The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Now,” nodded Richard, “would be the ideal moment to repeat those hints and clues. We cannot be overheard except by the gulls. And I have spent many years unravelling puzzles.”

  Tempted, but avoiding the temptation to lean a little against him, Jemima stared into the wind and out to sea. “I remember his words. He told me to. Remember my exact words, he said. There’s enough hidden to sink a barge but not a wherry. The chest isn’t large, but it’s solid enough to keep out the water. Wooden, locked, and – dour.” She turned, looking up. “Then he told me to tell no one else until we were in Dover – myself and Alfred, Samuel and Gerard. But now there’s only Alfred.”

  “And whatever clues your father imparted to Gerard and Samuel have gone into Purgatory with them.” After a moment, looking down at her, he said, “I am interested in how a small wooden and locked chest containing – I presume – money, might be called dour.”

  “Dark wood?” Jemima suggested.

  “So,” Richard continued, his voice floating on the wind, “hidden within or on the banks of the local river. It’s little more than a chalky stream running through the valley and down to the sea near Dover, I believe. It is named the River Dour.”

  “It has to be.” She stared. “He said the chest was solid enough to withstand water. Wet – and dour! But of course I didn’t know that was the name of any river.”

  “But the Dour,” said Richard, “wanders into an estuary before being swallowed by the Narrow Sea. And the places nearby, underwater or otherwise, where a small wooden chest might be hidden, are a hundredfold.”

  “Then I expect we’ll be staying in Dover for some time,” nodded Jemima, and smiled. “And I don’t mind that at all.”

  “Neither my home nor the rediscovery of your lost father attract you back towards the city, little one?”

  She flushed, turning away, then suddenly whisked back around, saying, “But I heard something Papa said to Gerard too. I took no notice because it sounded a little silly and I thought perhaps it was a joke. Three, three and three, Papa said, and Gerard was listening very attentively. It could have been money of course and what he promised to pay. Or it could have been time, such as three hours and three days and three weeks, though I’m not sure why.”

  “Or,” smiled Richard, “It could have meant something far more important.”

  It was Friday and the little tavern served a platter of whelks and oysters in a cream broth, and smoked salmon on a bed of boiled leeks. Jemima ate a great deal, talked very little and went to bed dreaming of a strong arm around her, protecting her from gales and waves, ushering her into the wide warmth of many possibilities.

  The next morning she remained at The White Rabbit, wearing her new bedrobe and sitting at the window seat, curled, with her nose to the rattling mullions. Richard and Thomas met with Alfred, and walked the cliff tops where she and Richard had walked the day before.

  The clouds were as thickly lowering, and the wind was stronger, howling in from the ocean. But the rain held off as Richard, hands clasped beneath his cape, said, “And what, Master Alfred, did your Captain tell you about the hiding of his treasure? The exact words might help.”

  “When I were down in Dover the first time,” Alfred remembered, “Captain Thripp rowed ashore in a different boat to me. Two little craft, there was, and him and his little wooden chest was in t’other. I didn’t see him till that evening when we met up, like arranged, at The Sleepy Oyster. He wouldn’t say much, being as it weren’t safe. Just told me as how the dosh were safe hid, and he’d pick it up in a few days once he were sure o’ not being watched. There was folk, he told me, what he didn’t trust, and one fellow he’d seen by the boats, as was surely one o’ Babbington’s gang. The money – tis safe. That’s all he’d say.”

  “But the time was limited, I gather, “Thomas said. “So the hiding place must be close to Dover.”

  “Mighty close.”

  “And what,’ Richard asked, “did Thripp tell you this time, when you set out with your two companions and your captain’s daughter?”

  “I ain’t telling it all – not yet,” Alfred replied. “More wet than dry, I reckon from what my captain told me. Not pretty nor warm. Be prepared, he said, for the place is mighty dour.”

  “Then we meet this afternoon after dusk,” Richard nodded. “Have supper first and don’t drink too much. I suggest we meet beyond the docks, where a forested valley turns into a swamp of shallow estuary.”

