The tunnel ended at a wooden door. Lightfoot took a key from her pocket and opened it. Meredith followed and stepped into the room beyond. The other paintings from The Grapes Inn were propped against the walls. So this was how they were moved.
Cuba John set his package down and closed the door.
Meredith couldn’t tell if this was a house, an inn, or a warehouse. The room was without furnishings, the whitewashed walls bare and the floor scrubbed clean and dustless. Only one door led into other parts of the building. Escape was looking impossible.
‘Go to your room, Cuba. I’ll call you when you’re needed.’
‘Would you like me to take the young lady? Give you a last moment with your treasures.’ His gaze slid from Meredith to Madame Lightfoot. ‘Alone?’
‘So, you fancy a little tumble with her, do you?’
‘Well, there wasn’t a chance to go back and I did sort of promise.’ His whining voice sounded like a spoilt child. But he was never that. His skin was now grey; his bloodshot eyes had become glazed and staring. Even his lips had gone the colour of parchment. Every bit of strength drained from her. But win or lose, she would fight him to the inevitable end. She had never been so frightened in all her life.
Madame Lightfoot picked up a painting and set it on an easel in the centre of the room. ‘Get out. I’ve a better use for her than what you want.’ His face contorted into a grotesque mask of sneering hate. Without a word he left, using the inner door.
Lightfoot locked the door after him. ‘You have artistic work to do, Miss Sanders. These paintings need packing. At least I shall get something out of you before we part.’
Meredith licked her lips and asked. ‘Do you have anything to drink?’
‘Help yourself. It’s in that crate by the wall.’
Inside were a closed pitcher and a pewter mug. Meredith lifted the top and smelt the ale. It looked drinkable and she filled the mug and drank it all.
Madame Lightfoot pointed to a pile of canvas bags. ‘Each cover has been made to the exact size of its painting. Sort them out and don’t try to dally thinking you will hinder my timetable. Cuba John may look like death, but he has incredible strength in those bones. One call is all he needs. Do you understand me?’
There was no mistaking her threat and Meredith nodded. The task was not difficult and she soon had a bag before each painting.
‘Encase each one and sew it up. Not your fancy stitches, tack along twice, overlapping the first. I must say you are more efficient than Sally-Ann.’
Meredith made no reply, only nodding at each command. To anger the dark woman now would only put her life in danger. Did this make her a partner to whatever evil scheme this villainous woman was party to? With meek compliance Meredith took a ball of thick thread and a large needle from the crate. She knelt on the floor and the rough planks snagged her gown. As she eased the portrait of the child into its bag a splinter pierced the plump skin below her thumb. She didn’t cry out as she pulled the slither of wood out and then watched in horror as drops of blood spotted the canvas.
‘Watch what you’re doing! Has that gone through?’ Lightfoot’s voice bellowed across the room like a roaring bull.
‘No, no, I’m sure it hasn’t. The canvas is very thick.’ Meredith leant away as the dark woman raised her hand to hit her. ‘It’s stopped!’ She sucked the wound and held it up for inspection.
Her knees hurt and she found sitting cross-legged more comfortable, but the paintings were awkward to hold as she leant forward to sew. Without a thimble, the needle dug into her finger and she used her gown to protect it. In contrast, Madame Lightfoot seemed to tackle the packing with little pain or trouble and between them all but the Turner were soon finished.
‘Excellent.’ She glanced at a small clock attached to the top of the easel. ‘There’s time to have one last look at a … shall we call it, a flawless masterpiece?’ Almost reverently, she set Frederick’s ‘Turner’ on the easel.
Meredith went and stood before the painted canvas. How had she enticed Frederick to commit the sin of forgery? Copying was an acceptable practice, but to sell it as an original, even to the colonials … there was no answer. Frederick had died with so many secrets locked in his soul.
With a sigh, Lightfoot put the painting into its bag and stitched it closed. ‘Goodbye, Sanders, you always made me my biggest profit.’ There could be no more revealing moment to her character than now. Money!
