Moon Love Page 6

  “Where gentlemen go to be entertained?” he asked, chewing a grin.

  “Yes, cards and so on,” she said, pretending to misunderstand him, but she felt the warmth on her cheeks. “But Mr. Bransom never went there.”

  “He might have, if he thought he could learn something useful. I’ll look into it.”

  The coffee arrived and was served. “I can’t imagine where Felix is,” Amy said.

  Ravencroft glanced at his watch. “I can’t wait much longer. Please ask him to call on me as soon as he returns.”

  She looked at Ravencroft uncertainly. “Milord, I trust you have not taken the absurd notion that Felix actually is the Cougar?”

  For a long moment, she thought he was not going to answer. He studied her with an expression she couldn’t read. Then slowly a smile, not mocking yet not gentle either, curved his lips and he said, “His secret is safe with me. “

  “Any secret you might tell him is not safe. Truly, his discretion is not to be relied upon, milord. I particularly asked him last night not to – that is, to keep quiet about Papa, and he took you right into his room.”

  Ravencroft sat frowning a moment. If Felix had announced that he was the Cougar, Ravencroft would not have believed him. He was pretty generally considered a foolish fop, but that was obviously an act. Seeing Ashworth, and knowing that someone close to him had taken over his work, he had no choice but to believe the mantle had fallen on Felix Bratty. And who better than the Cougar’s nephew and heir?

  “Perhaps he wanted me to know Lord Ashworth’s condition,” he said.

  It was slowly beginning to dawn on Amy that Lord Ravencroft was not so intelligent as she had hoped he would be. Anyone who could imagine that Felix was anything but a fool, after having spent an evening with him, was no genius himself. She must continue working on her own, to make sure Ravencroft did not go too far astray. As to Felix, it would taken an army to handle the mess he would make.

  The coming of the Wolf, instead of making her job easier, had complicated it immeasurably.

  Ravencroft finished his coffee, set his cup aside and rose. “I expect you will be paying a visit to the coal yards,” Amy said.

  He noticed a sharp look in her eyes. Miss Bratty was taking too keen an interest in this affair to please him. He must caution Bratty to limit her involvement in the matter. She had spent yesterday afternoon looking for Bransom’s body. He didn’t want her to go wandering about a treacherous place like the coal yard.

  “If Bransom was killed there, on the coast, I expect they would have hauled the body out to sea to avoid discovery,” he said. “I’ll make inquiries, see if anyone heard or saw anything.”

  Amy said, “How could they have hauled it out to sea? There are no fishing boats or private boats there, just the ships that haul coal. And if they threw the body in the estuary, it would have been found. Bransom may have been killed there, but what was done with the body?”

  She was not only keen to help, she was not easily conned. “That is what I hope to discover,” he said, turning toward the door.

  Before he could escape, she said, “We have not discussed who Alphonse’s partner might be, milord. That matter is of the utmost importance.”

  “Thank you for telling me my business, Miss Bratty. If you have any ideas, I would be happy to hear them.”

  This unhelpful reply sent a spurt of anger shooting through her. He was happy enough to pick her brains, but he had no intention of sharing his findings with her. He thought a woman incapable of thinking. Very well, then, she would use her feminine weapons to try to win by guile what common sense had failed to win.

  She tilted her head archly and gave him a saucy, teasing smile. “I would also appreciate hearing your ideas, milord. I am sure any agent of Sir FitzHugh’s must be very clever. I hope you don’t plan to leave me out of it.”

  Ravencroft reached out and chucked her chin. “Minx,” he said, and left, laughing. Miss Bratty was becoming more interesting by the hour. Last evening the prim spinster had turned into a lady of fashion. This morning she had revealed a sharp intelligence, and now she was playing the flirt. He had best watch out or he would be tumbling into infatuation with her.

  Amy was in no danger of succumbing to an infatuation with Lord Ravencroft. She had looked forward to his coming, and had been impressed by his dashing appearance. He had seemed attractive and exciting, but the more she talked to him, the more she realized his incompetence. He actually thought Felix was the Cougar! He could not even conceive that she, a lady, might have usurped the title. He misconstrued all the clues she fed him.

