by Cindy Anstey
“No, not this time Mr. Belcher. We were hoping to talk to your delivery boy, Rolland. Do you know where he is? Could you direct us to him?”
Mr. Belcher’s smile did not leave his lips, but it certainly left his eyes. “What would you be needing to talk to him for? Has he done something he ought not to have done?”
“No, indeed not,” Kate said, backing up into Matt, trying to signal that they should leave. She was vastly uncomfortable. The blacksmith’s expression bordered on confrontational, almost threatening. It was not his usual demeanor; he was most often described as affable. His chuckles and funning belied his bulk and strength. “Just wanted to ask Rolland about Mr. Niven,” she said, lifting the corners of her mouth.
“Best ask Mr. Niven about Mr. Niven,” Mr. Belcher said sharply enough to garner Matt’s attention. She could feel the sudden stillness of his body; it fairly radiated alarm.
“Well, we would, but Mr. Niven has moved, though we know not where.” Matt shifted slightly toward the door.
“Need a special wine … on a Sunday, when you know the store not to be open?” Mr. Belcher’s tone dripped with mockery.
“No, we were just going to ask him a few questions,” Kate explained.
“Suffering from great quantities of curiosity these days, Miss Darby. Best be careful. Wouldn’t want to get yerself into a tight spot, now would you?”
This time Kate stiffened; her discomfort faded, eclipsed by annoyance and frustration. “Why would you say that, Mr. Belcher? Since when has looking for someone warranted a threat?”
“Threat? Not threatening, my girl. Just letting you know how things is. Now, you best run back to Shackleford Park an’ forget about askin’ any more questions.”
“Too late for that, I’m afraid, Belcher.”
A nasal voice from behind startled a gasp from Kate, but she turned slowly, trying to exude confidence. Mr. Niven, looking perfectly hale and hearty—though drenched—and Rolland stood behind them, effectively barring their path, their escape.
“They have questions for you, Niven.” Mr. Belcher stated the obvious, and Rolland smirked.
“Excellent. Turnabout is fair play. I have questions for them. Shall we all get out of this wretched weather?” He gestured toward the inside of the cottage.
“I think not,” Matt said, shifting so that his body was in front of Kate. “Thank you kindly, but we just have a quick question and then we will be on our way.”
“Oh?” Mr. Niven glanced at Matt and then to Kate—who was peeking past Matt’s shoulder. “If it has anything to do with Johnny, I suggest we step inside, where we might enjoy some privacy.” He gestured again, but with a stiff arm, making the request an order.
Kate could feel Matt’s uncertainty; she knew he was desperate to know what had happened to Johnny. There was a sense that Mr. Niven could answer that question … at least in some part, though whether he would was another matter. And yet to ask that question, to understand why Niven had been inquiring at the manor and why he’d left his shop in a rush, might put them in jeopardy.
“Yes, I was hoping that you could make a recommendation,” Matt said. “I thought I might give Sir Andrew a distinguished bottle of claret or port for the new year, but I know nothing of the stuff.”
Rolland snickered. It grated on Kate’s nerves terribly, but she neither looked his way nor changed her expression. This was a situation fraught with peril; they had to get away, and she had no doubt that Matt felt the same way.
“You couldn’t afford a distinguished bottle,” Mr. Niven sneered.
“Ah well, there you go. I thought as much. Well, please excuse us for disturbing you.” Matt reached behind him, forming a cage around Kate with his arms. He shifted as if about to take a step. “We’ll be going now.”
“No. No, I think not. You’ll run back to the manor and speak to your friend Lord Bobbington.”
“My friend?” Matt scoffed. “Lord Bobbington? The gentleman who is staying with Squire Fleming? He would hardly give the valet of a Shackleford Park guest the time of day. Though I appreciate the elevation of my status.” Looking over his shoulder, Matt smiled, a very strained sort of smile. “Shall we depart?”
“Think word don’t get around? We know Bobbington was at Shackleford Park,” Mr. Niven said. “An’ he be more than a gentleman.”
