Tucker's Inn

by Tucker's Inn (retail) (epub)

  Tucker’s Inn

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Paris – 1794

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Lisette

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Copyright

  Paris – 1794

  The tumbril jolted over the cobbles, each creak of its wheels taking those packed shoulder-to-shoulder within it closer to their deaths. For the most part they stood proudly, striving not to shiver, though the biting wind cut cruelly through the thin lawn of their bloused shirtsleeves, their fierce determination not to give the baying crowds who lined the route the satisfaction of seeing the fear that churned within them a final act of defiance in their earthly lives. One woman wept, her arms wrapped around her body, which was clothed in the remnants of what had once been an extravagant court gown, but her sobs were drowned by the jeers of the jubilant mob and the funereal beat of the drums. They would die as they had lived, these high-born men and women, generations of breeding called upon now as the cart, pulled by a single black horse, bore them to the guillotine.

  The man stood unobserved towards the back of the crowd. Like them, he wore peasant garb, and it suited his tall, broad frame as well as the silks and buckskin that were his more usual attire. His head was bare, he wore neither hat nor wig, and the wind teased dark curly strands from his pigtail and blew them about his face. Had any of the mob spoken to him, he could have replied to them fluently in their mother tongue, for he spoke French as well as he spoke his native English.

  But no one spoke to him. They were too fired up with the spirit of revolution, too drunk on the evil tide of exhilaration that fed each day on the spectacle of aristocratic heads rolling and the gutters running with blood.

  As the tumbril passed by, his features set solid as granite, his sharp eyes scanning the faces of the damned. God be praised, she was not among them. He might yet be in time to save her. But first he must discover her whereabouts. To do so would be as difficult and dangerous almost as spiriting her out from under the noses of the Revolutionaries.

  He turned away, merging with the crowds. He was appalled by their bloodlust, for although he understood something of the years of repression that had spawned it, the Terror could not be excused. The innocent should not be condemned to die terrible deaths alongside the guilty, and he was proud and glad he had been able to help some of them escape to England.

  But until he found those for whom he searched he could not take the slightest satisfaction in his achievements. They were at risk because of him and he would do whatever he had to in order to save them. Almost certainly that would mean saving the neck of a man he would gladly have seen go to the guillotine; it could well cost him his own life too. And he would give it, gladly, if that was what it took.

  To live with the guilt of having done nothing was more than he could bear. It would be a life not worth the living.

  One

  The sky was weeping and I wept with it.

  I scarcely saw the incessant drops that showered down between the bare branches of the churchyard trees; my mourning veil was thick, and in any case, my eyes were too full of tears. I did not feel the chill wind that drove the rain in shimmying gusts; I had been icy cold now for what seemed like for ever, a cold that shivered constantly over my skin and settled as a dull ache deep in my bones. I certainly did not notice the heavy, leaden grey sky, for it was merely a mirror image of the dark numbing fog that surrounded me and addled my brain like the after effects of a dose of laudanum.

  And yet, at the same time, I was heart-wrenchingly aware of the newly dug grave that scarred the sodden green grass. It gaped before me as my father’s coffin was lowered into it, deep, dark, menacing. Every creak of the straps that supported the coffin was like the mewling cry of an infant, scraping on my raw nerves.

  ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’

  The minister was speaking too fast, anxious, no doubt, to get his duty over and done with. My father had never been a regular worshipper at his church; burying him was a necessary and rather tedious duty, and the sooner it was over and done with, the sooner Reverend Collins would be able to get home to his fireside and a glass of warming brandy.

  But my father would not be going home. My dear, sweet father, who had raised me alone since the death of my mother when I was just five years old, would remain here, in the rain and the cold and the dark.

  A fresh flood of tears coursed down my cheeks, the only touch of warmth on that biting February day. And the question that tormented me echoed again in the black fog that filled my heart, my mind, my very soul.

  Why?

  Why should such a terrible fate have befallen my beloved father? I would still have wept, of course I would, if he had been old and sick. But death would at least have come as a kindness to him, and perhaps even as a sort of relief to me, tempering my grief, whispering to me that his suffering was at an end. But my father had not been old and sick. Though no longer a young man, he had still had his health and strength, still enjoyed life as he always had. Why, on the very evening that he had met with his terrible end, he had been working as usual in the bar of the coaching inn that had always been my home, and which I had helped him to run from the moment I was old enough to chop vegetables for a stew pan, launder fresh sheets for the beds, and carry a jug of ale to the dining tables for the refreshment of the weary travellers who were our guests. When I had retired to my bed he had still been there, yarning with a little group of passengers who had come in on the Bristol to Plymouth coach, and a couple of locals who had ridden over from the nearby village to enjoy an evening’s conviviality.

  ‘I’m very tired, Father,’ I had said. ‘The warming pans are in our visitors’ beds, and yours too, so if there’s nothing else…’

  He had smiled at me, eyes twinkling above cheeks that, to be truthful, had become a little rouged over the years from making free with the good ale he sold, and bushy whiskers that had once been jet black, but were now speckled with grey.

