Chills ran up Davon’s spine. In his heart, he wanted to believe that Mr. Goodwin’s threats were empty, a tactic to scare the truth out of Justus Paige. But if they were, Davon couldn’t tell. His tone, his intensity, his expressions all testified that his every word and every threat was genuine. What man could do such wanton cruelty, even upon a victim as deserving as Justus Paige?
Justus glanced around as if looking for eavesdroppers in the ale racks. “The money came without names attached from messengers who asked for no receipt of delivery!”
“Tsk, tsk,” Mr. Goodwin scolded him. “I’m sure a resourceful man like yourself was able to ferret out the origins of the messages. Let’s have it.”
“Just a few, I swear. The ones that contributed from the beginning. At first only a handful came in. Then it grew. Hightower. Brighton. Goldfield. Milbunn. Those for sure. Others I suspect, but cannot prove.”
Davon frowned. Hightower and Brighton. Arianne’s parents were involved. He wondered if the late Lord Cornton had recruited them or the other way round. Either way, Justus’s information would damn more than one important family. He was needed alive.
“And who do you suspect?” Mr. Goodwin prodded.
“Tahbor. Sharpton. Hackwind. I cannot prove it!”
“And is the money delivered on a schedule?”
“Yes. Each at different times and places.”
“For how long?”
“Almost five years.”
“And when you receive the money, what do you do with it? Begin with what you are skimming off the top and end with the person to whom you deliver it.”
Justus exhaled, reluctant to speak further until Mr. Goodwin’s hand snaking toward his rum bottle loosened his tongue. “I take ten percent, that’s all! The rest goes to a local noble.”
“Name!” Mr. Goodwin demanded.
“Do not make me tell it, Sir! He is a frightful man!”
“I am a frightful man, Mr. Paige, and I’m right here. Name!”
Justus seemed to consider for a moment, sweating more profusely and scrunching his face together as if he had to squeeze the information out. “I would deliver it to a man who works for Duke Longford’s brother, Baron Olivanne Longford. He is a giant brute of a man and I dare not cross him. I only know him as Dales. The Baron collects the money himself sometimes. Comes to the inn for it. But it’s usually Dales.”
“I know of Dales,” Davon offered. “He worked at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company.”
Mr. Goodwin nodded and Justus appeared relieved. “Then you know, Sir, of what I speak! He is as cross as a rabid cat and as big as a mammoth! He’ll kill me for sure if he finds out I said something. The Baron will string me up, too, or just have me torn apart in the woods!”
“You’ve done the right thing, Mr. Paige,” Mr. Goodwin soothed, assuming a relaxed tone. “I’m afraid you won’t be dying any time soon, even though the ground begs for your immediate interment. You see, I believe you have just become the most sought after person in Bittermarch. You have evidence of a massive conspiracy against the Kingdom, so I’m guessing you’ll be spending a good portion of the rest of your life in courtrooms and prison cells. And yes, when you turn up missing today, I’m sure a lot of important people will be looking for you to make sure your lips don’t wag, meaning being in your company is going to be dangerous.”
“We need to get him to Bellshire,” Davon said. “Right away.” There wasn’t a moment to lose. Arianne had to be cleared immediately.
Mr. Goodwin took a swig from the bottle. “Yes, I’m afraid we do. But we need to have a chat with the Baron, first.”
“Shouldn’t we have the sheriff bring him in?”
Mr. Goodwin laughed. “The sheriff? Of Longford? He’s as crooked as Mr. Paige here and under the thumb of the Longfords. If we want to know what’s going on here, Baron Olivanne Longford is our man.”
“You two will be dead before the day is out,” Justus Paige warned.
Mr. Goodwin stood and pointed to Mr. Killcreek. “Make sure Mr. Paige is good and tied up, and see if you can hire a carriage to carry us and this rat to Bellshire. We’ll likely need to leave in a bit of a hurry when we return.”