Kate shifted her gaze back to the wine merchant, swallowing at the menace in the man’s voice. Mr. Niven stood with his legs apart as if preparing for an onslaught. His greatcoat was open, sheltering a pistol in his right hand. He twirled a substantial knife in his left. And yet, while there was no doubt of immediate danger, it wasn’t until Kate’s eyes slid to the young man beside Mr. Niven that she felt her blood run cold.
Rolland, too, had a pistol in hand. It, too, was pointed at Matt. But while Mr. Niven’s expression could have been defined as angry, wary, or even nervous, Rolland’s countenance was that of pleasure. He grinned, with a spark of enjoyment in his eyes, like a child offered a special treat. It was terrifying.
“Be that as it may, it has nothing to do with us,” Matt said defiantly.
Behind them, Mr. Belcher muttered something under his breath and then cleared his throat. “Come in, everyone. Let’s not provide a spectacle for the neighbors.”
“No one can see back here,” Mr. Niven snapped.
“You would be surprised,” Mr. Belcher snapped back.
Suddenly, a beefy hand reached up and grabbed Kate’s hood, jerking her backward, away from Matt. Losing her balance, she tumbled against a chair that had been propped up against the wall, knocking it over as she landed on the floor with a jarring thump. Matt was immediately by her side, helping her to her feet. But they were not fast enough.
The door was now closed behind Niven and Rolland. Kate and Matt were blocked from the outside world, from freedom … from safety.
chapter 14
In which the true nature of a villainous trio comes to the fore
Matt rounded on Mr. Belcher. “How dare you treat Miss Darby in such a rough manner?” He reached for Kate’s hand, and then, having secured it, he tugged her behind his back.
At least, he tried.
Kate resisted; she would have been shielded by Matt’s body but also blinded. And while she appreciated the chivalry, she would not be protected at Matt’s expense. The grim expressions of their antagonists were as much a concern as the weapons aimed at him.
It was odd to think that a simple quest could turn out so badly—in a place such as sleepy Tishdale, where the closest sheriff was two towns away. How could this be? Mr. Belcher was not a violent man, and Mr. Niven a bland sort. Self-preservation must have warped their sensibilities; they looked hostile and resolute … but Kate thought she detected a whiff of fear in the air.
“Wouldna had to be rough, if you’d come in on yer own.” Mr. Belcher looked at Kate as he answered Matt’s question. There was almost an apology in his eyes—almost.
“It’s your own bloody fault,” Mr. Niven said. “Nosing around.”
“You could hardly expect a footman’s disappearance to go unnoticed.” Matt huffed with great dignity.
Niven looked momentarily confused. He seemed to have forgotten his unseemly interest in the footman and latched on to the subject of Lord Bobbington instead. Still, there was little doubt that the two were linked. And it stood to reason that it was the coin, the fake shilling that Rolland had given Johnny for his ring that pulled it all together in a neat package. They were, after all, standing next to a shop with a forge used for melting metal—the lifeblood of a counterfeit operation.
It also explained the fear: Producing fake coins was seldom a hanging offense, but transportation—exile to the penal colonies of Australia—was a distinct possibility, and it likely weighed heavily on their minds.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, there is no need to be uncomfortable,” Kate said, trying to instill her voice with affability while leaning closer to Matt to present a united front. “We care not what mis
chief you might be about.” She laughed slightly—very slightly. “We care only about the welfare of one Johnny Grinstead, footman to Musson House.” It wasn’t true—she had every intention of running as fast as her legs could carry her to the squire’s manor—but she felt prevarication at this point was advisable.
As she stood with her back pressed to the limestone wall, the tumbled chair on her right side, Matt on her left, Kate casually glanced around the room. A small window and outside door sat on the same wall—behind Niven and Rolland. The fireplace with a poker, and a good, sturdy broom leaned against the wall beside it … and a hefty pan—all possible weapons—were beyond reach behind Belcher. There was a bed—a very nice bed, in fact, too nice for the surroundings—pushed up against the far wall and, oh … yes, there in the corner was a smaller door. It likely led into the shop, and the shop had a wide front door that led straight out to the street. Yes. A means of escape.
