by Issy Brooke
And such was the root of her sense of fun, too. When one had really turned one’s mind to the matters of life, death and rebirth, one soon learned to take trivial matters loosely and seek for innocent pleasures, however fleeting, wherever one could. A bottle of wine shared in convivial company brought pleasure and probably didn’t bother God at all. She never thought that He’d like to look down and see His creation wailing on its knees about how terrible everything was. Such a response seemed ungrateful, to her mind.
These ruminations propelled her onwards and she walked with a proud head held high, defying anyone to judge her on her appearance. She was very cold as she had not even thought to put a coat on before leaving the house. However, as her own room had been a little chilly, she was wearing low ankle boots rather than indoor slippers and she had a woollen shawl around her shoulders, so she walked as briskly as possible and tried to embrace the chilly air as a kind of purification, which was entirely unsuccessful but at least gave her a theme upon which to meditate as she walked.
She had been walking for half an hour and was halfway there when a closed gig drew up alongside her and Alfred Pegsworth hailed her from within. “You might as well get in,” he said.
She was happy to accept. “What’s happening back at Thringley?”
“The two hot-headed heroes have ridden off across the countryside like it’s the Boxing Day hunt. The servants are gossiping and probably making plans to steal as much food as possible while no one will notice.”
That, thought Harriet, spoke volumes about the sort of person Alf was. He assumed everyone else was as low in their habits as he was. Still, he had his reasons, so she smiled kindly anyway and said, “And what about you?”
“I thought you might like a ride, and also, you are probably right about Edith. She’s my favourite niece, you know.”
She expected that he said the same thing to them all, but it didn’t matter. She was grateful for the lift, and they rolled up to Ivery Manor in very little time.
HARRIET AND ALF WERE directed to the workshops at the rear of the manor, where a cluster of buildings filled in the space between the new manor and the old pile of stones where the previous manor had stood. A footman preceded them, picking his way through with evident disdain for the task, stepping high like a cat with butter on its paws. Harriet indulged herself in admiring his well-turned calves. The Ivery family had always kept a smart household.
Edith was bundled up in blankets but the workshop itself was not too cold as a pot-bellied stove had been lit. Gregory and a handful of youths, labourers and tenant farmers’ sons from the estate, were engaged in what seemed to be a wholescale conversion of the high-raftered rooms, and they nearly dropped a long plank when Edith squealed with excitement as Harriet came in with her uncle.
Her delight soon turned to horror as Harriet explained what had happened.
Gregory came and sat on a table to listen. As soon as Harriet had finished, he turned to Edith, and said, “My dear: this is your moment. What do we do?”
“Well,” she said, frowning as a thousand different thoughts seemed to crowd into her head. “You’ll need to shift off the table, first. Maps. Get the maps spread out.” She looked up at Harriet. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew what I was up to? What I have been planning?”
“I have guessed, although I think your mother is still oblivious to it all.”
Edith laughed. “She’s particularly dense, isn’t she?”
“But only with those she loves so especially deeply,” Harriet replied. “Is this to be your office?”
“Yes. I will have store rooms in the back – through there, and there, full of detailed timetables, always up to date. In here will be the record keeping system. I’ve devised a marvellous way of coding everything, with links and cross-links, so that whatever you ask me to find out, I can immediately lay my hand upon it and all the things to which it refers, and in what capacity that relationship exists.”
“And in plain English?” Harriet asked. “For that was Greek.”
“Ha! Well, then: if you want to go to Hastings, and there are three of you travelling on a Monday, and you wish to take a scenic railway, but only change once, and you want to take tea in a respectable establishment, and have a hotel with a view, I can provide you with all of that information and suggest tours and places of interest for your stay, depending on the season and the weather. I have records of all the prevailing winds and the most common weather patterns in most of the popular regions. I cannot promise no rain, but I can tell you where is less likely to have rain at any one time.”
“How marvellous.”
“And,” Edith said, waving at Alf to push her chair closer to the table, “I can give you some rather good guesses as to where this cad Froude has taken my mother.” She shifted and squirmed to get better access to the maps. Gregory handed her a long stick of wood to use as a pointing device. “Here; will someone colour in Thingley House in red for me? Good, thank you. Now, I need a string and a pencil, if you will.”
Harriet watched as Edith and Gregory, working together, drew large circles around Thringley in light pencil. “These are but rough ideas of how far the cart might travel in an hour, in two hours, in three hours and so on,” Edith said, chewing her lip. “But I know that this road has a ford which will be running high. So adjust that line there. And here, that road is steep and will slow the cart down. Bring that circle in – just there – good. Now that road is flat and good, and the horse will be aided by the gradient. But it is also busy and he might want to avoid that sort of route. Here – this road – it is good going but quieter. However, he cannot go right at this junction, for there is a toll house up ahead. He must go left.”
