The Path of the Wicked (29 page)

‘I could wait and fight him,' Amos said. ‘Only if I did, I'd have to knock him down and I reckon he's got enough troubles without that.' Then, as an afterthought: ‘And he's carrying a shotgun.'

‘He killed Mary Marsh,' I said.

‘We can sort that out later.' Amos made it sound like a matter of course. ‘Only, if you're sound on your legs, we'd better move.'

There were other steps now, distant but determined ones coming quite rapidly along the path from the stable block. Rodney Kemble knew his woods. I might have insisted on standing our ground and having it out with him after all, but that would have made a fight inevitable and even Amos was not shotgun-proof. I took the arm that he offered, hitched my skirts up with the other hand and we moved rapidly back along the path. As soon as we'd cleared the back of the house, Amos steered us aside under the trees. He gripped my arm as a warning to keep quiet and we stood listening. After some time we heard the footsteps again. Rodney Kemble came striding past us, only yards away, making for the side entrance of the house. It was too dark to see his face, but his whole posture was jagged with anger and hurry. Instead of going back on the track, Amos found a way through the trees and back on to the road. As we walked towards the village, my heartbeats steadied enough to make talking possible.

‘Amos, what had you said to Rodney Kemble?'

‘I didn't get much chance to say anything. I was in their stables, talking to a man I knew, when he came in and saw me. From what he said, he reckons you've made off with his sister and I've been helping you. He doesn't seem to like you very much. I thought if I stayed, it would only lead to unpleasantness, so I went.'

‘But what were you doing in the Kembles' stable yard in the first place?'

It was too dark to see Amos's face, but I sensed an awkwardness.

‘The lass wanted a few little things she'd forgotten – bracelets, something with feathers. Then there was a note to be delivered to her maid. I was coming out this way anyhow to see you, so I said I'd do it.'

‘Lass? You mean you were running an errand for Barbara Kemble?'

‘That's about the size of it.'

‘Amos, what have you been doing?'

He took a few steps before answering. ‘Well, it's a little bit of a story.'

I
heard most of it next morning, when we were riding back downhill towards Cheltenham, Tabby perched behind Amos on the big skewbald cob he'd borrowed from somewhere. The night before he'd had supper in the kitchen and slept in the hayloft, another puzzle for Mr Godwit, who by now was dazed almost beyond questions and harassed by preparations for the formal opening of Gloucester assizes next day. The three of us set out after breakfast on a fine morning.

‘So, it was follow the horse,' Amos said. ‘I came back on Monday by way of Ledbury and had another little talk with the man who was trying to use Paley's thoroughbred to pull a cart. As I guessed, he knew the fellow he'd had it off better than he wanted me to think he did, in payment of a debt for some weaners he'd had off him, and, as it turned out, the other fellow had a half-brother who worked at a farm not far off the racecourse here, so that begged the question of why he'd gone all the way out to Ledbury to sell a good horse, but then the brother's not what you'd call a full peal of bells . . .'

I rode close and half listened, knowing Amos wouldn't be hurried and we'd have to go through this trail of doubtful horse dealing until we came to what mattered. It had a calming effect after the alarms of the night before, like the buzzing of the bees in the traveller's joy that looped the hedges we rode past.

‘Any road, I came back here and went to the farm where the brother worked, and got the story out of him, promising I wouldn't make trouble for him if he told me. He and a friend were out poaching rabbits early one morning, middle of last month, and there's this horse grazing by a path, reins broken and saddle gone. I daresay the horse had rolled until the girth buckles broke. Some of them will. He had enough sense to realize it must belong to somebody, but he says the friend persuaded him to take it over to his brother to sell and split the money. Which they did, though there wasn't a lot left to split after the cut the brother took out of it. So I say goodbye and thank you to my man and start thinking. The only reason for a good horse like that to be wandering on its own is that the rider's come to harm. And the most likely way for a rider to come to harm is by falling off at a jump.'

