The Marsh Hawk (38 page)

He didn't travel the main highways. He was well accustomed to less congested shortcuts from past experience. He stopped only once, to leave Fury at the coaching station in Liskead, where he hired another horse to take him the rest of the distance: a sleek bay with the long, muscular legs that hallmarked breeding for speed.

It was three in the morning when he reached the Albatross Inn. He had made good time. He couldn't have marched upon Plymouth in broad daylight; He needed the darkness to carry out his plan. But as he stopped outside to don his tricorn hat and mask, and cock his pistols, it occurred to him how futile a quest he'd undertaken. Not having slept, he was not at his most astute. All the separate pressures had melded into one gigantic mountain of complexity that seemed insurmountable. Still, there was nothing for it but to let the coil play out, and so he tethered the bay, squared his posture, and made his stealthy approach to the inn.

Such establishments along the waterfront at Plymouth harbor almost never closed their doors. The patrons were, however, usually cup-shot by this hour, and would, he hoped, cause little resistance if caught by surprise. Without further ado, he kicked the door open and burst inside, pistols raised.

A shriek from the innkeeper's wife roused a few fuddled patrons lazing about, and Simon quickly stepped away from the open door and put his back to the wall. He was out of his element, and he knew it. This was not his customary sort of banditry. He would have been much more comfortable in the open on horseback, targeting inept aristocrats, than the motley assortment of ne'er-do-wells and thatchgallows facing him now.

“Look sharp, and pay attention,” he gritted out, as the lieu-tenant's warning ghosted across his memory. “I do not like repeating myself.”

“T-take what ya will,” the publican said hoarsely. “Just don't break up the place.”

“I want only one thing,” Simon returned. “You had a duel here two days ago, or thereabout. A man was killed. He had a pistol in his possession—a stolen pistol. I want it.”

“Aye, a jumped-up popinjay back-shot a vicar out on the Promenade, all right, gov'nor, but 'twas my pistols they used, none o' his.”

“Where are the dead man's belongings?” Simon demanded, a close eye upon the patrons watching from the shadows.

“B-belongins' gov'nor?” the publican stuttered. “He had nothin' on 'im but a wad o' blunt, which I figured he owed me for the business he cost me that mornin'.”

“I care naught for the blunt. I want only the gun.”

“There weren't no gun,” the publican insisted, ducking as Simon fired a shot, into the bar.

“That should awaken your lodgers,” Simon snapped, viewing all through a trailing plume of pistol smoke. He pointed toward what sufficed as a banquet table in the center of the floor with the barrel of his weapon. “Get them down here,” he charged, “I want every gun in the place on that table there in five minutes.” Then to the man's hesitation, he roared, “Are you deaf, man? Move!”

“Y-yes, sir,” the innkeeper stammered. Jabbing his whimpering wife with his elbow, he sent her scurrying to comply.

Before the five-minute time limit had elapsed, all the guns had been assembled, and the lodgers stood groggy-eyed in their nightshirts, shifting their weight from one foot to another on the damp, ale-seasoned floor. There were a dozen men in the room, counting the patrons still seated, and Simon eyed them all with caution as he rummaged through the weapons heaped upon the table, examining every one.

“You're sure there are no others?” he pressed, not finding the service pistol among them.

“I told ya,
he had no gun
,” the publican growled.

“Will it help any of you remember if I tell you that there's a reward of five hundred pounds for the return of that weapon? It was an army service pistol, engraved with initials, and marked on the stock—I'll not say how, so you can all run out and make counterfeits.”

The publican swallowed audibly.
“F-five h-hundred pounds?”
he breathed.

Simon nodded. “In gold.”

“Look here,” the man braved. “What pistol's worth five hundred pounds I'd like ta' know?”

“One that could save a life,” Simon replied. “Hear me—all of you—and pass the word. If the weapon I seek arrives at Serjeant's Inn in London, and the man delivers it there into the hands of the Magistrate, Sir Alexander Mallory, and leaves his name by Monday next, he will be rewarded with five hundred pounds, no questions asked.”

“Aye, gov'nor, I'll pass the word, but if 'twas five thousand, 'twould be the same. There weren't no pistol,” the innkeeper insisted.

