Into Thin Eire Page 18

  “A hostage,” Pickett said in a hollow voice. “As long as he’s got Julia, he holds the upper hand—and he knows it.” Hence the severed finger, as a reminder to Pickett of just how powerless he was.

  “Which is why,” Jamie continued, picking up the thread of his narrative, “While we’re keeping Hetherington busy on one end of the house, Mr. Pickett will approach from the other end, slip inside through the front door, go upstairs, and fetch Julia. Once he’s got her out of the house and away to a place of safety, he’ll come back and lend whatever reinforcements may—”

  “Look here,” Carson interrupted, “it seems to me that we’re going about this all wrong.”

  “Oh?” Far from taking offense, Jamie seemed genuinely interested in hearing Carson’s objections. “In what way?”

  “You’re going on the assumption that Hetherington can’t guard both Mrs. Pickett and his explosives at the same time, but what if he can? What I mean is, we know he has at least two men working for him; what if one or both of them surprise Mr. Pickett on the stairs, or some such thing? Then Hetherington still has his hostage, and we’ve got no reinforcements coming.”

  Jamie sighed. “Your point is a valid one, Mr. Carson, and I’m sorry I can’t give you a better answer. It would be nice if we could know for sure exactly how many men we’ll be facing, but we can’t. We just have to do the best we can with the information we’ve got. If Mr. Pickett should find himself in a tight spot, then I’m sure he’ll think of something.”

  Carson regarded Pickett doubtfully. “You’ll forgive me for not being filled with confidence.”

  Pickett had been studying the cards in his hand, but at this slight to his powers of improvisation he looked up, bristling.

  Jamie laid a restraining hand on his arm, but addressed himself to Harry. “If there’s one thing I learned in the army, Mr. Carson, it’s that the most careful plan of attack falls apart within minutes of battle being joined. The better part of warfare consists of making it up as you go along. And you won’t find many better at it than this fellow here.”

  “Thank you, brother mine,” Pickett said, then played his ace and took the trick.

  JULIA SAT ALONE WITH her host and captor at breakfast, facing him down the length of the dining room table and trying to act as if plotting an escape were the last thing on her mind. Of Flynn there was no sign; had he already left on his errand, she wondered, or was there some other explanation for his absence? The image of Bohannan as she had last seen him rose unbidden to her mind, the big body, so recently alive, sprawled on the drawing room floor in an ungainly heap, all because he had spoken up in her defense . . .

  Stop it, she told herself firmly. You need to be keeping a clear head and gathering information, not dwelling on horrors. Aloud, she said, “How fresh the scones are this morning! Mr. Flynn will be sorry to have missed them.”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong there, Mrs. Pickett,” Hetherington informed her. “He didn’t miss them at all. He set off on an errand at first light, and his wife made them early enough that he could have a couple before he left. In fact, you might say we’re making do with Flynn’s leavings.”

  “Is it his wife who has been cooking our meals, then? I had wondered.” This was true so far as it went, although her speculations had usually centered on wondering whether the cook might be disposed to sympathize with her own plight, and whether this person lived on the premises or only came as day labor from the village—Summerhill, Flynn had once called it before Hetherington had shushed him into silence. She had pretended not to notice, but had filed the name of the nearest hamlet away in her brain; it might be useful, when she escaped, to know something of what lay beyond her immediate surroundings. “I should like to go down to the kitchen and offer Mrs. Flynn my compliments, if you have no objection.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “I have no objection to you going to the kitchen whenever you like, but you won’t find Mrs. Flynn there.”

  “Oh?” Julia prompted. “And why is that?”

  He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, and for a moment Julia wondered if she had pushed him too hard. Then he shrugged. “Her man was going to town today, and she wanted to go with him.”

  Town, Julia thought. Not “the village,” but “town.” Presumably, that meant Dublin, where the package (whatever it was) was to be delivered. But he was only going as far as Summerhill, surely, to hire a wagon and carthorses—wasn’t he? The answer would determine how long she would have before he returned. She wished she could remember exactly what he’d said; it wouldn’t do to overestimate her window of opportunity and thus let her best chance go to waste.

  Aloud, she merely said, “Perhaps he should take her to town more often, if it inspires her to such culinary heights. I could become accustomed to having these for breakfast every morning.”

  As if in proof of this statement, she reached for another scone. In fact, she needed an excuse for making a heartier breakfast than usual. If she were to take advantage of Flynn’s absence and make her escape, it might be some time before she had the opportunity—to say nothing of the food—to eat again. And yet she’d eaten little since her abduction; now she needed an explanation ready to hand, should Hetherington wonder at her improved appetite.

  But Hetherington, it soon transpired, was occupied with thoughts of his own. As Julia pushed back her chair and rose from the table, he spoke.

  “A word of caution, Mrs. Pickett, before you go. I would be obliged to you if you would keep to your room today.”

  Julia had no intention of keeping to her room today, of all days, but she judged it wise to keep this observation to herself. Still, accepting this dictum too meekly would surely arouse his suspicions just as much as outright defiance would have done.

  “You said I might go down to the kitchens,” she reminded him.

