‘I’m sorry,’ James said. ‘But it can only have been Master O’Sullivan.’
‘What do you intend to do about it?’
‘With your permission…’ James glanced over Archer’s shoulder, ignoring his bluster and keeping an eye on Saddle. This was one of those times he needed to be Jimmy talking to Archer, not a valet talking to his master, but Saddle was hovering near the door, and Smith’s interest had also been aroused by the viscount’s mild outrage. James whispered. ‘I need to take Fecker and go after the boy. No matter who he belongs to, we can’t let him run off and not do anything about it.’
‘Where has he gone?’ Archer reread the scrawled writing on the title page. ‘We don’t know who his father is.’
‘True, Sir. But I do know where his father is, and that’s where Jerry has gone. Merrynporth.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Me neither, but I’ve got to find out where it is and get him back.’
Archer rolled his eyes, forced a smile, and having checked that Saddle was now walking away from the door and was out of earshot, he said, ‘Go with my blessing, comrade, and do what you do best.’
Archer was taking the situation too lightly, but now was not the time to pull him up on the matter. The boy’s life was in danger.
‘What’s this shit, Jimmy?’
Fecker was brushing Lightning when James found him in the stables. Nathan, the stable lad, was nearby doing the same to Thunder, and David, the second hand was mucking out. James pulled Fecker aside and repeated what he had just told him.
‘And we go now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want me? Why? You think trouble?’
‘I don’t know what to expect, Fecks,’ James said. ‘But I’d feel happier if you were with me. Can you do it?’
‘How long we go?’
‘I don’t know. We need to find St Merrynporth, and I’ve got no clue where that is. But look, the boy can’t have got far. The chances are he’s in the village, and the sooner we leave, the sooner we find him and bring him back.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll explain all that on the way.’
‘Ha!’ Fecker scoffed. ‘Geroy did that in the snow and see what happen.’ He held up the remaining fingers on his left hand.
‘Yeah, well… Just get two horses ready. I’ll change and be back in fifteen minutes, yeah?’
‘Da, if is what you want. Ivan!’
Nathan came hurrying up, nodded to James and stood cowering beneath his Ukrainian master. ‘Aye, Sir?’
‘Saddle these two. I come back.’
‘That be with panniers, Mr Andrej?’
‘Ask him,’ Fecker said as he left to make ready.
‘Can I ask how you want your ’ourses, Mis’r Wright, Sir?’
Nathan’s heavy, local accent gave James an idea.
‘Nate,’ he said, knowing that was how Nathan liked to be known. ‘You’re from ‘round here aren’t you?’
‘Aye, Sir. Born ‘n’ bred in Larkspur village. On the estate, in truth.’
‘Do you know the county well?’
‘Cornwall be a country not a county, ask me, Sir,’ Nathan smiled as he brushed his straggly, strawberry-blond hair from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Aye, knows it well as any true Cornishman.’
‘Thought so. Have you heard of a place called Saint Merrynporth?’
‘I knows St Merryn,’ the stable lad offered. ‘Small village up over Padstow, ’bout twenty-five mile.’
‘But not St Merrynporth?’
Nathan thought harder but shook his head. ‘Sorry, Mis’r Wright. I can tell ’e that the word porth in Cornish means port in English, Mis’r Wright, if that ’elps. But I don’t know as St Merryn ’as a port, being a little inland. Harlyn or Padstow would be its port, if you follow.’
James understood. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Will these two horses make that distance easily?’
‘Take you ’bout six ’ours walking, Sir, but Thunder and Lightning be strong enough a canter long time, and Mis’r Andrej knows ’em well. Be near on nine now, so I’d say you’d be there ’round one this afternoon.’
‘We’ll be riding on roads and maybe across country, if you can prepare the horses for both, and add bags with feed or whatever they need in case we don’t make it back today.’
Thanking Nate again, he left the smell of manure and straw behind and hurried back to the Hall to change. Without knowing what time Jerry had left, he had no way of calculating how far he might have travelled or which way he might have gone, and without any other leads to go on, the only thing he could think to do was ride to St Merryn and start there. It seemed the most logical place to go, and with Jerry on foot, they would probably see him on the way.
What he didn’t know then, was that Jerry O’Sullivan was heading in a completely different direction.
Seventeen
James thought quickly as he changed his clothes, and Thomas packed a bag. Only one thing mattered, and that was finding the runaway and bringing him safely back to the Hall. The boy was James’ responsibility, and James had come to like him. Apart from that, he was a vulnerable child alone on the moors.
‘Would he be on the moors?’ he asked as he tucked his breeches into his boots.
‘He could be anywhere,’ Thomas replied. ‘But we’re now certain he is not in the house, and Mr Harrow’s men have searched the estate.’
‘It annoys me that Archer isn’t bothered,’ James complained. ‘I know he’s got this big dinner and important guests, but he’s not taking anything seriously these days. We’re worried about Mr Smith, and now Jerry’s vanished, and it’s my fault.’
‘It’s no-one’s fault,’ Thomas reassured as he passed James a shirt. ‘What you need to ask yourself, is where’s he gone, and why has he run away?’
