The Toll of the Sea Page 10

  ‘Sarai?’ Emil Edelcantz’s slim figure was standing in the doorway of the house, backlit by the orange glow from the oil lamps inside. It made him into a silhouette, the shape of which she found she didn’t like.

  ‘Sarai? Are you out there?’

  ‘Who is that?’ Lancer asked in a terse whisper.

  ‘The man I am probably to marry.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Most likely when he stops asking me,’ Sarai replied, aware that it was no real answer for Lancer, but it was the only honest one she could give. She turned her head on his chest to entwine her slim fingers with his long, sensitive but very masculine ones as she gave him first instructions and then a warning. ‘You will have to leave here now. But you hear me, Joby Lancer; I shall expect you to return.’

  ‘I will be back,’ he told her, and then he was gone, moving along close to the hedge so that the night quickly hid him.

  Disconsolate, trying not to let her anger show her annoyance at Emil Edelcantz for intruding on her precious moments with Lancer, Sarai walked slowly over to the Swedish man, commenting idly, ‘I just felt like some fresh air and a little peace and quiet after so hectic a day.’

  ‘I agree,’ he smiled, cupping her elbow to lead her into the house, looking over his shoulder to observe, ‘The peasants have gone home to their hovels, I see.’

  Sarai found that she detested the arrogance of his remark, while at the same time recognizing that it was the sort of thing that she would say, the kind of thoughts that she had, about the villagers. So she reasoned that it wasn’t what Edelcantz had said that she didn’t like, but it was Edelcantz himself, the smooth, suave, elegant nobleman that she detested.

  When back inside with guests she cared little for, her circle of hatred widened swiftly and gained venom as it did so. Stuck with Edelcantz and the others, while every fibre of her being longed to be with the enchanting Joby Lancer, it was a terrific strain on Sarai to remain polite and engage in small talk for what was left of the evening. That she made it was something she regarded as a minor miracle. She even managed to shake off the more persistent than ever Swede.

  The festivities dragged on until two o’clock in the morning, and Sarai had been in bed for only half an hour, and asleep for something like ten minutes, when she was awakened by a light tapping on the bedroom door. Edelcantz had been drinking all through the previous day, and alcohol in a man often makes him either a danger or a nuisance to a woman.

  Getting out of bed, donning a robe, she gave thanks to any god that might be listening at that time of the morning that she’d taken the trouble to bolt the bedroom door. How was she to handle Edelcantz? The only course open to her was to leave him outside on the landing where he would only embarrass himself if other guests heard him. To open the door and allow him make an advance towards her would result in Sarai revealing that he repulsed her physically.

  Why this should be, she didn’t know. Edelcantz was good-looking enough, and his body, though a little over slender for a man, was in good shape. If modesty should permit, then there would be a long queue of spinsters from England as well as on the Continent, desiring to marry the eligible nobleman. Yet there was some clash of chemistry, or whatever, between Edelcantz and herself that caused Sarai’s flesh to creep. When she married him, as it seemed she inevitably would, then she would not deny him his rights. But Sarai knew that she would need to close her mind as well as her eyes when she had to submit to him.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called softly, the short spell of sleep having put a croak into her voice.

  It was her maid’s trembling tones that replied. ‘It’s me, Mistress Adams. Forgive me for calling you at this hour, Mistress Adams, but something …’

  Unbolting the door, Sarai opened it sufficiently to see a shaking Elsa standing there, wearing a cloak over her nightdress and a white nightcap on her head. The expression on the maid’s round, crimson face warned Sarai that something really serious had taken place.

  ‘What is the matter, Else?’

  ‘Please, Mistress … please … something really bad has …’ Elsa stuttered and stammered.

  Grasping the maid by the shoulders, Sarai pulled her into the bedroom. Still holding her firmly, she ordered Elsa, ‘Get a hold of yourself, girl, for goodness’ sake. Now, first take a deep breath and then tell me whatever it is you have to say.’