  She sat pondering these clues. Bransom might very well have met his end at the coal yard. Lure him to a game of cards at the Spanish Lady, use a shaved deck to cause a fight. They would leave the house for that. Two or three men against him, he wouldn’t have a chance. They wouldn’t take his body to town to dispose of it. It was probably right there, hidden somewhere in that jumble of old sheds and coal mountains.

  If Ravencroft didn’t know enough to look there for it, then she would have to do it herself. She couldn’t go alone. Felix she considered only to reject him. George, the head footman, was the cleverest and strongest of the servants and loyal to a fault. His family had served the Ashworths for generations. It was a foregone conclusion that George would become butler when Bailey retired. They would take Papa’s duelling pistols, one each. George was an excellent shot. Of course they would have to wait until after dark, which left a long day to get in first.

  Chapter Nine

  Amy spent the morning reading to her papa and tending to household duties. Felix returned for luncheon boasting of his morning’s shooting, A visit to Cook revealed that he had indeed brought home a brace of scrawny rabbits that would be tough eating.

  “Did you happen to see Ravencroft?” Amy asked him. “He called this morning.”

  “Yes, I ran into him. Did I mention I shall be dining with him in Easton this evening, Amy?”

  “Why do you not invite him here?” she suggested at once, hoping to discover what Ravencroft was about.

  Felix’s head rose, his eyes narrowed to slits. He stared with noble mien across the room at the sideboard as if it were the flag and the crown and the Houses of Parliament rolled into one and announced, “It is not a social occasion, Cuz. I am not at liberty to divulge the nature of our business. Suffice it to say, it is of national importance.”

  “But how interesting!” she cried, hoping to entice him into revealing their plans. Felix loved to boast. “Can you at least tell me where you will be going?”

  “I fear not.” He looked over his shoulder and all around. “Not a word to anyone.”

  She continued pestering him until she was convinced he didn’t know what Ravencroft had in mind. But she knew it was Ravencroft he was meeting, and she was fairly sure Ravencroft would be searching for Bransom’s body.

  Felix spent part of the afternoon examining old maps in Ashworth’s study. At four o’clock, he changed into evening clothes and left the house. As soon as he was out the door, Amy went to see what maps he had been examining. The scattering of red x’s on a map of the parish told her where he imagined Bransom might be buried. She was a little surprised to see he had chosen his locations so well. Perhaps Ravencroft had coached him. As they were the areas she had already searched, however, she knew there was no body there.

  She was happy to see he had not marked the coal yard. If Ravencroft was depending on Felix’s expertise of the neighborhood to help him, he would have a fruitless night.

  Amy ate alone in the morning parlor, nursing her plans and worries. When she had no company, she spent the evening in that same cozy room, where the fire had already taken the chill off the air and the tea pot was handy on the table nearby. The journals were left on a table before the grate, with a stuffed armchair on either side. A sewing basket, a tin of mints and a novel left face-down on the table indicated this was where Amy passed her idle hours. Since her papa’s illness, this had
become her sanctuary. The saloon was too huge and too grand to be comfortable for one.

  This evening, she did not pick up the journal or her sewing basket, which held a new flannel nightshirt she was stitching for her papa. Her hands were idle, but her mind raced feverishly. She was uneasy that Ravencroft was making no effort to find Alphonse’s partner, the man who was distributing the paper money in England. It must be someone who handled large quantities of cash. She mentally ran over the list. Mr. Hardy, the shipbuilder, had seventy men in his employ, each receiving a weekly pay packet in cash.

  But it was paper money that was coming in, and she knew the workers were paid in coin because Betty’s beau worked there, and his first move upon receiving his pay was to run to Bratty Hall and hand one half of it over to Betty, who was saving it for their marriage.

  The proprietors of the Greenman and the Rose and Thistle were other possibilities. A good deal of money changed hands at an inn. Bransom had been staying at the Greenman. Perhaps he had stumbled across some clue there. She had never cared for Edward Reilly, the proprietor, in the least. A leering way he had about him. Then of course there was the bank. They handled more money than anyone else.

