Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (25 page)

Watching a crane handle a huge cask, Elf could easily have been distracted, but Bryght said, “Roberts, where’s this tavern?”

“This way, milord.” Roberts led them away from the river and into a warren of streets that Elf thought familiar.

All such streets probably looked the same, however, lined with narrow houses, doors and windows open to let in fresh air. Grubby children stopped to stare at the strange party passing among them. Aproned women came to the doors, perhaps to protect their young, perhaps just out of curiosity.

Elf expected some begging, but then she realized this was no slum. These people were quite prosperous in their way, their menfolk all working down at the thriving port.

Then they turned a corner and found themselves in the small wasteland created by a fire. It was not deserted, for a few people rummaged through the already picked-over ruins. The ramshackle tavern stood to one side, walls still standing, and roof mostly intact, but windows completely gone. Clearly, even before disaster it had been a mean place.

Elf couldn’t reconcile it with an interlude which had been, at times, positively romantic. Perhaps darkness was a blessing after all.

Bryght ordered his party to spread out and surround the building, adding a command to Elf to stay with him. Even as they approached the ruin, Elf noted curious children and even a few adults hovering nearby. She prayed no shots were fired, that no more innocents were injured in this affair.

The Marquess of Rothgar made no attempt to ornament himself before setting off for Windsor in the carriage. This was not an occasion for glitter. With God’s grace, Cyn would have alerted the king to danger. Now he must prevent damage to the family’s reputation.

Even with six of his best horses in the shafts, it took more than an hour to arrive at the king’s country palace, its ancient walls rising majestically over a mass of buildings added to and adapted by centuries of monarchs.

Almost anyone had to progress through a number of chambers to reach the king. Rothgar, however, progressed with remarkable speed. He was bowed through the paneled guard chamber, where the guards did not seem to be on special alert. Then a footman escorted him through the presence chamber and audience chamber, past a number of hopefuls lounging about admiring Verrio’s magnificent ceiling, and the empty carved throne.

A couple of men tried to speak to him, but he indicated that his business could not wait. He recognized the envy in their eyes but had little sympathy for such petitioners. Most of them merely wanted a sinecure from the king to finance their expensive pleasures.

At the great gilded doors of the King’s Drawing Room, the guards stood back to let him pass.

George, fresh-faced and bulbous-eyed, was pacing the room when Rothgar was announced. He turned to him fretfully. “Lord Rothgar!” he exclaimed. “Such goings-on!”

Rothgar, noting an absence of both mechanical device and brother, made a profound bow to the King and to the heavily pregnant queen who sat nearby, clutching a puppy. Then he bestowed lesser ones on Lord Bute and Charles Grenville, who were also present.

“You are well come indeed,” said Grenville with assumed warmth. “We thought you out of the country, my lord, and feared for your reputation.”

“God sent contrary winds, and thus I am here to set all right. The mechanical device?”

“Was delivered. But Lord Cynric arrived in time.”

“He manhandled me!” George spluttered.

“I apologize on his behalf, Your Majesty, but I’m sure it was necessary.”

“Well, I’m not! And if the device is so dangerous, how can that be when it is a gift from you, my lord? Eh? Can you make sense of this story, eh? Can you? Grenville says a relative of Lord Bute was involved, but Lord Bute denies any knowledge of it. The device came from your house, my lord, but you are ignorant of it. Lord Walgrave is involved, but acting on my First Secretary’s orders, and innocent. And no one saw fit to tell me anything. I am displeased. Most displeased!”

The king dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a gilded, monogrammed silk handkerchief.

“Very understandable, Your Majesty,” said Rothgar, forcefully projecting calm. “I assure you, had I known anything of this matter, I would have informed you in full immediately. Lord Walgrave, however, perhaps you can excuse. He is young and took the advice of older men.”

“I am somewhat surprised to hear you defend him, Rothgar,” said Grenville, no longer smiling. “You are no friend to that family.”

“I try not to let my bias sway me, Grenville, and of course, our families are now joined. Walgrave’s purpose, I am told, was merely to assist in rooting out the base of this plot to harm His Majesty.”

“And as soon as we find Michael Murray,” said Bute,
“we will have him! I am distressed, distressed beyond imagining, that I have harbored such a viper in my bosom.”

“As close as that, were you?” queried Rothgar mildly.

The earl flushed. “ ’Tis an expression, my lord.”

“Ah, I see.” Rothgar turned back to the king. “I have sent some men to a location where we might find Murray, Your Majesty. At the same time, I sent a message to Mr. Grenville’s office suggesting that he dispatch soldiers there, and also search ships sailing down the Thames. I had no idea he thought it more important to be here.”

