‘Maybe not, but I will do everything I can to assist you.’
‘We’ll see about that if and when it becomes necessary. Right now, let’s get some sleep, Joby.’
Lancer discovered that he was too much on edge about the possibility of an attempt to arrest Joseph to relax. But the sound of regular breathing coming from Buckingham Joe’s bed told him that sleep had not eluded him. When he judged about half an hour had passed, he was alerted by a scuffling sound in the back yard of the inn. Quietly leaving his bed, he went to the window and looked down on the movements of what were either two or three shadowy figures.
Going to Buckingham Joe’s bed he shook him awake. ‘I think they are here, Joseph.’
Instinct and experience of similar incidents had Buckingham Joe react by instantly leaping out of bed. He was putting on his boots at the same time as Lancer was lacing up his own boots.
‘They will be on their way up the stairs by now, Joseph,’ Lancer said. ‘There is a door at the top of the stairs that opens inwards. You get out of the window while I hold them off.’
‘Come with me, Joby.’
‘No. Get moving.’
‘I’ll wait for you in the alley,’ Buckingham Joe said, as he went out of the door too fast for Lancer to object.
Going out on to the landing Lancer turned left, relieved to see that the door was still shut. Moving close to it, he could hear stealthy footsteps ascending the stairs. He waited, poised for action. The door latch was lifted slowly to avoid noise. Then the door gradually opened. Timing his move with precision, Lancer waited until the door was about one-third open. Backlit by light from an oil lamp he could see most of the body of a man pressed up against the door as he gradually pushed it open. Then Lancer took one quick step forwards, lifting his right leg as he went and kicking the door hard with the flat of his booted foot. The door closed rapidly, colliding hard with the man standing behind it. There was a squeal of pain followed by the sound of bodies crashing down the stairs.
Opening the door wide, Lancer could see a man at the foot of the stairs holding an oil lamp and looking down on two men who had been sent tumbling down the stairs when he had kicked the door. One of the men lay head facing downwards at the bottom on the stairs while the second man had landed on him head and face upwards. The face of that man had been hit by the door when Lancer had kicked it was a bloody sight of pulverized flesh and shattered nose and cheek bones.
Looking up at Lancer, the man holding the lantern released a roar of rage and, clambering over the unconscious bodies of his two comrades, came rushing up the stairs waving a truncheon in his free hand.
He wasn’t a young man and Lancer caught the sour stench of his belaboured breathing. Waiting until the panting man reached the third stair from the top, Lancer grasped the banister running up the stairs on his right with both hands. Anchored by his grip on the banister he swung his body up and around, kicking out backwards with both feet to catch his would-be attacker full in the face with the soles of both his boots.
With a cry of either pain or fright, probably both, the man was sent flying down the stairs, preceded by the lantern that he had let go of on his way down. Waiting for a moment to witness the man crashing with a mighty thud to the floor at the foot of the stairs, Lancer saw the lantern smash against the wall and flaming oil splash out to ignite the wood panelling that covered the lower part of the walls.
Slamming the door closed he ran along the landing to climb out through the window that Buckingham Joe had left open. Sliding down the sloping roof, he braced himself as he reached the edge to plummet downwards. Landing in the alley on his feet jolted him painfully. He was prevented from falling by Buckingham Joe who ran up to steady him.
‘You shouldn’t have waited for me, Joseph,’ he breathlessly complained.
‘I’m glad that I did. You set the whole bloody place on fire,’ his friend chuckled. ‘Save your breath now, we have to run to the stables and fetch our mounts.’
‘Do you think they’ll have some men waiting there for you to arrive at the stables?’ Lancer enquired as they ran out into the street.
‘Not a chance, Joby. They are not that well organized.’
He was proved right when they reached the stables and had harnessed and saddled their horses without interference. Mounting up they headed out of Salisbury passing the Greyhound Inn, the rear end of which was ablaze.
