55
DEDUCTIONS
AT LAST FORCED FROM OUR REFUGE by thirst and hunger, we made our way out of the carriage shed and past the tactfully averted eyes of the yard slaves, still busy clearing up the debris from the wedding feast. At the edge of the lawn, I saw Phaedre, coming up from the mausoleum with her arms full of plates and cups that had been left in the shrubbery. Her face was swollen and blotched with grief, and her eyes were red, but she was not crying.
She saw us, and stopped.
“Oh,” she said. “Miss Jo be lookin’ for you, Master Jamie.”
She spoke dully, as though the words had little meaning for her, and appeared to find nothing odd in our sudden appearance or disheveled dress.
“Oh? Aye.” Jamie rubbed a hand over his face, nodding. “Aye, I’ll go up to her.”
She nodded, and was turning to go when Jamie reached out and touched her shoulder.
“I’m sorry for your trouble, lass,” he said quietly.
Sudden tears welled in her eyes and spilled over, but she didn’t speak. She dropped a brief curtsy, turned, and hurried away, moving so fast that a knife fell from the stack of crockery, bouncing on the grass behind her.
I stooped and picked it up, the feel of the knife’s handle reminding me suddenly and vividly of the blade I had used to open her mother’s body. For a disorienting moment, I was no longer on the lawn before the house, but in the dark confines of the shed, the scent of death heavy in the air and the proof of murder gritty in my hand.
Then reality readjusted itself, and the green lawn was covered with flocks of doves and sparrows, foraging peacefully for crumbs at the feet of a marble goddess, bright with sun.
Jamie was saying something.
“. . . . go and wash and rest a bit, Sassenach?”
“What? Oh . . . no, I’ll come with you.” I was suddenly anxious to have this business done with, and go home. I had had enough society for the moment.
WE FOUND JOCASTA, Duncan, Roger, and Brianna all together in Jocasta’s sitting room, digging into what looked like a substantial, if very late, breakfast. Brianna cast a sharp look at Jamie’s ruined clothes, but said nothing, and went back to sipping tea, her eyebrows still raised. She and Jocasta both wore dressing gowns, and while Roger and Duncan were dressed, they looked pale and scruffy after the adventures of the night. Neither had shaved, and Duncan sported a large blue bruise on the side of his face where he had hit the hearthstone in falling, but he seemed otherwise all right.
I assumed that Roger had told everyone about our tête-à-tête with Phillip Wylie, and the disappearance of Lucas. At least no one asked questions. Duncan silently shoved a platter of bacon in Jamie’s direction, and there was no sound for a bit save the musical tinkling of cutlery on plates and the sloshing noises of tea being drunk.
At last, replete and feeling somewhat restored, we sat back and began hesitantly to discuss the events of the day—and night—before. So much had happened that I thought perhaps it might be best to try to reconstruct events in a logical sort of way. I said as much, and while Jamie’s mouth twitched in an annoying manner that suggested he found the notion of logic incompatible with me personally, I ignored this and firmly called the meeting to order.
“It begins with Betty, don’t you think?”
“Whether it does or not, I suppose that’s as good a starting point as any, Sassenach,” Jamie agreed.
Brianna finished buttering a final slice of toast, looking amused.
“Carry on, Miss Marple,” she said, waving it at me before taking a bite. Roger made a brief choking noise, but I ignored that, too, with dignity.
“Fine. Now, I thought Betty was likely drugged when I saw her, but since Dr. Fentiman stopped me examining her, I couldn’t be positive. But we are reasonably sure that Betty did drink drugged punch, is that right?” I looked round the circle of faces, and both Bree and Jamie nodded, adopting solemn expressions.
“Aye, I tasted something in the cup that wasna liquor,” Jamie said.
“And I talked to the house slaves after I left Da,” Brianna added, leaning forward. “Two of the women admitted that Betty tipples—tippled—from the dregs of drinks at parties, but both of them insisted she was no more than what they called ‘cheerful’ when she helped serve rum punch in the drawing room.”
“And I was in the drawing room then, with Seamus Hanlon and his musicians,” Roger confirmed. He glanced at Bree and squeezed her knee gently. “I saw Ulysses make the punch himself—that was the first time during the day that you made it, Ulysses?”
