How the Hangman Lost His Heart (11 page)

It was at least half an hour before Alice broke the silence. “If you try to stand in your stirrups, then fall naturally, then stand again, you will soon be able to rise to the trot and be much more comfortable,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory rather than smug. “John, our head groom, taught me that when I first started to ride.”

Dan sniffed. Alice gave up, but when she next looked over, Dan's broad forehead was red under his three-cornered hat and his cheeks were puffing as he
bounced. “Glory be,” he burst out at last, “this must be worse than being at sea.”

The frost was broken. Alice gave him her most captivating smile.

“Do you always get your own way?” Dan asked after Alice had shown him how to hold the reins properly and what his legs were for.

“Usually,” she admitted, quite unperturbed by the implied criticism, “but I'm always very nice about it.” Dan shook his head, but he could not help grinning. Alice looked at him and nodded approvingly. “You're quite a stylish rider, Dan Skinslicer,” she said. “When we've got Uncle Frank's head, we'll make excellent time home.”

Dan grunted. “Maybe we won't find it.”

But Alice tossed her hair. “We will find it,” she said, and, as if to underline her certainty, kicked Marron into a canter.

It was not long before they saw some troopers dressed similarly to themselves and, catching them up, they fell in right at the back. Nobody questioned them, for unfamiliar dragoons were often appearing, replacing those lost at the battle of Culloden earlier in the year. Some of the men spoke to Dan, and he, with a native cunning he was fast picking up from Alice, confided that his slim companion was the young son of a high-ranking officer and had been entrusted
to him to look after. “Best not to speak to him,” Dan whispered. “He's a right snotty-nosed little fop.” Alice never knew why the troopers avoided her, but Dan smiled a tiny smile to himself and settled back in his saddle. Just before the barracks, he and Alice peeled off. Nobody bade them good-bye. Nobody even saw them go.

Inside the barracks, Major Slavering had not slept well. As more and more of his crack troops straggled in empty-handed, with no news at all of Alice, Dan, or the two stolen horses, his temper grew shorter and shorter. “Call yourselves soldiers,” he stormed as the men stood in the mustering yard, tired and disconsolate, wanting only a decent breakfast. “How can a couple of cranks carrying a head have got past you?”

There was muttering among the troopers and one took his courage in his hands. “When we chased the two villains around Grosvenor Square,” he said, nervous but buoyed up by his fellows, “we didn't see no 'ead.”

“Of course you didn't,” replied the major, eyeballing the unfortunate soldier. “They'd have wrapped it in something. Dangling heads from saddles went out some time ago. Is that not so, Captain Ffrench? You are the educated one among us.” Hew was standing
behind the major. “How would
you
think they are carrying it?”

Hew cleared his throat. “I imagine in a cloak or something,” he said.

The major looked more closely at him. “Did you see anything containing a head when that traitorous couple made their escape?”

“No, Major, I didn't,” said Hew, “but maybe one of them was holding it on the side away from me.”

“Perhaps.” Slavering scrutinized his captain. Hew's dark eyes were so irritatingly honest. But now they seemed to have some kind of veil over them, a veil that told Slavering, as clear as a public announcement, that Hew was harboring a secret. Ever since Alice's unexpected catapulting from the ladder, the major had entertained doubts about his captain's commitment to bringing the girl to justice and it seemed more than curious that whenever Alice vanished, Hew was in the vicinity. Slavering walked forward until his face was only an inch from Hew's nose. “If that girl and her accomplice were not carrying the head,” he said slowly, brushing an imaginary spot of dirt from Hew's shoulder, “perhaps they have left it in that house in Grosvenor Square where, I believe, the grandmother and aunt live. Should we conduct a thorough search and bring the two ladies here to question them? Ladies like that can't be so very hard to break.”

Hew did not allow himself to flinch but, behind his back, one hand formed a fist. “We could go and search the house, if you like,” he said evenly, “but if the girl did leave the colonel's head—”

“The traitor's head,” the major hissed, standing so close to Hew that their buttons touched.

