The Highwayman's Daughter (20 page)

Rupert ventured back to the woods to inspect the Mardells’ cottage, but his search yielded nothing. A clump of dried mud on the floor indicated that no one had been back there since before the last time it had rained. And that was days ago.

Disappointed, he scoured the area around the cottage for signs of hoof prints, which might at least have indicated the direction in which they had gone, but all the prints petered out in the long grass between the trees. He was about to give up when he spotted a weathered board sticking up from the ground near a large tree, and when he moved closer he saw that it was a grave.

Curious, he cleared away a few fallen twigs and leaves to read the inscription.

‘Hell’s bells!’ he muttered and sat back on his haunches while he contemplated the significance of his find.

The grave was evidently that of Mardell’s wife, but it was her maiden name which set his mind churning.

Duval.

Not only did she share the name of a notorious highwayman, he had heard that name recently. Rupert recalled his conversation with the old man at The Bell Inn; hadn’t the fellow muttered that very name before clamming up? He thought of the old Heston scandal – a wife leaving in the middle of the night, with her newborn child and a maid in tow, and perishing alone on a deserted road. When she had been found there was no sign of the maid or the lady’s jewellery, nor of the coachmen.

The old man had denied any knowledge of his passengers on the night his coach was held up, but what if he knew exactly who he had been carrying, or had worked it out later? What if “that Duval chit” he had cursed was none other than Lady Heston’s maid?

But how had she met Mardell? And why was she lying here, in a grave, as plain as day, when she had clean disappeared from the area nearly twenty years ago?

A shiver ran down his spine when he began to see what might have happened. Mardell had held up the coach, and the strumpet of a maid had run off with him, as well as Lady Heston’s belongings. The couple had likely left for another part of the country, only to return later when the fuss had died down. With a daughter.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said to himself. ‘It would seem thievery runs in the family.’

And the old man from the inn was the nearest thing he had to a witness.

Rupert smiled. The link was tenuous, but there might be another way to track down the highwaywoman, or her father, or even both, and without Blencowe’s help.

He got back on his horse and headed towards town, his hands gripping the reins tightly from excitement.

The Bell Inn wasn’t open yet, but the door was ajar, and a serving girl was sweeping yesterday’s filth off
the thick oak floor.

His excitement having put him in a good mood, Rupert tilted his hat to her. ‘Morning. Kindly fetch the landlord, if you please. I’d like a private word with him.’

Startled, the girl dropped the broom; then she curtsied awkwardly before scrambling towards a room at the back.

‘Mr Tyrrell, Mr Tyrrell, a gen’leman to see you. Personally!’

Rupert acknowledged this with a condescending nod.

The landlord appeared from the back room wiping his hands on a cloth. Recognising Rupert from his recent visit, he narrowed his eyes. ‘To what do I owe this honour, sir? I’m afraid we’re not open for business yet.’

‘I’m not here for ale,’ Rupert replied, ‘only a quiet word on a delicate matter.’

Tyrrell sent him a suspicious look, and then glanced at the serving girl. ‘Leave us, Betsy,’ he commanded, firmly but not unkindly.

‘Yes, Mr Tyrrell.’ The girl leaned the broom against the wall and then stared back at both of them, goggle-eyed, before disappearing through the open door.

‘My latest recruit,’ Tyrrell explained.

‘A comely lass,’ Rupert said, although he thought nothing of the sort.

‘Indeed. This way.’ Tyrrell led them to a table at the back, away from the door and prying eyes. ‘I’m curious, sir,’ he said when they were both seated, ‘as to what you could possibly have to say to me which may be of a delicate nature. When people approach me thus, I find it is usually a delicate matter to themselves.’ A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

‘It pertains to something your grandfather recounted to me during my last visit.’ Rupert remained polite, but longed to wipe the smirk off the landlord’s face.

‘My grandfather is an old fool and in his cups more often than not.’

‘Your grandfather spoke of the time he was a coachman for hire, and the coach was held up by a highwayman. He mentioned that the passengers were later found dead. Would you
care to elaborate?’

