Angel's Touch (24 page)

She
was glad, nevertheless, to see that, once out of the valley, they
very quickly left the main road and travelled cross-country via a
series of byways. She was in no fit state to be seen by chance
wayfarers. She would have liked to converse with her dour
companion, ask where they were going, but their relative positions
made speech impossible.

They
had been travelling for what seemed an age when Peneli slowed the
pony’s pace, allowing the donkey to come up alongside. His dark
face looked down at Verity, expressionless.

‘
Can
ye tell me why I should help ye find yon markiss’s
childer?’

A
wild pulse began to pump in Verity’s heart, but she met his gaze
unflinchingly. ‘You are camped on his land.’

‘
Be
it we owe him a favour, then?’

‘
Perhaps.’ Verity drew a resolute breath and went on firmly.
‘But I think you will rather help me from out of a warm heart. The
same impulse of charity that led you to approach his children that
day we met. For you knew who they were, and you were going to help
them then, were you not?’

‘
Aye,’ he agreed, his voice devoid of any expression that
might give her a clue to his thoughts. ‘Would’ve took ’em
home.’

‘
Why didn’t you
say?’
Verity burst
out.

He
shrugged. ‘Who’d believe a gypsy? Blame us first, ask questions
after.’

She
was obliged to admit the truth of this. A stupid prejudice, and she
had fallen victim to it herself. But there was little point in
discussing it. She turned the subject.

‘
Where are you taking me?’

‘
Inn
up yonder. Fiddler’s Haunt, they calls it. Place of thieves and
vagabonds.’ He grinned maliciously. ‘The likes o’ we.’

Verity ignored the taunt, but put an anxious plea. ‘I beg you
will not leave me there.’

‘
Don’t fear on’t. Mairenni sent me with ye. Mairenni’s word is
law.’

‘
Is
she the—the chieftain?’

Unexpectedly, he gave out a loud guffaw. ‘Nay. She’s me mam.
We be all her childer, or her childer’s mates.’

Verity was silent, thinking how odd it was that one should
think differently and fearfully of a people whose core of life was
in fact very similar to one’s own. Old Mairenni, the matriarch,
living among her own close-knit family, just as her own and her
sisters’ lives revolved closely around her father.

Their arrival minutes later at the Fiddler’s Haunt put paid
to such idle whimsy. It was a disreputable establishment,
dilapidated and dirty, a place at which no respectable person would
choose to bait. Scrawny livestock roamed its yard, scratching for
food, and a slatternly maidservant scoured pans under the
pump.

Peneli tethered the
mounts and led the way into the dark interior. The large taproom
stank of stale drink and tobacco, and a haze of smoke from a dozen
pipes dimmed what little light filtered through the grimy
windows.

Verity, sticking close
to her guide, felt the eyes that appraised her from the shadows
hunched on benches in dark corners. She was thankful that her own
dirt and disorder allowed her to blend into the scene.

She would have been
more fearful still had she known that those unseen eyes easily saw
beyond a few mere rips and smears of dirt. The indefinable quality
that characterised her was obvious to those whose callings demanded
an ability to sum up all chance strangers encountered in the course
of their dubious careers.

Peneli moved to the
counter, found a chair and bade his fair companion sit and be
silent. Verity obeyed, feeling lonely and exposed as he left her to
saunter from one group to another, muttering in a low tone with
those he met.

As
Verity watched him, her fear erupted in a dreadful vision: the
shadows in the corners creeping forward, surrounding the shrinking
heroine, their grimy, sweat-shining faces flickering evilly in the
lanterns held in one or two hands, closing in on her, lasciviously
smiling, licking their lips in anticipation at the thought of their
evil intent. One filthy paw reached out to the beautiful young
girl’s face and she opened her mouth to scream.

‘
Don’t fear!’ said Peneli’s deep voice, his rough tone low and
soothing.

With
a start, Verity came to herself to see the gypsy regarding her
intently, beside him a thick-set man who was eyeing her with
undisguised interest. She caught herself up on a gasp, annoyed at
having once again given way to her propensity for daydreaming. She
felt clammy and cold, and realised that she was allowing fear to
rule her.

