Black Gold (14 page)

For a moment, she leaned against him, her hand on his shoulder. “I'll be all right.” Drawing a deep breath, she steadied herself and thanked him. Turning to the captain, she asked as evenly as she could, “How many slaves die before you reach Jamaica?”

“About one in twenty during a fifty-day voyage,” he replied, then added apologetically, “Some slave ships lose half. That's a waste. We buy strong healthy blacks and don't pack in as many per square foot as other traders. Our ship's doctor tends to the sick.” The captain warmed up to his topic. “We're able to sell more slaves in good condition at the other end and at a higher price than anybody else. That's sound business, says Sir Harry.”

Anne whispered to Paul, “Sounds like Satan's business, I'd say.”

“Yes,” he replied softly. “Unfortunately, it's thriving.”

Their tour ended in the captain's quarters where he served Charlie a hot chocolate and the adults a fine brandy. In the course of conversation, Paul inquired about the ship's call in Bordeaux.

“Thanks to the new commercial treaty between our countries,” the captain replied, “we shall exchange English woolens for French wine.”

“Do you take passengers?”

“Occasionally officers bound for duty on the slave coast travel with us. When we've had space, and for a good price, we've also carried a few convicts in irons, condemned to servitude at British posts in Africa.”

Paul's face brightened. He and Georges exchanged glances. Anne read their minds. With Sir Harry's connivance, they could conceivably put Fitzroy in irons on the ship and drop him off in Bordeaux. She wondered, it was almost too good to be true.

***

From his seat next to the coachman, Georges peered into a darkening, late afternoon mist. He and his companions had driven without incident halfway back to Bath. Traffic was light, but the friendly greetings they received from a few fellow travelers warded off their fears. At a bend in the road a coach from Bath slowed down as it passed, and a hand drew back a curtain but did not wave. Soon afterwards, a large hooded horseman from Bristol overtook them at a gallop and was soon lost in the mist.

Then they came upon a wagon that had lost a wheel and was blocking the road. Georges became immediately suspicious. Why hadn't the Bath coach or the horseman stopped to help? Could the accident have happened in the last minute or two? An unlikely coincidence, he thought.

An elderly man and woman left the wagon and started walking toward the Combe Park coach. No one else was in sight. Thick hedges lined the road. Peter Hyde reined in his horses and turned to Georges. “A trap?”

He nodded. “An old trick.” Leaning over, he called out a warning in French to Colonel Saint-Martin in the coach. Hyde picked up the blunderbuss and Georges the short-barrelled musket.

The coachman ordered the couple to go back and push their wagon out of the way. Instead, they drew pistols and dashed forward, firing. One of the shots took Georges' hat off. At the same moment, four bandits charged out of the hedges, pointing their pistols toward the coach.

Georges shot the old man just as he reached the horses. Hyde's blunderbuss blasted away at the woman, who fled limping into the hedge on the left. Anne fired from her window. Two of the bandits dropped to the ground. Saint-Martin felled the leader of the band and one of his companions, then leaped from the coach and picked up their loaded pistols. Anne reloaded her weapons and trained them on the wounded men. From behind the hedge came the sounds of horses galloping away. The combat was over as suddenly as it had begun. Only the smell of gun powder lingered in Georges' nostrils and the echo of the shots rang in his ears.

He pulled out his pistols and jumped down to the colonel's side. Searching the hedges, they determined that the bandits must have numbered at least eight. Besides the six who had attacked the coach, two more must have guarded the horses hidden behind the hedges.

“It was a large, well-organized ambush,” Georges said. “The coach with the drawn curtains stopped traffic behind us to gain time for the attack. And the rider galloping past us must have alerted the bandits ahead.”

“A clever, daring plan,” the colonel agreed. “But they didn't expect us to come heavily armed and alert.”

Three of the bandits lay unconscious where they had fallen. The fourth man, who had posed as elderly, sat up moaning in pain from a shoulder wound. The bandit leader was dead. Georges looked closely at his scarred face. “I saw him with Roach at The Little Drummer last night.” In the man's pocket, Georges found a description of the coach and its passengers with Anne and Charlie's names underlined, the two Frenchmen crossed off.

With Anne and Paul standing by, Georges leaned over the wounded man and demanded to know what he and his companions had intended to do. At first, he refused to speak. But, when Georges placed a pistol at his temple, then cocked it, he admitted they had orders to tie up the coachman, kill the two Frenchmen, and bring the young woman and the boy to an abandoned cottage a mile from the road. Then their leader “Scarface”—that was his name—would pay them off with watches, jewelry, and gold coins. The injured man claimed to have no idea what Scarface had planned for the captives.

