‘Thank you, but I must go.’ Wildly, Owen stared around him. ‘The works,’ he went on, gibbering now. ‘The new furnace. We must have it put into blast by Wednesday, so we — ’
‘Ah, yes.’ Immediately, Mr Lloyd understood. ‘Well, then,’ he rumbled, staggering bravely to his feet, ‘that business about the castings. You will be in touch?’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you again.’
Owen walked into Pontypool. At the livery stables, he hired their strongest, fastest mare, for the first stage of what would be a gruelling journey. For he must get to Swansea, and soon. He refused to think about what might happen if he did not.
He did not know Michael Atkins was a villain. He had no proof of criminal activity, no concrete evidence whatsoever, of even the most trivial misdemeanours or misdeeds. But all the same, he was sure Jack and Michael Atkins must be connected. That they were almost certainly father and son.
He had to get Rayner and Jane away from that man.
Chapter 20
Owen put up at a coaching inn near Bishopston, a village well inside the confines of English Gower. Still bemused by Mr Lloyd's astonishing story, and bone–weary from his long journey, he nevertheless forced himself to assume a relaxed and carefree air. He sauntered round the room he'd been offered, smiling and nodding his satisfaction. Then he tipped the chambermaid handsomely. Going downstairs again, he asked the landlord to open a bottle of his best claret, then invited the fellow to take a glass himself.
Drawing the cork with an expert hand, the landlord grinned his appreciation. ‘Thank you, Mr Ellis,’ he said. ‘That's very civil indeed. I'll join you in a few minutes’ time, if I may.’
The inn was quiet that evening. The landlord had spent the past hour polishing all his pewter tankards, which were now gleaming softly in the candlelight. Sighing, he looked around for something else to do. There was nothing, except to talk to his solitary guest. So, waddling over to where Owen sat, dozing off to sleep, he plumped himself down on the settle opposite.
‘Sorry, sir! I didn't mean to startle you.’ For Owen's eyes were suddenly open wide, and he regarded the landlord with what looked like stark terror. Shaking his head, the man grinned. ‘You're a stranger here, sir?’ he enquired, genially.
‘Yes, indeed.’ Ever since his arrival back on Gower, Owen had been at pains to purge his accent of even the slightest hint of a Celtic lilt. ‘I'm originally from Hereford. But these days I live in Birmingham most of the time.’
‘What brings you down here, to Gower?’
‘I am an ironmaster and coppersmith. My partners and I own a factory near Wolverhampton, and another in Dudley.’ Blandly, Owen smiled. ‘But we wish to expand our operations into South Wales. We hope to develop a site near Swansea, and go in for copper–smelting and tin–plating there.’
‘I see.’ The landlord refilled Owen's glass. ‘Well, Mr Ellis — in my considered opinion, you couldn't have fixed on a likelier spot. Swansea's a fine place! A splendid town, up hill and down dale! You certainly won't lack opportunites there.’
‘I'm sure I shall not.’ Again, Owen smiled. ‘Anyway, Mr Langford — leaving the town behind me, I decided to explore the area round about. You can imagine my delight when I discovered Gower! To find this jewel of a place — this little corner of paradise, abutting a great industrial metropolis — was a pleasure indeed.’
‘It's a beautiful spot.’ Complacently, the landlord shook his head. Then he leaned towards his guest, confidentiality personified. ‘It's an English paradise, too!’
‘Indeed?’
‘Oh, yes! Why, sir — this part of Gower has been a Saxon stronghold for centuries. Since William the Conqueror's time, in fact.’
‘You astonish me.’
‘I see that.’ Sagely, the landlord wagged a stumpy forefinger in Owen's face. ‘My own ancestors came from Devon,’ he declared. ‘But my great–grandmother was a Fleming. Born and bred in the Low Country, far across the sea. That accounts for my poll and whiskers, you understand.’ He nodded his blond head, and grinned.
Obligingly, Owen grinned back. Red–faced, blue–eyed, Mr Langford was certainly no Celt. ‘Do not any Welshmen live on Gower these days?’ he enquired, artlessly.
‘Oh, yes. But they keep to the north.’ Disdainfully, the landlord sniffed. ‘A rascally, beggarly crew they are, as well. Gethyns and Morgans, Lloyds and Llewellyns — pirates, thieves and villains all, sir. To the very last man.
