Carla Kelly (22 page)

He sighed and
gently disentangled himself from her embrace. “And even if I do win
this one, my dear, dear Omega, it doesn’t change anything between
us. I wish that it could.”

“
Good-bye, Matthew,” she whispered. “God watch you.”

“
And
you, Omega.”

The first few
miles to London were covered in silence, neither man disposed to
address the other. Matthew stole a glance at his traveling
companion several times, the last time to find him staring back.
Both men smiled. Matthew spoke first.

“
I
have become somewhat of a recluse in these past eight years, Mr.
Platter,” he apologized. “If I am silent, it is out of habit, and
also because I am trying to work up my courage to acquaint you with
this delicate subject. My dear sir, murder is hard to skate
around.”

Platter made a
motion with his hand. “Murder, is it? Sir, I have probably heard
all of these things before, so you may proceed whenever you feel
like it. And by the way, this is a fine horse. What a pity that I
cannot be bought.”

Matthew laughed.
“Yes, isn’t it?” He sobered quickly. “Well, sir, lend an ear now. I
seem to be making a habit out of telling my story in these past few
days, but you are the first person who has the power to have me
hanged because of it.”

Riding along past
the haying fields and the August harvest of the Cotswolds’ bounty,
Matthew Bering described the events of eight years ago, including
every detail that would show him at his worst. He tried to keep his
voice calm, but it was difficult. Many times he struggled and
looked away, aware all over again of the magnitude of the crime
committed, and acutely aware that he was confessing to an officer
of the law. Matthew knew the road to London well, but he
concentrated on keeping his eyes straight ahead on the highway
before him, preferring not to see his crimes reflected in the face
of the Bow Street Runner.

His hands shook
and he tightened his grip on the reins as he told of that morning
of his wedding when he woke up with the pale dead woman beside him.
Matthew could not resist; he glanced quickly at Timothy Platter,
and then found himself even more deeply disturbed. The Runner was
struggling with emotions of his own. Platter was gnawing on his
lower lip, even as he frowned. The very attitude of his body was
tense. In response, his horse danced along, skittish and
upset
,
too.

The moment
quickly passed, and Platter brought the horse to rights again. The
Runner managed a tight smile. “My lord, for all that there is
nothing new under the sun, this is interesting.”

“
That
would not have been my choice of words, sir. You are kind,” was
Matthew’s reply.

“
No, I
am not, sir,” said Platter firmly, his own feelings submerged
again. “Pray continue. I do not see the connection yet between you
and Rotherford and the nephew you share in common. So far, your
story does not fadge.”

“
I was
sure it did not. Let us pause first, Mr. Platter,” said Lord Byford
with a sigh. “There is a tolerable inn ahead. They have a way of
toasting cheese that is quite superior. My horses need a
rest.”

They dined in
silence, Platter concentrating his thoughts upon the blank wall
beyond his companion’s shoulder, and Bering regarding his plate and
wineglass as if he had never seen such utensils before. The
viscount looked around occasionally at the others in the room, and
couldn’t help observing that the other diners were glancing his way
in curiosity.

“
We
seem to be exciting some interest,” he murmured finally to his
fellow traveler.

“
Runners seldom travel ordinary-like with toffs,” said Mr.
Platter as he reached for another slice of bread, which he tore in
half and mortared together with apple butter. “I have a suggestion,
my lord. If this village has a ready-made store, I would recommend
that you visit it. We stand out like blackamoors in
Glasgow.”

The village,
which boasted a large population of the farming society, indeed
supported such a store. Nodding to his companion, Lord Byford
visited it, returning to the innyard a short while later, his
clothes in a bundle, clad now in shirt, trousers, and rough boots
of a much-less-distinguished Englishman.

“
I
left my beaver hat with a somewhat mystified hay-wain driver. Will
I do now, Mr. Platter?” he asked as he stuffed his other clothes
into a saddlebag, and wondered what his tailor would think if he
could see him.

“
Decidedly,” commented the Runner. “I should not be ashamed to
travel with you now. My reputation, Lord Byford, my
reputation.”

Matthew looked at
him sharply, and then caught the gleam in the Runner’s eye. He
bowed and managed a smile of his own. “Then, sir, pray let us
continue. My horses have no more patience than their
owner.”

Matthew continued
his story immediately they had left the village behind, wondering
to himself for the thousandth time if the whole thing sounded
false. Maybe it
was
foolish above half to suppose that
Rotherford would have planned such an event with patience. Perhaps
Omega was right; surely no one was so careful, so willing to wait.
He only wanted to believe it, only wanted to assure himself that he
never could have killed someone.

Matthew finished
and was silent, looking straight ahead again, not trusting even a
glance at his companion, who sat in silence of his own.

“
These
friends of yours ... all dead?” asked Platter finally. His question
was spoken deliberately, as if he asked it in a court of
law.

“
For
sure, only the three that I mentioned. The fourth one, Sir Horace
Billings, I have not heard from since ... since
 
... I don’t know ... 1810 or 1811. I
have written to him several times. The letters were neither
returned nor answered.”

“
He
could be alive.”

“
He
could be. Horace never was one to take chances like the others. He
was a bit of a priss and a dandy. He lives ... or lived ... in the
wilds of Suffolk. ‘A drafty castle, fit for Vikings,’ or so he used
to tell me.”

The Runner
considered this piece of intelligence, and sought another. “Was
anyone else aware of the evening’s events?”

Matthew shook his
head, and then looked at Platter. “There was the landlord of the
building. I remember him vaguely.”

“
Then
we must find this set of rooms, Lord Byford, must we
not?”