“The head.” Hew would make no further concession. “If they did leave it in Grosvenor Square, I'm sure the two ladies will know nothing about it. One is extremely old—I'm told the king believes she is the oldest person in London—and the other is, well, certainly eccentric.” The effect was as Hew hoped. The reference to the king was enough to have the major step backward. Nobody wanted to fall afoul of the king. It was safe to tease and misuse the unpopular Duke of Mimsdale, but Lady Widdrington was a riskier target.

Slavering paced up and down. “That laundry basket,” he said abruptly. “You returned it to the laundryman?”

Hew didn't blink. “I did, sir.”

“Did you look inside it?”

Hew had rehearsed this to himself already. “I didn't need to. It had already been half-emptied by you and what was left in it flew out with the two escapees. I simply put everything back in as best I could. It will still be with the laundryman. If you have any doubts, sir, I will take you to him and you
can see for yourself.” Hew made as if to sidestep the major and give appropriate orders, but Slavering stopped him and his look was sly.

“Too lowly a task for you, Captain Ffrench.” He barked at the men. “I want two volunteers to go to the river right now, find this laundry person, and bring him here. I'll talk to him personally. We'll soon find that head. It must have left its mark somewhere.”

It was an hour before the laundryman appeared and by that time the troops were restless. The laundryman himself had only one idea, and that was to please the major, who kept running his hand up and down the blade of his sword in a way that made the skin creep. Yet the laundryman could only swear on his life that neither he nor his wife had found anything strange in the duke's linen and certainly no traces of a head at all. When the major finally dismissed him, the laundryman was so grateful he could not stop bowing and sniveling. “A man like yourself will certainly be in need of a good laundry service,” he groveled. “Me and the wife, we're as quick as quick. Why, we only got the duke's laundry yesterday as the bells chimed four and he will get it back before sunset today.”

Major Slavering stopped in his tracks. “Four, you say? Four o'clock? Are you sure?” He seized the laundryman's collar.

“Yes, sir, sure, sir, absolutely, sir,” the man gushed as best he could with his neck squeezed so hard.

Slavering dropped him and turned to Hew. His triumph was absolute. “Four, eh?” he said, and the lightness in his voice was more ominous than any bark. “And you said this man was easy to find? Not so easy, apparently, since you left the Fleet prison long before four. Did you, perhaps, make some stops with that heavy basket on the way, Captain Ffrench? Now, let me recall.” He crossed his arms. “Oh yes. Don't you have a mother and a sister living somewhere in Chelsea? Maybe you paid them a visit?” He tapped Hew's nose. “A visit ‘a-head' of your usual one on a Sunday, if you'll forgive the pun?”

Hew went green with dismay but knew at once that he must come clean. “I did pay them a visit,” he admitted. “Some of the duke's laundry got damaged in the scuffles and my mother sews. The stuff is valuable, so it seemed prudent to get it mended. I mean, you never know when the duke will be back in favor at court again and these dukes can make a terrible fuss over anything—even a nightcap.”

The troopers sniggered. The nightcap would live long in their memories.

At once Hew knew that mentioning the nightcap had been a mistake. “BE QUIET!” the major yelled. Then he turned back to Hew. “I think we will pay
your mother a visit, Captain Two-Effs, just to make sure all that prudent mending is safe.” His veins pulsed. “Bring horses for the captain and myself, and you two”—he kicked out at two dragoons standing, gawping—“get your own animals and accompany us.”

The major rode at full speed to Chelsea, scattering beggars as he went. Hew followed behind, a sickness in his stomach, cursing everything. It wasn't Alice's fault, of course, but if she had never attempted to rescue the colonel's head, he would never have met her. All the way to Chelsea, he made a frantic list of people to whom he might appeal once Uncle Frank's head was discovered. The best person would be the Duke of Cantankering. Although Cantankering's relationship with King George could never be relied on and the ensuing scandal would certainly mean that Lord Trotting would no longer marry Mabel, the duke was still Hew's best hope. Anything to prevent his mother from being thrown into jail at the mercy of men worse even than Major Slavering.

As they neared Mrs. Ffrench's door, Hew tried to go ahead, but the major was having none of it. “I never had you down as a mommy's boy,” he jeered, pushing Hew back. Their boots were splashed by a pig scuffling through a puddle and the major roared his disgust.
“For all your fancy two-effed name, this is not a part of London frequented by gentlewomen. Those jokes the troopers tell about Mr. F-f-french being a g-gambler and a d-debtor are obviously true.”

