Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (9 page)

Fifteen

Jesamiah froze. He had learnt by bitter experience that you did not argue unnecessarily with a blade.

“What you been doin’ in there, eh? Stealin’ fings were yer?”

There were three of them. Three men. A fist thumped into Jesamiah’s side. He gasped, through half held breath responded with indignation. “I left m’hat in there. The door was open, I retrieved it. Now let me go, you bastards.”

Another thump, and his arm was twisted higher behind his back. It was the arm that had been injured a few months previously, and before that had taken a bullet in the shoulder. Both broken collarbone and bullet wound were healed, but the muscles were making protest at the abuse.

The man behind Jesamiah hauled him away from the wall, the knife staying at his throat, his arm remaining agonisingly twisted. Jesamiah could not see him, but he was tall, and smelt of rotten fish and body odour. The second man, not as tall, had a long-healed broken nose, very few teeth, and small, pig-eyes that gleamed with a lust for delivering pain. He removed Jesamiah’s pistol and handed it to the third man standing a little to one side, short, dumpy, with the white, puckered, scar of a thief branded on his cheek.

“Search ‘is pockets. It might be in there.” Tall Man ordered.

“What yer fink I’m doin’? Cuddlin’ ‘im?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tall Man sneered. “You’re as keen t’get yer filthy ‘ands on a prick as ye are on a bottle.”

Shorty sniggered, a guttural sound that more suited a child than a grown man.

“We want that list – what’ve yer done wiv it?”

“What list? I ain’t got no list and I’ve nothing of value to steal,” Jesamiah complained.

Broken Nose found the two sets of silver cutlery. Jesamiah received another twist to his arm from Tall Man. He growled. He’d had enough of this.

There were four rules for disentangling yourself from a knife at the throat and an arm being almost wrenched out of its socket. The first rule was don’t get your throat cut; the second, don’t get your arm broken; the third, let your attacker think you are beaten; and the fourth, act quick, move fast.

Jesamiah relaxed his body, falling almost limp. The extra weight tugging on his arm hurt a little more, but it would only be temporary. He felt the pressure ease. Tall Man had fallen for it. Jesamiah reacted. He stamped his boot on Tall Man’s foot and simultaneously rammed his elbow, hard, into his ribs. Following through, he brought his knee up, sharp, into Broken Nose’s groin. Almost without pause, as he doubled over, Jesamiah turned, slammed one fist into the Tall Man’s face. Immediately, blood fountained from his nose. With his other hand, Jesamiah drew his cutlass.

Shorty dropped Jesamiah’s pistol, backed away, his hands held high, his head shaking, gurgling sounds of fear bubbling in his throat.

Broken Nose was braver, he brought his own blade into his hand, the challenge adenoidal through his battered, misshapen nose. “Come on then, try it!” He bent forward, beckoned with his hand, expression gloating.

Who did this fool think he was? Jesamiah’s answering smile was cold, grim. “It will be my pleasure, cocksucker.”

Both were distracted by a pistol shot and a shout.

“
Hé, salauds!
”

Jesamiah had no need to look round for he knew Rue’s voice, but Broken Nose made the mistake of peering towards the boat being rowed at a fast pace towards the wharf, one man standing up in the stern aiming a musket. Shorty was the first to dart away into the cover of the trees, with Tall Man close on his heels. Broken Nose snarled, then fled after them.

Jesamiah considered pursuit but couldn’t be bothered. He bent, retrieved his pistol and ignored the silver cutlery. He didn’t need it, was not sure why he had taken it in the first place.

Rue jumped from the boat and strode along the quay, the pistol barrel balanced leisurely on his shoulder. “You in trouble,
mon ami
?”

“Not now I ain’t.”

“
C’étaient qui
?” Rue walked the few yards to where the woodland started and peered into the gloom of the late afternoon shadows. Jesamiah joined him.

“Who were they? I’ve no idea.”

Companionably they ambled back towards the boat. Having heard the pistol shot, several of the men were looking over
Sea Witch’s
rails, watching, ready, should they be needed. Jesamiah raised his hat, signalling that all was well. Isiah Roberts waved back, and the men disappeared.

“So, what was it all about?” Rue asked.

“No idea of that either,” Jesamiah confessed. “I’d wager there’s more in that warehouse than the owner wants to admit, though.”

Rue shrugged. “None of our business,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“None of our business,” Jesamiah agreed. He grinned, thumped his hand hard on Rue’s shoulder. “Leastways, it weren’t. ‘Tis now!”

Sixteen

A discreet tapping on the door woke Tiola. She turned over, reluctant to relinquish the warmth of the bed and the leisure of sleep. The knocking came again, a little more insistent.

“Come in!” Tiola called, awake now.

