Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 01] - Some Brief Folly (43 page)

Peering at the faded sign that hung listlessly from a rusted
iron bracket, Gains muttered, "

"The White Rose.' Huh! "The Weed Patch,' more like!"

"What a gruesome hole," Coleridge agreed, but with his
artist's eyes noting every detail of the old building. "Can you imagine
the wicked history of it?"

Chilton was busily engaged in rewarding Sampson with pieces of
cheese he had carried in his pocket. He told his pet proudly that he
was "a jolly good dog," and Sampson wagged his tail and sought
hopefully for any dropped crumbs.

Reining back, Gains bent towards Hawkhurst. "Don't give up,
old fellow. It looks empty, but—"

"But is not," said Hawkhurst softly. "I saw a gleam of light
from a side window, and the place fairly reeks of ale."

His voice held a note of suppressed excitement. Bryce
marvelled at his control, but felt also a pang of dread. What if poor
Hawk was doomed to another disappointment? A man could only stand so
much, even this dauntless man! His cousin rightly interpreted that
troubled gaze and cuffed him gently. "Don't be a cawker. I'm all
right." He pointed to the lower street. "Max, we should go down there,
I think. We'll be less obvious, yet close enough to keep an eye on the
place."

Accordingly, they made their way along to a cut through the
bank and, reaching the lower level, swung back again towards The White
Rose. As they approached, it appeared they were not the only ones
interested in that establishment, for a small, sinewy-looking
individual stood on tiptoe, gripping the railing and peering at the
tavern. Either the man was deaf, or the fog muffled their coming, for
he did not seem to hear them drive up and only at the last instant
turned a startled face, then darted away. Obedient to his brother's
shout, Chilton sent his mare galloping in pursuit. Sampson tore free
enthusiastically and followed with much flapping of ears and with legs
that flew erratically. The small man sobbed with fear as the dog came
at him and cringed against the bank, throwing an arm across his throat
and whimpering, "Call 'im orf, mate! Don't let 'im savage me, melor'! I
didn't do nuthink!"

Chilton spoke sternly to Sampson, who cavorted about the
captive, his friendly ungainliness so misinterpreted that, by the time
he had been herded back to the curricle, the little man was quaking
with terror. He snatched off a grimy knitted cap, and a spate of pleas
burst from him that Hawkhurst terminated with the lift of one gloved
hand. "Why did you watch that verminous place?" he demanded.

The man started and peered into the stern, aristocratic face.
"Sir… ? Ain't I see you somewhere afore? Wasn't you with General
Craufurd's Light Division at Bussaco?"

Hawkhurst leaned forward. "I was. And you?"

The man drew himself up. "Draper, sir. Sergeant Robert. 43rd.
I knowed I'd seen you. Friend o' my Captain Redmond, wasn't you?" His
face saddened. "Him what was killed at Rodrigo."

"If you mean Captain Sir Harry Redmond," said Hawkhurst. "He
was found alive, sergeant. They brought him home. He's not quite
recovered, but—" He paused. The leathery features were twitching, the
eyes bright with tears. "Cor!" gulped the sergeant. "I wasn't never so
glad to hear nuthing! Never!"

Hawkhurst reached out at once and only then noticed that
Draper's right hand was gone. "Lieutenant Garret Hawkhurst," he said
and, as a gleaming steel hook came up, smiled and shook it. "Kicked you
out, did they?"

"Yus, sir. I come home, and me brother took me in, me not
being good fer much no more. Me right hand, y'see, sir. But Bill's been
jugbit frequent lately, account o' his sweetheart up and married a man
milliner. He ain't been home now fer four nights. A cove told me he
went in that Satan's pot, and many a man's been shanghaied from there,
so I been keeping me ogles on it—not that it's done me a particle o'
good. Poor Bill's off to the Indies by this time, I reckon. But
sometimes they waits fer a ship, and I thought p'raps I could catch 'em
at it and spring him free."

"Have you reported this to the authorities, sergeant?" asked
Gains.

Draper gave a scornful snort. "Ain't no authorities fer the
likes o' me, sir. The ships masters need crews, and the Watch—such as
we got, which ain't much—turns t'other way."

Hawkhurst dismounted with care, the little man hastening to
aid him. The night's activities, plus the long, jouncing ride, had done
his leg no good at all, and the pain was becoming exhausting, but he
asked intently, "Have you ever been inside the tavern, Draper?"

Gains added, "Mr. Hawkhurst's son has been stolen. We think
he's there."