“That's probably true,” said Georges to Anne and Paul, “And with Scarface dead, we'll never know what he intended.” Georges and Peter Hyde tied up the wounded men and laid them on top of the Combe Park coach together with the body of their leader. The disabled wagon was pushed off the road, and the coach set out again for Bath, forty minutes away.

***

Not until they settled back in their seats did shock set in. Anne felt limp and numb. Paul seemed tense and anxious, the color drained from his face. At the same moment, both of them glanced at Charlie, but he appeared untouched. When the shooting began, Anne had pushed him to the floor of the coach. While the others were engaged with the bandits, Charlie had gotten up and hung out the window, intent on the scene. His eyes were now bright and lively, his lips parted in amazement. The spectacle had exhilarated him.

When their spirits returned to normal, Anne remarked to Paul, “This is frightening. The bandits knew who we were and where to find us.”

“Thank Critchley,” Paul exclaimed in a voice heavy with irony. “As soon as he had prepared Sir Harry's message to the ship's captain, he must have gone to Roach. Then, last night at The Little Drummer, Roach instructed the bandit leader to attack us.”

She studied the paper from the dead man's pocket. “Why was he told to kill you and Georges? Roach doesn't know either of you.”

“But Captain Fitzroy does. And his guards, Tarleton and Corbett, met with Roach last night to negotiate an alliance. Apparently the captain didn't yet know that Roach was helping Sir Harry build a case against Lady Margaret.”

“Curious allies.” Anne traced the underlining with her finger. “I also seem to have been one of their targets, Charlie the other.” She spoke in French as calmly as she could, aware that Charlie was watching her lips.

With a glance at the boy, Paul also spoke French. “Underlining your name and Charlie's doesn't tell us what they meant to do. We can only guess. Perhaps Scarface was supposed to carry you away to Roach, while holding little Charlie for ransom.”

“Assuming Roach is the mastermind,” Anne suggested, “let's suppose someone wanted Roach to kill Charlie too.”

“And who might that be?”

Anne replied with a low, strained voice, “A passionate man, duped by his wife and her lover. Such a man would see in Charlie the living symbol of that betrayal.”

***

It was twilight when they drove into Bath, the bandits trussed and unconscious on top of the coach. At the market place, Paul hired a carriage to bring Anne, Charlie, and himself up to Combe Park. The Rogers' coach with Georges and the wounded bandits drove on to the prison.

On the way through the city, Paul and Anne agreed to tell Sir Harry and Lady Margaret about the incident, but without suggesting that Roach was behind the attack or that Critchley had informed him. To accuse them without proof would risk alienating Sir Harry, who was depending on those men for evidence against his wife. Only Scarface could have implicated Roach.

The sun had set and guests were entering the house as Paul, Anne, and Charlie arrived. Jeffery lowered the step on the carriage for Anne to descend. She thanked him with new feeling born of her experience on the slave ship. He might have noticed the change in her voice. His brow lifted slightly.

Lady Margaret, regal in a purple silk gown trimmed with gold thread, stood in the entrance hall and greeted the guests as they arrived. Nearby, relaxed and jovial in an embroidered white suit, Sir Harry spoke to a fashionable gentleman about the forthcoming boxing match. When the host and hostess were free, Paul and Anne approached with Charlie between them.

Lady Margaret first smiled, then looked uncertain and touched her husband's arm. Paul drew them together and asked softly, “Could we meet privately in the study? The hall is unsuitable for what we have to tell you.”

Startled, the Rogers glanced at one another, sensing that something untoward had happened. Lady Margaret beckoned the steward who was passing through the entrance hall. “Mr. Cope, please show the guests in. Sir Harry and I have been called away for a minute.”

Sir Harry closed the study door behind them and distractedly gestured for everyone to find chairs for themselves. “Now, tell us, Colonel, what can be the matter?” His voice betrayed some irritation.

“On our return journey, Sir Harry, forty minutes from Bath, a large band of armed men attacked us.” Paul paused, allowing the shocking news to sink in. Lady Margaret raised a hand to her heart. The creamy whiteness of her face turned to gray. Sir Harry's irritation gave way to an expression of dismay.

Anne picked up the story. “Fortunately, none of us were injured. Charlie, in particular, is well.” She put a hand on the boy's shoulder and faced him so that he could read her lips. “He was a brave fellow.”

Charlie drew up his courage and said, “One of the bandits is dead.”

