Bernard Cornwell - Gallows Thief

'In St George's Fields?' Sandman asked, puzzled by the apparently irrelevant statement.

'A lot of the high toby live and dine there,' Hood said, 'on account that it's convenient for the western roads.' He meant that a number of highwaymen patronised the tavern. 'And I heard a whisper there, Captain. Your life, fifty quid.' He raised an eyebrow. 'You've upset someone, Captain. I've spread word in the 'sheaf that no one's to touch you because you've been kind to my Sal and I look after those that look after her, but I can't control every flash bowzing house in London.'

Sandman felt a lurch of his heart. Fifty guineas for his life? Was that a compliment or an insult? 'You would not know, I suppose,' he asked, 'who has staked the money?'

'I asked, but no one knew. But it's firm cash, Captain, so watch yourself. I'm obliged to you.' These last four words were because Sandman had hauled open the yard gate.

Sandman looked up at the horseman. 'You're not going to see Sally on stage tonight?'

Hood shook his head. 'Seen her often enough,' he said curtly, 'and I've business of my own that she won't be watching.' He touched his spurs to his horse's flanks and, without a word of farewell, rode northwards behind a wagon loaded with newly baked bricks.

Sandman closed the gate. Viscount Sidmouth, when he had given Sandman this job, had hinted it would be easy, a month's pay for a day's work, but it was suddenly a life for a month's pay. Sandman turned and gazed at the dirty windows of the back parlour, but he could not see beyond the gloss of the evening light on the small panes. Whoever waited there could see him, but he could not see them and so he did not go directly to the parlour, but instead cut through the barrel room to the passage where there was a serving hatch. He nudged the hatch open, careful not to make a noise, then stooped to peer through the crack.

He heard the footsteps behind him, but before he could turn a pistol barrel was cold by his ear. 'A good soldier always makes a reconnaissance, eh Captain?' Sergeant Berrigan said. 'I thought you'd come here first.'

Sandman straightened and turned to see that the Sergeant was grinning, pleased because he had outmanoeuvred Sandman. 'So what are you going to do, Sergeant?' he asked. 'Shoot me?'

'Just making sure you ain't got any sticks on you, Captain,' Berrigan said, then used his pistol barrel to push open the flaps of Sandman's jacket and, satisfied that the Captain was not armed, he jerked his head towards the parlour door. 'After you, Captain.'

'Sergeant,' Sandman began, planning to appeal to Berrigan's better nature, but that nature was nowhere to be seen, for the Sergeant just cocked the pistol and aimed it at Sandman's chest. Sandman thought about knocking the barrel aside and bringing his knee up into Berrigan's groin, but the Sergeant gave him a half-smile and an almost imperceptible shake of his head as though inviting Sandman to try. 'Through the door, eh?' Sandman asked and, when Berrigan nodded, he turned the knob and went into the back parlour.

The Marquess of Skavadale and Lord Robin Holloway were on the settle at the far side of the long table. Both were exquisitely dressed in superbly cut black coats, blossoming cravats and skin-tight breeches. Holloway scowled to see Sandman, but Skavadale courteously stood and offered a smile. 'My dear Captain Sandman, how very kind of you to join us.'

'Been waiting long?' Sandman asked truculently.

'A half-hour,' Skavadale replied pleasantly. 'We did expect to find you here already, but the wait has not been unduly tedious. Please, sit.'

Sandman sat reluctantly, first glancing at Berrigan who came into the parlour, closed the door and lowered the pistol's flint, though he did not put the weapon away. Instead the Sergeant stood beside the door and watched Sandman. The Marquess of Skavadale took the cork from some wine and poured out a glassful. 'A rather raw claret, Captain, but probably welcome after your journey? But how could we have expected the finest wine here, eh? This is the Wheatsheaf, flash, but not flush, eh? That's rather good, don't you think, Robin? Flash, but not flush?'

Lord Robin Holloway neither smiled nor spoke, but just stared at Sandman. There were still two raw scars across his cheeks and nose where Sandman had whipped him with the fencing foil. Skavadale pushed the glass of wine across the table, then looked pained when Sandman shook his head in refusal. 'Oh come, Captain,' Skavadale said with a frown, 'we're here to be friendly.'

'And I'm here because I was threatened with a pistol.'

'Put it away, Sergeant,' Skavadale ordered, then he toasted Sandman. 'I've learnt a little about you in the last couple of days, Captain. I already knew you were a formidable cricketer, of course, but you have another reputation besides.'

'For what?' Sandman asked bleakly.

'You were a good soldier,' Skavadale said.

'So?'

'But unfortunate in your father,' Skavadale said gently. 'Now, as I understand things, Captain, you are supporting your mother and sister. Am I right?' He waited for a reply, but Sandman neither spoke nor moved. 'It's sad,' Skavadale went on, 'when folk of refinement are condemned to poverty. If it were not for you, Captain, your mother would long have been reduced to accepting charity and your sister would be what? A governess? A paid companion? Yet with a small dowry she could still marry perfectly well, could she not?'

Sandman still kept silent, yet Lord Skavadale had spoken nothing but the truth. Belle, Sandman's sister, was nineteen years old and had only one hope of escaping poverty which was to marry well, yet without a dowry she could not hope to find a respectable husband. She would be lucky to find a tradesman willing to marry her, and even if she did then Sandman knew his sister would not accept such a husband for, like her mother, she had an exaggerated sense of her own high standing in society. A year ago, before her father's death, Belle might have expected a dowry of several thousand pounds, enough to attract an aristocrat and provide a healthy income, and she still yearned for those prospects and, in some obscure way, she blamed Sandman for their loss. That was why Sandman was in London, because he could no longer bear the reproaches of his mother and sister, who expected him to replace his father as a provider of endless luxuries.

'Now,' Skavadale said, 'your father's gambling has reduced the family to penury. Is that not right, Captain? Yet you are trying to pay off some of his debts. You've chosen a difficult path and it's very honourable of you, very honourable. Ain't that honourable, Robin?'

Lord Robin Holloway said nothing. He just shrugged, keeping his cold eyes on Sandman.

'So what will you do, Captain?' Skavadale asked.

'Do?'

'A mother and a sister to keep, debts to pay, and no employment other than an occasional game of cricket?' Skavadale asked, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. 'And, as I understand it, the Home Secretary's demands upon you are very temporary and are hardly likely to lead to a permanent fortune. So what will you do?'

'What will you do?' Sandman asked.

'I beg your pardon?'

'As I understand it,' Sandman said, remembering Lord Alexander's description of the Marquess of Skavadale, 'you are not unlike me. Your family once possessed a great fortune, but it also possessed gamblers.'

The Marquess looked irritated for a second, but let the insult pass. 'I shall marry well,' he said lightly, 'meaning I shall marry wealth. And you?'

'Maybe I shall marry well, too,' Sandman retorted.

'Really?' Skavadale raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'I shall succeed to a dukedom, Sandman, and that's a great lure to a girl. What's your attraction? Skill at cricket? Fascinating memories of Waterloo?' His lordship's voice was still polite, but the scorn was obvious. 'Girls who possess money,' Skavadale went on, 'either marry more money or else they seek rank, because money and rank, Captain, are the only two things that matter in this world.'