“Yes,” said Lord Oldfield, “you have…down, Captain, Trusty.” The dogs sank back onto their haunches, but still regarded Dan with hostility. Their master gazed at him above their heads, his mouth tight with anger, his fingers drumming on the arm of his seat. If he expected Dan to beg pardon, he was disappointed.
Or perhaps not. No one likes a fighter who refuses to take risks. “If this is what you’re like in the ring, God help your opponents,” Lord Oldfield said. “But if you think I killed Josh, you are wrong, so very wrong. If Josh had wanted anything, he had only to ask me for it.”
“Even half your estate?”
“To which he could have had no possible claim. Yes, there was a marriage of sorts, but the marriage was invalid. It was performed by Alexander Keith, an excommunicated clergyman of some notoriety who ended up dying in the Fleet Prison. There was at one time a lively trade in illegal marriages in and around the prison; Fleet weddings they called them. It was to put a stop to the career of Keith and others like him that Lord Hardwicke pressed for a change in the marriage laws. My family’s case came in for a good deal of unfortunate publicity because of it. So, unless you doubt the probity of Parliament and King, I have them to stand as witness.”
Dan could not say he believed absolutely in the probity of parliaments or kings, but if there was no lawful marriage, he could not see how Castle could have had any right to Lord Oldfield’s property.
“Then I’m sorry. I had to ask.”
“You think you are being conscientious. I suppose I cannot blame you for that, but now let us have an end to this. Give me the poachers’ names.”
Dan did his best to stall off His Lordship. “It doesn’t make sense. If they wanted Castle out of the way while they took the deer, all they had to do was knock him out and tie him up. There’s no benefit to them in killing him. You’ll only appoint another head keeper, maybe even bring in more men to patrol Barcombe Wood. Why would they risk that?”
“Because they are vicious and stupid.”
“I’m not sure they are either of those things. Angry and wily, maybe. And they are not the only people going into the wood at night. I saw the man who shot you and, though I couldn’t catch him, I know he was not one of the poachers. He may not be Castle’s murderer, but I think we should find out who he is before we arrest anyone.”
“Nothing is to be gained by wasting time looking for such ruffians. They will learn to keep the peace soon enough when we’ve set them an example. Give me the poachers’ names. Or must I write to Sir William?”
It was unlikely that Sir William Addington would back Dan in an argument with a fellow magistrate and a peer of the realm – especially when he had nothing to argue with. Lord Oldfield was right: he could not bring the murder home to anyone else. In addition, there was a strong case against the poachers. They were guilty of theft and a brutal assault on one gamekeeper, and they had been in Barcombe Wood the night Castle was killed.
Still he hesitated. He had lived among them, had seen them sober and drunk, at their work and their thieving; seen how they lived by their own law, which made poaching no crime and disloyalty the worst sin a man could commit. He knew they were men with a grievance, though he knew nothing about the rights and wrongs of that. He knew what their resentment made them capable of: the gamekeeper Ford would have died if he had not dragged Singleton off him. But Castle had not been murdered in the heat of the moment; the attack had been subtle and planned. Whatever else the poachers had done, they had not done that, and if he gave them up now he would never find out who had.
There was one chance, though it was not much of one – if he could get Lord Oldfield to agree.
“Grant me one favour. Let me have your consent to offering his life to whichever of them turns King’s Evidence against Castle’s killer. If they did it, or if they know who did, that is the surest way to find out.”
“No. They are all equally guilty and they will all hang.”
“If you don’t let me do this, we may never be sure. There will always be the possibility that the real killer has gone free.”
“And if I allow you to do this, it will be a certainty that a killer has gone free.”
“I only said offer his life, not a pardon. You can still prosecute him for taking your deer. That carries seven years’ transportation, which is as likely as not to mean death.”
“Damn you, Foster, do you ever give up?”
“No.”
Lord Oldfield laughed, a short outburst of irritation and respect. Probably no one had ever stood up to him before, not even Josh, who had hanged Walter’s terrier despite knowing it was wrong.
“To hell with it. I agree.”
Before Dan could thank him, the carriage pulled up outside Oldfield Hall. The driver jumped down and handed his whip to a stable boy. The footman lowered the steps and flung open the carriage door. Lord Oldfield and his dogs strode into the house.
Dan stepped from the carriage, straight into the driver, who wanted to shake his hand, the footman, who wanted to clap him on the back, and the stable boy, who wanted to stare. Even the liveried flunky in the hall patted his arm when he thought his master was not looking. None of them minded that he smelt of sweat and blood, but Lord Oldfield had evidently had enough of it while they were cooped up in the carriage. He handed his hat to his footman.
“We will continue our discussion when you’ve bathed and changed. Be quick.”
He summoned the maid, who was waiting in the background, and went into the drawing room, his dogs at his heels. A few seconds later, Dan heard the clink of glass.
Dan followed the girl upstairs and into a small dressing room with a fireplace, narrow bed, wash stand and towel rail. Two boys in the adjoining room were pouring water into a tub.
“You can change behind that screen,” the girl said.
He hesitated. She grabbed a towel off the rail and threw it at him. “Use this.”