  Doing as she was told, the maid breathed in so deeply that it caused her to explode in a fit of coughing. Doing her best to recover, clearing her throat, eyes watering, the girl sat on the edge of Sarai’s bed, a liberty she would never normally take. From there she looked up fearfully at her mistress as if the message she was about to impart would spell her doom.

  ‘Something really bad has happened, Mistress Adams,’ she at last managed to utter words that were strung together. ‘It is Master Nichol, the Customs man. Oh dear, oh dear. Mistress Adams, he is lying out on the grounds at the side of the house. He’s dead, Mistress Adams. Somebody has beated him to death!’

  Six

  ‘I TOLD YE when I took ye on that things weren’t too rosy, but I didn’t know then just how bad they were, Ted.’

  Euart Owens was evasive and shifty-eyed, as he spoke. He had lost much of the super self-confidence that comes easily to the ignorantly unintelligent. It was noon on the day of Lancer’s departure from the farm, and he stood with Owens at the far end of the second barn. Still not having mentioned to Nancy that he was leaving, Lancer sensed that she had learned it through the mysterious communication that exists between a man and woman who have been intimate. A few moments before he had caught a glimpse of her inside of the window of the house. Nancy was wearing her best frock, such as it was, and it worried him that she could be contemplating joining him when he moved off.

  Having anticipated trouble from Owens, he had considered that the farmer would physically attack him for having had Nancy, or perhaps would have picked a fight in which he would hope to pound Lancer to a pulp without giving a reason. But Owens was trying to explain, as reasonably as possible, that he couldn’t afford to pay him for his two months of hard work.

  The thought of having spent two whole months of toil for no reward angered Lancer. Becoming aware of this, Owens held up both hands, palms facing Lancer, in a gesture that said he should calm down because there was an answer to the difficulty.

  ‘Now, now, there’s no need to get your dander up, Ted,’ the farmer said pleading for common sense to prevail. ‘I told ye before, and I’ll not back away from it, that ye’ll get a good deal from Euart Owens. We’ve got a way of settling things in these parts, I think ye’ll find more’n fair.’

  Hearing this made Lancer suspicious. His guess was that the farmer was about to challenge him to a fight. If Owens won then his debt to Lancer would be erased, while if Lancer became the victor he would be paid double. The odds against him winning were stacked pretty high, Lancer estimated. Leaning against the sloping, semi-collapsed wall of the barn close to Owens’ right hand was a hoe with a thick, heavy handle. It had been positioned there for the farmer to grab if, or as soon as, hostilities began.

  But Owens was speaking again, and Lancer found his supposition proved false as the farmer told him, ‘Ye’ve worked hard for me, I’ll grant ye that, Ted. What we do ’ereabouts at a time like this is let the hired hand take a calf away instead of money.’

  This sounded like a reasonable answer to Lancer, until he remembered the sickly calf that had surprisingly survived through all the time he had been at the farm.

  ‘You offering me the sick calf, Owens?’ he asked, an edge to his voice.

  Giving a spit-spraying laugh, Owens said, ‘Ye are the most cussed, mistrusting creature I ever did meet, Ted. I’ve said that ye did good work, and I told ye what a fair man I am. Ye go into that barn there and ye take your pick, Ted.’

  Astonished, Lancer’s mind went to the sturdy black and white calf, the best of the bunch. The animal would fetch a good price at Footehill, much more money than he wou
ld have got from Owens if that farmer had been able to pay him in cash. It didn’t seem possible that the offer to have him take his pick would extend to the fine calf.

  ‘I’d take the black and white one,’ he said tentatively, bracing himself for a refusal. With what he could sell the calf for he could reimburse Arabella and her mother. Even then there would be enough money left over to start the new life he had promised himself.

  ‘If that’s yer choice, Ted, then go ahead and take the beast,’ Owens said affably.

  Going into the barn, Lancer tied a short rope around the neck of the calf to lead it, and picked up a stick to drive it along when necessary.

  At all times in the semi-dark he was on the alert, expecting Owens to launch a sudden attack. But nothing happened, and when he came out of the barn with his prize calf, Owens was standing there displaying the nearest thing to a friendly smile that his ugly face could manage.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a fine animal there, Ted, but, like I says, you worked hard for ’im,’ Owens said, taking a step closer, tentatively holding out his right hand. ‘This is where we parts, Ted. We’ve worked well together, and I’d like to shake you by the hand.’

