The man gave a small bend of his head. ‘Am I correct in thinking you Anthony Shackleford?’
Anthony nodded, adding, ‘I don’t believe we are acquainted, Sir. Perhaps you could favour me with your name and your business here.’
‘This is your young labourer I presume?’ The stranger nodded towards George and gave an oily smile, seemingly unaware that his failure to answer the questions about his name and business was not only ill-mannered but threatening.
Anthony’s voice turned hard. ‘The boy is no business of yours,’ he countered. ‘And unless you have good reason for being on my property, may I suggest you be on your way … Sir.’
George stepped backwards, unaccountably awkward under the man’s penetrating stare. Heart thudding, she gave a carefully nonchalant shrug and picked up her shovel. Then, deliberately turning her back on the man, went back to her digging, all the while feeling the prickle of his eyes upon her.
Anthony took a step forward and finally the man’s eyes returned to him. ‘My apologies, Mr. Shackleford,’ he murmured after a second. ‘I am looking for a small, strong lad to assist me in cleaning my chimney, and the landlord at the Green Man mentioned your young labourer here.’ He gave another smile, showing far too many teeth in Anthony’s mind.
‘I’m afraid I’m unable to spare him,’ Anthony responded coldly. ‘As you can see, there is much work to be done here.’
‘Indeed,’ the stranger acknowledged his glance encompassing the overgrown garden. For a second there was an uncomfortable silence, then, to Anthony’s relief, the man inclined his head. ‘I will leave you to your exertions. Good day, Mr. Shackleford.’ With that, he turned on his heel and began retracing his steps. After a moment, Anthony followed, watching as the stranger climbed onto his horse and rode away.
‘Who’s ‘e?’ George quizzed, coming up to stand beside him.
Anthony shook his head. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before,’ he answered thoughtfully.
‘You reckon ‘e wos up to no good?’ she continued, unable to hide the anxiety in her voice.
Anthony looked down at her, his eyes tracing her face. ‘I will never let any harm come to you,’ he murmured. It was on the very tip of his tongue to ask her to marry him right there and then, but before he could take that final, irrevocable step, a sudden bark came from their feet, and the moment was lost.
‘I think Nelson’s hungry,’ he said dryly instead.
‘I know how he feels,’ she whispered. ‘In all honesty I’m fair blo... gutfounded.’
∞∞∞
‘The only George I know is Albert’s son,’ they heard Agnes retort, her voice commendably waspish. ‘I told you that the last time you asked.’
Glancing over at the curate, Reverend Shackleford raised the rolling pin in one hand, pointed towards the parlour with the other and mimed them tiptoeing across the hall. Percy swallowed and nodded.
‘And anyway, what do you want with the poor lad?’ Agnes was saying as they stepped into the hall. ‘Clearly he’s not your son.’
‘I tol’ yer I’m the one askin’ the bleedin’ questions,’ preceded a loud slapping sound followed by a sharp cry. The Reverend stopped briefly and gritted his teeth before continuing on, his expression grim. Agnes’s voice when it came again was wobbly but undeterred.
‘I don’t know any other George,’ she quavered. ‘And using your fists will not change that.’
‘That’s my girl,’ muttered the Reverend as they finally reached the parlour door. Although it was closed, fortunately the latch had not been engaged, so he was able to ease it open slightly. With a worried glance at Percy, he bent forward and put his eye to the crack in the door.
At first he could see nothing, then pushing the door open a little further gave him a view of the parlour window with the chaise longue to one side. On it sat Agnes glaring at her attacker.
‘Right then, Percy, on my signal, we’ll charge in and catch the varmint off guard.’ He gave a downward chopping motion with the rolling pin. The curate nodded and began hopping from foot to foot, much to the Reverend’s perplexity. ‘Making sure I’m ready,’ Percy huffed, making jabbing motions with his fists. (Chapter Five – The Art of Instant Readiness)
Wondering if Percy had finally had one bang on the head too many, Augustus Shackleford put his eye back to the crack, and his heart sank to his stockinged feet as the next thing he saw was Flossy standing up on the bench outside, looking through the window. ‘Tare an’ hounds,’ he muttered inwardly. Unfortunately, the little dog caught sight of him at the same time and her tail began wagging furiously.
‘No more shammin’ it,’ Henry Atkins was saying. ‘You know who I’m talkin’ about, Mrs., so don’t waste yer breath unless it’s to tell me where the lad is. The next lie’ll cost you a bloody finger.’
Observing the dog’s excitement, the Reverend gave an almost soundless moan. ‘Down, Flossy,’ he mimed. Unfortunately, he entirely forgot his instructions to Percy only seconds earlier, and also used his hands to perform a quick downward motion.
Percy didn’t wait to be told twice. With a wild cry (Chapter Eight – The Native American Battle Cry) he shoved open the door with his foot and charged towards Henry Atkins.
For a few vital seconds, the other three were rooted to the spot, staring at the curate in astonishment. Then with a rarely used expletive, the Reverend came out of his shock and took off after Percy, brandishing his rolling pin.
Now, it could have been the uncommon sight of an individual running towards him screaming dementedly wearing only his undergarments that caused Henry Atkins to pause long enough for the Reverend to get close enough to wield his rolling pin to potentially devastating effect - except that the clergyman did not catch sight of Agnes’s gossip sheet lying on the floor until it was too late.
With an oomph, Augustus Shackleford’s legs parted ways and he slid along the floor at breakneck speed towards the open-mouthed Henry Atkins who went down like a set of skittles.