Pegget Trevithick peered around the door. “I do not wish t’ intrude, m’dear, but you said t’wake you a’vore evenin’ set in.” She pushed the door open further and walked in. “I brought a dish o’ tay, thought you might appreciate it, you’ve been asleep that long.” Setting the white china cup and saucer on the bedside table, she went to the windows and pulled back the brocade drapes and the wooden shutters beneath. “Rain’s started again.
Tck
, it’s been a fan-tag o’ a bad day, ‘though tidden as cold as t’was. It be rainin’ on the moors an’ all now. Thank God the snow’s stopped.” She turned with a bright smile to Tiola, who was sitting up, hair tousled, reaching for the steaming tea. She took a sip, hid the grimace; too sweet and strong for her taste.

“You look goodly better, Mistress Acorne, if’n you don’t mind I sayin’.”

Tiola put the cup down. “This is a little hot, I’ll allow it to cool. I do feel better, thank you.” The lethargy, that feeling of dragging herself through cloying mud had at last faded. The combination of being on firm land and a deep, untroubled sleep had set her right. She felt calm, on an even keel; felt her normal flow of energy tingling through her veins; her soul stir with life.

Reaching for her shawl, Tiola swung it around her shoulders and pushing the covers aside sat on the edge of the bed, her bare feet dangling. “The boy who helped me this morning, Thomas Benson.” She picked up a comb and started on the tangles in her hair. “I meant to thank him.”

“Tom? He’s a good boy, mebbe a tad cheeky at times. What can you expect? He be the youngest o’ three boys an’ several sisters. There’s no ‘arm in the lad though.”

How did I know his name?
Tiola thought.
I cannot shape the future, and he is not from my past.
Then more thoughts.
How do I know he is not from my past? Mayhap he is? I know nothing of what is beyond that which I am permitted to remember.

“His pa’s a merchant, among other things. Not short o’ a shillin’ or two, that vam’ly. I told that ‘usband o’ yourn t’pay a visit t’ John Benson. Told ‘im t’say Pegget Trevithick as sent ‘im.”

Tiola smiled her gratitude. “Jesamiah will be happier once he’s rid himself of that tobacco. He hates the stuff.” The comb snagged in a tangle and went spinning from Tiola’s hand. Pegget bent and picked it up then sat on the bed next to Tiola and started combing, working from the ends upward, carefully separating small strands and easing out the tangles.

“You’ve got nice smellin’ hair, m’dear.” She set the comb down and fetched a hairbrush from the dressing table near the window.

“I rinse it in a blend of herbs when I wash it. I’ll give you some.”

As she began to brush with regular, rhythmic strokes, Pegget chuckled. “Lord love you! It might cheer m’ ‘usband t’ ‘ave I sweet smellin’ nex’ t’ ‘im in bed!”

“How is he? Is the wound clean? I am willing to tend him if you wish. I think Jesamiah informed you that I have some healing skills?”

“It were no more’n a scratch. Looked worser than it were. He be over to the cellar movin’ barrels. Now the sodjers are gone he sees no reason t’ be ‘iding. It’ll take more’n that t’stop my Carter runnin’ this inn proper.”

Tiola looked round, frowning, causing Pegget to pause with her brushing. “Carter? That is an unusual name, is it not?”

Pegget began brushing again, murmuring her pleasure at the shine she was encouraging on the ebony black hair. “Aye. T’were his maternal grandsire’s name; close to his ma ‘e were, not ‘is pa though, never mentions him.” She lowered her voice as if concerned that someone else could be listening. “‘A’tween you an’ me, I think Trevithick were ‘is mother’s maid name. I reckon my Carter were born out o’ wedlock, he an’ his younger brother both.”

Tiola squirmed around again to face the older woman, her eyes wide, her heartbeat suddenly pumping faster. She stilled the brush by enfolding Pegget’s hand within her own. “His younger brother? Do you mean Bennett? Ben?”

Pegget’s brows dipped in a puzzled frown. “Aye, Ben Trevithick. You know ‘im?”

“
Ais
,” Tiola said quietly. “I think I do.”

Seventeen

It was bound to be a wasted walk from Bideford to Northam. The rain had started again and Jesamiah was regretting his decision not to return to
Sea Witch
, but to pay a visit to this Mr Benson at home instead. A matter of a quick inquiry at the nearest tavern for directions. After a couple of miles of trudging uphill he was considering turning back, although he was wet now, and would only have to set out again next morning. Also, he did rather fancy returning to Appledore and that soft feather-filled bed with Tiola in it.

He had left Rue in charge of the
Sea Witch
; he was more than capable, and the men were eager for a few hours ashore. They had coin in their pockets, and money burned holes. He stepped in a puddle-filled hollow in the road; cursed as it splashed on to his breeches. He was not exactly clean and tidy to go calling, but then, he was intending to make a business proposition, not sit drinking tea and making light conversation with the ladies. He wished he had hired a horse though.

