Home From The Sea

by Keegan, Mel

  “All right,” Toby agreed. “I’m so sorry, Jim.”

  “Don’t be.” Jim gestured at the building around them. “This whole scheme was already underway when my father bought The Raven. It’s not your fault any more than it’s mine. But I’ll tell you this: I can’t go up against a man like this Nathaniel Burke. I’ve never fought, never pulled a pistol on a man.” He slapped the aching leg. “This is Jim Fairley we’re talking about. It was home in London first and then stuck here all my life. You could say I’ve been mollycoddled in the shelter of being lame since I was too young to know what fighting was about.”

  Toby breathed a long sigh and beckoned Jim out of the kitchen – out of sight of the old lady. In the darkness and privacy of the taproom, he took Jim in an embrace and held him tight. “I’m not going to walk out on you, if this is what you’re thinking.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” Jim began, and then could not speak, for Toby’s lips hunted for his mouth and silenced him efficiently.

  “Try giving them what they want,” Toby suggested huskily, a long time later. “If they want to ransack the whole tavern, just stand back and let them do it. You know, we both know, Charlie hid the chest here somewhere. We just need to find it.”

  Jim took a long, calming breath. “I’ll put my hands up and back off.”

  “If you get the chance, you get the hell right out,” Toby growled. “If they try to run you off, just go, Jim, and stay away long enough for them to be done and leave.”

  “But what if they find the chest?” Jim’s tonguetip moistened his lips. “Think about it, Toby. They come here, they tear this place apart and they find it. You and I come out of it with nothing.”

  “Nothing but the gift of our lives,” Toby argued. He cocked his head at Jim, looking curiously at him in the soft light spilling out of the kitchen. “Now, what are you thinking?”

  In fact, Jim’s mind was racing. “I’m thinking,” he said slowly, “what we need to do is find the chest before they do.” His brows popped up at Toby in challenge. “There’s leverage for you.”

  The suggestion inspired a groan. The blue eyes closed for a moment before Toby regarded him with rueful amusement. “There’s more than a touch of the pirate in you, isn’t there?”

  “There might be,” Jim admitted. “But the first thing on my mind is staying alive. All the jewels in the world won’t do us any good if we’re dead and buried! And speaking of dead ... I want to haul Barney Bellowes out of here. My flesh is crawling, every time I remember there’s a body lying festering in my cellar.”

  Toby listened to the wind and rain. “It’s not a good evening to be out.”

  “It’s the best,” Jim argued. “In this weather, nobody’s going to see us taking the boat out. And look at the time. The tide’s turning right about now.” He rubbed his palms together. “How’s that arm of yours?”

  “Sore, but it’s only a flesh wound. I’ve had far worse, as well you know.” Toby beckoned him to the door and opened it, admitting a blast of ice-cold air and stinging rain. “It’s dark enough, if you’re determined to do this.”

  “I’m bloody bound and determined,” Jim told him. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to sleep tonight with a dead body under the trapdoor!” He did not have to feign a shudder. “Do you know where the oilskins are kept?”

  “In the back room, the one with the big wardrobe … I’m afraid I searched the wardrobe. Looking for, well, you know.” Toby leaned heavily on the door to shut it against the wind. “I’ll go up and get them, will I?”

  “Do that.” Jim watched him fetch a lantern from the bar and head back into the kitchen for a moment to light it at the hearth.

  Even Mrs. Clitheroe was not so deaf that she had not heard at least some of what was said, and she was hovering with a face full of questions. Jim waited till Toby had vanished up the stairs in a maelstrom of macabre shadows, and then he pitched his voice so she could hear him clearly.

  “We’re in a lot of trouble, Edith.”

  “Bad men on their way ’ere,” she said with surprising calm. “Aye, I ’eard enough. One of ’em dead already, down below – an’ well deserved. Master Trelane’s lucky to be breathin’ tonight.”

  “And we have to get rid of the body,” Jim told her. “It can’t be the doctor and undertaker in the morning, or we’re done for, Toby and me.” He paused, looking down into the shrewd old eyes. “I can’t explain, not here and now, but when it’s all over I’d be glad to make you a mug of coffee and tell you every last morsel I know.” He paused long enough to lick his lips. “Do you trust me?”

