Red Hart Magic (14 page)

“Now"—her father leaned forward, his face sharply eager, as if he were on the brink of learning something that would please him greatly—"now, tell the truth, fellow!”

“It be the truth, Squire—”

Nan started. She might not have recognized the ill-clad boy, but she knew the voice. It was Tim Dykes, whose oldest brother had been transported for poaching. Was he the one—? But her father did not act as if he had his prey to hand, rather as if he expected some information of value.

“Very well, give me the truth, fellow, and I'll keep my part of the bargain. Ten golden boys—” Squire Mallory reached into an inner pocket and brought out a netted purse. He shook it so there was no mistaking the metallic chime of what lay inside. “Ten golden boys for the truth!”

“I did see ‘im, Squire. He be a-hid in the bush like, watchin’ the fire. Me, I came up when I heard the shoutin’ and all. There he was. No mistakin’ ‘im—I saw him clear—just a-hid and watchin’.”

“And
who
was watching?”

“Him from the inn, Squire, him what thinks he's so big and all—'twas that Chris Fitton.”

Squire Mallory laughed. “Watching my barn burn was he? And you didn't see him a-creeping back from lighting that fire now, did you?”

But it would seem Tim was not yet aware of the need to add to his story.

“No, Squire, ‘twas already well burnin’ when I comes. It just be him watchin'—”

“Tim, I want you to think well about it.” Her father clinked the purse again. “Perhaps you saw more. Think well, boy, think well. Get you to the kitchen now. Cook will give you something to cover those ribs of yours. There will be some gentlemen here later, and I'll want you to tell your story to them. So you think some more about what you are going to say.”

Tim scuttled out. Nan saw her father smile as he slipped the purse back in his pocket. Then he left also.

He would see that Tim added to his story. Nan knew that
as well as if she had heard him urge the boy to do it. And if Tim swore falsely, Chris Fitton would be brought before the Justices. Maybe her father would not dare to sit in the sentencing, not when he was so closely involved. But he could impress both Sir William Lighten and Mr. Rowley Morris. When he mentioned the gentlemen to whom Tim was to tell his tale, Nan was sure that was whom he meant.

The Fittons must be warned. Nan moved from behind the curtain. There was no one in this house she dared to trust to send a message by; her father ruled with too heavy a hand. Which meant—she would have to go herself. There was the way through the woods which gave on the back of the inn. The snow was coming down, but not too deeply to shut her in as yet. She must move now if she ever was to go. Having made her decision, Nan went about carrying it out.

Cloaked and wearing the heaviest of her shoes, she slipped away from the house to cut across the garden, using the wall there to cover her going, even though that was not the shortest way. So she stumbled on into the woods path, clutching the folds of her cloak more tightly about her.

It got dark early when it snowed. Already, though the hour could not be more than midafternoon, the light was graying fast. She slipped and slid as she went, hurrying so she had a stitch of pain in her side, and she gasped for breath. Then the outer wall of the inn loomed before her, and Nan hesitated.

If she went on openly, rounding the side of the building to the front door, she could not miss being seen. And she did not doubt that news of her visit to the Red Hart would spread
through the village, would eventually reach her father's ears. The snow was continuing to fall but not enough to hide her going.

She could, however, see no other way of getting in. After making as sure as she could that there was no one in sight, she flitted across to shelter under the arch of the front door. Luckily that was on the latch, and she could open it without knocking. But she was not sure about the interior as she had never been inside. Where could she find Master Fitton?

The hall she stepped into was hardly wanner than the world outside. Now she could hear voices as she crept along. To her right must lie the taproom, somewhere beyond that the kitchen. Both places would be dangerous for her. She eyed a short side hall, which opened from the foot of the flight of stairs, more impressive-looking even than those at the Manor, and wondered if she dared try any of the closed doors there.

Then she started back, almost ready to retreat to the outer world once more, as one of those doors opened and a man stepped into the dusky hall, carrying a candle in one hand. Nan blinked and knew him—fortune had aided her in this so far. It was Master Fitton himself.

She must have made some sound without realizing it, for his head turned quickly and then he strode toward her.

