I crawled the short distance to Bickley. He lay on his back, skin wan, but his ragged breathing told me he was alive.
I patted his face, trying to wake him, then tugged at his bonds. I was not gentle, I confess—he’d caused me the devil of a lot of trouble.
When Bickley finally opened his eyes, he blinked in confusion. Then awareness flooded him, and he tried to scramble away from me.
“Are you more afraid of me than our circumstance?” I asked in amazement. “God’s balls, Bickley. I can’t decide whether you are a coward or a fool.”
“Both.” His words were barely audible. “A sinner and a weak man.”
“You may flagellate yourself later. First, I’d like to decide how we’ll reach shore.”
Bickley summoned enough strength to peer over the gunwale. He took in the empty sea then groaned and dropped back, defeated. “It is fitting. I will fall into the deep and be eaten by a sea creature, like Jonah.”
“Let us hope,” I said. “Jonah was belched out after three days, none the worse for wear.”
“Because he was one of God’s chosen. I never will be.”
“I was taught as a lad that despair is a sin.” I worked as I spoke, not really aware of what I said. “It shows no gratitude for Christ bothering to die in such a horrible way. Which never made sense to me. Why should my way be paved to heaven because the Romans crucified a man?”
“Those are unworthy thoughts,” Bickley whispered.
“I am not an unbeliever, simply skeptical of interpretation,” I said. “God has looked out for me before, and I hope we can prevail upon that good will again. In the meantime, it would be wise to discover where we are.”
I dragged the last of Bickley’s ropes from him and coiled these as well.
Around us rolled a sea full of whitecaps, the boat skimming up the crest of one wave and dropping into the trough of another.
“We can’t have gone far,” I reasoned. “What say you? You’ve lived on the south coast all your life, haven’t you?”
Bickley cast another fearful look at the water and ducked down again. “I have never been in a boat.”
“Never?” I asked incredulously. “I grew up on the coast of Norfolk. I was out into the North Sea many a time with the fishermen around our village. I longed to be a fisherman myself, but of course my father beat that notion out of me. Not the profession of a gentleman.”
Bickley only stared, uncertain I hadn’t run mad. He did not know me well enough to understand that I used bluffness and irritating humor when I was in danger, to keep myself from giving way.
“A fact our fancy gentlemen did not count on,” I continued. “They know me only as the interfering cavalry captain—a thick-headed, gullible one, in their opinion. The perfect man to fit up for a murder of a colonel who’d grown inconvenient.”
“I do not know why they wanted to kill him.” Bickley regarded me pathetically. “They did not take me into their confidence.”
“Because he knew too much, of course. Isherwood was beholden to Armitage for paying off his debts, yes, but he might have been growing a conscience. Especially when he had a popular son who was swiftly rising in his career. What Isherwood did at Salamanca, at Armitage’s instigation was, quite simply, treason. Desjardins egged Armitage and Isherwood into it, wanting to tell Bonaparte—if Bonaparte prevailed—what he’d done to help. Both Grenville and Brandon told me that Desjardins tries to play all sides of the game. But Bonaparte is gone, Desjardins wishes to remain comfortably in England, and treason is not the charge either a lordship or a wealthy emigre want to answer to.”
I gazed at the horizon as I spoke. West was obviously where the sun was sinking. The coast of England had to lie to the north. If we drifted too far east or south, we’d end up in France, not so bad a thing, if we could survive the journey. West would take us to Cornwall, or, if we were unlucky, out into the Atlantic.
With no food or water and a boat that already had too many holes in it, I did not much like our chances.
I sorted through the boards until I found one that was wide and flat. “Do you think you can row?” I asked Bickley.
He glanced at the board in confusion. “I have no idea.”
“One of us will have to paddle while the other makes an attempt at steering. If this boat had a tiller, it is gone now.”
Bickley only stared at me dubiously. I tried to remember how the fishermen of my youth could slide out into the sea in craft even more rickety than this, and not only make it back home but bring in a large catch behind them. I longed for one of those wiry, taciturn, unflappable men with me now.