She unlocked the inner door and called to Cuba John.
Adam Fox walked into The Grapes Inn with his heart pounding and his eyes searching for Woody. The man was clearing away tankards from a table in the corner and he moved quickly over to him.
‘Woody, I need to speak with you urgently.’ There was no pretence of an Irish brogue. ‘Sit down. I’ll order a tankard in a minute.’
‘What be …’ Woody paused, ‘the trouble? And where did ye get that outfit from? And ye sound like some gentleman, where’s yer Irish tongue gone?’ He didn’t sit as told and his face took on a red tinge of anger.
‘It’s a long story, Woody. At the moment I want to know if you have seen the young lady here this afternoon. Maybe accompanied by a dark woman?’
‘Oh! So she’s a lady now. What’s happened to the servant girl?’
‘Has she been here? Her name is Mered …’ Adam stopped. ‘There are matters that do not concern you. All I need to know is, has she been here?’
‘I want to know who she is. No name. No answer. Yer’ve asked for me help, which I have to admit, I did take a wee wage for, so …?’
Adam had no time to haggle with an odd-job man. Did it really matter? Just a name didn’t give away who she really was. ‘It’s Merry.’ His frustration made him raise his voice with each word. ‘Did she come here today?’
The change in Woody was unexpected. He sat down on the stool with a heavy thud. ‘Did I hear ye right? Merry?’
Adam realised there was something amiss. The red face had turned white and the man’s hands were shaking. This wasn’t being caused by his drinking, for the man was as sober as a magistrate. ‘What is it?’
‘Could it be? Is she my Merry?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re babbling about.’ Adam sat down opposite him. He tried to keep calm, but felt more like shaking the man. ‘Explain yourself. I have no time to waste nursing you in a womanly swoon.’
‘My daughter, Merry, ran away years ago.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, man.’
‘But she could be. I’ve tortured meself for years. I’m to blame.’ Woody’s eyes watered. ‘Is it her?’
‘No. But that isn’t the problem now. I have to find her. She’s in terrible danger. I ask you again, has she been here?’
‘Danger? What do you mean? Yer saying she’s gone?’
‘Not of her own free will. I think she’s been kidnapped.’
Adam didn’t want to acknowledge what was unfolding. But one fact beat within him as strong as a lion. His life would be like an empty shell without her.
‘I ’aven’t seen her. I came ’ere at four o’clock fer the afternoon work.’
‘There’s a back entrance. Have you been down to the cellar?’
‘No.’
‘Then that’s where I’ll start.’
‘I’m comin’ too. Even if she ain’t my girl, I don’t like ter think about what’s going on.’
Down in the cellar, Adam put his ear close to the door of room six and eased the key into the lock, listened again, and slowly opened the door. The room was dark and empty.
Lighting the candle, he looked for signs that Meredith had been there. The truth being it looked as though no one had been there. He had put all his hopes into this one dingy room. A deep emotional loss rose up, akin to when he lost his father.
‘I’ll go back upstairs and ask around,’ Woody said.
‘Yes. And go out into the streets. Someone may have seen her. I need to think.’
Adam locked the door; he didn’t want to be caught unawares by Madame Lightfoot. Holding the candle high he went into the hidden room; he was too late, the paintings were gone. Wherever she had taken them was where Meredith would be. But there was no clue. The only place associated with her was here, in this room. How had she moved such large paintings without anyone seeing? The inn was a very busy establishment and there were other rooms in the cellar. The back yard could be as busy as inside with Woody’s carpentry, storage and deliveries. Surely, someone would see.
Where could he go? Madame Lightfoot appeared and faded like a ghost. She had Meredith a prisoner; what did she intend to do with her? The horrors of what a young woman of good circumstances could be sold for ran through his mind. He had to find her! Nothing else mattered. She had come to mean more to him than a tutor for Sarah. He had willingly entered her world of art and crime with the full knowledge of the dangers. Kidnapping her was an act too far. He would find her, even if he had to search every inch of London.
