Home From The Sea (18 page)

In fact, Jim’s mind was racing. “I’m thinking
,
” he said slowly, “what we need to do is find the chest before they do.” His brows popped up at Toby in challenge. “There’s leverage for you.”

The suggestion inspired a groan. The blue eyes closed for a moment before Toby regarded him with rueful amusement. “There’s more than a touch of the pirate in you, isn’t there?”

“There might be,” Jim admitted. “But the first thing on my mind is staying alive. All the jewels in the world won’t do us any good if we’re dead and buried! And speaking of dead ... I want to haul Barney Bellowes out of here. My flesh is crawling, every time I remember there’s a body lying festering in my cellar.”

Toby listened to the wind and rain. “It’s not a good evening to be out.”

“It’s the best,” Jim argued. “In this weather, nobody’s going to see us taking the boat out. And look at the time. The tide’s turning right about now.” He rubbed his palms together. “How’s that arm of yours?”

“Sore, but it’s only a flesh wound. I’ve had far worse, as well you know.” Toby beckoned him to the door and opened it, admitting a blast of ice-cold air and stinging rain. “It’s dark enough, if you’re determined to do this.”

“I’m bloody bound and determined,” Jim told him. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to sleep tonight with a dead body under the trapdoor!” He did not have to feign a shudder. “Do you know where the oilskins are kept?”

“In the back room, the one with the big wardrobe … I’m afraid I searched the wardrobe. Looking for, well, you know.” Toby leaned heavily on the door to shut it against the wind. “I’ll go up and get them, will I?”

“Do that.” Jim watched him fetch a lantern from the bar and head back into the kitchen for a moment to light it at the hearth.

Even Mrs. Clitheroe was not so deaf that she had not heard at least some of what was said, and she was hovering with a face full of questions. Jim waited till Toby had vanished up the stairs in a maelstrom of macabre shadows, and then he pitched his voice so she could hear him clearly.

“We’re in a lot of trouble, Edith.”

“Bad men on their way ’ere,” she said with surprising calm.
“Aye, I ’
eard
enough.
One of ’em dead already, down below – an’ well deserved. Master Trelane’s lucky to be
breathin
’ tonight.”

“And we have to get rid of the body,” Jim told her. “It can’t be the doctor and undertaker in the morning, or we’re done for, Toby and me.” He paused, looking down into the shrewd old eyes. “I can’t explain, not here and now, but when it’s all over I’d be glad to make you a mug of coffee and tell you every last morsel I know.” He paused long enough to lick his lips. “Do you trust me?”

“Oh, aye,” she said with grim determination. “I dunno the ’
alf
of what’s
goin
’ on tonight, but I know
it’s
nuthin
’ good, God ’
elp
us all.
If thee
does
know what’s
goin
’ on, well –
thass
good enough
fer
me.”

“All right.”
Jim gave her a grim smile.
“Then you keep the dogs out of the way and get some hot food going. “Toby and me –?
We’re going to send Master Bellowes back to the sea, right where he came from. And I’m afraid we’re going to get ourselves half drowned while we’re at it.”

She puffed out her cheeks. “
Thee’ll
be
takin
’ out yon boat.”

“We will. And we’ll be feeding the crabs this time, instead of catching them!”

“
Feedin
’ ’em
wi
’ that bugger down below.” She had such a murderous look on her face, for a moment Jim was sure she was about to spit in the direction of the trapdoor. “It’ll be fish stew,
wi
’ ’
ot
bread an’ pickles.” She was on her way to the hearth to set up a pot, and turned back with as impish a grin as an old woman could conjure. “Mind, I don’t think I’ll be
eatin
’ much fish in these next few weeks … not fish that were caught off the shore ’ere. Not after what
them
fish’ve
been
eatin
’.”

Jim would not have believed he could find a laugh, but he did. “Just you be sure to say nothing of this, Edith. Ever – to anyone. It could be the death of all three of us, if you do.
And a nice purse for you, if you keep silent.
Yes?”