  It was hard to imagine the manager, Mr. Fairmont, who had his pew near the front of the church and was an Alderman besides, being involved in anything so devious. Mrs. Fairmont was active in parish matters and always invited Amy to her parties. Would any of his employees have enough authority to handle the large sums involved without Mr. Fairmont’s supervision?

  Darkness had fallen by the time she finished dinner, but she was not in a hurry to leave the Hall. There would be traffic at the coal yard in the early hours of evening. If she waited until quite late, the men would be in the tavern, or too drunk to notice her. At ten o’clock she went abovestairs to say goodnight to her papa, and to tell Tombey she was taking a sleeping draft as she was having trouble sleeping. This would ensure that he did not call her if her papa had one of his spells. Tombey knew what to do better than she did herself.

  At eleven o’clock, George came tapping at the door of the morning parlor, as arranged in advance. He had changed out of livery into a dark jacket and buckskins, and looked quite dashing. Amy had already changed into the clothing she wore when she acted as lookout for the Gentlemen. He handed her a pistol, the handle of its twin protruded from his own pocket. They slipped along the corridor to the library, leaving by the French doors there to avoid being seen by the butler.

  George had a pair of aging, undistinguished hacks from his lordship’s stable waiting for them a few yards down the driveway. Speed was not as important as anonymity. It was unlikely they would be chased. She was grateful for George’s company. He was an amiable fellow, young enough to enjoy this spree and strong enough to tackle anyone who might interfere with them.

  A crescent moon rode high in the witch black sky above, partially concealed by a rag of shifting cloud. It cast a spectral light on grass and bush. Stark branches of denuded trees waved to and fro as the wind blew. Underfoot, fallen leaves rustled, releasing the moldy aroma of autumn.

  As they reached the coast road and headed toward Easton, they encountered fog. It drifted in from the ocean, to float like a soft, diaphanous blanket over the land, giving the strange appearance that trees and houses grew from clouds.

  There was little traffic on the road. They met the rat catcher with his terrier, who snapped at the horses. Half a mile farther on, they heard a mounted rider approach. The desultory clip-clop told Amy it wasn’t Ravencroft or Felix. It proved to be the Revenueman on his donkey. He was always encouraged by rumors set about by Cocker to ride forth on those nights when no cargo was coming in.

  As he passed, he lifted his hat and said, “Evening, George.” He glanced at Amy but didn’t recognize her beneath the slouched hat drawn low over her forehead. George returned the salute and they rode on.

  As the coal yards were on the north edge of town, they did not have to ride through Easton. The fog was lighter here, on higher ground. In the distance, Amy could distinguish one gig and a couple of mounted riders on the High Street. The gig was parked and the riders were riding away from her.

  She and George dismounted at the outer limit of the coal yard and tied their mounts to the pole of a wooden fence that separated the ugly coal yard from the little settlement behind it, and nominally protected the coal. As several boards were missing, however, it was entirely ineffectual. An ambitious child could have helped himself.

  Amy stood a moment, gauging the activity of the neighborhood. Dim lights burned in a few of the ramshackle houses. Sounds of voices raised in mirth or anger issued from behind closed doors and broken windows. A dog and a few stragglers were on the street. The two men were staggering drunk. The female, an elderly woman wrapped in a shawl, bent on some errand of her own, paid them no heed as she hastened past, muttering into her shawl.

  The liveliest spot was the tavern. It was fully lit, with sounds of revelry issuing from the open door. Lights burned behind the blinds of three windows at the Spanish Lady but no sound came from the house. Amy beckoned, and George followed her through an opening in the fence.

  Once shut off from the street, it was like being in another world, A black, Stygian world with no sign of life save the wisps of fog that floated like smoke, low to the ground. Like Hades, but without the fire, Amy thought. All along the ridge of the estuary, mountains of coal rose up, glimmering dully in the moonlight. Beyond the estuary, the ocean gleamed silver and silent as the tomb. The noise from the street was dulled to quiet echoes.

  She walked forward until she saw the guard’s shed. A light burned within.

  “I’ll peek in the window and see if Jemmy’s asleep yet,” George said.