Seeing that she did not mean to leave the room, he went behind the screen, stripped, and wrapped the soft linen around him. He had never used anything like it. All they had in the gymnasium were thin cotton squares.
He padded into the bathroom. The boys had gone, taking their pails with them. A deep tub stood in the middle of a tiled room bigger than Dan’s kitchen. Next to it was a marble-topped table on which stood soaps, sponges, and bottles of he did not know what. Another towel, just as large and soft as the one he wore, warmed by the fire.
He no longer cared whether or not the maid peeped. He flung the towel aside, stepped into the water, and soaked his pains away.
When he went back to the dressing room, the girl had gone and so had his clothes. Neatly folded on the bed were clean black breeches and white stockings, a linen shirt, and smart blue jacket. Everything fitted well, and though it was all good quality, it was far from turning him into a fop. He looked about for his shoes. They had gone too, presumably to be cleaned. He sat down on the bed to wait for the girl to bring them back.
Chapter Seventeen
When Dan woke up, it was morning and he was lying under the bed covers. He could not remember undressing, but did have a blurred memory of seeing Dr Russell’s face hanging over him while it was still daylight.
He gritted his teeth, rolled out of bed, and hobbled over to the chair where his own clothes, cleaned and ironed, lay next to the new ones. He left the smart breeches and jacket where they were. When he had dressed, he found some water in the jug on the wash stand and splashed his face and hands. Then he examined himself in the mirror over the fireplace. His nose was red and swollen, there was a bruise on his cheekbone, and he had a cut on his lip, but he did not look too monstrous.
A few turns around the room got his limbs moving. After that he opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. A clock chimed prettily somewhere close by: eight. He peered over the stone balustrade. There did not seem to be anyone
about, so he decided to make his way to the kitchen and see if he could scrounge a bit of breakfast.
He was at the bottom of the stairs when he heard the swish of a dress on the marble tiles. It came from the alcove beneath the staircase. A woman stood in front of one of the family portraits. Dan would have turned back, but it was too late. She had heard him and was stepping out of the recess. On the canvas behind her, Lord Adam Oldfield’s eyes stared out from the puffed, crimson face of a corpulent man in antique clothes, posed beside his hunter with his dogs at his feet. A preview, perhaps, of what Lord Adam would be in years to come. The woman who was so interested in his future must be the one who was going to share it with him: Lady Helen Burgh.
She was beautiful, as all rich young ladies are with their elaborate hair, silken gowns and flawless complexions. Yet there was something in her face beyond the usual insipid attractions of these high-bred females. A certain knowingness: not exactly bold, but not exactly demure either.
Dan stepped aside so she could pass, trying to make himself look like part of the furniture as the servants did. She stopped and looked him up and down.
“You are the pugilist?”
“Yes, madam.”
“What’s your name?”
“Daniel Fielding.”
“Oldfield says you are a Cockney.”
“I am from London, but not a Cockney, ma’am.”
The distinction did not interest her. “You’re here because of the poachers. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone your secret. That would spoil the excitement, though I don’t suppose it is exciting for you. You must do this sort of thing all the time. Everyone else is making such a tremendous fuss about it.”
“His Lordship is anxious that the killer is apprehended. He and Castle were close.”
“I’m sure Castle liked to think so.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“I had no feelings about the man. He was a gamekeeper. A low, presuming fellow.”
A strong reaction for someone who had no feelings. Dan wondered what form Castle’s presumption had taken. Had he tried to flatter the lady? Or – what might be worse – had he failed to admire her?
There was a quick footstep at the front door, and Lord Oldfield came in, his dogs pattering at his heels. He ignored Dan’s “Good morning, My Lord” and hurried to his lady’s side.
“Good morning, my dear,” he said. “You must excuse me. I have business with this fellow.”
She smiled. “Of course. But don’t forget we are going riding later.”
She sauntered off. Lord Oldfield’s urbane smile vanished when he looked at Dan.
“Come with me.”
Dan, who had anticipated His Lordship’s anger, fell in behind him and his dogs and followed him downstairs to his office, which was on the kitchen corridor. The dogs curled up on a worn rug thick with their hairs. The den was littered with nets and guns, fishing rods and muddy boots, stained coats and sporting magazines. Prints of race horses and hunting hounds hung on the walls, one of which was taken up by a map of the estate.
There was hardly time to take all this in before Lord Oldfield, standing behind his desk and fiddling irritably with his gold watch chain, said, “I am not used to waiting on the pleasure of those in my employ.”
“I am sorry we did not continue our discussion last evening,” Dan said. “And I assure you it was not at my pleasure.”
“If it was not for Dr Russell, I would suspect you of deliberate malingering. As it was, he said that you should be left to rest, that it might even be dangerous to wake you. And we did try. Now, I will have those names, Foster, and be quick about it.”
“You stand by your agreement to offer King’s Evidence in return for information about Castle’s murder?”
Lord Oldfield brought his fist down on the desk, causing the dogs’ heads to jerk up. “The names!”
“The agreement.”
“Yes, damn you, I have given you my word.”
“Dunnage heads the gang.”
