The Devil's Surrogate (27 page)

There was
indeed one further guard inside the hut, but he emerged with his
hands held high, presumably having already seen his confederates
easily vanquished, which made him more than willing to open the
gate for the wagon to pass through. First making sure they had
collected all the weapons, Paddy then ordered the fellow to walk
ahead of them for the better part of a mile before finally
releasing him, either to return to the estate, or more likely to
take to his heels in another direction.

'That,' Paddy
announced as the wagon rolled on its way, 'is why the English need
us Irish over here to fight their fecking wars for them. About as
much use as a fart in a fishing net,' he added scornfully.

Back at the inn, however, the mood was far less jocular. As
they approached the
Black
Drum
, they saw the courtyard was lit by
several lanterns and that a row of horses stood along the hitching
posts, the liveries on their saddlecloths all too
familiar.

'Dragoons,'
Paddy said. 'Looks like they sent men up from Portsmouth after all.
Shame we've done most of their dirty work for them.'

Inside, at the
small side bar, Thomas Handiwell, Captain Hart and a Lieutenant of
Dragoons, a thick- set northerner named Trueman, were holding a
council of war. Paddy, not wishing to cause unnecessary
embarrassment in front of the two soldiers and the dragoon sergeant
hovering around them, asked to speak with the innkeeper in
private.

The
confrontation between Thomas and Jane was a terrible scene indeed,
and Paddy temporarily left father and daughter to their own devices
while he sought the maid, Annie, and asked her to take charge of
the two former captives. When he returned, Thomas was waiting alone
outside the saloon.

'I'll thank
you to keep my daughter's part in this terrible thing between us,'
he said curtly, 'at least for the time being. I realise, of course,
that the law must be done, but I should like some time to
think.'

'Of course,
sir,' Paddy replied gravely. 'After all, she's only a wee chit of a
girl, when all's said and done.'

'Chit of a
girl, my arse!' Thomas declared vehemently. 'She's been behind all
these damned highway robberies, and on top of that, she's tried to
get an innocent girl killed, albeit in place of another almost
certainly innocent girl.'

'I thought the
girl would have been dead by now,' Paddy said.

Thomas shook
his head. 'No,' he replied. 'There was a delay for some reason and
the so-called execution was postponed until morning. Lieutenant
Trueman and four of his men have gone to the church to demand her
release.'

'Then that's
something to be thankful for, at least.'

Thomas reached
inside his jacket and extracted a small leather purse, which he
offered to Paddy. 'This is for you and your... err, colleague.'

Paddy looked
at him diffidently. 'Most generous of you, I'm sure, sir, but Sean
Kelly and me, well, we were only doing what Parliament pays us to
do. And if my mind were to become, shall we say a little cloudy
concerning certain events and people this night, well, I'd hate it
to be thought it was because gold had fuddled it. On the other
hand, sir,' he went on, 'if a man was to offer a body a good drink
or two, well that could easily be excused now, couldn't it? After
all, Sean and me are good and true Irishmen, and it would be an
insult to the hospitality of the house to refuse an open ale
tap.'

James knelt
beside Hannah, holding her hand and patting her wrinkled cheek. He
gave a sigh of relief when she finally opened her eyes. 'Thank
God!' he breathed. 'I thought for a moment he had killed you.'

'Matilda!' the
old woman croaked. 'Where is she?'

James shook
his head, shamefaced. 'I don't know,' he confessed. 'I threw myself
down when Crawley shot at you, and when I looked up again there was
no sign of her. He was running off into the trees, but she wasn't
with him, I swear it.'

'Then we must
find her, and be quick about it.' Hannah struggled up into a
sitting position. 'That old pistol will be of no further use this
night, but the fellow you shot with it must have a weapon, if not
two. Go take a look, and see if you can't do something to put that
poor animal out of its misery.'

Silas Grout's
mare lay where she had fallen, half across her dead master, and
from the look of her it was clear that she, like Grout, would never
rise again.

