Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) (27 page)

“Well, pleasant as it is to share a drink with ye, I’d just as soon conclude our transaction immediately and be on my way, if it’s all the same to you,” Jim said.

“Do you have the money?”

“Aye, of course, man. I always pay for the goods up front, you ken that well. What’s the matter with ye? You said there’s no’ a problem.”

“No, but the price of the particular goods in question has...changed a little. Due to their dangerous nature, you realise.”

Jim’s blue eyes narrowed slightly.

“We agreed the price beforehand, and the goods havena become more dangerous in the shipping. What’s changed, then?”

Josh took a deep breath and his hands moved beneath the table to loosen the dagger concealed inside his coat from its leather sheath. He leaned forward slightly so as not to be overheard.

“Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Sir Anthony Peters?” he said.

The Scot’s eyes widened and his hand clenched convulsively around the tankard of beer, the knuckles showing white. But he did not leap to his feet and draw his sword, and that was a good sign. Josh leaned back again, relieved. His plan was going to work.

No sooner had his spine touched the back of the chair, than a hand settled lightly on his shoulder and he shot to his feet, knife in hand, whirling to meet his attacker. The man leapt back, hand upraised in a conciliatory gesture, a look of fear on his face.

“I’m sorry, man, I had no wish to frighten you,” he said.

Josh maintained his aggressive stance, trying to keep both Jim and the newcomer in sight. His mouth opened to call for help.

“This is an acquaintance of mine, Mr Smith,” Jim said, making a conscious effort to relax his death grip on the tankard. “He goes by the name of...Abernathy.” He looked at the half-empty tankard in front of Josh. “You were drinking his ale, but I doubt he’ll mind.”

“I am truly sorry, Mr Smith,” said Abernathy. “Jim asked me to lend a hand with moving the merchandise. I just popped away out to relieve myself, and didna want to disturb ye at your conversation, but Jim had told me to come straight back and no’ mess around outside...”

The man was babbling in his eagerness to appease him, and Josh relaxed a little. Whoever this man was, he was no threat. If anything he appeared a little simple-minded. No doubt Jim had chosen him for his brawn rather than his intellectual capacity.

Abernathy turned now and took a chair from the next table, drawing it up beside Jim’s and plopping down into it.

“Your friend and I were just having a private conversation, Mr Abernathy,” Josh said, trying to sound authoritative. He looked at the two men sitting opposite him. They were closely related, that was clear, probably brothers. They had the same dark blue eyes, straight noses and strong mouths, the edges turned up slightly at the corners as though permanently about to smile. They were both tall as well, but Jim’s frame was still boyish, whereas Abernathy already had the muscle that Jim would one day possess. He didn’t seem dangerous, but it was impossible to tell. Josh looked for a way out. He would never have broached the subject of Sir Anthony if he’d known Jim was not alone.

“It’s all right, Mr Smith,” said Jim amiably, as if reading his mind. “Ye can say anything in front of Abernathy here. He’s a wee bit daft in the heid, but he’s trustworthy. Mr Smith had just asked me if I kent of a man by the name of Sir Anthony Peters, Abernathy.”

Abernathy’s face instantly became a mask of fear.

“S...Sir Anthony Peters?” he stammered. “What would we have to do wi’ him?”

Josh’s heart exulted. He was certain now. Although Abernathy was older than Jim, he was obviously feeble. Dismissing him completely, Josh turned his attention back to the young man.

“He is your sponsor, isn’t he?” Josh said.

“I have never heard of...”

“How do you know?” Abernathy spoke at the same time as Jim. Jim raised his eyes to heaven, but did not rebuke his friend for revealing that Josh was right. The foppish, seemingly Hanoverian Sir Anthony Peters, close confidant of the king, was a secret Jacobite, paying for arms to be smuggled into the country! Josh could retire on this, if he played his cards right.

“Let me just say that you were seen entering a certain establishment in London with a package, and Sir Anthony left very soon after, clutching a package of the very same size. You’ve been seen meeting in this way on more than one occasion.” His voice was strong and confident now. In fact, he had seen the blond Scot and his dark-haired ‘friend’ Abernathy go into a pub in Covent Garden only twice, but on both occasions Sir Anthony had left soon after. He must have already been inside, waiting for his friends. On the second occasion Josh had gone into the pub enquiring after Sir Anthony, pretending he had an urgent message for him, and had been told that the baronet had been entertaining some acquaintances, and had just left. He had known that someone must be sponsoring the Scot to bring in arms, and had guessed that Sir Anthony was the man. He had hoped by Jim’s reaction to the name to verify his suspicions, which the loose-tongued Abernathy had just done.