“And his four companions are now in prison,” Paul added. He went on to describe what had happened. Sir Harry interrupted frequently with questions. Lady Margaret appeared confused and said nothing. She glanced repeatedly with concern at Charlie.

Leaning back in her chair, Anne studied Sir Harry's reaction for signs of complicity or guilt. The news of the attack appeared to surprise him. But what troubled him, Anne thought, was not the danger to his son but the size and boldness of the band. “Very puzzling,” he said again and again. It seemed unlikely to Anne that he was behind the attack.

By the end of Paul's report, Sir Harry's brow had deeply furrowed. “Robbers are common on the roads out of Bath, but they usually work in the dark singly, or in two's or three's at the most. And they use clubs, or swords, rarely pistols. Your attackers carried on like a band of desperate smugglers.” He clasped his thighs in a gesture of determination. “I'll speak to the mayor. We must root them out!”

He rose from his chair and gathered his wife. “It's time to return to our guests. We're glad you're all safe and sound. Join the party.” As they walked out the door, Sir Harry hailed a guest in the hallway. Music drifted toward them from the ballroom. Voices melted into a general din.

The three travelers started to follow the Rogers. Suddenly, Anne stopped, closed the door, and looked at Charlie. He was fighting back tears. She hugged him, stroking his head. In French she said to Paul, “While you were speaking of violent men charging our coach, our pistols firing—his son in the gravest danger—Sir Harry never once looked at him.”

Chapter 12

Laying Blame

Paul led Anne and Charlie from the study, through the milling crowd in the hallway, and up the stairs. At the door to her antechamber, she turned to Paul. “I can't go down to the party tonight. Charlie needs care, and his parents won't give it to him. He and I will play with hand puppets and cards until he's ready to sleep.” Pale and drawn, she glanced anxiously at Charlie and put an arm over his shoulder. “I feel guilty for taking him to Bristol.” She looked tenderly into Paul's eyes. “Will you visit me after you leave the party?”

“If it's not too late.” He caressed her hand. “I'll report to you whatever I discover.” When she had gone inside with the boy, he listened to their fading steps, to doors closing. For a moment, he stood quietly holding her worried face in his mind's eye. His heart went out to her.

If there was any guilt from the trip, it was his. He had taken advantage of Charlie, put him in harm's way. Should he have been more cautious? More concerned that his pursuit of Fitzroy did not harm innocent bystanders? Fortunately, the boy wasn't injured. Indeed, the adventure seemed to have done him good. And, the trip had been worthwhile. Roach would not get evidence against Lady Margaret from Betty. Her neighbors were alerted and would protect her. Fitzroy would remain within reach. The prospects for shipping him to France seemed better than ever.

Distant sounds of music jarred the colonel back into the present moment. He hurried to his room, changed to fresh linen and a brown dress suit, and went downstairs to the party.

Moving among the guests, he snatched bits of conversation, much of it about wagering on Jeffery's boxing match at noon on Wednesday. Large sums, eager faces. He also eavesdropped on guests discussing the afternoon's attack. How quickly the news had spread. He learned nothing useful, except how anxious the English were about violent crime on their highways. And yet they wouldn't dream of allowing their king to establish a royal highway patrol as in France.

The sound of music drew him to the ballroom. As he entered, Miss Ware was singing an air to a rapt audience. Her voice, a strong well-trained soprano, filled the room with a lilting melody. A fetching young woman, dark-eyed and comely. Sensuous, yet touchingly innocent. Sir Harry was standing nearby, off to one side, his eyes locked on her. Whenever she looked in his direction, his face beamed with joy. At the end of her song, he led the applause.

The trumpets gave out a resounding flourish. The music director announced a country dance. As Miss Ware stepped down from the stage to the ballroom floor, several men approached her, faces bright and hopeful. Sir Harry brusquely elbowed them out of his way and seized her for himself. She seemed a little startled but pleased by the competition.

The band struck up the music, and the dancers began stepping about the room. For a large, rugged man, Sir Harry was remarkably light on his feet. And skillful. He executed the quick steps with ease and grace. His broad ruddy face exuded the delight he drew from his lovely young partner.

A tap on the shoulder interrupted Saint-Martin's observations. “Shall we dance?” asked Lady Margaret, her emerald eyes inviting him with a warm inner glow. She extended her arms toward him. “The hostess' privilege, Colonel.”

Momentarily at a loss for words, Saint-Martin bowed gallantly and murmured his pleasure. He quickly summoned his courage, uttered a silent prayer to the muse of the dance, and stepped out on the floor. Navigating the rapidly changing figures of the dance left him little opportunity for small talk. He did notice his partner casting swift barbed glances at her husband and Miss Ware and sensed each time a tensing of her hands. At the end of the dance, he felt fortunate to have maintained a semblance of dignity. He could easily have tripped them both.