  “Oh, aye,” she said with grim determination. “I dunno the ’alf of what’s goin’ on tonight, but I know it’s nuthin’ good, God ’elp us all. If thee does know what’s goin’ on, well – thass good enough fer me.”

  “All right.” Jim gave her a grim smile. “Then you keep the dogs out of the way and get some hot food going. “Toby and me –? We’re going to send Master Bellowes back to the sea, right where he came from. And I’m afraid we’re going to get ourselves half drowned while we’re at it.”

  She puffed out her cheeks. “Thee’ll be takin’ out yon boat.”

  “We will. And we’ll be feeding the crabs this time, instead of catching them!”

  “Feedin’ ’em wi’ that bugger down below.” She had such a murderous look on her face, for a moment Jim was sure she was about to spit in the direction of the trapdoor. “It’ll be fish stew, wi’ ’ot bread an’ pickles.” She was on her way to the hearth to set up a pot, and turned back with as impish a grin as an old woman could conjure. “Mind, I don’t think I’ll be eatin’ much fish in these next few weeks … not fish that were caught off the shore ’ere. Not after what them fish’ve been eatin’.”

  Jim would not have believed he could find a laugh, but he did. “Just you be sure to say nothing of this, Edith. Ever – to anyone. It could be the death of all three of us, if you do. And a nice purse for you, if you keep silent. Yes?”

  “Oh, aye,” she said darkly, glaring at the trapdoor. “I know the likes of that un down there. The world’s full of bad uns, Master Fairley. I’ll be buggered if I know what the Almighty were thinkin’ when ’e made ’em, but when they get sent down to the burnin’ place – good riddance to ’em, an’ it ain’t no sin to send the buggers there.”

  She was still speaking when Toby reappeared with his arms filled with the oilskins. She never saw him cross himself, but she heard him say, “Amen. And yes, Edith, I’ll say a prayer for him, as I did for the girl.”

  Edith Clitheroe snorted. “I’ll say it fer thee. ‘Our Father, please send this un straight down wi’ a message tied to ’im: ‘Burn to a crisp on both sides, basted in lamp oil, turnin’ often.’ Amen.”

  The prayer made Toby laugh aloud when Jim would never have believed it possible tonight. Still chuckling, he beckoned Toby to the trapdoor. “We’ve nasty work to do. Soonest started, soonest finished.”

  The work was more heavy than nasty, at least as far as the door into the stableyard, and from there on, more wet and cold. Barney Bellowes was not merely dead, he was already growing stiff with what John Hardesty called rigor mortis, and not much harder to carry than a log of firewood weighing the same as a man. They had tied him up in old sacking as soon as they had him in the cellar, and Jim was glad he did not have to look into the dead face.

  He took the feet while Toby climbed backwards up the stairs with great care. Edith shut the door to keep the dogs in the taproom, and Jim and Toby shrugged swiftly into the oilskins. The old woman pulled open the backdoor, propped it, and Toby held up a hand to stop Jim.

  “Let me take a look around, make sure we have the place to ourselves.”

  “Quickly,” Jim agreed.

  He was gone no longer than a minute, and when he stuck his head back into the kitchen the rain was sluicing off the oilskin cape in torrents. “Nobody,” he reported, blinking water out of his eyes. “It’s filthy out here – I doubt there’
s another human soul abroad in ten miles.”

  “Which suits us.” Jim had stooped to take the feet again, and as they manhandled the dead weight through the door he called back to the woman, “We’ll not be long. Brew up, Edith.”

  With that they were out, struggling against the wind and rain – as Toby had said, they might have been the only human souls left alive in the world. Around the corner of the tavern, they butted directly into the wind. Jim thought he could have leaned on it, and swore fluently as they labored across the path and into the coarse bushes beyond which was a mess of storm-driven sand and kelp. Wind and rain stung the eyes while the ears filled with the roar of gale and sea.

  His boat was kept in good repair, beached high on the sands, above the tidal zone, keel to the sky and the oars stored beneath. They dumped Bellowes for long enough to flip the little craft over, and Toby shoved the oars into the locks. The body seemed to be getting heavier by the moment, and they were both cursing as they got it into the well of the boat.

  Cold as the night was, sweat prickled Jim’s ribs as they hauled the boat through the mounds of wrack and into the breakers. Then the water stole the breath right out of his lungs as it broke around his knees and thighs, and he clambered over the side as soon as it was afloat. Toby stayed longer in the freezing wash, shoving the craft until he was sure the outgoing tide had it.