The loose-tongued man in question now looked anxiously around the room, and Jim finished the last of his beer and turned the empty tankard upside down on the table.

“I’m sure you’ll appreciate, Mr Smith, that this is a verra sensitive matter and not one I’d be wanting people to eavesdrop on. Can we no’ go somewhere a wee bit more private? I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.” Jim’s voice was raw with worry.

Josh took them to his house, ensconcing the simple-minded Abernathy, who expressed a fear of going down into the dark cellar, in the parlour with a glass of wine.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Jim said as he followed Josh down into the cellar. “He’s always been afraid of cellars ever since his father used to lock him in one as a bairn when he’d done wrong.”

He looked around at the boxes stacked about the room, barely visible in the light from the lantern Josh carried. A strong smell of tea filled his nostrils. “Is everything here?”

“Yes, of course,” said Josh. “I’m a man of my word.”

“Aye,” said Jim mildly. “A man of your word who follows other men about, prying into their secret business.”

Josh eyed the young man warily, but he was examining a bolt of beautiful chiné silk absent-mindedly, and showed no signs of incipient violence.

“I’m certain we can come to some arrangement,” Josh said. “Everything has its price. I’m sure that Sir Anthony wouldn’t want his friends to know that he’s a closet Jacobite and traitor.”

“I’m sure he would not, indeed,” replied Jim. “Just what sort of arrangement are ye proposing? I assume that this involves Sir Anthony paying a large sum of money for you to keep your mouth shut?”

“Oh, in view of what he has to lose, I would not consider it a large sum,” said Josh, sitting down on a bolt of silk and laying his hands on his knees. He was enjoying himself now. “Shall we say...ah...ten thousand pounds?”

He had expected Jim to protest, but he only inhaled loudly through his nose. Josh cursed to himself. He should have asked for more.

“Ten thousand pounds,” the Scot echoed. “And how much will it be costing to pay off all the people ye’ve let into the secret?”

“I haven’t told a soul,” Josh said. “I am the soul of discretion.”

“For ten thousand pounds Sir Anthony would expect a lot of discretion.”

“He would get it, sir, I assure you.”

“It is a great sum of money, Mr Smith,” said Jim, prevaricating. Where the hell was his brother?

“A man has to live, Jim,” Josh said, spreading his hands on his lap.

“Indeed he does, although it would seem that you yourself have no wish to do so,” came a voice from the cellar steps.

“Is everyone dealt with?” the young man asked his companion, relief etched in his voice.

“Aye,” said Abernathy, coming into view as he reached the bottom of the steps, miraculously cured both of his fear of the dark and his simple-mindedness. “There was nobbut a couple of servants. They’ll no’ be giving us any bother for a while.”

Josh leapt up from his seat, fumbling for his knife, but in two strides the dark-haired Scot had reached him and drove a fist hard into his stomach. The air rushed from his lungs and he collapsed back onto the silk, gasping for breath. The blond man kicked the knife Josh had dropped away into a corner.

“Abernathy?” Alex said to his brother, reaching into his coat and withdrawing his dirk. “Where the hell did ye get that from?”

Angus’s merry laugh echoed incongruously around the cellar.

“Christ, man, I dinna ken. It just seemed right at the time.”

Both men looked at the wheezing figure of the seated man. His wig had fallen off, revealing a mop of greasy black hair. He looked up beseechingly at the two men looming over him and tried to speak, but nothing other than a strangled gasp came out. After their previous encounter, Angus had expressed a mistrust of ‘Mr Smith’ but had admitted it was based on no more than instinct. However, Alex, whose trust in instinct had saved his life more than once, had taken Angus seriously and offered to accompany him to this meeting. Angus was now extremely glad he had, in view of the way things had turned out.

“What do we do now?” he asked quietly, all trace of merriment gone from his voice.

“I dinna see we have a choice in the matter,” Alex said. He reached out and grasped Josh by the hair, dragging him to his feet. Turning him round, Alex wrapped his arm round the man’s throat, pulling him against his chest. Alex was a full head taller than Josh; the back of his head rested against the Scot’s shoulder. He raised his hands instinctively to defend himself, but then felt the cold steel of the dirk at the base of his throat and subsided.

