A Heart Deceived (6 page)

“Reverend!” Charlie ran into the room, nearly crashing into Newton save for the old man’s hand that halted him at arm’s length. “The constable, sir, he won’t be put off much longer. He says—”

“Tell him I’ll be there shortly.” Newton patted the boy on the head.

Ethan’s pulse hammered out of control.

Charlie frowned. “But—”

“Go.” The pat turned into a swat. Newton watched the boy exit, then turned to Ethan. “And God go with you, lad. You’ll be in my prayers.”

Good. He’d take all the prayers he could get. Penniless and on the run, he’d need them.

6

Nigel Thorne rolled over on the thin mattress, blanket tangling in a lump beneath him. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and the pounding in his head increased. No wonder that gin had been so cheap. Skunk of a barkeep. A thin shaft of sunlight breached the hole in the curtain and glinted off the broken bottle lying on the floor. He tried to focus on the resulting prism splotching a dab of color on the wall opposite him, but no good. Fuzzy vision. Fuzzier tongue. He licked his lips and swallowed.

Rap, rap, rap. Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, Nigel applied firm and steady pressure. Who knew? Maybe it would counteract the throbbing and even it out to a dull ache. He scrunched his eyes shut, willing it so.

Rap, rap, rap. The noise continued ever louder. Not even a beastly head-banger could sound that sharp.

Rising too fast, he winced from the pain stabbing the length of his wound. First his head, now his body. A baneful start to the day.

Rap, rap, rap.

“Hold on.” Good advice. Nigel steadied himself against a littered table. When the room stopped spinning, he reached for a rumpled pair of breeches hanging half off the back of a chair. Aiming his foot for the leg hole, he caught his toe on the trousers’ crotch and teetered off balance. He flailed his arms and caught himself, then shoved his foot through one leg after the other. But something sure did not feel right. Were these his pants?

Rap, rap-rap-rap-rap.

“Coming!” Oh, sweet peacock. He’d put the pants on backward. Tussling with the fabric one more time, he swapped them proper and crossed the room.

He opened the door to a hedgehog. Leastwise that’s the image he got whenever he faced Constable Duffy. The man’s bristly hair, peppered with white, spiked straight on end like so many quills. Loose skin jiggled when he spoke, and it took all Nigel’s self-restraint to keep from poking the man just to see if he’d roll up into a ball.

“Mr. Duffy.” Nigel greeted him but did not step aside.

“Mr. Thorne.” Duffy snuffled as if that might clear his nasally voice. “I did what you said.”

Nigel looked past the man to an empty corridor. “So where is he?”

“No one’s seen him.” Duffy’s nose twitched, and he leaned closer. “If you ask me, sir, Ethan Goodwin’s on the run, that’s what. Skipped town. Wouldn’t you, if you had murder a-hanging over yer head?”

Smiling at the man’s naïveté, Nigel rubbed his hands together. “Good work, Duffy. Next time our boy Ethan surfaces in London, we’ll clap him in irons and pack him off to Newgate. Put the case on close for now, eh?”

“Right, sir.” Duffy nodded. As he retreated down the hall to the flat’s single stairwell, Nigel half expected to see a stubby tail on his backside. But hedgehog or not, at least the man knew how to carry out orders, and confidentially at that.

Nigel shut the door, relieved there’d be no more active snooping into the Will Brayden killing. Perhaps this day would not be so bad after all. A drink or two to celebrate, why … he felt so light in the heels he might just pay a visit to good ol’ Pegg.

Rap, rap, rap.

Now what? Surely the constable didn’t expect his palm greased further. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to pay for additional silence on the matter. Sidestepping glass shards, Nigel rummaged through the assorted geegaws and doodads littering the table, finally uncovering a tattered money purse. No coins jingled as he lifted it.

Loosening the drawstring, he tipped it upside down, then shook it for good measure. Nothing.

Rap, rap, rap.

“Look, Duffy …” As he opened the door, the words died on his lips—and not from a fuzzy tongue. A freak of nature filled the space. Goliath incarnate.

