“Come closer,Captain, and say that to my face.”
Michael smiled and in one smooth motion, drew his sword. “You come closer, Mr Whyte, and ask again.”
“You want a fight, do you?”
“Do you? I should warn you that I keep my sword sharp. You might lose a hand or two.”
Jack made a low growl deep in his throat, but he dared not move within range of the sword. For several heartbeats they stood motionless, Jack glaring and Michael in the casual pose that he had found most disconcerted those untrained to sword fights.
The smith tossed his hammer onto the anvil with an exclamation of disgust. “Give over, you two. You’re like a pairof strutting cockerels fighting over the dung heap. No one hated the chaplain enough to kill him, Captain.”
Jack grunted, and, hurling the metal bar onto a table with an echoing clang, picked up the bellows and began work on the fire. Michael felt it was safe to sheathe his sword.
“Then what was the discussion about in the White Horse? It was a couple of days before the murder, and people were angry, so I hear.”
“There’s plenty of angry talk in the Horse when folk get well into the ale,” the smith said with a huff of amusement.
“Nicholson’s name was mentioned.”
“Ah. That. We’d just heard he’d fathered Maisie’s bairn, so we was right angry, true enough. Round here, a bastard’s no great grief. It happens, the parson rants a bit, life goes on. Every child’s a gift from God, in or out of wedlock. But a man’s expected to take care of his own. Wed the girl, if he can, and if not, then money or a bit o’ meat now and then. My Annie, the cobbler put one in her belly, but that boy’s been well shod from the day he could walk, and he’ll apprentice to his father when he’s old enough. But Nicholson! Not a word, not a coin, not a gift in sixteen years, and him the chaplain, too. Maisie’s had nowt from him but a roll in the hay, and that’s not right, is it? Aye, we were angry, and we thought we’d go over there and have a word with him… make a fuss, like, and get him to acknowledge his own flesh and blood, if nothing else. But Maisie talked us out of it, and now he’s dead, poor man, but it wasn’t nothing to do with any of us, I’ll swear to that on the Bible. We’ve no book learning here, apart from the Holy Book, but we know right from wrong, and killing’s wrong, and that’s all there is to it.”
“And the boy himself? Was he angry, too?”
“Nay, not a bit on it. He’s got a good place with Mr George Atherton, and he won’t do nothing to risk that.”
“You will not mind if I go over to Westwick Heights to have a word with him?”
“I don’t mind, but he ain’t there just now. He’s away with Mr Bertram to Lincolnshire — some duke’s place. Left yesterday. Gone for a month, he is.”
A month! Michael cursed inwardly all the way back to the castle, but there was nothing further to be done about John Whyte until he returned from Lincolnshire.
***
Walter could not understand why Winnie accepted Lomax’s attentions so complacently. Mere politeness, he supposed, although how she could stomach him was more than he could fathom. The fellow’s ridiculous clothes, his odd, swaying way of walking, and his effusive compliments were nauseating. Winnie was an absolute saint to put up with him without laughing or kicking him in the shins. Walter was tempted to kick him in the shins himself, for importuning Winnie so offensively. Every day, there he would be, hanging around the drawing room or whisking her out in his landau, and then in the evening as often as not he was there for dinner, too. It was sickening. Fortunately, the day was fast approaching when they would all go back to Yorkshire and leave the obnoxious Mr Lomax of Wallingham Manor behind. Walter was ready to go home, now that Izzy had been and gone from the castle.
The only good part of the journey south had been meeting Alfred Strong’s colleagues in the Treasury. Walter had quickly realised that the supposed crisis was merely a ruse, although to what end he knew not. Still, it gave him an opportunity to understand how things worked and to see a glimmer of how he might fit into the workings of the place. Money, and numbers generally, were no mystery to him, so he grasped the essentialsvery quickly. Besides, a great deal of the work seemed to be meetings of one sort or another, and he was well qualified for that. It was a pity that none of the truly important personages were in town, but August was almost upon them and everyone had dispersed from the heat and incessant smells of town, preferring the sea air and gaiety of Brighton, or the cool greenery and gentler pursuits of the countryside.
There were no Treasury distractions in the evenings, however, and Walter was obliged to watch the Lomax blockhead buzz around Winnie like a persistent wasp. She seemed unable to deter him. The lowest point of the whole time in London was an evening party at some neighbours of the Blackwoods, who got up some informal dancing in one of the drawing rooms. Walter would have liked to join in the card games set up in the library downstairs, but he felt an obligation to keep an eye on Winnie, and make sure Lomax did not offer her any offence.
The fellow danced with her twice and then clung to her side for the rest of the evening, preventing her from being with anyone else. Only once did another man manage to muscle past Lomax and take Winnie off to dance, and as soon as she sat down again, Lomax was there. Winnie could not shake him off without being rude, which she was too well-bred to do. Nor could Walter intervene, since Winnie’s aunt and two uncles were there with her, although he ground his teeth in frustration at their lack of care for her. Surely they could find some way to protect her from pretentious coxcombs like Lomax? Yet they did nothing.
It was in this black mood that Walter went out one morning. His mentors had graciously allowed him some little time to visit his tailor and boot maker, and, these tasks completed and with an hour in hand, he thought to look in at White’s to see if any of his friends were in town. He almost groaned aloud when the first person he saw of his acquaintance was Lomax. Nor was thereany opportunity to turn and leave at once, for Lomax saw him and hailed him cheerfully.
“Atherton! Just the man I had most hoped to see. Will you not come and take a glass of wine with me… if you are not engaged on any more urgent business?”
Several excuses rose to Walter’s mind, but it occurred to him that here was an opportunity to turn Lomax aside and free Winnie from his cloying attentions, so he agreed to it. As soon as they were settled, and the wine poured, Lomax turned to him eagerly.
“I hope, sir, that you, as Miss Strong’s good friend, will be able to give me some hint… some slight indication… of her mind. Have I any chance, do you think? Can you give me any cause for hope? I fully intend to put it to the touch regardless, but it would be less nerve-wracking if I could be sure… Or perhaps I should wait? It is very soon, I know… too soon, perhaps. Her relations might think so. She has been tolerably encouraging, but… oh, but I do not know! What do you think?”
For a moment, Walter was almost too astonished to speak. The man wanted tomarryWinnie! At least he could disabuse him of any notion that Winnie was encouraging him. “I am not in Miss Strong’s confidence in the matter, sir, but I confess that I see no sign of great attachment in her. She is her usual even-tempered self with you as she is with everyone.”
His face fell. “You do not think…? But she has allowed me to take her out driving several times. That must be regarded as encouragement, do you not think?”
“Her aunt and uncle have no open carriage, so your landau is a great attraction in this warmer weather.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. That must be it. And Miss Strong is too kind-hearted to hint me away, perhaps.”
“There is also the fact that she will be leaving town very shortly,” Walter said. “She will not feel the need to hint you away when she is so soon to be gone from your company.”