It was two o’clock in the morning in Adamslee and Arabella Heelan lay in her bed wide awake and weeping. She smothered her sobbing so as not to awaken Ruth, who had put in sixteen hours of hard work waist deep in the sea the previous day. Selling the most seaweed she had ever collected in one day, she arrived home exhausted but overjoyed at being able to pass the money from her sale to Arabella.
Though she had hugged and praised the crippled girl out of love and appreciation of her gallant efforts, Arabella had been starkly aware that the money would do no more than keep them and baby Thelma in food for a few days. It would do nothing to forestall the looming inevitable catastrophe when the demand for the rent arrears was made.
She had considered all possible sources of financial help. Though she hadn’t been up to Adamslee House, the gossip all around Adamslee was that the once beautiful and proud Sarai Adams was now nought but a shambling alcoholic wreck. It was difficult for Arabella to imagine the sophisticated and eye-catching Sarai fitting the description of her that was now rumoured. What she did realize was that any approach she might make to Sarai for assistance would not only be pointless but also a terribly upsetting experience. The Reverend Worther was a gentle, caring person who would be all too ready to help her, but Arabella was aware that he existed on a meagre stipend that would mean he would starve if he gave to her the amount of money she needed. Her final hope would be Dr Mawby who had become increasingly infirm of late and there was talk that he would soon retire and hand his practice over to a younger doctor. What money he had made in a far from financially viable surgery would barely be enough to support him in retirement.
With the possibility of outside help non-existent, Arabelle recognized that her only chance was to plead for more time to pay. That was a hopeless idea because the rent collector would know, just as well as she did, that the time when she could pay her rent, regardless of making a contribution to paying off the arrears, would never come.
Drying her tears with a handkerchief made from a piece of threadbare and unserviceable bed sheet, the hope of getting to sleep was useless. Within minutes her body was convulsed with deeper sobbing.
They reined up just before entering a village just outside Somersetshire. It was a peaceful countryside community and it puzzled Lancer as to why they had stopped. Occasionally villagers in this sort settlement were wary of and often hostile toward strangers, but the majority welcomed outsiders.
He looked uncertainly at Buckingham Joe. ‘What’s the problem, Joseph?’
‘No problem. But this is where we must part company, Joby. I beg you not to dismiss what I am going to say now as nothing more than a presentiment. From my years on the road I know for sure that somewhere in that village ahead they are waiting for me.’
‘Then let’s skirt it,’ Lancer strongly suggested.
With a negative shake of his head, Buckingham Joe said, ‘All that would do would bring me to the next place where they will be waiting. Lucy Hughes saw my future last night, and I know that she was right. It is set in stone, Joby.’
‘There is no reason why we should split up. I am staying with you to the end of the road wherever that may be, Joseph. As you said yourself, I am not wanted by the law.’
‘Your loyalty is commendable but mistaken. One or all of the three men you knocked down the stairs last night may well have perished in the fire. If you are seen with me even the dimwits awaiting me will manage to think logically that you were with me last night in the Greyhound. Get away while you can. I am the only one who could involve you, and you know that I would never do that.’
This made sense to Lancer, but he was still very reluctant to ride away from his good friend. He pleaded, ‘At least allow me to give you some money to help you on your way, Joseph.’
The highwayman managed a sad smile as he replied. ‘You are a good man, Joby. But where I am heading neither goods nor money will be any use. Ride away now. Remember that our friendship will survive into eternity. Goodbye, my friend.’
‘Goodbye, and may God bless you, Joseph,’ Lancer said, a tremor in his voice as he reined his horse about. As he rode away he heard what he feared would be the last words he would ever hear from Buckingham Joe.
‘I doubt that will happen, Joby.’
Everything was very ordinary when Buckingham Joe rode his horse into the village at a walking pace. Two women standing talking at the door of a house didn’t even afford him a cursory glance. A group of children playing a game of chase paused for a moment to study him, then resumed their energetic game. An elderly man tending some flowers outside of a cottage called ‘Good morning’ to him and he politely replied ‘Good morning, sir’, as he passed by.