  “Aye, when you said you wished to speak to Mrs. Flynn. But since you won’t find her there, why bother to go at all?”

  “May I not walk about the grounds, then?” she asked, knowing quite well what the answer would be.

  “Not today, my dear. Perhaps tomorrow, if your husband hasn’t come by then.”

  Once again, his voice was that of an indulgent uncle gently reproving a favorite niece. Anyone would find it impossible to believe that he was mad—anyone who hadn’t seen him shoot Bohannan in the back . . .

  “Very well, then,” she said, not daring to offer further protest. “I shall choose a book from the library, and spend the day reading.”

  Julia tended to avoid the library, as it was an unpleasant room. It reeked of dry rot from cracks in the ceiling, while in one corner the blackened walls bore witness to some long-ago fire; apparently its long vacancy had been interrupted at intervals by vagrants taking up temporary residence. She stopped at the bookshelf nearest the door and selected a mildewed volume at random, then returned with it to the bedchamber that had been allotted to her on the day she’d arrived. How many days had it been? She supposed it didn’t really matter, just so long as today was the last.

  Once inside the room, she set the book on her bedside table and promptly forgot all about it. She locked the door, hoping to delay as long as possible the moment Hetherington, or Flynn, or both, realized she was no longer in her room. She crossed the floor to the window, and twitched back the curtain just enough to see through. Her room overlooked the front of the house, and so offered no view of the stable; at the moment, all was quiet, at least so far as she could see. Still, she forced herself to wait long enough to allay any suspicions Hetherington might have that she was not reading in her room, exactly as she said she would be.

  The stillness was broken by the tinny chime of a clock somewhere in the house. Julia could not recall seeing a clock, but then, she had not explored the entire house. She had not noticed the sound before, but then, the house was quieter now that only she and Hetherington were in residence. Had it been chiming all along, and she had simply not heard, or had Hetherington only wound it today, fi
nding it important to the execution of his mission? She wondered how long that neglected clock had continued to mark the hours for a family who was no longer there, until it finally fell silent for want of a hand to wind it. She would wait until the next chime, she decided, and then she would make her escape from this house with its tragic past and its terrifying future.

  Some time later, she heard the discordant notes of the Whittington chimes—discordant because they were badly out of tune—followed by the clock’s striking the hour.

  It was time.

  Julia took off her shoes lest the sound of her footsteps in the quiet house betray her. She dared not try to slip down the stairs to the front door; she suspected Hetherington would be quick to discover any such attempt on her part, no matter how complacent he might have appeared at the breakfast table. Fortunately, the dilapidated condition of the house had revealed another possible escape route. The paper was peeling from the walls, and the resulting gaps revealed the narrow jib door through which servants would have gained access to the room in more prosperous days. Beyond this door would be a staircase descending two floors to the kitchens. And from the kitchens, one might reach the service door—and beyond it, freedom.

  Julia lingered only long enough to light her bedside candle, then picked up her shoes and candle, opened the jib door (grimacing at the faint protest of long-unused hinges), and started down the stairs. She eased the door closed behind her and was glad she had remembered to provide herself with the candle; without it, the darkness would have been complete. The stairs were narrow and uncarpeted, and she groped her way down one tread at a time, clinging to the handrail with one hand and her candlestick with the other. Alas, this left no hand to hold her shoes, so she was obliged to pause long enough to stuff them into her bodice before resuming her journey.

  Once or twice she heard something skittering in the dark, but aside from these unsettling reminders that she and Hetherington were not entirely alone in the house (for they apparently had plenty of four-footed companions), her escape from her prison was surprisingly uneventful. No one waited in the kitchen to demand where she was going, and when she put a tentative hand to the service door and pushed it open, no one lurked on the other side, ready to raise a hue and cry.

  With a sigh that was equal parts triumph and relief, she braced against the doorframe for balance while she put on her shoes, then set out for the long drive that would take her to the road. She could almost feel hostile eyes upon her, watching her from the house, and the copse of trees that would eventually shield her from view now seemed a hundred miles away. She was sorely tempted to set out instead across the neglected fields, but with no landmarks to guide her, she might walk for days without reaching any village or hamlet where she might seek help. Then, too, there was the fact that the back of the house had tall windows overlooking a crumbling stone terrace; if Hetherington were still in the dining room, or had repaired to the drawing room after breakfast, he could not fail to see her. No, risky as it was, the front of the house and the drive leading to the road were still the better option.

  Having made her decision, Julia refused to waste time or energy in questioning it—until she reached the end of the house nearest the stable. She recalled again the sacks and barrels stored there, and Flynn’s determination to close the gaping door before she could see what was inside. There might have been a horse just out of her view, she reasoned, perhaps even more than one; Flynn hadn’t allowed her the chance to find out. But there was no one to stop her now, and if there chanced to be a saddle horse in the stable, then the fact that she could ride would more than make up for the time she would lose.