"Then Gawd help 'im! A little tyke, eh? A cabin boy they'll
mark him fer. Lucky if he comes through the fust voyage alive. And as
to have I been in there, yus, I have. And I don't mind telling you, it
fair give me the shakes. You has t'go in the back way. The Watch closed
'em down twice, but they only bolt up the front door and give a wink at
the back."

"Where would they have my son, d'you think? In the cellar?"

Draper shook his head. "Too many rats, sir, and the ships'
masters don't like their crews brung on board fulla bites. Upstairs is
more like it. The ground floor's all give over to kitchens and the tap,
and there's a parlour o'sorts where you can get summat to eat—if
y'aint' too partickler about the rats and roaches having a nibble afore
ye!"

"Charming," said Gains dryly. "Do we venture this menu, Hawk?"

Hawkhurst, who would have given all he possessed for a sound
leg at this point, smiled and checked his pistols.

"Don't do it, sir," said Draper. "You wouldn't last two
minutes, not none o' ye. A fine bunch o' rum touches up there. Make me
look like a pure angel, they do! Though, there
is
gents o' sorts wot goes in reg'lar."

Hawkhurst seized his shoulder. "A tall man, sergeant? A
handsome scoundrel with brown curling hair and unusually large eyes?"

Draper thought a second, then shook his head decisively. "No,
sir. The only gentry cove wot I'd call handsome has yeller hair. Now
he
come, 'long about three s'arternoon. They druv inter the back, so I
couldn't see whether there was a boy with him, but I did see a lady."

Colley interpolated eagerly, "Hawk, Mia told me about an odd
chap she met when she was lost that day. She said he had rather too
much charm, but was extremely good-looking and had yellow curls!"

Hawkhurst's breath hissed through his teeth. Watching him,
Gains said, "It fits, Hawk. All but the hair. Dye, perhaps… ?"

Hawkhurst nodded. The same excitement that had always
possessed him before his regiment went into action was making his pulse
race. The throbbing misery in his leg was quite forgotten. He knew
somehow that he would face Mount tonight—at last! Exultant, he turned
to the curious Draper. "Sergeant, if you will help us, there'll be a
place on my staff for you."

"Sir," said Draper, with a quiet dignity, "I'd help you no
matter wot! I seen you in action at Bussaco. You only got t'tell me wot
you wants me to do."

The air inside The White Rose was foul with the odours of
smoke and ale and unwashed bodies and so hot that Hawkhurst could
scarcely abide the heavy motheaten blanket he wore, a hole cut in the
centre to enable this unlovely garment to slip over his head. A large,
sagging-brimmed old hat shaded his features, and he leaned gratefully
on the heavy crutch that Sergeant Draper had also miraculously
procured. Not half an hour had passed from the time they'd sent the
little man off on his errands until he had returned with "suitable
clothing" for the three of them. Hawkhurst glanced at Coleridge, who
had entered the tavern beside him, and could barely restrain a chuckle.
His dandified nephew, a patch over one eye, hair matted with bacon
grease and straggling around his dirty face, was clad in a filthy coat
that hung in tatters about him and breeches that had made the young
exquisite blench as he'd slipped them over his own immaculate garments.

Their disreputable appearance had won them little attention as
they made their way to the tap. Hawkhurst's quick eyes had at once
noticed a door on the far side of the low-roofed, smoky room that must,
he thought, give onto a hall. They procured two tankards of ale, and by
means of shoving Colley repeatedly in an apparent argument, Hawkhurst
had gradually manoeuvred them close to this door. They now slouched
against the wall, mumbling in quarrelsome fashion to one another and
awaiting the arrival of Gains, whom they had left attempting to pacify
Chilton, incensed because he had been delegated to remain with the
curricle.

Draper reeled past, raised his tankard in apparently drunken
recognition, and hissed. "Door aside you, sir. Stairs at the end o' the
hall. I'll try and stop anyone who looks like follerin'," and went on.

Glancing about from beneath the brim of his hat, Hawkhurst saw
no sign of Mount, but a more unwholesome lot he'd seldom beheld. Voices
were coarse, conversation profane, eyes hard, and manners belligerent.
An occasional howl of laughter would greet some rank joke, and
sometimes a snatch of song emerged from the din. Here were the very
dregs of the waterfront, the veneer of civilization thin indeed. He saw
not one face upon which he would care to turn his back and spotted
several slippery-eyed fellows he'd have laid odds were rank riders, at
the very least!