He circled the inner room looking for any clue. But there was nothing. Then the candle flickered. He stooped and waved the candle sideways. It flickered again. Was there another door? He ran his fingers over the bricks and felt another doorway, a similar mechanism and pushed it in. A tunnel appeared.
Meredith waited with Madame Lightfoot. The door opened and Cuba John came into the room. ‘They’re here; enough men for each painting.’
‘Good. Take Miss Sanders to your room.’
Meredith’s fear returned. ‘No, I won’t go with him. Please, not that, he will …’ A sob choked away any other words.
‘So, it’s down to pleading with me now. Why should I care what happens to Frederick’s little innocent girl? Do you really expect me to believe that?’
‘Frederick was a father and a friend to me. How can you speak of him so? How did he ever become associated with you?’
‘You to wonder, Miss Sanders, and my secret to keep. But Cuba will not have his way. He knows what will happen. The Chinese dens will not supply his need without gold crossing their greedy little palms.’
The reassurance didn’t make Meredith feel any better as he led her out into a corridor. The quiet of the hall was shattered by the front door opening and banging against the wall. Suddenly, the space was filled with a hoard of bedraggled sailors. Before they reached her, Cuba John steered her up a flight of stairs onto a landing. Holding his single candle high, he opened the door to his room.
What she saw made her stop. She couldn’t go in there. The smells that came at her were appalling and there was something else, something unnameable she had never known before. It filled her mouth and went down into her throat. Meredith retched. ‘Can we open the window?’ There was no way she could hold down the bile. ‘Please?’
He pushed her forward. ‘No.’ His reply was sullen, yet there was pleasure in the way he said it.
Without thinking of the consequences, she was sick. Instead of being angry, Cuba John laughed. All she could do was wipe her mouth with her sleeve.
‘Sit down. She won’t want you all pale and weak, and I’ll get the blame and she won’t give me the guineas.’ Again he pushed her, and this time she moved forward.
Next to a dirty wall was his unmade bed. There were no sheets. just a stained blanket and pillow. The only furniture was a tavern table and chair. Meredith sat down, but she didn’t look anywhere else, only at Cuba John. ‘Please, will you open the window?’
It seemed her plea amused him and he licked his finger and touched the window, circling his nail on the grimy pane. ‘Perhaps it would be better. I would find you an awkward bundle to carry.’ He splayed his fingers along the frame and pushed the lower part up a few inches.
Meredith got up and went over to breathe in the air and found it no better than the room. She could smell the river, the odious smells of the road, could hear the sound of voices, one louder than the rest, calling heave-ho.
‘Where is this house?’ She didn’t turn to look at him. ‘We’re near the river, I know that.’
‘A know-it-all, ain’t yer? We’re near to the Tower; it’s a pity we can’t lock yer in there.’
Meredith closed her eyes; none of this was going to help her escape. She couldn’t jump from the window and she would never make it to the door. Her only chance had been when she was moved from the room below, but the arrival of the sailors had barred the way. She had been sure that an escape was possible when they came along the tunnel, but not now with Cuba John watching her every move.
Time passed and outside the window the sky darkened into night.
Meredith sat on the chair. Her fear didn’t lessen and she never let her gaze wander away from the dirty little man. The constant watching made her eyes ache; even the foul smells became less choking.
Finally, Madame Lightfoot called from the corridor below. ‘It’s time to go. Bring her down.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Adam came to a halt at the end of the tunnel. The wooden door looked solid.
Here was another problem, he needed a key – Roseanna Lightfoot would not leave it unsecured. He knelt and looked through the keyhole, but saw nothing. On a hopeless gesture he touched the latch and it lifted soundlessly. Madame Lightfoot was getting over-confident, or careless, but a lucky moment for him. Pushing gently with just his fingers the door opened a few inches. The room beyond was in semi-darkness.