  Her mind made up, she crept stealthily toward the stable, inwardly chiding herself for taking an unnecessary risk. Admit it, what you really want is to discover what it is, this package that is to be delivered to Dublin. She could not forget Flynn’s mention of “finishing” something at the castle. Hetherington’s name had been linked with a castle once before, and had it not been for John’s intervention, the results might have been disastrous. She reached the stable door and, finding it unlocked (no doubt in preparation for Flynn’s return), she pushed it open. She slipped inside and paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  Just as she had suspected, there were no horses to be found. She strode up to the pile of sacks. A bit had been spilled on the floor, and three parallel grooves indicated where someone had attempted to scoop it up with his fingers. Julia knelt down and followed suit, rubbing the gritty black substance between her thumb and forefinger. No daughter of that avid sportsman, Sir Thaddeus Runyon, could fail to recognize gunpowder when she saw it. Whatever Hetherington’s plans for Dublin were, they involved firepower—and plenty of it. She had to escape, not only for her own sake, but in order to warn someone—anyone!—of what was in store for the city if he and Flynn had their way.

  She started for the door—and froze as a shadow fell across the opening. Someone was out there.

  And she was trapped inside.

  19

  In Which Mr. and Mrs. John Pickett Are Reunited,

  Albeit under Less Than Ideal Circumstances

  Pickett left Jamie, Carson, and Thomas concealed in the copse of trees overlooking the end of the house opposite the stable. Running at a crouch, he crossed the stretch of open ground until he reached the house, then pressed himself flat against the wall with his back to the weathered gray stone so as not to be visible from any of the windows. With pistol drawn, he worked his way around to the front door, stooping low whenever he had to pass in front of one of the tall windows. He had almost reached the door when he glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled about, aiming his pistol, only to let out a sigh of relief at the discovery that it had only been the stable door, now standing slightly ajar. Only the wind, he thought, scolding himself for his overstretched nerves.

  But no, the door had been locked when he and Jamie had discovered the cache of explosives. Either someone had been extremely careless, or someone was inside. Hetherington might be mad as a March hare, but not even the man’s worst enemy—which, Pickett supposed, was him—could call the fellow careless. Someone was inside, then, someone who might choose to exit the stable just in time to see him spiriting Julia out of the house.

  Pickett wrestled with indecision, but only for a moment. Whoever was in the stable, it would surely be better to confront them now, alone, before they could raise the alarm. At best, he would eliminate a potential threat before it could become a real one; at worst, he might be killed before he ever reached Julia. But with Pickett himself dead, Hetherington might even free her. After all, he had no particular grudge against Julia; it was the prospect of seeing his enemy suffer that now drove the man.

  Dropping once more into a stooping run, Pickett approached the stable, pausing at the door to listen for any sounds coming from inside. All was quiet except for the pounding of his own heart. He peered cautiously around the door. The cache of black powder was still there, but between him and it stood a disheveled woman in a torn and dirty gown, staring at the stable door with wide, frightened eyes. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

  “Julia!”

  He’d spoken softly so as not to startle her, but her reaction astounded him. As he stole inside and pulled the door closed behind him, she took a step backward, holding out one hand as if to warn off a blow. “Oh, no! Oh, nonono!”

  He froze where he stood. “Sweetheart? Do you not know me?” If she didn’t, if Hetherington’s treatment of her had deprived her of her wits, then he would die in the slowest, most agonizing manner Pickett could contrive.

  She blinked at him in bewilderment. “Of course I know you! How could I not? But I—I told you not to come. I left a letter for you.”

  “Yes, I know. I got it.” A little smile touched his lips. “I’ve never read such a great piece of nonsense in all my life.”

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “It’s not me he wa
nts; it’s you. He knew you would come for me.”

  “And yet you thought you had only to explain the matter to me, and I would turn around and go back home,” he chided gently. “Is it possible that Hetherington knows me better than you do?”

  “No.” Even as she spoke the word, she knew why it was that she’d taken so much time in plotting her escape. She had told herself she was being cautious, but in fact, she’d been anticipating his arrival every bit as confidently as Hetherington had done. “John, I—I felt the baby move. I didn’t feel quite so alone anymore. It was almost like you were there—here—with me.”

  He nodded, but in so distracted a manner that it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. “That’s—that’s good. Julia, I’m going to get you out of here, but first I have to know—did he—harm you—in any way?”

  She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “No—that is, Flynn struck me on the head in order to get me out of the house, but I promise you I haven’t been—that is—neither Hetherington nor either of his men—they—they didn’t—”

  “Sweetheart, no one could do anything to you that would make me love you less,” he assured her. “I just need to know how slowly he ought to die.”

  She gave a shaky little laugh. “John, don’t talk like that! You’re frightening me.”

  “You don’t think I will avenge any mistreatment you’ve suffered?” If she’d had any doubt of it, his tone and the expression on his face would have been enough to inform her otherwise.

  “No, no, pray don’t! I couldn’t bear to see you become like him, obsessed with vengeance and eaten up with hatred—I couldn’t bear it! But if that isn’t it—John, will you not even touch me?”

  “I’ve spent the last four days not knowing if you were dead or alive,” Pickett said, his voice shaking. “If I touch you now, I might not be able to let you go, and Hetherington would come and find me here sobbing over you like a blubbering fool.”