The landlord crossed his arms. ‘I know nothing of that. As I said, my grandfather is prone to rambling.’

‘You were there that evening, and I’m not leaving your establishment until you tell me about it!’ Rupert suddenly snapped and raised his voice, but his threat was an empty one, and they both knew it.

The landlord stared, then he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Betsy, the peace-keeper!’

The serving girl must have been hovering outside the open door because before Rupert had time to react she ran back in and handed the landlord a wooden club, then dashed out again. The landlord rose and banged the club down onto the table.

‘Get out,’ he growled, ‘or it’ll be your head I’m hitting next, gentleman or no gentleman!’

Rupert jumped up from his seat and raised his cane to strike the other man, but then thought better of it. The cane was made for leisurely strolls in the park, not for duelling, and it would be no match against the landlord’s heavy club. Outmanoeuvred, but with his dignity intact, he picked up his hat and made to leave.

‘Rest assured, I will be back. You
will
tell me what I want to know.’

‘Rest assured, I will be ready for you,
sir
,’ the landlord spat.

As Rupert reached the door, a hunched figure appeared in the doorway.

‘Jem, my boy, what’s the rumpus all about? A body can’t go out without yer getting yerself into all sorts o’ trouble.’

Quick as lightning Rupert kicked the door shut, grabbed the old man by the arm and twisted it high behind his back.

Old Man Tyrrell cried out in shock and pain, and Rupert had the satisfaction of seeing the cocky landlord pale.

‘Let him go. He’s an old man, and he knows nothing.’

‘I beg to differ,’ Rupert said. ‘He knows a fair bit, and I have just the right idea of how to extract the information. I reckon these old bones will snap like twigs. What say you, shall we put it to the test?’ To prove his point he twisted the arm higher, and the old man yelled again.

The landlord dropped his club on the floor. ‘All right, all right! Don’t hurt him.’

‘Then tell me what I need to know,’ Rupert said and loosened his grip on the old man, but only a fraction.

‘What do you know of a woman named Duval?’

‘Duval?’ asked the landlord. ‘Never heard of her.’

‘She was married to a man named Mardell. I take it you’ve heard of him?’

‘Well, yes, everyone knows Mardell. What does he have to do with anything?’

‘Never you mind. Just tell me where I might find him. His cottage seems to have been abandoned.’

The landlord scratched his head. ‘Never knew him too well. A strange cove, keeps himself to himself, although his daughter is well known about town. And a welcome sight too.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Rupert said, ‘but someone must know him.’

‘Well, there’s the widow, Mrs Wilton. She seems to know him better than most. She might know where to find him.’

The landlord gave him directions to the widow’s cottage; it was at the outskirts of the forest, not so far from where he and Jack had been held up.

‘Excellent. See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ He smirked and let go of the old man, shoving him towards the landlord for good measure. ‘Good day to you both.’

Arriving at the widow’s cottage, Rupert saw smoke rising from the chimney. And better still he recognised the horse grazing nearby. Quietly he slipped away before the occupants were alerted to his presence. He hoped Blencowe would believe him this time – especially when he mentioned the Duval connection, but if not he’d do his damnedest to persuade the man this wasn’t a wild goose chase.

Under no circumstances would he try to apprehend Mardell and his daughter single-handedly.

It was an arduous journey back to Martha’s house. Cora’s head was pounding from the effects of the blow, and several times she felt so dizzy she had to stop and lean against a tree. She ached from their love-making but this particular pain brought a rush of blood to her cheeks and a little smile to her lips.

She put her hand over her belly. Had Jack got her with child, she wondered? Her heart swelled with joy and longing at the thought, but then trepidation set in. Not because of what Ned would say. Her father wouldn’t judge; he never did. It was the thought of bringing up a child born out of wedlock which troubled her.

Because that was how it would be. They could never be together, her and Jack. At dawn, as she’d watched his sleeping form, how untroubled he looked while at rest, she had briefly considered staying – becoming part of his family would provide enough money to keep Ned in good health. Then, with deep regret, she’d dismissed the thought. If her past were ever exposed, even Jack’s good name wouldn’t be enough to save her from the gallows. She had to get herself and Ned away to safety.

