Jack pulled his knife from his bootand dragged a chair closer. He jumped up and cut the dying manloose from the rope which was wrapped tightly around hisneck.
Caindale fell into Jack’s arms, barelybreathing, his face suffused with blood.
“Can you speak?” Jack laidhim on the floor and eased away the corded noose from his bruisedthroat. “Who did this?” he asked removing the man’scravat.
Caindale opened hisbloodshot eyes and coughed. “… a Frenchman,” he rasped. “…Renard.”
“Do you know where he’sgone?”
With a gasp, Caindale closed hiseyes.
Jack searched for a pulse. He found afaint beat. With a curse, he rose and strode back through the millin search of water, cocking his pistol. The man could still belurking nearby. As he walked his gaze raked the huge room filledwith the latest machinery that the Luddites objected to soviolently. Nothing moved.
He’d almost reached the outer doorwhen a gunshot rang out. The ball tore through Jack’s sleeveburning into his flesh. He dived to the floor, rolled, and came upin a crouch. Creeping forward, he viewed the mill floor from behinda wooden bench.
Silence, but for the scuffle of ratsalong the riverbank.
As Jack rounded the edge of a table,another shot bit a piece off the wooden post, sending shafts oftimber flying. A piece of wood struck Jack’s cheek. He cursed underhis breath and backed away.
“Let me walk out of here,monsieur. This is not your concern.”
Jack remembered Caindale’s words. Avoice like hoarfrost. He leaned his back against the wood,listening. A soft shuffle edging closer.
An indrawn breath, a whisker away fromhim. His arm throbbing, on his hands and knees, Jack crawled in theopposite direction. A few yards on he peered around thetable.
There he was. A short, dark-hairedman. He leaned against a metal pillar intent on reloading hispistol, his swarthy face in profile.
Jack leaped to his feet and ranstraight at him. The man looked up startled, but before he couldreact, Jack knocked the gun out of his hands. He shoved his ownpistol into the Frenchman’s ribs. “Who are you?”
Hard brown eyes observed him. “Onemight ask you the same thing, monsieur.”
“I am a friend ofButterstone’s.” Jack took his measure. The brutal face of adangerous man, his body coiled. Like a cornered rat, he’d useeverything at his disposal to escape.
“The marquess has too manyfriends.” He bit out the words.
“You killed him and almostkilled Caindale. Why?”
“Ah. Caindale still lives,”Renard said with a contemptuous stare. “Butterstone found out weplanned to assassinate Bonaparte.”
“You poisonedhim?”
“Now that you cannot accuseme of. I never met Bonaparte.”
“Who do you work for,Renard?”
“This is none of yourconcern. It would be wise not to get involved in thisaffair.”
With a prod to the man’s torso, hegestured toward the office. “Walk.”
“What do you intend to dowith me?”
“Keep quiet and move.” Jackpuzzled over how to deal with him. It would be difficult to get himback to Bascombe in London. But if he handed him over to theManchester magistrate, this business would become public knowledge.That would be unwise.
In the office, Caindale still lay onthe floor, but he breathed more normally, an arm resting over hiseyes.
“You’re like a cat withnine lives, Caindale. You’re hard to kill,” the Frenchmen saiddispassionately. “I should have shot you.”
Jack shoved him into the room.“Why?”