I hauled Bickley up and thrust a board into his hands. “Try. I’ll guide us.”
I had to show him how to dip the board deep into the water to make any headway, and also how to move from one side to the other, as in a coracle, so we’d go in a straight line.
After Bickley’s few feeble attempts, I realized he was hopeless. I took the makeshift paddle away from him and told him to sit in the stern. He fumbled his way back, nearly turning us over, but I managed to keep the boat upright.
The rope would help. I spent some time tying it to the top of the gunwale, which fortunately had a few rings for just this purpose. “Hold onto that,” I told Bickley. “If you feel yourself going, just hang on and shove your weight opposite to the way the boat tips.”
The keel had probably once had ropes attached for steering, hence the rings, but I would have to dive over the side to reattach them, and I’d never be fit enough for that.
The board was difficult to hold, especially when I had no gloves—my captors had taken those too—but I approximated a single oar with one hand on top, the other close to the water. It was damned awkward, but I did get the boat pointed more or less north.
“I’ve been piecing together events,” I said as I endeavored. I did not know if Bickley could hear me, but I did not much care. “After supper I quarreled with Isherwood, who was still annoyed with me about Marguerite. I thought at first someone had added something to the port I took with him, but Isherwood poured his measure out of the same decanter I did, and others, including Desjardins, had helped themselves as well.”
I paused to catch my breath, my labors rigorous. “My memories go hazy after I departed the Pavilion with Grenville. You must have accosted me soon after Grenville left me at the Steine. Appealing to me, in your sad way, to help you with a problem.”
“Yes.” Bickley wheezed out the syllable.
“I must rely on you for the gist of our conversation. Was Miss Farrow present when we reached the Meeting House?”
“She was. She often remains late to help clean, or prepare meals for those who need them. But Matilda knows nothing about this.”
“Good.” The upright Miss Farrow could remain on the moral high ground. “I like her. She was worried about Miss Purkis. You weren’t as concerned about Josh at the moment—at that time, you had no idea of his fate. But Miss Farrow had noted his absence and asked me to discover what had happened to him.”
I went quiet, out of breath, moving my paddle steadily. “Did you invite me in for a cup of something?” I asked when I could speak again.
“Tea.” The words were bitter. “Thou didst not want it but politely drank it.”
“Damn me and my good manners. I rarely drink the stuff—I prefer coffee.” I might not have noticed if the tea seemed off, as most tea tasted foul to me. Brewster must have lost me when I’d stepped inside the Meeting House for the fateful drink. “What did you put into it? Opium?”
“Yes. Very strong opium, I think. I am not certain exactly what it was.” Bickley coughed. “Fernand gave it to me.”
“Fernand? Ah, Comte Desjardins.” The man behind me had violated most of his own principles but still could not bring himself to call a count by his title. “Then your part was over. Harmless, you must have told yourself. All you’d done was give me a substance that some physicians use for healing. I must have felt woozy immediately, because
when I went into the pub not far from the Meeting House, I asked for coffee, not ale. I must have wanted to clear my head.”
I ceased speaking to paddle for a time. My thoughts did not stop, however, and soon I was speculating aloud again.
“The lady who lured me out of the pub might have been Lady Armitage, though I suppose I will never know unless I ask her. I imagine she is in thick with her husband’s plots, has been since she met him in Vienna. She must have told me something alarming to make me run back to the Pavilion. I wonder whether Armitage or Desjardins killed Isherwood in front of my dazed eyes, or whether he was already dead by the time I reached the spot. I remember growing disoriented at the sight of Armitage the next night, so I will believe it was he who made the killing blow. The event must have stuck in my head. After that, Clement, up and about because he’s a young man with a healthy appetite, helped me leave the Pavilion. I found my way home to collapse into bed ,and remembered nothing when I woke.” I gave a breathless laugh. “The evil was in them, Bickley, not you. They are cruel men who will do anything to get what they want.”
Bickley said nothing. I risked a glance at him to find him openly weeping.