  The waves were violent, smashing on the shore and almost swamping the boat at once. Toby was bailing as hard and as fast as he could, the moment he was aboard, and only the fact the tide was going out made it possible for them to get the craft into the water at all.

  In moments they were far enough from shore for Jim’s heart to be in his mouth, and he knew they did not dare go much further. They had to get back in against this very tide, and even with Bellowes’s weight out of the boat, it would be far from easy. The same forces that helped them get out far enough to push the body over and be sure it would be a mile offshore by morning, turned against them as soon as Bellowes hit the water. Without needing a word spoken, Toby took one of the oars, Jim the other, and they pulled as if their lives depended on it while the water around their feet grew deeper with frightening speed.

  They were dangerously close to swamping in the brutal thrash of the sea, and Jim was keenly aware that they could die within shouting distance of the tavern. Never in his life had he done such work. He had never believed himself strong enough, and was sure it was sheer desperation and the blazing desire to survive that kept him pulling with all his weight while his body screamed. He heard Toby grunting in pain and gave a thought to the wound before he thanked whatever sailor’s gods might be watching that Toby was so strong.

  It seemed a year since they heaved Bellowes over before Jim felt the rasp of pebbles under the keel and threw down the oars. He and Toby were over the side at once – smashed under a wave higher than Jim was tall. They fought for breath, coughing on salt water as it receded, and threw their backs into the work of hauling the boat back up through the wrack.

  Every muscle Jim possessed was trembling with fatigue, cold and pain when they flopped the boat back over and thrust the oars underneath. Still, Toby insisted Jim stay in the concealment of the bushes just above the beach while he made sure they were alone. Jim stood with his raw palms on his knees, cursing his leg and listening to the rasp of his breathing.

  “All clear,” Toby shouted over the wind, and grabbed him by the arm to get him moving. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be,” Jim panted. “Damnit, Trelane, you’re trouble to me!”

  And he caught one glimpse of a rare, mirthless grin as Toby steered him in the direction of the stableyard, and shelter.

  Chapter Ten

  The wound was bleeding badly. Toby looked pale and his lips compressed in pain as Jim took off the old bandage and swore over the damage they had done. The ruined shirt lay on the floor at their feet, and Jim tried not to look at the scars on his back. He fetched the rum bottle and doused the gash again, making Toby hiss through his teeth. Then, a thick pad of clean rags and several yards ripped from an old skirt, tied on so tightly, he knew the hand and arm would soon be numb.

  “Can you stand this?” he asked as he finished the knots.

  “It’s nothing,” Toby said gruffly.

  “Like bastard bloody hell is it nothing,” Jim argued. “Your hand’s going to be blue in half an hour! But by then the bleeding will’ve stopped.” He stepped back, gathering rum, rags and shirt. “Tell me when you can’t stand it anymore, and I’ll loosen it.”

  “Not till the blood stops.” Toby made a grab for the rum and took a large swig before he let Jim take it back. “I’ve seen wounds before. Too many of them, and a lot worse. This one? It’s a scratch.”

  “You know best.” Jim sighed, and paused long enough to draw a light caress around Toby’s cold face while Mrs. Clitheroe’s back was turned. Just then she was ladling stew into two deep bowls, and saw nothing as Jim leaned down and kissed Toby’s forehead, where the fair hair still hung in wet ringlets. “Stay where you are. I’ll go up and get us some dry clothes. You want a job to do? Get rid of the old shirt. Burn it. Leave nothing to give anybody the hint of an idea there was ever violence in this house.”

  “And I’ll hide Barney’s pistol,” Toby said grimly as he hauled himself to his feet. The offending weapon lay on the chair by the table. One handed, he wrapped it in a clean swatch of the ragging Jim had used to bind his wound, and without a word he thrust it into the bottom of the barley bin on the pantry shelves by the hearth. He buried it deep under the pile of grain and replaced the top. “There. Even Nathaniel won’t be looking for the treasure of Diego Monteras in the bottom of the barley bin,” he said wryly. “In his mind, it’s a chest he’s looking for, much bigger than this bin. Good enough?”