All heads swiveled toward the butler, who stood closed-faced behind Jocasta’s chair, his neat wig and pressed livery a silent reproach to the general air of exhausted dishevelment.
“No, the second,” he said softly. “The first was all drunk at breakfast.” His eyes were alert, if bloodshot, but the rest of his face might have been chiseled from gray granite. The household and its servants were his charge, and it was clear that he felt recent events to be a mortifying personal reproach to his stewardship.
“Right.” Roger turned back toward me, rubbing a hand over his stubbled face. He might have snatched a nap since the confrontation with Wylie in the stable, but he didn’t look it.
“I didn’t take any notice of Betty myself, but the point is, I think I would surely have noticed, if she were drunk and reeling at that point. So would Ulysses, I expect.” He glanced over his shoulder for confirmation, and the butler nodded, reluctantly.
“Lieutentant Wolff was drunk and reeling,” Roger added. “Everyone noticed that—they all remarked how early it was for anyone to be in that condition.”
Jocasta made a rude noise, and Duncan bent his head, hiding a smile.
“The point being,” Jamie summed up neatly, “that the second lot of rum punch was served out just past midday, and I found the woman flat on her back in the dung heap, steamin’ with drink and a punch cup beside her, nay more than an hour later. I’ll no say it couldna be done, but it would be quick work to get mortal in that span of time, especially if it was all done wi’ dregs.”
“So we assume that she was indeed drugged,” I said. “The most likely substance being laudanum. Was there some available in the stillroom here?”
Jocasta caught the lift of my voice and knew the question was addressed to her; she straightened up in her chair, tucking a wisp of white hair back under her ribboned cap. She seemed to have recovered nicely from the night before.
“Oh, aye. But that’s naught to go by,” she objected. “Anyone might ha’ brought it; it’s no sae hard to come by, and ye have the price. I ken at least two women among the guests who take the stuff regular. I daresay they’d have brought a bit with them.”
I would have loved to know which of Jocasta’s acquaintances were opium addicts, and how she knew, but dismissed that point, moving on to the next.
“Well, wherever the laudanum—for the sake of argument—came from, it apparently ended up inside Betty.” I turned to Jamie. “Now, you said that it occurred to you when you found her that she might have drunk something—drugged or poisonous—intended for someone else.”
He nodded, following me closely.
“Aye, for why would someone seek to harm or kill a slave?”
“I don’t know why, but someone did kill her,” Brianna interrupted, a definite edge in her voice. “I can’t see how she could have eaten ground glass meant for someone else, can you?”
“Don’t rush me! I’m trying to be logical.” I frowned at Bree, who made a rude noise akin to Jocasta’s, but not as loud.
“No,” I went on, “I don’t think she can have taken the ground glass by accident, but I don’t know when she did take it. Almost certainly, it was sometime after you and Jamie took her up to the attic, though, and after Dr. Fentiman saw her the first time.”
Fentiman’s emetics and purgatives would have caused extensive bleeding, had Betty already ingested the glass—as indeed they did, when he returned to treat her renewed complaints of internal distress toward dawn.
“I think you’re right,” I told Brianna, “but just to be tidy—when you went to look round, Roger, you didn’t find any of the guests who looked as though they might be drugged?”
He shook his head, dark brows drawn together, as though the sunlight bothered him. I wasn’t surprised if he had a headache; the cotton-wool feeling had turned into a throbbing inside my own skull.
“No,” he said, and dug a knuckle hard between his brows. “There were at least twenty who were beginning to stagger a bit, but they all seemed just legitimately drunk.”
“What about Lieutenant Wolff?” Duncan asked at this point, to everyone’s surprise. He blushed slightly, seeing everyone’s eyes on him, but doggedly pursued his point.
“A Smeòraich said the man was drunk and reeling in the drawing room. Might he have taken the laudanum, or whatever it was, drunk the half, and given the rest to the slave there?”
“I don’t know,” I said dubiously. “If ever I saw anyone who could have achieved intoxication within an hour, purely on the basis of straight alcohol . . .”