Kate pulled at Matt’s hand in the direction of the small door; using her peripheral vision, she saw Matt’s head turn slightly and then nod.
“You might not care about our other endeavors, but your guest certainly would,” Mr. Niven’s tone dripped with derision. He straightened his pistol arm, as if bringing the thing closer would increase the intimidation.
It didn’t. Dead is dead; it doesn’t matter the size of the hole in your chest.
“I assume you are again referring to Lord Bobbington. Who is, as I have already mentioned, not staying at Shackleford Park. He came for a social visit yesterday with his wife, the squire, and Mrs. Fleming. I don’t know what world you live in, but in my world the gentry don’t notice the likes of us. Not interested in our lives or our opinions. Whatever quarrel you have with him, we are not involved,” Matt said. “So if you could tell us where we will find Johnny, we will all swear to silence. You go your way; we’ll go ours. And let bygones be bygones.”
Kate felt him shifting his weight as he spoke. She did likewise.
Rolland snorted, glancing first at Kate’s lower limbs and then, pointedly, at the small shop door. He shook his head and clicked his tongue in a tsking sound. It was unnerving, and Kate stilled, forcing Matt to do the same.
Glancing over his shoulder, Matt met her eyes, and she shook her head. Now was not the time to break free and run; Rolland was onto them.
And even as the thought passed through her mind, Rolland truly was onto them. He crossed the floor in four large steps, grabbed the front of Kate’s cloak, and yanked her over to what had been his side of the room.
“What is wrong with you people? You cannot treat Miss Darby as if she were a sack of potatoes, dragging her hither and yon!” Matt shouted, still rooted to his spot by Mr. Niven’s pistol. “What has she done to warrant such deplorable treatment?”
“Not her, you,” Mr. Niven said. “Were she not in your company, this would not have happened. You are a stranger causing a fuss. People notice. Just like when Johnny wandered into the Goat asking about a red-haired young man while going on about a fake coin. People are going to put two and two together—”
“Niven! Watch what yer saying.” Belcher gave his cohort a thunderous look.
“It matters not, Belcher,” Rolland said with a shrug, letting go of Kate’s cloak and dusting off her shoulders as if he were being courteous. Something a gentleman would never do. “They’ll have to come with us.”
Four persons stared at the young man in surprise.
“How do you reckon that?” Niven asked lazily.
“Belcher won’t let you kill them—”
“I should say not!” Belcher shouted.
Rolland barely blinked. “Any more than he let us knock off the footman. We can’t let them go—”
“You don’t need the two of us. Miss Darby can toddle off—” Matt started.
“Toddle off to the authorities? I think not.” Niven looked bored with the conversation.
“She won’t say anything—”
“Excuse me, but she is standing right here. I am standing right here. And I say there is nothing to report to the authorities or Lord Bobbington; there is nothing going on here, and so we simply need to grab Johnny”—Kate looked toward the smaller inner door as she spoke—“and we will all go our separate ways.”
Rolland snorted in her ear, and Kate swallowed in discomfort. But instead of arguing or belaboring the point, the red-haired villain reached into the pocket of his greatcoat, pulled out a length of rope, and tossed it to Belcher.
* * *
AS BELCHER WRAPPED the rope around Matt’s wrists and tested the knot, Matt shifted in order to catch Kate’s eye. He was fairly certain … no, entirely certain that Kate was incensed, and planning. She would attempt something before he had time to think it out properly. He needed to think fast.
And then Kate started to scream. It was loud and long and shrill.
Rolland, unperturbed, leaned even closer to her, an intimate distance. It was boorish and repugnant, causing Kate to shudder in distaste. Enraged, Matt leapt across the divide and raised his bound hands. Rolland dodged, using Kate as a shield, hiding—yes, hiding, the coward! Matt swung, but awkwardly. His tied wrists made it impossible to aim—he nearly smacked Kate in the effort—as Rolland bobbed and weaved around her.
“What did you do?” Belcher shouted, yanking Matt out of the way to grab Kate. He clamped his oversized hand across Kate’s mouth and dragged her backward, away from Rolland, in an oddly protective maneuver.