He was nearing the end of the street when a tall, well-built man stepped out in front of him. An alert, authoritative figure, the man held up a hand in a signal for him to rein in his horse.
‘Would you be Thomas Oliver, alias Joseph Infield, alias Buckingham Joe?’
‘The choice is yours, sir. I am whichever of those three that you prefer,’ the highwayman volunteered genially. ‘My personal preference is Buckingham Joe but I have no authority to impose my predilections on you or on any other person for that matter.’
‘I am Constable Anton Rawlings.’ The big man’s facial expression showed his dislike of the highwayman’s idle chatter as he introduced himself. ‘Permit me to caution you that at this very moment Constable Meakin has a musket aimed directly at you.’
‘Thank you for the warning, Constable,’ Buckingham Joe said. ‘But please advise Constable Meakin that if he should discharge his weapon he will face a charge of murder, as I am unarmed.’
‘Dismount slowly from the right side of your horse and I will discover if what you say is true, Oliver.’
Obeying, Buckingham Joe was aware from the careful manner the constable positioned himself to search him for weapons that there was indeed a firearm aimed at him. Glancing around he was satisfied that the man with the musket had to be in a small gap between a cottage and a wood shed.
‘Constable Meakin must be really uncomfortable squeezed up against that wooden shack,’ Buckingham Joe remarked in a friendly fashion.
‘I was told that you talked a lot, Oliver,’ an annoyed Constable Rawlings said through clenched teeth. ‘Now just keep your mouth shut and let me speak. You are wanted for the murder of one Alexander Moorfield, a Gloucestershire animal feed supplier who was in the County of Devon at the time of his demise. Constable Meakin and myself are taking you in.’
Constable Meakin, a tall thin man, came out from the gap beside the shed, smiling an unpleasant smile at Buckingham Joe as he walked slowly across the street.
‘Stay where you are, Oswald, and keep the musket trained on him while I tie his hands.’
‘I would be riding on to Exeter to give myself up had I not encountered you, Constable Rawlings,’ Buckingham Joe stated. ‘That being so, there is no need whatsoever to secure my wrists.’
‘You talk too much, Oliver,’ Rawlings said, as he secured the highwayman’s wrists tightly.
‘You are fortunate that you are not facing further murder charges, Oliver.’ Meakin spoke for the first time.
Shrugging, Buckingham Joe said dismissively, ‘What difference would that make? They can hang me only once.’
‘We understand that you stayed at the Greyhound Inn in Salisbury last night, and the place was damaged by fire when you left. Three constables suffered only minor burns, but they could have died in the blaze,’ Rawlings informed him.
‘I am very sorry about that,’ Buckingham Joe said, aware that they were wondering whether he was sorry that the three had suffered burns, or because they hadn’t died.
As they helped him up on his horse and secured his ankles together with rope under the animal, Buckingham Joe was rejoicing at having learned that Joby Lancer was not in danger of being arrested.
After leaving Joe near the village, a worried Lancer rode back in the direction of Salisbury. Not knowing what to expect he entered the city cautiously. Securing the horse in a back street he walked to stand among a number of people viewing the rear of the Greyhound Inn. Seeing the extent of the damage immensely increased his worries over the fate of the policemen he had brutally dealt with in the night.
‘Shame, ain’t it? It’ll cost a lot to put it back like it was,’ a man standing near him remarked.
‘When I heard about it I didn’t think it would be this bad,’ Lancer agreed, pushing himself to ask a question then steeling himself in preparation for the answer. ‘Did everyone get safely out?’
‘Yes, thank the good Lord,’ his incidental companion replied. ‘Three men, probably boarders I imagine, were slightly hurt, and Stan Whittle, the landlord, burnt his hands a bit trying to put out the fire.’
Relieved beyond measure by the good news, Lancer walked back to where he had tethered the horse, mounted up and rode out of Salisbury. Although intent on finding Buckingham Joe as soon as possible, about a mile out of the city he came across a paddock containing a number of horses. Although good fortune had just miraculously cleared him of murder, he couldn’t now take the risk of being discovered on a stolen horse, so he dismounted. Pleased that there was nobody around, he removed the saddle from the horse and threw it into some long grass before leading the horse to the gate of the paddock. Opening the gate he led the horse partly in before taking off the bridle. Pushing the horse into the paddock he closed the gate. Walking away, he threw the bridle into the same long grass where he had deposited the saddle.