  Tempted, Lancer hesitated. There had been nothing about Owens that he liked, but the farmer was showing a sense of fairness now that Lancer hadn’t believed him capable of. With the calf now his, a handshake wouldn’t be much to give. But he found that he couldn’t take the hand of a man whose wife he had coveted.

  Without a word, Lancer turned and walked off with the calf. He expected Owens to be angrily offended, but the farmer didn’t seem in the least hurt as he called. ‘Good luck to ye, Ted.’

  Not turning, Lancer gave a backwards wave of his hand and walked on. He could feel that not only Owens was watching him depart. Nancy’s eyes were boring into his back, making him feel terribly guilty. She had come to him in the barn last night, the first time she had taken a risk like that with her husband in the house. It was obvious to Lancer then that she either knew, or strongly suspected, that he was about to leave. He had rejected her, telling her that it would be disastrous for her if her husband discovered them.

  He hoped that he had successfully convinced Nancy that this was his reason for turning her down. It had been impossible for him to tell the same lie to himself. His meeting with Arabella in Adamslee had an effect on him that still had influence. The subsequent short time he had spent with the blatantly seductive Sarai Adams had diluted the feeling, but not to any serious degree. Arabella had looked so radiant as May Queen that he still had a clear mental image of her lovely, smiling face, her happily sparkling eyes, and her glorious mass of copper-coloured hair.

  He was unable to shake from his head a notion that Arabella Willard figured large in his future. With Lionel Heelan on the scene it was difficult to envisage how this could come about. But the idea was fixed there in his mind, and no amount of thinking could move it. Sarai Adams refused to be dismissed from his deliberations, yet Lancer saw working for her as nothing but a way to remain in Adamslee so as to eventually get to Arabella. Sarai was both a means to an end and a diversion. Admittedly, she was an excitingly vibrant diversion.

  As they walked the deserted track that would eventually take them to Footehill, the calf was faring better than the man who was leading it. The day was oppressively hot, and a tongue-swelling thirst gripped Lancer. When he joined a dusty road, using the stick to drive the calf ahead of him, and a public house came into view he bitterly rued the fact that he had no money.

  The inn stood at the side of the road, the only building to be seen for miles, but it somehow avoided appearing to be a lonely place. Close enough now to read a sign that said The Lamb Inn, Lancer could sense the comfort the place had afforded travellers throughout the years. Although standing alone and miles from civilization, The Lamb Inn gave the impression of being a destination. He supposed that in an ephemeral kind of way it had been a destination for countless thirsty, hungry and weary travellers.

  Pausing outside of the inn, Lancer took a rest by sitting on a low wall. Standing placidly beside him, the calf leaked opaque saliva from its wide mouth. Why, Lancer wondered, was the young cow so moist in the mouth while he was so dry? He considered entering the inn and requesting a drink of water, but pride, an original sin that he had ever been guilty of, prevented him from doing so.

  ‘Ah ha!’ exclaimed a voice behind him, and Lancer turned his head to see a young man coming out of the inn, looking from him to the calf as he advanced. ‘What have we here, eh? I see before me an animal that will fetch a fine price in the market, and a man badly in need of a drink.’

  He smiled at Lancer in a friendly way. Of average height and of good build, he had brown hair, carefully parted and combed, above an oval, good-looking face. The young fellow was expensively clad in a blue frock-coat with yellow buttons, a black waistcoat, and light-coloured cashmere trousers. The over-all impression was that of a country gentleman, one of the idle rich. But Lancer judged that the wealth of this young man was neither inherited nor legal. He was certain that it was a highwayman who was speaking to him.

  ‘You’re right about the calf,’ Lancer replied, ‘but wrong about the man. I was resting awhile, but now I must be on my way.’

