Freddy didn’t lift his head again until they reached the public areas of the inn, where, to her horror, he went straight to the front door, looking back at her expectantly. Charity could feel the cold flagstones through her thin boots. Stupidly, when she’d returned for the candle in her bedchamber, she’d forgotten to put on her stockings.
If her father had ventured outside the inn, she couldn’t possibly think to follow him. Feeling sick, she lingered uncertainly at the door. This was foolish in the extreme. She should return post-haste to her bedchamber.
She’d just taken a hesitant step back towards the stairs, when she suddenly heard voices. Panicking, she glanced wildly about, finally spying another door to her left. Hurriedly she ran towards it, dragging the reluctant foxhound behind her. Fortunately, the door wasn’t locked, and pushing it open hastily she slipped inside. After coaxing Freddy through the opening, she pushed the door shut and looked around.
She was in what looked like a small office, fortunately unoccupied. Ignoring her thudding heart, she put the candlestick on a low table well away from the door to prevent any light from showing, then went back to listen.
Looking down at Freddy, she put her fingers to her lips in a shushing motion, whispering ‘Quiet boy,’ before carefully opening the door slightly to peer through the crack.
At first, everything was dark, and she could no longer hear the voices. But gradually, a light began to appear, revealing a narrow corridor she’d previously missed. She watched as onelight became two, bobbing up and down, getting steadily closer until the shadowy shapes in the hall became pieces of furniture. Hardly daring to breathe, she waited.
‘This ain’t safe, Jack. There be too many bodies stayin’ ‘ere. We’ll all of us be heading for the bloody mornin’ drop if it goes on.’
‘You won’t live long enough to swing if you don’t stop your blabber.’ The nonchalant manner in which the threat was offered made the words all the more chilling, and unaccountably, the hairs on Charity’s arms stood on end in response. Freddy obviously felt it too as his hackles rose, and he gave a low, warning growl.
Hurriedly, Charity crouched down and pulled Freddy to her, burying the foxhound’s nose into her cloak and stroking his furry ears with gentle but urgent fingers. When the hound subsided, she climbed to her feet once more, inexplicably anxious to see the owner of the chilling voice. Holding on to Freddy’s collar, she put her eye back to the gap in the door.
The two men had reached the hall. The innkeeper she’d met the night before, and his wringing hands, confirmed he wasn’t the one issuing the warning. The man named Jack was tall and lean, with long, unkempt hair. His face, highlighted by the candle in his hand, was ordinary in the extreme. But something in the man’s gaze turned Charity’s blood to ice.
‘So when’s the next crop?’ the innkeeper was asking, in a much more subdued tone.
‘I’ll be in tou…’ Just then, Freddy let out another low growl. Jack instantly stopped and stared in the direction of the office. Smothering a frightened whimper, Charity crouched down again and shushed the anxious foxhound. Squeezing her eyes shut,she remained utterly still, her head covering Freddy’s. The only other time she’d been this terrified was when Anthony nearly drowned in Wistman’s pool.
The silence in the hall seemed to go on forever, but at length, the man spoke again, his voice as emotionless as before. ‘I suggest you keep that mongrel of yours quiet, Charlie, or next time, I’ll slit its bloody throat.’
The innkeeper mumbled something, but whatever he said was inaudible over the abrupt sound of footsteps on the flagstones. As the feet approached her hiding place, she put her hand over Freddy’s muzzle, choking back tears of fright, but to her relief, the footsteps continued past, and a few seconds later, she heard the front door open and close.
Despite the sound of the innkeeper retreating in the other direction, Charity remained where she was for a full five minutes after the last glimmer of candlelight had vanished from the crack in the door. Finally climbing to her feet, she determinedly swallowed her fear and cautiously peeped around the door, then confirming the hall was empty, she grabbed hold of her candlestick and fled upstairs to her bedchamber.
∞∞∞
‘Charity. Are you in there girl? Some varmint’s made off with Freddy.’ It was the frantic knocking accompanying her father’s shouts that finally woke her. Blearily, Charity turned over and found herself nose to nose with … Freddy. What…? She struggled to a sitting position, which wasn’t easy with a two and a half stone bundle of fur holding down the bedclothes, andclearly Freddy had no intention of moving anytime soon. Charity gave a small groan as her memory of earlier came crashing back.
‘For pity’s sake, come in, Father,’ she yelled as the pounding began reverberating inside her head.
Flinging open the door, the Reverend stomped in, a picture of panic, only to stop short when he saw the foxhound comfortably curled up on his daughter’s bed.
‘What the deuce are you doing with Freddy?’ he demanded.
‘What the deuce were you doing sneaking around before dawn?’ she countered waspishly.
Her question put an abrupt end to the Reverend’s tirade as he opened his mouth, then shut it again.
‘If you would be good enough to remove yourself from my bedchamber, Father,’ Charity continued tartly, ‘I will get dressed and meet you downstairs. Naturally, I am waiting with bated breath to discover where you disappeared to this morning. As I am sure is Freddy.’
She looked over at the comatose foxhound who was doing a very good job of masking his excitement. ‘Perhaps we may discuss it further over some breakfast?’
The Reverend looked as though he’d rather break his fast with old Nick himself, but he said nothing, simply hmphed and retreated, calling to Freddy before hastily shutting the door.
Sighing, Charity climbed out of bed for the second time that day.
Chapter Six
The rain in the night had turned the narrower streets of Dartmouth to mush, and Jago found himself swearing out loud as he attempted to navigate round the larger water-filled holes.
There was no getting around it, yesterday had been a disaster. Just when he’d thought he was getting close to identifying the mysterious Jack. He sighed in frustration. If the smugglers’ leader didn’t take the bait...? Well, in truth, he’d run out of ideas.
And more than that, he was done to a cow’s thumb. He’d been tracking the man he believed killed his sister for nigh on two years. First to Kingsbridge and Salcombe. Eighteen months working with the local fishermen in Salcombe while slowly integrating himself into the small smuggling community that operated around the Kingsbridge estuary. It had taken the best part of a year before he’d been trusted enough to take part in the runs and nearly another six before the nameJackwas mentioned.