"Hawk," breathed Coleridge in awe, "I'm sure that big fellow
by the tap is the rogue who held me up on Hampstead Heath last spring!"

"Pray he don't recognize you!" advised Hawkhurst and nudged
him warningly. A husky and decidedly foxed man, his crossed eyes
wavering from one of them to the other, lurched up and demanded to know
where was the borde as was owed him. Hawkhurst growled an admonition to
"stow his whids," advised he'd had too much strip-me-naked, and cursed
him gutturally, whereupon the opportunist retreated.

"By Jove!" grinned an admiring Colley. "What's a borde?"

"A shilling. And I wish to God someone would start a brawl so
we can—"

A wild commotion erupted beside the door, shouts and curses
and guffaws of laughter. "Devil take it!" groaned Hawkhurst. "It's
Sampson! He'll draw attention to us, confound him!"

"Let the pup in, dang ye!" snarled a large, bloated
individual, shoving the man who strove to eject the hound.

"Gains!" whispered Coleridge.

His lordship was resplendent in a tattered old rifleman's
jacket, a cap worn back to front, his features barely visible behind
the tangled hair that hung over his eyes. Ignoring his aggressive
critic, he continued to push at Sampson. The bloated one promptly
back-handed him, so that he staggered, causing a coster to spill his
ale. The coster howled his wrath and swung his tankard at the peer.
Gains ducked with commendable alacrity, and the bloated one took the
ale full in his red face. The taproom became a mass of flying fists,
breaking glass, and plunging bodies, while shrieks, howls, and shouts
increased the din.

Delighted by this diversion, Hawkhurst cried, "Now!" swung the
door open and limped into a dark, cold hall, Coleridge close on his
heels. The heavy door closed behind them, shutting off an astonishing
amount of the uproar, and a narrow hall stretched out starkly, lighted
only by the candle on a rickety table beside a flight of uncarpeted
stairs. Hawkhurst tucked the crutch under his arm and leaning on Bryce
managed to hobble his way upward. The treads squeaked and groaned under
them, but at last they reached the top and a corridor that led towards
the front of the tavern. Breathing hard, Hawkhurst counted six doors,
all closed. He tried the greasy handle of the first room to his right,
and a man grumbled a demand to be left in peace. Coleridge opened the
left-hand door and peered into a bedchamber to be rewarded by a
feminine screech and the crash of a glass against the door he hurriedly
swung shut. And then, from the far end of that dank hall came a shout
of mocking male laughter and a woman's voice, cultured but indignant,
"But, Bobby darling, you
promised
I should have a
ruby!"

Hawkhurst stood immobile, the years rolling back as a deep,
velvety voice said, "Greedy little doxy! That's all you think of! Were
I penniless, you'd be back to Everett without so much as a farewell
kiss!"

A primal glow began to burn in Hawkhurst's eyes, and one word
hissed softly through his gritted teeth. "Mount!"

"But you are not penniless, love," the woman cajoled. "And as
soon as you get rid of the brat, we can—"

" 'Ere! Wot you two doin' up there?"

The rough challenge came from the stairs. Swinging around,
Hawkhurst was in time to see Colley level a ruffian who charged at
them, but another followed, his howls causing a door to the right to
burst open, disgorging several burly louts and revealing a brightly lit
room and two women with painted faces and gaudy gowns who ran eagerly
to watch the excitement. Hawkhurst swung his crutch and discovered it
to be a fearsome weapon as his first opponent, a veritable giant, was
struck on the jaw, sailed backward over the railing, and thence,
noisily down the stairs. A bull-necked, grinning bully replaced him,
muscular arms eagerly outstretched. Vaguely aware that Colley was
fighting like a Trojan at his back, Hawkhurst lunged with the crutch as
though it were a sword. The bully jumped clear, seized the crutch and
wrenched it away. At once,

Hawkhurst sprang to ram home a solid right to the lowest
button of the dirty waistcoat. His grin vanished, the bully jack-knifed
and lay on the boards, gasping like a landed trout. The women started
to screech lustily; Hawkhurst started for the door. It slammed, and he
heard a key turn in the lock.

Colley was striving heroically, but a narrow-featured
individual had crept up the stairs and was in the process of levelling
a pistol at his back. Belatedly recalling that he also carried a
pistol, Hawkhurst whipped it from his pocket and fired from the hip,
having no time to aim properly. The retort was cacophonous in the
confined space. He was mildly astonished to see the would-be assassin
drop his weapon and clutch a smashed wrist.