A Broom at the Masthead (The Drowned Books Book 1) (37 page)

Which
was a vexation, as they had just sent a maid out marketing for what had been
meant as something of an elaborate little private feast, and now all would go
to waste. He did this, it would appear. Capricious. One minute, there wasn't a
soul at Birstall House for weeks, and the next he'd be inviting half of His
Majesty's court to some great epic festival, and even then only the half of the
ones who said they'd come ever turned up and most of the work was wasted. It
would make you weep to see what was thrown away, or left to spoil, truly it
would.

Which,
really, left Deb none the wiser, and so she waited some more, watching the
sunlight  creep across the kitchen floor.

A
clock was chiming. And that meant she had been here almost two hours. And that
was not like Thomazine, to be so forgetful of the maid who had served her since
she was a little girl.

66

It
had fairly spoiled his temper, being kept waiting, and then he thought he would
pay her back in her own coin and he went back to his office with a toss of his
head, as if he did not care.

But
he did care - very much he cared. He tried to think that she was just delayed,
a press of traffic, an interesting thing in the market. He watched the sun
sparkling on the leaden water, and listened to the gulls, and threw them the
crusts of the bread and cheese they would have shared for their midday meal. It
was fresh bread. It had been warm, when the shadows stood at noon, for he had
gone out of his way to slip out and buy it fresh, straight from the peel, still
warm and dusty with wood-ash from the big ovens.

And
then he tried to think of petty, unkind things, because he wanted to believe
that his wife preferred to buy ribbons than to meet him, or that she had a
lover, or that he was of so little account to her that she had just forgotten.

If
he did not believe those things, he might instead start to think of a racing
carriage, rocking across the cobbles at a horrible breakneck speed, or of an
embroidered ribbon wrapped choking around a man's throat, and the smell of
burning silk -

Russell
inhaled sharply through his nose, snuffing the bitterness of ink and tar
instead, and bent to his ledger again.

Thinking
- absently - of the Kingdom of Cochin, and Master Brouwer's recent letter with
his consideration of the new Dutch regime there, twelve months in, and what
that might mean for one small merchant in landlocked Buckinghamshire. (One
sandalwood fan from the forests of Mysore, in the kingdom of Cochin, that the
same merchant might pass it to his
schatje,
in token of Mijnheer
Brouwer's friendship.) He wondered if one day he might have a big enough ship
to see Cochin for himself. The
Perse
was fit to make the crossing of the
North Sea, wallowing like a laden cart between here and the Hook of Holland,
she was solid and sure as a market-day mule, but -

One
day. Maybe. To see the forests, and the wonders - to walk in the Indies, or
Cathay, and see the things the sailors spoke of, the unicorns and the great
whales and the strange and fantastic things from the bestiaries -

The
Perse
needed to be outfitted, he would have her go out again before the
summer. He needed to think about that. He thought the wool trade was picking up
again in Europe, and he thought maybe the Admiralty needed to know about that,
because he wondered if it might make more sense if he were to be shipping
fleece out, soon. His own, likely, from Four Ashes, but he didn't think Master
Pepys needed to know that. He was possibly the least inconspicuous smuggler in
the south of England, and it made him laugh that they let him do it. It would
make her laugh, too, he suspected: she'd called him a pirate more than once,
and he thought she was quite coming round to the idea. But he needed to not
think about Thomazine. About where she was. He would not give in to it, he
would not go home, hours early, at two of the clock, because then she would
know - )

He
had added up the same column three times and come to a different total each
time.

Time
to surrender, he thought.

67

She
wasn't there. She hadn't been there. Deb said they had gone to Birstall House,
but that they said that Master Fairmantle had taken her up in his carriage.

To
which Russell had replied, rather tartly, that he had not seen fit to put her
down, then, had he? - which had made the homely little Essex maid weep, because
she was worried sick, and the fact of placid and competent Deb in tears with
worry made him more frightened than possibly anything else had ever in his
life.

He
had smiled - which probably hadn't reassured anyone, he thought afterwards -
and gone upstairs and changed from his plain working-clothes into something
more sensible for visiting Master Fairmantle.
A brace of pistols, a well-work cavalry backsword, and palpable bad temper.

"If
she comes home in my absence," he said sweetly, "Mistress
Bartholomew, you are to lock her in her chamber, and feed her nothing but bread
and water."

What
wrung his heart was that it was meant in humour, a not very funny thing to try
and lighten the mood in that desperate kitchen. And they thought he
meant
it.
Both Deb and the Widow were sufficient worried that they were paying him no
mind whatsoever. "I believe she may have flown to the Americas," he
said, by way of an experiment, and the Widow nodded at him absently.

"I'll
send a boy to ask," she said. "But Major - only go!"

She
was bustling, purposelessly, like a bee in a bottle, and that was going to
drive him mad if he did not get out.

It
was not in play, and she was gone, and he thought he might be sick with fear.
It had been a long time since he had done this. Felt this, fear and black
murderous rage and superstitious wretched dread all boiling together in his
belly. He shut his eyes, and prayed, very quick and very fierce. And then he
thought of her, of her dear not-quite-pretty face, her level eyes all bright
with love and humour and aliveness: he summoned her, in his head, the look and
the feel and the smell of her.

"Hold
fast, tibber," he said aloud. "Hold fast, dear love. I'm coming for
you."

68

And
if she was not at Birstall House, there was only one other place she was likely
to be – with Fairmantle, while he was buzzing round the Earl of Rochester like
a fly round a turd, craving Wilmot’s notice.

