Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

“But might there be a Captain Thunder?”

“Never heard of the cull.”

“That’s not what people hereabouts say. Kindly fetch the fellow, landlord-if landlord you are.”

“I be the landlord, but I don’t know no Captain Thunder. Who might be asking?” His hand inched toward an axe.

Out came Charlie’s pistol, absolutely level. “Don’t bother with such antics, please! I am the only son of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, and the lady I am trying to find is my aunt.”

The mere mention of “Darcy” and “Pemberley” worked upon the landlord so powerfully that his hand flopped to his side as if felled by a stroke. He began to whine. “Sir, sir, you be mistook! This is a respectable house that has no truck with bridle-culls! I swears to you, Mr. Darcy, sir, that I ain’t never heard of your aunt!”

“I’d be more prone to believe you if you admitted that you do know Captain Thunder.”

“Only in a manner of speaking, Mr. Darcy, sir, only in a manner of speaking. The cull is known to me in a like way to what he’s known elsewhere in the district. He terrorises us! But I swears he brung no lady here! No woman of any kind, dear sir!”

“Where may I find Captain Thunder?”

“They say he got a house in the woods somewhere, but I don’t know where, sir, honest! I swears it!”

“Then next time you see Captain Thunder, you may give him a message from Darcy of Pemberley. That his nefarious career is over. My father will hunt him down-from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, if necessary. He will hang, but worse than that. His body will rot in a gibbet.”

Charlie turned on his heel and left, the pistol still in his hand. At sight of him Angus sagged in relief; it seemed the young rascal did indeed know how to deal with Nottinghamshire villains. Concern for his aunt was honing him into the kind of man his father should have been, and was not; Fitz’s iron strength was there, but without the coldness. How could Fitz be blind enough not to see what lay in his son?

“No luck,” Charlie said tersely, remounting. “I doubt Mary was ever taken there. The rogue who is the landlord knows Captain Thunder very well, I hazard a guess, but isn’t privy to all his business. Which makes sense. If he participated in the Captain’s every scheme, he’d be entitled to at least a quarter share of the spoils, and the Captain is too fly for that.”

“Then we’re for Chesterfield?”

“Yes. I won’t seek anyone official out-I’d rather sool my father onto the slugs of the constabulary from Nottingham to Leek to Derby and Chesterfield. If nothing else comes of it, Captain Thunder’s career is at an end.”

“What I haven’t told you,” Angus confessed, “is that Mr. Beatty told me his wife saw the Captain lurking that Friday noon. And he followed Mary down the road toward the Green Man. He must have known she had guineas for the taking-but then, it seems that everyone in the Nottingham coach station knew that. Either the Captain was there to witness Mary’s fall, or some paid informant told him. The woods hereabout were perfect for his purpose.”

“Mrs. Beatty deserves a dose of her own biblical retribution-may she be eaten by worms!” said Owen savagely.

“I agree,” Angus said in soothing tones, “but the sentiment doesn’t help us find Mary. I’ll exhort Fitz to have the constables descend upon the Green Man armed with writs for the arrest of all in it, but like you, Charlie, I don’t think Mary was ever there. The Captain didn’t want to share his spoils, or tell a soul what he had done.”

Owen had listened in growing horror. “Oh! Does this mean she’s dead?” he blurted.

His question hung unanswered for a long time before Angus sighed. “We must pray she isn’t, Owen. Somehow I can’t see Mary giving up her life without a colossal struggle, and I don’t mean a physical one. She would have striven to convince the cur that she was too important to kill with impunity.”

Tears were rolling down Charlie’s cheeks.

“How do we begin to search the woods for her, Charlie?” Angus asked, to give the young man something to think about.

One hand brushed the tears away. “We ride for Pemberley before we do anything else,” he said. “My father will know.”

Even taking into account an overnight trip to Sheffield, Ned Skinner was ahead of them by two full days. While Charlie (and perforce, Angus and Owen too) kicked his heels waiting to farewell Derbyshire and the Speaker of the House, he had ridden from Sheffield to Nottingham. His technique was different; while both Angus and Charlie tended to apply to the top echelons for information, Ned knew better. So upon reaching the freight depot and coach yard in Nottingham, he spoke very briefly with Mr. Hooper, then located a groom who had seen what had happened with his own eyes. As it turned out, he was the same fellow whom Mary had accosted trying to find out which coach went to Derby. Without a scrap of surprise, Ned learned that the youth had maliciously directed her to the wrong conveyance, thinking it a huge joke.

“One day,” said Ned, towering over the groom, “I will make sure you get your comeuppance, you thoughtless moron. The poor lady deserved the most tender compassion-a gentlewoman thrown upon the world. Were I not in a hurry, you’d get a beating right now.”

Desperate to save his skin, the groom came out with a gem he had mentioned to no one, including Mr. Hooper.

“I know who the man was that picked her up when she fell in the horse piss,” he said.

Ned loomed even more menacingly. “Who?”

“A highwayman. Captain Thunder’s his road name, but his real name’s Martin Purling. He has a house hidden in the forest.”

“I want directions-talk, you pathetic lump of inertia!”

The pathetic lump of inertia babbled so incoherently that he had to repeat himself several times.

Now what do I make of that? Ned wondered as he made his way to the Black Cat. A bridle-cull who gave her back her guineas? Why? The answer’s simple-he couldn’t rob her in Nottingham. Then the next morning she got on the wrong coach, but I’ll bet he was following her no matter which stage she boarded. Nineteen guineas, the groom said-Miss Mary Bennet, you are a fool! Captain Thunder would kill you for a quarter that sum!

It was too late to pursue his quarry that day, but next morning Ned was mounted on his beloved big black Jupiter, and riding at a canter.

Knowing more or less where Mr. Martin Purling’s domicile was, he didn’t go anywhere near Mansfield or the Friar Tuck, though he headed in that general direction. The rutted cart track he took into the forest suddenly stopped, blocked by a huge clump of brambles, but Ned had been warned. Gloved, he dismounted and found a place where one set of the long, thorny canes grew from one side of the track and another set from the opposite side met it; dragging them apart was not very difficult for such a big man. Having ridden through it, he pulled the brambles back into place-no need to warn anyone of his presence quite yet.

Four hours from the Black Cat, brambles and all, he was at Captain Thunder’s hideaway. What a hideaway! A snug cottage sat in a clearing like an illustration for a children’s fairy tale. Thatched, whitewashed, surrounded by an exquisite garden in full early summer flower, it was so far from popular imagination of a highwayman’s lair that, even if found, those who saw it would admire, then pass it by. The back yard held stables, a neat shed for firewood, and an outhouse; a clothes line flapping shirts and sheets, under-drawers and moleskin breeches spoke of some careful wife-now why had he assumed Mr. Martin Purling would live alone? Clearly he did not. A complication, but not an insuperable one.