While the musicians rested, Saint-Martin and Lady Margaret strolled from the floor. He looked at her sideways. A woman of uncommon beauty and aristocratic hauteur, but cunning and self-serving. A mercurial woman of Irish temperament, her moods shifting swiftly from frigid to torrid behind a mask of sangfroid. Law and convention had trapped her in an unhappy marriage. She could be a desperate, dangerous woman.

“Isn't it odd, Colonel, that the bandits appear to have known precisely where and when they could find you?” She tilted her head, a knowing expression in her eyes. “Who do you suppose betrayed you?” Before he could respond, she added, “And my son?”

“I do suspect someone, Lady Margaret, but I really shouldn't name him until I have more evidence.”

“Mr. Critchley is your man, Colonel. My husband's personal spy.”

Saint-Martin inadvertently shuddered. Her implication was obvious and shocking.

***

Lady Margaret turned away to speak to other guests and left Saint-Martin with his dark thoughts. He didn't believe Sir Harry had organized the attack or attempted to kill his son. But to his wife, at least, he seemed capable of such a crime.

Saint-Martin set out to find Georges, who should have returned from his business at the city's jail. The search ended in the basement gun room. Georges was seated at a work table. The weapons they had discharged that afternoon lay before him.

He looked up and smiled. “Take care, Colonel. Don't soil your ruffles.” He waved his hand with a flourish over a litter of cleaning rods and oily rags. “The pistols are ready to go back into their cases.”

“Let's talk here,” said the colonel, sitting across from his adjutant. “No privacy upstairs.” He reached gingerly for Anne's duelling pistols and held one in each hand, balancing them, taking aim with one and then the other. “If I ever had to duel Fitzroy, I'd borrow one of these. I couldn't miss.” He shook his head. “Too bad, we must bring the man back alive.” He placed the pistols in their case. “I'll take them to Miss Cartier when we've finished.”

At a word from his superior, Georges reported that the two most seriously wounded bandits were in the city's hospital. The third man had died shortly after arriving there. Under interrogation, the lightly wounded man, whom Georges had already questioned, admitted Scarface had recruited him and four other men late Saturday night on Avon Street with the promise of a heavy purse of gold coins. Tomorrow, bailiffs would move the man to the prison in Taunton to await trial.

“At the jail, I mingled with constables and watchmen I've gotten to know.” Georges rammed a cleaning rod down the short barrel of his musket. “One of them said Roach left the city on horseback at mid-morning and didn't return until after sunset.”

“He could have been at the cottage, even near the scene of the attack,” said Saint-Martin.

“Or the big man who galloped by us.” Georges cocked his head quizzically. “You don't think Sir Harry hired Roach to kill Charlie, do you?”

“Seems unlikely to me, though I can't say why.” Saint-Martin found himself reluctant to accept such an idea, perhaps because he had come to depend on Sir Harry for the capture of Fitzroy.

“You have to admit Sir Harry
could
have done it,” Georges insisted. “He looks like a bluff, hearty, smiling man. But that's just on the surface. There's dark evil in his heart. After all, he once captained a slave ship and continues to trade in slaves. A brutal business!”

“I grant you that. Still, I'll give Sir Harry the benefit of the doubt. I'm inclined to think Roach alone directed the attack and did so mainly for revenge against Anne—and, for whatever reason, Fitzroy paid him. Most likely, to eliminate me. I can't fathom Roach's intentions toward the boy. Perhaps later on he'd ‘rescue' him to win favor and a reward from his parents.”

Shrugging his doubts, Georges pulled the cleaning rod out of the musket and inspected the weapon carefully. “Finished finally. I'll wash up, change clothes, and question the servants.” He put the musket in a rack, then glanced at the colonel. “In all the excitement, I almost forgot to tell you. I've demolished Critchley's alibi in the Campbell case.” Georges went on to relate his conversation with Fanny. “Either he or Fitzroy could have pushed her down the stairs.”

“But how can we prove it?” asked Saint-Martin. For a moment he was lost in puzzled thought. “No one admits to seeing either of them at the scene of her fall.” He rose from his chair, waved to his adjutant, and left with Anne's pistols. As he went lightly up the stairs, he pictured Anne waiting for him. As she heard his steps nearing the door, her blue eyes would brighten, her soft lips would part. The thought pleased him immensely.