‘In the last century, they were smugglers and wreckers, too. But little of that goes on now. The Excise has grown too clever for ignorant Welsh vagabonds. So — they stick to their cockle–gathering and sheep–farming mostly. They don't give us much trouble nowadays.’
‘I see. Well, that's fortunate for trade, anyway.’
‘Indeed it is, sir.’
‘Tell me a little about the old days.’ Pouring the last of the wine, Owen motioned to the landlord to drink up. ‘Tell me some stories about what went on here, long ago.’
‘You want tales of piracy and pillage, do you sir?’ The landlord grinned. ‘I'll tell you some to make your hair stand on end and your eyes start out of their sockets, believe you me.’
So the landlord began his first story. Growing thirsty, he called for some ale. Soon he was reaching for the jug with impressive frequency, all the while rambling on about dirty Welsh peasants who were always outsmarted in their knavery by clean, brave English lads, invariably from Bishopston or the area round about.
Owen remained sober, for he was making plans. As the landlord came to the end of one particularly tall story, he touched his sleeve. ‘Do you have a boy here who could run an errand for me?’ he enquired.
‘Yes indeed, sir!’ Raising his snout from his tankard, Mr Langford glared blearily all around. ‘Anthony?’ he bellowed. ‘Anthony!’
Eventually, a tow–headed lad appeared. His face flushed and his eyes watering, he had evidently been turning a spit or lighting a fire. ‘This gentleman wants you to do him a favour,’ muttered the landlord, as he applied once again to his tankard.
‘Could you take a message to Oxwich?’ asked Owen, as the lad looked at him enquiringly. ‘An acquaintance of mine is staying there for the summer, and I wish to let him know I am here in Bishopston. Tomorrow morning will do,’ he added loudly, praying that the landlord's pride in his establishment would mean he'd insist the message was delivered that evening.
‘He'll go tonight, sir.’ As if jerked by a string, the landlord's head shot up. ‘The evening is clear, the moon will be up later, and he knows the way.’
‘Excellent.’ Handing the boy an envelope with Rayner's name on it, Owen tipped him a shilling. ‘Give this into the gentleman's own hand, mind,’ he adjured him, as he gave him directions to the house. ‘Let no one take it from you but Mr Rayner Darrow himself.’
* * * *
‘From a Mr Ellis, you say?’ Frowning, Rayner tore open the envelope, then skimmed through the letter inside. It was signed by his obedient servant, John Ellis. Rayner had never heard of John Ellis, in all his born days.
But the tone of the note, which had apparently been written at the behest of his stockbroker, was urgent. So — if Mr Green had seen fit to send his new clerk all the way to South Wales, perhaps the man ought at least to be granted an interview? Rayner took a keen interest in his financial investments. He had a horror of losing so much as a brass farthing in unwise speculation, and Mr Green was very much aware of the fact.
‘There's no reply.’ Dismissing the boy with a shilling, Rayner walked back to the drawing room. He made up his mind. While Bishopston wasn't within walking distance of Oxwich — not for Rayner, anyway — it was not too far to go on horseback, on a clear, moonlit night like this.
Especially like this. For, this evening, Rayner was bored. The lovers sat together whispering and laughing, presumably making plans which had nothing to do with him. He disliked reading, and there was no one with whom to play cards.
His host and sister had glan
ced up curiously when the maidservant came to summon Rayner to the door, but neither had remarked on the fact. They were too wrapped up in one another, he decided sourly, to be even remotely interested in him.
He coughed, to attract their attention. ‘My dear fellow,’ he began, wishing Michael Atkins would stop ogling his sister for just one moment, and have the courtesy to pay some attention to him, ‘you may think this is a rather singular request — but the fact is, I have a fancy to take a short evening ride. May I borrow a pony from your stables?’
‘Certainly.’ Michael Atkins turned from his contemplation of Jane's pretty white neck, and how it would look stretched, to ring for a servant. ‘I would suggest you take Domino,’ he murmured, absently. ‘I know your preference is for Cassandra, but I fear she is a little lame today.’
* * * *
As Rayner left the room, Michael turned back to Jane. For the second, the third time that week, he felt his resolution wavering.
