(Midwinter Manor)Poacher's Fall

Poacher’s Fall

D
ANNY
C
OSTESSEY
slung the last furry little body into his bag and grinned, satisfied with the night’s work. Three rabbits, all of them good sized. Not so fancy as what they’d be eating up at the manor, but it’d still make a grand Christmas dinner for his mam and the kids. Now, though, it was time to be heading off home before that bastard of a gamekeeper caught him.

Snow had started to drift from the heavy clouds, a few flakes finding their way between the leafless trees to fall on Danny as he made his way home. At least they had plenty of firewood this year. Life was a bit easier now that Toby was big enough to help out, and he’d done a cracking job of collecting wood for their mam. Funny to think of Toby growing up. He’d been so tiny when he was born a couple of years before the Great War. And now he was ten years old already. He’d taken his little sisters out to gather holly to cheer up the cottage in honor of the season, although there had been a few tears over pricked thumbs that day, Danny recalled. But his mam had smiled to see it, and that was the main thing.

No mistletoe, though, Danny mused. His mam did love a nice bit of mistletoe, said it reminded her of her youth. Not that she was old now, mind, but five kids and no husband were enough to wear any woman down.

It was still dead dark in the forest, hardly a scrap of moonlight to find your way by, but Danny knew his way through these woods better than he knew his own face, and he recalled a big old oak tree set in a clearing that had a grand patch of mistletoe growing on it. It hung down from the branches like—well, Danny wasn’t much good with poetic descriptions and the like, but what it reminded him of most was the time he and Billy Wainwright had broken into the abandoned cottage next to the orchard for a lark. They’d crept into the pantry and found a wasp’s nest that was bigger around than both of them put together. They’d stared at it open-mouthed for a moment as the wasps started to swarm angrily on being disturbed. And then they’d both yelled out loud and run like buggery.

Danny grinned at the memory, though regret twisted in his gut just a little. Billy wasn’t around anymore. He’d gone off to Pontefract, nigh on thirty miles away, to train as a stonemason, and he’d met a local lass there and married her. Two kids already, though he wasn’t but a couple of years older than Danny himself. Of course, the first one had been the reason they’d wed so quick. Danny had been hurt, at first, when he’d heard the news, but it wasn’t like Billy could’ve married
him
, was it now?

Billy had tried to tell him, when he’d come back to visit his family bearing his new son like a trophy, that one day Danny’d find a lass he liked well enough to wed. But Danny reckoned there were men as could do that, and men as couldn’t, and he was one of the last lot. It wasn’t so bad; he had his family, and Tom the blacksmith was always up for a bit of messing around when his wife was out. And sometimes when she wasn’t. Danny laughed under his breath. They’d had a couple of close calls that way. Perhaps he ought to feel bad about sneaking behind her back, but the whole village knew she’d tricked Tom into marrying her, claiming she was in the family way, and here they were, six years married and not a bairn to show for it.

Danny had reached the oak now and stood considering it for a moment. Not as many low branches as he’d like, but he reckoned he could shin up the trunk far enough to grab one. And he’d best get a move on. Snow was falling thicker now, and his fingers were starting to numb.

Taking his knife from his boot and shoving it between his teeth for ease of access, Danny began to climb. It took him a couple of goes before he grasped the lowest branch, but once he’d done that, he was able to swing himself up onto it. Blinking snowflakes out of his eyes, Danny reached for the next branch, and the one after that, and soon he was level with the clump of mistletoe he was after. It looked a sight farther along the branch from here than it had from down below. Wishing he had some gloves, Danny started to inch along toward it.

Suddenly his foot slipped. His stomach lurched with it. Danny had always thought it happened quickly, when you fell, but time seemed to have slowed right down as he tumbled through the air. Didn’t do him any good, mind. Branches whipped at him painfully, and Danny tried to grab onto them, but his arms were too slow and his numb fingers failed to catch hold of anything that might save him. His last thought was how mad his mam would be at him, and then with an impact that knocked the breath out of him an instant before everything went dark, Danny hit the ground.

W
HEN
Danny came to himself again, there was a large dog snuffling ʼround his face. Its hot, smelly breath made him cough, which caused sharp, agonizing pains to cut through his chest like a gutting knife. Danny heard himself whimper.

A guttural voice cut through the agony, and Danny’s eyes struggled to focus on a scowling face covered in graying stubble, dimly lit by the miner’s lamp the man carried in one gnarled hand.

“Costesseys! Thieving bastards, the lot of you. You get what you deserve!”

Dimly, Danny recognized Drayton, the gamekeeper. He just had time to think it must have made the old bastard’s Christmas, finding him like this, and then everything went mercifully black once more.

S
ITTING
in the drawing room in his oak-paneled cocoon of solitude, Philip stared at his tumbler of whisky. The firelight made the cut crystal sparkle beautifully and lent a sunny warmth to the amber liquid within. “You always liked amber, didn’t you, Robert?” he murmured. “You thought it such a wonderful thing, to be able to look at life trapped within it some millions of years ago.” A bitter smile twisted Philip’s face. “You were so pleased with that amber-topped cane I gave you.” Philip felt a stab of pain at the memory and swiftly downed the contents of his glass as if to wash it away.

He started as the door opened. “What is it, Standish?” he asked a little snappishly. Had the butler heard him talking to himself?

Standish, his round, somewhat ruddy face as bland as ever, gave no sign of considering his employer to be on the brink of madness. But then, he wouldn’t, would he? He’d been well trained. “Excuse me, sir, but Drayton has found a poacher.”

“Well? Can’t he deal with it? I was rather under the impression that was what I pay him for, after all.”