'Check his
pockets and saddlebags for powder and ball,' Hannah called out as
James began to move towards the fallen beast. 'If that
black-hearted bastard is still close, we'll want to make sure we
have the means at hand to dispose of him properly, once and for
all.'

Harriet's
instinct, when she finally picked herself up from the road amidst
the shooting and shouting, was to run, and to run as fast and as
far as her aching legs would carry her. Unfortunately, as she
crashed through the undergrowth, blundering into brambles and trees
alike in her near blind and terrified haste, she did not realise
her tormentor had had the same idea. Content merely to follow her
until they were well away from the road and the scene of the
ambush, Crawley kept his distance. He remained out of sight until,
after about half a mile, Harriet's knees finally gave way and she
collapsed onto a patch of grass, whimpering in pain and fear.

Crouched
behind a thick oak, he carefully reloaded his pistol, all the while
listening for sounds of pursuit even though he doubted either the
woman or the boy would try to come after him. The old woman had
been hurt, how badly he had no idea though he thought he must have
hit her, and the boy would surely wait to tend to her if she still
lived.

He cursed
beneath his breath. What the hell sort of weapon had the boy been
carrying? The rush of air as the hail of lead passed over him and
cut poor Silas to shreds had been terrifying enough in itself, and
to see the mangled and bloody remains of his former aide had been
something else again.

In the
distance, probably in the direction from which he had come although
he couldn't be sure, Crawley heard the sound of a single shot. He
tensed, listening hard, but all was silent again. He finished
ramming the ball down the barrel, and stood up.

The naked
figure was still lying almost motionless where she had fallen, only
the faint sound of sobbing betraying that she still lived. Not for
much longer, he vowed, not knowing what she did about his true
identity. He reached under his cape and took out the small leather
purse, smiling to himself. Even in the confusion he had not
forgotten his purpose for being out on that lonely road; he had
scooped up Hannah's money even as he ran. He opened the drawstring
and peered inside, probing with one finger. Yes, it was gold coin
all right and plenty of it. He grunted in satisfaction, closed the
purse and pocketed it again. Enough for a fresh horse, food, and
plenty left over, and most of his own money would still be hidden
beneath the ash tree on the other side of the village where he had
buried it before announcing his arrival.

There would be
no need to return to Leddingham again, not that he anticipated any
trouble, especially not if he made it back before the old woman and
the miller's boy, but it would save him having to pay off those
five louts. That would more than compensate for the loss of the
wagon. Without Silas it was now an encumbrance anyway, and he could
replace it as well as Grout in good time. He would walk across
country until he either came to another road or to a farm where he
could buy horse and saddle and sufficient provisions for a couple
of days, after which he would decide upon his next destination. Not
Portsmouth, for there was no place for his sort of work in the
bustling naval city.

No, the west
country was waiting for him, with plenty of isolated villages and
plenty of stupid peasants and even more stupid clergymen to aid him
in his quest. But first there was the little matter of the girl to
be settled. Feeling for the length of cord in the pocket of his
cape, he decided she would die silently if not as quickly as
originally planned. His eyes glinted in a sudden pale shaft of
moonlight. Yes, the witch's whore would die, but not before he had
enjoyed the warmth of her body one last time. He tucked the
reloaded pistol into his belt, and began walking towards her.

Jane Handiwell sat perched on a barrel in the corner of the
small cellar beneath the
Black
Drum
, staring into the shadows beyond the
pool of light cast by the single lantern her father had left her.
She was still dressed as she had been for the hunt, apart from the
mask, and she knew her appearance must have shocked the
conservative Thomas almost as much as the allegations the two
soldiers had made.

Allegations...
she snorted. They were more than just allegations, she knew, and
added to the word of the stupid Merridew girl, as well as to the
fact that she was caught red-handed in the middle of Roderick
Grayling's hunt, all meant she was in deep trouble. Worse still had
been the news that the other Merridew bitch wasn't dead yet. Had
the witchfinder discovered the truth concerning his prisoner?