“Very well,” Simon conceded. He had no other choice. If gold wouldn't convince them, nor gunpoint, they had to be telling the truth. He'd come upon many such as these over the years. Men of their ilk would turn their mothers in to the Crown for a fraction of what he'd just offered. With no more said, he left as he'd come, muttering a string of expletives over the time that had been wasted, and he drove the bay at a gallop toward the coast. Biggins was his last hope.

It was just past nuncheon when Simon returned to Kevernwood Hall. He had stopped only to exchange the bay for Fury at the Liskead coaching station. He wanted neither food nor sleep. With scarcely two days left to find the pistol, every nerve in his body was like a short fuse.

Another summer storm was brewing off the headlands. Above-normal tides had unleashed heavy, white-capped swells along the strand by midmorning. The first fat, slanted raindrops had begun to lash down out of the southwest as he reached the Hall. Waterfowl were swarming inland riding the wind. All manner of gull, tern, cormorant, and curlew peppered the rolling lawn in the lee of the cliff, seeking shelter on the stable roof, filling the paddocks behind, and overflowing onto the drive. But those unfortunates soon lifted off again in a frenzied mass of squawking, flapping indignation at being so unceremoniously evicted by Fury's galloping hooves come so suddenly into their midst.

Stalking toward the house, Simon was aware of the cold splinters of rain stabbing down only as a vague annoyance. Passion had transformed his ragged stride from a limp to a long-legged stagger as he staved through the downstairs halls, crashing through doors in search of Biggins. He found him in the library with Lieutenant Ridgeway, who vaulted off the sofa as Simon's white-knuckled fists—grabbing lapels and flesh along with them—lifted the Runner out of the wing chair he occupied, upsetting the table beside him, and scattering books and brandy over the Oriental carpet.

“Where's the bloody gun? I know you've got it, Biggins, I knew it from the start,” he raged.

“Simon! Put him down!” Ridgeway shouted. “Let him go! You're choking him!”

Simon stared into the Runner's wide-flung eyes, and monitored the strangled sounds that were coming from his bluetinged lips, but he made no attempt to comply.

“Put . . . him . . . down!” Ridgeway demanded, struggling with the rigid arms holding the Runner off the floor.

After a moment, Simon returned Biggins to earth, but he didn't release him.

“Give me that damned gun, you lying maw-worm,” he snarled into the man's ashen face.

“No.
No
,” the Runner pleaded, when Simon started to lift him again. “I . . . I don't have the deuced pistol. I never did—”

“Liar!”

“I . . . I don't. I swear it!”

“But you know where it is, don't you? You've known all along.”

His bulging eyes glazed over with fear, Biggins shook his head frantically against the hands on his throat.

“You've got five seconds before I snap this scrawny neck of yours and gladly join the countess for the pleasure.”

“All right, all right . . . j-just let me go,” the Runner begged, clawing at Simon's fingers. “Just . . . just—”

“Not a chance. The gun, man. Where's the gun?”

“I've told you . . . Marner must have—”

“That gun was
evidence
,” Simon railed, gripping him tighter.

“N-no, my lord—
no
!” Biggins defended. “The countess was armed.
Her
pistols were evidence. Hatch's pistol was in the sack with the spoils. The rest belonged to Marner . . . and me.”

“When was the last time you saw that pistol? Think, man!”

“Let go! You're . . . choking . . . me . . .”

“Simon!” Ridgeway put in, gripping his arm.

“Stubble it, Nate!” Simon warned, shaking him off. Then, to the Runner; “Speak up, Biggins, this is your last chance. Don't think to put me to the test.”

“It was in the sack with the rest of the spoils when I gave it to Marner out on the road,” the Runner said one more time. “Look here, that was the least of our worries. I had a wounded woman, a dead gallows dancer, and Lady Jersey interfering in Headquarters business on my hands!”

“You took it, didn't you?” Simon seethed, shaking him again.

“I told you, Marner must have it. Why don't you go and knock him about over it?”

“Marner is
dead
,” Simon spat through clenched teeth. “Killed in a duel in Plymouth. Now, I shall ask you again—where is that pistol?”

The Runner's beet-red face turned white before Simon's eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was thin and choked. “It's too late,” he groaned. “Even if I did know for certain, it wouldn't help you now. Without Marner—”

“You knew Marner had it all along,” Simon accused. “How is it that you are so certain? Did you give it to him? No! You wouldn't do that without personal gain. He paid you for it, didn't he? Good God, you sold him the damned thing, didn't you?”