She drew a steadying
breath, threw a glance of reassurance at Peneli, and boldly stared
back at the man he had brought, taking in the heavy jowls and the
broken nose. Something clicked in her brain.

‘
Gracious heaven, you are Sam Shottle!’

He
looked taken aback. ‘How come you knows me name,
missie?’

‘
You
were pointed out to me at the diversions. The fair, you know, the
other day.’ She got up, her voice eager. This was the man who had
been talking with the children’s nurse that day, the man who had
been identified by the boy Jed.

‘
This is fortuitous, for you are acquainted with Kittle. And
you’ve seen the children. Surely, surely, you can help me? Has he
told you? They’ve been taken, but they can’t have gone far. And
perhaps you know people who will have information. The marquis will
pay well, I know that.’

Sam
Shottle scratched his chin. ‘Well, I don’t know, missie. Did hear
talk of summat o’ the kind. No notion they meant the markiss’s
children, mind.’

‘
You
know something? Oh, pray tell me!’

‘
Not to say
know
exactly,’ Shottle said
cautiously. ‘Heard talk, I did, that’s all.’

‘
But
who
? Who talked? Can we not consult
them?’ begged Verity, oblivious now to the unsavoury
surroundings.

Shottle looked dubious. ‘Don’t know as how—’

‘
Please.’
Driven to
desperate measures, Verity seized on the most persuasive argument
she could think of. ‘I can guarantee you a reward, for I am—I am
to
marry
the
marquis.’

She
was aware of a concerted reaction through the stuffy room. Murmurs
and movement rippled from man to man. Sam Shottle’s keen eyes
gleamed with a new light.

‘
Are
you, now?’ he said in a ruminating tone. ‘That’s different, that
is. Reckon I’d better take you to see Oily Hargate. ’Tis him and
Jim Brigg as I hear a-gabbling o’ them there nippers.’

‘
Do
you mean you know where they might be found? Oh, thank
heaven!’

‘
I don’t say as I
know
exactly,’ pointed out Shottle
with his usual caution. ‘I’m saying as how I can take you to Oily
Hargate, that’s all.’

Verity smiled in relief. ‘That will do for a
start.’

She
was thankful to come back out into the bright sunshine, for the
foul air of the Fiddler’s Haunt was more overpowering than the heat
outside. Peneli the gypsy accompanied them for a little way, and
then handed the donkey’s rein to Sam Shottle.

‘
You’re leaving us?’ Verity asked, disappointed.

Peneli turned his impassive stare upon her. ‘B’ain’t fitting.
Remember, blame first, questions after.’

Verity sighed. She
understood. There was trouble brewing. The gypsies could not afford
to become involved. Especially when it concerned the man whose land
they were currently occupying.

Peneli told her she could borrow the donkey. ‘When yer done
with he, let he go. Him’ll find his own way.’

‘
Nothing of the sort,’ Verity said indignantly. ‘I shall bring
him to you. Or at least send him with a messenger.’

She
thanked the gypsy warmly for his help, but as he rode off in the
opposite direction her heart sank and she looked with growing
apprehension at the burly back of her new guide as he plodded on
foot, the leading rein grasped firmly in his hand. The words of
young Jed, Wystan’s friend the climbing boy, came back to her
unpleasantly. “He beginned by thievin’ and poachin’. . . Reckons to
make his fortune. .
. He’ll end in Botany
Bay.”
Into what hands had she delivered
herself?

The
way to the establishment inhabited by this Oily Hargate appeared to
Verity even more circuitous than the journey she had taken to the
Fiddler’s Haunt. But at last they came to a cottage. Shottle led
the donkey around to the back and Verity was able to see that it
was practically derelict and, she realised with a quickening of her
heartbeat, extremely isolated.

There was a species of small barn off to its rear and to this
Shottle turned his steps, pointing ahead, and saying gruffly over
his shoulder, ‘You better hide in there, missie, while I finds out
if Oily knows summat.’