‘The reapers saw him galloping across a stubble field half a mile from the racecourse,' I said.

‘Some fields have stone walls in these parts and a half-mile is a long way for a horse to gallop that's already had a race.'

‘So young Paley came a cropper?' I said.

‘Must have. But all he remembers of it is waking up with his head against the wall, sun high up in the sky, bird shit on his face and no horse.'

‘He told you this himself?'

‘He did. He says he was lying there for a long time even after he came to, not capable of moving. He'd hit his head a right crack, broken a leg and a few ribs for good measure, plus his nose had bled and there were bramble scratches all over his face. As the sun starts to go down, it occurs to him that he'll be dead if he spends the night outside as he is, so he manages to get himself upright against the wall and then drags himself along to a farm track, with his nose starting to bleed again. By the time the old fellow found him, he must have looked like something escaped from the slaughterhouse.'

Even though I had no particular feeling for young Paley, I couldn't help wincing at Amos's breezy account of it.

‘So he was found. Why didn't he get word to his father?'

‘From what he says, and I'm inclined to believe him, he wasn't capable of anything for a week or more. The old fellow manages to get him along to the cottage where he lives – more of a hovel by the sound of it – and then Paley passes out again. He comes to, lying on an old sheepskin on a plank with a sheepdog licking his face. His leg's been put in a splint, quite handily all things considered, and he feels as if he's been asleep for a hundred years, though it probably wasn't more than a few days. He's still not capable of doing anything, but he says the old fellow looks after him as well as he can, considering he must be around eighty years old, bent double with arthritis, and a cleft palate so Paley can't make out half the things he's saying. Not that he says a lot. He feeds Paley on oatmeal porridge and boiled turnips, which is all he has to eat himself, and slowly but surely he returns to the land of the living. By then he's had the chance to do some thinking.'

‘Not before time,' I said.

‘You could say so. He works out that half of his plan's gone pretty well right, though not the way he intended it. He's disappeared and his father will be starting to get worried about him. But the other half of it's not going well at all.'

‘You mean eloping with Barbara Kemble?'

He glanced sideways at me. ‘You knew about that, then?'

‘Yes, but too late. So the plan from the start was that she should join him?'

‘Yes. He was going to ride the horse to London, sell it, arrange the special licence, the clergyman and so on, and then send word for her to come and meet him.'

‘To London, on her own?'

‘There was a friend of his supposed to be bringing her.'

‘Name of Postboy?'

‘That's the one. The idea was that his father would be pleased when he heard about the marriage, because the girl's a good match, all things considered, and her father would just have to put up with it. So there he'd be, blushing bride on his arm, debts paid off by dad, all songbirds and rose petals. And thinking it over, it still seemed to him a good idea in spite of what had happened. The problem was letting his friend know where he was. There was nothing like pen and ink available, and in any case the old fellow never went more than three fields away from where he lived, so it was no use asking him to carry a message. So that was the state of affairs when I found him.'

‘And how exactly did you manage that?'

He smiled, not trying to hide the fact that he was pleased with himself. ‘Wasn't difficult, once I'd worked back to where the horse had been found in the first place. I got the lad to take me to exactly where they'd first seen him, and stood there for a bit to get my mind on how a horse would see things. Once you've done that, you can take a fair guess at where he'd have to have been to get to where he was. I'd guessed by then that the rider must have taken a pretty bad tumble, so I walked round the fields, having a look where it might have happened. There was a wall with hoofprints on the take-off side, a bit smudged but you could see where he'd skidded going into it. Then there were a couple of stone blocks on the other side he'd dislodged and the brambles flattened down from a man and a horse landing on top of them. From there it was just a matter of looking round to see where a badly hurt man might have been taken, and there weren't many houses in that part of the country.'

All this a month after it happened. Amos had reason to be pleased with himself, but he still had some explaining to do.

‘So you found Peter Paley,' I said. ‘Why didn't you tell his father? Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I sent a message to his father as soon as I found him, letting him know he was all right. I couldn't do more than that without breaking my word.'