‘I’ve been doing that and have come up with nothing. What if he’s fallen and hurt himself out there? He doesn’t know where he’s going.’
‘Slow down.’ Thomas was behind him and wrapped James in his arms. They stared at each other in the full-length mirror, the butler resting his chin on the valet’s shoulder. ‘You are not to blame, and you’re not alone. Yes, Archer is distracted, and yes, he has this cavalier attitude to problems and laughs them away. It’s just how he is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. He’s letting you go, and he’s doing that because he trusts you.’ He kissed James’ cheek and held him tighter. ‘And I love you. You’ve got me behind you, literally. So, let’s think sensibly. Wherever he’s gone, he is on foot. You will be riding, so you’ll catch him easily, but there’s no point racing off without consideration. Take a minute now, and you’ll save time later.’
James took a deep breath, leant his head into Thomas’, kissed him and broke away to continue dressing.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘So, what do we know?’ Thomas took a riding jacket from the wardrobe. ‘Go through it piece by piece.’
‘Well, we know that he was on the train, in third class and didn’t have a ticket, and I’ve found out that he ran away, probably from his boarding school. But we don’t know where that is, so we can’t even guess where he boarded the train.’
‘Irrelevant,’ Thomas said. ‘He left you a note. What did it say?’
‘”Sorry, Mr Wright, but I have to go to my father because he is in danger”.’ James recited the message from memory.
‘Who is his father?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘But you do know where he is.’ Thomas began buttoning James’ shirt, standing before him and looking him directly in the eye.
‘St Merrynporth,’ James said. ‘A place no-one has heard of, but which Nate said might be the port at St Merryn.’
�
�And St Merryn is north of here, about twenty-five miles, next to Padstow.’
‘Yes.’
‘Keep thinking,’ Thomas said, reaching for the jacket as James tucked in his shirt.
‘Padstow is at the end of the line. The train was heading that way.’
‘Thus, it’s reasonable to assume that’s where Jerry was going when the accident happened. It’s the end of the branch line, and there’s only one train per day, the one he was on.’
‘Makes sense that he was heading to St Merryn then.’
‘Quite. What else do you have?’
Thomas held the jacket open, and James slipped his arms into it. ‘I’m convinced his name isn’t Jerry O’Sullivan.’
‘Why?’
‘Because his clothes carried a label reading INTS. My mum used to sew my initials into mine when I went to school, and that was only down the road.’
‘Agreed. It’s a common practice. Some of the valets and servants who stay here during the season do the same thing to avoid confusion when their shirts are laundered. Right, we are fairly certain that Jerry will be heading for the coast, and his father’s surname may or may not be O’Sullivan. Go to St Merryn, or the nearest port if there isn’t one there, in this case, Padstow, and ask after a Mr O’Sullivan.’
James turned to his lover, who had been brushing the yoke of his jacket. Tom’s eyes glittered, and his soft lips broke into a smile.
‘You know something, Mr Payne,’ James said. ‘I fucking love you.’
‘You feel better now?’
By way of a reply, James kissed him and ran his fingers through Tom’s auburn hair.
‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Thomas tutted playfully as they broke apart.
James smiled as the butler fussed at the mirror to straighten his appearance. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Fecks will be waiting. I’ll message you when we get there whether there’s news or not.’
‘I doubt you will be back tonight,’ Thomas said. ‘I will valet His Lordship and keep an eye on Mr Smith. Let me know where you end up so that I can send word if the boy returns.’
‘Always practical.’
‘Talking of which, they say there’s a storm coming, so pick up your cape on the way out. Here.’ Thomas handed him his bag. ‘I asked the kitchen to prepare sandwiches, get them on your way through.’
‘What would I do without you, Mr Payne?’
‘Oh, you’d find someone else to clear up after you. Go on, Fecker will be waiting.’
A farewell kiss lasted a full minute until Thomas, laughing, pushed James away and told him to, ‘Go and be a hero. But be a careful one.’
James kept his promise to Fecker. As soon as they left the stable, he explained the purpose of their journey. Fecker listened with interest, and when James said he thought Jerry might have headed directly to St Merryn, and why, the Ukrainian nodded.
‘And you think he takes road?’ he asked.
‘I have to admit I am guessing,’ James replied. ‘We don’t know what time he left the Hall, but it was after dark. As far as we could tell, no lanterns were missing, and as far as I know, the boy isn’t familiar with the area. If he is heading north, it makes sense that he took the road.’
‘He has long legs?’ Fecker asked, sitting up in his saddle and scanning the horizon.
‘No. He’s only nine, Fecks.’
‘I had long legs.’
‘Yeah, well, you’ve got long everything. Why?’
‘Longer legs, faster walk. Five miles for short legs like Banyak, it take maybe two hours. Me, I do it in one.’
It was an interesting point. ‘He’s shorter than Silas, about Mrs Flintwich’s height, but slim. Probably plays sports at school, and I know he can run because he ran from Smith last night and was a bugger to catch. How fast do you think he would travel?’