Chapter 28
Davon slowed Ceril’s healthy stride to give Mr. Goodwin’s emaciated nag time to catch up. The creature matched its owner in age and temperament, its back swooped so horribly that Mr. Goodwin’s head barely cleared the beast’s. Such was its distemper that it would repeatedly slow from its already modest pace, requiring Mr. Goodwin to flick it with a whip three times to return it to a desirable speed. And the horse complained mightily with each strike of the whip.
They had traveled out of Longford proper, passed by the road to the Duke’s massive castle, and rode out into a fair stretch of country where various of the Longford family had sizable manor houses backed up against the river Davon had crossed earlier that day. A low range of wooded hills beyond the river provided an idyllic backdrop of bursting green. Longford was indeed choice country.
The well-kept gravel road had just turned back to packed dirt when Baron Olivanne Longford’s house slid into view around a wooded bend. It was three story structure, a large box of brick with a colonnade of white at the front entrance. The Baron clearly despised gardens or gardening, the lawn about the house bare save for four large elm trees. The grass, however, was trimmed to perfection, and two young men looked up from that task to regard the two riders coming up the lane.
“Have you been here before, Mr. Goodwin?” Davon asked as he surveyed the estate. An uneasiness had settled upon him. Something smelled off, twitching his nose.
“I’ve wandered this lane before,” Mr. Goodwin replied. “This is the last house. The Baron is a lesser Longford, and few even mention him. He is the Duke’s youngest brother and not well known in society. He is infamous for absenting himself from the town every summer of late.”
They left the shady protection of the lane and passed through the open gates of the estate and into the harsh sunshine. Besides the two men trimming the grass, the house appeared lifeless and abandoned. Perhaps the Baron had already gone traveling. As they neared the front drive, a servant walked out of the front door wearing white gloves, a powdered wig, and a blue uniform pressed to unwrinkled perfection.
What had twitched Davon’s nose earlier had matured into a scent, a sour, rotten smell. It didn’t emanate from the house, but somewhere behind and to the south of it.
“Do you smell that?” Davon asked his companion.
“Smell what?”
“Carrion.”
“No. I smell rum.”
The servant halted their progress. “Excuse me, but what business do you have on the Baron’s property?”
Davon realized that neither he nor Mr. Goodwin was dressed to impress anyone. He opened his mouth to answer, but Mr. Goodwin jumped in ahead, tone irascible.
“We’re here to accuse the Baron of treason and collect him for transport to Bellshire. Please inform him immediately.”
The servant squinted. “Who are you? Under what authority?”
“I am Mr. Goodwin, and this is Davon Carver, once a Lord, but for now taking a temporary hiatus to do dirty work for the Queen, under whose authority we operate.”
“Wait here.”
The servant jogged back into the house. Mr. Goodwin pulled the rum bottle from his saddle bags and took a swig. It was well below the second mark now, flirting with the third.
“You may wish to refrain from the liquor,” Davon warned. “We will likely need all of our wits.”
“Rum is the grease that loosens my rusty wits, Mr. Carver.”
Davon loosened his rifle from its restraints. He always kept it loaded when he traveled in or near the wild. How Baron Longford would receive Mr. Goodwin’s blunt accusations worried him. If he was as guilty as Mr. Paige made out during the interrogation, then he would either feign ignorance and outrage or see two strangers that needed their throats cut. Either way, one hand on hi
s rifle seemed in order.
The servant trotted down the stairs and approached them stiffly. “The Baron will see you. Please tie your horses to the post and follow me.”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Goodwin said, downing the rest of his bottle before stowing the empty container in his bags. The servant crinkled his brow but refrained from comment.
The persistent smell of rotting flesh faded as they approached the house proper; Davon was thankful for the relief. Could no one else smell it? Perhaps the house staff had grown accustomed to it. When a big animal died, the rot would smell for days, sometimes weeks. Burning the carcass was the only way to find relief, and the effort to drag enough wood to do it was often more unpleasant than the stench.
The servant pushed open the gilded white door. “He will receive you in the drawing room just to the left.”