“I . . . I . . .”

Simon buffeted him again. “Why?” he demanded. “Why did he want it?”

“How should I know? I'm guessing, just like you!”

“And, you coward, you let us waste precious time, knowing all the while we wouldn't find it—knowing that the countess's very life depended upon it.”

Simon didn't wait for an answer. Drawing back a rock-hard fist, he planted it squarely in the center of the Runner's face, sending him sprawling to the floor against the hearthstone, scattering andirons, shovels, and scuttles in all directions. Before Ridgeway could intervene, he'd jerked the Runner to his feet and pulled his fist back again.

“That's enough!” the lieutenant snapped, grabbing the fist in full swing. “He's no use to us dead. Let him go.”

It was a long moment before Simon's rage-starred vision cleared. He was breathing through flared nostrils, his broad chest heaving. Slowly his fist relaxed in Ridgeway's grip, and he shoved the Runner down in the wing chair with force enough to nearly tip it over backward.

“I . . . I'll see you j-jailed for attacking an officer of the law!” Biggins stammered in falsetto. Vaulting to his feet, he straightened his lapels and wiped the blood running from his nose on a wrinkled handkerchief he'd snaked from his waistcoat pocket. When a mad laugh leaked from Simon's rigid lips, attesting to the absurdity of that prospect, the Runner quickly put the wing chair between them. “I . . . I will!” he reinforced feebly.

“Bring this gutless worm, who still thinks he's an officer of the law, and come with me,” Simon charged. Prying Ridge-way's fingers from his shoulders, he raked his hair back from his brow and stalked toward the door. “What happens to him now depends upon what we turn up at St. Enoder.”

Matthew Biggins wished he'd never set eyes on that deuced pistol—wished he'd never heard of Rupert Marner, much less let the man persuade him to give up that gun. But the offer had been too tempting. Who knew the pistol would play such a critical part in the investigation? If he had known . . . Well, it didn't matter now. What was done was done, and now if he wasn't very careful so would his career be. He'd worked too long and hard to reach his status at Headquarters to forfeit it all over one foolhardy mistake.

His brow was running with cold sweat—his neckcloth was wet with it—and his manacles were rattling. Somehow he had to keep his hands from shaking. He laced his stubby fingers together and clenched them until his knuckles turned white. He had to remain calm at all costs. They didn't know anything. How could they? It was his word against Simon's after all, and Simon was just guessing. The lieutenant didn't matter. Hadn't he come to the rescue more than once in the past few hours? The man was watching him rather closely now, though, that meddlesome lieutenant. There was something in the man's steely, hooded eyes that chilled Biggins to the marrow and set his teeth on edge. It was best to avoid both men, he decided, and embarked upon a strategy of muttered complaints. When that didn't work, he yawned and shut his eyes to feign sleep. Maybe if they thought he wasn't listening, they might say some-thing he needed to hear. He never was one to favor surprises.

They were hoping to find the pistol at St. Enoder, and of course it wouldn't be there. They couldn't blame him for that. He'd never said it would be. Let them waste their time as they pleased. Not finding it there would only reinforce his explanation. He'd told them the truth, hadn't he? Marner did have the gun. That was truth enough for them. That he'd refused to give it up until the viscount paid him handsomely for it didn't enter into the equation. There was no way they would ever know, now that Marner was dead. Confident in that, he let the rocking of the coach lull him to sleep in earnest.

The road they took had never seemed so long to Simon. Less than three quarters of an hour traveling time by coach, the five-mile journey along that winding, desolate road seemed to pass at a snail's pace, though they kept up a reasonable speed. He thumped the brougham roof with his pistol barrel and called out to Barstow to push the horses to their limit.

Biggins was not permitted to ride up top on this excursion. Wearing his very own manacles, he sat beside the lieutenant, grousing and puling over the indignity of being pinioned like a common criminal, but his words fell upon deaf ears. What infuriated Simon most was that Biggins—run to ground, and caught out—still would not own up to his part in the coil; quite the contrary. And though Simon held his rage in check, it was all he could do to keep his hands from reaching out of their own volition and silencing the Runner's complaints for good and all.