Into Thin Eire Page 10

  “Carson, I need you to ride to Wells,” he told Harry. “Find the newspaper office—it’s the Wells Journal—and see what you can discover about an advertisement that ran there a week ago, asking for someone to reserve a room here for a man named Edward Gaines Brockton. Thomas”—he turned to address his valet—“pack my bags and your own. While you’re at it, go ahead and pack Mr. Carson’s, too. It may save us time.”

  Matthews cleared his throat discreetly. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Pickett, but Mr. Colquhoun gave orders that you were to leave Mr. Carson in charge of the case here.”

  “If Carson wants to stay here and chase after mare’s nests, he’s welcome to do so. But I don’t think he’ll find any Edward Gaines Brockton, because I believe no such person exists.” He turned to Carson and addressed him a voice curiously humble for one who only moments ago seemed intent on choking the life out of him. “Besides, I—I would be obliged to you if you would come with me. I have a feeling I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  Carson regarded his superior for a long moment before stretching his arm across the table. “All right, chief,” he said at last, “I’m your man.”

  Matthews watched in some alarm as Pickett accepted the proffered handshake. “But—what am I to tell Mr. Colquhoun?”

  “You may tell him that you delivered his orders—and that I respectfully declined to obey them.”

  Matthews had been fortifying himself with a pull from his tankard, but this declaration was enough to make him spray ale across the table. As Thomas scurried to mop up the mess, Matthews stammered, “But—but dash it, man, you can’t—you could lose your position!”

  “Yes. Or I could lose my wife.”

  Harry pushed back his chair. “If we’re to be leaving Dunbury soon, then I suppose I’d better see about hiring a hack and riding to Wells. If you don’t mind my asking, chief, what do you intend to do while I’m gone?”

  Pickett sighed. “I’m going to pay a call on my wife’s family.”

  AS HE DUG THROUGH THE clothespress, pushing aside the evening clothes he had reluctantly instructed Thomas to pack, Pickett couldn’t help remembering the dread with which he’d contemplated the idea of dressing for dinner with Julia’s parents. Now, he reflected, he would have given all he possessed to have been doing exactly that. Instead, he was dressing not for dinner, but for riding, and his destination was not the home of Julia’s parents, but that of her sister. Or, more specifically, her sister’s husband. Pickett needed some kind of strategy, and he didn’t even know where to start. Fortunately, he knew someone with experience in planning and carrying out campaigns: Major James Pennington, late of His Majesty’s 7th cavalry.

  After changing his clothes, Pickett went to the stable and requested the hire of a horse, preferably one gentle enough to tolerate an inexperienced rider. It said much for his state of mind that he was utterly unmindful of the grins on the faces of the stable hands who witnessed his ungainly ascent into the saddle; as for deliberately waiting until Harry Carson had departed for Wells before putting his own lack of skill on display for his colleague’s amusement, such an idea never even entered his head. Instead, he was hearing again Julia’s voice . . .

  My dear John! Are you truly offering to come to me on horseback? I am quite overcome!

  “Oh, Julia,” he murmured aloud, “I would crawl on my hands and knees, if only—”

  But he would not think of that, not now. In a way, he was thankful for the need to concentrate on staying in the saddle; it gave his brain an occupation besides wondering where Julia was, and whether she was safe and unharmed. Or whether she was alive at all.

  In such a manner the miles went by, and he passed through the gates of the estate called Greenwillows just as the sun was beginning to set. He left his hack in the care of the groomsman who came to meet him, then walked as one in a daze to the front door of the house, where he asked for a word with Major Pennington.

  “I’m afraid he and Mrs. Pennington are presently at dinner,” the butler said, clearly prepared to close the door on him. “If you would care to leave your card, however—”

  “Please—it’s an emergency,” Pickett insisted, discreetly planting his foot just inside the door, in case the butler was not convinced.

  “And who shall I say is calling?” the butler inquired.

  “John Pickett, of—” He broke off just before saying of Bow Street from sheer force of habit. “—of London,” he said instead, adding, “I’m Mrs. Pennington’s brother by marriage.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The butler left him in the foyer, and returned a moment later. “If you will follow me, sir?”

  Pickett did, and was led up a flight of stairs and down the corridor. They passed the stately formal dining room on the left, with its enormous painting over the fireplace and the long mahogany table that seated twenty, and turned instead into a much smaller room fitted out for intimate family dining. Pickett noticed that, while Jamie Pennington sat at the head of the table, his wife, Claudia, had rejected her rightful place at its foot in order to sit beside her husband instead—the same seating arrangement, in fact, that prevailed at his and Julia’s home in Curzon Street. Julia . . .

  “Why, Mr. Pickett, what a pleasant surprise!” exclaimed Claudia, looking up from her plate. “But I must remember to call you John, mustn’t I? Tell me, have you eaten? Morris, pray fetch another plate—”

  “No, no,” Pickett said hastily, his stomach roiling at the idea of eating anything at such a time. “I just came to—I need your help—”

  “What’s wrong?” Jamie asked, frowning.

  “It’s Julia.” He swallowed hard. “She’s been abducted.”