Davon took one last look at the rifle on his horse before stepping inside the quiet manor of Baron Olivanne Longford. A chorus of ticking clocks and the squawking of a bird alleviated some of silence as they strode down the wide hall toward their destination. The Baron certainly had more finery than Davon had expected. Bejeweled silver balls and painted ceramics sat atop decorative stands, serving no purpose other than ostentation. Silver and gold trim lined the black wooden frames of portraits, some nearly as tall as the people they portrayed. The Longfords certainly wanted for nothing.
As they stepped into the drawing room, a thin woman wearing all white stood to greet them. Her heavily caked makeup accented eyes that seemed permanently stretched with surprise. Long white gloves ran to her elbows, a ring with a clear stone of immense proportions gracing her finger. She patted down a stray clump of dark hair shot through with gray.
“Come,” she said, voice quavering. “I am the Baroness Brenna Longford. The Baron will join us presently.” She trembled, her hands not quite steady as she returned to her seat. At first Davon thought her twitching from fear, but the longer he observed her wide-eyed countenance, he realized that the Baroness was not in her right mind.
“Do you like my bird?” she asked. The monstrous white avian with a yellow beak sat on a golden perch in its golden cage, which was suspended from a chain just behind the couch where the Baroness sat. It squawked and nipped at the bars of its cage. The bird was nearly as tall as Davon’s forearm was long.
“It is a fine specimen, Milady,” Davon said.
“And what was your, um, name again?”
“Davon Carver, Milady.”
She chewed her lip and looked up in the air as if following something flying about the room.
“And do you like my bird,” she finally said.
“A fine specimen.”
“You know, I’ve had seven of these birds. They keep dying or flying off. I blame the servants, you know. They really should take better care. And do you like my bird, Mister…”
“Goodwin, Baroness. A handsome bird, indeed.”
She stood and crossed to the cage, poking at the bars. “I call him Plucker. He’s always pulling at his feathers and making such a mess. Feathers, feathers, feathers! Isn’t that right, Mr. Plucker?”
The bird bit at her finger and she stepped back, eyes widening further. “Bad Mr. Plucker. Bad birdie! You mustn’t nibble on your mistress!” She banged the cage with her hand, sending the contraption swinging, the bird bouncing back and forth and squawking up a ruckus.
The Baroness’s delicate, pale face saddened and she caught the cage in both hands, tears running down her face. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Plucker. But you mustn’t nip me, you know. Forgive me. Forgive me. I will have the servants find you a treat.”
“That’s enough, Lady Longford.”
So focused had Davon been on the odd scene before him that he didn’t notice the entry of Baron Olivanne Longford into the far end of the drawing room. Something about his tone seemed familiar, but Davon was quite sure he had never seen the man before.
Like all the Longfords he had known, the Baron stood as straight and tall as an Elder Fir, manner and bearing severe. A big head topped with dark hair and a square jaw gave him the demeanor of a lord, eyes devoid of any warmth or concern for his fragile wife. He wore a black vest over a white shirt, large silver buttons running down the front in two rows.
“I am sorry, my Lord,” she said, returning to her seat. “We have Davon Carver and a Mr. Goodwin. They like the bird. They say it is a fine specimen.”
Baron Longford walked fully into the room. “Two members of the House of Light come to visit me and accuse me of treason. Singular. Such an accusation does not even warrant a visit from the Lord High Sheriff? The Queen sends a disgraced clerk and a disgraced Baron to level these charges against me.”
Davon glanced at Mr. Goodwin. He’s a member of the House of Light?
Mr. Goodwin sat up straight. “The information that implicates you is quite fresh, recently squeezed from an associate of yours, Justus Paige.”
“I hardly know the man,” the Baron returned, taking a seat.
“How well you know the man is hardly the issue,” Mr. Goodwin continued. “It’s the money you take from his hand that’s the problem, money sent to you from a number of prominent families, all northern nobles.”
“Ridiculous,” the Baron said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Really?” Mr. Goodwin said. “The barrels full of money Mr. Paige has in the basement of his establishment aren’t ridiculous or fictitious, I having inspected and borrowed a bit from his skimming. He has personally confessed to delivering the money to you or to your man, Dales, who was involved in the recently uncovered Aid Society Plot.”
“I know of no person named Dales.”
