Murder Is Come Again (25 page)

The man darted out and was back in a minute with a kitchen knife, which he put to good use. “You’re the man put the five hundred in the safe,” he said. “Dickens told me about it. A good thing you didn’t have it on you. That’s what they were after, eh?”

“I should think so.”

“We’ll have to report this to the police.”

“You report it,” Black, struggling up from the floor. “I have to go.”

“You can’t leave!”

“Try and stop me,” Black said, and snatching up his hat from the floor, he rammed it on his head and left. The hat sat at an odd angle, tilted jauntily over one eye, as the bump on his head prevented it from fitting properly. His shoulder ached like the devil and his legs felt weak as strings after the effort of banging on the door. He didn’t take time to change and he already had a pistol in his pocket. He made what haste he could to the stable for Luten’s mount and galloped,
ventre à terre,
to the New London Road, taking time only to check his watch. Nine-thirty. Mad Jack might already have attacked. He’d let the Brigade down, and felt as sorry as if it were his own child he had forsaken.

Townsend selected his spot for concealment behind a small stand of trees on the right side of the road, depending in part on darkness to prevent Jack from seeing him. Jack, he assumed, would hide behind the more concealing hornbeam hedge on the other side. Townsend’s hiding spot gave him a clear view of the road, a gray ribbon threading through the darkness of night.

For the first few moments the surrounding silence was broken only by the gentle whispering of wind in the trees and the occasional rustling in the grass of night creatures, for traffic was light. Eventually a few riders, usually in pairs or groups, and two carriages went by. He had familiarized himself with Prance’s carriage so that he could distinguish it when it came along. It was the mounted riders that were harder to make out. As no innocent rider was likely to leave the road and lurk in the shadows, however, he didn’t think he was likely to mistake Jack. The more worrisome matter was why Black hadn’t joined him.

He knew Luten had a high opinion of the fellow, knew as well that Black had performed well during other cases. If the fellow was reverting to his old ways — and Townsend was in no doubt that his past was as dark as his name — this was hardly the time to do it. What incentive was there for him? The diamonds were already safe in London.

His only possibility of profit was if he warned Mad Jack this was a trap. And if he let Jack know he was aware of his identity, he wouldn’t live long to tell it. No, Black wasn’t that green. But what if he’d decided to scarper with the five hundred he got from Catchpole? He hadn’t handed that over yet. Either he’d done a runner or something had happened to him. And either way that meant he was left alone to capture a demented highwayman who’d as soon shoot as look at him.

Was there time to nip back, try to stop Luten’s carriage and warn him? Even as the thought occurred to him, he heard the quiet clip clop of a lone rider walking his mount, not on the metaled road, but on the grass verge, to keep his approach quiet. If he hadn’t heard him, he might have missed him entirely, for both he and the mount were in shadows as black as pitch. Even his face was covered by a black mask. This didn’t look as if Black had whiddled at least.

He watched as horse and rider moved farther off the road and disappeared behind the hornbeams. So far so good, Mad Jack had taken the bait, but where the deuce was Black? If he came now, Mad Jack would see him. For occasions such as this, Townsend had had a watch made up without a crystal covering the dial. In lieu of numbers, it had embossed dots and symbols to tell the hour. He could orient himself by the stem, which was at three. An x marked twelve and six, and dots marked the intervening numbers. It was difficult to judge the exact time, but from long practise his exploring finger soon told him it was getting on for ten o’clock. Luten’s carriage would be along any moment now, and he would have to catch Jack and rescue the occupants alone.

For ten minutes that seemed much longer, the road was quiet. Then in the distance he heard the rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves. He drew out his pistol, tensed himself for action, and stared through the darkness at the hornbeam hedge. As the carriage came into view around the bend, he edged closer to the road to identify it. It was Prance’s rig! He braced himself, ready to jump. Jack’s mount didn’t make a sound as it nosed around the edge of the hedge across the road. The bridle made no tell-tale rattle. The first indication of trouble was the single shot, fired in front of the carriage as it drew near. The horses reared, the carriage shook and shuddered to a stop, and before he knew what was happening, another shot rang out, this one passing an inch over the coachman’s head.

“Down from your perch,” a commanding voice called. This was not Jack’s usual method, but as he had been told the occupants of the carriage were two old ladies, one asleep, he obviously felt the coachman and the guard with him on the box were the ones more likely to make trouble.