  For the second time that day—had it really been only a few hours? It seemed an eternity!—Pickett recounted the details of Andrew’s sworn statement.

  “Why, it’s wicked!” cried Claudia, horrified. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I should rather ask ‘why’ would anyone do such a thing,” her husband said thoughtfully. “If you could determine ‘why,’ you would very likely know ‘who.’ ”

  Pickett turned gratefully to his brother-in-law, who, just as he’d hoped, appeared to have a clear head and firm grasp on the situation, insofar as it had been revealed to him. “I think—that is, I’m certain I know.”

  “You know why, or who?”

  “Both. And I swear to God it was an accident, but I couldn’t make him believe it.” It all came pouring out then, things he had never told to anyone but his magistrate: the Lake District and the confrontation that had taken place there; the distraction provided by Julia’s arrival and the ensuing struggle for the pistol; the loud report and the woman’s face, frozen in an expression of surprise that might have been comical, had it not been for the bright red stain spreading across the front of her gown; and, finally, the threat that still caused Pickett to awaken drenched with fear and sweat in the middle of the night. You have a wife there, one you love...Shall I do to her what you did to mine?... No, not today, but someday, someday when you’re least expecting it, when you’ve convinced yourself that it’s safe to lower your guard...

  “And with such a threat hanging over her head, what must Julia do but decide to host a tea party! How could she be so thoughtless of her own safety?” Claudia pushed back her chair and began pacing about the room in mingled fear and frustration. “Surely she must have known—”

  “She didn’t.”

  Claudia paused in her pacing and blinked at him in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “She didn’t know she was in any danger,” Pickett confessed miserably. “I didn’t tell her.”

  “You what?” As bewilderment gave way to belligerence, her face—the face so similar to Julia’s—turned crimson with fury.

  “I—I didn’t want her to worry,” he said in his own defense. And while this had seemed like a reasonable course of action at the time, it now sounded like the feeblest of excuses, even to his own ears. �
�I mean—her condition—the baby—”

  “How dare you? How dare you use her condition as an excuse for keeping her in ignorance? You might at least have allowed her the agency of deciding for herself whether to worry or not!”

  There was nothing, not one word, that he could offer as a rebuttal. Perhaps that was why Jamie chose to do it for him. “Don’t be so hard on him, Claudia. I daresay I would have done the same thing at his age.”

  “Yes, I daresay you would have,” she agreed bitterly. “Tell me, do young men have to work at being stupid, or does it come naturally?”

  Jamie’s voice hardened. “I know you’re frightened for her, Claudia—so am I—but no purpose can be served by casting blame. Besides, it seems to me that you, of all people, have no cause to question John’s intelligence. If it weren’t for him, you would very likely still be married to his lordship, and hiding on the Peninsula.”

  Pickett wasn’t sure which he found the most objectionable: being talked about as if he were still in the schoolroom (not that he’d ever actually spent that much time there) or being talked about as if he weren’t even present. But however unsatisfying he found the conversation, he could not argue with its results. Immediately, the fire went out of Claudia, and she came to him with outstretched arms.

  “Jamie is right. I’m being horrid to you, and I’m so sorry.” She enfolded him in an embrace and, after a moment’s awkwardness, he returned it, savoring the contact with another human being, united by their mutual love for Julia and fear for her safety. “It’s only that I just got my sister back; I can’t bear to think of losing her again.”

  On that much, they were agreed. Pickett might have told her so, but the little tête-à-tête was interrupted by Jamie. “There’s a moon tonight, so we need not wait until morning to start out—assuming, of course, that you have some idea of where we should begin to look for her.”

  “The Lake District,” Pickett said without hesitation. “A village called Banfell. But first we have to go back to the Cock and Boar in Dunbury. I have a colleague from the Horse Patrol—I sent him on an errand to Wells, but he should have returned by the time we get there. My valet is there as well, packing our bags.”

  “And while Jamie is upstairs packing his own bag,” Claudia spoke up firmly, “you, my brother John, are going to sit down and eat.”

  Pickett shook his head. “I couldn’t possibly eat anything—”

  “Nonsense! You can be of no use to Julia if you’re fainting from hunger before you ever reach her.”

  Pickett could not argue with the truth of this statement, but neither could he taste anything of the very respectable repast cobbled together from his sister- and brother-in-law’s leavings. He contrived to swallow enough to stave off the demands of his stomach, and by the time he had finished picking at a treacle tart that at any other time he would have put away with considerable relish, Jamie had returned to the small dining room, his greatcoat thrown over his riding clothes and a bulging valise in his hand.

  “Are you ready, then?” he asked, observing Pickett’s empty plate. “Good! Let’s be on our way.”

  Claudia followed them downstairs as far as the front door, where she bade her husband a fond farewell before saying, “I won’t ask to go with you, for I know I would only slow you down. Still, if there anything I can do here—”

  “Actually, there is,” Pickett confessed. “I would be obliged to you if you would break the news to your parents.”