“What's to do—?” he began.

Nan scraped the hood of her cloak back from her head, so it no longer shadowed her face. On impulse she put her mittened hand up to her mouth, hoping he would understand her warning. He must have, for he glanced over his shoulder at
once and then beckoned her forward into the room he had just quitted.

There was a fire on the hearth, and she reached out her hands to it. Now that she was here some of her courage seeped away; she felt shy. How could she tell this man what she feared her father planned?

“Miss Mallory.” He spoke her name very quietly. “Why have you come here?”

Yes, he must think it very strange. She must tell him at once, or she would not be able to tell him at all. “My father—he has offered money, a great deal of money, for the name of the one who started the fire.”

Ira Fitton nodded, but his face was so grim-set she nearly turned and ran from the room. With a last surge of mingled fear and courage, she gabbled out the rest:

“A boy—Tim Dykes—he came to my father. He says that he saw Chris, your son, in the bushes watching the fire. My father has sent for the others—Sir William Lighten and Mr. Morris. Tim is to tell his story to them. But—” She could not go on, for the rest was a guess, not the truth. How could she tell this stern-looking man that she believed her father would get Tim to lie? Her snow-dampened mittens fell to the floor, and she twisted her cold fingers together tightly.

“Tim Dykes,” the innekeeper repeated. “You are sure it was Tim Dykes and not Sampson?”

“Tim!” she repeated vehemently.

Now he was frowning but, Nan thought, not at her, but rather at some thought of his own. Then he looked at her again as if he was really seeing her.

“Miss Mallory, you have done a thing for which we shall be very grateful. Forewarned is forearmed. But by coming here—”

“It's all right,” she said hurriedly. “I can go back. I don't think anyone will see me. And I must go alone, you see. Because—”

Again he seemed to understand without her having to put it into words. But he shook his head. “I will go with you to the end of the woods.” He stooped and picked up her mittens, giving them back to her.

Though Nan longed to refuse, she guessed that he would not listen to any of her excuses. It seemed to her that she did not breathe freely again until she was safely indoors at the Manor, her damp cloak hidden in the depths of the wardrobe in her own chamber, with the boots pushed under it, and slippers on her cold feet. The snow was falling much faster now, drifting across the garden, already filling in, Nan hoped, her tracks there.

Chris had been seated for a longer time than he could reckon, his books before him, the task Mr. Preston had set him only half begun. He chewed the end of his quill pen and stared out the window where the snow was like a curtain. No one had been near him for what seemed a very long time. He had tried to act as always, though he was sure that rumor had made it plain there was some strain of feeling between his father and himself.

But his thoughts turned mostly to Sampson Dykes. Where had he been last night? He still could not accept the idea that
Sam had set the fire. The Dykeses had had it very hard since the Squire turned them out. With Andrew gone, sent off in chains by the Squire, Sam had been left the eldest. Chris knew that Sam hated the Squire, but surely he had sense enough not to get himself into trouble and make things even worse for his mother.

If it were Tim Dykes now—Chris spat a small piece of feather from between his teeth. Tim was as unlike Sam as day from night. He thought Andrew a hero and had talked big about making the Squire pay. Chris squirmed uneasily. That had all been big talk—surely it had!

“Chris—”

The boy started. He had been so deep in thought he had never heard the opening door. “Sir?” He scrambled to his feet to face his father.

“What lies between you and Tim Dykes?”

It was almost as if he had been reading Chris's mind. The boy was so astounded that he spoke the truth without trying to shade it in the favor of the Dykeses.

“Nothing—much. He talks big because he hates the Squire—on account of Andrew. Sam says he always trailed after Andrew. I think, well, I think he takes it unkindly that Sam and I are friends.”

Ira Fitton sat down on the edge of the table. “Unkindly enough that he would want to get you into trouble?”

Chris stared blankly at his father. “Why?”

“It has been reported to me, on very good authority, that Tim was up to the Manor and said that he saw you in the
bushes watching the fire. We can perhaps believe that by the time he tells his story again something more will be added to it—enough to set you on the spot with a torch in your hand!”

