Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

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Eva made her way down the stairs, careful to keep her pace brisk but unhurried. She was just a guest drawn from her room by the fuss downstairs. Her time constraints were narrow, needing to give the others a decent head start, but not so much that she’d have trouble catching up with them.

Her hand glided along the wooden rail worn smooth by generations of guests walking up and down these same stairs. The wood felt as solid as Dalton looked. He had the immovable will of an ancient oak, too. She could only hope he was following Simon and Marco’s orders, and hadn’t tried something stupid or obstinate, such as attempting to escape.

She reached the ground floor and, following the sounds of commotion, headed toward the taproom. Fixing a curious but vacant expression on her face, she entered the large room. A group of warders were gathered there, their dark blue uniforms incongruous in the cheerful taproom. She recognized the hard eyes of professional guards, almost as dangerous as the clubs most of them carried.

Two of the warders were armed with shotguns, and the men in the taproom eyed the weapons nervously. These were firearms meant for hunting men, not grouse.

One of the armed warders stood close to the innkeeper. He twisted his hands in his apron as the warder interrogated him.

“He was heading in this direction. Got two eyewitnesses who spotted him making toward this inn.”

“I’ve been down here in the taproom the last hour, and I haven’t seen anyone.”

The warder turned toward the other guards. “We split up and search the place. Inside and out.”

She stepped into the doorway, effectively blocking it. “My goodness, what a to-do!” Inwardly, she shuddered at her breathy, vapid tone, but being part of Nemesis meant she had to do many things she found unpleasant. Including playacting the part of a featherbrained woman.

“What is all this ruckus about?” She stared with wide eyes at the warders. The guards removed their caps, deference at odds with the brutal bludgeons they carried.

The one guard who had been grilling the innkeeper spoke. “Are you a guest at this inn, ma’am?”

“I am, Mr.…” She glanced at the patch on his jacket. “Lynch. Goodness, you gentlemen look like soldiers in your ensembles. I wasn’t aware there were any troops stationed nearby.”

“We’re warders, ma’am, from Dunmoor Prison. A very dangerous convict escaped today, but don’t worry, we’ll get him back. Alive or dead.” He spoke this last word with particular enjoyment, as though looking forward to the prospect of killing Dalton.

“Convict?” Her hand came up to flutter at her throat. “You mean, a criminal is on the loose this very moment? But how very dreadful! Like something out of the penny papers.”

The group of warders tried to edge past her, but she impeded them with a light sidestep.

“Have you seen any suspicious characters?” Lynch asked. “The man we’re looking for is a big bast—uh, a big man. Dark hair, dark eyes. Answers to Dalton, but he might be using an alias.”

“I have been alone in my room all evening and saw nothing. Surely if such a large villain had passed this way, I would have noticed something. And anyway, I thought this part of the country was supposed to be safe. Convicts escaping from prison! Never would I have dreamed up such a lurid tale.”

As she spoke, she moved from side to side, as if thoughts of a fugitive made her restless and frightened. It also had the effect of preventing the warders from leaving the building or getting upstairs. She made certain her accent held the polished notes of a woman of quality, and for once she was grateful for the rigid code of social mores that kept the warders respectfully trapped. They wouldn’t push a lady aside.

Apparently, though, even this code could reach its breaking point. One of the warders looked back at Lynch, unable to hide his frustration. “Sir?”

Lynch came closer. “Ma’am, if you’d step to the side—”

“Come to think of it,” she said, “I may have seen someone. I was standing at my window, thinking about how very dark it is here compared to London. Not a streetlight to be seen. Even when the fog rolls in, you know, it’s so terrifically bright. Why, without my heavy curtains, I might never get a wink of sleep.”

“You say you saw something,” Lynch said through gritted teeth. “Ma’am,” he added.

“Oh, yes. I was standing at my window, and I saw a figure outside. Exceptionally big, as you say.” She remembered how Dalton had loomed over her, and how he made even the simple act of breathing seem dangerous. “I thought perhaps it was a farmer, out milking his cows or some such rustic endeavor. But cows aren’t milked at night, are they?”

Lynch’s patience continued to fray. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“As I said, it is exceptionally dark out here, but, thinking on it now, he might have caught a little light from the inn. And I remember clearly now how strange I thought his clothing. All covered with these peculiar arrow markings. I assumed it was some eccentric local dress.”

Snapping even more alert, Lynch said, “That’s our man. Where was he heading?”

“Somewhere over there.” She waved her hand toward the east, precisely the direction opposite from which she knew Simon, Marco, and Dalton to be heading.

The warders did not waste further time. With murmured apologies, they stepped around her and exited the inn. Lynch remained long enough to mutter, “Obliged, ma’am.”

She decided against using more ridiculous chatter to detain him longer. Any further delays, and he’d grow suspicious. With a nod, she let him pass. Hopefully, she’d bought the others enough time to make decent progress toward their rendezvous point.

“This is exceedingly distressing,” she announced to the men in the taproom.

The innkeeper came forward, wreathed in a strained smile. “I can assure you, madam, that such occurrences are quite rare, and that the warders will have that blackguard caught very soon.”

“Just the same, I believe I’ll retire to my room for the rest of the evening. And I will be sure to lock the door.”

“Excellent plan, madam.”

With a sniff, she left the taproom and made sure that her footsteps on the stairs could be heard. Once at the top of the stairs, she waited a moment to see if anyone followed or left the taproom. Everyone remained within, discussing the shocking turn of events.

Silently, she crept back downstairs, then turned quickly into a hallway not visible from the taproom. There had to be a back or side door she might use. The option remained of returning to her room and going out the window, but likely Marco had locked the door. Picking the lock would be the work of less than a minute, yet she didn’t relish the prospect of climbing down whilst wearing skirts. They had an unfortunate tendency to tangle in her legs.

Moving noiselessly through the hallway, she tried a door which proved to be a linen closet, and then came upon the kitchen. Peering inside, she found the room empty of everything but pots, pans, a sink with running water, and a huge iron stove. A basket waited by the back door.

She was outside in a moment, and shut the door behind her. Slipping through a rather barren kitchen garden, she reached a low fence and swung over it, then took a moment to get her bearings. She stood in a narrow lane that ran alongside the inn, and just on the other side of the lane stretched the moorland into which Simon, Marco, and Dalton should have fled. They’d wait for her, but not forever. Right now, Dalton was their most important resource, and they’d get him to safety as soon as possible. Simon and Marco trusted her to take care of herself if they became separated.