  He was back in a moment. “He’s sitting with his head on the desk and a bottle of wine by his elbow. I tapped on the window and he didn’t look up. We needn’t worry about him, Miss Bratty.”

  Amy nodded and stood a moment, looking around. Now that she was here, this seemed an unlikely place to bury a body. It was busy during the day with coal landing and being put aboard the smaller boats. Certainly no one had gone to the trouble of removing a whole coal mountain to bury a body beneath it. The mountains were removed and replaced by new ones regularly in any case.

  She turned, looking all about. At the rear was the tallest, widest mountain of all. It was a sort of back-up, to be used if the current supply ran short. A body might be buried there and remain undiscovered for months, perhaps years. To remove all that coal, however, would take days. But then one need not remove it all. She had seen the backhouse boy fill the coal scuttle from the coal pile in the cellar at home. He just dug his shovel into the middle of the pile, and coal fell down from above to recapture the shape of the mountain, A body pushed into the interior of the mountain would soon be concealed in that fashion.

  “George, we should have brought a shovel,” she whispered.

  “I saw one leaning against the shed. I’ll get it.”

  Again he darted off and returned in a trice with a shovel. “Do you want me to start digging, Miss?” he asked, apparently willing to dig up the whole yard.

  “I know it sounds an enormous job, but I want you to dig into that largest pile of coal. Just push the shovel in at whatever height is convenient.” That, she thought, was what the man who hid Bransom’s body would have done, if he hid the body there.

  George was not one to question his mistress. He went forward and dug the shovel into the mountain while Amy lifted the window of the dark lantern and directed its faint beam on the coal pile. Coal descended from above in a clatter. They both looked around in alarm, but no one came forth to challenge them.

  “Keep digging. Go all around the pile in a circle,” she said, and stood at his elbow to peer for an arm or a leg.

  George had the shoulders of a bull. He dug the shovel in again and again, and each time the coal rattled down from above to fill the hole he created. It was beginning to seem hopeless. If Bransom’
s body was in there, it would be there until some emergency forced the use of the reserve mountain.

  She was about to tell him to stop when he stopped of his own accord and uttered a high-pitched, “Blimey! It’s a hand, Miss!”

  Amy rushed forward and played the light where George pointed. She saw five rigid, splayed fingers, grimed with coal dust, sticking out from the pile. Of course the hand could not be positively identified as Bransom’s until the rest of the body was exhumed, but it was a man’s hand, and Amy felt in her bones it was his. A shudder seized her. She felt faint with the knowledge that she was soon to behold poor Mr. Bransom, dead and black from coal dust.

  She felt so weak she had to sit down. She looked around for a spot, but there was nothing but earth and coal. Momentarily distracted, she didn’t see the dark form creeping up through the shadows toward George. George saw it, however, and he saw the pistol that was pointed at him as well. with a loud howl, he leapt forward. Amy turned just in time to see his shovel fall with a forceful blow on the attacker’s head, to hear the dull thud of the blow, and to see the victim crumple to the ground.

  She felt sure this must be the man who had killed Bransom. Why else was he watching the coal pile? And if he had killed Bransom, then he must be Alphonse’s accomplice. She had done it. She had captured him by her own wits, with no help from Lord Ravencroft. She was delighted to think of his astonishment and chagrin when she told him. She drew the pistol from her pocket and advanced, with the lantern in the other hand, to behold the face of the infamous traitor who was selling England for gold.

  “Good God, it’s Ravencroft;” she cried, and dropped the lantern.

  “So it is,” George said in a weak voice. “It looks like I’ve kilt him, Miss.”

  Chapter Ten

  Amy was appalled at the horror she had wrought. Lord Ravencroft’s death was on her head. George was but her tool. Fleeting visions of herself in the dock, on the gibbet, and ultimately buried in unhallowed ground flashed through her mind. Then Lord Ravencroft opened one glaring eye and the air was filled with curses never heard before, even in the stable when her papa’s wayward gelding kicked the undergroom. Upon seeing he was alive, her fear was transmuted first to joy, then anger, then back to fear tinged with pity as she saw the black ooze dripping into his left eye.