“Nigel Thorne?” The giant’s voice rumbled louder than a lion’s growl. Why did big always mean bass?

Despite wanting to appear courageous, Nigel retreated a step. “You’ve found his home, all right, but uh …” He glanced over his shoulder at his bed, his table, his chair, collecting just the right amount of confidence to sound believable, then turned back. “As you can see, he’s not here, mate.”

The mammoth grunted. “The name’s Buck.” Reaching out with surprising speed, he gripped Nigel by the throat and lifted him. “Not
mate
.”

Nigel’s feet dangled. He clawed at the man’s arm, panic increasing along with his heart rate.

The man’s voice was even louder at eye level. “Seeing as Thorne isn’t about, perhaps you can relay a little message for me.”

Squirming, Nigel tried to pry the man’s fingers from his neck. Hah. He might as easily bed the queen herself. Any more of this and his head would pop.

“Tell Thorne I stopped by to collect a debt owed to Mr. Havisway.”

Nigel’s lungs started to burn.

“And that Mr. Havisway don’t take kindly to late payments. Understand?”

He’d nod if he could. Blackness closed in, Buck’s face becoming one enormous nose.

“I’ll be back in a day or two.” Buck squeezed tighter. “Mr. Thorne.”

He tossed Nigel backward one-handed. When he landed, pieces of glass ground into his palms.

So this would be a bad day.

Very bad.

Sucking in air, he worked his way to the chair and pulled himself up. He sat a good long time. Coughing. Hacking. Thinking.

Where in the world would he get the guineas to pay off a gambling spree gone awry?

Miri whirled, and her skirt poufed out, covering the vicar’s Bible. Pressing a hand to her chest, she tried to keep her heart inside her frame and slow her erratic breathing. “Goodness, Roland, you startled me.” Truly, his catching her by surprise was turning into a disturbing trend.

“Sinners conceal their works, alarmed only when found out.” Though standing in the doorway, well beyond arm’s reach, he held her in place with a fixated stare. “I repeat, what are you doing here?”

Unable to contain her irritation, Miri sighed. “I was watching for your return, that’s all. The study window affords the best view.”

“Yet you do not stand at the window.”

“Not anymore.”

Her brother’s jaw clenched. She would gain no information if she drove him into a foul humor.

Smiling, she patted her hair, hopefully drawing his attention upward while her toe worked to shove the vicar’s Bible into the shadows at the bookcase’s side. Why she felt the need to hide the thing, she wasn’t certain, but it was a driving desire nonetheless. “You tarried so long, weariness gained the better of me. I paced the room and thought perhaps to borrow a book, and so you find me. What did you discover at the stables?”

“As the cook said, Eldon’s horse.” He crossed to the cherrywood desk, diverting his interest to a stack of scattered documents.

Just the break she needed. Her foot pushed until the vicar’s Bible nestled against the wall. Still observable, but not obvious. She joined Roland opposite the desk. “And?”

“And what?” He shuffled the papers together.

“What about the blood on the horse?”

“I saw none.” He shuffled faster.

“But Old Joe said—”

“Old Joe?” Roland set down the papers and planted his palms on the desk. “Whom do you choose to believe, Miriall?”

Miri gnawed her lower lip. Some choice. An elderly jack-of-all-trades or an academic bully. “Of course I do not doubt you, Roland. I simply fail to understand why—”

“Failure to understand is a deficiency in all women. It is natural, and I expect no less from you. Now if you please, I have tithes to account for.” He scooped up the pile of documents he’d straightened, then sank into the chair, leather crinkling beneath his weight.

His eyes scanned back and forth as he skimmed the page. It was Mr. Eldon’s role to keep the books. Why would her brother not wait until his return?

Unless he knew the vicar would not be returning at all.

Strange happenings are afoot.
Mrs. Makin had never spoken a truer word.

Miri mimicked her brother’s earlier stance, placing her palms on the desk. “Pray let me help you. Many a time I helped Father with his books before, well, you know …”

“No.”

