In a flurry of sudden enlightenment, Charity eyed her father narrowly. ‘Why exactly do you wish me to keep silent, Father?’she demanded. ‘Could it be because you are a recipient of Mrs Noon’s ill-gotten gains perchance?’
The Reverend’s indignant splutter gave him away. ‘Does Percy know you use his mother as a … a … contraband supplier?' she probed, aghast.
Her father hmphed, his discomfort a palpable thing. But he said nothing.
‘I’ll wager he doesn’t,’ she continued, getting into her stride. ‘You are a man of the cloth, Father. I cannot conceive how you can possibly think it right and proper to purchase smuggled goods. If you’re not careful, you could end up in the cell next door to Percy’s mother.’
‘I only take the occasional bottle,’ Reverend Shackleford defended finally, his voice that of a sulky twelve-year-old, ‘just to help Percy’s old mother a little. She doesn’t have much, and…’
‘Don’t you dare make this sound as though you are doing this out of the goodness of your heart, Father. No wonder you’ve come running. It has nothing to do with your concern for Percy and everything to do with your fear of being rumbled.’
They both subsided into an uneasy silence until, at length, the Reverend sighed and spoke. ‘You’re right in everything you said,’ he admitted. ‘But in truth, I wasmainlydoing it to help Percy’s mother. She hasn’t got two ha’ pennies to rub together.’ He shrugged. ‘The brandy’s all very well, but you forget I have five sons-in-law who would be more than happy to keep me in my cupsuntil the day I’m ready for a tipple with the Almighty.’
He shook his head before continuing ruefully, ‘We don’t talk about it. But I think Percy knows. That’s why he left without speaking to me first.’
Charity shook her head, only slightly mollified. Apprehension warred with frustration. She’d thought them on a mercy mission, but now… She had no idea what was waiting for them in Dartmouth, and she was ill equipped to deal with anything other than mopping brows or changing dressings. She and her sister might have been involved in all manner of scrapes over the years, but they’d never actually done anything illegal.
She gave a vexed sigh. There was no sense in continuing the argument with her father. It wouldn’t change the position they were in. Grimacing, she handed the rest of the bread and cheese to Freddy, having completely lost her appetite.
For the next hour they sat in silence, but as late afternoonslipped into twilight, Charity suggested they stop the carriage before it became too dark to allow Freddy to do his business. Unfortunately, as soon as the dog was allowed out of the carriage, he disappeared into the hedgerow, and they spent a tense thirty minutes waiting for the disobedient foxhound to return. Going after the hound had been out of the question lest one or both of them become hopelessly lost.
Full dark had descended by the time Freddy finally reappeared by the side of the carriage, but both the Reverend and Charity were too relieved by his sudden reappearance to scold the dog unduly.
Until the smells started.
‘I think he might have eaten something too long dead,’ muttered the Reverend, wrinkling his nose the first time. Charity didn’t risk speaking as to do so would have involved inhaling through her nose. Instead, she held a kerchief to her face in an effort to reduce the awful stench, though she could do nothing to stem her watering eyes.
By the time the carriage finally negotiated the steep rutted track that was the only access down into Dartmouth, the stink had become so noxious that Charity was convinced she was about to cast up her account. The only positive in the whole sorry business was that Freddy had so far refused to deposit the results of his bad stomach within the confines of the carriage.
‘We have to stop, Father,’ Charity mumbled through her kerchief. ‘Poor Freddy must be in terrible pain.’
‘I’ll give the sorry hound “poor Freddy,”’ the Reverend retorted, rapping on the roof to get the coachman’s attention. Obligingly, the driver pulled onto the side of the road conveniently close to a large open space. Fumbling with the door, Charity finally managed to get it open and stumbled out but not before the foxhound had disappeared into the darkness.
‘I’m too old for gallivanting around the deuced countryside,’ the Reverend muttered as he climbed laboriously down after her. Charity didn’t answer, being too busy drawing as much mercifully fresh air into her starving lungs as she could.’
‘Might I be of any assistance?’
The disembodied voice was loud, cultured and unmistakeably masculine.
Chapter Four
The only response from his attacker was a disbelieving snort, and with a last mocking glare, he turned and melded with the darkness,leaving Jago inwardly cursing. Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, he forced down the rage at being thwarted yet again. Now, more than ever it was essential he keep a level head. Lying in an alley with his damned throat cut was not how he’d envisioned his mission ending.
Sighing, Jago began the long walk back to his accommodation, weary to the bone. God’s teeth how he missed Tredennick. But no matter how strong his longing, he could not return to his home in Cornwall until he’d brought justice for his sister.
In truth, it didn’t feel like two years since Genevieve had died. For the thousandth time, Jago thought back to the day they’d learned her death had not been an accident. She’d been pushed off that cliff. Her only crime being aboard a vessel thought to hold a cargo of tea.
Genevieve had been staying with friends in London when the merchant shipEndeavourput into port. After unloading hercargo, the ship was bound for her captain's home port of Falmouth. As an old family friend, Captain Johnson had offered to bring Genevieve home to Tredennick, a mere stone’s throw from Falmouth. Doing the journey by ship would be more comfortable and much quicker than overland by carriage.
Clearly the information received by the smugglers had been false. There was no tea aboard theEndeavour, but it did not stop their leader ordering the death of everyone aboard. Afterwards, the ship was scuttled, and the story spread that the vessel had gone down with all hands in a storm.
Tragic though the news was, it would have ended there had not someone aboard the shipsurvived to bring home the truth. Genevieve Carlyon had been murdered, along with her maid, the Captain and all but one of the crew.
When that knowledge reached Jago’s father, the distress tragically brought on an apoplexy, rendering his legs completely useless. To his shame, Morgan Carlyon was forced to remain in his bed while his son pursued the vengeance he could not.
Sighing, Jago forced his thoughts back to the present. He could not help his father walk again, but he hoped that sending Genevieve’s killer to the gallows would bring him at least a measure of peace.
As Jago approached his lodgings, he saw a carriage heading towards him, its outline provided by the wavering lamps attached to the driver’s box. Frowning, he paused, wondering where the carriage was headed. Even in the meagre light, he could tell it was no hackney coach. And the hour was late.