Matthew reined in
his horse, turning it slightly to stop the Runner’s also. “Then do
you believe me?”

Platter would not
look him in the eye. “Let us say that your story is intriguing, and
I feel sorry for you, my lord.”

The Runner raised
his glance to Matthew for a second. Again there was that look in
his eyes that had so disquieted the viscount earlier. Again it
passed, leaving instead the calm and rather sour expression of a
professional officer of the law.

“
It’s
a discomfiting thought to be considered an object of pity,” said
Matthew finally.

“
Go
on, sir, finish your thought,” said Platter, his voice rising
slightly, and then lowering again to its professional tone.
“
 
‘An object of
pity from one of my class.’
 
” Platter sat straighter in the saddle. “But I
do feel pity for you. More than your life alone has been affected.
Other men may have died because of this. And there is a woman
deeply hurt. And as a justice of the peace, you are aware of the
laws of our land, my lord. It remains for you to prove yourself
innocent. But I will say no more on that subject, my
lord.”

He was true to
his word. Not another sentence was spoken during the rest of that
long day. The silence greatly embarrassed Matthew at first, but
then he grew used to it. He glanced occasionally at the Runner, and
decided finally that the man was deep in thought. It would not have
been polite to disturb him. Matthew’s lively brain was fully
occupied with his own predicament.

They reached the
metropolis as the sun was setting. Neither man would admit fatigue
to the other, but Matthew had watched Platter stand in his stirrups
several times in the last few hours, as if weary of his
seat.

The houses drew
closer and closer together as the men rode in silence. Soon the
houses were joined by stores and grog shops and the road grew even
narrower. Smoke and fog of a most disagreeable consistency rolled
down the street.

Platter took a
deep breath and sighed. “It’s good to be home,” he said, breaking
his great fast of silence. “London air.”

Matthew took a
whiff and wished himself immediately back in the country. “To each
his own,” he murmured.

Platter turned
toward him with a faint look of surprise. “My lord, don’t those
early-morning birds ever drive you to Bedlam? Or the way it is so
damned quiet the rest of the day? I wonder anyone can endure the
country. Not this cove, any road.”

Matthew smiled.
“
This
lord’s ways are mysterious, then, my good man. And
perhaps since I am traveling incognito, it would be best if you
were to call me Matthew.”

“
Certainly, my lord.”

They continued
deeper into the city down roads that Matthew was unfamiliar with.
It was a part of London he knew nothing of, for all that it teemed
about him: people spilling into the noisome streets, beggars,
maimed soldiers with begging bowls (he thought of Hugh Owen), and
women, girls merely, standing on street corners leering at the men
who passed, calling out to them. His face reddened and then he felt
that familiar sickness in his stomach.

“
Matthew?”

“
Yes?”

“
I was
asking you, would you prefer to put up at your own
establishment?”

“
I
have no house here. I sold it eight years ago.” He looked down at
his blue shirt, with the dark perspiration stains under the
armpits. “And I do not think I would get past the doorman at
Claridge’s.”

“
Then
come home with me, sir.”

“
Oh, I
could not.” Matthew noticed that look again in Platter’s eyes. “And
don’t get your back up, man! I mean nothing other than it is not my
wish to disturb your family. You need only recommend an
inn.”

“
I’d
like you to come to my lodgings, sir.”

Matthew thought
it over. “Very well, Timothy, I will.” He paused, wondering how to
frame his next question. “And
 
... do you go to Bow Street first to make your
report?”

Platter shook his
head. “I do not. I think I have not finished this particular
assignment. My master is a nitpicker. He likes everything tied in
neat bundles. My report can wait a few days.”

“
Thank
you.”

They passed
through another street and turned into an alley, which led into a
warren of narrow houses, each more decrepit than the one before.
They stopped at last before a building that Matthew knew he could
never find again, even if he wrote down explicit directions.
Platter dismounted stiffly and threw the reins to a young boy
standing by. He bade Matthew to do the same.

Matthew did, but
he looked at Platter with some trepidation. “And will my horses
still be here in the morning?” he asked in a low voice. “Not
wishing to offer insult, but still, sir, I worry.”

Timothy measured
him with a long appraisal. “I would not have taken you for such a
flat, my lord. Do you think the gulls in this alley will tinker
with the mounts of a Bow Street Runner?”

“
Of
course they will not,” agreed Matthew. “How foolish of
me.”

Stiff-legged, the
men climbed the stairs, going past landing after landing, until
they were near the top, lacking one. Matthew stood on the landing
and clutched the banister, trying to regain some rhythm to his
breathing. “Was there ever a truer indication of my rapid decline
than the purgatory of that saddle, and now these
stairs?”

Platter laughed.
He went down the hallway and knocked on the door, listening as the
bolt was thrown back. A woman not much older than Omega stuck her
head out and broke into a smile. She took Timothy by the hand and
pulled him into the room. She noticed Matthew then, and stepped
back shyly.

“
He
can come in too, Maeve,” said the Runner. “He won’t
bite.”

“
If
you are sure.” She opened the door wider. “But I must say, sir,
that my Timothy has brought home all manner of strays in his
career.” Her voice had an Irish lilt that was altogether
delightful.

Matthew wondered
what Omega would say to such an address. He stepped inside. The
room was small, but it was clean. A little boy, finger in mouth,
stared at him and clutched at his mother’s skirts. Over by the
hearth, a baby lay in a cradle, contemplating, with the majesty of
few months, the miracle of fingers.

Platter was
watching him. “There are others of my calling who live much finer,
Matthew. I believe I have already told you that I cannot be bought.
We live well enough, and by God, my conscience allows me to sleep
nights.”