Til Death Do Us Part (22 page)

‘Let's be having the stake-money, Pratt.' Rimmer confronted Harry Pratt, who scowled contemptuously as he handed over the six sovereigns and six silver shillings stakes.

‘Let me collect me winnings and then we'll take the buggers in and wipe the grins off their ugly mugs.' Ritchie Bint grinned happily. ‘You should have put a bet on 'um, Tom, like I told you to.'

‘I've no regrets.' Tom shrugged. ‘But just be quick, Ritchie, because the sooner we make the arrests, the better. The way the Red Lion team are looking, we could have a full-scale riot on our hands if we leave the Shit Eaters here to crow over them for much longer.'

Ritchie looked across at the glowering Red Lion group and instantly replied, ‘You're right! I'll collect me winnings tomorrow. Let's take 'um in now!'

Holding their staffs high so that all could see them, Tom and Ritchie pushed through the crowd and confronted their quarry.

‘Ezekiel Rimmer, Porky Hicks, Dummy, you're all under arrest, in the King's name!' Tom shouted. ‘For the offence of dog-stealing!'

The three men stared blankly at him in utter shock.

Voices in the crowd hushed, but they still elbowed and pushed against each other for better vantage points of this drama.

‘Put your hands behind your backs!' Tom ordered.

Rimmer was the first to recover his senses. ‘What the fuck's this about? Am you out of your fuckin' mind, you lanky bleeder?'

Instantly Ritchie Bint's crowned staff cracked down upon Rimmer's skull and he dropped to his knees, and toppled forwards on to his face.

‘Get your hands behind your backs,' Ritchie Bint snarled, and the two remaining men hastily complied.

Then Ritchie changed his mind. ‘No, stretch 'um out in front of you.'

Tom hastily manacled the proffered wrists, while Ritchie bent over and manacled the prostrate Rimmer's wrists and ankles, then ordered the other two men, ‘Pick him up! You're going to carry the bugger to the lock-up, and I don't care how many times you drops him on the way. You'll still have to pick him up again and carry him! Now get moving, or I'll break your fuckin' skulls!'

To a chorus of jeers and cheers, Tom led the way out of the shed.

A
rchibald Ainsley reined in his horse in front of the closed theatre, and scanned the playbills which plastered its façade, paying close attention to the varying dates of presentation, and the names of the players. Then he smiled with satisfaction and kneed the horse onwards. At the stage door at the side of the building, he dismounted, tethered his mount to a wall ring, rearranged his flamboyant cravat, tilted his wide-brimmed hat at a dashing angle and entered the building, calling out, ‘Doorman, where are you, Sir?'

The bent-bodied old doorman came scurrying, shouting hoarsely, ‘You shouldn't be in here! Nobody's allowed in here wi'out permission. What's you want? You'd best have good reason for coming in like this, or you'll be paying a sore price for it!'

Ainsley stared haughtily down at the old man's heavily stubbled, small-pox pitted face, and produced a large silk handkerchief which he wafted through the air and then held to his nose.

‘Gad, Sir, you stink like a polecat! Now hold your insolent tongue, and take me to Charles Channing.'

For brief seconds the old man seemed inclined to stand his ground, and Ainsley lowered his handkerchief, glowered menacingly and warned, ‘Do not delay me an instant more, or I guarantee that within the hour you will no longer be employed here. Now lead on, Sir!'

The doorman's toothless gums bared in a defiant snarl, but he turned and shuffled into the shadows, shouting hoarsely, ‘Master Channin', there's a bloke wanting to see you. Master Channin'? Where be you?'

Ainsley followed the other man along dark winding corridors and up and down flights of rickety stairs, their passage punctuated by the doorman's shouts, until finally another shout answered.

‘I'm here, Tonky, I'm here! Moderate your noise, there's a good fellow! You're making my head positively ring!'

A pool of lamplight glowed from a doorway and by its light Ainsley could see a rotund, bald-headed figure swathed in a long dressing gown.

‘Good morning my old friend,' he greeted. ‘Archie Ainsley, at your service, Sir.'

‘Archie Ainsley! Well by God, as I live and breathe, you are the very last person I was expecting to see.'