Puffing, sweating slightly, he crested the hill, pushed his hat to the back of his head and stood, legs spread, fists on hips, to get his breath. Below, the quayside lamps of Appledore were twinklingin the darkness; to the left, the black of the sea, he could hear its distant sighing. The black ribbon to his right was the river itself. On the far bank, a few faint lights from the straggle of cottages at Instow. As he stood watching, more lights appeared on the hill above the village, one house by the look of it, every window lit up. He wondered where that fellow in the warehouse had gone. Was he already enjoying the intimate delights of his wife? Jesamiah snorted derision. Not before dinner, surely?

A fox barked from somewhere to his left making him jump, his hand automatically going to the pistol tucked in his waistband. He cursed, walked on. The trees crowded the road, and with no moon yet risen the darkness was closing in. Jesamiah had good night vision, but he was a seaman. The land was unfamiliar, the sounds and smells, the feel beneath his feet uncertain. Knapp House, he had been told in Bideford, was along the right lane where four roads met. So far there had been no right hand turn, certainly no crossroads. He rammed his hat harder on his head, and tucking his chin into his cravat against the wind coming bitter cold off the moors, walked on, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

He almost missed the turn. He had been expecting the intersection to be a wide road like the one he was walking along, suitable for wagons and carts, not merely a narrow farm track. A sign swinging and creaking in the wind had caught his attention and on peering closer he managed to make out the words
Knapp House
. Grimacing at the ruts, mud and puddles, Jesamiah headed down the hill. Appledore was hidden now, the river straight ahead of him. The track divided, the cobb-built wall giving way to a gateway to his left, the track itself running on down to the river. He turned in through the gateway, rounded a stand of trees and came to the house. A typical Jacobean style, two storey brick-built building, its walls white-limed. The main house, judging by its style, was older by half a century to the newer-looking extension, the owner wealthy enough to pay no heed to the government’s unpopular window tax that either impoverished the residents, or because of the lack of light from bricked-up openings, played havoc with eyesight and health. Architecture had been a favourite subject of one of Jesamiah’s tutors, back when he had been a boy in Virginia. The man, who had not stayed long because of Jesamiah’s foul half-brother – none of the tutors had remained for more than four months – had taught little of reading, writing, mathematics and the sciences, but had instilled in Jesamiah the finer points of Tudor and Continental Renaissance influences. Although Knapp House did not have the elaborate multicurved Flemish gables, Tudor arches or decorative chimneys, it did boast some fine casement windows with diamond-shaped panes of glass separated by stone mullions. The extension had the new-style Dutch sash windows. Impressive.

Every room in the downstairs floor, and a few upstairs, glowed with flickering lamp and candlelight although through the unshuttered windows Jesamiah could see no sign of movement. His boots crunching on gravel he walked to the front door, was startled by it swinging open as he reached the ornamental porch. A large man bustled out, hat in hand, a maidservant trotting behind with riding cane and gloves.

Surprised, the man exclaimed, “Good God, man! Where did ‘ee come from?”

Recovering quickly, Jesamiah removed his hat and swept a bow. “Sir John Benson? I have come from your warehouse in Bideford. I wish to speak to you about a business proposition.”

Benson puckered his mouth and furrowed his brow. “No time now, Mr er…? No time now. Got t’get t’m’eldest daughter. Been taken poorly.”

Jesamiah fell into step beside Benson as he strode towards the dapple-grey cob being brought round from the rear of the house, where Jesamiah assumed were the stables and outbuildings. “I’m sorry to learn that, sir. My proposition would take but a minute to outline.”

“Nay, nay. Not now, mister. Come back t’morrow, eh?”

Benson was preparing to mount but Jesamiah took hold of the horse’s reins.

“Mr Benson, are you aware of footpads lurking outside your Bideford warehouse? They attacked me most grievously. Fortunately I was able to beat them off. I sincerely trust they were only footpads, not men in your employ?”

Pausing, with his left leg bent for the groom to boost him into the saddle, Benson frowned at Jesamiah. “Are you accusing me of something?”

Raising his hands in placation, Jesamiah shook his head. “I merely remark that those ruffians appeared the moment your manager rode away, but if you have no concern for the safety of your stock, then mayhap I over-reacted to the suspicion of a possible felony. You are obviously not as afeared as I of thievery.”

Benson was settling himself into the saddle. “You saw them off, you say?”

“I did.”

“Then I thank ‘ee. Come see me t’morrow morning. Nay, better still come partake of lunch. We eat at noon prompt. What be your name?” Not waiting for an answer he dug his heels into the cob’s flank, sending it bounding into a trot, stones flying from beneath its shod hooves.

“Captain Acorne of the
Sea Witch
!” Jesamiah called.

Benson raised his riding crop in acknowledgement then brought it down with a sharp thwack on to the gelding’s broad rump, urging it into a canter.

Watching the rider clatter away into the darkness, Jesamiah set his hat back on his head, said to the groom, “Noon prompt?”

“Aye, sir. Noon.”

An entire hour later than the fellow in Bideford had suggested.