His Lordship sank into his seat and the dogs settled down again. “His family have been tenants on the estate for three generations. He and his shall never set foot on my land again.”
“There’s Travell, the village shopkeeper.”
“I might have known that Jacobin swine was at the heart of it. That’s how it started in France, with the wretches claiming the right to hunt. I should have dealt with him years ago.”
“Bob Singleton.”
“But he’s had my estate business for years, the ungrateful scoundrel!”
“There’s also Abe Wicklow, one of Dunnage’s labourers. The dealer is Luke Warneford, the travelling animal doctor. Buller at the Fox and Badger receives the game and sends it to Warneford in Bristol by the carrier, Sam Bryer. Whether or not Bryer knows what he’s carrying I don’t know, and won’t be able to prove unless they peach on him.”
Lord Oldfield opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a sheaf of pre-printed arrest warrants. “Damn it all, Foster, these men might already be in custody.”
“No they couldn’t, and can’t be a while yet, not until I have some men from Bow Street to make the arrests.”
“For a handful of villagers?”
“For a handful of desperate men surrounded by people who will do their utmost to protect them.”
“I have men. Mudge, Witt and Potter will be glad to help.”
“And I’ll be glad to have them along when the time comes, but they won’t be enough.”
“I have others.”
“Servants and stable boys? Even if they succeeded in bringing them in, where would you put them? The way feeling is in Barcombe, they wouldn’t be in that lock-up for long. No, My Lord, this is not a job for amateurs. It’s what you brought us in for, and we’re the best ones to do it. And on that, I think even Sir William would agree with me.”
“Hell and damnation! When can I be rid of this vermin?”
“Warneford’s the problem. He’ll be gone tomorrow or the day after, so there’s no time to bring men up from London. We’ll have to wait until his next visit.”
“How long will that be?”
“He doesn’t keep to a regular schedule, though he doesn’t seem to be in Barcombe less than every two or three weeks. As soon as I know when he next plans to visit, I’ll get word to you and you can write to Sir William.”
“Two or three weeks?”
“I have an idea that might bring Warneford back sooner. I will try at any rate.”
A maid brought a tray of coffee and rolls. When she had gone, Lord Oldfield said, “So. Tell me how you intend to handle the arrests.”
“They will be at night, at each man’s home, timed to take place together. It’s an operation my men are skilled in. Since the village lock-up is not secure, I plan to take the prisoners to the nearest gaol as soon as I have them in custody, before daybreak and news of the arrests gets abroad. I think I am right in saying that Shepton Mallet is fifteen miles?”
“Yes.”
“I will need a covered cart.”
“Mudge will arrange that.”
“Can you suggest a safe rendezvous?”
“What about Cottom’s old place?”
It was about half a mile out of the village on a lonely stretch of road. “Perfect.”
Ackland came in with a message for Lord Oldfield.
“Mr Sutter has sent to ask if you would step down to the stables, My Lord, and tell him if it is right that Wicker is to be saddled for Lady Helen.”
“Wicker? What is the man thinking of? He’s not a lady’s mount.”
“Apparently Lady Helen requested the horse, My Lord.”
“I see.” He swept the blank warrant forms back into the drawer and stood up. “That will be all, Fielding.”
His Lordship hurried out, and Ackl
and rolled his eyes at Dan before following him. It was not hard to guess what was going on at the stables. Lady Helen thought she had waited long enough for Lord Oldfield’s attention and had found the perfect way to get it by insisting that the stableman provide her with an unsuitable horse. Only His Lordship could countermand her orders, so he must abandon his business and go to his future wife.
Dan went back up to the room he had slept in and changed into the clothes Lord Oldfield had provided. He made a bundle of his own and carried them away.
A more than Sunday silence hung over the village, and he got back to the forge without meeting anyone. Mrs Singleton was back from church, clattering about in the kitchen amid the aroma of bacon and mushrooms. In the hope of getting a second breakfast, Dan knocked on the open door.
“Dan! Will you look at your face? What a state for Christian men to get themselves into! You’d better come in and sit down. He’s just getting up.”
The floorboards creaked overhead, then Singleton’s heavy tread fell on the stairs. His eyes were bloodshot and his face grey. He moved as if he, not Dan, had been the one to take the pounding. He looked better after he had staggered out to the yard and ducked his head under the pump, but not by much.
“Well, ain’t he looking sparkish!” he croaked when his eyes were open enough to see Dan’s new outfit.
His wife banged food in front of them and disappeared upstairs to pummel the bed back into shape.
“Where did you get to last night?”
“I was at the Hall. I fell asleep and the doctor said to leave me.”
“You had Dr Russell out to you? Wined and dined at His Lordship’s expense too, I hope.”
Dan stroked his sleeve. “I’ve not done badly out of him. What about you? Did you stay in Kingswood or come back to the Fox?”
Singleton smiled ruefully. “Both. We had a few at the fair before setting off.”
That explained the deathly hush of the village. The men were sleeping it off, the women and children tiptoeing carefully around them.
The gate from the road swung open. Singleton squinted out into the sunlight. Warneford came into the yard leading his horse, which was saddled ready for his journey.
Bloodie Bones Page 17