  ‘Be off with you, m’dear.’ There was affection beneath the gruffness of his tone. And to his companions he added: ‘She was up with the lark this morning, and will be again tomorrow. I work her hard, you know, so the likes of you can enjoy a bit of comfort.’

  ‘And much appreciated she is, too,’ one of the men said, with the sidelong glance I had grown accustomed to over the years, and learned to ignore.

  ‘She’s a good lass, our Flora,’ my father said, winking at me. ‘I couldn’t manage without her, and that’s for sure.’

  Colour tinged my cheeks. ‘Goodnight, Father.’

  ‘Sleep well, Miss.’

  I little knew it was the last time he would ever bid me goodnight.

  I fell asleep, as I had known I would, the moment my head touched the pillow, for I was indeed very tired, and I had no presentiment of the horror the night would bring. But some time later I was awakened by the sound of hammering on the heavy inn door.

  For a moment I lay staring wide-eyed into the darkness, thinking I must have been dreaming. Then it came again, loud and insistent, and I heard boards creak on the landing as my father passed my door on his way downstairs. Still I felt no real sense of alarm. This was, after all, a coaching inn, and our guests did not always arrive at sociable hours, especially in the dark days since the Terror had taken France in its grip. My father was sympathetic towards the beleaguered aristocracy, and sometimes those brav
e men who had spirited away fugitives from their horrible fate on the guillotine would bring them to our door to rest before they continued their flight to friends and relatives in Bristol, or London, or wherever. Invariably they arrived at unearthly hours, for the boats which brought them across the channel did so under cover of darkness, and by the time they had disembarked and made their way inland most God-fearing folk were sound asleep in their beds.

  Who was behind the rescues I did not know, and I was not sure my father knew either. I had asked once, and he had merely shaken his head.

  ‘Ask no questions, Flora, that’s the best way. We give shelter for a few hours to poor souls who have lost everything – their homes, their possessions, their loved ones. That’s all we need to know.’

  ‘But who brings them, Father?’ I had persisted. ‘Could it be the Brotherhood of the Lynx, do you think?’

  The Brotherhood of the Lynx was the name adopted by a group of brave men whose sole purpose was to sneak into France and smuggle out aristocrats who would otherwise have met their end at the sharp blade of the guillotine, and their leader – whose identity was known to no one – was The Lynx himself. It was, to my mind, a most appropriate name, for they moved with all the speed, stealth and daring of a big cat, and I have to say that I was enthralled by the romance of it all, perhaps more than I should have been. The very idea that these celebrated, yet anonymous, heroes might have set foot in Tucker’s Grave Inn excited me, the thought that I might have unwittingly spoken to one, thinking he was just another traveller, teased my imagination. Half England was consumed with curiosity as to their identity, in awe of their daring, and many a young woman’s heart beat faster at the mere mention of The Lynx’s name. Why should I be any different? I was twenty-three years old, with a head full of dreams and a life too full of mundane tasks to be able to spare time to make any of them a reality. Who could blame me for asking about the mysterious men who brought French fugitives to our door and disappeared again like shadows into the night?

  But I could get nowhere. If he had the slightest inkling as to their identity, my father was not going to share it with me. And now he never would.

  That fateful night, however, I did not think our visitors were fugitive French nobles, for when I slipped out of my bed and went to the window, curious as ever, there was no coach drawn up in the courtyard as there usually was when our elusive guests came, but when I opened the casement wide and leaned out I could see two horses tied up at the hitching rail, pawing restlessly.

  The first twinge of alarm ran through my veins. Was something wrong? Had something terrible happened in the village? The frenzied knocking echoed in my head; I had to know.

  I grabbed my wrap, which lay across the chair beside my bed, pulling it on, and thrust my feet into my slippers. My heart beating very fast from the suddenness of my awakening and from the chill of foreboding that was assailing me, I hurried along the landing.

  The doors to the chambers where our guests were sleeping were all closed; if they too had been awakened by the thunderous knocking it seemed they had sensibly decided it was no business of theirs. As I reached the head of the stairs the moon must have emerged from behind the curtain of cloud, for suddenly they were illuminated dimly with flickering, fitful light. Glad of it, for I had not stopped to light a candle, I started down.

  I could hear voices now, but before I could make out anything that was being said, a tread creaked loudly beneath my feet and the voices stopped abruptly. I hesitated, guilty suddenly as a child caught in the act of trying to listen to a conversation he is not meant to hear. Then I heard the rough, low growl of a voice I did not know, saying something I could not make out, and the door at the foot of the stairs opened, framing my nightshirt-clad father against flickering candlelight.

  ‘Is that you, Flora?’ He sounded angry; now I think it was anxiety for my safety that made his voice sharp.

  ‘Father, what is happening?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing to concern you, Miss. Go back to bed.’

  ‘But Father…’

  ‘Don’t argue with me. Just do as I say. Go on now.’

  I could not remember when my father had last spoken to me so. Every instinct was warning me something was very wrong. I was not in the habit of disobeying him, but I disobeyed him now.

  ‘Not until I know what’s happening,’ I said defiantly. ‘And please don’t talk to me as if I were a child. I’m twenty-three years old.’