  “I knows it,” Alfred sniffed, “seeing as how them were the soggy marshy places where I first stepped ashore nigh on two months back.”

  “I shall light a torch,” Richard said. “You will see the flames. If others come, we must be prepared. Make sure you are well armed.”

  “I always is,” Alfred assured him. “I ain’t no bloody fool, and it ain’t no surprise that I set off one o’ three, and now there be only me.”

  “A fair observation,” Thomas smiled. “Let’s hope it continues that way for all of us.”

  It was oysters again for supper.

  At The Sleepy Oyster there were no oysters, it now being Saturday. They served roast duck, cabbage soup with bacon pieces, custards with ham in honey, and almond flavoured wafers. Alfred, although not where he was staying since he had rented a room over the local butcher’s shop for the week, was drinking in the larger downstairs chamber, although careful, as ordered, not to drink too much.

  He was, however, closely watched.

  “That’s the bugger. The fool in the dirty blue hood and cape, in the far corner pretending not to be thirsty.”

  “What a suspicious young man you are, Ned,” the other man grumbled. “That fool, as you call him, is no doubt simply too poor to order another ale before being thrown out for taking too long over one small cup. The cape’s a torn rag. He’s a poor man alright.”

  “No.” The other shook his head. “He’s neither poor nor honest. A pirate, more like, in a cape that’s seen storms at sea. That’s Thripp’s man. I recognise and remember him well enough. Sooner or later he’ll lead us to the money Lord Staines paid Thripp, which has never been paid back. His lordship is waiting, and I’ve every intention of proving my value in his service.”

  The noise heaved like waves on the beach. Alfred, morose, was slumped in the corner against the planked wall and as near to the fire as he had been able to squash. A chilly Saturday night with expectations of a day of rest on the morrow, local traders, builders and quarrymen were warming themselves with beer and conversation before trudging home. Alfred, ordered to drink little, was stretching his ale past supper time, but as he waited he looked around, and thought he saw someone he recognised. During long meetings between Lord Staines and Captain Thripp almost one year past, his lordship had been accompanied by a small entourage of several men standing guard, and one with a paunch as large as the king’s, was known as Ned Granger.

  Ned Granger now stood in the far shadows of the Sleepy Oyster, and although Alfred kept his eyes averted, he was aware that he was being watched. He drained his cup and slipped out into the frosty evening air.

  It would, he thought, be advisable to alert Richard Wolfdon of the possibility of being followed, and so keeping to the dark, Alfred hurried through the back lanes to The White Rabbit. The drinking room was half empty for the lesser reputation of The White Rabbit did not match that of The Sleepy Oyster and clearly neither Richard nor Thomas were present. Alfred grabbed the aged innkeeper. He asked where the night’s principal paying guest might be. The innkeeper stared though myopic and bloodshot eyes.

  “Master Wolfdon? He done gone out, nigh on an hour past.” And turned away back into the tiny kitchen hut behind the main doors.

  Alfred shook his head and ordered another beer. It was too early yet for the meeting down in the forested valley near the coast, and too damn cold to stand out there waiting. Alfred drank his beer.

  Ned Granger and his younger companion, having followed Alfred at some small distance, could not enter the drink
ing house, for it was too sparsely occupied to enter there unseen. They hurried around behind the kitchen hut, where the stable block cast long shadows.

  “Wait till the bugger comes out, then we follow,” Ned muttered, voice low. The whistle of the wind was louder but his words were clear enough.

  “We’ve left our horses at the Oyster,” the other man pointed out. “Reckon I’d best go back and fetch them.”

  Ned snorted. “This fellow’s on foot. That means we need to be on foot. You think he’d not hear us cantering along at his back? No, it’s a trudge we’re in for, Bill.”

  “And if it rains?” Bill shivered, staring up. “I reckon it will.”

  “Then we get wet,” Ned said, half grunt. “Frightened of getting wet, are we?”