The candle in his hand was almost spent and, with a last flicker, he saw the other door. In a few strides he reached it and turned the knob; this door was not locked either. He opened it a crack and listened. A woman’s voice was calling, ‘It’s time to go. Bring her down.’
Those few words reassured him that he had found Meredith. Or to be more accurate, he now knew where she was. The problem of rescuing her was another matter. Now that he was within yards of her, his fears doubled. Was she all right? Had the woman harmed her in any way? The sound of several pairs of feet coming down from an upper floor made him close the door to within an inch of the frame. The urge to burst out and confront them burned red hot, but if he failed, he would be a prisoner too. He should have gone and found Woody to bring with him. But then he wouldn’t be here now, at this vital moment to hear what Lightfoot intended. A glow from a candle lit the corridor and the sounds of those descending changed from tapping feet to striding steps.
‘Open the front door, Cuba, and make sure there are no lurking footpads around.’
Adam could only hear her words, for to open the door wider was much too risky, the slightest movement might alert them. A wave of air ran down the corridor and their footsteps died away as the front door slammed shut. He ran along the corridor and out into the road. Fifty yards away he could see three figures: one giant of a woman, Meredith, and a thin man. This could only be the lackey who had invaded her bedchamber. The thought of what he could have done to her surged through his veins like boiling oil. He followed, stepping cautiously on the cobbles, willing any dog not to bark and give those in front cause to turn. At the end of the road he hid in the shadows and watched.
Adam guessed they were making for one of the river quays, which meant a boat was waiting. He increased his pace, and a few moments later saw them being helped into a dinghy. This may have been his chance to rescue Meredith, but without help all he could do was wait and see which ship they boarded anchored mid-stream.
Meredith was almost thrown into a small boat.
‘Tie her hands and ankles, Cuba. I don’t want any trouble while we are rowed out.’
‘Is that the only bit of her I’m going to see?’
‘Hold your tongue fool. Sound carries far and wide over water.’
Cuba John sat next to her, trailing his hand in the water and staring at the sailor pulling on the oars. She looked up at the sky, at the moon shining bright and full round. The last time she had seen it like this was just before she left Appleton House. She should be back there now, in the country, snu
g and safe in her bed, but wishing the impossible was not the answer to her predicament. Right now each oar stroke took her further away from that possibility.
The sailor shipped oars in the shadow of a great sailing ship. Meredith could see the prow and figurehead, and in the moonlight it looked like a black demon. A lantern light swung above her and she saw a rope ladder ending a few inches above the water.
‘Make haste, José. The Cap’n wants to heave-ho as soon as the tide turns.’
‘I’m sending them up. I’ll hold on here to make the return.’
The ropes were untied and Meredith saw her chance to jump and swim for it. But even as this moment presented itself, Madame Lightfoot held a small gun aimed at her.
‘I can read your mind, Miss Sanders. Jumping will only send you to the bottom. I am an expert shot, another little thing Mama remembered to teach me.’
There was no escape, no heroic damsel winning over the wicked witch. Live or die was her option. But to live would always give her the chance of escape. ‘You win. I will surrender, but not willingly, life is better than death.’ She stood up and waited while Cuba John steadied the ladder and she climbed aboard.
Meredith was pushed along the deck, then down below into the captain’s cabin; a small cramped space cluttered with charts and other seafaring paraphernalia.
‘Welcome, señorita, to the Orlando. I shall try to make your passage as pleasant as possible.’
The captain was a Spaniard, short in height and with a girth that bulged over his belt. His hair hung in greasy strands, much like his beard. But his dark eyes had a sharp piercing stare that would miss nothing.
Meredith now knew what was planned for her. All the guesses she had been making were nothing compared to this. It would be slavery of the worst kind – a whore!
‘Come, señorita, I am not an ogre, I wish only to make our journey together … how does one express it in English? … profitable.’
The Hidden Legacy Page 12