Townsend watched in frustration as Pelkey and Luten clambered down, right in front of Jack, to make shooting impossible. “On the ground, face down,” the low voice said, loud and clear. “Over there. Six paces and drop, head away from the carriage. One move and I shoot.” Townsend heard rather than saw Luten and Pelkey hit the ground. Jack was there somewhere, but virtually invisible in the surrounding blackness. A shot might miss, and would only serve to alert him. Jack dismounted and took two quick paces to the carriage, watching over his shoulder to see his victims did as he said.

Jack positioned himself at the carriage door, where Sir Reg’s pale face peered from the open window. If the fool only knew enough to duck, Jack would make a good target now. Townsend still couldn’t shoot, and if he went for Jack, he’d get a bullet in the heart himself. Jack’s next move would be to go for the necklace. He reached for the carriage door. It was now or never. And still the fool of a Prance stayed at the window — actually
talking
to Mad Jack, begging for mercy. “Two helpless old ladies,” were the only words he could distinguish.

Jack’s answer was to reach out and pull Reg’s bonnet from his head. How could he mistake that clapper-jaw for a sleeping lady? A loud “Eeek!” rang out, and Prance snatched at the bonnet. Something seemed to be hanging off it. Egads — it was Prance’s wig! Without further ado Prance was hauled out, given a stout blow across the head with Jack’s pistol, and fell to the ground in a heap, where he had every intention of remaining until this ordeal was over.

Coffen, aware that things weren’t going as they ought, stuck his head out the door. “Stand and deliver,” Jack ordered. Coffen began to struggle out of the carriage, pushing at his wig. “Your bonnet, madam,” Jack said. He glanced over his shoulder at Pelkey and Luten and let off another shot, to keep them down. Coffen reached into the carriage, felt around the seat for his bonnet, and either couldn’t find it or purposely dropped it on the floor. Jack pushed him aside and snatched the bonnet up from the seat. And all the while Townsend kept trying in vain to get a clean shot at him. They were both moving around, close together, making it too dangerous to shoot.

It seemed incredible to Luten that the six of them, for he didn’t know that Black hadn’t made it, could be outwitted by one man. He began to lever himself up by his arms and turned his head to see what was going forth. Why didn’t Black and Townsend nab him, as arranged? He watched as Mad Jack whistled his mount forward, threw a leg over it and sped off in a clatter of hooves.

Townsend urged his mount out of the bushes and went flying after him. He was riding a prime bit of blood from Luten’s stable, but urge as he might, he couldn’t catch up with that black shadow, that drew ever farther ahead. Townsend thought he must be seeing things. Jack and his mount ducked under a low-hanging branch, and suddenly the mount was galloping on, riderless. Jack had vanished into thin air. What the deuce had happened? He hadn’t seen riding like that since his last visit to Astley’s Circus. Had Jack grabbed hold of that low-hanging branch, to leap down and attack him as he rode by? That was it! By Jove the fellow had more tricks than a monkey. Townsend wasn’t about to be gulled, however. He drew to a stop and waited.

To his astonishment, not one but two men descended from the tree. Did Jack have a helper after all? A rough voice rang out. “Townsend, is that you? Come and give me a hand.” Black! Townsend cantered forward, ready for anything, for he still felt some lingering suspicion of that shady character, Black. He could see that Black had the situation well in hand, however. He had Jack’s arms behind his back and was pushing him forward, no doubt with a pistol at his back.

“He dropped his pistol when I nabbed him. It’s here somewhere.”

Townsend looked around and found it. “Do you have something I can bind this wretch with?” Black asked.

Townsend snatched off Jack’s mask, a black kerchief, and used it to bind Jack’s arms behind his back. “So this is Cripps,” he said, peering through the shadows at a handsome, bold face. Black looked at his prisoner, frowned, looked again and said in confusion, “No, by God. It ain’t Cripps, it’s Jasper.”

“Jasper who?”

“He’s Cripps’s friend. Where’s the carriage?”

“Down the road, where we arranged. How did you get here?”

“My mount’s tied to this tree. I’ll fetch it.” He untethered the mount and returned.

As neither of them cared to share a mount with Jack, they all walked back to the carriage, with Jack between his captors.

