‘In Stratford? Hell’s teeth. Right, let’s get moving. We’ll work something out on the way back.’
They rode back to Stratford – it was only another three miles – with the extra stolen horse plodding alongside more happily for not bearing its burden. For its sake, and because Cassian didn’t trust the road, they kept to a gentle trot, and were approaching Stratford within half an hour. Cassian heard the church clock chime, and realised he’d quite lost track.
‘What time is it, do you have any idea?’
‘Half past nine, I think,’ Daizell said. ‘We should still be—’
‘You!’ It was an enraged bellow. ‘You, sir! That’s my damned horse!’
An elderly man, bewigged and of portly habit, was waving an angry stick in their direction. Daizell said, ‘Uh-oh.’
‘Surely we need only apologise?’ Cassian murmured, hoping that was true. Was it still theft if you gave the loot back? ‘And compensate him, of course. I’m happy to—’
Daizell was already leaning down to speak to the man as he approached, along with someone who looked very like a town constable. ‘The grey? Is that yours? Can you prove it?’
‘Ibegyour pardon, sir?’
‘We found it wandering on the Warwick Road,’ Daizell informed him, apparently without shame. ‘We thought it would be best to bring the beast back with us. If it’s yours, that saves us the effort of finding the owner.’
‘That’s Mr Bezant’s grey all right,’ the constable put in, in a heavy Warwickshire accent.
‘Then all is well,’ Daizell said. ‘Good evening.’
‘What? Wait! You’re the fellow who took him!’ It was hardto say with only the light of the constable’s lantern, but Mr Bezant’s rubicund face seemed to be getting redder.
‘I certainly am not, sir. I have ridden with my friend back from . . .’ Daizell waved vaguely to indicate the road.
‘Hampton Lucy,’ said someone in possession of Cassian’s voice, albeit a somewhat strangled version. ‘Just now. Visiting friends,’ he added, since one might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Or a horse. ‘I’m delighted we can restore your property to you, sir.’
‘I say that this fellow stole my horse,’ Mr Bezant repeated obstinately. ‘And where’s his bridle?’
‘I really could not say,’ Daizell told him, in a witheringly superior tone. ‘You have your beast; pray do not trouble to thank us for the effort involved in catching and returning him. We are quite at your service for any other small duties your convenience may require, but I really cannot be blamed for your carelessness in losing him in the first place. Good evening to you.’ He set his heels to the horse as he spoke, and Cassian urged his own steed to catch up.
‘Is that going to work?’ he asked as they rode down the High Street.
‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll be out of this town first thing tomorrow, and not before time. You go in and settle up – and pack, too. I’ll find us somewhere to stay. If I take the horses—’
Cassian was not going to ride out of Stratford on a stolen horse, no matter how justified the theft had been at the time. ‘I’ll have them stabled here,’ he said firmly.
He otherwise followed instructions, explaining to the landlord of the White Swan that they intended to leave very early in the morning, and paying their shot accordingly. He also paid for the horses to be stabled and fed for two days,saying that Sir James Vier’s men would collect them. He’d have preferred to leave Sir James with the reckoning, but the animals’ welfare was more important: they had done him good service.
That done, he packed his things and, feeling a little intrusive, Daizell’s. Daizell didn’t have much. A few changes of linen, another suit of clothing, the third volume ofThe Antiquary. A satchel which contained his cutting things: paper, card, paste, scissors.
Was that really everything? Did he not have a home somewhere, more possessions, more evidence of his life in the world?
Daizell came in as Cassian was checking the cupboards. ‘We have a room at the Bull and Mouth, which is the coaching inn for Birmingham. I suggest we take the back way out of here so nobody knows we’ve left.’
‘Is there a back way?’
‘There’s always a back way,’ Daizell said, with the confidence of a man who used them frequently.
Cassian nodded. ‘I think I have everything of yours?’
Daizell gave the bag a cursory glance. ‘Looks about right.’
‘Is that everything you have?’
Daizell shrugged and took his bag. Cassian followed, uncomfortably aware of Staplow, with its rooms full of furniture and wardrobes full of clothes, and a family who lived there, all of it waiting for when he chose to come home.