“When I went to check the guests, the Lieutenant was propped up against the wall of the mausoleum with a bottle in his fist,” Roger said. “Mostly incoherent, but still conscious.”
“Aye, he fell down in the shrubbery later,” Jamie put in, looking dubious. “I saw him, in the afternoon. He didna look like yon slave woman, though, only drunk.”
“The timing is about right, though,” I said thoughtfully. “So it’s possible, at least. Did anyone see the Lieutenant later in the day?”
“Yes,” Ulysses said, causing everyone to swivel round to look at him again. “He came into the house during the supper, asked me to find him a boat at once, and left by water. Still very drunk,” he added precisely, “but lucid.”
Jocasta made a small puffing sound with her lips, and muttered, “Lucid, forbye,” under her breath. She massaged her temples with both forefingers; evidently she had a headache, too.
“I suppose that puts the Lieutenant out as a suspect? Or is the fact that he left so suddenly suspicious by itself?” Brianna, the only person present who seemed not to have a headache, dropped several lumps of sugar into her tea and stirred it vigorously. Jamie shut his eyes, wincing at the noise.
“Are ye no overlooking something?” Jocasta had been following all the arguments intently, a slight frown of concentration on her face. Now she leaned forward, stretching out her hand toward the low table with its breakfast things. She tapped her fingers lightly here and there to locate what she wanted, then picked up a small silver cup.
“Ye showed me the cup from which Betty drank, Nephew,” she said to Jamie, holding out the one in her hand. “It was like this, aye?”
The cup was sterling silver, and brand-new, the incised design barely showing. Later, when the metal began to acquire a patina, black tarnish would settle into the lines of the etching and cause it to stand out, but for the moment, the capital letter “I” and the small fish that swam around it were almost lost in the gleam of light off the metal.
“Aye, it was one like that, Aunt,” Jamie replied, touching the hand that held the cup. “Brianna says it was one of a set?”
“It was. I gave them to Duncan in the morning of our wedding day, as a bride-gift.” She set down the cup, but laid her long fingers across the top of it. “We drank from two of the cups, Duncan and I, with our breakfast, but the other four stayed up here.” She waved a hand behind her, indicating the small sideboard against the wall, where the platters of bacon and fried eggs had been placed. Decorated plates were propped upright along the back of the sideboard, interspersed with a set of crystal sherry glasses. I counted; all six of the silver fish cups were on the table now, filled with port, which Jocasta appeared to like with breakfast. There was no indication which of them had held the drugged liquor, though.
“Ye didna take any of these cups down to the drawing room on the wedding day, Ulysses?” she asked.
“No, Madam.” He looked shocked at the thought. “Of course not.”
She nodded, and turned her blind eyes toward Jamie, then toward me.
“So ye see,” she said simply. “It was Duncan’s cup.”
Duncan looked startled, then uneasy, as the implications of what she had said sank in.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Ach, no. Couldna be.” But tiny droplets of sweat had begun to form a dew across the weathered skin of his jaw.
“Did anyone offer ye a drink day before yesterday, a charaid?” Jamie asked, leaning forward intently.
Duncan shrugged helplessly.
“Aye, everyone did!”
And of course they had. He was, after all, the bridegroom. He had accepted none of the proffered refreshment, though, owing to the digestive upset occasioned by his nerves. Nor had he noticed particularly whether any of the drinks on offer had been served in a silver cup.
“I was that distracted, Mac Dubh, I shouldna have noticed if anyone had been offering me a live snake in his hand.” Ulysses plucked a linen napkin from the tray and offered it unobtrusively. Blindly, Duncan took it and wiped his face.
“So . . . you think that someone was trying to harm Duncan?” The astonishment in Roger’s voice might not have been strictly flattering, but Duncan appeared not to take it amiss.
“But why?” he said, bewildered. “Who could hate me?”
Jamie chuckled under his breath, and the tension round the table relaxed slightly. It was true; while Duncan was intelligent and competent, he was of so modest a disposition that it was impossible to conceive of his having offended anyone, let alone driven them into a murderous frenzy.
