Hope's Betrayal (6 page)

"It's
true." Bennett shook his head sadly, which served to irritate
Huntley."Someone warned them we were onto them. But who?" He growled.

"I hope
you're not insinuating I had anything to do with it."

"No one is
above suspicion."

"Does that
include the pretty smuggler tucked up at The Grange?" The bile in
Bennett's voice caught Huntley by surprise.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning,
Captain, someone has still to answer for Cooper's murder."

"Then we
want the same thing."

"Do
we?"

"Of
course." Huntley's flesh crept. It was unlike Bennett to be so
insubordinate. "Why would you think differently?"

"Tis not
just me saying this, Captain, but most folks hereabouts. They can’t understand
why she is featherbedded, when the smugglers killed an officer."

"I will
bring whoever shot Cooper to justice, I give my word."

"Good.
We've given your plan long enough and now it's time the girl is moved to
jail."

"Sergeant,
you rise above yourself. That's my decision, no one elses."

"Well, if I
were in your shoes…"

It had been a
long, hard night and the need for soft words escaped Huntley. "And if
you'd done your job adequately, I wouldn't have been posted here." His
expression set hard.

Two hot spots
appeared on Bennett’s lined cheeks. “I do my best with limited resources. Most
folk hereabouts benefit from smuggling one way or another, why, even the
parson's nightcap is a particularly fine brandy, or so I've heard.”

 “And with
Cooper’s death opinions will harden against the smugglers. People will see them
for the felons they are.”

 “You are right,
but be warned, Captain Huntley, and I say this as a friend. There are murmurs
of men taking matters into their own hands—a lynching party for the girl—if you
do not act soon to avenge Cooper’s murder.”

In exasperation,
Huntley ran his hand through his hair. “Look here, Bennett, it’s late…or
rather, early. Let’s stop now before words are said which are regretted later.”

Bennett's mouth
formed a thin line. "She needs to be in jail before things get out of
hand."

Huntley took a
deep breath. "I hear what you're saying, but Miss Tyler didn’t fire the
fatal shot. I know that, because she was being chased across the dunes at the
time—by me."

"That's as
maybe, but…"

"But
nothing. Say we put her in jail. When things calm down and folk realise the
Revenue put a girl in a filthy cell to rot…what then? Because I tell you, doors
will close in our faces. The locals will close ranks and we'll be no nearer to
catching the ringleaders. And that's who we want—the men financing the ring.”

“Aye, and happen
folks will say that you hadn’t the stomach to let her swing, because you are
sweet on her.”

The accusation
turned the Captain’s stomach.

“The dirty
minded little…” Huntley clenched his fists.

Bennett spoke
quietly. "So, Captain? Best send her to jail?"

Huntley started
to pace. There were things he wanted to say which Bennett would not understand.
He longed to tell him of Hope's loyalty, that she would hang rather than give
away the conspirators. That she had been a worthy adversary on the dunes, a
woman whose match he had never encountered before, and that she was protecting
people.

"We want
the real felons, those that finance the smuggling runs. On my honor, I will
track those men down and bring them to justice."

"Captain."
Bennett couldn’t meet his eye.

"I have a
plan, but don’t imagine it will be popular. As soon as Miss Tyler can travel,
I'm sending her home."

"Funny,
sir, for a moment I could have sworn you said you'd free the girl."

"I did.
She'll be followed of course, watched twenty-four hours a day.”

The light of
comprehension dawned across Bennett's face.

"Ah, use
her to lead you to the ringleaders."

"Exactly."

Huntley should
have been triumphant, but instead he felt hollow—hollow because it meant using
Miss Tyler.

"Very good,
Captain."

Huntley
grimaced. "Now go home, I can’t abide that smell any longer."

"What about
you sir? Hadn't you best be off too?"

"Yes, but
first, I've to write a report on tonight's fiasco."

*****

It took into the
early hours for Huntley to write an account of the foiled raid. By the time he
was ready to leave, the wind had dropped. He found his horse, Nero, dozing in
his stall, tacked up the cob and lead him out into streets washed clean by
recent rain, the air crisp and sharp. Sensing his master's dark mood, the horse
decided against playing up and trotted along, meek as a child's pony.

Huntley left the
narrow, winding streets of Sandehope behind and took the coastal road. With the
sea to the left and hills to the right, the Captain found the shushing waves
soothing on his rattled nerves. He let the reins hang slack, trusting Nero to
follow the familiar route back to The Grange. The rhythmic pace of Nero's
stride helped Huntley to think; the trouble was, the more Huntley dwelt on
Bennett's words, the more sense they made. It irked him to admit it, but it
seemed possible Hope might have overheard something and then warned her
comrades. Exactly how he had no idea. Frustration cloaked him like a shroud.
And if Bennett was right, then Miss Tyler had taken kindness for weakness…

Half an hour
later and streaks of crimson lit the dawn sky. As horse and rider crested a
hill, The Grange's grounds unfolded before them, swathed in mist. Drawn by the
promise of a waiting stall, the great black horse picked up pace.  Following
the sweeping drive, the mist thickened into fog, and tracking around to the
back of the house, Nero's hooves echoed around the stable yard. Huntley swung
clear of the saddle and landed gracefully on the balls of his feet. Hooking the
reins over his shoulder, he led the cob to his stable.

Rather than wake
a stable lad at this ungodly hour, Huntley untacked Nero and brushed the horse
down himself. With broad, strong strokes he burnished Nero's coat until it
shone and only after feeding and watering the cob, Huntley thought to address
his own needs.