  She considered this request for a moment before agreeing to it, with one caveat. “I shall tell Mama and Papa everything they need to know, but I don’t think I shall tell them anything just yet.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, then added tremulously, “She’ll be all right, you know. How can she not, when the two cleverest and best men in England are coming to her rescue?”

  10

  In Which Plans Are Made for Julia’s Rescue

  They left the house and walked to the stables, where, to Pickett’s surprise, Jamie didn’t order his horse to be saddled, but the traveling chaise to be prepared instead. As the groom led the carriage horses from their stalls, Jamie hefted his valise onto the boot and strapped it securely in place.

  “I—I hired a hack,” Pickett was moved to protest, although not without a pang of regret at the thought of giving up a place inside a well-sprung chaise to pick his way instead along the road on horseback, with no more light than that provided by the waning gibbous moon.

  “I’ll hitch your mount to the back of the carriage,” Jamie said. “Mind you, I’ll have to send the carriage back, if not tonight, then first thing in the morning—I won’t leave Claudia with no means of transportation—but we can hire a post-chaise.”

  “I should have thought you would prefer to ride,” Pickett protested feebly.

  “Ordinarily, I would, and I daresay your man from the Horse Patrol would, too, but I expect you’ll find it much more comfortable to be driven.” Seeing the play of emotions that flitted across Pickett’s expressive countenance, he added, “Yes, I know you want to save face, but there’s no shame in owning one’s limitations. I suspect we’ll want to travel at a brisker pace than you would be comfortable with on horseback, and when we find Julia, we’ll need a carriage to bring her back in.”

  Pickett’s brow cleared at his use of “when” rather than “if.” “Yes—of course—I hadn’t thought—” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Truth to tell, I can’t seem to think of anything much.”

  And that, Jamie reflected, was hardly surprising, under the circumstances. He was not at all so confident of their victorious outcome as he had allowed his brother-in-law to believe, but he had no more intention of divulging his doubts than he had of allowing Pickett, in his present state of mind, to occupy the carriage alone, where his darkest thoughts might prey upon him. It was the sort of reasoning that had made him an excellent officer, and that would have made him an excellent vicar, had his elopement with the very married Claudia, Lady Buckleigh, not put paid to that particular career path.

  “Better still,” Pickett added thoughtfully, “perhaps we ought to hire a vehicle that we can drive ourselves. We could take the driving in turns, and travel through the night.”

  “Think, man!” Jamie chided him. “You’re talking about a journey of three hundred miles. Even if we drove straight through, stopping only to eat and change horses, we’d be dead on our feet by the time we reached Banfell. From what you’ve said, this fellow we’re after is a crafty one. We’ll need to be awake and alert if we hope to best him.”

  This description aligned perfectly with Pickett’s recollections of the man. Still, every minute they delayed was one more minute that Julia was at the mercy of a madman, suffering who knew what horrors. The expression on his face must have told its own tale, for Jamie clapped a hand to his shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze, then a shake.

  “I know, old boy,” he said. “But you’ve got to buck up, for her sake. It’ll do her no good at all if we go off half-cocked with no sleep and no plan as to what we’re going to do when we get there.” He turned to address his groom. “Are you ready there, Kirby? Good! Let’s be off.”

  He gave Pickett one last, brisk clap on the back, then nudged him toward the carriage door before climbing in after him. Kirby scrambled up onto the box, and the search for Julia was officially underway.

  Darkness had fallen by the time they reached the Cock and Boar. Just as Pickett had predicted, Carson had returned from his errand in Wells, and lost no time in informing his superior of his findings.

  “You may be onto something, chief,” he told Pickett, after he and Thomas had been presented to Major Pennington. “About there being no such person as Edward Gaines Brockton, I mean. It turns out that the advertisement wasn’t placed by him at all, but by someone named James Sullivan.”

  “That means something to you?” Jamie asked, seeing Pickett’s gaze sharpen.

  “I’ve seen it before,” Pickett said. “On a letter found
in the coat pocket of a dying man.” As he recalled, that letter had also included Sullivan’s direction. He cast about in his memory for it. “He’s in Dublin, or at least, he was. Mountjoy Square, to be exact.”

  “What do you think, then?” Jamie asked. “Should we go there, instead of Banfell?”

  Pickett considered the matter. “I think Robert Hetherington is too clever a man to return to his estate near Banfell. He knows that’s the first place he’d be looked for.”

  Carson frowned. “I thought you said the fellow was mad.”

  “As a March hare,” Pickett said bluntly. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t be cunning.”

  “But why Dublin? He isn’t Irish, is he?”

  “No, but his wife is—was.” Again Pickett recalled the gunshot, and the expression on the man’s face when he realized his wife had been hit. In a way, he could understand Hetherington’s determination to hold him to blame: the truth—that he himself had killed his beloved wife—was too terrible for him to contemplate. Looking back, Pickett suspected Hetherington’s sanity had been hanging by a thread for decades before her death had finally pushed him over the edge. Pickett doubted that a few weeks in prison had done anything to restore his mind. “She’d been—mistreated—by the English after her father took part in an uprising in the last century. The English army,” he added as an aside to Jamie, “so it’s a good thing you’re no longer in uniform.”