‘Mr Gibbes, I am Mary Lyte.’ For all her courage, Thomas heard a slight tremble in her voice. ‘You are not welcome here.’
Gibbes shuffled his feet and looked at the ground. He clutched in both hands a small sack tied with a length of rope. It looked heavy. ‘My brother is dead, killed at Six Mens Bay. That is why I have come.’
‘I do not see how that concerns me.’
‘I am a rich man.’ He held up the evil-smelling bag. ‘This bag is full of gold. I have come to give it to you.’
Expecting a demand for Thomas to be handed over, Mary was taken by surprise. ‘That is absurd, Mr Gibbes. Why would I wish to take your gold?’
He ignored the question. ‘There is one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘You will be my wife.’
Mary stared at him in astonishment. Before she could say anything, Gibbes went on, ‘You are of marriageable age, I am the owner of a good estate and a wealthy man. Now my brother is dead, I wish to take a wife. Why would you refuse me?’ Thomas knew that there were at least a hundred reasons, none of which Mary cared to offer him.
‘Kindly leave my estate at once. If you come here again, I shall instruct my servants to shoot you.’ Now she was shouting.
‘Your servants are away,’ said Gibbes slyly.
‘This unwelcome meeting is over. Go, Mr Gibbes. Now.’
She made to close the door. But for all the rum inside him, Gibbes moved quickly. Before Mary or Patrick could stop him, he shoved the door open and stepped inside, slamming it behind him. Putting himself in front of Mary, Patrick shot a fist into Gibbes’s face. Ignoring the blood streaming from his nose, Gibbes dropped the bag, pulled a knife from inside his shirt, grabbed Patrick’s hair and with a single backhand slash opened his throat.
As Patrick fell, blood spurting from the wound, Mary screamed. Stepping over him, Gibbes jammed the knife into the doorpost and reached for her throat. Again she screamed. He got his hands around her neck and thrust his face into hers. ‘Now you’re going to learn what happens to a woman who defies John Gibbes. If you won’t be my wife, you won’t be the first whore who’s learned her lesson.’
Mary wriggled and struggled and beat at his shoulders with her fists. Blind with rage and lust, Gibbes barely flinched. He forced her on to her back and straddled her. She was pinned under his weight, but her arms were free. Desperately, she thrust both hands into his groin, twisted and squeezed. Gibbes shrieked, but kept one hand around her throat and punched her hard in the face. Again she twisted and squeezed and again he hit her, this time with enough force to knock her senseless.
He got to his knees and pulled up her skirts. ‘Filthy whores get filthy treatment,’ he spat at her, unbuckling his belt, ‘and it’s time for yours. You’ll thank me later.’
The moment Gibbes stepped inside the house, Thomas had run round to the front door. When he found that Gibbes had shut it violently enough to jam it, he ran back and through the kitchen. Patrick lay in a pool of blood on the floor, his hands clasped over his throat. Gibbes, his back to Thomas, had pinned Mary to the floor and was struggling to get out of his breeches. Mary was not moving.
Thomas cast about for a weapon. He did not see the knife in the door but a silver candlestick stood on the dining table. He picked it up and smashed the heavy base down on Gibbes’s head, feeling the impact right up his arms. Gibbes fell to one side, stunned. Mary opened her eyes and tried to focus. Her cheek was livid and swollen and she was shaking. She held out a hand to Thomas. From the corner of his eye Thomas saw Gibbes beginning to stir. He would have to be quick. Gently disengaging from Mary, he reached down, pulled the pistol from the brute’s belt, aimed carefully at his eye and pulled the trigger.
There was an empty click. Damp powder. Red brute staggered dimly to his feet and made a lunge for Thomas, catching enough of his shoulder to knock him down. Before he could roll away, Thomas found himself trapped under the weight of the man, his throat being squeezed and his face no more than inches from a fetid, black-toothed hole of a mouth.
‘Hill, you little runt. I might have guessed. Run away, would you? Now you’ll get what John Gibbes should have given you years ago.’
Thomas felt the pressure on his throat increasing and the strength to fight draining away. His eyes closed and he was on the point of losing consciousness when the weight on his chest lifted, his windpipe opened and his lungs sucked in a gulp of air. Gasping painfully, he sat up. Gibbes lay beside him, felled for the second time by the heavy candlestick.
‘Be quick, Thomas. His knife. In the door,’ whispered Mary.
His mind clearing, Thomas was on his feet and pulling the knife from the wood. ‘You or I?’ he asked, holding up the knife.
‘Can you?’
‘I can.’ He stepped over to the unconscious Gibbes. Mary turned away. When she turned back, red brute was impaled by the knife. It had gone through his throat and into the floorboards.
Thomas knelt over Patrick, one hand under his head and desperately trying with the other to staunch the flow of blood from the awful wound. Patrick’s eyes were open but all colour had drained from his face. Mary grabbed a cloth from the table and held it over his throat. Blood still spurted out. Patrick smiled weakly and put his hands over Thomas’s. Then his eyes closed and his head slumped to one side. Thomas put two fingers to his neck. Patrick was dead.
For a long time, Mary and Thomas sat together in silence.
Eventually Mary asked quietly, ‘Thomas, who saved who this time, would you say?’
‘A little of each, perhaps? Would that we could have saved Patrick, too. This terrible thing should not have happened. I should have killed them years ago.’
‘And been hanged for it?’
‘Perhaps. Now you should rest. I will take care of Patrick.’
In no state to argue, her cheek now so swollen that her left eye had closed, Mary did as she was told.
Thomas left the house and ran to the slaves’ quarters. The commotion had been heard and the slaves were up and alert. He took two men back to the house. ‘There’s been trouble. Patrick has been murdered by an intruder. Take him to your quarters and we’ll bury him tomorrow. When you’ve done that, take this man’s body and burn it. There must be nothing left. Do it immediately.’
‘Miss Lyte? Is she hurt?’
‘She’s bruised but otherwise unharmed. I will take care of her. Now be quick.’ While the two men moved the bodies, Thomas picked up the bag and opened it. As the brute had said, it was full of gold sovereigns. He put it in a corner.
Thomas did not sleep. Neither his mind nor his body could rest and he could just hear the low sounds of mourning coming from the slave quarters. As soon as it was light, he went to Mary’s bedroom and found her awake. Her face was like a pumpkin. ‘Tell me it was a nightmare, Thomas,’ she said.
‘Alas, it was not. But it’s over. May I bring you anything?’
‘Water, please, and a looking glass. I’d better see the damage for myself.’
When he returned, Mary took a sip of water and held the glass up to her face. With a groan, she put it down again. ‘Is it done?’
‘It is. Gibbes’s body will not be seen again. Patrick will be buried this morning. Will you come?’
‘No, Thomas. I’ll visit him when I’m recovered and able to grieve as I should. He was an unusual man and a brave one. Do it well.’ Thomas turned to leave. ‘And Thomas, the bag. Is it full of gold?’
‘It is. Gold coins of various sorts.’
‘Where did it come from, do you think?’
‘I’m not certain, but I do have an idea about that. I will tell you when you are stronger.’
‘When you’ve buried Patrick, please send word to Charles. Without Patrick or Adam, we shall need his assistance.’