Cauldron of Fear (24 page)

'He's got his
own two favourites,' Toby replied, not waiting for Anne to respond.
'There's Lightning, the one with the funny looking blaze and then
there's Quicksilver, the grey. Lightning's not in there either, in
case you was going to ask.' He grinned impishly and Harriet could
not help but smile back at him.

'I think I
chose well when I recruited your help, eh Toby?' she chuckled.
'So,' she continued, looking up into the moonless sky, 'we can
assume that Thomas has not ridden to Portsmouth on Marquis.' She
pondered silently for several more seconds.

'Which begs
the question,' she continued eventually, 'as to where the beast
might be. And I can think of only one logical answer.'

'Me too,' Toby
said smugly. 'She's gone out a-ridin' somewhere and don't want
anyone to know. That Beth would say anything she was told to say.
She dotes on Miss Jane like a soft puppy dog.'

'Well,' Anne
said cautiously, 'maybe we'd best not go too far down that road,
but Toby's right: Beth would do anything for her mistress.'

'So, we have
two of our three ladies definitely out and about this night,'
Harriet said, 'and possibly a third one. Ellen Grayling we don't
know about, but we can assume that she's somewhere in the vicinity
of Grayling Hall, which was the direction these lads last saw Mary
Watling and Kate Dawson riding.'

'You think
Jane Handiwell is mixed up with them three, then?' Anne asked,
doubt in her tone but eagerness in her eyes.

'I don't
know,' Harriet admitted. 'None of us does. As I said earlier, there
are just coincidences, nothing more, and nothing less. But I do
know one thing for certain, I most certainly cannot suggest such to
Master Handiwell, if and when he returns.'

James
Calthorpe came out of his fitful sleep with a start, the hairs on
the back of his neck bristling. Laying motionless in the dark, he
listened keenly, certain that it had been some unexpected noise
that had awakened him. He did not have long to wait.

From beyond
the door of the hut he heard two sharp snapping sounds, as unwary
boots fell upon dry twigs and then, muffled, but nonetheless
recognisable, the sound of an oath and a low groan. After a few
further seconds of silence another twig snapped, and then came the
sound of heavy boots on the dead and dried leaves that carpeted so
much of the forest floor this late in the season.

Slowly, James
levered himself up into a sitting position, tensing himself, though
he was only too well aware that his fettered ankles made any
effective attempt at confrontation most unlikely. Halfway to rising
to his feet he hesitated, considered his situation, and sat down
again.

A moment later
the door swung open, revealing a rectangular patch that was only
marginally less black than the rest of the interior walls and a
barely distinguishable silhouette that quickly filled it.

'Who are you?
Speak man!' His voice sounded too high, even to his own ears, but
James was determined to voice his indignation. His only immediate
reply, however, was another muttered curse, followed by a
succession of sparks as the newcomer, whoever or whatever he was,
struggled with a tinderbox. Finally the wick spluttered into flame,
the flame was brought towards the lamp the man had brought with him
and then, at last, the hut was bathed in light again.

Staring up,
James studied the fellow and was not heartened by what he saw. The
man was perhaps in his late thirties, or early forties, with
weathered face, large rough hands, and powerful shoulders. His
clothing was serviceable and of reasonable quality, but his shirt
looked grimy and his fingernails, as he reached out to place the
lantern alongside the now near empty water flagon, were encrusted
with dirt.

'Who are you?'
James demanded at last, his voice now nearer its normal pitch. 'I
demand to know and I also demand to know why I have been kept
prisoner here?' The fellow straightened up, placed his hands on his
hips and grinned, revealing teeth that were uneven and badly
blackened.

'Don't matter
who I am,' he said. His accent reminded James of London, and his
attitude was all too reminiscent of the villainous underclass that
frequented the taverns around the docks. Up close it was easy to
see - on the road, James realised now that he had not been so
astute, for he was certain that this fellow had been one of the two
riders who assaulted him. 'What matters, mister,' the man growled,
'is that I've brought you food and water, so mind your manners or
I'll tip the lot outside and the foxes can have it, see?'