Stepping back out on the road he drew in a deep breath, exhaled and then walked away a free man again.
As the result of a valiant effort, Sarai Edelcantz had spent the last twenty-four hours without drinking. Now, as she groomed Caesar in late afternoon, she was enjoying being in the world more than she been able to for many weeks. Contrarily, she now felt more ill than she had during the long period of living in a drunken haze. Doctor Mawby, who had supported her as much as she allowed him to, had constantly told her that the only one who could save her was herself.
‘The decision must be yours, Sarai,’ he repeatedly told her. ‘You must decide never to take another drink. I will not be far away if you need me, but I must warn you that it will be far from easy.’
On the last occasion the old doctor had said this she had casually, far too casually, replied, ‘It would be much easier for me to keep on drinking.’
‘I don’t doubt that, and dying will be just as easy,’ Rupert Mawby had told her bluntly.
This was the first time he had coupled her excessive use of alcohol with death. It had achieved his intention by terrifying her. She had asked shakily, ‘How long have I got if I carry on drinking, Dr Mawby?’
His terse answer had been, ‘Less than six months.’
That had been yesterday. She had then immediately promised him, ‘I will start tomorrow, Doctor.’
He had shaken his head. ‘The time to stop is not tomorrow but this very moment, Sarai.’
‘Then I won’t take another drink from now on,’ she had decided, changing her earlier promise and intending to keep it.
The last day had been hell, and right now she didn’t think that she could hold out much longer. Seeing a horseman approaching down the hill she tried to take an interest in who it was. She had to concentrate to do so because people had irritated her terribly in recent weeks. Now she didn’t want to have to face anyone. Even poor Mrs Winchell stayed distant as much as possible to avoid her foul moods.
As the rider neared she recognized Kendall Harrison. Kendall the vulture, Sarai said insid
e of her head, come not to pick the bones of the dead Emil Edelcantz but the hope of sampling the flesh of his widow.
When he reined up his horse beside her, and Ben Morely who had been working nearby had discreetly disappeared, the first thing she noticed was the valise fastened behind Harrison’s saddle.
He beamed a too friendly smile at her, saying, ‘Good day to you, Sarai.’
‘To what do I owe this doubtful honour, Kendall?’
‘Now, now, Sarai,’ he reproached her. ‘Is that any way to greet an old close friend, an extremely close old friend if I may say so?’
‘Shouldn’t you be in Dorchester right now overseeing the next issue of your newspaper before going home to your lady wife?’
‘There have been many changes since we were last together, Sarai. I have sold the newspaper; for a considerable sum of money I would add. As for the wife, things haven’t been right between us for some time. She has now left me and gone back to stay with her parents in Cheshire.’
That explained the valise he had brought with him, Sarai realized angrily. She berated him, ‘What made you think for one moment that I would allow you to stay here in Adamslee House?’
‘It would be just a short stay of a few days, Sarai. I have no recollection of you ever rejecting me before.’
‘There is always a first time,’ she snapped, her wrath having accentuated the sick feeling caused by her short abstention from alcohol.
‘I have no wish to upset you, my dear Sarai,’ he said soothingly. Tilting his head back he surveyed the hills around them. Catching hold of her hand to pull her nearer to him, he half-whispered, ‘Dusk is such a romantic time of day, don’t you think? Might I suggest that I saddle that magnificent stallion of yours and we ride together into the hills to discuss this?’
Though her head was muddled, Sarai tried to think logically. To be alone for the evening and the night, yearning for the relaxation that one drink would provide, would be impossible for her to face. She had recognized that long before Kendall Harrison had ridden in. Had he not arrived she would quite probably have opened a bottle by now.
The Toll of the Sea Page 20