‘Aye. I tol’ ‘im there weren’t no lad wi’ em.’ At the wordlad, the Reverend found himself suddenly paying attention.
‘Don’t ‘old wi’ no stranger askin bloody questions.’
‘There was a stranger asking questions?’ the Reverend interrupted.
‘Aye, yer Revrenship. He wos askin ‘Arry about them coves from the coach up on the Plymouth Road.’
‘Tidy profit that night made me,’ Harry chuckled, bringing the dish of pork scratchings over.
Reverend Shackleford frowned. ‘What’s that about a lad?’
‘Wanted to know if there were a lad wi’ ‘em. Said he was blond ‘aired an’ skinny like.’
‘That’s a bit strange. What was the boy to him?’ asked Percy with a frown.
‘Reckoned ‘e were the lad’s father. But ‘e ‘ad a sly look about ‘im. Bloody ugly too. Face like old Bernard’s turnips.’ There was a chorus of laughter.
‘What did you tell him?’ the Reverend interrupted their mirth.
‘Told ‘im nowt. Din’t like the look ‘o ‘im at all. Too smoky by ‘alf.’
‘An’ there were no lad wi’ em anyway,’ Harry added, dismissing the subject.
‘What about that boy Anthony took with him to Little Bovey?’ Percy quizzed his superior quietly. ‘Didn’t he come from that coach?’
The Reverend nodded thoughtfully, handing Flossy a pork scratching before pushing the dish away, having completely lost his appetite. ‘There’s something amiss here, Percy, but I can’t quite put me finger on it. If it was George that scapegrace was looking for, it wasn’t for any purpose that’ll benefit the lad.’
‘Well, he’s not likely to trace the boy to Bovey Manor,’ the curate reasoned, ‘but it might be worth sending a note just in case. If George is involved in some havey cavey business, Anthony needs to know about it.’
An hour later Augustus Shackleford was making his way back to the vicarage, Flossy trotting happily alongside him. For some reason, he couldn’t get the thought that someone was searching for Anthony’s fledgling labourer. In his experience, it would likely only be for one of two reasons. Loveor profit.
And since the boy didn’t look like he’d ever eaten a decent meal in his life, the Reverend doubted it was out of fatherly concern. Which left profit.
So what possible benefit could the stranger gain from tracing the whereabouts of a raggedy arsed lad who didn’t appear to have sixpence to scratch with?
Chapter Seven
George saw very little of her employer over the next three days. He spent every minute of daylight up on the roof with Will and Luke. As far as she could tell, the two men were brothers. And while Will generally needed a poke up the arse to get him to say anything at all, Luke needed one to shut him up. A right bleeding jaw-me-dead, George was actually quite surprised Anthony hadn’t shoved him off the roof.
Still, it made for a more entertaining supper. The first night when it was just Will, she was tempted to hit him over the head with a slate, just to see if there was anything between his ears other than fresh air. But after meeting his brother, she realised the poor bugger had likely never been able to get a word in edgeways, so he’d given up.
Chuckling, she carted her bucket up the stairs to start on the bedchambers, Nelson at her heels.
It was the first time she’d ventured further than the bottom of the stairs, and she felt a nervous excitement. In truth, she’d never actually been in a house as grand as this one before, even if it had been neglected, and couldn’t really imagine what it would be like to have a bedchamber all of her own – one bigger than a bloody shoe box anyway.
Stopping at the first door she came to, George turned the handle and pushed it open with her shoulder, only to pause hesitantly on the threshold. This was obviously Anthony’s room. Still bare by any well-to-do standards, it contained a large four poster bed - plainly slept in – and a huge wardrobe. Swallowing, George ventured further into the room.
He hadn’t bothered to dust, and his footprints showed clearly on the wooden floor. Glancing towards the wardrobe, she saw several shirts and gentleman’s breeches hanging on the rail and at the bottom of the cupboard a pile of clearly dirty linen. George frowned. Neither of them had washed any clothing since they’d been here. Though her employer had provided her a change of clothes, she was still wearing the shirt and britches she’d arrived in. Come to think of it, she hadn’t actually done more than wash her face in – well in truth, she couldn’t remember if she’d ever had a bath. The Grimms believed washing too much caused an ague. Had Anthony been taking care of his ablutions? Looking round, she saw a washing bowl sitting on the windowsill. Obviously, he’d been making more of an effort than she.
Experimentally, she sniffed under her armpits and recoiled. Bloody hell, it was a wonder he hadn’t said anything. She bit her lip. How the bleeding hell was she going to be able to take care of washing any more than her face? Doing her business hadn’t been much of a problem – she just went outside and found a place at the bottom of the wild garden. What had Anthony been doing? Was there a water closet? She shook her head. Now was not the time to wonder how her employer was taking a piss. She had to get his room cleaned before he came down off the roof.
Then she’d think about washing.
In the event, it was Mrs. Parsons who brought the matter to a head a day later by briskly informing those sitting round the supper table that they stank worse than a dockyard privy. She went on to order George to gather the dirty clothing and leave it for her in the morning.
‘Not me, Mrs,’ Luke shuddered. ‘I had me yearly bath less than six months ago and anyways, me an’ Will ain’t got no more riggin’ wi’ us.’ He grinned, showing a mouth full of missing teeth. ‘Less’n you don’ mind us on the roof wearing just wot God gev us.’
Mrs. Parsons sniffed and pursed her lips but didn’t rise to the bait.’
