Instruments of Darkness (20 page)
Read Instruments of Darkness Online
Authors: Imogen Robertson
Tags: #Historical fiction, #Crime Fiction
Graves pulled himself very straight. ‘You think I should steal from his children? What sort of creature are you?’
Molloy laughed till he had to pause for breath and spit on the ground.
‘Creature am I, indeed? Well, at least the coat I walk about in I have paid for.’ Graves blushed. ‘Twenty shillings is how the debt stands. I would not wish to embarrass you by asking for it from Mr Chase while you are under his roof, keeping an eye on your little charges.’
Graves felt himself go pale. ‘How twenty shillings? I could not have owed more than half that.’
‘You writerly types will never understand the function of interest, will you now?’ Molloy shook his head sadly at what passed for an educated man these days. ‘Now, perhaps you might get a little reward, or ask for one if you are too busy running about the streets to practise your trade, that is your concern. Just make sure I have the money in my fist by Monday dinnertime, and I shall tip my hat to you all friendly-like. Any later than that and you’ll be locked up in the prison before you can spit.’
Graves felt his shoulders sag.
‘I shall make it easy for you, Graves. I shan’t stir far from Sutton Street over the next day or two. That way you’ll know how to find me.’
Molloy put a hand to his hat brim and seemed to disappear into the shadows again without a sound. Graves sagged for a moment then, straightening his back, he walked on towards the home of Mr Chase.
18 April 1775, Boston, Massachusetts Bay, America
I
T WAS UNFORTUNATE, and of course, Captain Devaille was known to be a fool, and no one in the regiment could understand why he had not transferred out when they had been sent to America, but he would not have spoken as he did if he had known Hugh was within earshot. Thornleigh had paused in the doorway to the officers’ mess to knock some of the dirt of Boston off his boots, so Hawkshaw was a few moments ahead of him, greeting his fellow officers and calling for news and claret in the same breath.
T WAS UNFORTUNATE, and of course, Captain Devaille was known to be a fool, and no one in the regiment could understand why he had not transferred out when they had been sent to America, but he would not have spoken as he did if he had known Hugh was within earshot. Thornleigh had paused in the doorway to the officers’ mess to knock some of the dirt of Boston off his boots, so Hawkshaw was a few moments ahead of him, greeting his fellow officers and calling for news and claret in the same breath.
Captain Devaille heard his voice and without turning round called out: ‘Hawkshaw! You’re thick with Thornleigh, aren’t you? How does he take the news that the Earl of Sussex has married his whore? What a mother to come home to!’
There was a horrible silence, and Devaille turned suddenly in his chair and cursed as he saw Hugh’s broad shoulders form a shadow in the doorway. He stood, stock still and white. His hands clenched.
‘Thornleigh. M-my apologies,’ Devaille spluttered. ‘I . . . My father wrote me, just came in an hour ago.’
Hugh took a step forward, his face and manner murderous. Hawkshaw moved in front of him, facing Devaille.
‘We’ve been riding out. Not checked for letters yet. No doubt there is some mistake.’
Devaille looked in danger of being sick; he could not meet Hugh’s black eyes, still fixed on him over Hawkshaw’s shoulder.
‘No doubt, Hawkshaw. Of course.’
‘Some other Earl of Sussex, presumably,’ drawled another voice.
Hawkshaw glanced angrily in the direction it came from. An older Lieutenant, Gregson, who looked in his well-cut coat as if he had mistook the mess for a Duchess’s drawing room, smiled sweetly at him. Hawkshaw turned to Hugh.
‘Come on, Thornleigh. Leave with me now. Let us see what news from England we have.’
But Hugh took another half-step forward, apparently unhearing. Devaille’s chair scraped on the stone floor as he retreated in front of him.
‘Damn it, Hugh,’ Hawkshaw sighed. ‘Time enough to kill and be killed tomorrow.’
‘Oh, tomorrow will be like stealing butter from the nursery table,’ sang the voice of Gregson again. ‘We are to have a brisk walk through the countryside, blow up some powder the rebels have scraped together, and then trot home again.’
Hawkshaw turned on him. ‘You are mighty open about our Army’s plans, sir.’
Gregson held up his hand, as if gently fending off Hawkshaw’s annoyance. ‘We are among friends, are we not?’