“Truly, Roland, I am good with numbers.” She leaned forward until the edge of the desk pressed against her hips. “Allow me to assist you. I have little else to do. Perhaps this could be the trade I might develop, something with which to support myself. Mrs. Tattler might even take me on over at the—”

“Your service is neither needed nor wanted.” His eyes remained fastened on the ledger, but each of his words bored into her. “This is exactly why it would be beneficial for you to shower your attentions on Master Witherskim. I daresay he’s your best chance for support. Be done with this silly notion of independence, once and for all. Now, you are dismissed.”

She straightened as if slapped. Callous man! Making her hands into fists, she squeezed until her nails bit her palms. Silly notion, indeed. She’d show him. She’d polish up her bookkeeping skills in secret and instead be done with both Roland and Witherskim. Inhaling deeply, she released her tension as she exhaled, then retreated in silence.

But her stomach was not as quiet. As she padded down the stairs, a grumble creaked louder than the worn tread. She pressed a hand to her tummy, and a louder gurgle rumbled beneath her fingers. Apparently one bite of brown bread and marmalade did not a meal make. Veering right, she headed toward the kitchen.

Voices carried louder the closer she drew—one gruff with age, the other twittering.

“He can right well say as he pleases, but that was blood, I tell ye, woman. Dried blood. I’d wager it to be the vicar’s, and what’s more …”

Miri paused at the doorway, making sure that the tip of her skirt did not so much as sway into Mrs. Makin’s or Old Joe’s line of vision.

“… I seen Master Brayden’s knuckles the day after the vicar went missin’. I know a-swellin’ set o’ joints caused by a good row. If you ask me, ol’ Master Brayden had himself a knock down right afore Mr. Eldon disappeared.”

The cook’s voice lowered, and Miri leaned closer. “You don’t think?”

“Aye, I do think, Mrs. Makin. That I do.”

7

Could lungs catch on fire, sear through bone and flesh, and explode out one’s chest like a flaming comet? Sure felt like it. With each labored breath Ethan drew, the burning beneath his ribs intensified, as did his exhaustion and hunger. He should have stayed in London. The hangman’s noose would be a kindness compared to this torment. What he wouldn’t give for a piece of opium right about now, and none of that would be found in a Bedfordshire wood. He glanced heavenward. “The reverend said You have a plan for me. Is this it?”

Skirting the village of Deverell Downs had kept him out of sight but well within range of home fires. Pots of stew, roasted chickens, fresh loaves of bread … just thinking of the aromas rained saliva into a pool at the back of his mouth. How many days had it been since he’d eaten? His stomach cramped, and he turned aside to spit. Too many. Probably four, maybe five. Seemed like forever ago that he’d met with the reverend at St. Giles. At least the man had heard of Miri Brayden, thank God.

Yes, thanks indeed. God had brought him thus far, but unless he found something to eat, he’d not go much farther.

He lowered his gaze and leaned against the rough bark of an ash tree, crossing his arms to ward off the chill of approaching eve. Deep down a cough began, and he bent, hacking until shaky and short of breath. As much as he’d like to sink into the ferns at his feet, if he didn’t keep moving, he’d die here.

He willed each step thereafter. Determination was all he owned, and a pitiful amount at that. Soon, an old farmhouse with shuttered windows came into view, smoke curling from its chimney like a sailor puffing a pipe. He brushed off his waistcoat, ripped in elbow and collar and long since barren of buttons. A pitchfork would pierce his backside before he’d have a chance to beg a crust or a crumb.

Beyond the house sat an outbuilding. Small, though perhaps large enough for livestock. Worth a try. By now, pig slop would be a delicacy. He couldn’t stop the smile that curved his mouth. If only his father and brother could see him now—a prodigal in the flesh.

His grin faded as he swung around to the back of the byre and entered the shadows. What a hovel. One wall leaned in at such an angle that it forced him to walk crooked, and the roof swagged so low, he needed to duck. Either the farmer was extremely short or worked with a perpetually bent back.

A single cow lowed as he batted aside a cobweb, the silk of it wrapping around his fingers. He wiped it against his breeches while heading straight for the trough, gut clenching in anticipation. His feet hadn’t moved this fast in days.