“What happened to that devil mount you were riding?” Townsend asked Jack.

Jack said nothing. It was Black who answered, “He’s trained it to return to its stable. I know where it is.”

* * *

Luten and Pelkey scrambled up from the ground and darted to the carriage. At least Jack hadn’t cut the reins, as he often did. Pelkey helped Sir Reginald up from where he sat on the ground, massaging his head. “What happened?” he asked, looking all around.

“He got away,” Coffen said. “Townsend went after him.”

“What about Black?” Luten asked.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Prance said, in a meaningful way. “Do you think he might have —”

“No!” Coffen barked, in a voice no one argued with. “Jack must have got him. He’d sooner cut off an arm that desert us like this. I just hope to God Jack hasn’t killed him.”

Luten swore off a few curses, then said, “Let’s get this rig turned around and go after them.”

They met the others a mile farther along the road back to Brighton. Luten was vastly relieved to see Black, for Prance’s question had caused some concern that Black had reverted to his old ways.

“But this isn’t Cripps,” Luten said, staring at the prisoner.

“It’s Jasper,” Black said. “Cripps’s pal. The one as was urging the duel on Mr. Pattle.”

Luten recognized the man he had followed from the hotel the night they had kidnapped Cripps. “But isn’t Cripps —”

“Jasper’s tool, I fancy. No, Jasper is Mad Jack. You mind Mrs. Partridge said Cripps had set up a friendship with some lad that owned land by the water. This is him.”

It was a relief to have caught Jack, even if he wasn’t Cripps. It must have been Black’s doing, for Townsend hadn’t been able to stop him. Luten had a quiet word with Black and Townsend.

“Congratulations. Good work — as usual, Black. Let’s get this bastard locked up, and we’ll discuss this back at Marine Parade. Tie him up and stick him in the carriage. Where’s the bonnet?”

Black looked at Townsend. Townsend looked back at him, they both looked at a smirking Jack. “Is it in the tree?” Townsend asked Black.

“Nay, he didn’t have it when I pulled him up.” Even Townsend believed him, though it did occur to him that Black could have hidden it in the tree to retrieve later.

“Then it’s gone back to the stable with that devil he was riding, for he had it when he left,” Townsend said. “You said you know where the stable is, Black?”

“I do. I’ll get it. You take care of Jack.” Without another word, he was off to Brighton.

Townsend turned to Luten and said reluctantly. “You don’t suppose Black--”

“No, Townsend, I don’t.”

Jack was put in the carriage, where he sat mute throughout the short drive to the roundhouse at Brighton. Townsend rode alongside. Coffen and Prance, preferring not to be seen in gowns, remained in the carriage while Luten took him inside.

“I shall apologize to Black,” a chastened Prance said.

“Don’t you dare!” was all Coffen said, or had to say.

“You’re right, Coffen. It would be a gratuitous insult. I shall never mistrust Black again.”

“I should say not. The man’s solid gold. A hundred carat.”

Prance deemed it an inappropriate moment to correct him.

When Luten and Townsend took the prisoner in, the constable on duty stared. “Mr. Jasper,” he said, in confusion. “What — what happened?”

“He held up a carriage and stole a necklace,” Luten said.

The constable blinked, licked his lips and looked uncertainly from prisoner to accuser. “This gentleman owns Northbay, an estate of hundreds of acres. This here is Mr. Jasper,” he said, in tones that implied he didn’t believe a word of what this mud-stained footman wearing Lord Luten’s livery said.

“And I’m Officer Townsend, of the Bow Street Runners,” Townsend informed him with a fierce glare.

“Townsend is off to London with the necklace,” the constable said. “Everybody knows that.”

“I came back,” Townsend said. “The road runs both ways, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I can vouch for Officer Townsend’s identity,” Luten said.

“And who might you be, sir?” the constable asked, but in a civil way. If these two fellows turned hostile, they could easily overpower him, and with Mr. Jasper tied up, he’d not be much help.

“I am Lord Luten,” Luten replied at his most toplofty.

The constable knew that, whereas Mr. Jasper was only a local notable, Lord Luten was famous in London, friend of Princes and Prime Ministers. Brown had had a deal to say about him. The footman certainly didn’t have the air of a footman, and the little fellow
did
look like Townsend. He’d seen him from a distance, strutting about town in his funny outfit.