“Oh, aye,” she said darkly, glaring at the trapdoor. “I know the likes of that un down there. The world’s full of bad
uns
, Master Fairley. I’ll be buggered if I know what the Almighty were
thinkin
’ when ’e made ’em, but when they get sent down to the
burnin
’ place – good riddance to ’em, an’ it ain’t no sin to send the buggers there.”

She was still speaking when Toby reappeared with his arms filled with the oilskins. She never saw him cross himself, but she heard him say, “Amen. And yes, Edith, I’ll say a prayer for him, as I did for the girl.”

Edith Clitheroe snorted. “I’ll say it
fer
thee. ‘Our Father, please send this un straight down
wi
’ a message tied to ’im: ‘Burn to a crisp on both sides, basted in lamp oil,
turnin
’ often.’ Amen.”

 
The prayer made Toby laugh aloud when Jim would never have believed it possible tonight. Still chuckling, he beckoned Toby to the trapdoor. “We’ve nasty work to do.
Soonest started, soonest finished.”

The work was more heavy than nasty, at least as far as the door into the stableyard, and from there on, more wet and cold. Barney Bellowes was not merely dead, he was already growing stiff with what John Hardesty called
rigor mortis
, and not much harder to carry than a log of firewood weighing the same as a man. They had tied him up in old sacking as soon as they had him in the cellar, and Jim was glad he did not have to look into the dead face.

He took the feet while Toby climbed backwards up the stairs with great care. Edith shut the door to keep the dogs in the taproom, and Jim and Toby shrugged swiftly into the oilskins. The old woman pulled open the backdoor, propped it, and Toby held up a hand to stop Jim.

“Let me take a look around, make sure we have the place to ourselves.”

“Quickly,” Jim agreed.

He was gone no longer than a minute, and when he stuck his head back into the kitchen the rain was sluicing off the oilskin cape in torrents. “Nobody,” he reported, blinking water out of his eyes. “It’s filthy out here – I doubt there’s another human soul abroad in ten miles.”

“
Which suits us.
” Jim had stooped to take the feet again, and as they manhandled the dead weight through the door he called back to the woman, “We’ll not be long. Brew up, Edith.”

With that they were out, struggling against the wind and rain – as Toby had said, they might have been the only human souls left alive in the world. Around the corner of the tavern, they butted directly into the wind. Jim thought he could have leaned on it, and swore fluently as they
labored
across the path and into the coarse bushes beyond which was a mess of storm-driven sand and kelp. Wind and rain stung the eyes while the ears filled with the roar of gale and sea.

His boat was kept in good repair, beached high on the sands, above the tidal zone, keel to the sky and the oars stored beneath. They dumped Bellowes for long enough to flip the little craft over, and Toby shoved the oars into the locks. The body seemed to be getting heavier by the moment, and they were both cursing as they got it into the well of the boat.

Cold as the night was, sweat prickled Jim’s ribs as they hauled the boat through the mounds of wrack and into the breakers. Then the water stole the breath right out of his lungs as it broke around his knees and thighs, and he clambered over the side as soon as it was afloat. Toby stayed longer in the freezing wash, shoving the craft until he was sure the outgoing tide had it.

The waves were violent, smashing on the shore and almost swamping the boat at once. Toby was bailing as hard and as fast as he could, the moment he was aboard, and only the fact the tide was going out made it possible for them to get the craft into the water at all.

In moments they were far enough from shore for Jim’s heart to be in his mouth, and he knew they did not dare go much further. They had to get back in against this very tide, and even with
Bellowes’s
weight out of the boat, it would be far from easy. The same forces that helped them get out far enough
to push the body over and be
sure it would be a mile offshore by morning, turned against them as soon as Bellowes hit the water. Without needing a word spoken, Toby took one of the oars, Jim the
other,
and they pulled as if their lives depended on it while the water around their feet grew deeper with frightening speed.