Grenville flushed. “I left capable men in charge, Your Majesty. In fact, I left Lord Walgrave to assist them, since he was, most understandably, anxious to set all aright. I came here, feeling His Majesty had to be informed as soon as possible.”

“Which it seems he is not.” Rothgar turned to the king. “With your permission, Your Majesty, perhaps we may all sit and I will tell the tale as best I can. I’m sure Lord Bute and Mr. Grenville will add their mite.”

“I know nothing,” declared Bute fretfully. “Nothing.” But when the king waved permission, he sat with the others, clearly trying to decide just where the threat to his position lay in all this.

The old tavern appeared deserted, but when Elf saw the trapdoor leading to the ramp, she knew someone had been there. It stood open, the lock forced in some way. Despite Bryght’s cautioning hand on her arm, she leaned forward to peep in. Even in daylight, the windowless room was gloomy, but she could see well enough to know that it was now completely empty apart from the old casks.

The coffin had been removed.

No special stone sat on the uneven floor.

“It’s gone,” she whispered.

“Indeed it is,” said a familiar voice, and Elf straightened to face Fort. He stood in the ruined doorway
dressed in deepest black, and even with a battered face, he had regained all his aristocratic hauteur.

Suppressing a host of distracting emotions, she asked, “Where is it?”

Now she noticed the soldiers behind him, and altered by something in the atmosphere, she turned to see more appear from behind nearby objects, all eyeing the Malloren servants with suspicion.

Some of the hovering mothers grabbed their curious children.

“I have no idea,” said Fort, “having only just arrived myself.”

“Well, nor have we, since we have only just arrived, too.”

Elf saw that Fort’s attention was entirely on Bryght, and that if he’d been a dog, his hackles would be rising. She was sure her brother was reacting in exactly the same way. They were old enemies because of Portia. Goodness knows what folly they would get up to now if allowed.

Turning her back on them, she marched over to one of the nearby scavengers, a toothless crone, dressed in ragged clothes.

“If you please, ma’am, has anyone been here this morning to take anything out of that building?”

The woman’s rheumy eyes shifted and she scuttled a few steps away, clutching her folded-up apron to her chest. “I ain’t taken anything I shouldn’t. ’Onest!”

“Of course not,” said Elf with as reassuring a smile as she could manage. “No one wants to make trouble for you. It’s just that we expected to find something in that cellar. Just a large stone, actually. And it’s not there. Probably our friends were here ahead of us.”

The woman’s eyes turned sharp. “Friends, eh? And redcoats ’unting ’em? I don’t want no trouble.”

Elf heard footsteps behind her and knew they wouldn’t be Fort’s. “Bryght. Do you have a small coin?”

He put a sixpence in her hand and she held it out to the woman. “Here. Take it. You don’t have to do
anything for it. But if you do know anything, it would be a kindness to tell us.”

The crone grabbed the coin, her eyes darting around. “Right, well, you seem an ’onest, sweet-natured lady, so I’ll tell ’ee. Some men came by with a cart a while ago. Broke open that door, they did. Funny it was really, ’cos ’esterday the door wasn’t locked at all, and the blinkin’ cellar was empty of all but a few old casks. Then they ’auled out a bloody great boulder! I couldn’t figure it at all,” she said, getting into the spirit of her story. “Gawd knows there’s enough rocks in the world if a body wants ’em. But this bob-wigged minister was leaping around, telling ’em not to scratch it. Never seen anything like it in all me born days.”

Bob-wigged minister? But then Elf remembered Roberts saying the street monkeys had been hired by a Scots clergyman. Murray in disguise? “It does sound extraordinary,” she said as if only mildly curious. “What did they do with this stone?”

“Put it in a box they brung up before.” She cackled. “A coffin, it was, and a right funny scene. The clergyman was as fretful as if they was handling a corpse. Kept saying as they should ’ave put the stone in the box before bringing it up. Which was true enough if he didn’t want it scratched. Stone, he kept calling it. Weren’t no stone. Were a bloody great boulder.”

“So, this clergyman. He wasn’t here when the others started moving things?”

“Nah, he turned up later.”

“And I suppose they put the box on a cart and drove it away.”

“That’s right!” said the woman, as if this were a work of deductive genius. “That’s just what they did, mistress.”

Elf looked in the direction of the river. “As you have guessed, ma’am, the poor clergyman is not quite sane. He thinks this boulder is of great value and intends to ship it to France as a gift to the king there . . .”

The woman cackled again. “Lord ’a mercy, I wish I could see that!”