  Shaking his handsome head, the young man argued mildly, and it grieved Lancer to accept that the obviously affluent fellow had him down as destitute. ‘I still believe that I am right. A long, cool drink will soon slake that thirst that I see raging inside of you, my good sir. You see, I am not out to offend your sense of self-respect, but to buy your company for a short while. You will be doing a lonely man a great service by accepting my offer, sir. Now, tie your animal to that stake, and you can treat it to a bowl of water when you leave the inn.’

  Needing a drink more than ever now that it had been spoken of, Lancer secured the calf and walked towards the door with the elegant young man, who asked, ‘May I ask what name you go under, sir?’

  ‘Joby Lancer.’

  ‘It has a pleasantly unusual ring to it, Joby. I detest the formities of this world, such as uniformity, conformity.’ He gave a smile with good teeth, and offered a smooth, white hand that had never known manual labour.

  ‘Thomas Oliver, Joseph Infield; take your pick. I’m known mostly on the road as Buckingham Joe.’

  Lancer shook the proffered hand, taking an instant liking to Buckingham Joe, who now paused before they entered the inn, to say in his fascinating style of speaking, ‘You may have noticed, Joby, as I most certainly have, that life does not follow a straight line, but moves in cycles. Less than two years hence I was standing outside of this very inn, penniless due to an idiotic lack of foresight. A fine gentleman in a coach pulled up and insisted on purchasing a drink for me. That was the most satisfying drink I ever had. I often taste it over and over again in my memory.’

  ‘No doubt you were in a position to repay the man,’ an unhappy Lancer said, as he thought of the increasing number of people to whom he was becoming indebted.

  ‘Oh yes, I repaid the gentleman, of course,’ the elegant young man said, turning to point in the direction of Footehill, asking, ‘Do you see that bend in the road up ahead there, Joby?’

  ‘I do,’ Lancer nodded, looking to less than a quarter of a mile away to where the road took a lazy, meandering route between two small hills. ‘And that pair of trees standing together as stiffly as lovers having an argument?’ Buckingham Joe waited for a nod from Lancer before continuing, ‘I stepped out from behind those trees as the fine gentleman’s coach approached. I repaid him by relieving him of the remainder of the money he had with him.’

  The self-confessed highwayman was chuckling, pleased with his story that Lancer wasn’t sure could be believed, but felt that it could well be the truth. But he had no time for further contemplation of the subject, for they were inside and Buckingham Joe was ordering drinks for them from a surly, unshaven landlord.

  The only other patrons were a group of three women and two me
n when Lancer took to be itinerants, and who were engaged in a noisy argument that seemed guaranteed to shortly erupt in physical violence. But Lancer ignored them and everything else about his surroundings as he drank a long, beautifully cool, golden-tasting mug of ale.

  ‘You’ll have another,’ the highwayman said in a way that let it be known he would brook no argument, going on to shake Lancer with a perception that had to be some kind of unerring instinct. ‘Something about you tells me that you have served with the military, Joby?’

  ‘Some time ago,’ Lancer conceded. There wasn’t any likelihood of a man known on the road as Buckingham Joe, turning him in to the forces of law and order.

  The answer proving him to be right pleased Lancer’s new friend. ‘That’s a good thing, for a man who has never known discipline can never really enjoy freedom. We would make a great partnership, Joby. I like the cut of you. We could reach the heights together, but I fear that you have personal things you wish to do, a definite destination towards which you are heading.’

  ‘I do and I have,’ Lancer confirmed, ‘and I must be going now so as to reach Footehill before sunset.’

  A disappointed Joe said resignedly. ‘So be it. There is no meeting without consequence, so perchance we shall meet again, Joby, maybe even in a life to come. If there is a Lamb Inn in the hereafter, then I pray that Joby Lancer and Buckingham Joe will meet outside of it.’

  ‘And the calf,’ Lancer joked as he drained the mug and made ready to go to the door. ‘I don’t know how I’ll do it, Joseph, but one day I will repay you for these drinks.’

  ‘Then I had best be wary when I reach that bend by the trees …’ the highwayman said laughingly, but was interrupted by the dispute between the itinerants exploding into fisticuffs.