Bernard Cornwell - Gallows Thief

'Where's Percy?' Berrigan asked again.

'He's taken Lord Lucy to Weybridge,' Mackeson said.

'Let's hope you're the one we want,' Berrigan said. 'And you're not going anywhere, Billy,' he snapped at the stable hand, who was dressed in a shabby set of the Seraphim Club's yellow and black livery, 'not unless you want a broken skull.' The stable hand, who had been rising from the bench, subsided again.

Sandman was not aware of it, but he was angry suddenly. It was possible that the moustached coachman might have the answer Sandman had been searching for, and the notion that he might get this close and still not discover the truth had sparked his rage. It was a controlled rage, but it was in his voice, harsh and clipped, and Mackeson jumped with alarm when Sandman spoke. 'Some weeks ago,' Sandman said, 'a coachman from this club collected a maid from the Countess of Avebury's house in Mount Street. Was that you?'

Mackeson swallowed, but seemed unable to speak.

'Was that you?' Sandman asked again, louder.

Mackeson nodded very slowly, then glanced at Berrigan as if he did not believe what was happening to him.

'Where did you take her?' Sandman asked. Mackeson swallowed again, then jumped as Sandman rapped the pistol on the table. 'Where did you take her?' Sandman demanded again.

Mackeson turned from Sandman and frowned at Berrigan. 'They'll kill you, Sam Berrigan,' he said, 'kill you stone dead if they find you here.'

'Then they'd better not find me, Mack,' Berrigan said.

The coachman gave another start of alarm when he heard the ratcheting sound of Sandman's pistol being cocked. His eyes widened as he stared into the muzzle and uttered a pathetic moan. 'I'm only going to ask you politely once more,' Sandman said, 'and after that, Mister Mackeson, I shall…'

'Nether Cross,' Mackeson said hurriedly.

'Where's Nether Cross?'

'Fair old ways,' the coachman said guardedly. 'Seven hours? Eight hours?'

'Where?' Sandman asked harshly.

'Down near the coast, sir, down Kent way.'

'So who lives there,' Sandman asked, 'in Nether Cross?'

'Lord John de Sully Pearce-Tarrant,' Berrigan answered for the coachman, 'the Viscount Hurstwood, Earl of Keymer, Baron Highbrook, lord of this and lord of God knows what else, heir to the Dukedom of Ripon and also known, Captain, as the Marquess of Skavadale.'

And Sandman felt a great surge of relief. Because he had his answer at last.

===OO=OOO=OO===

The carriage rattled through the streets south of the Thames. Its two lamps were lit, but cast a feeble glow that did nothing to light the way so that, once they reached the summit of Shooters Hill where there were few lights and the road across Blackheath stretched impenetrably black before them, they stopped. The horses were unharnessed and picketed on the green and the two prisoners were locked inside the carriage by the simple expedient of fastening the coach doors by looping their handles with the reins that were then strapped tight around the whole vehicle. The windows were jammed shut with slivers of wood, and either Sandman or Berrigan would stand guard all night.

The prisoners were the driver, Mackeson, and Billy, the stable hand. It had been Berrigan's idea to take the Seraphim Club's newly washed carriage. Sandman had refused at first, saying he had already arranged to borrow Lord Alexander's coach and team and he doubted he had the legal right to commandeer one of the Seraphim Club's carriages, but Berrigan had scoffed at the thought of such scruples. 'You reckon Lord Alexander's coachman knows the way to Nether Cross?' he asked. 'Which means you've got to take Mackeson anyway, so you might as well take a vehicle he knows how to handle. And considering what evils the bastards have done I don't suppose God or man will worry about you borrowing their coach.'

And if the coach and driver were taken then Billy, the stable hand, had to be kept from betraying that Sandman had been asking about Meg, so he too must be taken prisoner. He put up no resistance, but instead helped Mackeson harness the team and then, with his hands and feet tied, he was put into the carriage while Mackeson, accompanied by Berrigan, sat up on the box. The few members of the club, ensconced in their dining room, had no idea that their coach was being commandeered.

