"You need not die tonight, you know," the thin man said, suddenly. His voice was low, but very clear despite the nasal timbre. "We want some information, that is all. Who set you on to us? It is not a lot to tell to save you, is it?"
But dull rage burned in Yorke. He was leaning against the table, hardly capable of standing upright. Warren, on the floor, was breathing badly, stertorous but uneven. While this swine offered him a bargain.
"Us?" he said. "And who are "us"? Why should I tell you?"
The words came badly through his cut and broken mouth, and the forming of the words sent agony shooting through his cheekbone. Nausea rose hard inside him, causing him to sway. The fat man waved a hand towards a chair.
"Sit down," he said. "Fall down, for aught we care. You will suffer long if you do not stop shrewing with us. We mean to know."
He did not sit, but waited for the nausea to pass. With it passed the rage, leaving him able to weigh up. He wondered if they would be allowed to live, whatever information they could offer these two men, but he did not think so. They had done enough now, probably, to hang, and they must know he would identify them the minute he was free. In any case, he had no information. He and Warren had been set on at Customs House, told what it was thought was happening, ordered to become a part of it and find the main men out if possible, to join them and win their trust until they could be destroyed. The intelligence that had started it would have been bought, for certainty. But from whom most naturally no inkling had been given him or Warren. His interlocutors must know this, too; it was the game.
"I could give a list of names," he said, 'but what of that? How would you know I did not lie?"
The fat man smiled.
"Give us the list and we will see," he said. "At least we will spare you until we have checked on them. Now there is an offer you should not slight."
"And if you find I lied, you kill me, naturally."
"Well, naturally."
"So to be sane I should tell the truth, and then you'd kill me because you would not have to check. My friend needs a physician, he is sorely hurt. If you have him tended, I will tell."
Fingers into fob, then snuffbox, then the nostrils, left and right. This time the fat man coughed, behind his handkerchief. The thin man drew out a watch and studied it.
"I should say your friend was nearly gone," he said. "It is late for you, as well, we have more revellers due here any minute. There is a surgeon in the house, though, if a little full of brandy. Now what other men are out in your capacity? You should not be alone in this venture, I suppose? Who are the other officers, are they too masquerading as men of business like yourselves, where are they staying? Tell me that, and your friend will see the surgeon. He may yet be saved."
After several seconds, the fat man stood and walked around the table. He was rather deft of foot despite his bulk, and brushed snuff powder off his breast daintily as he moved along. He stopped in front of Warren, and extended one foot, in a neat, fine-leather shoe, until the point was very near his face. Yorke straightened his back, raised a hand; but weakly lurched. The big man smiled then, and withdrew the polished shoe. He turned back towards his companion.
"We waste our time, George. I knew we should. Leave them to the dogs, they've served their purpose. Who else dares follow in their footsteps after this, of their persuasion or of ours? They've done the job."
"Have mercy at least on him," said Charles Yorke. His voice was almost breaking. "He is a good, an honest, man."
There was a pause. The thin man looked at him with great seriousness upon his face.
"As are not we all?" he asked. "Our trade and our desire, young man, is to bring no harm to anyone. Do not you understand that? There is still time to save your life, and even his perhaps. A man in your position could be worth his weight to us. In gold, you take my meaning? You are not dead. You will have time to think about it, will you not? I wish you luck."
Yorke had on a stubborn, bitter face but ten seconds later, before he had a chance to open mouth, the men were gone, and upon the instant three bully-boys came in to drag Warren to his feet, and both of them into the crowded yard. They were thrown on to a horse, their feet were triced underneath as usual, the whippings and the beatings instantly began. By the time they reached the next inn, to be dumped inside the brewhouse, he was almost sure Charles Warren's life had fled.
"Mr. Warren?" he said. "Charles?"
There was no reply, no sound of breathing, not the slightest fluttering of movement.
"You are dead," Yorke said. "They have killed you, Charlie, and they'll soon kill me. Oh Charles, we live in wicked times."
Somehow that gave him comfort, to use a phrase his uncle and protector used. He thought of Sir Arthur and his great, beloved house. He had spoken of this mission to him, they had discussed its many dangers, which had now come true. He felt Charles Warren's face, and it struck cold on his fingers. He leaned across and touched his cheek to it.
"God be with you, friend," he said. "I swear that you will be revenged."
Six
They left their horses at the Bear's Paw, and they made their way to the stairs at Tooly Street on foot. It was not far short of midnight by this time, and Bentley was astonished by the level of activity around the bridge and river bank. He did not remark it, though: Holt took it with indifference, so he must do the same. Ditto at the inn, which lay just off the road Sam called The Borough a bare furlong from the bridge. William had imagined knocking up the people, or tethering their mounts to sort themselves out. But there were coaches, carts, foot passengers of every degree, touts for the water transport, and a throng of ordinary folk, behaving as if it were broad daylight. Sam had used a tout told him their destination and agreed a price and the man had shouldered Bentley's bag and set off six paces in advance. Thank God; for Will, on his two legs once more, could hardly bear himself, to tell the truth.
There was no more talk of Dr. Marigold's because both men were tired, but on the river, legs stretched, backs straight along each side of the stern sheets they recovered the desire to communicate and to enjoy. Despite himself, William had excitement bubbling inside at the prospect of seeing his new ship, an excitement oddly mixed with dread. He had not wanted her, Sam's reports of her were terrible, the Impress Service was the last thing in the world he would have chosen. But she was a ship, and he was joining her, he had been broken willy-nilly from his decision to watch his life glide by. No, not decision; he had not decided anything, just let it glide. The smell of the river, the dense fore sting of masts along the north shore, dense clusters on the south, the constant traffic on the waters, of wherries, ferries, barges, keels and deep-sea traders slipping down, brought an unexpected gladness to his heart that he, too, was soon to be at sea. He had not, truly, known that he could miss it, or want to be in ships, at any rate. His own small boat was his love, his life in many ways, his talisman of sanity, but he had not known he hankered still for size. The tide was ebbing, and the two strong oarsmen shot them downriver at a cracking rate, and he was full of happiness and fear.
"Jesu, Will," said Samuel. "Isn't she beautiful, this river? And what a bastard smell! Look! Over there. It's a dead sheep, isn't it? Or mayhap a shepherd!"
More probably a dog, although now the moon was down the blackness was extreme. To William it was just a shape, blown and revolting, accompanied by a blast of corruption that made him gag, covering his mouth. Samuel did likewise, for fear of ague or some like infection from the foul air, although the boatmen rowed on heartily enough. Indeed the general smell was hardly less disgusting, and the surface of the ebb tide water was a litter of vile objects, dimly discerned. All around him on the banks were solid clustered buildings, outlined by lights, and on tiers and piers and buoys were ships, some discharging cargo despite the hour, all discharging their general filth to mix with the effluvia of the great city.