Davon fancied he knew a liar when he saw one, but the Baron’s unreadable, expressionless face stymied any attempt to discern his true character. His cold gray eyes were like shut books that gave no hint of the contents of the soul. Without a guilty twitch the Baron sat, thumb beneath his jaw and an index finger running up to his temple.
“Aren’t you curious,” Davon jumped in, “to know what families have been implicated in this scheme?”
“If you wish to tell me, Mr. Harper, I have no objection to hearing it.”
The Baroness suddenly emerged from her stupor. “It’s not Mr. Harper, my Lord. It’s Mr. Carver.”
The Baron’s eyes flickered for a moment, and Davon’s narrowed. There was something familiar about the Baron, but he couldn’t make the connection clear. Was his slip of the tongue a mistake, or was he attempting some kind of strategy or insult? Of the nobility, only the Lady Hightower and the Queen knew him well when he was David Harper, though many knew of him.
“Quite right you are,” the Baron said, rising. “Please take your rest upstairs, Brenna. Mr. Carver, Mr. Goodwin, I should like to speak to you in private about these sensitive matters. I wouldn’t like idle gossip to get to the servants, who turn the most trivial rumors into the most troublesome truths. Take a turn with me by Long River, if you will. There is a nice secluded path there where we can speak freely.”
The Lady stood and obediently left, while the Baron crossed to the bird cage. Davon stood and helped an unsteady Mr. Goodwin to his feet. The Baron opened the cage and pulled the protesting bird out. Its clipped wings gave it no leverage, but it settled as he let it perch on its forearm.
“Follow me,” Baron Longford commanded.
They left the house through a rear door and walked into the brilliant sunshine, following Baron Longford to a back lawn as devoid of decoration as the front. The manicured property quickly gave way to a well-worn trail through a sparse but tranquil wood. Plucker issued a few quiet coos from his perch on the Baron’s arm, but as yet the Baron had said nothing. Mr. Goodwin threw Davon a nervous look.
The foul stench Davon had noticed earlier worsened the closer they came to the Long River. After a hundred paces, the path turned abruptly south as it encountered the water, following closely along the river bank. The Baron continued on ahead of them at an even pace as if they
didn’t exist, his head forward and pace stately.
“I smell it now, Mr. Carver,” Mr. Goodwin said. “You have an exemplary nose.”
The Baron stopped by a wide oak that cast its broad shadow across the water and the path, relieving the oppressive heat of the sun. The water here was shallow and wide, several large rocks poking up to interrupt the swift flow.
“And what do you smell, Mr. Carver?” the Baron asked.
“The rot of a dead animal. You have a carcass somewhere near here that needs clearing.”
The Baron just stared at him for a moment. “Don’t you think it odd, Mr. Carver, that we are so discomfited by the smell of rotting flesh? Things are born and things die in the same proportion. The smell of death should be no more unfamiliar and unpleasant to us than the smell of tea or a woman’s perfume or the offal of all living things.”
What is he playing at? Davon wondered.
“Baron Longford,” Mr. Goodwin said, “we didn’t come here to speak of rotting animals or what odors we might enjoy. You are party to a plot to gather money with which to buy weapons. These facts are not in dispute.”
Olivanne Longford cocked his head. “They clearly are in dispute or the Lord High Sheriff and not two of the Queen’s little grubs would be here speaking with me. You’re trying to paint a picture. All you have are brushes and colors, but no idea what to draw.”
Davon stepped closer to the Baron. “We know about Brighton. We know about Goldfield, Milbunn, and Hightower. We know you are the money man. Is your brother, the Duke, involved?”
“You have absolutely no proof of anything,” the Baron said, face not registering even a twitch of concern.
Mr. Goodwin, reeking of rum, pulled his paring knife and went to work on his immaculate fingernails. “We have Paige. The clerks of these families will soon be in our hands. You know just as well as I do that one cannot buy weapons in the quantities you have without a trail. The Lord High Sheriff will get to the bottom of that. The Queen doesn’t send the grubs because there is no proof. She sends us because we can get information in ways that tend to speed up an investigation considerably, if you take my meaning.
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