Now, stranded on Blackheath, Sandman and his companions had to wait through the dark hours. Berrigan took Sally to a tavern and paid for a room and he stayed with her while Sandman guarded the coach. It was not till after the clocks had struck two that Berrigan loomed out of the dark. 'Quiet night, Captain?'

'Quiet enough,' Sandman said, then smiled. 'Long time since I did picquet duty.'

'Those two behaving themselves?' Berrigan asked, glancing at the carriage.

'Quiet as lambs,' Sandman said.

'You can go to sleep,' Berrigan suggested, 'and I'll stand sentry.'

'In a while,' Sandman said. He was sitting on the grass, his back against a wheel and he tilted his head to look at the stars that were drifting out from behind ragged clouds. 'Remember the Spanish night marches?' he asked. 'The stars were so bright it was as though you could reach up and snuff them out.'

'I remember the camp fires,' Berrigan said, 'hills and valleys of fire.' He twisted and looked west. 'A bit like that.'

Sandman turned his head to see London spread beneath them like a quilt of fire that was blurred by the red-touched smoke. The air up on the heath was clean and chill, yet he could just smell the coal smoke from the great city that spread its hazed lights to the western horizon. 'I do miss Spain,' he admitted.

'It were strange at first,' Berrigan said, 'but I liked it. Did you speak the language?'

'Yes.'

Berrigan laughed. 'And I'll bet you were good at it.'

'I was fluent enough, yes.'

The Sergeant handed Sandman a stone bottle. 'Brandy,' he explained. 'And I was thinking,' he went on, 'that if I go and buy those cigars I'll need someone who speaks the language. You and me? We could go there together, work together.'

'I'd like that,' Sandman said.

'There's got to be money in it,' Berrigan said. 'We paid pennies for those cigars in Spain and here they cost a fortune if you can get them at all.'

'I think you're right,' Sandman said, and smiled at the thought that maybe he did have a job after all. Berrigan and Sandman, Purveyors of Fine Cigars? Eleanor's father liked a good cigar and paid well for them, so well that there might even be enough money in the idea to persuade Sir Henry that his daughter was not marrying a pauper. Lady Forrest might never be convinced that Sandman was a proper husband for Eleanor, but Sandman suspected that Eleanor and her father would prevail. He and Berrigan would need money, and who better than Sir Henry to lend it? They would have to travel around Spain, hire shipping space and rent premises in a fashionable part of London, but it could work. He was sure of it. 'It's a brilliant idea, Sergeant,' he said.

'So shall we do it when this is over?'

'Why not? Yes.' He put out his hand and Berrigan shook it.

'We old soldiers should stick together,' Berrigan said, 'because we were good. We were damned good, Captain. We chased the bloody Crapauds halfway across bloody Europe, and then we came home and none of the bastards here cared, did they?' He paused, thinking. 'They had a rule in the Seraphim Club. No one was ever to talk about the wars. No one.'

'None of the members served?' Sandman guessed.

'Not one. They wouldn't even let you in if you'd been a swoddy or a sailor.'

'They were jealous?'

'Probably.'

Sandman drank from the bottle. 'Yet they employed you?'

They liked having a guardsman in the hall. I made the bastards feel safe. And they could order me around, which they also liked. Do this, Berrigan, do that.' The Sergeant grunted thanks when Sandman passed him the bottle. 'Most of the time it weren't nothing bad. Run errands for the bastards, but then once in a while they'd want something else.' He fell silent and Sandman also kept quiet. The night was extraordinarily quiet. After a time, as Sandman hoped, Berrigan began talking again. 'Once, there was a fellow who was taking one of the Seraphim to court, so we gave him a lesson. They sent a wagonload of flowers to his grave, they did. And the girls, of course — we paid them off. Not the ones like Flossie, they can look after themselves, but the others? We gave 'em ten pounds, perhaps twelve.'