Jane sighed,
and shook her head. Why hadn't she just bribed one of Roderick's
handlers to strangle Harriet instead of swapping her for Matilda?
The scheming whore would have been dead by now and unable to
testify against her. And if she had arranged for the body to be
found swiftly, her father would never have been so insistent upon
sending those two Irish bastards to look for her.

Highway
robbery, abduction, attempted murder - they could hang her for any
single one of those counts, and there would be little difficulty in
proving her guilt now. On the other hand, the fact that the
troopers had found Sarah on the Grayling estate meant Roderick was
also implicated and would need to use all his influence. If she
could get to Ellen and through Ellen to him, he would perhaps use
his contacts to help her.

Yes, all was not yet lost, she reflected. Of course, things
between her and her father would never be the same again, and the
chances of her ever inheriting the
Drum
were now more remote than ever.
Never mind, let the stupid old fool share it with his beloved
Harriet, assuming she ever got around to accepting his suit. She
had money of her own, hidden in the woods where no one but she
could ever find it, and with that she could disappear for as long
as it took the Graylings to smooth things over. All she had to do
now was get out of this cellar in which Thomas had locked her, but
that was unlikely to prove too great an obstacle.

She rose, and
moved quietly across to the door, pressing her ear against the
stout timber to listen for footsteps in the passage beyond.

Beth, her
beloved little Beth, her faithful maid and bedmate these past few
years... Beth had been up there on the stairs, listening as that
sergeant poured out his tale to her father, and she had still been
there, crouched in the shadows, when they marched her down to the
cellar and locked her in. Her father had been absolutely livid,
almost incapable of speech, except to promise he would be back
eventually to thrash her, as he should have thrashed her years
ago.

Jane barely stifled a harsh laugh. Thrash her, would he? Well,
maybe he would, but she doubted it. She shuddered at the thought of
baring her backside to a man with a cane, even if he was her own
father,
especially
if he was her own father. But no, it would never happen, and
as she continued to press her ear against the door, she knew it
would not be long before Beth came for her.

Harriet did
not have to open her eyes to know it was Crawley who had found her.
There was something about the smell of him; an odour that pushed
past even the acrid tang of the leather hood she was growing
accustomed to breathing through.

She groaned,
and rolled over onto her back as his boot nudged cruelly into her
throbbing ribs. She opened her eyes. Past caring, she spread her
legs, willing him to do his worst.

The snarling
figure sprang across her vision, and for a few moments the air was
filled with screeches, curses and screams of pain. A pistol shot
nearly deafened her, and yet still the desperate struggle raged on.
A terrible cry rent the air, followed by an awful sobbing and the
pounding of booted feet. And then all went silent again. Harriet
tried to roll to one side, but her strength had abandoned her, and
when the terrible face appeared before her, the baleful eyes
shining and huge, she knew the devil himself had determined her
fate.

'He is gone.'
The dreadful creature said, bending over her, and Harriet saw a
flash of bright metal as the hand came down towards her. But
instead of tearing into her naked flesh, it turned sideways and the
back of a human hand lightly stroked her shoulder. 'Gone now,' the
creature repeated. Harriet stared up into the dark face, at the
frightening fangs and the lip curled back over them. 'You safe. He
is gone. Not worry you now,' Oona whispered. 'Not worry any woman
no more.'

'Are you drunk
yet, Sean Kelly?' Paddy Riley stood in the shadow between the end
of the inn and the first stable, his ale flagon held in one hand,
clay pipe in the other. He had not turned around at the approaching
footsteps; he had not needed to.

'Not yet,
sergeant darling,' Sean said. He raised his own flagon, extending
his arm in the general direction of the woods. 'Did you see the
wench go, then?'

'Aye, that I
did.'

'And you
didn't raise the hue?'