  ‘But not too big to be put across my knee! And if you don’t go back to your room this minute and shut the door behind you, that’s exactly what I’ll do. This is men’s business, Flora. Do you understand?’

  There was nothing more I could do. Desperate as I was to know who had come calling in the middle of the night and what they wanted, it seemed I would get no answer. And I had no hope of catching a glimpse of them either. My father’s big, night-shirted frame was blocking the doorway and I guessed that even had it not been, the men who had hammered for his attention were keeping well out of my line of vision.

  ‘Go on, off with you,’ my father ordered.

  They were the last words he would ever speak to me.

  I turned and went back up the stairs like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs. I couldn’t understand why my father should speak to me so, and my anxiety was sharper than ever; more than anxiety, I was frightened, without really knowing why.

  I went back to my room as I had been told, but I did not shut the door. I wanted to hear when my father came back to bed. I slid under the covers still wearing my wrap, for I was shivering and the sheets had grown cold whilst I was out of them.

  I lay wide-eyed, straining my ears though I knew I had no hope of hearing what was going on. But I might hear the slam of the great oak door, and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles when they left. Certainly I would hear the creak of the boards when my father came back upstairs.

  What I heard was the sharp crack of a gunshot.

  Instantly I was bolt upright, my whole body frozen by shock and a rush of white-hot terror. Time stood still, silence reigned, except for the echoes of that shot, seeming to reverberate from the floor and walls of my room, though I expect they were only in my head.

  And then came the other sounds, the ones for which I had been waiting. The slam of the door, a single shout: ‘Giddup!’, the clatter of hooves.

  I moved then, leaping out of bed and running to the window. Two horses were galloping out of the courtyard, their riders bent low across their necks.

  ‘Father!’ I cried.

  This time I did not wait to put on my slippers; my bare feet and trembling legs sped me along the landing. This time, too, the door to one of the guest rooms opened a crack and the figure of a man, clad in nightshirt and cap, appeared, bleary, alarmed.

  ‘What…?’

  I ignored him, running down the stairs. The door at the foot was closed; I turned the handle and threw it open. Then I stopped short, my hands flying to my mouth to stop my gasp of utter horror.

  My father lay in the centre of the room. He had dragged over a chair with him as he fell; the back of it was across his chest, the legs pointing away from him. Blood spread scarlet across his nightshirt and pooled on the flagged floor.

  ‘Father!’ I sobbed again, and ran towards him, throwing the overturned chair aside and falling to my knees beside him.

  My father’s lips moved, but no word came, only a gurgling sound and a bubble of blood. His eyes were open, but I don’t think he saw me. He seemed to be gazing past me, his expression more surprised than agonized. Then the breath rattled in his throat, his whole body jerked once, convulsively, and his eyes glazed.

  ‘Oh Father, Father, what have they done to you?’ I sobbed distractedly, but I knew already I would get no answer, now or ever again.

  My dear, sweet, beloved father was dead.

  * * *

  I remember very little of what remained of that terrible night. It is mostly a nightmarish blur, with certain image
s standing out as contrastingly clear vignettes, moments caught in time, little beacons to light the trail of events.

  The driver of the Bristol to Plymouth coach, who was overnighting with us, was very good to me, I know. He drew me gently away from my father’s body, soothing my hysterical protests and leading me to the snug, where he urged me down on to the settle, found a cloak to wrap around my shivering frame, and put a glass of brandy between my trembling hands. Then he got dressed and set out to ride to the village for the constable, leaving me in the care of one of his passengers, the same one who had emerged from his room as I passed. He was, I remember, a flabby-faced merchant who was so clearly shocked by events he was in truth no use at all, and the rancid smell of the nervous sweat that poured from his body made my already churning stomach turn so violently I thought I was going to vomit.

  I set down the brandy glass and pushed myself to my feet.

  ‘I have to go to my father.’

  ‘My dear – no!’ His soft hands plucked at my arm.

  I shook him off, turning my head away from that nauseating smell.

  ‘I have to! He needs me!’

  Even as I said it, I knew it was not true. My father would not need me ever again. But I needed him. And I could not bear to think of him lying there alone in the bar in a pool of his own blood.

  I stumbled back along the passage, holding the cloak tight about me. My teeth were chattering, my breath coming in short sobbing gasps. The coach passenger, to my immense relief, did not come with me. The spectacle of my father sprawled on the floor was more than he could stand, I suppose, and who could blame him? It was not a pretty sight. Even I squeezed my eyes tight shut for a moment as I re-entered the bar, summoning up the courage to face what I felt I must.

  I did not kneel beside him again; there was no point. Instead I made for a chair, skirting the pool of blood. It was then that I noticed my father’s blunderbuss lying on the floor beneath the rack on which he kept it, and realized what must have happened.

  There had been an argument of some kind, my father had gone to get his gun to threaten his visitors into leaving, and seeing what he intended, one of them had drawn his own gun and shot him. The blunderbuss had fallen useless from his hands and he had staggered back across the bar, mortally wounded.