When he had first met her and learned who she was, he had hardly thought of her as a woman at all. She was a creature, on whom he meant to take a terrible proxy revenge, and he had spent many a happy and inventive hour planning the torments of the damned for her.
But now, alas, he knew her. In fact, he felt he knew Jane Darrow better than he'd ever known anybody, in all his long life.
Shaking his head, he sighed.
She was sewing tonight. Something small, white and gauzy moved beneath her nimble fingers, fluttering like a butterfly's wings. Could it be a baby's christening robe? A nightgown? Yes — it must be something like that, for she had mentioned only yesterday that an acquaintance in Warwickshire had recently been confined.
As she bent her head over her work, her profile outlined against the candlelight, he watched her. She was so tranquil. So relaxing. She was the kind of woman whose mere presence warmed and comforted a man. Dear Jane, he thought, she could soothe even the most savage breast.
As he gazed at her, he felt contentment washing over him, in gentle, calming waves. He caught his breath in dismay.
‘Michael?’ Smiling, Jane glanced up. ‘Did you say something?’
‘What?’ He blinked, rapidly. ‘No, my dear,’ he muttered, turning away. ‘Not I.’
‘But I'm sure you — dear Michael, is something the matter tonight?’
‘No. Nothing is wrong.’ He turned back to her. ‘Jane?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you love me?’
‘Of course I love you!’
‘Good.’ He narrowed his colourless eyes against the candle's light. ‘Do you also fear me?’
‘I don't think so.’ Jane put her sewing to one side. ‘Should I?’
‘Perhaps.’ Michael Atkins shrugged. ‘Most women seem to be afraid of me.’
‘Indeed?’ Jane shook her head. ‘Now you mention it, I have noticed that one or two of the housemaids seem rather wary of you.’
‘Quite.’
‘Yet you are not a harsh master.’ Considering, Jane covered her lover's hand with her own. ‘The maids are very young,’ she observed. ‘Sarah and Polly especially are timid country girls, anxious to please but nervous of giving offence to those they see as their elders and betters. Perhaps what you call fear is merely respect.’
‘Do you respect me, then?’
‘I love you.’ Jane kissed his cheek. ‘So, of course I respect you, too. Love comprehends respect, admiration, affection — all good things.’
Michael Atkins could bear no more. Standing up, he excused himself, saying he had an urgent letter to write. Some business matters needed his attention, too.
* * * *
Rayner mounted a pretty grey mare and rode off into the twilight. Arriving at the Three Feathers, he enquired for Mr Ellis and was shown up to a private chamber on the first floor.
The room appeared to be unoccupied. Glancing round, Rayner observed a large, old–fashioned tester bed, a wash– stand, a couple of chairs — but no sign whatsoever of human habitation. Then, however, a sudden movement alarmed him, and he spun round to see Owen standing against the door.
‘Don't cry out!’ Owen's own voice was anxious. Urgent, and desperate too. ‘For the love of God and your sister's preservation, don't shout for help!’
‘You again!’ Too angry to be afraid, Rayner glowered at him. ‘Fiend from hell!’ he hissed. ‘Spawn of Satan! Of all the horrible, ungrateful, churlish abominations, you are the most disgusting, revolting — ’
For a minute or two, Owen simply let him rant. But then, sensing his cousin was running out of steam, he drew up a chair. ‘Please,’ he said quietly, motioning towards it. ‘Please, Rayner. Sit down.’
‘I'll never sit down with you. Never!’ Furious, Rayner glared daggers. ‘Tell me why you sent for me,’ he muttered.
‘I am afraid for your sister,’ said Owen. ‘Rayner, Jane is in the most terrible danger. Even as we speak, she is — ’
‘Stuff and nonsense.’ Still Rayner glared. ‘She is with the man she means to marry,’ he growled. ‘She could not be safer anywhere.’
‘She is under the roof of a madman! She is in the company of a creature so cruel, so villainous and so evil that I am sick to the heart whenever I think of it!’
‘On the contrary. She is under the roof of a gentleman born and bred, who has recently made honourable proposals towards a lady whom he loves. The madman is here, in this room, with me.’ Rayner picked up his hat, which had fallen off as Owen surprised him. ‘I am going now,’ he muttered. ‘Do not obstruct or attempt to follow me.’
‘Oh, Rayner!’ Owen was in despair. ‘Please listen to me!’