‘Then I trust that I am a shaft of most welcome sunshine come to lighten your sombre day.'

‘Indeed you are, my dear old friend. Come in! Come in!'

Ainsley shoved the doorman aside and embraced Channing.

As the pair went into the sparsely furnished, damp-smelling room, Ainsley smiled, produced a silver flask from his pocket and proffered it to the other man.

‘Here, my old friend, I've brought you a small gift. It's the very finest
uisge beatha
that money can buy. I'm confident it will be greatly to your discerning taste.'

The fat man immediately unscrewed the flask cap and took a gulp of its contents, then gasped breathily.

‘Ahhh! It's nectar, Archie. Heavenly nectar!'

‘No more than you deserve, Channy!'

They both perched gingerly on rickety wooden chairs, and Ainsley came straight to the point.

‘I'm currently circuiting in Warwickshire and Worcestershire, doing a spot of barn-storming with a small cast of virtual amateurs that I've taken under my wing. Tonight I've arranged to stage “The Honest Thieves”.'

‘Terry Knight's farce in two acts. I staged it here not a fortnight since,' Channing put in.

‘Did you indeed!' Ainsley exclaimed in mock astonishment. ‘Then by Gad, I do believe that you may be able to help me. My damned fool of a wardrobe man has mislaid the Nolly Careless parade uniform.

‘Well, normally of course while barn-storming to audiences of pig-ignorant, unlettered yokels I wouldn't give a damn about the niceties of production and would let Nolly Careless play in plain civilian rig. But for the next four nights, by special invitation, we are performing for Sir Francis Godericke and his family and friends at Studley Castle. And I have it on good authority that the noble gentleman regards himself as an expert on all things theatrical, and is a stickler for totally exact presentations of any work. I also have it on very good authority that the noble gentleman is particularly fond of and very familiar with Terry Knight's farces. So, I'm prepared to pay a generous rental for the loan of the Careless uniform, or even to buy it outright from you.'

He paused to allow his friend to consider what he had explained.

Channing took another extended pull at the silver flask, then belched and replied.

‘This may be your lucky day, my friend, since I'm prepared to sell it to you. But whether it will suit your purpose is dependent on the size and build of your player.'

‘He's about two yards high and strongly built.'

‘Well, my player is somewhat shorter, but he's strongly built. So if your fellow wears high boots or gaiters when dressed in it the uniform should fit well enough to pass muster.'

‘Excellent!' Ainsley exclaimed, and the pair shook hands in mutual satisfaction.

An hour later Ainsley called at the large lodging house on the outskirts of the city where Sylvan Kent was staying and had his man fetched to the door.

Kent frowned in surprise when he saw his caller. ‘What the fuck do you want, Ainsley? What in Hell's name brings you here?'

‘By Gad, Kent! I see that your manners haven't improved since our last meeting.' Ainsley grinned. ‘But that's no matter, because when you find why I'm here, you'll realize that you must dance to my tune. Here, read this. It's from your cousin, Courtney.' He handed the other man a note.

As he scanned its contents Sylvan Kent's face reddened in anger.

Ainsley's grin broadened as he saw Kent's reaction, and he jeered. ‘Going to throw one of your temper tantrums, are you? Well nothing would give me more satisfaction, my bucko! I'm not one of the weak little women that you take such pleasure in knocking about, am I? You and I both know very well that I can quite easily give you a thrashing, and thoroughly enjoy doing so.'

Ainsley turned away and calmly took several parcels from his large saddlebags.

‘Here, you can carry these yourself, my bucko. They contain your uniform. Courtney intends for you to meet Phoebe Creswell tomorrow.'

T
he skies were clear and the wind blew strongly. Harry Pratt was marching along the narrow straight Roman road known as the Icknield Street when the shouts came from behind him.

‘You there! Bellman! Hold hard! God dammit, are you deaf?'

Pratt halted and turned to face the questioner, then conditioned by his long years as a soldier instinctively stiffened to attention, saluted smartly, and shouted back, ‘Sorry, Sir, this wind is making it hard to hear anything.'

The mounted military man came at a canter, and reined in some feet distant. A voluminous grey riding cloak hid most of his uniform, but Pratt instantly identified the bugle badge and the green cockade topping the front of the black-bodied, gold-banded, bell-topped shako.