“Well, a charaid,” Jamie said tactfully, “it might not just be personal, ken?” He caught my eye, and made a wry grimace. More than one attempt had been made on his own life, for reasons having to do only with who he was, rather than anything he had done. Not that people hadn’t tried to kill him occasionally for things he’d done, as well.
Jocasta appeared to have been thinking along the same lines.
“Indeed,” she said. “I have been thinking, myself. Do ye not recall, nephew, what happened at the Gathering?”
Jamie lifted one eyebrow, and picked up a cup of tea.
“A good many things happened there, Aunt,” he said. “But I take it ye mean what happened with Father Kenneth?”
“I do.” She reached up a hand automatically, as Ulysses set a fresh cup into it. “Did ye not tell me that yon Lillywhite said something about the priest being prevented from performing ceremonials?”
Jamie nodded, closing his eyes briefly as he took a mouthful of tea.
“Aye, he did. So, ye think it was maybe your marriage with Duncan he meant? That was the ‘ceremonial’ to be prevented?”
My headache was growing worse. I pressed my fingers between my brows; they were warm from the teacup, and the heat felt good on my skin.
“Wait just one minute,” I said. “Are you saying that someone wanted to prevent your aunt’s marriage to Duncan, and succeeded in doing so at the Gathering, but then couldn’t think of any way of preventing it now, and so tried to murder Duncan, in order to stop it?” My own voice echoed the astonishment on Duncan’s features.
“I’m no saying so, myself,” Jamie said, eyeing Jocasta with interest, “but I gather that my aunt is suggesting as much.”
“I am,” she said calmly. She drank off her tea, and set down the cup with a sigh. “I dinna wish to rate myself too high, nephew, but the fact is that I have been courted by this one and that one, ever since Hector died. River Run is a rich property, and I am an auld woman.”
There was a moment’s silence, as everyone absorbed that. Duncan’s face reflected an uneasy horror.
“But—” he said, stuttering slightly, “but—but—if it was that, Mac Dubh, why wait?”
“Wait?”
“Aye.” He looked around the table, seeking understanding. “See you, if someone meant to stop the marriage at the Gathering, well and good. But it’s been four months since then, and no one’s lifted a hand against me. I mostly ride alone; ’twould have been a simple matter, surely, to lay for me on the road as I went about my business, and put a bullet through my head.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but I saw a small shiver pass through Jocasta at the notion.
“So why wait until almost the hour of the wedding itself, and in the presence of hundreds of people? Aye, well, it’s a point, Duncan,” Jamie admitted.
Roger had been following all this, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting in his hands. He straightened up at this.
“One reason I can think of,” he said. “The priest.”
Everyone stared at him, eyebrows raised.
“The priest was here,” he explained. “See, if it’s River Run that’s behind all this, then it isn’t only a matter of getting Duncan out of the way. Kill him, and our murderer is right back where he started—Jocasta’s not married to Duncan, but she isn’t married to him, either, and no way to force the issue.
“But,” Roger raised a finger, “if the priest is here, and all set to perform a private ceremony . . . then it’s simple. Kill Duncan—in a manner that might suggest suicide or accident—and then swoop up to Jocasta’s suite, and force the priest to perform the marriage at gunpoint. The servants and guests are all occupied with Duncan, no one to make objections or interfere. There’s the bed to hand—” He nodded at the big tester, visible through the doorway into the bedroom. “Take Jocasta straight there and consummate the marriage by force . . . and Bob’s your uncle.”
At this point, Roger caught sight of Jocasta’s dropped jaw and Duncan’s stunned look, and it occurred to him that this was not merely an interesting academic proposition. He blushed crimson, and cleared his throat.
“Ah . . . I mean . . . it’s been done.”
Jamie coughed, and cleared his own throat. It had been done. His own bloody-minded grandfather had begun his social rise by forcibly wedding—and promptly bedding—the elderly and wealthy dowager Lady Lovat.
“What?” Brianna swiveled round to stare at Roger, obviously appalled. “That’s the most . . . but they couldn’t get away with something like that!”