Hew pressed his legs harder into his horse's flanks. He could not afford to lose his temper. All he could do was mutter to himself that no gentleman would use his father's reputation as a way of insulting his mother. But then Slavering was not a gentleman. That's what made him dangerous.

Mrs. Ffrench opened the front door before the major could wallop it, thus slightly wrong-footing him. “Major Slavering, I presume?” she asked, glad that she was wearing a clean cap and her least darned gown. Her house might be small and the area discreditable, but Major Slavering should see that she had not forgotten her manners. “Hew.” She moved forward to kiss her son. “I'm not sure to what I owe this honor.”

The major could feel the back of his neck bristling. How was it possible to sound so superior with a greeting? “There is no honor, madam,” he said. “I have reason to believe that you have in your possession something that does not belong to you. That's all.”

“I have many things here which do not belong to me,” said Mrs. Ffrench easily. “As you probably know
from Hew, I take in sewing. I have some at present. That does not belong to me. But then neither,” she added, “does it belong to you.”

“We'll see about that, shall we?” growled the major. He and the troopers thrust their way into the little house, leaving Hew and his mother to bring up the rear.

“Mabel's in the parlour,” said Mrs. Ffrench. “She's come to fetch her things and say good-bye because she's going north with the Cantankerings for a month or so tomorrow.” Hew squeezed his mother's hand. There was nothing else to do.

When the major encountered Mabel, his eyes gleamed and he bowed ostentatiously low. Mabel, who had passed him occasionally when she had watched Hew parading the dragoons, ignored him, and Mrs. Ffrench hastened over to stand by her daughter.

The major insolently examined the contents of the room before beginning, with solemn effrontery, to open the drawers and doors of the single cabinet and cupboard, dropping the contents onto the floor. As the china smashed, Hew started forward, but his mother restrained him. “Let the major find what he has come for and then leave us in peace,” she said, keeping her voice very relaxed, “but I must say that it would help, Major Slavering, if I knew exactly what it was that you sought.”

The major glared at her. “I'm looking for a head, ma'am.”

Mrs. Ffrench jumped, but Mabel began to laugh. “A head?” she asked. “Why, Major, you don't look as if you have lost yours quite yet.”

Slavering glowered and ordered the two troopers to search the bedrooms. Bangs and crashes marked their progress through the three small upstairs chambers. Mabel's face was livid but, to Hew's relief, although her temper was obviously simmering, at least it was simmering quietly.

The troopers emerged empty-handed. At once Major Slavering began to look about the parlor more carefully, running his hands down the walls and even getting one trooper to stick an arm up the chimney. Nothing.

Hew moved forward, trying not to look at the work-basket. “I think you have disturbed my mother long enough,” he said coldly.

But the major was not finished. Slowly, quite deliberately and tortuously slowly it seemed to Hew, he finally turned his attention to Mrs. Ffrench's mending. He walked round the basket a few times, even gave it a poke or two, then, quite suddenly, kicked it over. As the contents spilled out, the wig bag rolled into the middle of the floor with a dull thud. Hew did not dare look at his mother.

Slavering's whole face changed. A wig bag.
A wig bag!
Of course! Oh, how excellently clever! What better place to hide a head? He gave it a poke with his foot and guffawed. Then he bent down to open it. The ribbon was knotted and not easily undone. In the end, using Mrs. Ffrench's scissors, he snipped it and, plunging both hands inside, seized a clump of hair and pulled. Hew closed his eyes and swayed slightly. He opened them just in time to see the major clutching a black wig and staring at it in disbelief. Hew felt as though the world had stopped. Slavering dropped the wig, peered down, and plunged his hand in again. This time he brought out a carved wooden head, the sort wigmakers use as models. This he tossed on top of the wig before plunging in again and again, bringing out rope upon rope of horsehair, each rope grayer and greasier than the last. Finally, he picked up the bag itself and shook it so hard that his epaulets thumped up and down. It was only then that he accepted that the bag was absolutely and completely empty.