“Ordinarily, sir, yes. But it seems this one has taken a fall and broken his head.”

Suddenly the fire did not seem as warm as it had only moments ago. “He’s not…?”

“He is apparently still living, sir. Drayton begged leave to have a couple of the men bring him indoors, and I took the liberty of telling him you would not be averse to that.”

“No! No, of course not, Standish. You did well. Have him put in one of the rooms in the west wing. Lord knows we have enough of them standing empty. And call Dr. Newton.”

“Very good, sir.” Standish turned to go.

“Wait. Do we know who the man is?”

“Daniel Costessey, I believe, sir.” Was that a hint of disapproval in the man’s tone?

“Costessey? But I thought he’d—no, wait. I suppose this must be the son?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Well, carry on, Standish.”

After the man had gone, Philip poured himself another three fingers of whisky almost without noticing that he did so. Daniel Costessey. Philip couldn’t recall ever laying eyes upon the son, but he remembered the father well enough. A swarthy fellow, with a great shock of dark, curly hair. Had the man had some gypsy heritage? Philip couldn’t remember now whether he’d heard something about that or only imagined it. Certainly it seemed likely enough given his looks. He hadn’t been overly tall, but a heavyset and muscular man, his broad shoulders made broader, no doubt, by his work as a laborer.

Idling his school holidays away wandering around the estate, his father too busy and his mother too ill to spare him much time, Philip had seen the man often as he toiled. Costessey had most times been in shirtsleeves, and one memorably hot summer Philip had seen him stripped to the waist, his tanned back gleaming with sweat. Costessey had exerted a sort of repellent fascination upon Philip’s adolescent mind; he’d been such an earthy, virile man, with a knowing glint in his eye even as he tipped his hat to the young master.

A favorite with the maidservants, who’d whispered and giggled about him, for all that he was a married man.

Drayton hadn’t shared their fondness for Costessey. For as long as Philip could remember, the gamekeeper had been after his father, and then Philip himself, to have the man sacked and his young family turned off the estate. “Costesseys! Thieves and poachers, the lot of ’em!” he’d mutter sourly to anyone willing to listen. To the young Philip, Drayton’s tales of an inveterate poacher always one step ahead of his would-be nemesis had only increased the man’s allure. Lord, he’d been such an innocent in those days.

Flinging himself out of his chair, Philip began to pace, his steps making barely a sound despite the somewhat worn state of the Aubusson carpet. It’d been a bad business about Costessey’s death. Philip had been away when it happened, his aunt having pressured him to spend some time with her in the West Country for his health. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea to be away from the estate during a season that held such painful memories for him, but it had been a disaster. The bleak scenery of Dartmoor had only deepened his melancholy, and he’d felt inexplicably guilty for leaving the estate—more so when he returned to hear of Costessey’s death.

From what he’d heard, Costessey had suffered some injury to his leg around harvest time. The wound had festered, and Costessey had been dead by All Souls Day, leaving his wife with five children aged from fifteen down to one and no source of income. Philip had given instructions that she be let off rent for the quarter, but still, young Daniel must have had to step into the breach. And now, it seemed, the son had taken on the mantle of the father in the poaching business as well. Philip supposed he should be angry at the man for stealing from him, but damn it, what difference did a few rabbits here or there make to
him
? He’d long thought Drayton overzealous in the performance of his duties, but he’d no grounds to give the man notice, so he’d just let things be.

These last few years, he’d let most things be.

Suddenly tired, Philip sank back into his chair. Thank God Drayton hadn’t let his feelings about poachers dissuade him from his Christian duty to help the afflicted. Philip couldn’t have borne it if the young man had died on the estate, which he might yet, for all Philip knew. Slamming down his whisky untasted, he strode to the door and flung it open, forestalling Standish who was walking toward it. “Standish? Is the doctor here yet?”

“No, sir, but they’re bringing the young man in now.”

Philip swallowed as he watched the men carry in the limp form of Daniel Costessey. His handsome, roguish face—almost uncannily like his father’s—was as pale as death, save for the shockingly bright-red blood that marred one temple. His clothes were threadbare and torn, and by the looks of them, wet through. How long had he lain in the snow, all alone in the darkness? Philip’s jaw clenched.

“Sir,” Standish murmured in his ear. “I will see to it that the young man is well cared for. You need not trouble yourself further. I’m sure you wish to retire—”

“No!” Philip winced a little at the unwarranted sharpness of his tone. “No, I’ll wait to speak with the doctor, after he’s examined the poor boy.”

Standish glanced at him but merely gave a polite “As you wish, sir,” and went off, presumably to be useful in some capacity.

Philip found he rather envied the man.

D
R
. N
EWTON
was a dour, dapper man in his fifties, entirely too sharp-eyed for Philip’s peace of mind. He gave his report as to the patient’s injuries, which comprised several broken bones, though none of them compound fractures and no fracture of the skull, thank the Lord. His opinion was that young Costessey would most likely survive, should he be fortunate enough not to contract a fever, but would probably not wake before morning.

“I should not advise moving him at this juncture, Mr. Luccombe,” he said sternly, as if Philip had been about to turn the boy out into the night.

“No, of course not,” Philip assured him hastily. “He can stay in the house as long as he needs.”

Newton favored him with a long, searching look. Philip forced his feet not to shuffle.

“I had intended, Mr. Luccombe, to come tomorrow about removing him to the hospital, unless…?” He left the question hanging in the air, having perhaps noticed Philip’s involuntary shudder at the mention of the hospital.

“Thank you, Dr. Newton. That won’t be necessary. I mean, it isn’t medically necessary, is it?” Philip gave a self-conscious laugh. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a very good experience of hospitals.”