On she went, plotting and analysing each potential route of escape that Froude could take. “And the night will close in soon,” she said. “I imagine he has no lights on the cart. He will need to rest the horse, too.” Before long, the map had been marked in a crazy patchwork of lines and dots. But there were half a dozen small circles in red. Each one marked a likely place for Froude to be hiding overnight. Edith sat back, a triumphant smile on her face.
“There you are,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”
Harriet scooped up the maps. “Come on, then. I was only waiting for you. Let’s go.”
ADELIA WRIGGLED AROUND in the back of the cart, trying at first to get comfortable until she realised it was an impossible task. She gave up, slumping back against the hay, with her back to Froude. It was hard to breathe, and her hips were shooting pains down her legs to match the agony in her shoulders and across the front of her chest. But at least such muscular issues took her attention away from the burning sense of friction where the rope was chafing her wrists.
She hitched herself backwards by awkward degrees, driving herself up the bale of hay to raise herself high enough to peer over the high wooden sides of the cart. She recognised the narrow road that they were on, and knew that soon they would be passing a farmhouse. She inched over to the side, preparing herself, planning on screaming at the top of her lungs as soon as they were level with the buildings. She knew she would only have one chance to attract attention before Froude silenced her, so she bided her time. She tried to breathe deeply and wet her dry mouth by swallowing and licking her lips. As they got close to the house, she took the deepest breath of all, and let rip in the most indecorous and unladylike screech she had ever uttered, more an animal cry of pain than the word “help”.
She was cut off after only two seconds by a sharp blow to the back of her head, sending her sprawling onto her face. Her arms were wrenched as she instinctively tried to put out her hands to break her fall, but the rope held her wrists firmly behind her still, and her chin and cheek slammed onto the wooden boards. A stray wisp of hay jabbed her eye and made tears fall even faster. The cart was rolling on, but Froude had jumped from his perch and now loomed over her, fury in his voice.
“What did I tell you?” he growled. She could only see his b
oot by her head and she stayed still, not wishing to antagonise him any further. She felt defeated. She had had a chance, but it had come to nothing.
One of his wide hands grabbed her left shoulder and she squeaked as he hauled her up, flinging her roughly back to her seat in the hay. He seemed to tower above her as he angrily pulled off his scarf and wrapped it around her own face, pulling it painfully tightly so that her mouth was forced to open. The cloth was soft and warm and the feeling of it against her teeth made her want to gag. He leaned over her to tie the knot tightly, leaving it digging into the already sore place at the back of her head, before he jumped back to the driver’s bench without saying another word.
She let herself cry for the space of two minutes.
And when that was done, she straightened up, got as comfortable as she was able to, and began to plot another hundred ways she might bring about Froude’s ultimate downfall.
Twenty-six
Theodore and Montgomery rode fast down the main road until Montgomery called out and brought his horse up short, blowing hard. Theodore wheeled around and returned. “What?” he cried, looking around, standing up in the stirrups. “Where are they?”
“I have no idea, but look, this is getting us nowhere. We should split up,” Montgomery said.
“And take him on alone if we find him?”
“If that is what it takes – what ho, who is this coming?”
Both men tensed as they saw a dark-clad figure thundering towards them on a heavy-set horse. They recognised him as Inspector Prendergast, dressed still as if he had just come out of a railway carriage, and quite hatless.
“Where is he?” Prendergast called the moment he was in hailing distance.
“We don’t know!”
“The man is violent. I have discovered a great deal about this man which is false,” he said as he drew nearer. “I have been to your house and the servants have told me what is happening. Is it true that he has kidnapped Lady Calaway? He must be stopped but be warned, gentleman, this a desperate man who is no stranger to brutal deeds.”
“We know that!” Montgomery burst out. “Good God, man, what do you think we are doing? We’re not out for a picnic, you know! Come on. Let’s split up, all three of us, and take separate roads. We can go faster than him. We are sure to find him soon.”
“Be rational,” Theodore urged. “Each road splits and divides many times – there are too many choices for us to make. How can we decide?”
Montgomery kicked at his horse but pulled hard on the reins, wheeling him round in a circle, shouting angrily at Theodore while Inspector Prendergast tried to calm both men down. Neither man was in the mood to be calmed down. It was only when they were interrupted by the arrival of two men in the smocks of farm workers that they paused.
One of the men, an old chap with mutton-chop grey whiskers and no time for deference, stepped up to them, waving a piece of paper that spooked Montgomery’s horse. The inspector leaned over. “What is that? What are you fellows doing?”
“We’re from Ivery Manor, sir. Here, you’re the inspector, aren’t you? Are you come to find the lady?”
“Yes, of course, but what are you doing?”
“My Lady Ivery has sent us all out on particular routes. See, here, sir, she worked it all out. We are to go down here, and along there, and back up.”
The inspector snatched the paper and Theodore urged his horse up alongside so he could see. It was a large map, hastily hand-drawn.