Before Hawkshaw could reply, Hugh turned and walked out of the door, leaving it to clatter to behind him. Hawkshaw rubbed his face and collapsed into a chair. Food and wine were put in front of him.
‘Thanks, Hawkshaw,’ Devaille said under his breath.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Devaille,’ he replied without much heat.
‘And if you fight as carelessly as you talk, you won’t bother me much longer.’
He began to eat.
As the afternoon slipped towards evening, the atmosphere in the camp became more charged with the promise of action.
Devaille’s comments were confirmed, first by another officer whose letters from home contained the same gossip, and then in a paragraph in a month-old copy of the
Gentleman’s Magazine
which was being handed round the mess. It was passed to Hawkshaw open at the significant page, and with a tap of a thumb on the middle paragraph.
Gentleman’s Magazine
which was being handed round the mess. It was passed to Hawkshaw open at the significant page, and with a tap of a thumb on the middle paragraph.
It seems that no one, not even one of the highest personages in our land, is immune from the terrible passions and persuasions of great beauty. The holder of one of England’s oldest and most stainless Earldoms Lord T- of T- Hall in Sussex, has gone against the wishes of all his friends and lately married Miss Jemima B-, also known under her professional name of ‘The Glorious Jemima’, when she graces the public in Covent Garden with her performances of dances from around the world. The lady in question is known to be the friend of several other members of the aristocracy, if not of their wives. Much as it pains us, we cannot forbear but to point out that Viscount H-, son and heir of Lord T-, was cast out of his family for honourably loving and desiring to marry a humble but beautiful young lady of spotless character some ten years ago, and has made his way in obscurity ever since.
Hawkshaw threw down the paper and went outside, walking without great purpose till he found himself at the edge of the camp. The light began to leach out of the sky in front of him. He thought about the action of the coming day. He could feel the unnatural calm he always experienced before and during action begin to circulate in his veins. He smiled at it, as if greeting an old friend. He heard a footstep beside him; it was Gregson, probably seeking some peace himself. He approached with a nod and offered Hawkshaw a cigar from a leather case he carried in his breast pocket. Hawkshaw hesitated a second, and then took it, thanking him stiffly before lighting it and drawing in the thick grey smoke to roll around his mouth.
‘Have you seen Thornleigh since he heard?’ The man asked.
Hawkshaw shook his head.
‘I decided I’d leave him to his own thoughts. He did get letters from home. Presumably there is something from the Earl. But you know Thornleigh. He won’t want to discuss his family with any of us.’
They heard a branch crack behind them.
‘Who goes there?’ Gregson demanded of the shadows of a small clump of low bushy trees a couple of yards away. ‘Come out, and let us see you!’
A thin, middle-aged man stepped into the light. He was carrying firewood under his arm.
‘Sorry, sir. I’m Shapin, I help out in the kitchens.’
The man held out his wood in front of him as if he were offering his papers for inspection. He was dressed in the homespun of the country farmers and labourers. His back was a little bent, and a long scar across his neck glittered palely under his otherwise heavy tan. His accent had an American drawl, but you could still hear the old country under it, like a woman’s scent clinging to her handkerchief, though the girl herself is long gone.
‘What are you doing, skulking about in the shadows, Shapin?’
Shapin looked like he thought this was a rather simple-minded question in the circumstances, and rattled his sticks together.
‘Collecting kindling, sir. Then I heard the name Thornleigh, and it brought me up sharp. Is one of the Earl of Sussex’s sons serving here? Is it Mr Alexander, or Mr Hugh?’ He looked up at them expectantly. The two Captains exchanged glances, and Hawkshaw shrugged.
‘The Honourable Hugh Thornleigh is a Captain of the Grenadiers in my regiment.’
Shapin looked pleased. ‘That’s good to know! I served the family back in England, you see. I knew Mr Hugh when he was just a little boy, before his mother died.’ A sudden thought seemed to cross Shapin’s mind. He blushed, and gathered his sticks to his breast. ‘I must get back. The kitchens will be wanting me.’
He was off again towards camp before the officers could speak to him again. They watched him trot away.
‘Do you think he might be a spy, Hawkshaw?’
‘Well, if he is, he is a very bad one.’
The gentlemen returned their attention to their cigars, and to discussion of the coming action.