Verity eyed the barn with misgiving. ‘Why should I do that?
If he’s here, he must have seen us arrive.’

‘
Likely he’s asleep. Or drunk,’ said Shottle sapiently. ‘Else
he’d have come out by this.’

He
was still leading the donkey towards the rickety-looking barn, and,
quite suddenly, a sound like muffled crying came to Verity’s
ears.

‘
What’s that?’ she demanded suspiciously, and, without waiting
for aid, pushed herself sideways and slid off the donkey’s
back.

She landed awkwardly,
but was up in a second, running to the barn as another, more
distinct sob reached her.

‘
Wystan! Wystan! Are you in there?’ she called out, frenziedly
rattling the locked door.

There was silence from
within. Then a muffled, hoarse shrieking broke out. Eyes blazing,
Verity turned on Sam Shottle.

‘
Open this door n
ow!’

With a nonchalant air,
Shottle dug into a deep pocket and, smiling, brought out a key
which he twirled ostentatiously.

‘
Open it,’ Verity repeated, in a voice trembling with rage,
far too upset to take in the implications of his
actions.

The man unlocked the
door and tugged it open with a flourish. Verity ran inside, peering
in the sudden gloom. On a heap of sacking at the far end Wystan was
lying, hands and feet bound, a scarf about his mouth, while near
him was Peggy, peacefully asleep.

‘
Oh,
my poor darlings,’ Verity cried out in distress, and dashed
forward.

The door behind her
slammed shut, and the key turned in the lock.

***

‘
My
lord, I beg you to listen to reason,’ the secretary said urgently,
going so far as to lay a restraining hand on the marquis’s
arm.

‘
Reason?’ Salmesbury repeated, a dull agony
in his black eyes. ‘My children are gone, and Miss Lambourn after
them, and you talk to me of
reason?’

‘
My
lord, Miss Lambourn’s visit to the gypsy camp was to seek help. I
am sure of it.’

‘
Then why won’t they
answer
? Damn them all to
hell!’

Henry shook off Inskip’s hand and threw his arm across his
forehead. The headache was blinding and he could not think. On his
return to Braxted Place, he had raised the alarm, and would have
gone on to the gypsy encampment immediately, had not Inskip
persuaded him that a groom on horseback would travel faster—and
perhaps glean more information, though that thought he kept to
himself. But Hoff, the only groom Salmesbury would trust, had met
with the same wall of silence that had greeted Verity. The gypsies
responded equally to either pleas and threats with nothing but
blank stares. Hoff had been obliged to concede defeat.

Meanwhile, from the
headquarters of the massive office, the secretary had organised a
comprehensive search of the estate, and the news of the kidnap had
spread like wildfire through the district.

It
was oddly disquieting to watch the distress accumulating in his
employer’s face in these opulent surroundings. The green and gold
décor, the gilt ornamentation to the mantel and the ceiling, and
the elegant proportions of the furnishings seemed incongruous set
against the dark shadow of anguish that was the Marquis of
Salmesbury.

Inskip exchanged
concerned glances with the chaplain, Eastleigh, as their master
staggered blindly to his chair, and, leaning his elbow on the rich
wood desk, dropped his aching head into his hands.

‘
My
lord, can I get you anything?’ Eastleigh asked anxiously, coming
forward.

Salmesbury raised his head and shook it briefly, his pale
features drawn, his eyes haggard as he sat kneading his brow. ‘I
have the headache.’

‘
I
am not surprised, my lord,’ Eastleigh said sympathetically. ‘Shall
I send for a composer, perhaps? Laudanum?’

No,’
Henry snapped. Then, recollecting himself, he summoned a brief
smile and said more gently, ‘No, thank you. I have no intention of
returning to that particular slavery.’

He had taken so much
of the pain-killing substance during the worst of his nightmare
experiences that he had almost become an addict. It had been Hoff,
that bluff, scolding nursemaid of a groom, who had saved him,
dashing the glass from his hand, forcing him to do without it and
learn to overcome by sheer force of will both his physical and
mental agonies.