‘He’ll be a very deuced dead dog if we land on him,’ warned the Reverend darkly.
‘Father!’ Chastity chided. ‘You shouldn’t say such a horrible thing in front of a child.’
Mercy frowned, giving up her attempts to detect the foxhound. ‘I’m not a child. I’m nearly nine. Papa says I’ll soon be having dinner with him. What’s his name?’
‘Freddy,’ Chastity answered faintly, feeling as though she’d somehow stepped into a bizarre dream. ‘And I’m Chastity. It’s very nice to meet you. But as you can see … Mercy, we do have a bit of a problem. These two … err… gentlemen are stuck in the tree, and we have to think of a way to get them down.’ She’d only narrowly avoided using the wordidiots,but the glare she tossed her father spoke volumes.
‘Well, they should lie down flat,’ Mercy declared matter of factly. ‘Everyone knows it will help to spread their weight. Haven’t you ever climbed a tree before?’ The last was addressed to the Reverend. Unfortunately, he didn’t trust himself to answer.
‘She’s right, Father. If you can manage to flatten yourself against the limb, you’ll be able to manoeuvre yourself along the branch towards us. Percy, hold on to the main trunk until it’s your turn.’
Chastity leaned further out of the window to provide a little moral support which was mostly along the lines of, ‘Get on with it, Father. You can do it.’
‘I’m not sure he can,’ piped up a small voice beside her. ‘He’s very fat.’
Hearing the low comment, Reverend Shackleford gritted his teeth. ‘I’ll show the little know-it-all,’ he muttered under his breath. Slowly, he leaned forward until his torso was lying horizontal on the branch, or as horizontal as he could get it. Unfortunately, he feared the child was right, he had put on a smidgeon of weight. Taking hold of the limb in front of him, he dragged himself forward, inch by agonising inch. By the time he was within touching distance of the window, in what felt like hours later, he was fully convinced he was well on the way to becoming a eunuch.
Reaching out, he grasped hold of the frame and pulled himself forward until he fell in an undignified heap onto the bedchamber floor. Winded he remained where he was for a second, until a sudden yell together with a dull thud got him struggling to his feet.
Joining the other two at the window, he groaned as he realised the branch had finally begun to split at the trunk, so the end was now resting against the sill. Percy was still gripping the trunk of the tree as though his life depended on it, which it very probably did.
‘There’s no time to lose, Percy,’ Augustus Shackleford called. ‘Just do the same as I did. I’ll grab you as soon as I can.’
‘Promise?’ Percy’s question was little more than a whisper.
‘Have I ever let you down before?’ the Reverend retorted, then winced. It probably wasn’t the answer Percy was looking for. ‘Come along lad, don’t be so chuckleheaded. Where’s your backbone?’ He’d found that kind of encouragement usually had the desired effect. When the curate didn’t move, he added, ‘If you don’t shift your deuced arse Percy Noon, you’re going to end up headfirst in Stanhope’s shrubbery, and I don’t think the Almighty’s ready for you yet.’
Giving a small sob, Percy let go of the trunk and gingerly leaned forward until he was flat against the branch. Everyone held their breath, but the limb held.
After a few seconds the curate began inching himself along the branch. His progress was excruciatingly slow, and the three figures at the window silently watched in trepidation. When Percy was a stone’s throw away from safety, the Reverend leaned out of the window. ‘Give me your hand, lad,’ he ordered. With a small moan, the curate reached out his hand, just as the branch gave way.
The moan turned into a loud shriek as Percy felt himself slide down the falling limb, only to be halted as the Reverend managed to grasp his proffered hand. The branch crashed to the ground-fortunately missing Freddy who’d had the good sense to tuck himself into a corner - leaving Percy swinging in midair and yelling loud enough to wake the dead. ‘Give me your other hand,’ the clergyman bellowed over the din ‘and I’ll pull you up.’
Seconds later, the Reverend managed to grab hold of the curate’s flailing hand and was just about to pull him up when Freddy began barking.
‘What the devil is going on?’ a voice thundered abruptly. Chastity watched in horror as Christian Stanhope stepped into the circle of light provided by the streetlamp.
‘Oh, hello, Papa,’ shouted Mercy gaily. ‘One of your lady friends has come to visit.
∞∞∞
27thJune 1798
As Barnet fell to the floor, Witherspoon hurried over. The knife was buried up to the hilt, blood already seeping into the lieutenant’s shirt. Wincing, Witherspoon pulled out the knife, increasing the crimson flow which now began to drip onto the floor. Turning Barnet over, he checked for signs of life, grimacing as he heard a faint rattle.The bastard was still breathing.Callously, Witherspoon leaned over the prostrate man and pressing one hand against his mouth, pinched his nostrils closed with the other. Seconds later, he was certain Barnet was dead.
Climbing to his feet, the Fourth Lieutenant bent to pick up his pistol, and after checking the ruby was still in his pocket, stepped over the corpse, intending to escape while he still had time. He was about to pull open the door when the sound of running footsteps came from the lower deck. Swearing, he glanced around wildly, but there was no time to hide. As the footsteps approached, he hurriedly stepped behind the door, just as it was pushed open.
‘What the…,’ muttered the figure as he spotted the Third Lieutenant’s body lying feet away.
Sweating, Witherspoon watched as Stanhope crouched down to examine Barnet’s lifeless body. What the bloody hell was the bastard doing down here? Witherspoon knew he had seconds before Stanhope turned round and saw him. He felt in his pocket for the clasp knife, then saw it lying a few yards away from the body.Shit. Heart slamming against his ribs, he lifted the pistol and stepped forward. The Second Lieutenant must have heard something because he began to turn, just as Witherspoon slammed the butt of the pistol onto his head. Instantly, Stanhope slumped over the body, out cold.
Panting, Witherspoon pulled Stanhope off the dead man, then rolled Barnet’s body back onto his front. Inside his head, a voice was screaming at him to run. Ignoring it, he turned to the Second Lieutenant. Blinking away the sweat dripping down into his eyes, he dragged Stanhope’s prone form, and with a low grunt, lifted the man’s torso, draping it across Barnet’s corpse.
Wheezing, Witherspoon hurried over to the Maltese treasure, lifting the lid of the chest containing the jewellery. Quickly he pulled out a bracelet before closing the lid and going back to Stanhope who fortunately was still unconscious. He tucked the trinket into the Second Lieutenant’s pocket, pocketed the clasp knife belonging to Stanhope, then went to the knife still lying on the floor and pushed it into Stanhope’s hand, closing his limp fingers around the hilt. Straightening up, he felt in his pocket for the ruby, and pulled it out. After staring at it for a few seconds, he took a deep breath and popped it into his mouth. For one horrifying second he thought he was going to choke on the gem, but frantic scrabbling in Stanhope’s britches revealed a small flask of grog. Desperately, he poured the liquid into his mouth and finally managed to swallow the ruby down.
Closing his eyes, he remained where he was, waiting for his heart rate to go down. What happened next would determine whether he or Stanhope were strung up from the yardarm. Then, taking a few deep breaths, he turned, threw open the door and ran towards the hatch, shouting at the top of his voice.
∞∞∞