‘On this road,’ Fecker said, ‘he goes at four miles the hour. Over fields, two. This place is twenty-five?’
‘From Larkspur, yeah. Roughly.’
‘Seven hours he takes by road, or maybe more than twelve over hills.’
It was nearing eleven o’clock, and James realised with a groan that if Jerry had left at midnight, he could have reached St Merryn before James was even out of bed.
‘We ask first in the village,’ Fecker decided.
That had always been James’ intention, and he wasted no time in his enquiries, stopping first at the telegraph office to dispatch a message to Silas. The postmaster had not seen any strangers in the village that morning and had been working since six o’clock. The lamplighter hadn’t seen anyone either, but suggested James ask the repair workers taking lunch at the pub.
Riding through the High Street, they stopped at the police station to alert the on-duty constable to the missing boy, saying that they were sure they would find him tramping the road or wandering the fields, but should he be found, would the policeman take him to Larkspur? That agreed, they continued to the inn, and stopping there, discovered there had been no sightings of the boy. They did learn that the men assigned to clear the railway line were working in shifts through the night, and the route would be reopened by the next morning. That was good news for Archer and his dinner guests who were due to arrive by train, but not useful for the search.
Riding on, they passed through hamlets and open farmland, waving down anyone they saw to ask the same question and receive the same negative reply. The horses’ hooves clattered on the stone bridge as they crossed the River Camel while beneath, the water flowed without a care. Sparrows twittered in the copses and hedgerows, and hawks wheeled overhead. The late-spring sun warmed them through their jackets, and it would have made for a pleasant ride had it not been for the guilt James suffered at losing his charge. He kept an eye on the weather, but it showed no signs of worsening, and he hoped to be back at Larkspur, with Jerry, well before the predicted storm hit.
Once the landscape offered no more settlements or farmsteads, they took to the open moorland, galloping the horses where they could until they finally approached the village of St Merryn from the east. The horses took the ride well, even enjoyed it, but Fecker insisted they walk at times to save the animals, and it wasn’t until later in the afternoon that they crested a low hill and saw the village.
The sea was spread out to their right, glittering into the distance beneath the cloudless sky, and a wide, sandy bay opened up on the shoreline. Above it stood a collection of houses which looked out of place among an endless vista of undulating hills. It wasn’t the remoteness of the village that worried James, it was the lack of boats on the beach. If, as Nathan had said, porth meant port, there was no sign of one here.
‘I have an idea, Fecks,’ he said, pulling his horse to a standstill. Twisting in his saddle, he strained his eyes towards Padstow as Fecker drew up alongside. ‘I can’t see how St Merryn has anything but a beach, but Padstow is just there, and I wonder if it used to be called St Merrynporth.’
‘You the boss,’ Fecker said. ‘We go.’
They arrived at the quayside as a thin layer of white cloud damped the sun’s warmth and brought a cool breeze from the sea. The harbour was a hive of activity with returning fishing boats, men transferring their catch to the quay, and women sitting on the stone, mending nets draped over their knees. The air smelt of sea salt and fish, voices carried through it calling prices, while people haggled over the landed catch that flapped in the final throes of death. James and Fecker weaved carefully through the crowd, eyes peeled for the small boy with the red-brown hair until they came to a coaching inn.
As Fecker stabled the horses, James secured a room and asked if anyone had reported finding a lone, lost child. As expected, he received no information about Jerry, but the landlord told him that the fishermen had been out since dawn, and if any lost young man had stumbled into the vi
llage in the early morning, they would have noticed. Once they had emptied their boats, many would pour into the inn, because, as the landlord proudly declared, ‘The Old Ship Inn serves the best Cornish ales.’
James intended to test that theory, but not before he had located the telegraph office and sent a message to let Thomas know where they were. On the way back, he stopped at every pub and shop along the harbour to ask if anyone knew a Mr O’Sullivan who had a son called Jerry, and put out word that should a lost boy turn up, he was to be informed. When locals were sceptical of his motives, he used Lord Clearwater’s name, and when others were reluctant to engage, he offered a reward. Returning to The Old Ship, he met Fecker coming from the opposite direction.
‘Man says you went to ask around,’ Fecker said. ‘So I started other end and worked back. Nothing.’
It was touching that the Ukrainian had thought to widen the search without being asked, and James thanked him. Fecker simply shrugged and stomped his way into the public bar saying, ‘Getting dark now. We stay here.’
Where the bar had earlier been empty, it was now teaming with men. Heavily accented voices spoke over each other, pipe smoke hung in the air but did nothing to dampen the noise of chatter, laughter and occasional swearing which rose and fell like a swelling tide. The two men occupying the adjacent table were playing dominoes, slapping their tiles down and growling through their beards. The younger of the two, no more than twenty years old, spoke more aggressively than the older, and when the other drinkers complained, his replies were not exactly courteous.
James fanned away smoke as he ordered two tankards from the barmaid, and she brought them to their table, fending off the unwanted advances of fishermen, old and young alike.
‘Can I ask you something?’ James had to raise his voice.
‘Not if it be about nothing other than ale or supper,’ the woman shouted back as she placed their drinks.
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