Wells approached the bar. “Pint of mild,” he said, “and wrap up some sandwiches for us to take away. Six should do.”
The barman nodded and pulled the pint of mild — contrary to its name the strongest of the ales that most public houses sold — before going into the kitchen through a pair of swinging doors behind him.
During the order Lenox had settled upon a plan. He took a deep breath, lifted his head, did a double-take, and then cried, from his end of the bar to the other, “Mr. Wells! Imagine seeing you here! What an unexpected pleasure!”
Wells had turned at his name, and when he saw Lenox his face blanched. He was caught off guard by the greeting, but other people were looking, so he played along. The two men shook hands. “Mr. Lenox. Excellent to see you again.”
Almost immediately people stopped paying attention, the murmur of the pub increasing again, and Lenox could whisper to the coiner. “You and Oates in league, was it?”
Wells hesitated, but then nodded grimly. “Yes.”
It was a sorrowful confirmation. Oates — he had seemed such a good man, so incapable of surprising people. In the end greed had gotten to him, too. “Is my uncle safe?”
“Yes. We mean to leave this place, the three of us, or take out a fair few of you with us.”
Lenox shook his head. “That is not necessary. Listen, I am quite alone. You have all the advantage. I only want my uncle. You may still go free. In fact, if my uncle’s life is spared it is a matter of indifference to me whether you escape or not.” This was false, but it was also true to a point. “It will be impossible to tell people that I didn’t see you, but I will say, and it will be the case, that I have no idea where you might be going. London, Bath, the north, even overseas.”
Wells shook his head. “You’d send up a cry. Then we couldn’t get at—”
He cut himself off, but Lenox understood. They’d secured money somewhere, enough to fund their lives as fugitives, he and Oates, and they had to retrieve it before they escaped. “I can promise you, upon my word as a gentleman, that I will give you time to go. All that matters is my uncle’s safety. You must understand that — I don’t care if you’re caught. Weston won’t be any more or less dead. On the other hand if you were to harm Freddie or me, it would be national news — it would be the gallows. Would you rather be dead in a month or alive and away and rich? The choice is yours.”
Wells smiled thinly. “That is precisely why we took your cousin. Thought he might buy us our life, if we did. But I need some guarantee.”
“I have an idea,” said Lenox. “Take me with you in the carriage. I don’t mind. I’ll leave my horse, and my uncle can stay here.”
“He’ll call the police.”
Lenox thought for a moment, ignoring the faint relief in the back of his head at the rejection of that idea. “Then you must trust us. Take my horse, if you like, she’s a runner. Leave the carriage behind and you’ll go swifter. My uncle and I will have no means of catching you, of warning anybody. You’ll be down the road, miles in whichever direction you like. I give you my word, my solemn word, that I’ll tell them nothing other than that I exchanged my horse for my uncle.”
Wells was a rational man. Oates had been drinking his sorrows away, was likely, at just this stage, capable of irrational action. The right man had come into the bar. Wells understood his situation: He wanted his money; he wanted to live.
“Very well,” he said, at last. “Give me the money in your pockets, too, so you can’t hire a carriage out of here.”
Obediently Lenox handed over his billfold. “There are nearly twelve pounds in there.”
Wells opened it greedily and verified the truth of this. “Nice to be a gentleman, ain’t it. Come, we’ll go to the carriage. You’ll tell the boy we need your horse, and we’ll take one off the carriage.”
Lenox nodded. “Just remember, if you feel the urge to trick me, how much worse it should be for all of us — for you — if we don’t make a clean exchange. Why should any of the four of us drop an ounce of blood?”
Wells laughed. “Don’t worry on that count. I know where my bread is buttered. We’ll make the exchange, I’ll get Oates, and Freddie will stay in the carriage.”
“No. I need to see my cousin before you go.”
“Fine, then. He’s taken a knock on the head, be warned.”
Lenox mastered his anger at this, and nodded. Wells drained his drink, stood up, and led the way out of the Wild Bear.
In the stable there were two boys, the one who had taken Sadie and another, older one. He came forward. “Help you, sirs?”
Lenox said, “My horse—”
Wells interrupted sharply. “No. I need to speak with Oates first.”
He went into the carriage, stayed a few minutes, and came out, apparently satisfied. “All well?” Lenox asked.
“Saddle up the horses. Food in the saddlebags.” He pointed toward the better of the gray carriage mares and to Sadie. (Absurdly, Lenox felt a pang at losing the horse. He told himself to focus.) “When they’re ready to go I’ll whistle, and Oates will bring you your uncle.”
The stable boy looked troubled. “Sir—”
“It’s all right,” said Lenox.
It was an agonizingly slow process — five minutes perhaps, but each passing as slowly as a Sunday hour. At last the horses were ready. Wells put two fingers in his teeth and gave a loud whistle.
Oates came out of the carriage, supporting Frederick. The squire of Everley looked sluggish but he was plainly alive. Lenox breathed a sigh of relief, and in doing so realized he had been holding that breath, after a fashion, since he found Chalmers.
Oates refused to look at him. Lenox couldn’t help himself. “Oates!” he said.
The constable turned to him for an instant, and Lenox saw etched upon his face crazed, grief-stricken regret. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Quickly,” said Wells.
The two men took their seats and without looking back kicked their horses away. Just like that, they were gone. Lenox — feeling it was a trade he would happily make again and again — ran to his uncle, muttering under his breath his thanks to God that the old man was still alive.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Likely they are in London,” said John Dallington, speaking of the two fugitives. “I cannot imagine them stupid enough to place themselves within the confines of the city of Bath.”
“And yet that is the most probable location of the money they stowed away,” said Frederick, a bandage wrapped tightly around his head, face pale but eyes steady.
It was still wild with rain outside, the trees lashing into each other, but here, in the sitting room at Plumbley, the three men were warm, two of them sipping from well-deserved cups of hot wine.
Lenox shook his head. “I think Wells is too clever to have left his stockpile in Bath. He wanted a bolt-hole. I expect it’s somewhere far from the Wild Bear, to be honest, perhaps several counties over. Otherwise he wouldn’t have stopped to bother about the horse’s shoe — he would have carried on though it permanently lamed the beast.” For it had emerged that a hobble in one of the mares’ gait was what had, fortuitously, caused Oates and Wells to stop. Frederick, though captive, had overheard this plan to lie by at the Wild Bear and dropped his ribbon from the carriage to warn Lenox, or indeed any pursuers, that this was where they would stop. “If they have gone to Bath, however, they will be caught soon enough. Archer’s telegram said that half the police force is crawling over the city, looking in every hostelry and back alley for two men answering to their description.”