“Nothing yet.” Rolland shrugged lazily. “Musta heard me thinkin’.”
Kate’s eyes grew wide with indignation, and she struggled against Belcher.
“Stop!” the man shouted and then gave her a shake when she didn’t. It took a few moments, but she eventually tired and Belcher spoke again. “You can’t be heard from the street and you are goin’ ta deafen us all. I’ll lift my hand, if you promise not to scream any more.”
With a piercing glare at Rolland, Kate nodded. “Heard him thinking?” she sputtered as soon as she was able. “I did not! I heard him saying. Yes, saying that he was going to cut Matt’s heart out and feed it to the pigs a slice at a time—”
For a large man in a small space, Belcher moved fast, and Rolland had nowhere to go. With a great swoop of his arm, Belcher belted Rolland across the face, sending him sprawling—almost landing in the fireplace pit. His pistol clattered to the floor beside him, and Rolland, wisely, did not try to rise.
“I will have none of that. Do you hear me?” Belcher roared, leaning into the face of the young man.
Rolland smiled, but it was a weak attempt and without the edge of mockery. “I was just trying to get a rise out of her. An’ I did.”
“Really.” Niven shook his head and clicked his tongue. He had not moved a muscle, still stood next to the door, pistol still aimed at Matt’s chest. “Do neither of you have any self-control? You with your temper. You with your need to create havoc. I have a good mind to wash my hands of you both.”
Belcher pivoted and looked at Niven with his mouth curled up in one corner. “Going to make the coins on your own, are you? Going to run into the city delivering them without anyone getting suspicious like?” He laughed without humor. “You are welcome to try.”
“Now who’s being indiscreet?” Niven muttered under his breath, but Belcher didn’t appear to hear him.
“It was you who panicked, my friend,” the blacksmith continued. “It was you who had to pack up and get away. It was you who claimed defeat—when I said nay. I said wait. I said let’s see what it all means. An’ what happens? It’s all yer bloody running around that gets us in trouble, not Rolland’s idiocy.”
“Thanks ever so,” Rolland said, his sarcasm back in place … though he stayed on the floor.
“If Rolland hadn’t given Johnny that coin, none of this would have happened.” Niven sneered at Belcher, ignoring Rolland entirely.
“Where is Johnny?” Kate asked.
The question had been on Matt’s tongue as well … b
ut he had wondered if it was wise to interrupt the bickering.
“You tell us.” Niven turned his head to stare—glare—at Kate.
Kate frowned, blinked, and looked from Niven to Belcher and then turned her gaze to Matt. “I don’t understand,” she said eventually. Her brow was deeply folded.
Matt swallowed and shook his head, as she turned back to Niven. “Where is he?” she said again. The third time it was more of a shout. “Where is Johnny?”
“He was making such a fuss,” Rolland answered as he struggled to his feet and then brushed himself off. “I can understand him wanting his ring back, but did he have to go around telling everyone about the stranger, the red-haired young man? Eventually, people would realize that he was no stranger, that he was me. Really. Such a fuss.”
Niven slipped his knife into his boot and tossed Belcher another length of rope; he pointed at Kate. “We agreed you would not spend the coins in Tishdale, boy.”
“Yes, but Johnny wasn’t from here.” Rolland’s voice was taking on a smarmy quality. “I didn’t know he was staying in the neighborhood. I didn’t know he would come back into town looking for me.”
“We agreed—” Niven started to say.
“Yes, I know, but we have been lying low for six months. Six months! I have nothing, nothing to show for my efforts.”
Matt’s anger grew as Belcher signaled for Kate to put her wrists together. But as he watched, Matt could see that Belcher had underestimated Kate. He was tying the ropes far looser than he had with Matt, far looser than he ought, far looser than was wise.
“We agreed—” Niven tried again.
“Yes, yes. But it’s takin’ too long.”
“And look what has happened.” Niven finally lowered his pistol, placing it on the table by the window, and stepped to the fireplace to warm his hands.