“It would be less embarrassing if we could stop him before he sets sail. I wonder what wharf he would be most likely to use.”

The eyes were sharp again. “Soldiers and all,” muttered the old woman. “I doubt you’re telling me the ’ole tale, mistress, but you look like a good ’un. I ’eard ’em say Harrison’s Wharf. It’s close by on the river.”

“How long ago?”

“Not long. They won’t have got orf yet, I don’t think.”

Elf took the woman’s callused, dirty hand. “What’s your name?”

The woman shied a bit, but then said, “Dibby Cutlow, mistress.”

“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Cutlow. And if you are ever in need, come to Malloren House in Marlborough Square.” Then she turned to Bryght. “The clergyman is probably Murray in disguise.
En avant!
”

She saw Fort, standing some way away but clearly able to hear, turn to his soldiers as if to give independent orders. She marched over to him. “This is a serious business with no place for rivalry. If we act in competition, we could well interfere with one another.”

She really couldn’t tell if his eyes were icy cold or flaming with anger. Perhaps it was icy rage. She only had a moment to study them, for he turned sharply toward Bryght. “What plan of action do you have?”

Elf could have hit him for so pointedly overlooking her, but this was no time for that either.

Later, she promised herself, remembering Rothgar saying that to Cyn. They, however, hadn’t been talking about a chance to talk, to explain, to understand.

Oh, devil take all men and their codes of behavior.

“We should approach this wharf from both sides,” said Bryght. “Three sides, in fact. Some of the soldiers can go on board our boat to stand out in the river in case they get the cargo out on the water.”

“You came by boat?”

“It was fastest.”

“You shot the bridge?” For a moment, Fort looked at Elf and she chose to believe that his flare of temper could come from concern for her. Immediately, however, he turned to his men. “Corporal, send four men with one of Lord Bryght’s people to take position on the river.”

“Aye-aye, my lord! What orders, my lord?”

“Stop any suspicious vessel. No, damn it. The river’s too crowded—”

“I’ll go on the boat,” said Elf. “I can recognize Murray.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Fort snapped.

“I agree,” said Bryght.

“Such harmony of opinion!” She pulled out the pistol. “I’ll shoot any man who tries to stop me.”

Fort and Bryght gaped at her, then shared a look that came close to commiseration.

Without another word, Elf turned to the four chosen soldiers. “Follow me.” As she led them toward the river, she heard Bryght say, “I knew it was dangerous to arm women.”

She also heard Fort’s response. “Of course,
ladies
are taught from birth to behave themselves.”

She remembered a similar conversation at Bryght’s betrothal ball, one that had almost come to blows. At the moment, she rather hoped they battered each another bloody over it.

The boat and the eight oarsmen stood a little way off the steps, but at her sign, it pulled in so they could embark. Elf gave Woodham, the leader of the crew, a brief explanation of the situation.

“So,” she said at the end, “I need you to hold position on the river opposite Harrison’s Wharf. Can you do that?”

The sturdy, middle-aged man scanned the busy waterway. “Aye, milady, though it won’t be easy. Other boats won’t want to go round us.”

“Do the best you can.”

As Woodham had said, getting out into the river under eight oars was easy enough, despite having to jostle for good water with the lighters and wherries ferrying goods to and from the ships. Holding place in the fast-flowing water without colliding with other boats was more difficult, but the oarsmen managed it.

Elf scanned the crowded river, looking for a boat carrying a coffin and a bob-wigged minister or Murray with his blond hair. She couldn’t see any vessel that could fit the bill.

She turned to study the wharf.

She wished she had a spyglass, for the riverbank was a confusing jumble of jetties, warehouses, and cranes, all swarmed over by workers. Then she saw a flash of red that must be the soldiers. In moments she could make out Fort and Bryght coming from different directions, and could even mark their progress by the eddies in the human stream as men moved away from the military.

She studied the edge of the wharf where goods were being loaded into boats. It was hard to spot any one person, but then she saw a crane hoisting something off a cart.

A coffin?

“There!” she said to the soldiers. “See that box?”

It took a moment, but then they spotted it too. The crane was swinging the coffin over a lighter. Below on the wharf a white-wigged figure almost danced with agitation as he watched the operation.

“That’s our target,” she told the soldiers. “We must stop it being loaded on board a ship.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, milady,” said one of the soldiers, “but on the river, that could be dangerous.” She could see from the way he clutched onto the boat that he wasn’t happy on the water. “If it gets onto a ship, it’s no great problem. A vessel can be stopped and searched on its way down the river.”

That was true. It could take days to sail down the Thames into the North Sea, and vessels were subject to various regulations all that time.