8
Clode woke and rubbed his eyes. In the last sputtering of the candle left for him he could see Mr. Chase’s clock. Close to midnight. The first confusions of consciousness danced about him, shreds of his dreams and the events of the last days mingling and separating with the shadows in the room. He remembered slowly. He was near the children, he had talked to their young guardian and liked him. He pulled himself up on his elbow and ran one hand round his jaw; it was rough, and he could taste stale gin in his mouth. His shoulder complained as he lifted himself up. He had slept hard, unmoving on Mr. Chase’s couch. Over his shoulder he could see the last of the light had gone, but the house was not at rest. He remembered what had woken him: there had been a clatter at the door.
Graves exchanged a look with Miss Chase and stood. The hammering was too urgent to be ignored. He stepped out into the hall. The kitchen maid was trembling uncertainly by a display of violets on the hall stand; such was the knocking the water rippled round them, so they seemed to be quivering in sympathy with the girl’s fear. She spotted him over her shoulder and smiled uncertainly.
“Go back to the kitchen and stay there.”
She dashed away, her soft soles scuffing the flags. Graves went to the door.
“Who is it?”
The banging stopped with a shout.
“Graves! That you? It’s Molloy! Open up now!”
Graves felt relief and anger run through him. Opening the door, he plucked Molloy in by his collar, using the weight of the man to shut the door again behind him.
“You? Now? God, Molloy-you hammering for money at this time of night? Come to take me to the Marshalsea-on this night? What are you thinking of?”
Molloy was red-faced. The surprised “o” of his mouth collapsed into a frown as he found his voice.
“We’ve no more business, you and I. I’ve come as a friend, so put me down, you idiot.” He pulled himself free of Graves’s slackened grip, and looked up at his confused face. “Yes. Your ladies sorted you out, though that’s their business and I’ll leave you to ask them of it.”
Graves felt himself color. Molloy gave him a nasty smile, sniffed and straightened the strip of dirty linen he wore as a cravat.
“Thing is,” he said sullenly, “Newgate has burned.”
Graves went pale.
“Yes, you do see, don’t you. I do come as a friend, though with no glad tidings. Happened a couple of hours ago. The lock tried to keep out the mob, but there were just too many of them. Place is all cinders and everyone who was in there is out. Not just the blue cockade lot. Everyone.”
Graves put his back to the wall and swore. Molloy smoothed his sleeves.
“Thing is, it gets worse. I was in the White Horse an hour ago, and I heard a man asking about the younglings here. That little girl and her brother. Mean-faced old bugger, makes me look like a fucking cherub. Yellow face.”
Graves put his hand to his face. “That’s him. The man who killed Alexander.”
“Thought it might be, so I put down my glass and dashed over here to tell you, like my arse was on fire. It’s no great secret you are here, son. He’ll find out before long. He had another bloke with him too, big bastard.”
Molloy stared down at his feet. “Thought I wouldn’t try the heroics,” he muttered. “Wasn’t sure, see? But wanted to get over here and tell you.”
Graves had gone white.
“Thank you. I am in your debt again, it seems.” He looked up a little guiltily. “And sorry about before.”
Molloy snorted. “Wouldn’t worry about it. I’ve had worse welcomes in better houses than this, and don’t thank me for yourself, I’d still not wipe my shoes on you. But Miss Chase is all right, and the little girl. I have a daughter too.” He cast his eyes over the violets and sniffed again. “I’ve got to go and look to my own, but you shouldn’t stay here. He knows and he’s coming.”
Graves ran his hand through his hair. “We can put up the shutters, lock the doors.”
Molly shook his head. “Guess that’s what Justice Hyde thought, and they took his house apart in an hour. The yellow fella only has to start it and there will be a hundred ready to help him pull this place down in a minute. Then he can hunt the kids as he pleases. Look, I can recognize a pro when I see him, and he has a mate. You’ve got no hope here, not when every other bloke in the place is down at the warehouse. You got to run.”
He suddenly straightened. Graves turned to see the doors to the study and parlor had been opened. Clode and Miss Chase stood in the respective doorways. He could tell by their faces they had heard enough. Miss Chase gave a friendly nod to Molloy and he smiled like the lord mayor on parade.
“Where can we go?” Graves said.
Clode reached into the pocket of his cloak and withdrew a crumpled letter, held it up in his fist.
“I have a place.”
17 JUNE 1775, STONE JAIL, BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Hugh rested and breathed deeply as he climbed the steps to Stone Jail. His hearing was still muffled from the shattering fizz and kick of the guns. His wound clawed at him, and every time his vision blurred, he saw again the haze of gunsmoke and the look on the rebel’s face he had caught with his bayonet as he scrabbled among the remains of his lunch to reload. The bloom of blood around the man’s mouth seemed to grow, blossom, every time the image recurred until, as Hugh closed his eyes now, it seemed a fountain, a wave that had covered them both. He looked at his hand where it rested on the wall, expecting to see it bloody as fresh meat. It was white, passive, obediently holding his weight against the rough surface of the wall. He almost did not recognize it as his own.
“Come to see your friend, Mr. Hugh?”
“Wicksteed!” He looked up in mingled horror and surprise. “How in hell?”
“I heard you had a friend among the wounded rebels, and so hurried down here to see what could be done. Very little, I’m afraid. It is a stomach wound. He won’t last the night, poor Shapin.”
“He’s no friend of mine.”
“Yet here you are!” Wicksteed shrugged. “So he must mean something to you. I shall let you talk to him alone. Who knows what he might say to a friend? I will wait for you, though. That wound of yours needs tending.”
Hugh shouldered past him and into the little room, where some dozen men lay sleeping or unconscious on rough straw against the walls. Hugh could see why the rebels had not bothered to carry them with them on their retreat. He would be surprised if any of them made it till morning. There was a movement in the growing gloom. A middle-aged man struggled up onto his forearm.
“Mr. Thornleigh? Mr. Hugh Thornleigh?”
Hugh stepped forward, and dropped to his knees by the man’s bed. “I am Captain Thornleigh. Are you Shapin?”
The man stared at him hard. “I am. I used to serve your household in Sussex.”
Thornleigh looked down at him, saw the old scar smile across his neck.
“So how’d you come here then, Shapin?”
The man lay down again and let out a long shuddering breath. He stared at the ceiling.
“Funny you should ask me that, Captain. I have been asking myself the same question every morning for the best part of thirty years. ‘How did we get here, Shapin?’ You see, I still think I’m in the garret of your father’s house in London every time I wake up and open my eyes, even now. They said I stole, and they found what was stolen under my bed, and I began to think maybe I had, they told me so often, with such a sorry shaking of their heads.” He turned so that he could look straight into Hugh’s eyes. “But you know, Captain, I think I’ve finally worked it out. Just since that bloody-backed bastard put a hole in my stomach, it’s as if he shot some sense into me. All the pictures came together, and now I can see the whole thing.”