His duties done, Hawkshaw still could not settle, and though he knew he should be resting in preparation of the night march ahead of him, before the hour was out he decided to pay Shapin a visit in the kitchen. He had some vague plan of introducing him to Hugh in an attempt to bring him out of whatever black mood the news of his father’s marriage had dropped him into. His visit was not welcome. When he asked after the man, the Quartermaster cursed him.
‘So it was you scared Shapin away, was it, Captain?’
‘I can’t see how I would have made him nervous.’
‘Well, someone did.’ The man spat onto the soil floor. ‘He came in here looking all white and stared about him like his wits were gone, then next thing we know he dropped his kindling and lit out like the devil himself were after him.’
‘He claimed some acquaintance with Captain Thornleigh’s family in Sussex.’
One of the passing royalists caught this and laughed.
‘That’ll be what did it. He was transported for stealing from them, came here as an indentured servant a good twenty years ago. Always wondered why he was spending time round our camp anyway. God knows, he’s got no reason to love England. Probably thought Captain Thornleigh had come over special to hang him.’
Hawkshaw turned to the man. ‘For theft, you say?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. And I wish you would stop sending your felons over here, too. We already have plenty of people that need hanging, thank you very much.’ The man paused and rubbed his chin. ‘Mind you, he tried once soon after he arrived to save us the burden of looking after him.’ He drew a finger across his throat, and Hawkshaw remembered the scar. ‘He proved no better at that than at his thievery. He was patched up and put to work again.’
‘He didn’t try to get home when the term of his transportation was up?’
‘Doubt he had much to go back to. Many of them lose heart, or any idea of going back after ten years.’
Hawkshaw frowned. ‘Where do you think he’s gone?’
‘Probably had a think about his allegiances and has moved over to the rebels. Next time you see him, he’ll be waving some grandmother’s flint-lock at you.’
Hawkshaw nodded, and wandered out of the building.
PART III
III.1
Sunday, 4 June 1780
C
ROWTHER WAS SURPRISED how quickly he warmed to the life and atmosphere of Caveley Park. Today, the housekeeper smiled at him when she opened the door, and he was ushered into the salon to wait for the ladies’ return from church. He watched out of the window as the little boy swooped round the lawns mimicking the flight of the crows under the eye of his nursemaid, who cradled the baby of the family in her arms. When Crowther was a boy, church service every Sunday had been an inescapable duty, until he learned exactly when to disappear into hiding. It had to be near enough to the time when the family had to leave to make a thorough search for him impossible. And this young boy was handed all this freedom and air as his natural right. He wondered if Stephen would follow his father to sea. Another few years of play then a life of salt and bells.
ROWTHER WAS SURPRISED how quickly he warmed to the life and atmosphere of Caveley Park. Today, the housekeeper smiled at him when she opened the door, and he was ushered into the salon to wait for the ladies’ return from church. He watched out of the window as the little boy swooped round the lawns mimicking the flight of the crows under the eye of his nursemaid, who cradled the baby of the family in her arms. When Crowther was a boy, church service every Sunday had been an inescapable duty, until he learned exactly when to disappear into hiding. It had to be near enough to the time when the family had to leave to make a thorough search for him impossible. And this young boy was handed all this freedom and air as his natural right. He wondered if Stephen would follow his father to sea. Another few years of play then a life of salt and bells.
Crowther continued to watch until the boy looked up and, seeing him, waved. The maid too, her attention caught by Stephen, turned and raised her hand with a smile. Crowther smiled back, let his hand flutter up and fall again as the boy flew on. Some unusual emotion pressed on his chest. He cleared his throat, and turned back into the room. He had not been waiting long before a flurry at the door, and the shouts of greeting from Stephen announced that Harriet and Rachel had returned.
Other books
Warriors: Power Of Three 4 - Eclipse by Hunter, Erin
One Night with Sole Regret 06 Tell Me by Olivia Cunning
The Honey Queen by Cathy Kelly
The Most Wicked Of Sins by Caskie, Kathryn
Salvation (The Captive Series Book 4) by Stevens, Erica
Skin by Dale Mayer
The Antipope by Robert Rankin
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 16 by Gavin J. Grant, Kelly Link
La historial del LSD by Albert Hofmann
Cinnamon Toasted by Gail Oust
