Page 90 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)
Mr Bland sank half of the pint in one extended swallow, as though he had a long thirst to satisfy.
Sebastian took only a sip at his. He enjoyed a glass of local Brakspear’s ale by the river when he was at his house in Henley, but he had no idea where this stuff came from.
It had an acrid taste that went with its yellowish hue.
The random thought came to him that it probably looked much the same when it left the body as it did going in.
The other denizens of the Blue Posts seemed to be quaffing it without distress; but probably they had other priorities than taste.
Bland wiped his mouth and said, ‘Well, sir, you’ll be pleased to know I have found your quarry.’
Sebastian felt a little bolt of shock in his stomach. So it was starting at last! ‘Indeed? That’s good news.’
‘The trail was a long and twisted one – I don’t suppose you want all the details?’
‘You may cut the to end. Where is he?’
‘In Brighton, where a lot of London villains end up, in my experience. They seem to feel they can hide there almost as well as in the Smoke, and find clients just as ready for fleecing. I don’t know if you are acquainted with Brighton at all, sir?’
‘I have visited it once or twice,’ Sebastian admitted. ‘I can’t say I know it well.’
‘There’s an area of old Brighton commonly called The Lanes – a warren of narrow streets and alleys, full of shops and pubs and low eating-houses.
And other amenities.’ He gave Sebastian a knowing look and a nod.
‘Not a fashionable area, as you might say, though the smart young bucks like to carouse there for the dare of it, show their colours, splash their rhino about and prove their manhood.’
‘It’s a common habit among young men without enough to do.’
‘You’re right, sir. I should say it’s not all rough – there are plenty of honest small traders there – but it’s a poor area. The sort of place where you find a pawnbroker on every corner, and there are more shops repairing things than selling them new.’
‘I understand. And what is Hubert doing there?’
‘He has a small shop. Second-hand clothes – what they call a shoddy shop – and tailoring repairs. Much what he was doing in London, but to a different set of customers. No carriage trade there. Local folk don’t have much money to spare, and one suit has to last a man his life.
Don’t suppose he’s making much of an income.
He lives above the shop. There’s a woman living with him—’
‘He’s married?’ Sebastian said sharply.
Bland gave a mirthless smile. ‘I didn’t say anything about marriage.
She doesn’t look the marrying sort, if you take my meaning.
And I reckon he’s drinking. I saw her going in at eight of a morning with a jug and it wasn’t full of milk.
’ He paused and surveyed his client with a bright-eyed look.
‘So, what would you like me to do next?’
‘There’s no doubt it’s the same man?’ Sebastian asked.
‘There’s always doubt, sir, but as far as I can ascertain.
Still calls himself Jack, though there were several versions of his surname when I spoke to local people – Hubert, Herbert, Hewitt, even Hubbard.
That’s not unusual when you’re among people who don’t write things down much.
But there are no breaks in the trail, and it looks like the same man.
Same trade, same drinking habits.’ Another considering look.
‘Do you want me to speak to him? Ask him anything?’
‘No,’ said Sebastian. He was thoughtful.
He had not entirely thought out what he meant to do when, or if, he tracked down his quarry.
The quest itself had been enough to begin with, to use up his frustrated energy.
And in a large country of thirty million people, he had not reckoned Bland’s chances of finding one man very highly.
He must be a singularly good bloodhound, Sebastian thought, to have followed the trail to its conclusion.
But now he had him, what was he going to do with him?
Actually, he had half hoped the trail would end with the information that Hubert had drunk himself to death.
As long as he was alive, Dory could not remarry.
But perhaps he might at least make sure the villain never tried to find her, never came near her again.
‘This requires thinking about,’ he said at last.
‘Just as you wish, sir,’ said Bland. He slipped a folded piece of paper across the table.
‘There’s his direction, at any rate. And if you want me to do anything more, you know where to find me.
’ He stood up, finished the rest of his pint – probably it slipped down more easily when you were fully vertical – and was leaving.
