Janice Preston - Scandal And Miss Markham

‘How far is Birmingham? I need a bed for the night.’

Thea pointed ahead. ‘Two or three miles.’

He grunted. ‘I’ll stop at the next inn. There must be another between here and the town.

* * *

Vernon rubbed his hand across his jaw, the rasp of whiskers against his palm reminding him of the long, weary day behind him. He shoved his foot into the stirrup and hauled himself up to the saddle. He was knackered even before those two had jumped him, but now... He pressed his hand to his side and winced. That bastard had caught him with his stake, but he was sure it hadn’t punctured anything vital. When he had first become aware of the two figures lurking in the undergrowth, energy had flooded him, banishing his weariness and helping him to fight them off. But now that unnatural surge had dissipated and all he wished for was a hot meal and a comfortable bed. He hoped the next inn would be a decent place. Some of the places he had stopped at since leaving Stourbridge had left much to be desired.

Vernon glanced round at the lad, riding a little behind, out of Vernon’s direct line of sight. He was not the talkative type and that suited Vernon very well, but he was aware how fortunate it was that the lad had seen what was happening and come to Vernon’s aid. He wondered idly if the boy was local...that was a very fine mare he was riding. Vernon frowned, staring at the road ahead as suspicions stirred. Such a quality, fine-boned animal was an unusual choice for a country lad. He glanced back again. The combination of the dim light and the lad’s cap pulled low over his eyes rendered his face all but invisible.

They had ridden into a village and around a curve in the road. There before them was a small inn, the Bell, set between a churchyard and a row of neat cottages. Vernon could just make out the church itself, set back from the other buildings, its square tower silhouetted against the night sky.

‘Do you know anything about this place?’

The lad shook his head.

‘No matter,’ Vernon said. ‘Go in and see if it looks respectable, will you, lad? I’ll hold the horses. Oh, and enquire for the local constable, while you’re there, will you?’ Once he left the saddle he feared it would be more than he could manage to remount. ‘I must report that attack—I was informed earlier there has been a spate of such incidences in the area. I make no doubt the constable will be interested in the information, especially as one of those men looks unlikely to go far.’

The boy merely grunted by way of reply and did as he was bid as Vernon clenched his teeth against the pain in his side and battled the urge to slump in the saddle.

The boy soon emerged, with a couple of men. He nodded at Vernon, who took that to mean the inn was acceptable. He slid to the ground, relieved he need ride no further.

‘I’m Joseph Deadly, constable here,’ the taller of the two men said. ‘What’s been a-happening?’

Vernon told Deadly how the two men had jumped him.

‘I’ll wager it’s them gipsies that set up camp by the woods. They often come through this time of year, picking up odd jobs, and we allus seem to get a spate of thievery and such like when they’re around.’

Vernon recalled Thea’s earlier remark, that Daniel had suspected former soldiers of local attacks rather than the gipsies commonly blamed. His immediate impression of his two attackers meant he was inclined to agree with Daniel.

‘I am not sure you are correct, Deadly,’ he said. ‘Whilst gipsies are not unknown for petty thieving, the ones I’ve met in the past have not struck me as violent men, unless they perceive themselves under threat. The men who attacked me appeared more like vagrants.’

Deadly shrugged. ‘One and the same thing, as far as I can see. You say one of them’s injured, sir?’

‘He is. I suspect my boot in his face will leave a visible clue to identify the culprit.’

Several men had by now joined them outside the inn, tankards in hand.

‘Any volunteers to come with me and pay them gipsies a visit?’ Deadly said.

A chorus of enthusiasm met his words and Vernon’s heart sank. He hoped he hadn’t been the instigator of a lynch mob. Still, that was for the constable to control.

‘Never fear, sir,’ Deadly added, clapping Vernon on the shoulder and making him wince, ‘we’ll go to the scene first and scout out from there. But, you mark my words, it’ll be them gipsies.’

‘Before you go...’ Vernon tossed his horse’s reins to the lad—who had shrunk back into the shadows—and then took the constable to one side to tell him about Daniel Markham’s disappearance. ‘Will you make a few enquiries, but discreetly, please? Mr Markham’s family do not wish his disappearance to become common knowledge. He was riding a light grey horse. I also need to know if you have any knowledge of Willingdale or of a man called Henry Mannington. You may attend me here in the morning, if you will, to let me know if you have any news for me and to tell me if you’ve had any luck in tracking down my attackers.’

Deadly touched the brim of his hat. ‘Very good, sir.’

Vernon was relieved to call a halt to his enquiries, even though his original intention had been to reach Birmingham and the Royal Hotel that night. He felt in his gut that the Royal Hotel would hold the clue he needed to unravel what had happened to Daniel Markham.

He turned back to Warrior. The lad who had been holding him had gone, leaving the horse’s reins weighted with a large stone. Vernon frowned. He had wanted to thank him properly. He looked along the street and there, in the distance, he could just make out the lad riding away on his black mare. His body screamed at him to let the lad go, but his suspicions about the quality of the horse, coupled with the lad’s reluctance to look Vernon in the eye and his lack of conversation, set warning bells jangling in Vernon’s head. Then he recalled the lad’s pistol. How many country lads like him would own a duelling pistol?

Is he a runaway?

And those few words decided him. His nephew, Alex—Leo’s youngest son—had run away only a few months previously, and Vernon remembered the worry and the grief of the entire family as they had imagined the worst. And then there was Thea—her anxiety over her brother’s disappearance had touched Vernon as he saw how bravely she tried to shield her parents from the knowledge. The thought of another family going through the same horror of not knowing what had become of their loved one made the decision for him: he could not allow the lad to ride off into the night without at least trying to discover his story.

Vernon clenched his teeth and, sweating with the effort, hauled himself into Warrior’s saddle. He put his hand to his side again, reaching inside his borrowed moleskin waistcoat, feeling the sticky warmth of blood. He inhaled—he should get it seen to, but then the boy would be long gone and, if he was a runaway, Vernon would have lost his only chance to help.

He set Warrior into a trot, biting back a gasp as the gait jolted him and pain scorched across his ribs.

‘Damn,’ he muttered, beneath his breath. ‘Let’s get this done,’ and he dug his heels in.

Warrior broke into a canter—a smoother pace but still agony to Vernon. He hooked his left hand under the pommel and forced his thoughts away from the pain and on to the lad. As they neared the black mare, the lad glanced back and, for a moment, it seemed as though he would take flight. He did not, however, but reined to a halt and waited, staring fixedly at his horse’s mane.

‘Why did you leave?’ Vernon said as he pulled his horse round in front of the mare.

‘Need to get home.’

There was something about that gruff voice...but it hovered just out of Vernon’s reach. He watched the boy as he studiously avoided meeting his gaze.