"They had buried him alive," he said simply. "They gave him bread and water blind stupidity, or cruelty, even good intentions, John Hardman did not know. However many days it took to die, Yorke spent clawing at rocks too big for one man to move. His head is squeezed between two stones, and ... oh Christ, Will. How shall we tell Sir A of this?"
In the darkness, with a soughing wind, there was a stench that came and went, and mingled with the sweet scent of the Punchbowl. William knew the place, not many miles from home, and had wandered there on horse and foot. A fine place to be buried, but not like this.
"Hardman," he said. "And ... and did he take the money that you offered? Christ, that is horrible."
"Yes. I thought he would, Will. I thought he was our man, I observed him yesterday, when that big bugger Bartram was obstructing us. Don't blame him too hard. He wants to get away from this, I think he's had enough. He is thinking, seriously, he is hoping, to buy himself into a safer trade, less horrible, that Navy talk I told you of is not a joke. But he has friends and obligations. To leave would not be easy. And not safe."
Will tried to think that through, but his craw was full of bitterness and hatred. So Sam had gone to Hardman and made a bribe, and the bait had been snapped up. A shaft of moonlight shone down into the tunnel that they stood over, and before he could avert his gaze he saw a face, a skull half stripped of flesh, at least one eye pecked or rotted out. God, no excuse. The devil, no excuse!
"He was not part of it himself," said Sam, carefully. "You might not believe that, but I do. The local crew, John's crew, were ... well, there is something going on that I can't get out of him, could not get out of him for any money. This murder, and that of Warren, was the work of some other men, some men from farther east, I think. Some Hampshire men took part in it in some way, but not John Hardman nor, I guess, any of the ones we've spoke to. But a friend of his, maybe. Yes, a friend of John's did, which is how he could take me to the grave. This lad showed it to him and now he's gone, John says. He says he fears he's killed himself. Aye, I see your face, Will. "Tis hard to swallow, I ain't sure myself. I'm pretty sure John is, though. I think he's had enough of it, and that is why he told me."
"Aye!" said Will, with passion. "And you paid him for the telling! Oh hell, Sam, hell! Poor Yorke is lying there! Mary said it was the work of beasts, but they are part of it! All of them. And Jesse Broad was, too!"
He stood there, panting and in sudden tears, and Sam was silent for a while.
"We ought to bury him, whatever," he said at last. "I asked John why they'd done this to him, and why they'd stuffed Warren into a burning rick as if a decent Christian burial was a thing they could not have, but got no answer I'd call sensible or straight. He said it was not the normal way, that nothing like this had ever been done that he knew of, that there was food and drink, he was not meant to die. Will, I believed him. Except it did not seem like all the truth. He took the money, true, but he was sweating on it, as if ashamed almost to death. I truly do not think we'll see him any more, nor will his companions. Maybe they are evil, and not him. Will, he tried to tell the truth, I do believe that."
"But surely Mary '
The cry, half a question half a statement, crumbled in his mouth and turned to ash. Out-of-towners, she had said, and called Yorke 'buried', but surely she must have known? He agreed with Sam on this point, that Mary Broad was a high officer in the Langstone crew, if not their leader-captain. Surely she must have known as much as the Widow Hardman's son?
"What did she tell you?" said Sam, his voice low. "That Sally is not a Guernsey maid but French? That her real name is Celine, and she smuggles prisoners? Did Mary tell you that?"
"Prisoners? What do you mean?"
"French prisoners of war," said Sam. "They have a net, to get them off the hulks in the Medway and the Thames. They closet them in farms in Kent, then ship 'em out in bulk. John says the signs are there's a shipment soon. Soon now, Celine will disappear. She does it regular. Now is that what Mary told you, honest Mary?"
But honest Mary had told him Sally was gone east, that very morning. "On her usual business." A breath arose from the grave-hole, vileness mixed with a zephyr of the autumn, and Will gagged. Had Mary lied? Had Hardman? The body down beneath them was all that they'd discovered that was concrete and visible. The body crying out for decent Christian rest.
"Sam," he said. "We cannot bury him. Sir A would not forgive that. What, just cover him with stones? Leave him unmarked and unspoken over? Sir Arthur, when he knew, would '
"He must not know!" Sam interrupted. "God, know what? Should we tell him this? This man was his flesh and kin! What, tell him they walled him up and let him starve to death?"
For some long time they neither of them spoke. The breeze was gentle, blowing now a sweet breath, now a foul. Sam put his hand on Will's upper arm and squeezed it.
"We cannot bury him, you're right," he said. "How can we tell him in a way that he can bear, though? He will bring the body home to Langham, or maybe do a service here. No, he will take him home to rest. There is a chapel in the grounds. A memorial to his wife and children. He would have had the boys back from Batavia if he could have done. Let's cover him against the beasts, though. Would that there had been some way to protect him from the human beasts."
As they toiled, piling stones on stones, Sam mused aloud on why it should have happened, and if this was the end. It seemed to both of them the murderers had wanted it a deadly secret unless it could be true they'd meant to save him at a later time, which they deemed a fairy story so who knew what they might not do when the tale was out? But they could see no actual reason why Yorke's resting place should draw them any more, or why it should be desecrated before Sir A had chance to send a party. As their final act, they made a cairn of stone, and blazed every third tree on a direct way to the road. With instruction, other men could find it now.
The journey back was long and arduous, taking them the most part of the night. Although it was not cold there were rain flurries, and the road was difficult with mud in places, which all cut down the opportunity for talk or tracking side by side. This suited both of them, as each had hard and lonely thoughts to ponder on about their expedition, and what they'd found. Will did have thoughts of Deb as they got nearer, but he found it easy to dismiss them, or push them sideways with thoughts of other things. Other women indeed, for Mary and Sally (or Celine) kept buzzing round and round his head like rats in a wire trap. Deb might betray him with Wimbarton (the mad thoughts went), or he might betray her by denying what he felt was love, but Jesse's widow had betrayed him already with her lies, and Sally might be a spy. This was grist to wrestle with, and then he'd realise that as he rode along towards the Lodge, he saw Deb lying there in front of him, naked and with arms stretched wide in welcome, and he would be ashamed.
Dawn was breaking, fair and mild, when the gatehouse hove into view, and both their minds were full only of the buried man and how they would tell it to his uncle. This time there were no guards in the building, which was shuttered, so they trotted up to the house wondering if they should drift in quietly to the stable yard and find some straw to sleep on. But dogs barked, as they were bred to do, and quickly an ostler with a musket stepped through a door to check them. Within five minutes Tony joined them, to tell them his orders were to wake Sir A whatever hour they returned. He took them to the parlour straight away, where there was food and beer laid out in case, and the thick embers still gave out unneeded heat. It occurred to both of them that the poor old man's anticipation was a constant state, and he had geared his house to their return. In the short time that they waited they were tongue-tied and hopeless, with a picture built in both their minds of tragedy.