‘And what about me?'

He seemed surprised at the hurt in my voice. ‘I thought you'd have worked it out. Then, when I saw you talking to Postboy and his friends, I was sure you had.'

I thought sadly that this was a measure of the distance that had already grown between us.

‘And you gave your word to Peter Paley to say nothing. You've even been helping him with his plans to elope. Why?'

He was crestfallen now. He'd brought his triumph to me and I was spoiling it.

‘I was sorry for him, I suppose. He was so pleased to see me, after all that time on his own with the old fellow. And he was worried about his horse and his young lady.'

‘Was he now? Which of them did he ask after first?'

Amos looked away. ‘I can't rightly remember.'

So I had my answer. Not that Amos would have thought any the worse of him for it.

‘He asked you to help him, and you agreed?'

‘Not straight away. My first idea was to get him back home. Then he told me the story of how he'd let his young lady down and she'd be mad with worry, not knowing if he was dead or alive. So, in the end, I agreed I'd fetch his friend, the one they call Postboy. He and young Paley and I talked it over. Paley was dead against going straight home before the business with the young lady was settled. Postboy knew of this old farmhouse up in the hills where he'd camped out sometimes when he needed to get away from the duns. Paley's leg was set enough to be moved by now, so we fetched a cart and took him over there.'

‘I hope he said thank you to the old man.'

‘He did, fair enough, and left him the money he had in his pocket. It wasn't a lot, and from the look on the old fellow's face it was as much use to him as teacups to a camel. Still, it showed willing.'

We were close to Cheltenham by now, the horses walking out easily, Tabby leaning forward round Amos's back, so as not to miss a word of the conversation.

‘And you agreed to collect Barbara Kemble's trunk,' I said. ‘Weren't they lucky, having you to help with their elopement plans?'

I knew I sounded bitter, but I couldn't forget the long hours of panic and the useless search for Barbara. I thought I could guess why Amos had fallen in with the plan so readily. The prospect of his marriage had made a romantic of him.

‘The fact is we did get galloped away with,' Amos said defensively.

‘Oh?'

‘The arrangement was that Postboy should carry a letter to Miss Kemble from young Paley, letting her know the situation. We'd agreed that he'd wait until he heard back from her and then let his father know what was happening. Only she didn't wait. She wrote straight back to Postboy, saying she was running away and to meet her at a certain house in town on Monday. It was the Sunday by the time we got the message and there was no stopping her.'

‘The house?'

‘Where one of her friends lives.'

Near her dressmaker, I guessed. And the comings and goings of Postboy in a variety of vehicles would have caused no comment in Cheltenham. Had Barbara been hiding under a rug on the back seat of a carriage? No matter. She'd thoroughly outmanoeuvred me.

‘So, where is Barbara Kemble now?' I said.

‘Up in the old farmhouse, with young Paley.'

I said nothing to that. Her reputation was well and truly gone now.

‘Respectable, like,' Amos said. ‘She sleeps upstairs; he's downstairs on account of the leg.'

‘The perfect knight,' I said sarcastically. ‘His drawn sword between them.'

‘And me sleeping on the landing,' Amos said.

I said things couldn't go on as they were and we'd have to let both fathers know, whether the two young troublemakers liked it or not. Amos didn't argue. You could see that the responsibility had been weighing on him. In Peter Paley's case, there'd be little harm done. His father seemed prepared to accept things. Barbara was another matter. I supposed she'd have to marry Paley, which was what she'd wanted all along – or perhaps only convinced herself she wanted. But it was too late to worry about that now. The problem was that there might be yet another family grief confronting her.

‘We have to decide what to do about her brother,' I said.

‘He'll calm down in the end,' Amos said.

He sounded remarkably tolerant about a man who'd recently been chasing him with a shotgun, but then he didn't know the full story. I told him as concisely as I could, but even so we'd reached the town centre by the time I'd finished.