“None of that,” I told him sternly. “I need your eyes clear so we don’t run into anything. Even the smallest bit of flotsam might capsize this craft.”
Bickley shook his head. “I am sorry, Gabriel. I did not know how good a man thou art, but that should not have mattered. I conspired to ruin a gentleman, and I had no right to, no matter what I believed about his character.”
The words were broken, Bickley miserable. He’d been upset enough about his brother’s death to convince himself to help Armitage and Desjardins, and then he’d been punished in the most terrible way. No wonder he’d thought his own sins had been the culprit.
“I don’t mind what the bastards did to me,” I said. “Even Isherwood was a cad. But I’ll get them for killing Joshua.”
I’d make certain I lived, if only for that.
I closed my mouth and concentrated on paddling. I thought I was moving us in the correct direction, but the truth was, I could not say. The sun continued to sink, and once the summer twilight gave out, we’d be in complete darkness. If the film of clouds that gathered on the horizon spread through the sky, I would not be able to use the stars for navigation.
I continued to paddle. The sun slipped down, turning the water golden and too dazzling.
Bickley had fallen silent. I looked over my shoulder to see him slumped against the gunwale, hands wrapped in the ropes.
I opened my mouth to shout at him to stay awake, when I caught sight of a speck on the horizon beyond him. My heart banged, my throat and mouth impossibly dry, and I prayed.
The speck grew larger. I squinted against the glare to watch it, willing the thing to be what I wished.
I was rewarded when I saw the silhouette of a spread sail. It was a small ship, with only one mast, a cargo sloop, or possibly an excise cutter. Or a smuggler—but I wasn’t much bothered by that. As long as they pulled us out of this damned boat and gave us water, they could be pirates of the worst stripe for all I cared.
“Bickley.” The word grated from me, barely audible. “Take heart, my friend. There is a ship.” I dropped the board to the bottom of the boat and waved my arms. “Hey! Ahoy!”
Bickley woke with a start. I felt him moving, then he was laughing in relief, waving with me. Apparently he’d decided he wanted to live.
We shouted, arms moving rapidly, our motions nearly tipping us over. I removed my coat and stuck it on the end of the board, brandishing it like a flag.
As the ship neared us, I saw that it was too small for a cargo ship but also too clean and sleek for an excise cutter. I realized as it drew ever closer, that it was a yacht, a rich man’s pleasure boat.
I’d seen these small crafts sailing close to shore, and Grenville had told me it was popular for gentlemen sailors to ply the Solent, the water between Southampton and the Isle of Wight. Grenville had been asked many a time to join the fairly new Yacht Club, based in St. James’s in London, for gentlemen who owned such craft, but Grenville always declined with a shudder. A man who was a slave to motion sickness was not likely to hurry out and purchase a pleasure boat.
The boat drew alongside. I was worn out from shouting and had to sink down and wait. I hoped they had plenty of water and coffee—and a keg of brandy wouldn’t go amiss. I was chilled through.
The craft was lovely, the wood honed and cared for, the metalworks polished, the sails, now being furled, white and whole. A flag of the Yacht Club danced on a line.
A man appeared at the rail. Before I could appeal to him to take us aboard, he leveled a shotgun at me and fired it.
Chapter 23
I slammed myself to the bottom of the boat. Bickley, crying out, did the same.
The shot went wide, Desjardins always bad at aiming.
I ought to have known a man like Desjardins would have a pleasure craft. Or perhaps it belonged to Armitage, who liked to be the perfect aristocrat. They likely hired someone to sail it for them, but they must have used it to tow our boat out of sight of shore.
They hadn’t intended to leave us to die, I realized. Bickley and I might survive if we got ourselves untied or could be rescued by one of the excise cutters I’d first imagined this ship to be. They’d wait until we were weakened by sun and thirst, and then return to make an end to us before letting us drift into the darkness.
Desjardins leisurely reloaded the gun and fired again. He missed of course.