  “This Captain Thripp you talk of,” the other man asked, “how do you know he’s got coin hidden? And how can you know this Alf fellow is after it? Seems to me you want to wander for no good reason, and on a night fit to freeze our bollocks off. Besides, there’s only two of us. We outnumber this Alf bugger of yours, tis true, but not by much if he’s as tough as old leather, like he looks. A seafarer, you say, and a pirate. No weakling then. Lord Staines will think you mad, Ned. I think you mad. No doubt this Alfred fellow will think you mad when he’s twisting his knife in your guts.”

  But Ned laughed. “Why do you think I’m here in Dover in the first place, and have dragged you with me – what for? For a walk in the snow, perhaps? Tis you the crazed fool, Bill. His lordship heard a rumour that Thripp wasn’t as dead as the official declaration had us believe. And if Thripp was secretly alive, as seemed likely, then it was a secret for just one good reason. For him to have money well hidden, and then to claim it without paying back what he owes to the baron.”

  “And why Dover?”

  “It’s where he was seen coming ashore, some weeks back now – even though declared dead. Rumour says he crept in one night in a rowing boat. So that means the coin is here if it’s anywhere. And Alfred is sure as I remember one of Thripp’s men – so should by rights be dead himself.”

  “Well, then! Seems likely he soon will be.”

  “When he comes out the inn door,” Ned nodded, “we follow. Not too close, not too far. We can’t risk being seen till he unearths the money Thripp’s hidden.”

  “On foot, safe, dark and silent,” Bill said with a small sigh. “And no doubt soaked wet to me braies.”

  Ned sniggered. “Shame it’s not snowing, for that would leave clear footprints. At least it’s a dark night, no moon showing behind those clouds. Thripp’s man won’t be expecting a thing, and in this cold he’ll be on the run. I’ve traced cleverer fools than him. I’m the expert. He’s the thieving idiot.”

  In a tiny lime-washed annexe beside the kitchen hut, a little corner had been set aside for serving meals to anyone paying to sleep in the upstairs chambers. The two gentlemen were not present and had left the inn an hour previously. But the young woman who resided in the hostelry’s smaller bedchamber, was seated in the dining annexe eating oysters, white bread, a small baked apple in honey, served with one small cup of wine to wash down the residue.

  Jemima was sitting forlorn, and feeling distinctly alone. Having been refused any possibility of accompanying Richard and Thomas on their dangerous search for her father’s money, she had accepted the inevitable, and asked simply that they keep safe and return quickly.

  The oysters were probably two days old and no longer glistening white. Jemima decided they had died of boredom the day before. The baked apple was distinctly overcooked and the bread stale. Jemima laid down her napkin on the tablecloth and was about to rise and return to her bedchamber, when she heard voices outside, and immediately recognised the whispered word ‘Thripp’. She gulped, and sat down again in a hurry. She sat there for some time, her wine forgotten. But she heard every word spoken outside.

  Chapter Thirty

  The valley skirted the countryside west of the township, and within the gentle sloping dip, the river bed nestled and the water, half frozen along the banks, travelled snail-slow towards the sea. Leading down from Upper Kearsney, sometimes little more than a brook and sometimes flowing wide and shallow, the River Dour sheltered amongst other rivers that divided and then came once more together before a sluggish drift into the estuary. There the waters, oozing their chalky sediment, found a safe nesting place within the swampy puddles that separated land from sea. Some threads were deep enough to splash eventually into the ocean, others disappeared into sludge. Where the banks were high and steep, the waters churned and fled downstream. Where the banks meandered low and hesitant, so the river had been turned to ice and the birds skated, searching for cracks and a chance to fish.

  Richard stood at the fork of two shallow channels, staring down. The torch flared, the flame whipped up in the wind. Richard held it high.

  The second torch sparked and Thomas stared through the scarlet veil. “Damnation,” he muttered. “I shall be scorch-fingered for weeks.”

  “Gloves?” Richard suggested.

  “Too late.”

  But Richard was staring from river to stream and onwards to the rise where the valley tipped up into low hills. “Three, and three and three,” he murmured. “But to count anything, one must know where to start.”

