
“Heh, heh! Course it will! But now that yer done servin’ yer time, I reckon yer scrappin’ to get back in the fray, eh? Bloody up those priggish fops a’settin’ pretty down in par-ley-ment. Still…” Filcher cocks his head, light landing on his torn earlobe. How many fights has this man been in? “What ye doin’ here, and in yer shirtsleeves no less?”
Oliver steps away from the wall he’s been leaning against and folds his arms. “I need lodging, Filcher. We both do, the lady and I. A few nights. Maybe more, but hopefully not.”
“What? Wantin’ to stay here in Corbin’s fine palaces?” He swings his arms wide, smacking a wooden mug off a shelf in the process. “And with yer fine lady to boot?”
My brows rise at the innuendo—especially when Oliver says nothing to negate the man’s assumption.
“Yes. This is the last place Corbin would expect to find me. I’m here to bring him to task, to mete out justice where justice is due.”
Mr. Filcher whistles. “What do ye intend?”
I suck in a breath and lean closer, ignoring the stink of the tiny room. Oliver has not yet shared our plan. Will he do so now?
His jaw hardens. “I shall fi
nd who was really to blame in the stealing of that ruby necklace and bring it to light—while hopefully bringing down Ambrose Corbin along the way.”
“Well, ye better hope that rotten swell don’t get wind yer here in his fine courts. You shine a light under some rocks and snakes’ll bite. Corbin ain’t gonna like this thing revisited, especially not if you find them jewels in all yer rock turning.”
“Why not?” I cannot help but ask. “It is his wife’s keepsake after all.”
Mr. Filcher scratches his chin, his dirty fingernails rasping against the dark stubble. “Why, I heard he already spent that insurance money—wasted it all at a gaming table over at The White Horse.” His hand drops and the angles on his face sharpen to a glower. “While he wines and dines, we suffer and die.”
“Insurance?” Oliver unfolds his arms, fists bunching at his side. “I rotted in prison while that fat bullock preened and pampered about on insurance money?”
“Aye. Every last farthing. He’s got gaming fever, he has. Any money what crosses his path don’t last more ‘n one night. Generally happens every first o’ the month when his bully-boys come in collecting the rents. Instead of using our hard-earned pennies to clean up that plague-pit o’ a well out there or stopping up the roofs from leaking on our heads, Corbin wagers it all at the table. Devil’s teeth! But it’s a black heart beating beneath that fancy waistcoat o’ his.”
“That’s atrocious!” I shake my head, horrified, and glance at Oliver.
But it is not Oliver I see. The feral man, the one I’ve glimpsed before, once again stares out from his eyes, primal and deadly. A shiver skitters across my shoulders. Were Ambrose Corbin in the room, I have no doubt he’d be bleeding out on the floor. Jaw clenching to tight lines, Oliver stalks to the door and stares outside.
“Aye.” Mr. Filcher nods. “And that’s what yer man there was aimin’ to stop.” He hitches his thumb towards Oliver. “He were working to pass a bill to tear down this warren and build a whole new neighborhood. No, more ‘n that. A whole new life for us here on Avon Street. ’Tis his leadership of a few fine fellows in the House what fights fer me and my people. Aye, you can be mighty proud o’ yer man there, miss. We are.”
The House at the End of the Moor Page 14