“I expect they could, really,” Roger said, almost apologetically. “See, hen, possession is a lot more than nine-tenths of the law when it comes to women. Marry a woman and take her to bed, and she and all her property are yours, whether she likes it or not. Without another male relative to protest, it’s not likely a court would do a thing.”
“But she does have a male relative!” Brianna flipped a hand toward Jamie—who did have a protest to make, but probably not along the lines Brianna had expected.
“Aye, well, but. Witnesses,” he objected. “Ye canna do something like that, without ye have a witness to say it was a valid marriage.” He cleared his throat again, and Ulysses reached for the teapot.
Old Simon had had witnesses; two of his friends, plus the two attendants of the dowager. One of whom had later become Jamie’s grandmother, though I did trust less force had been involved in that transaction.
“I can’t see that that’s a difficulty,” I said, brushing crumbs off my bosom. “Obviously, this wasn’t a one-man show. Whoever the intending bridegroom is—and mind, we don’t even know there is one, but for the sake of argument—anyway, whoever he is, if he exists, plainly he has accomplices. Randall Lillywhite, for one.”
“Who wasna here,” Jamie reminded me.
“Hm. That’s true,” I admitted. “But still, the principle holds.”
“Yes,” Roger said stubbornly, “and if he does exist, then the chief suspect is Lieutenant Wolff, isn’t he? Everyone knows he’s made more than one try to marry Jocasta. And he was here.”
“But pie-eyed,” Jamie added, dubiously.
“Or not. As I said, Seamus and his boys were surprised that anyone could be that drunk so early on, but what if it was a sham?” Roger glanced round the table, one eyebrow lifted.
“If he were only pretending to be reeling drunk, no one would pay attention to him or treat him later as a suspect, and yet he could manage to be in position to poison a cup of punch, give it to Betty with instructions to give it to Duncan, then slip away and hang about, ready to nip upstairs the moment word came that Duncan had collapsed. And if Betty then offered it to Duncan, who refused it—well, there she was, with a full cup of fresh rum punch in her hand.”
He shrugged.
“Who could blame her for stealing away into the kitchen garden to enjoy it?”
Jocasta and Ulysses snorted simultaneously, making it reasonably clear what they thought of the blameworthiness of Betty’s action. Roger coughed and hurried on with his analysis.
“Right. Well. But the dose didn’t kill Betty. Either the murderer miscalculated or . . .” Another bright thought occurred to Roger. “Perhaps he didn’t intend the drug to kill Duncan. Maybe he only meant to render him unconscious, and then tip him quietly into the river. That would have been even better. Ye can’t swim, can you?” he asked, turning to Duncan, who shook his head in a dazed sort of way. His one hand rose, mechanically massaging the stump of his missing arm.
“Aye. So a nice drowning would have passed for accident, no worry.” Roger rubbed his hands together, looking pleased. “But then it all went wrong, because the maid drank the drugged punch, not Duncan. And that’s why she was killed!”
“Why?” Jocasta was looking quite as dazed as Duncan.
“Because she could identify the man who’d given her the cup,” Jamie put in. He nodded, lounging thoughtfully back in his chair. “And she would have, the minute folk started in on her about it. Aye, that’s sense. But of course he couldna make away with her by violent means; the risk of being seen coming or going to the attic was too great.”
Roger nodded approval at this quick appreciation.
“Aye. But it would have been no great trick to get your hands on ground glass—how many goblets and tumblers were floating through this place during the day? Drop one on the bricks and grind the shards under your heel, and there ye are.”
Even that might not have been necessary; there had been shattered glass all over the paths and the terrace, after the post-wedding celebrations. I had dropped one glass myself, when surprised by Phillip Wylie.
I turned to address Ulysses.
“There’s still the problem of how the ground glass was administered. Do you know what Betty was given to eat or drink, Ulysses?”
A frown rippled over the butler’s face, like a stone thrown into dark water.
“Dr. Fentiman ordered her a syllabub,” he said slowly. “And a bit of porridge, if she were awake enough to swallow. I made up the syllabub myself, and gave it to Mariah to take up to her. I gave the order for porridge to the cook, but I do not know whether Betty ate it, or who might have carried it.”