“Now,” said Alex quietly, “you’re going to tell me a few things that I need to know. How many other people ken about Sir Anthony?”

“He’s already told me that he didna tell anyone else,” Angus said, before Josh could answer.

“Do you believe him?” Alex asked.

Angus considered for a moment.

“Aye. He’s greedy. He wouldna want to share ten thousand pounds with anyone else.”

Josh felt Alex’s head nod slightly behind him. He tried to move his head, but the iron-hard arm tightened warningly. He knew now that he had vastly underestimated both of these men. The man standing behind him was clearly no simpleton, but a soldier, battle-hardened and ruthless. And the blond youth standing casually nearby seemed to have no qualms about violence either. He fervently wished that he had told twenty others, or at least had said he had. Then there would be no point in killing him. He tried to collect his wits, no easy task when twelve inches of razor-sharp steel are being levelled at your throat and you are alone.

“Please,” he whispered. “Let us talk. What do you say we just forget I ever saw anything, and you can have the weapons and the silk for nothing. By way of an apology.” His voice was pleading, craven, but he did not care.

“It’s no’ the money that’s the problem,” Alex said. “It’s trust. Ye ken well ye had no business to be snooping around, trying tae find out about us.”

“I wasn’t snooping!” Josh said desperately. “It was pure chance that I saw you, that’s all.”

“That’ll be two pure chances, then, at least,” Angus said dryly.

“Ye see, I’m right, ye canna be trusted. Even now, when there’s no point in lying, ye’re still doing it. How many other people are ye blackmailing?” Alex’s voice was cold.

“None! None, I swear it.” Josh lied. “It was the first time I’ve tried it, and I’ll never do it again. I’ve learnt my lesson.” He was trembling, his body shaking uncontrollably in the big man’s grip.

“You can see his eyes better than I, Angus. Is he lying?”

Angus raised the lantern, moving closer to examine the man, and Josh lost control of his bladder. In that moment he knew he was going to die. Not because the young man was scrutinising him so coldly, and not because of the knife at his throat, but because the man holding him had called the other by his proper name. It no longer mattered to them if Josh knew their real names, and that could only mean one thing.

Angus stepped back.

“I canna tell for sure if he’s lying or no’. Does it matter?”

“Aye, it could. I’ll ask ye one more question, man. Do ye have a wife and bairns?”

The question was so unexpected that Josh forgot the shameful urine trickling warmly down his leg and puddling at his feet for a moment. Then he grabbed at the lifeline he thought was being offered him.

“Yes!” he cried. “Yes! I do. Five children, and the eldest only eight. If you kill me, they’ll starve. Please, have mercy!”

“I’m sorry, man,” Alex’s voice was soft, regretful. “But I promise ye this. I’ll no’ let your bairns go hungry, nor your wife either. I’ll make sure they’re provided for.” He removed the dagger from Josh’s throat and flexed his bicep, cutting off Josh’s air supply and almost lifting him off his feet.

“For what it’s worth, ye were wrong,” Alex said softly into Josh’s ear. “Sir Anthony Peters isna my sponsor.”

Josh’s hands came up instinctively as he started to choke, his fingers scrabbling at the Scot’s brawny forearm. His mind was concentrated solely on releasing the pressure on his windpipe so that he could breathe, and he didn’t feel the dirk until it slid between his ribs into his heart. His eyes widened, and he coughed softly, once. One hand reached blindly for the dirk which was buried to the hilt in his chest, but he had no strength to draw it out. His body spasmed violently before going limp. Alex went with him, lowering the body gently to the floor, where it twitched feebly for a moment before the brown eyes slowly glazed over, and all movement stopped.

“Have ye a kerchief, Angus?” Alex said to his brother, who was standing stock still, eyes wide, face ashen. He fumbled in his coat for a moment and produced a square of linen, which he handed to the man crouched on the floor. Alex wadded it up and wrapping it round the base of the dirk, slowly withdrew the weapon, pressing the cloth against the wound. Angus watched in horrified fascination.

“We dinna want to leave the house covered in blood,” Alex explained. “This will soak it up, and no’ leave so much of a mess.” He stood up, sheathing the dirk, and scrubbed his hand through his hair. He looked down at the body of the man at his feet. “Christ, why the hell did he have to do that? Could he no’ be satisfied with the money from the smuggling?”