‘Why should I?’ Rayner would not look at him. ‘I hate you. I — ’
‘I deserve your hatred.’ Meekly, Owen hung his head. ‘But we both love Jane.’
‘One of us does.’
‘Rayner, I would give all I have, down to the last drop of my blood, to save Jane even a moment's distress! For her, I would endure the cruellest torments man could devise, I would suffer — ’
‘If you could only hear yourself.’ Rayner curled his lip in scorn. ‘This cant of yours disgusts me. Have you anything of interest to say?’
‘Certainly! I — ’
‘Then say it. I find it close in here, and am anxious to leave.’
‘Hear me in silence, then. If not for my sake, for that of my poor aunt, who loved me — and who, if she could speak to you now, would implore you to listen to me — ’
‘Do get on!’ Exaggeratedly, Rayner yawned. ‘I am missing supper on your account.’
Chapter 21
‘You cannot go back there tonight.’ Getting up from his chair, Owen stirred up the fire, for Rayner was shivering now. In fact, he looked positively sick and ill. ‘Rayner, you must not! Instead, we must decide how to get Jane away.’
‘But we — oh, God! I don't know what to do!’ Trying to pull himself together, Rayner clenched his fists. He glanced towards his cousin. ‘How do I know you're not telling me a pack of lies?’
‘Dear God, I wish I was!’ Owen shook his head, both in frustration and despair. ‘Rayner, believe me, I — ’
Just then, there was a sharp tap at the door. Even that, however, was enough to make Rayner start, and grow pale. ‘It will only be the chambermaid,’ soothed Owen. ‘I asked for more coals to be sent up. Come in!’
But it was not the chambermaid who entered, but a middle–aged, fair–haired man. Dressed like an upper servant, he wore a good cloth coat, stuff waistcoat, and the ubiquitous knee–breeches and stockings which were still favoured in the countryside, despite the fact that in towns and cities most men wore trousers nowadays. His linen was clean, his cheeks neatly shaven, and he looked every inch a respectable, trustworthy fellow. ‘Mr Darrow?’ he enquired. ‘Mr Rayner Darrow?’
‘Yes.’ Rayner scowled at him. ‘What do you want?’
‘May I come in?’
‘If you must. Well?’
‘Well, sir. I am Mr Atkins's head groom. I
— ’
‘Indeed?’ Rayner's glower intensified. ‘I've never seen you in the stable yard.’
‘I do have other duties, sir.’ The man shrugged. ‘As general custodian of the place, it is not my job to clean the stalls, or lead the horses to the mounting block. Instead, I go — ’
‘Very well, very well.’ Irritably, Rayner waved the explanation away. ‘What do you wish to say to me?’
‘It's to the other gentleman I actually need to speak.’ The man turned to look at Owen. ‘I saw you at the house, sir,’ he began. ‘I watched you that day, I observed your coming and going, but I recognised you at once. You're John Rhys Morgan's son.’
‘I'm sorry?’
‘Please, sir. Don't dissemble!’ Beseechingly, the man met Owen's gaze. ‘I received word of your return two hours ago. I wished to speak to you then. To warn you, in fact. But I could not get away any sooner, so I –’
‘Could you not have sent a message?’
‘No, sir. That would have been too dangerous, both for the messenger and for me. But I have a good friend here in Bishopston, who looks out for me. It was he who sent to tell me you were back on Gower.’
‘But why should my presence be of interest to you?’
‘Oh, sir!’ The man had grown pale. Indeed, he was shaking now. ‘I have served that family since I was a child. Since before I knew what evil was! But then, growing older and — I hope — becoming wiser, I learned to shut my ears and close my eyes to what went on in that house. Indeed, had I not, I should have run mad!
‘Just recently, however, I have seen and heard things which make me fear for my own safety. For the safety of others, too.’
‘What have you heard?’ demanded Owen.
‘It is a wicked servant who betrays his master. But I have no choice but to do so now. Sir, Mr Atkins knows who you are! He knows how Mr Darrow's father — your uncle — was instrumental in the death of his own! He means to make you and Mr Darrow here pay for it.
‘He will do it, sir! He will have you and Mr Darrow killed! He will have Mr Darrow's sister abused and tormented for the rest of her days!’
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