Chester Wimbarton, as he had promised, 'looked Deb over' next time he came to her, and many times thereafter and very frequently, as he was as wiry and insatiable as an upland tup. The first few times he brought his knife, but soon he left it far away from them, and then he dared to face her unprotected. He always wore a long white shirt, he always stood between her thighs while she was pressed back on the bed, and apart from muttered greetings and farewells, he hardly spoke. On the second time he said she should be naked, and when she moved too slow he hit her. After that, when he entered the room, Deb pulled her shift off to be ready, and only put it on when he had gone.
She talked to Sue and Joan, and sometimes Dorothy, and counted them as her only friends. Her greatest fear was falling pregnant -although all three of the household women recommended it as a hope, for poor Milady had failed in that department and had cried about it to them in the depths of her despair but they brought her vinegar in plenty, and more soap than most poor maids saw in a lifetime to undo the damage in the bud if possible, and hang expense. When his wife was still alive, she figured, he might have found a little baby welcome, but a bastard fathered on a locked-up slut would strike the neighbours very different, especially for a justice of the peace. Deb no longer knew what she expected of the future, or wanted even. But to be thrown back on a most uncaring world great with child, or snuffed out quietly as an embarrassment, was not on her agenda. She had her body, which seemed to drive him mad with lust, and it was meat and drink to her, if not contentment.
Contentment, in a way, would have been a walk outside. This came on Deborah as a realisation slowly, and it amused her when she thought how much her world had been reduced. At first she'd craved for freedom, mainly from the sight or sound or thought of Wimbarton and his stabbing thing, then she'd craved for company or friends, or maids who unlike Wimbarton's were not moved (as they were at first) by envy or suspicion. She'd craved for Dr. Marigold's, its comforts and its jollity, she'd craved good food and drink, variety. She'd sometimes, weepily, craved her shining prince, neat William, although she knew that was a fairy tale, nothing more. In the end, it boiled down to four drab walls and one high, obscure window, and the smell, the sound, the memory of a world outside. She tried to talk to the master, to make him think she liked him so that some day she could hint she'd appreciate a stroll, but the master, whatever he thought of her, did not like her 'prattling' (as he once called her twelve words, she counted them up after the rebuke). She did get out once, the first Sunday, when she was allowed to go to church, discreetly hobbled underneath one of Sue's skirts so that she could not run far before Jeremiah or Fiske could skip after her to knock her down. She saw Milady's grave, and very nearly wept.
It was a drab life, but she guessed she'd stand it, as being better than no life at all. She wondered if she would or could escape, and how, but all in all it was beyond imagination. She very rarely fantasised, these days, about Wimbarton falling for her for her looks and making her the new Milady, nor did she want it, under any circumstance. But she remembered, ruefully, she'd had the fantasy common to her trade, that some rich, handsome, noble man would lose his heart and soul to her, and make her great in happiness. Not Wimbarton now, though. No, not anyone.
They talked of cases as they rode along for Langham Lodge, and they got near expressing the thing that nagged at both of them, the odd notion that the times were out of joint somehow. Slack Dickie Kaye and his venality were ill enough, but the urbane post captain had shaken them more deeply. He'd brought a lawyer and two clerks all the way to Deptfbrd not to hunt and find the truth (and shame the devil, even if his father was a 'bloody duke'!), but to make certain that it would not get out. What the truth was did not come into it, he'd made that all too plain; what mattered was the Navy's reputation, and that anyone's indiscretion, however violent, should not mar it.
"My father was a lawyer, and he said the country was gone wrong," said Sam. "He said there was a cancer had got in, a creeping corruption in our public life. But by God, Will, the Navy is an honourable service. We fight these evils, not go in for 'em."
"In Navy terms, though," Will started. But he broke it off. His Navy terms were blighted by his past. He'd seen too many means justified by uncertain ends. "No," he said. "Kaye is not general, Sam, he's not of normal quality for a Navy officer. I guess they just worked out that one man dead was more than enough, and where's the point in breaking Dickie down? The Press itself is hated and reviled by many, but are we to blame ourselves for being part of it? Without the Press we should not have men to work our ships. It has been proved."
"Aye, that's true enough, I can't gainsay it. And you mean Slack Dickie's worse than most of them, but still we must have men like him? One thing he takes far less than most! In terms of sailors craving for their homes, Richard's a benefactor, almost!" He sobered rapidly. "But still, Will, there's a man was murdered, and '
"Maybe," said Will. "Sam, I would have said an' I'd been sure, and so would you. Slack Dickie said the man attacked him, and the gun was cocked. I think we think ... But we can't be sure. And let's say Oxforde had worked that out, and all. What do? Admit Lieutenant Kaye's a murderer? Have him strung up? It feels dirty, Sam, God knows it does. But ... Sam, we'll never know."
"So many things we'll never know," Holt muttered. "Blood, Will, in the past two months the teeth of my blind faith, my faith in honesty and reason .. . well, even Annette called me tedious in her bed last night, she stopped my mouth to stop me droning on. But look at where we're going now, and why, and what we must find out. God, even gentle smuggling, that you at least think no worse than usury, is Will? What's going on up yonder?"
Ahead of them, as they followed round a curve, there was a group of people, some on horseback, some on foot. It was a road they knew, not above a mile from Langham, the crossroads marked by an ancient turkey-oak with huge, spread branches. There was something dangling from a limb, an awful, characteristic shape that twisted on itself as the group milled round about it. It was a makeshift gibbet, with a hanging man, and they both stopped involuntarily, disquiet rising in them.
"It's Tony!" said Sam, suddenly. "Look, he's seen us!"
Not the corpse, but a man on horseback, Will realised with surging relief. Sir A's steward wheeled, and spurred towards them. There were others of the baronet's retainers also there, he recognised.
"Sirs," said Tony. "There's some poor fellow here's been strung up like a scarecrow. Not above three hours since. I fear you know him."
"What?" said Will, incredulous. "But '
But Sam had dug his heels, with Tony twisting his horse to follow him. As Will came up on them Sam had stopped, but he did not dismount. Despite the congestion of the face, eyes bulging out in blackened cheeks, a tip of tongue jammed out from the strained mouth, Will knew the man immediately. His wrists were tied in front of him, his breeches soiled. It was John Hardman, who'd revealed the body of Charles Yorke to Sam.
Twenty-Six
Sir Arthur, when they got to him, was overwhelmed to see them, he was flooded with relief. While Mrs. Houghton tried to calm things down and give them food and drink and organise hot water 'for a wash at least', he fussed around them, mood swooping from delight that they were safe to relived horror at what they'd seen and what it meant. A message had alerted the household to the murder, brought by a labourer who had been paid (and threatened) by two armed horsemen not long after dawn. On their journey back with Tony he had revealed the message to them, but now Sir A needed explanation and reassurance.