  “Good enough.” Jim swiped up a cold lantern, lit it from one of those on the back of the table, and swore as he stepped away from the hearth. He was sodden and cold enough to make his teeth chatter. The wind was howling around the tavern, tearing at the shutters, making them bang and singing in the chimneys with a demonic voice, but the thunder had spent itself now. One more day of this deluge and they would be flooding, and like anyone along the coast, they could only hope for blue skies and a glimpse of the sun.

  In the dim privacy of his own bedchamber Jim peeled out of the sodden clothes and took a moment to scrub himself with an old blanket, so hard, it might have taken off his skin. Dry but far from warm, he shoved his legs into fresh linen and britches and rummaged for shirt, waistcoat, and the same again for Toby. The leg nagged at him, the pain steady, persistent, acid hot and stubbornly defying him to ignore it.

  Hunger rumbled in his belly as he made his way back down. The lantern cast wicked shadows, and the hearth where Bellowes had died might have been a gaping mouth. Jim took a moment to pick up the fire irons, set them back into place and even checked the floor for any dusting of ash which had been disturbed. By the time he was done, no clue remained to suggest the scene.

  The stew smelt divine. His mouth watered as he returned to the kitchen, where Toby was already eating. In the dim light he was pale as a ghost, not quite shivering. The bandage was blood-soaked, though not as badly as Jim had feared. By morning it should be dry and, with luck, unnoticeable under a shirt.

  As Toby sopped up the last liquid, Jim handed him the clothes. “Get warm, for godsakes! And then …” He lifted a brow at the man.

  He was on his feet a moment later, using the high back of a chair for privacy as he stripped to the skin while Mrs. Clitheroe was either oblivious or politely pretending to be. “And then…?”

  Jim was already eating before be pulled a chair up to the table. “I’d be surprised if you were in any mood for sleeping! It’s a filthy night, and that wound’ll be paining you … and Bellowes has to be on your mind.”

  “And Nathaniel, and the rest of them.” Toby buttoned the front of a pair of britches that were a little too loose. He gave Jim a hard look. “
The pair of us ought to just go. If we’re not here when the bastards arrive –”

  “If we’re not here,” Jim said quietly, “they’ll tear this place to pieces, drink every drop of grog in the house, and if they don’t actually find the prize, they’ll come looking for us. Six years, Toby, and I’ve never even seen a hint of it. Say Nathaniel’s crew tears The Raven apart and finds nothing. They’ll assume we got out in the night with the goods, and ran. If they catch up with us – and they will! – they’ll beat the pair of us to blood or to death, trying to winkle words out of us that neither of us has to give.”

  “Yes.” Toby looked away. “Jim, is there anyone you can turn to for help? You know the local vicar, and the doctor. If you went to them, first thing in the morning, and asked for a couple of dragoons …?”

  “I can do that,” Jim said slowly. “But if I were this Nathaniel Burke of yours, and I saw Jim Fairley under guard – well, now. I’d know several things, wouldn’t I? I’d know Master Jim knew all about the treasure, which probably means one Toby Trelane crossed his path recently, or Master Bellowes, or both. If I couldn’t find Trelane and Bellowes, I’d soon be asking myself what this cove, Fairley, had done with them. Maybe he shot the pair of them. Maybe they’re buried under the flagstones back in his tavern yard ... or did he feed ’em to the crabs out in the bay? Maybe this Fairley shot them because he did find the prize and intends to keep it! Or did Charlie Chegwidden give up the secret on his deathbed? Either way, it would seem this Fairley has no intentions of sharing – he knows Nathaniel’s crew is back, he’s called in dragoons to guard him.” He lifted a brow at Toby. “If you were Nathaniel, what would you do?”

  He was dressed now, crouched by the hearth and holding both hands to the fire. “I’d either wait – weeks, if it took so long – till the dragoons just went away again, as they eventually must. Or, if I was impatient, I’d waste a couple of pistol balls on them. Then I’d come for Master Fairley.” He looked up at Jim, eyed wide and dark. “I’d know for a fact, Trelane and Bellowes walked the path across from Exmouth and vanished. I’d soon find out Charlie died a long, long time ago, and since Toby and Barney were wiped off the face of the Devon … well, this Fairley cove must be a dangerous bastard. Handy enough to kill a nasty piece of work like Barney and rotten enough to cut down a nice lad like Toby; and all for what? A king’s ransom in precious stones. Why else would a man murder?” He straightened and thrust both hands into the pockets of the britches.