‘That may be the case,’ her father acknowledged, ‘but knowing Percy, he could end up in the basket well before he even gets to the gaol.’
‘That only usually happens when he’s with you, Father,’ Charity countered, pushing her chair back. ‘Do you have anything of Percy’s you could give Freddy to sniff?’
Reverend Shackleford climbed to his feet with a frown. ‘Only the letter he left for me.’
‘Well that should be sufficient,’ Charity approved with a nod, picking up her gloves. ‘While you go to fetch the letter, I think I’ll walk down to the quayside. I’ll take Freddy,’ she added, when her father opened his mouth to object. ‘I suggest we meet by the river in fifteen minutes.’ With that, she put on her gloves, picked up Freddy’s lead and swept out of the room, leaving her father muttering about deuced bossy daughters.
Charity picked her way through the muddied roads towards the river, enjoying the hustle and bustle of the busy town. The scent of fresh bread vied with the detritus littering the paths and the stench of fish. And over it all, the smell of the sea. Freddy especially enjoyed the variety of odours, and when not nosing in the filth on the ground, held his nose high in the air sniffing excitedly. Accustomed to the mostly wholesome smells of the countryside, Charity initially found the concoction of aromas almost too much. It was entirely different to Torquay, the only other seaside town she’d visited, which was much more genteel.
But with so much to look at, she soon forgot about the stink. Everywhere there was a sense of aliveness, of exhilaration, of endless possibilities. It was from here the Mayflower had first set sail for the Americas.
As she approached the river, Charity stopped short at the sight of two large merchant ships, their cargo being offloaded by a gang of brawny men, shouting and even laughing as they heaved the goods on their backs. She wondered if any of the vessels had been victims of smugglers. Or had they willingly shared a portion of their cargo? Taking care not to get too close, she watched as casks of liquor were hauled ashore. Was it from a ship like this that Mary Noon had pilfered her brandy?
Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to find her father hurrying towards her, waving Percy’s letter triumphantly in the air. ‘Gadzooks, I’m not accustomed to such exercise so early in the day,’ he puffed as he reached her.
‘Would you like to sit down for a moment?’ Charity asked, eying his red face. The Reverend gave her an irritable glance. ‘I’m not ready for me reward just yet,’ he grumbled. In answer, she simply handed over Freddy’s lead with a sigh.
‘Right then, Freddy lad. This is a chance to redeem yourself after that debacle last night.’ He held out the paper for the foxhound to sniff. Freddy’s tail began wagging, and he licked the sheet, obviously getting a whiff of his favourite person. The Reverend nodded in satisfaction. ‘Find Percy, Freddy,’ he ordered. When the dog didn’t move, he added a hopeful, ‘Good boy.’
The foxhound gave the paper another sniff, then abruptly took off in the direction of the smaller fishing boats moored further up the river.
‘Tare an’ hou…,’ Reverend Shackleford yelped as the lead abruptly jerked his arm forward, dragging him after the dog.
‘Don’t let him go, Father,’ Charity yelled, picking up her skirts and giving chase.
Reverend Shackleford didn’t answer, being occupied with other things. ‘Freddy,slow,’ he bellowed after being nearly yanked off his feet for the third time. But either the foxhound was too focused on finding his adored provider of Mrs Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding to listen, or he was simply turning a deaf ear. Probably both.
Seconds later, they reached the first of the fishing boats. At this point, Mrs Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding most definitely took a back seat to the large barrel of fish guts Freddy had just spied.
Jumping up ecstatically, the foxhound managed to push over the cask, allowing the stinking mess to pool onto the ground.
Then, ignoring the ‘Oy, what you think you’re doin’,’ coming from the fishing boat, he leapt over the fallen barrel, straight into the mess on the other side.
Belatedly, the Reverend let go of the lead, but unfortunately, Freddy’s flying leap had started the barrel rolling towards the oncoming clergyman. With a whoomph, Augustus Shackleford tripped and fell forward, his body sprawled over the barrel which was now rolling back the other way.
With a gasp, Charity stopped and put her hand up to her mouth as she watched her father topple with agonising slowness headfirst into the pile of fish guts. After a second, fighting an insane desire to laugh, she picked up her skirts and hurried to see if he needed help.
Just as a familiar voice piped up, ‘What on earth are you doing, Sir? I didn’t know you were in Dartmouth.’
‘Don’t just deuced well stand there, Percy, come over here and give me a hand.’
Chapter Seven
An hour later, they were sitting in a cosy coffee house aptly named the Fisherman’s Rest which meant the faint whiff clinging to Reverend Shackleford’s second best cassock was not remarked upon. That said, the clergyman had plenty to say on the subject of disobedient dogs and the cost of having his best cassock laundered.
‘Well, he did find Percy,’ reasoned Charity.
‘And I have to say I am exceeding glad to see you, Sir,’ the curate added fervently.
‘Have you seen your mother, Percy,’ Charity asked.
‘I haven’t … I didn’t …,’ the small man muttered, looking as though he was about to burst into tears.
The Reverend sighed and patted Percy on the back. ‘That’s what we’re here for, lad,’ he reassured his curate. ‘As soon as we’ve finished here, we’ll go directly to the gaol.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden loud whine from outside the coffee house where Freddy had been tied upto contemplate the error of his ways. Of course, there was also the hope that the fresh sea air might deaden the smell of rotting fish that clung stubbornly to his muzzle. In truth, the foxhound didn’t appear to be doing much contemplating and was peering through the window, his nose pressed to the glass.
Charity who was facing towards the front windows of the coffee house suddenly gave a small gasp as she saw a tall man walk past the hound, before abruptly stopping and turning back. ‘Hello, boy,’ she heard him say faintly, bending down. Watching, she saw the moment he recoiled slightly as the stench hit him, muttering, ‘No wonder they’ve left you out here. Have you been up to mischief again?’ Standing back up, their would-be rescuer from last night stared in through the window.