“Sir, begging pardon but I need it back. We cannot be duplicating our efforts. Lady Ivery said it was a waste of our time. It is a matter of life and death,” the farm labourer added reproachfully. Inspector Prendergast handed it back and let the two men go on their way. Theodore noticed that both of them were not, in fact, just fresh off the fields, but were actually heavily armed with a selection of billhooks, staves, ropes, hooks and cleavers. They were going to do far more damage if they found Froude than Theodore and Montgomery could hope to achieve.
“I think we need to get to Ivery Manor, gentlemen,” said Inspector Prendergast. “I know when I need to defer to a greater authority than my own. Lady Ivery seems to be in control of this situation and I suggest we go and place ourselves at the good lady’s service immediately.”
No one could disagree, and off they went.
THERE WAS NO STANDING upon ceremony when Theodore, Montgomery and Prendergast entered the workshop at the side of Ivery Manor. Edith was stretching from her chair to reach paperwork strewn over the table, while Gregory was darting from inside to outside, sending the steady stream of farm labourers and estate workers on carefully chosen routes. Some of the servants from the house were provided endless cups of tea and piles of cakes. Everyone had a job to do and they were performing it like clockwork, with Edith in the centre of the mechanism, nudging everything into running smoothly. She glanced up at her father as he came in, and smiled.
“Ah, papa, at last. The net is closing in on them. We shall have them by nightfall.”
“The sun is nearly setting,” he said. He stared at the map in astonishment. Alongside him, Inspector Prendergast whistled in admiration.
“We are at the centre, here. Oh, I see what the circles mean. And these crosses?”
“Places searched and dismissed. Now, we know the horse will be getting tired. We know he must shelter for the night. Rain is predicted later. There are only these places left.” She slapped the long wooden pointer on the map. “If you three would head here first, then here, then here, that would help immensely.” She sat back and looked at them.
Theodore could have burst with pride. He wanted to sit down beside her and tell her how utterly wonderful she was. He wanted to rouse everyone into a chorus of joyful song. He wanted the world to know what a genius she was.
And he knew that she wanted her mother back.
He took a sheet of paper and scribbled a rough copy of the map, highlighting only the relevant areas. “We shall get onto the task at once.”
Back outside, the light was going grey and the air was chilly. There was no more time to lose. The three men mounted up. Before they left, Gregory came up to them and passed each of them a vicious-looking farming implement. Theodore hefted the spiked chain like he was a mediaeval warrior. “What on earth does this do?” he asked.
Gregory snorted. “It is something of my own invention to make separating wheat from chaff easier when flailing by hand. Unfortunately in the confined spaces of a barn it proved to be something of a liability, as young Roger will attest now that his arm has healed. Just keep your face out of the way on its backswing and you’ll be fine.”
Theodore handled it rather more gingerly after that. They set out from the manor, and into the gathering dusk. Prendergast had the map now and he surged ahead.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this,” Theodore said, nudging his mount into a trot to catch up with Prendergast. “I trust my daughter. She knows what she’s doing.”
ADELIA WORRIED AT THE ropes around her wrists even though she knew there was no point. She could not help herself. Her arms were sore and her shoulders on fire, but still she pulled and twisted, pulled and twisted, flexing endlessly.
Something relaxed. There was an almost imperceptible easing of the tension. She hardly dare believe it. It reminded her of when she was sewing, particularly embroidery, where a knot would inexplicably appear in the otherwise straight thread and instead of patiently untangling it, she’d just pull it sharply and sometimes resort to poking it with her needle, using no rhyme or reason but the brute force born of sheer irritation. Often, the knot would suddenly release itself.
The tiny movement in the ropes around her wrists gave her renewed hope. She continued her efforts, ignoring the pain. Indeed, she thought that the skin on her wrists must have been rubbed raw by now as the agony had almost become a strange kind of numbness.
There was a sudden unravelling and her wrists were free. She hardly dare believe it. She didn’t move, in fact she froze,
keeping her arms exactly where they were. She wasn’t sure she could have moved them. She was almost frozen in place, like when you tried to kneel on the floor beside a child and after ten minutes found you could no longer spring to your feet as you once did. Her heart hammered in delight and also fear. She must not let Froude know she had won this tiny victory. This could be the key to her escape.
But as the cart rumbled on, she wriggled her fingers, and very carefully rolled her shoulders one way and the other, and stretched out her arms by small fractions, though each movement seemed to be more painful than simply staying still.
The sun was sinking behind the low hills now, and her stomach gurgled though she didn’t think she could face eating anything. The cart’s progress had slowed as the horse had grown tired. Eventually they stopped in a tree-lined hollow, alongside a dilapidated barn. She could see the roof from her seat in the cart, but she wasn’t sure exactly where they were.
Froude jumped down and set about unhitching the horse and leading it away, presumably for water or somewhere for it to graze. She wanted to scramble up and peer over the side of the cart but she couldn’t risk alerting Froude to her unbound state.