“Hmm.” Jocasta pursed her lips, frowning. “The cookhouse would be madness. And with so many folk about . . . well, we can ask Mariah and the others, but I shouldna be surprised if they dinna recall even carrying the dishes, let alone someone tampering with them. It would take nay more than a moment, ken; distract the girl, whisk in the glass . . .” She waved a hand, indicating the scandalous ease with which murder could be committed.
“Or someone could have gone up to the attic under the pretext of seeing how she was, and given her something to drink, with the glass in it then,” I suggested. “A syllabub would be perfect. People were coming and going, but Betty was alone up there for long stretches, between Dr. Fentiman’s visit, and the time the other slaves came to bed. It would be quite possible for someone to go up there unseen.”
“Very nice, Inspector Lestrade,” Brianna said to Roger, sotto voce. “But there’s no proof, is there?”
Jocasta and Duncan were sitting side by side, rigid as a pair of Toby jugs, carefully not facing each other. At this, Jocasta took a deep and audible breath, obviously forcing herself to relax.
“True,” she said. “There’s not. Ye dinna recall Betty offering you a cup of punch, a dhuine?”
Duncan gnawed fiercely on his moustache for a moment, concentrating, but then shook his head.
“She might have . . . a bhean. But she might not, too.”
“Well, then.”
Everyone fell silent for a moment, during which Ulysses moved silently round the table, clearing things away. At last Jamie gave a deep sigh and straightened up.
“Well, so. Then there’s what happened last night. We are agreed that the Irishman who entered your chamber, Aunt, was Stephen Bonnet?”
Brianna’s hand jerked, and the cup of tea crashed to the table.
“Who?” she said hoarsely. “Stephen Bonnet—here?”
Jamie glanced at me, frowning.
“I thought ye’d told her, Sassenach.”
“When?” I said, with some irritation. “I thought you’d told her,” I said, turning to Roger, who merely shrugged, stone-faced. Ulysses had swooped down with a cloth and was blotting up the tea. Bree was white-faced, but had regained her self-possession.
“Never mind,” she said. “He was here? Last night?”
“Aye, he was,” Jamie said reluctantly. “I saw him.”
“So he was the thief who came after the gold—or one of them?” Brianna reached for one of the silver cups of port and drank it off as though it were water. Ulysses blinked, but hastened to refill the cup from the decanter.
“It would seem so.” Roger reached for a fresh scone, carefully avoiding Brianna’s eyes.
“How did he find out about the gold, Aunt?” Jamie leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed in concentration.
Jocasta gave a small snort, and held out her hand. Ulysses, accustomed to her needs, put a piece of buttered toast into it.
“Hector Cameron told someone; my brother Dougal told someone; or the third man told someone. And knowing them as I did, I should lay odds it wasna either Hector nor Dougal.” She shrugged and took a bite of toast.
“But I’ll tell ye one thing,” she added, swallowing. “The second man in my room, the one who reeked of drink. I said he didna speak, aye? Well, that’s plain enough, no? He was someone I ken, whose voice I should have known, if he spoke.”
“Lieutenant Wolff?” Roger suggested.
Jamie nodded, a crease forming between his brows.
“Who better than the navy, to find a pirate when one’s wanted, aye?”
“Would one want a pirate?” Brianna murmured. The port had restored her composure, but she was still pale.
“Aye,” Jamie said, paying little attention to her. “No small undertaking, ten thousand pound in gold. It would take more than one man to deal with such a sum—Louis of France and Charles Stuart kent that much; they sent six to deal with thirty thousand.” Little wonder, then, if whoever learned of the gold had enlisted the help of Stephen Bonnet—a well-known smuggler and pirate, and one with not only the means of transport but the connections to dispose of the gold.
“A boat,” I said slowly. “The Lieutenant left by boat, during the supper. Suppose that he went downriver, and met Stephen Bonnet. They came back together, and waited for the opportunity to sneak into the house and try to terrorize Jocasta into telling them where the gold was.”
Jamie nodded.
“Aye, that could be. The Lieutenant has had dealings here for years. Is it possible, Aunt, that he saw something that made him suspect ye had the gold here? Ye said Hector had three bars; is any of it left?”