(And
why the infernal man had taken Russell’s wife with him he would never know, but
it was the sort of brainless idea that cork-brained rattle-bag would come up
with, and she would have gone because she still thought he was helpful. An idea
which he was very shortly going to disabuse her of, at length, and with
feeling. When he caught up with her -)

To give Wilmot credit, he never turned a hair, disturbed at his
breakfast. At three of the clock, the depraved young wastrel. He looked up,
with his glass in his hand, and he said, quite sweetly, “I’m sure I don’t know,
Caliban. Where did you last have her?”

“She was with you!”

“No, she isn’t.” He would have set the glass down untasted, and
that was a sure sign of disquiet in one of that company. “Why d’you think she’s
here?”

“She left to meet bloody Fairmantle! And he’s not at home, so -”

“Language, dear, language,” Wilmot said, and twirled his wine
glass by the stem. “You won’t catch
me
using foul language in polite
company.”

“I am likely to become considerably less polite company, sir, if
you do not stop fencing with me!”

Two pairs of dark, level eyes met, and neither dropped.

“So you believe me to be abetting your wife in some sort of
liaison with Charles Fairmantle, sir?” He sounded amused. “I quit your lady of
so shameful a lack of personal taste, Caliban. A lack of discretion, perchance,
and surely a lack of common sense, or I’m sure she’d never have married
you
,
but –“

Russell was proud of himself, at that moment. Twenty years ago
he’d probably just have punched the Earl of Rochester in the head, repeatedly.
He was an older and wiser man, with responsibilities – with a family, God
willing - and instead he just drew his sword and rested the tip of it on the
table, so that the shadow of it fell in a purposeful straight line across the
frigid linen, pointing like an arrowhead at Wilmot’s groin. “Don’t piss me
about,” he said. “I’m not in the mood. Where’s Thomazine?”

Wilmot glanced down, and cocked an eyebrow. “On grounds that I’d
not miss the heart, but the lack of
that
might cause me some
inconvenience? Well, I swear to you, major. On whatever you choose, since I
doubt you’d believe me if I swore in God’s name – I swear to you, may my
sceptre never serve me again if I lie. I have not seen the girl.” He stood up,
and straightened his cuffs. “Despite what Master Fairmantle would like you to
think, he is not a permanent resident in my establishment. For which I am more
grateful than you will ever know, sir. So, assuming that he has not crawled
into my privy and is even now locked in adoring contemplation of the contents,
where
is
the creature?”

“Not at home.”

“Master Fairmantle is very often not at home, major – or claiming
not to be, in the hope of feigning popularity. Are you
sure
he was not
there?”

“Unless he was hiding under the bed, my lord, yes!”

“Now you’re being silly,” Wilmot said reprovingly. “Why on earth
would a wench of some good sense – save in one particular matter only –“

“Shut up.”

“Why would she
choose
to spend time with that dreadful,
witless man? When she could be at home with
another
dreadful –“

Russell was not going to bite, this time. “She thought he might be
of service.”

“Well, I imagine there’s a first time for everything!”

“She thought he might be in a position to gossip -”

“Charles Fairmantle, gossip? Surely not, major!”

Russell took a deep breath. “Gossip that we directed, sir, rather
than whatever malevolent imp of mischief has been slinking around London
telling the world that I have a habit of murdering my relatives!”

“My dear man,” Wilmot said coolly, “that rumour began with Master
Fairmantle. He
is
your next door neighbour, sir, he ought to know.”

For a minute he could not speak. “
He
said I had most foully
murdered my own sister?”

“Has been saying it for months, sir. Not that anyone believed him,
of course. I imagine I should get my coat, shouldn’t I? You might want to leave
yours here, major. You’ll only get blood on the cuffs and I believe it is the
very devil to remove from brocade.”

“Why would he? Why would he
do
that?”

“Well, I’m buggered if I know, Caliban. It makes a better story,
possibly, and we might pay him some notice – is my guess. Why don’t we go back
round to his house and ask him? Bring your sword – I imagine you’ll be wanting
that. Paddle his flabby white arse, if nothing more gentlemanly.”

But Russell had a horrible feeling he did know. He didn’t know
why
,
but he thought he had an idea.

He wanted to weep, and he wanted to run away, but most of all he
wished to God he was the man that Charles Fairmantle had told people he was.
Because when he got his hands on that slanderous gossip-monger – that
duplicitous, sneaking, spineless lickspittle – he
was
going to commit
murder.

69

“The Earl is not at home,” the butler intoned, and Russell did not
trouble to reply, but walked in anyway. Ignoring the man’s protests, because he
had his sword in his hand and he wasn’t in the mood to listen to some squawking
lackey, but he had Wilmot cheerfully ambling behind him, and he was armed to the
teeth as well.

“What d’you think, then, Caliban?
Shall
we look under the
beds?”

The Earl was quartering the parlour like a hunting-dog, busily
moving the chairs and disarranging the drapery. Lifting the lid of a great
ornate tobacco-jar and peering inside, sniffing – “How
very
nasty,” he
said , and dropped the lid onto the hearth, where it burst like an eggshell.
And then smiled his lovely, angelic smile. “Dear me, I am clumsy, aren’t I?”

“Has there been a lady here?”

“A- no, sir, there has not, I beg you –“

Ah, well. He could always blame the company. Russell cocked his
pistol, and shot a hole in the rather horrible gilt mirror that reflected the
street.

Forgot, being slightly deaf in one ear at best, just how appalling
the racket was, in an enclosed space, and how much sheer unbridled
mess
– of broken glass, and silvering, and plaster-dust – an intemperate pistol-shot
was. In the tinkling silence that followed Fairmantle’s butler was staring at
them both as if they were dangerous lunatics, and Wilmot very carefully picked
a long, lethal shard of broken glass from his sleeve.