'Then at least
tell me,' James persisted, though in a tone he hoped sounded more
reasonable, for the importance of fresh water was not lost on him,
'why I am being held against my wishes.'

'Because his
nibs says to, that's why,' the man replied carelessly. 'And that's
all I'm going to say, so you just rest easy, right. You'll be set
free again soon enough, so long as you don't give no trouble.' He
turned, stepped outside the hut, reaching for something, and a
moment later ducked inside again, clutching a small sack.

'See here,' he
laughed, reaching inside the bag, 'I even brought you some meat
tonight. Fresh cooked at that inn and very nice it is, too.' He set
down a hunk of pork and followed this with half a loaf. The final
item was another pewter flagon, the twin of the one in which James
had discovered the water earlier.

'There was a
lump of cake, too,' the man said, grinning, 'but my mate wolfed
that, gutty pig that he is. Still, we could have just let you
starve. If it had been up to me I wouldn't have bothered. It's a
fucking dangerous ride through these woods at this time of night, I
can tell you.'

Ignoring the
original flagon and bowl he folded the sack and turned towards the
door, from where he looked back, still with his foul-toothed
grin.

'I'll even
leave you the lamp, see?' he said. 'No use to me out there, 'cos
his nibs said not to show a light, but it'll be all right in here.
Mind you,' he added, 'I'd turn the wick down some, if I was you.
There ain't much oil in the bugger.'

'When will you
be back?' James asked hurriedly.

The man paused
and shrugged. 'Depends,' he said. 'Tomorrow night. Maybe earlier.
Way I hear it, it all comes down to whether the old baggage pays
the tithe. If not, we hangs the wench at midday and that's an end
to it.'

'What old
baggage?' James demanded, more alarmed than ever now. 'And what
wench are you to hang?'

The fellow
shrugged again. 'Does it matter? You ain't in no place to do
anything about it, which was the general idea, of course.'

'It's
Matilda!' James gasped, the sudden realisation hitting him like a
rock in his stomach. 'You're talking about Matilda! Ye gods, what
have you done to her?' The fellow started to laugh and then, to
James's surprise, his features took on a quizzical look, the rough
laughter turned into a sort of choking sob and then, as blood began
to spray from his mouth, he pitched forward face first into the
straw at James's feet, knocking the makeshift table and its
precious contents flying and only just missing the spluttering
lamp.

'More a case
of what the bastids haven't done to the poor child.'

James looked
up again in sheer confusion, but there was no mistaking that voice,
a voice he had heard many a time throughout his young and formative
years.

Hannah
Pennywise stood framed in the doorway, her cane gripped now in her
left hand, in her right a long, thin and very sharp looking knife
and, as James continued to gawp, slack-jawed, she carefully began
to wipe its blade in the folds of her skirt, removing from it the
last traces of blood - the same blood that even now was beginning
to seep out from beneath the lifeless body which lay between
them.

Thomas
Handiwell sat and listened very carefully as Harriet related what
the boys had discovered, though she carefully avoided mentioning
his daughter Jane, or the fact that she might, in any way, be
involved in Sarah's abduction. When Harriet had finally finished
the innkeeper sat back, gnawing lightly on his knuckle, considering
the implications.

'It's a
delicate situation, Miss Merridew,' he said at last. It was
curious, Harriet thought, how he still refrained from using her
Christian name, even though he had several times hinted heavily at
the possibilities of a marriage between them. 'Young Ellen Grayling
is an odd one, of that there's no doubt,' he continued, 'and I'd
definitely not discount the chances of her being in some way
involved in this. The Graylings have ridden roughshod over people
in these parts for as long as I can remember and even before that,
but then that's so-called noble blood for you.

'On the other
hand,' he said, 'we have nothing beyond the observations of a
village lad and nothing to connect Lady Ellen with the other two
wenches.' He sat back, stifling a yawn, his features looking pale
and drawn, a clear indication of fatigue, for it had been well past
two in the morning when he finally returned.