Jocasta’s lips pressed tight, but after a moment’s hesitation, she gave a grudging nod.
“He would keep a lump of it on his desk, to weight his papers. Aye, Wolff might have seen—but how would he have kent what it was?”
“Perhaps he didn’t at the time,” Brianna suggested, “but then later heard about the French gold, and put two and two together.”
There was a nodding and murmuring at this. As a theory, it fitted well enough. I didn’t see quite how one would go about proving it, though, and said so.
Jamie shrugged, and licked a smear of jam off his knuckle.
“I shouldna think proving what’s happened is so important, Sassenach. It’s maybe what comes next.” He looked at Duncan, straight on.
“They’ll come back, a charaid,” he said quietly. “Ye ken that, aye?”
Duncan nodded. He looked unhappy, but determined.
“Aye, I ken.” He reached out a hand and took Jocasta’s—the first gesture of the sort I had ever seen him make toward her. “We shall be ready, Mac Dubh.”
Jamie nodded, slowly.
“I must go, Duncan. The planting willna wait. But I shall send word to those I ken, to have a watch of some sort kept upon Lieutenant Wolff.”
Jocasta had sat silent, her hand unmoving in Duncan’s. She sat up taller in her chair at this.
“And the Irishman?” she said. Her other hand rubbed slowly across her knee, pressing lightly with the heel of her hand, where the knife blade had cut.
Jamie exchanged a glance with Duncan, then with me.
“He’ll come back,” he said, grim certainty in his voice.
I was looking at Brianna as he said it. Her face was calm, but I was her mother, and I saw the fear move in her eyes, like a snake through water. Stephen Bonnet, I thought, with a sinking heart, was already back.
WE LEFT NEXT DAY for the mountains. We were no more than five miles on our journey, when I caught the sound of hoofbeats on the road behind us, and saw a flash of scarlet, through the spring-green of the chestnut trees.
It was Major MacDonald, and the look of delight upon his face as he spurred toward us told me all I needed to know.
“Oh, bloody hell!” I said.
The note bore Tryon’s scarlet seal, bloodred as the Major’s coat.
“It came this morning to Greenoaks,” the Major said, reining up to watch as Jamie broke the seal. “I offered to bring it, as I was bound this way, in any case.” He knew already what the note contained; Farquard Campbell would already have opened his.
I watched Jamie’s face as he read. His expression didn’t change. He finished reading, and handed me the note.
19th March, 1771
To the Commanding Officers of the Militia:
Sirs:
I Yesterday determined by Consent of His Majesty’s Council to march with a Body of Forces taken from several Militia Regiments, into the Settlements of the Insurgents to reduce them to Obedience, who by their Rebellious Acts and Declarations have set the Government at defiance and interrupted the Course of Justice by obstructing, overturning and shutting up the Courts of Law. That some of your Regiment therefore may have a Share in the Honor of serving their Country in this important Service, I am to require you to make a choice of thirty men, who shall join the Body of my Force in this Endeavor.
It is not intended to move the Troops before the twentieth of next Month before which time you shall be informed of the day you are to assemble your Men, the time of march and the Road you are to take.
It is recommended as a Christian Duty incumbent on every Planter that remains at Home, to take care of, and assist to the utmost of his Abilities the Families of those Men who go on this Service that neither their Families nor plantations may suffer while they are employed on a Service where the Interest of the whole is concerned.
For the Expenditures ordered on this Expedition I shall give printed Warrants payable to the Bearers, These Warrants will become negotiable, until the Treasury can pay them out of the contingent Fund in case there is not a sufficiency of Money in the Treasury to answer the necessary Services of this Expedition.
I am &c. &c.,
William Tryon
Had Hermon Husband and James Hunter known, when they left River Run? I thought they must. And the Major, of course, was bound for New Bern now, to offer his services to the Governor. His boots were filmed with the dust of his ride, but the hilt of his sword gleamed in the sun.
“Bloody, bloody, fucking hell,” I said softly, again, with emphasis. Major MacDonald blinked. Jamie glanced at me, and the corner of his mouth twitched up.
“Aye, well,” he said. “Nearly a month. Just time to get the barley in.”