“But I didn't—” Chris began and then gulped. He knew only too well what his father said was true, and now he was suddenly more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

“This snow is both for and against us"—Ira Fitton had crossed to the small-paned window—"I do not think either Sir William Lighten or Mr. Morris will stir abroad in the storm. But neither will Hawkins be able to get out of London. I greatly doubt we shall see any coaches for a day—maybe more.”

“What—what do we do?” Chris asked in a small voice.

“We wait. There is nothing else to be done at present—except that our Jack is listening—carefully—to the village talk. He's my man more than just the groom when it comes to using his ears.”

Chris laid down his tooth-mangled quill. Waiting was going to be very hard.

And it was. It was three days before a thin sun melted the road enough to let the coaches through. And for most of the minutes of those three days Chris waited tensely for Squire Mallory to put him under arrest. His father said very little, but twice Jack came stamping in and was closeted in his father's private room. What they talked about Chris did not know, but he felt there was nothing good or surely his father would tell him.

On the fourth day the London coach came squelching over the snow, and Chris made himself useful as ever, running errands, carrying the “house glass” of brandy to each of the four passengers who wanted only the warmth of the common room. That is, three of them did, but the fourth hailed his father and was borne off to the small parlor.

The coach had fresh teams and was off again, three passengers reluctantly taking seats, before Lucy the maid came to Chris with his father's order to join him.

He found the stranger sitting in his father's armchair, his booted feet stretched out to the fire. He was a burly man, lacking Ira Fitton's inches, but very wide of shoulder and thick through the chest. With his capped overcoat hung over the bench by the fire, he showed a blue coat with a yellow waistcoat, both of which looked pale against the ruddy color of his face where the jowls had a pricking of sandy beard.

“So this is the desperate character.” He greeted Chris with a voice which echoed around the walls. Then he grinned and winked. Chris did not know just how to take him, though the man's heavy face held an expression of keen interest.

“Now, lad, I want the truth. No holding back, mind you. It's the truth I've got to have to work from. Why were you in the woods that night?”

Chris hesitated. That this was the runner Hawkins, he was now sure. But to tell the whole truth was going to bring Sampson into it—And let Squire Mallory get the hint of Sam's poaching and—

“When Henry Hawkins gives his word"—the man hitched forward a trifle in his chair—"then he means it, lad. Do you
have knowledge of who set that fire and think to cover for him?”

“No.” Chris was satisfied that he could answer that with the truth.

“Then if you know of some other wrong-doing as has not been spoken of, I shall shut my ears to that part of it—seeing as how I come on one case alone and that as a favor to the Sergeant Major here. Now I ask you again, What was you a-doing in the woods that night?”

“I went to meet someone—” Chris began carefully.

“That someone being another lad as has good reason to hate the Squire.”

Chris stared.

“Jack has kept his ears open.” His father spoke for the first time. “You went there to meet Sampson Dykes. But he did not come?”

Chris shook his head. “I heard the shouting, and I went to see what was happening—I was in the bushes by the hedge in the long field.”

“And you did see someone else?”

Reluctantly Chris told his story: Sampson had not come; Sampson would not have fired the hayrick—that, he repeated over and over. Then he spoke of the voice from the shadow he could not identify.

“Now this Tim as says he saw you, he has something against you?”

“Well—” Once more Chris repeated what he had said to his father concerning Tim.

“And what sort of a lad might he be?”

This time Chris was firm in his head shake. “I—I don't know. He was so mad over what happened to Andrew, his brother Andrew. He and Sam were never ones to see things the same way. Sam, he wanted to get a job, be able to help his mother and the two little ones; he said talking about getting back at the Squire wouldn't do any good.”

“And you believed him?”

Chris nodded vigorously.

“And what does Squire Mallory have against you?” Hawkins swung into another track.

“He doesn't like us here at the inn.” Chris thought his father must certainly have told Hawkins that already. “And a little while ago Miss Nan—she heard I had a fox cub for a pet. She came riding down to see it. The Squire, he caught me talking to her ‘bout it. He was fired up—swung his whip and tried to lay it across me. But I got out of his reach too quick.”