***

Resplendent in Combe Park livery of crimson and silver, Georges adjusted his powdered wig and joined the party. At nine in the evening, he was standing in the hall near the main entrance when Jack Roach arrived in a cab and attempted to enter. On duty at the door, Jeffery blocked his way, saying only invited guests were allowed inside.

“I want to speak to Sir Harry,” Roach growled. “He left a message at my apartment.”

“Sir Harry is in his study with several gentlemen discussing business,” said the footman with perfect courtesy. “May I tell him you are here?”

Roach cursed Jeffery for an ignorant savage but handed him a personal card to announce his arrival.

Leaving Roach standing outside, the footman walked to the study with the card. Georges followed him discreetly, his curiosity aroused. After a minute in the study, the footman emerged holding Roach's card in his hand.

As Jeffery approached the entrance hall, Georges beckoned him off to one side behind tall potted plants where they wouldn't be noticed.

“I saw Roach send you to Sir Harry with his card. Could you tell me what Sir Harry replied?” Georges fully realized Jeffery needed a very good reason for doing anything that would put him in jeopardy with his master. Therefore, he added in a low voice, “I'm investigating the Red Devil's part in this afternoon's attack. It's possible Sir Harry was involved with him. Maybe not. I've got to find out.”

For a moment, Jeffery stared at Georges, searching his face. Then, he smiled regretfully and held up the card so that it showed his master's handwriting on the back. “Don't know,” he murmured, “Can't read. Sir Harry didn't tell me.”

Georges took a step closer and quickly scanned the message:

I'm busy now. Meet me in the training room in ten minutes

“Thanks anyway, Jeffery. I understand.” Georges winked and took a step back. He suspected the footman
could
read but didn't want his master to know.

“Sir, you are a friend of Miss Anne. I trust you.”

Georges pointed to the card. “Can you make Roach wait five minutes for it?”

“Gladly.” Jeffery pocketed the card and sauntered away, losing himself in the crowd.

The footman's delay gave Georges enough time to dash to the tennis hall ahead of Roach and slip into the training room. It was pitch dark, but he found his way to the closet in the back wall and hid inside. The louvers in the door gave only a partial view of the room, but he should at least be able to hear what was said. He felt around the closet for brooms, mops and pails and put them out of his way. He could not afford to make a noise and be discovered.

After a few minutes, he heard footsteps in the antechamber. The door opened and a large figure entered carrying a lantern. As he set it down on a small table, his face was illumined. Jack Roach! He glanced nervously around the room. With an audible sigh he drew a pair of stools up to the table and sat down, wringing his hands.

Suddenly, he looked up. At the same moment, Georges heard footsteps. A frisson of excitement raced through his body.

“Roach, is it you in there?”

“Yes, Sir Harry.”

Rogers walked in, wearing a cape and carrying a lantern. His eyes darted about, searching the room. Satisfied they were alone, he sat at the table facing Roach. “Have you seen Critchley? Has he reported to you on Lady Margaret's billiard party Saturday night?”

“No,” Roach replied, “I've been out of the city most of the day and haven't spoken to him yet. Should I?” His voice had an impertinent edge.

“Well, I have, so save yourself the trouble.” Sir Harry unclasped his cape and laid it on a nearby bench. “Critchley spent the evening hiding on the portico, peeking into the parlor. He claimed my wife played an excellent game of billiards. The French colonel had better stick to tennis. But that's not why I've called you here. Have you heard that bandits attacked my coach on the Bristol Road this afternoon?”

Roach nodded tentatively.

“Would you happen to know the man they called Scarface? Or any of his men?” Rogers' voice had taken on an undertone of contempt.

“In my business,” Roach replied defensively, “I meet many criminals. Scarface was one of them. A bold villain. I might recognize some of his band.”

“I value your familiarity with Bath's criminal element. That's why I ask you, how could so many seasoned villains expect to profit from robbing travelers on an outing to Bristol? A few watches, a handful of guineas, divided among so many is next to nothing for each of them. Did they think the coach was transporting bars of gold to the Bank of England? They were well-armed and equipped with horses. Surely, they should have sought out a better investment for their efforts.”

Roach shrugged his shoulders. “Their leader may have deceived them.”

“And have risked the wrath of several armed villains by paying them a pittance or anything less than he had promised?” Sir Harry rose from the table and began to pace the floor, stabbing the air with his finger. “No, someone had contracted with Scarface for the attack, not merely to steal a few watches and gold coins, but to assassinate one or all of the passengers. I think the principal target was Colonel Saint-Martin. The man who hired the band, I suspect, was Captain Fitzroy. He has good reason to fear the colonel and want him out of the way.”