But it was only a matter of time before he got in a lucky shot, or before Armitage took the gun away from him and finished the deed. We were bobbing in the water with nowhere to go.
“Bloody hell,” I yelled up at him. “At least challenge me. If I kill you, you’ll go out with honor. If you kill me, that will be an end to it. Let Bickley go home—you’ve already hurt him enough.”
Desjardins only fired again. I felt the scatter of that shot, hot pain in the fleshy part of my arm. My shirtsleeve showed a crimson streak.
I took up my board, disentangled my coat from it, and returned to paddling. I’d never outrun a well-rigged sloop, but the devil if I’d sit and tamely wait for Desjardins to pot me.
Lord Armitage appeared at the rail alongside his friend. He too had a fowling piece, another Purdey, I guessed, but he held it upright, waiting. When Desjardins tired of his sport, Armitage would kill us.
Desjardins chuckled, the good-natured laugh of a man enjoying himself. “We are only dispatching a murderer,” he called in French across the space. “You ran that sword through Isherwood. Took it from him and killed him.”
At the moment, I could not stop and muse whether he told the truth. I continued dipping my paddle desperately into the waves.
Armitage’s voice rumbled to me. “We witnessed it, Lacey. Someone told you he would harm your daughter in revenge for taking his wife. You went mad.”
Coldness burned my heart. What if the woman outside the pub, probably Lady Armitage—I doubted they’d risk hiring a woman—had told me this? That Isherwood had been boasting of his plans, and was now at the Pavilion, alone?
Such a threat would certainly have made me dash there and confronted Isherwood, especially if I’d not been in my right senses. Perhaps the confrontation had turned into a brawl, and I’d managed to seize Isherwood’s sword. Armitage and Desjardins would have made themselves scarce and let me condemn myself.
No memories came. However, at the moment, I did not have time to speculate. Desjardins leveled his gun and shot again.
Our boat was no longer in his line of fire. I drove us straight at the larger craft, hugging its shadow as I turned to follow its hull.
I saw Desjardins and Armitage hurry along the rail as I made my way to the stern. There, I heaved myself up, grabbing the gunwale of the rocking sloop, and slithered over the side to the deck.
I hurt—devil take it, I hurt. I knew I’d never have the wherewitha
l to fight even if I could stand up, but I intended to do plenty of damage before they killed me.
The pilot in the stern gaped at me, and roaring, I charged him. He stepped determinedly from the wheel to fight me off, and I dodged around him, grabbed the wheel, and gave it a wild crank.
The ship jumped and spun hard to port, slamming straight into a rising wave. I grabbed a sheet, easily slipped its knot, and let it fly free. I did it to another line, and another, blessing those fishermen of my youth who’d taught me about ropes and sails.
Desjardins was cursing in French as he came at me, the pilot in English. Armitage, angrily silent, balanced the best he could on the rocking deck and aimed his gun at me.
I dropped into a hatch that led below as his shot echoed above me. They’d corner me down here, but I scarcely cared.
The berserker anger that had let me live after I’d been hung by my heels on a hot day in Spain, and again helped me kill a deserter who’d threatened the woman and children who’d rescued me, made me yank a chair from the floor and start breaking the windows that lined the hull. Water would flood in, and this pretty sloop and her be-damned yachtsmen would wash away.
Desjardins came below first, luckily for me. He flung aside his weapon to run at me and fight. I fended off his blows, landing a few of my own, but he was strong, and I was already flagging. My advantage was that Armitage, who more slowly descended the stairs, couldn’t shoot me without hitting Desjardins.
A deafening roar filled the cabin. Desjardins screamed and spat blood as he fell limply from my grasp.
I’d been wrong. Armitage had been prepared to shoot right through his friend to get to me. Desjardins collapsed to the floor, cursing and moaning, and Armitage calmly reloaded.
A startled shout from up top made him pause, and in that second I slammed into him, fighting for control of the gun. Armitage’s hands slipped on it, but he could afford to let it go, as its shot was already spent. I brought up the gun like a club, at the same time Armitage unsheathed a long knife.
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 22