'I suppose
Captain Hart could arrest the other two and see what they have to
say for themselves,' Thomas suggested at length. 'We do, after all,
have three witnesses that can place them at the scene where the
boat was left, but that is no more than circumstantial and I'd
wager the wench who returned that boat has some sort of story
ready, in case she was seen.'

'Whatever we
do, Master Handiwell,' Harriet said carefully, 'we must act
quickly. I am supposed to take the ransom money, and the boat, and
there are only a few hours before I must leave. I presume your
offer is still open?'

'Yes, of
course.' Thomas nodded. 'I have the money here, so there is no
problem. However, I do not like the idea of you taking it alone.
Ned's boy is quite right in his reasoning. They will not be at the
original rendezvous this time and anything could happen to
you.'

'I don't see
that I have any choice in the matter,' Harriet replied. She shook
her head slightly, blinking eyes that were becoming heavy and sore
from her own lack of sleep. 'I have to deliver the money. Also,'
she added, 'I have to return and make sure my father is all right.
Besides, there are cows to be milked at first light.'

'Forget the
cows,' Thomas said. 'Young Matthew and Billy can take care of the
milking. We'll maybe have use of Toby, however. A sharp lad, that
one, and no mistaking.'

'He is
certainly intelligent,' Harriet agreed, 'and he knows the woods
well.'

'Aye, he
probably knows more than is good for a lad of his tender years,
too,' Thomas said. He paused, considering again. At last he rose
stiffly, stretching his leg muscles with some care.

'I think,' he
said, nodding, 'that I have an idea. Let's have young Toby in here
and see what he thinks, eh?'

Simon
Wickstanner stood quietly in the cellar doorway, studying the
figure sprawled against the far wall. Her face and head still
tightly enclosed in the leather hood, Matilda lay, legs splayed,
her feet still encased in the ugly, heavy penance boots, arms once
more cuffed to either side of the broad leather belt, oblivious now
to her surroundings or sufferings.

Crawley's two
henchmen had used her for several hours, Wickstanner knew, for he
had ventured down on several occasions during the night, mostly
listening to the sounds of their abuse from the security of the
darkened passage and eventually, when he could control himself no
longer, pushing open the door to the chamber and watching through
the crack.

Eventually the
two men had tired, and the minister retreated further down into the
vaults, waiting for them to leave, and then returned again, but
Matilda was by then exhausted and even the sound of his voice
failed to stir her.

That had been
two hours or more ago and still the wretched girl showed no sign of
regaining consciousness. Wickstanner moved closer, raising the
lantern he carried and stood, unmoving, his eyes roving over the
display of naked female flesh, his tongue running lightly back and
forth over his dry lips, beads of cold perspiration forming on his
forehead.

Matters had
not progressed the way he originally envisaged, and he was uneasy.
He had been sure that the old woman, Matilda's grandmother, would
pay up a sizeable sum for her granddaughter's release and
absolution and that, in addition, he would have been able to set a
further penance that would have placed Matilda in his power for at
least a year.

Twelve months,
in which the memory of her ordeal at the hands of the witchfinder
would have been fresh in her mind, and Wickstanner had been
confident that she would have come to view his petitions in a
different light, probably turning to him as both confessor and
confidante.

What he had
not anticipated was the debauched approach Jacob Crawley and his
minions had taken with the girl. Scourging with the lash was quite
acceptable - it had been for centuries - and even the treatment of
stripping her, shaving her hair and parading her naked before the
village, but what had been happening here, in the vaults beneath
the church itself, went far beyond what Wickstanner considered
acceptable.

Then why, the
voice of his conscience pricked him, had he not done something to
stop them earlier? Why had he simply stood back, listening and
eventually even watching, his entire body shaking uncontrollably?
And why had he found himself imagining that it was he, Simon
Wickstanner, who was thrusting himself in and out of the helpless
girl's sex?

He groaned,
aloud this time and bit his lip, drawing blood, which mingled with
the sweat now running down into the corners of his mouth. The time
was long past for him to turn back. If he was not damned in the
eyes of his Church, Wickstanner knew he most definitely was damned
in the eyes of his God.