But he paused. ‘Word of warning, sir. He’s not well thought of locally.
Too quick with his fists. He’ll pick a fight, they say, just for the pleasure of it.
And he might be in his cups a lot of the time, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hit straight.
You often find with those habitual drunks that it doesn’t slow them down or spoil their aim.
Wouldn’t do to underestimate him, sir, that’s all I’m saying. ’
‘Thank you. I haven’t decided yet what to do, but I shall be careful.’
Bland nodded neutrally, and was gone. Bland by name and bland by appearance, within a few steps he had blended into the throng. He seemed, Sebastian thought, to dislimn like a ghost at cock-crow.
* * *
As long as they were in France, Rachel had been content – concerned, certainly, about how she and Angus were to manage to be married, but not deeply worried.
Something would happen, or he would contrive something, she was sure.
Meanwhile, she was having fun, and agreeable young men were vying for her company.
Her enjoyment was only intensified by her love for Angus, her assurance that he loved her too, the excitement of waiting for his secret letters.
All that changed when they moved to Germany.
Instead of Aunt Vicky and Uncle Bobo’s cheerful company and their near genius at arranging entertainments, there was to be only strict Mama and dull Prince Paul and his sister.
And Usingen was so far away! In Biarritz, she had felt only a hop, skip and jump from England, but now she seemed to have been dragged into an infinitely distant foreign land, a wilderness from which return would be impossible.
The little town held no attractions for her, and all around were the woods, the sinister lakes, the un-English-looking rivers, the forbidding forested mountains on one side and the vast empty meadows on the other.
Everything was too big and, with the onset of winter, bleak.
How would she ever get back? Would she ever be allowed to go back?
She was a helpless prisoner in a giant’s castle and her misery grew day by day.
She understood for the first time the force of the word ‘exile’.
It wasn’t until the day after the wedding that Giles had the opportunity to speak to her privately. As she left the room after breakfast, he caught up with her, tucked her hand under his arm, and said, ‘I’ve found what I think is the warmest spot in the house. Come and see.’
It was a small conservatory, with a stone-flagged floor, built on to one side of the back of the house, at the end of a long dim passage.
It was only about ten feet square, not meant for sitting in, but to over-winter delicate plants.
It faced south to catch whatever sun there was, and it had hot water running in pipes around the walls.
Small plants sat on trestles under the windows, while larger ferns and palms stood in pots on the floor.
It smelt of warm, damp greenness, like an English riverbank in summer.
‘Now then,’ Giles said, turning to face her, and pushing closed the glazed, metal-framed door behind her, ‘tell me what’s going on. Why are you looking so miserable?’
Rachel stared at the floor, scuffing the flag with the toe of her shoe.
Giles was so much older than her, and she had hardly known him before her father died.
In her mind he ranked among the grown-ups.
She didn’t know how far she could trust him.
But then the desperation of her plight broke through the barriers.
‘Oh Giles, I hate it here! Oh, please don’t let them make me stay! Please let me come home!’
‘I thought you’d been enjoying all your travels these past two years,’ he said. ‘The Wachturm and then France, London, Scotland, France again. All the clothes – my God, the clothes! – and the balls and everything else. It’s a young woman’s dream, isn’t it?’
‘It was ,’ Rachel admitted miserably. ‘But it’s all changed now, you must see that. Now that Mama’s married Paul, the prince . . .’ Rachel shuddered and stopped.
‘Is he unkind to you?’
‘Oh, no, he’s . . .’ She stopped, wondering how to explain. ‘He tries to be nice, I do see that.’
‘What, then?’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘It’s your mother? Well, she’s always been difficult. She was difficult with me.’ No answer. ‘Anyway,’ he tried, ‘won’t she and the prince be going off on a honeymoon now?’
‘Wedding tour,’ Rachel corrected automatically. Her mother had strenuously objected to the word ‘honeymoon’, saying it was not appropriate to people of her and the prince’s age.
‘Wedding tour,’ Giles allowed. ‘She won’t be taking you with her for that, I presume.’