‘Officer of the Light Company of a Line Regiment, this 'un.' He saluted again and asked respectfully, ‘How can I be of service to you, Sir?'

The horseman frowned. ‘You salute as if you're a soldier?'

‘That's it, Sir. Twenty-five years' service, Sir. Went to pension as Colour Sergeant, Sir.'

‘I see.' The officer nodded brusquely. ‘Now can you direct me to Beoley Village, and the house of the family Creswell?'

‘Certainly, Sir. You goes straight on down this road until you comes to the crossroads. Take the left-hand turn and go up and over the hill that's topped by the church. From the top o' the hill you'll see the village directly beneath you.' He continued to give directions for reaching the Creswell house.

When Pratt had finished speaking, the horseman made no acknowledgement and spurred his horse on ahead.

‘Now why's an officer wanting to go to the Creswell place? Sour-faced bastard that he is!' Pratt mused curiously, and was suddenly struck by a thought. ‘Is it anything to do wi' that letter Phoebe Creswell asked me to post for her, I wonder?'

Phoebe Creswell was sitting gazing out of the window of her father's bedroom when she saw the mounted officer coming towards the house.

‘Oh my goodness!' she gasped, and clutched both hands to her mouth.

Sitting at the bedside of the comatose George Creswell, Walter Courtney questioned, ‘What is it, my dear?'

Phoebe's heart was pounding hard and her breathing so rapid that she could only choke out, ‘It's a soldier! He's on the road. He's coming this way!'

Courtney came to the window and exclaimed, ‘Now God be praised! It's himself! It's Christophe come to visit you, my dear!' He smiled down at her and patted her shoulder reassuringly. ‘I'll go downstairs and greet him, my dear, and allow you time to compose yourself, and so be completely at ease when you meet him.'

‘But how can I be at ease?' Her sallow face was haggard and tears were glistening in her eyes as she wailed, ‘He looks so handsome and splendid, and I'm so dowdy and ugly. He'll turn on his heel and leave as soon as he catches sight of me. I know he will!'

Courtney frowned sternly, and waggled his forefinger reprovingly at her.

‘This is nonsense! I know Christophe as well as if he were my own son, and I can state with absolute certainty that he will find you as sweet-faced and charming as I do. Now calm yourself, my dear, and listen carefully.' Courtney lowered his voice conspiratorially as he smilingly stroked her shoulder. ‘These are the first moments of the first day of the life that, within a very short span of time, you will most certainly be spending as the beloved wife of Major Christophe de Langlois.'

The front door bell jangled, and Phoebe drew a long, shuddering intake of breath.

Courtney chuckled fondly. ‘I'm going to greet my friend. Take all the time you need to compose yourself, my dear Phoebe, and then come downstairs and meet your husband-to-be.'

Night had long fallen when Phoebe Creswell and Pammy Mallot stood in the roadway outside the house calling their goodbyes to the gig and its accompanying horseman disappearing into the chill windy darkness.

Even after that disappearance Phoebe Creswell still lingered there, until Pammy Mallot urged her, ‘Come on, my wench, we needs to get back inside a bit sharpish, else we'll be catching our deaths o' cold if we stays out here any longer.'

She took Phoebe's arm and led her back into the drawing room of the house.

‘Now you set yourself down by the fire, my wench, and warm your bones.'

‘Oh, Pammy, I can't believe this is happening to me. Isn't he the most handsome, most charming gentleman you've ever met in your life?' Phoebe was glowing with happiness. ‘Did you see him whispering to me as we went outside?'

‘O' course I did!' Pammy Mallot smiled fondly. ‘What did he say?'

Phoebe blushed and told her excitedly, ‘He said that he could hardly bear to part with me so soon after we'd met, and that he'd be impatiently counting the minutes until he was with me again tomorrow.' She buried her face in her hands and giggled excitedly like a child. ‘I can't believe that this is happening to me, Pammy. I'm feared that I'm asleep and that at any moment I shall wake up and discover it has all been a dream!'

‘Oh no, it aren't any dream.' The older woman nipped Phoebe's cheek between her finger and thumb. ‘Did you feel that?'