And Jack wouldn’t leave his life for her. He had duties to consider. He was the son of earl and heir to a large estate, and his future lay there, looking after his family and his tenants. The sudden realisation that she would never see Jack again slammed into her with such force that she had to cling to the tree for support. For a moment reality gripped her chest hard and squeezed again and again; she feared all the air in her lungs would be forced out, and she would have no breath left. Tears stung her eyes, and she swiped at them angrily.

Collect yourself, Cora,
she thought.
It’s no use.
She couldn’t ask Jack to leave his family for her.

She had no idea how long she stood there, in the clutches of despair, but finally she bullied herself into action. With grim determination she put one foot in front of the other and made her way home to Ned.

Angry shouting greeted her when she neared Martha’s cottage, and caution made her proceed quietly, under the cover of the trees. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest at what she saw, and she stepped behind a tree, steadying her trembling hands against the rough bark. Four men were attempting to restrain Ned, and Cora’s instinct was to run out from her hiding place and defend her father, but against four men? She only had one shot in her pistol. Helpless, she watched as they cuffed him roughly and punched him in the face, and tears of frustration welled in her eyes.

Two other men were looking on from the sidelines. One of them Cora recognised as the local magistrate, a corpulent, bellicose individual, who was shouting orders to his men in a booming voice. The other, a young cold-looking and elegant nobleman she recognised as Jack’s companion on the night of the robbery – the man George had described to her.

Martha was nowhere in sight, and she hoped that the older woman had made it back safely from the hanging the day before.

Ned was buckling under the restraints; even though he wasn’t a well man, he was still strong, and his captors had to use considerable force to subdue him.

‘Never!’ he roared in response to a question from the cold-looking man.

It was then Cora realised that the men were after her.

Oh, why had she not come home straight after seeing Uncle George? Why had she gone to the hanging? She knew why; because she had promised George, and it was the right thing to do. But she blamed herself for not warning Ned that someone was on their trail, blamed herself for dithering and getting hurt in the process. Blamed herself for having love-making on her mind when she should have been protecting her father.

If they hurt him, I’ll never forgive myself. Please, God, don’t let them hurt him

Chewing her lip, she debated whether to jump out from the bushes. She was wearing men’s clothes – they would likely believe that she was the young highwayman. Jack’s companion was bound to recognise her and would undoubtedly point the finger. She would go to the gallows, and that might well be the death of Ned. But he would definitely go to his death if he were to be accused of her crimes. She had to do something.

She was about to step out from behind the tree when she felt a light tap on her arm. It was Martha, and she was holding a finger to her lips. Taking Cora’s hand, she dragged her deeper into the forest and out of earshot of the magistrate and his men; then she flung her arms around Cora, nearly unbalancing her.

‘Thank God you’re all right! When I saw those nasty characters setting upon you, I ran to get help, but when we got to Tyburn village, you’d disappeared and I feared the worst. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find you, and I had to go home and tell your father. Worst thing I ever ’ad to do. He’s been sick with worry and were just about to go looking for your when the magistrate and the constable and that other fella turned up.’ She let go of Cora and ran her eyes over her clothes, tutting. ‘I expect you saw what happened.’

‘They arrested him.’

‘Aye, your father has taken it upon himself to shoulder the blame for all them robberies that ’ave happened in the area.’

‘No! They’ll hang him for sure. And it’s all my fault!’ Cora hid her face in her hands.

Martha put her hand on Cora’s arm. ‘Don’t fret. There’s ’ope yet. The magistrate – now there’s a smart cove, and no mistake – he knew he was looking for a young man, not someone Ned’s age, and Ned confessed that ’e was trying to cover up for a friend, but that the lad was long gone, up north. They decided to take ’im away all the same, but I don’t think they’ll hang him. I heard them talking about holding him until he softens up. Their words not mine, but they’ll keep him in the magistrate’s cellar for the time bein’.’

‘I’ve got to get him back,’ said Cora. ‘A damp cellar will be the death of him.’