They were dangerously close to swamping in the brutal thrash of the sea, and Jim was keenly aware that they could die within shouting distance of the tavern. Never in his life had he done such work. He had never believed himself strong enough, and was sure it was sheer desperation and the blazing desire to survive that kept him pulling with all his weight while his body screamed. He heard Toby grunting in pain and gave a thought to the wound before he thanked whatever sailor’s gods might be watching that Toby was so strong.

It seemed a year since they heaved Bellowes over before Jim felt the rasp of pebbles under the keel and threw down the oars. He and Toby were over the side at once – smashed under a wave higher than Jim was tall. They fought for breath, coughing on salt water as it receded, and threw their backs into the work of hauling the boat back up through the wrack.

Every muscle Jim possessed was trembling with fatigue, cold and pain when they flopped the boat back over and thrust the oars underneath. Still, Toby insisted Jim stay in the concealment of the bushes just above the beach while he made sure they were alone. Jim stood with his raw palms on his knees, cursing his leg and listening to the rasp of his breathing.

“All clear,” Toby shouted over the wind, and grabbed him by the arm to get him moving. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” Jim panted. “Damnit, Trelane, you’re trouble to me!”

And he caught one glimpse of a rare, mirthless grin as Toby steered him in the direction of the stableyard, and shelter.

Chapter Ten

The wound was bleeding badly. Toby looked pale and his lips compressed in pain as Jim took off the old bandage and swore over the damage they had done. The ruined shirt lay on the floor at their feet, and Jim tried not to look at the scars on his back. He fetched the rum bottle and doused the gash again, making Toby hiss through his teeth. Then, a thick pad of clean rags and several yards ripped from an old skirt, tied on so tightly, he knew the hand and arm would soon be numb.

“Can you stand this?” he asked as he finished the knots.

“It’s nothing,” Toby said gruffly.

“Like bastard bloody hell is it nothing,” Jim argued. “Your hand’s going to be blue in half an hour! But by then the bleeding
will’ve
stopped.” He stepped back, gathering rum, rags and shirt. “Tell me when you can’t stand it anymore, and I’ll loosen it.”

“Not till the blood stops.” Toby made a grab for the rum and took a large swig before he let Jim take it back. “I’ve seen wounds before.
Too many of them, and a lot worse.
This one?
It’s a scratch.”

“You know best.” Jim sighed, and paused long enough to draw a light caress around Toby’s cold face while Mrs. Clitheroe’s back was turned. Just then she was ladling stew into two deep bowls, and saw nothing as Jim leaned down and kissed Toby’s forehead, where the fair hair still hung in wet ringlets. “Stay where you are. I’ll go up and get us some dry clothes. You want a job to do? Get rid of the old shirt. Burn it. Leave nothing to give anybody the hint of an idea there was ever violence in this house.”

“And I’ll hide Barney’s pistol,” Toby said grimly as he hauled himself to his feet. The offending weapon lay on the chair by the table. One handed, he wrapped it in a clean swatch of the ragging Jim had used to bind his wound, and without a word he thrust it into the bottom of the barley bin on the pantry shelves by the hearth. He buried it deep under the pile of grain and replaced the top. “There. Even Nathaniel won’t be looking for the treasure of Diego Monteras in the bottom of the barley bin,” he said wryly. “In his mind, it’s a chest he’s looking for, much bigger than this bin. Good enough?”

“Good enough.” Jim swiped up a cold lantern, lit it from one of those on the back of the table, and swore as he stepped away from the hearth. He was sodden and cold enough to make his teeth chatter. The wind was howling around the tavern, tearing at the shutters, making them bang and singing in the chimneys with a demonic voice, but the thunder had spent itself now. One more day of this deluge and they would be flooding, and like anyone along the coast, they could only hope for blue skies and a glimpse of the sun.

In the dim privacy of his own bedchamber Jim peeled out of the sodden clothes and took a moment to scrub
himself
with an old blanket, so hard, it might have taken off his skin. Dry but far from warm, he shoved his legs into fresh linen and britches and rummaged for shirt, waistcoat, and the same again for Toby. The leg nagged at him, the pain steady, persistent, acid hot and stubbornly defying him to ignore it.