Percy drew himself up indignantly. ‘I’ll have you know that’s my mo…’ he began, only to be interrupted by the Reverend’s next words. ‘I’m certain you’re beyond thankful that saving Mrs Noon’s immortal soul is not your responsibility, my good man, but mayhap a little more attention to your own hereafter would not go amiss. After all, we are any of us only here by God’s grace.’
Charity stared over at her father as the guard blanched slightly. Sometimes she forgot that he was actually quite good at being a cleric.
Shrugging, the guard went back to his bread and cheese. ‘Yer welcome to ‘er,’ was all he muttered, with a nod towards the entrance.
‘Right then, Percy, we’ll give you a couple of minutes to get said what you need to, then we’ll come in.’
‘I don’t think I’m even going to need a couple of seconds, Sir. Our relationship…’ He paused before finishing with a grimace, ‘We are not close.’
‘Now there’s a surprise,’ sighed the Reverend. ‘Lead on then, lad, and let’s get this bag of moonshine sorted once and for all.’
The inside of the gaol was dark and murky, the only illumination coming from a tallow candle that was giving off more smoke than light. The smell also increased tenfold, and with a cough, Charity put her handkerchief over her nose. Freddy, his tail tucked between his legs, whimpered slightly. Clearly, he preferred the smell of rotten fish.
‘Bit delicate, are we?’ A low chortle accompanied her words and lifting her kerchief away, Charity looked over at the woman who was evidently Percy’s mother. Thin and angular like her son, Mary Noon was clothed in what looked like it may once havebeen a day dress, now ripped and soiled beyond repair. Her hair hung around her face in greasy grey strands, and her face was so dirty, it was difficult to guess what she actually looked like.
Percy seemed to have lost the use of his tongue, but the horrified look on his face spoke volumes.
‘Hello, Mary…’ began Reverend Shackleford.
‘Don’t you‘ellome, you whey-face bag o’ bloody wind, Augustus Shackleford. It’s taken you bloody long enough to get ‘ere.’
‘Well, better late than never,’ the Reverend defended, clearly struggling to remain civil. ‘We’re here to help you get out of this cell.’
Mary Noon gave a loud guffaw. ‘Yer mean yer not ‘ere to make sure the bloody Gobblers ain’t taken the bottle o’ brandy wi’ your name on it?’
Reverend Shackleford winced. Clearly, the thought had crossed his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mary got there first. ‘An, anyway, owd yer know I be wantin’ to leave?’
‘Surely, you can’t wish to stay locked up in such a … horrible place?’ Charity burst out.
Percy’s mother gave a low chortle. ‘I’m safer in ‘ere than out there. Less likely to end up in the bleedin’ river wi’ a rock tied to me foot.’
‘But what if they decide to hang you, Mother,’ Percy protested, speaking for the first time. Mary Noon turned towards her son, and Charity thought she saw a faint softening in her expression. ‘They ain’t goin’ to crop me,’ she scoffed. ‘I’m more useful to ‘em sat in ‘ere.’ She grinned. ‘An’ I get me three square meals wi’ out havin’ to stump up any blunt.’
‘Why are you so afraid to leave?’ Charity asked, sensing real fear underneath Mary’s brevity. ‘Do you know something you shouldn’t?’
Percy’s mother looked over at her shrewdly. ‘Well ain’t you the clever one,’ she muttered. ‘I know lots o’ things I shouldn’t.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Happy Jack reckons I’m too ripe and ready by bloody ‘alf. He’d like to see me gone an’ ‘e don’t care ‘ow it’s done.’
‘Jack,’ Charity interrupted, remembering that was the name given to the terrifying man speaking with the innkeeper. ‘Is he a … a … free trader?’
‘E’s a bastard is wot ‘e is,’ was all Mary answered, spitting on the ground for good measure. But for the first time, her fear showed.
‘Wha … what does he look like?’ Charity asked.
‘I’d be shoutin’ it from the bloody rooftops if I knew,’ Mary snapped. ‘Ain’t never seen ‘im, an’ don’t know anyone who ‘as. Or at least they ain’t sayin.’ Charity felt her heart begin to thump erratically, but before she could say anything, Percy blurted, ‘We have to get you out of here, Mother.’
‘I aint leavin’ until I got somewhere safe to go,’ Mary Noon shrugged. ‘If I go back ‘ome, it’s only a matter o’ time afore I’m pushing up bloody daisies.’
‘What if we find you somewhere to hide?’ Reverend Shackleford questioned a little desperately. ‘Will you allow us to buy your freedom then?’
Mary Noon snorted. ‘Buy my freedom? I’d be out afore you could say piss off if I wanted. Bleedin’ Gobblers know I’m too scared torun. Put yer blunt away. Just find me somewhere to go where I ain’t likely to end up in Davy Jones’ Locker.’
Chapter Eight
It was late afternoon, and the Reverend was sitting alone in the main bar at the Castle Inn. Charity had retired to her room for a rest before dinner, and Percy had gone to remove his belongings from his miserable lodging rooms.
Augustus Shackleford took a long sip of his tankard of ale and sighed. How had everything become so deuced complicated? From merely expecting to effect Mary Noon’s freedom by greasing a few palms, they’d suddenly landed in the middle of some decidedly havey-cavey business. He’d always believed Percy’s mother to be of little consequence to the smuggling gangs around Salcombe. That she was simply helping the free traders out now and then to supplement the pittance she lived on. But if what she’d hinted was true, she was much more involved than she’d previously let on.
Reverend Shackleford didn’t think she was telling a plumper – the fear on her face was too real for that - and she definitely wasn’t dicked in the nob, whatever Percy preferred to believe. He took another sip of his ale. The knowledge that he’d potentially been aiding and abetting ark ruffians by purchasing illicitbrandy didn’t sit well at all, even if it was only a few bottles a year.
