Chapter Ten
Earlier in the evening, the inn and tap room down in Ridlington Vale, had seen a brisk few hours as the Saucy Sows engaged the Cagey Cows in a do-or-die darts competition. It was a mostly friendly affair, and everyone managed to ignore the fragrance of the farmyard that lingered around the competitors.
There were cheers, rude comments, much laughter and the occasional groan as one or other dart went wildly astray. Several of the local champions were competing, and strangers had been welcomed to take a turn between the formal contests. Sam Pewsey had decided to linger in Ridlington, apparently, and was a very popular contestant, especially with the few women who happened to be there. He was also an excellent player, consistently scoring bullseyes. His accuracy had been noted, and if his eye held—several of the farmers were discussing the prospects of offering the lad a job, just to get him on their team.
The fire roared merrily, and Mr. Fisher, busy behind the bar, radiated good humour. As would any publican who sees a night where profits will most definitely enhance his financial situation.
Tucked away in the corner of one bench, a man sat with a tankard of Mr. Fisher’s best in front of him. Unobtrusively clad in dark brown jacket and breeches, he let his hat fill a little space beside him, perhaps discouraging those who might wish to converse.
His eyes roamed the room, observing, noting, cataloguing the crowd. Every now and again, he would remove a small notebook from his pocket along with a short stub of a pencil.
He would make a note or two, then replace the items, returning to his ale.
Finally, at the height of the contest, another man looked around for a seat and came to the bench. “Will ye share the space, lad? Ma feet are that weary…”
“Of course,” said the first man, moving his hat. “Sit and rest.”
“Ye’ve a kind ‘eart, and I thank ye.” He sat. “I’m Watson. Herbert Watson.” He held out a hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Watson. My name’s Hodgkins.”
The men shook, then refreshed themselves with their drinks, since shaking hands and making friends was thirsty business.
“So what’s yer line o’ work, then, Hodgkins?” asked Watson.
“Oh bit o’ this, bit o’ that. You know how it is these days.”
“I does indeed.” Watson nodded sagely.
“How about yourself?
“I’m lucky. Got meself a good job ‘ere, like. I’m the ‘ead ostler for the inn.”
Hodgkins’ eyes widened. “A good job indeed. Must be exciting…all the comings and goings…”
“’Tis that.” Watson nodded.
“So,” Hodgkins continued, “you’d know about them Ridlingtons, then, wouldn’t you now?”
“You mean the Baron an’ ‘is kin?”
“I do.”
“Aye, then I know ‘em. The old man—well now, ‘e was a one.” Watson sucked air through his teeth. “Right ol’ bastard, ‘e was. Never a nice word or a penny fer anyone. Strutted ‘round like the rest of the world smelled like cow shit, he did.”
“Ugh.” Hodgkins’ response was encouraging.
“Nobody round ‘ere shed much of a tear when ‘e passed. But the new one, Baron Edmund ’tis, now ‘e’s another kettle o’ fish. Nice as the day is long. Always got a nod fer us, remembers our names, doin’ ‘is best to get us back on our feet. M’brother’s farm were on its last legs but the new Baron, ‘e come by and gave ‘im some chickens an’ a cow. Said he ain’t got no pounds to give ‘im, but it saved the farm an’ now they’re growin’ fast.” He nodded and raised his tankard. “‘Ere’s to Baron Edmund, I say.”
Hodgkins joined the toast, and generously offered another round.
“Most kind o’ ye, sir. Most kind,” accepted Watson with a happy grin.
A few waves of the hand and a serving girl appeared with two full tankards, efficiently removing the empties before she left.
Thus refreshed, the two men continued their conversation.
“So this Baron’s a good man. Wonder if he’s hiring? I could use a job for a bit…” Hodgkins sipped the ale.
