Instruments of Darkness

7

“Do you wish to go to the squire?” Crowther was on the point of handing Mrs. Westerman into her carriage in the forecourt of Pulborough’s best coaching inn. Harriet turned to him, one foot on the ground, one raised onto the step of the elegant little barouche she used for local journeys, her hand in his.

“But we do not know how Wicksteed heard of the meeting with Brook, and our conclusions about Shapin are guesswork at best. Do you think …?”

But before the thought was completed two young men, their rough shirts flying, barreled into the lady and gentleman. With sudden shock Harriet found herself thrown to the ground, and felt her ankle twist under her. Her back hit hard against the high wheel of her coach. She heard her coachman, David, roar and leap from his seat, shouting at his boy to hold the frightened animals steady. Crowther’s cane crashed to the ground, and rolled from his grip across the cobbles. David grabbed one of the lads, twisting him by the collar. The other spotted Crowther’s cane, and as Crowther reached for it, brought down his heel on the slender strength of the wood. It cracked between the pillowlike stones of the yard. Crowther struggled to his feet with a yell, managing to catch his attacker’s face with the back of his hand as he rose. The youth’s head jerked back and he lifted his fist, then laughed, and spat at his feet. Crowther reached for him again, but the lad was too quick and darted over to his companion, throwing himself between him and Harriet’s red-faced coachman to break the grip. They ran from the yard at full tilt with David pursuing as Crowther turned to Harriet and began to help her to her feet. Already the inn’s landlady had come hurrying across the cobbles, her apron ballooning around her in a cloud of upset.

“Oh, Good Lord! What on earth?” She put her arm around Harriet’s shoulder and helped to raise her.

“I’m quite all right. Just winded, I think.” She tried to put her weight on the hurt ankle and went rather white, then shifted her balance to allow Crowther’s arm to take most of her weight.

The landlady seemed on the point of tears. “I cannot believe it! I’ve never seen such a thing.”

Harriet tried to smile at her. “Really, Mrs. Saunderton, I am quite well. It is nothing. A couple of foolish young men.”

Crowther looked about him. In the doorway of the inn he saw the familiar form of Wicks teed. He was smiling at them, his arms crossed over his chest. David came running back into the yard. Crowther noticed the little boy’s at the horses’ heads look of relief as he handed over the bridle. That must be Jake Mortimer, the sewing woman’s nephew. He could see David had been injured in his struggle with the man. The skin around his eye was already very red.

“Sorry, ma’am. They got away from me in the square.”

Mrs. Saunderton was trying to knock the dust of her yard from the long folds of Harriet’s dress; the latter put out a hand to stop her.

“Not at all, David. Thank you. Are you injured?”

“Not worth mentioning, Mrs. Westerman.”

The landlady was still trembling with distress. “I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on either of those lads before. Oh, Mrs. Westerman, what you must think of us! Will you not come in for a moment to recover? What a shock!”

Harriet managed a smile. “Thank you, no. I am sure I am quite well, now I have caught my breath. But how strange …”

Her eyes drifted away from the landlady and she too caught sight of Wicksteed. Her face lost all its color and the voice died in her throat.

Crowther stepped forward. “I think Mrs. Westerman would be better recovering from the shock in her own home.”

Harriet nodded and began to turn toward the carriage again. As she put her foot on the step she almost fell. David swung down from his seat.

“Hold the horses, boy.” He was by her side in a second. “If you’ll allow me, ma’am?”

She blushed and nodded, putting an arm around the young man’s shoulders, allowing him to lift her bodily in his arms and place her comfortably in the carriage. He returned unsmiling to his seat. Crowther climbed up to take his place, still aware of Wicksteed grinning at them from his post at the edge of the forecourt. He heard a little cough next to him, and peered over the barouche’s side into the yard. Harriet’s new stable boy stood below him, holding up the two pieces of his cane. He looked up, very white and nervous. His new coat seemed a little on the large side. Crowther looked down into his round, unformed face, a picture of a life yet to begin, then put out his hands to take the pieces, his thin, papery skin, spotting in places with brown, his bony fingers lifting the remains of his cane from the boy’s fresh palms. He nodded.

“Good lad. Thank you.”

The boy smiled and clambered up to ride next to David. Wicksteed stood upright and sauntered over to Harriet’s side of the carriage. He hardly sketched a bow, but spoke a few words to her, and with a nod to Crowther moved away again. Mrs. Saunderton looked a little confused. Wicksteed gave her a broad grin and she bobbed a curtsy, doubtfully, in his direction. Harriet said clearly, “Drive on.”

David clicked to the horses. They lifted their hooves and with a jerk and clatter the carriage began to move. Crowther carefully placed the remains of his cane on the seat next to him and leaned forward.

“What did he say?”

“That it is beginning.”

Crowther sat back into the corner of the carriage and crossed his hands in his lap.