The house was
still locked and shuttered, so Huntley skulked around to the kitchens. His
sudden appearance like some mud-stained phantasm, startled the scullery maid.
She dropped the coal scuttle and shrieked.

"Beggin'
pardon, Captain." Panting, she dropped a hasty curtsy. "You made me
jump."

Huntley stalked
past into the passageway, leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the clean
floor, which set the maid scowling after his back. In the grand hallway, with a
faint smell of beeswax and hyacinths, Huntley caught his reflection in a
mirror—disheveled and filthy. He pushed back his hair and examined his unshaven
state.  He needed a bath but remembering there was only one maid as yet on
duty, he decided to get drunk instead.

Taking the
stairs two at a time, the Captain sought the solitude of the library. The fire
had long since burned out, but a full decanter was all the warmth Huntley
needed. Settling deep within a leather armchair, he poured out a whisky, stared
into the ashes of the dead fire and drifted into an uneasy sleep

In his dreams he
ran through quicksand, his limbs leaden, lungs burning with the effort. But the
harder he tried to run, the deeper he sank. First his feet, then ankles, then
knees engulfed by the greedy sands. He resisted, pulling out one leg, only to
have the other submerged. Then the bog gripped his waist, the dampness chilling
his skin as he wrenched free. He was woken by the clatter of the poker he'd
sent flying as he kicked out.

Now fully awake,
Huntley blinked in the watery morning light. A maid had set a coal scuttle in
the hearth but not set the fire, presumably for fear of waking him. Instead, he
found his legs weighed down beneath a rug. Suddenly aware of the smell of
frying bacon, his stomach growled like a caged bear. Rising stiffly, he decided
on breakfast first and a hot bath second, and followed the smell of cooking.

On any other day
Huntley found the breakfast room cheering; chosen for its sunny aspect even in
dull weather with its sunny yellow wallpaper. Portraits of Huntley children, of
favorite pets and his late father's hunter, hung on the walls, but today, their
carefree presence seemed to mock the Captain. The only pleasing thing was that
he was alone, for he wasn't in the mood for small talk. Before his grumbling
stomach woke the whole household, he made for the sideboard. Lifting one cloche
then another, he piled his plate with bacon, sausage, fried eggs and salmon
fillets but when he turned to take a seat, he nearly dropped the lot.

"Good
morning, George dear."

Neatly dressed
in a lilac morning dress, a lace cap crowning her greying hair, Lady Ryevale
greeted him.

"Mother?
You're up early."

"Yes dear.
I wanted to see you were home safe."

"Well, as
you see, I am in one piece." Huntley didn’t mean to be curt, but did she
think him a child? But if his mother noticed his bad humor, she chose to ignore
it.

"What is
the terrible smell?" Her nose wrinkled. "Phew! Like…bad fish. And you
look dreadful."

George took a
seat. “Apologies, Mother, if I appear a trifle unkempt. I was working all
night, not attending a soiree.”

 “There’s no
need to take that tone. Do I take it the raid was not a success?”

“An
understatement! It was an unmitigated disaster.”

“Do you want to
talk about it?”

The last thing
Huntley wanted was to recount the humiliation, and yet, better she heard it
from him than servants' chatter. His shoulders slumped.

"We were
tricked."

"How
so?"

"The
smugglers' substituted fish guts for brandy. I was so certain of our source,
that I made the Excise men empty each barrel…"

Lady Ryevale
looked thoughtful. "Your information was good. What else could you have
done?"

"But that's
the rub. Because of my shortcomings, the smugglers made us a laughing stock.
Once word spreads, my reputation is in tatters."

"I don’t
follow."

Huntley's hand
tightened on a fork. "Someone found out our plans and warned the
smugglers."

 Lady Ryevale
stared blankly. "So? Treachery is a hazard of the job."

"Oh Mother,
don’t you see. It was Miss Tyler!" He wanted his mother to laugh and say,
'how ridiculous', yet she did not.

"Are you
certain?"

"No, but it
seems the most likely explanation."

"And you
are surprised?"

Huntley looked
up, startled. It was a good question.

"Not so
much surprised, as disappointed." He said slowly, realising it to be the
truth.

"How
so?"

"I suppose
I assumed she had a sense of honor. That by treating her kindly, she would
respect my position."

"And if you
were in her place—what would you have done?"

Huntley sighed
deeply. "I see where you are heading."

"And
remember you brought Miss Tyler here, to keep her alive long enough to be
interrogated. In her mind she owes you nothing."

"Aye,
that's true." He pushed his hands through his hair. "In reality, it's
whoever talked in her hearing that is responsible."

"Hope is a
decent girl. I'm sure whatever she did was for good reason."

"Mother,
are you taking her side?"

"No, but
I'm just saying, if you talked instead of bullied her, you find she's an
intelligent young lady with a lively mind."

 Huntley rolled
his eyes. "Phish! Next you'll be saying she's accomplished on the
virginale."

Lady Ryevale
bristled. "You shouldn’t scoff. She's a highly capable girl who speaks a
smattering of French and is educated in the classics."

"Indeed
Mother, exactly how much time have you been spending together? I must caution
you not to get attached."

"She's not
a puppy, George! If you listened to her…"

"Well
therein lies the problem—she won’t talk to me. Clams up tighter than a
duck's…well, very tight."

"Then try
again."

"It's too
late."

"Oh, do
stop talking in riddles."

Huntley sighed,
duty heavy on his shoulders. "Bennett says the men are agitating for
Hope's arrest. Only the arrest of the leaders will placate them. Truly, if you
care for Hope, find out who finances that gang."

Lady Ryevale
grew pale. “I…I…cant.” She dropped her gaze, unable to look her son in the
face.

“Why not?”