  “No doubt that was what the bugger told the other man,” Thomas said under his breath. “Samuel, wasn’t it. Killed by Babbington’s crowd.”

  “Then we use what little brain we have between us.” Richard looked up suddenly. “So what is here worth the counting? The streams, each a trickle of the estuary, are the most obvious. There are a number of them. And we know we look for a small wooden chest, which will undoubtedly be under water.”

  “Three streams? Three chests? Three hours to find them before we drop dead of the cold?”

  “No.” Richard shook his head, well cocooned within his hood. “Only one chest has ever been mentioned. I suggest we start from the east, closest to Dover. We then ride westwards and stop at the ninth channel we pass. If it is a direct route in from the sea, and deep enough for Thripp to have rowed inland along it, then it’s there I suggest we search.”

  “And break through the ice, I suppose?”

  “He’d not risk permitting the chest to float downriver,” nodded Richard. “It must be wedged. The ice may make it harder to see but easier to pull out. First, let’s see what the ninth channel shows us.” He looked around, holding the torch higher. “If we find nothing, then we need to think again.”

  “It’s going to be a damned long night.”

  “But first we wait for Alfred, and see if he offers any greater clarity to this absurd search.”

  They had tethered their horses to the avenue of birches, bare branched, that lined the banks. Thomas pointed. “Too damn cold. Let's ride, see if we can find Alfred on the way here since he’ll be on foot, and even more frozen than we are.”

  Thomas strode to his horse’s side, loosening the reins from their looped knots over the old tree branch. But Richard paused. “Wait,” he said, low voiced. “I hear something at some distance. But approaching. A horse perhaps, through undergrowth.”

  “Alfred has no horse.”

  “Then we are being visited by someone else,” murmured Richard, “which is not such good news.”

  At several miles east in the small hostelry of The White Rabbit, Jemima had grabbed up her new cloak and run to the stables, calling urgently for a groom. “My horse, saddled quickly. Quicker, hurry. And,” as she watched the boy rush to obey her at that unexpected hour, “where shall I find the River Dour? Is it close?”

  “Close enough, mistress. Ride west and you’ll ride straight into it.”

  The reins in her hands, one foot to the stirrup and not caring how much ankle she showed, Jemima turned, asking, “Due west? Point. Tell me exactly.”

  The boy answered and watched her gallop from the stable courtyard in such a rush that he sat down on the straw and gaped, rubbing his eyes.
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br />   Jemima lowered her head to her horse’s neck and followed the boy’s directions out into the whistle and wail of the wind over open ground. The stars were nestled behind heavy cloud and she felt the sting of cold rain in the air. The cloak’s hood protected her, and the horse, well trained, kept pace through the undergrowth over the uneven ground.

  It was not so long before she glimpsed the flicker of flame between the dark tree trunks ahead, and the vivid reflections in a glimmer of water below. She slowed, tightened the reins, and dared to call. The voice that answered was soft, low, and a huge relief.

  Richard strode from the gloom, and even in the shadows beneath the high-held torch, she could see his smile. “You should not have come. Is something wrong?” He took the bridle of her horse, slowing it and calming it, smoothing the froth from its neck while looking up into the frantic light in her eyes. “Quick, tell me, are you hurt?”,

  She shook her head and the hood tumbled as she dismounted half into Richard’s arms, half into the squelch of melting ice. “Not hurt, no. I was eating supper and overheard people talking outside. They’re following Alfred. They know what’s he’s doing and it could be dangerous, but they didn’t seem to know about you. Is Alfred here yet?”

  “No.” Thomas led the horse away, tethering it beside the others. “We expect him any moment but he’ll be on foot.”

  “Then,” Richard was still smiling, “the night should be even longer and more interesting than I anticipated. How many men? Locals? And how do they know of him??”

  Jemima explained, shivering back into the deeper shadows and peering out, pulling the furry warmth of her hood back over her head. “Only two, I think. They spoke of Lord Staines. My father told me about him and he’s dangerous. It seems he’s heard my father might be alive and sent men down to Dover to try and ferret out the truth. They recognised Alfred, and are following him.”