Page 34 of The Swan Detective (The Swan Syndicate #2)

The ride to Norman Cross Prison had been quick.

Beckworth and Jamie stopped for a few short hours of sleep under the stars and made time for quick meals while giving the horses a rest. Once in town, they left their horses at the stables and wandered toward the walls of what appeared to be a fort.

From Beckworth’s understanding, it had been designed based on the plans of an artillery fort, but rather than keep intruders out, this one focused on keeping the enemy within.

This site had been developed for prisoners of war.

Beckworth glanced at Jamie, hating to admit his concern now that they were almost at the prison gates. “I’m not sure André will be happy to see us.”

“I think it was pretty obvious that André might not be willing to work with the people who killed his sister. There wasn’t any possibility of you finessing your way around that.

” Jamie looked up at the imposing main entrance and the guards manning the door.

He shuddered. “You probably should have brought Lando. I doubt they take kindly to Irishmen in here.”

“I considered asking Lando and Fitz, but it wouldn’t be wise to bring too many men.

It makes André appear more dangerous than he is.

If it’s just us two blokes, they won’t question orders from the Crown.

My understanding is that the War Office has plucked a handful of our spies from various French camps.

The idea is that André is another one of ours, and we’re his comrade in arms.”

“A reminder of why Hensley finds value in your skills. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard such a silver tongue as yours.”

They chuckled as they approached the main door.

Beckworth eyed the pudgy guard, his hair sticking up at various angles, his jacket riding above his dark pants on one side.

He looked like he’d just woken from a nap.

He wouldn’t be a problem. The man next to him was a sergeant, and he wore a deep frown.

His hand rested on the flintlock pistol riding on his right hip.

Beckworth spoke low without turning his head. “I would suggest you let me do all the talking.”

“Aye. He looks like a tough old ram.” Jamie slowed, so he was a step behind Beckworth.

When they reached the gate, Beckworth kept his eyes on the gruff old soldier as he pulled a folded letter out of his pocket. “Good afternoon, Sergeant. I have a letter for Captain Pressland on behalf of the Crown. Time is of the essence.”

The sergeant stared at Beckworth for a long moment, only giving Jamie a passing glance. “Let me see the letter.”

Beckworth held it up so the man could first read the captain’s name on the front and then the wax with the Crown’s moniker on the back.

There was a brief widening of the eyes before his formidable expression returned, complete with his eyes now squinting as if peering into harsh daylight, though the clouds hung low in the sky.

“Open the gate,” the sergeant yelled as he turned toward it.

Beckworth walked through first, and once Jamie was through, they both turned and waited. After a brief moment, the sergeant realized someone would need to lead them to the captain’s office.

He huffed at the private. “Don’t let anyone in or out until I return.” He gave Beckworth a frown. “This way.”

Beyond the gate, a long, wide courtyard ran between fenced yards.

In the distance, what Beckworth guessed to be the middle of the yard was a tower that housed the on-duty guards.

He could just make out the gaping holes of cannons, encouraging the prisoners to remain on their best behavior.

The sergeant turned right, leading them past fencing that prohibited a view of the yards, but he could see the upper halves of the prisoner’s quarters.

They didn’t walk far before the sergeant led them into a two-story brick building and down a hall to a room with an open door. A young corporal sat at a desk and glanced up. When he noted the visitors, he straightened.

The sergeant stopped at the edge of the desk. “These men claim they’re delivering a message from the Crown.”

Beckworth scanned the plain room that housed two bookcases and a couple portraits of military men Beckworth didn’t recognize. A single closed door stood off to the right. Jamie remained one step behind him, his expression blank as he stared at the wall in front of him.

The young corporal held out his hand. “I’ll need to see the message.”

Beckworth retrieved it from his pocket and, sidestepping the sergeant, handed it directly to the corporal without a word.

He quickly read the front, but spent more time reviewing the back of the note, turning it back and forth, searching for flaws or breaks in the wax seal. He stood, apparently satisfied, and walked around his desk to the single door that had no identifying moniker.

He knocked and entered, closing the door behind him.

The sergeant shuffled his feet as they waited. It was only moments before the young man returned and held the door open. “Captain Pressland will see you.” Then he glanced at the guard. “That will be all, Sergeant.”

The older man didn’t seem to know what to do as he looked between Beckworth and the corporal. When the younger man simply stared at the sergeant, it was another few seconds before he shrugged and left the office.

Beckworth, with Jamie in tow, entered the office and took several steps in, stopping ten feet short of the desk.

The door closed behind them, and Captain Pressland, a man a few years older than Beckworth with dark hair graying at the temples, read the open letter.

He was of average height and seemed fit enough for an army man, but he probably hadn’t seen much of the fighting.

This was undoubtedly a political posting, which should be in their favor.

“Sit.” He gave a slight wave toward the two wooden chairs in front of his desk. He continued to read as Beckworth and Jamie took a seat.

They sat for a while. The captain was either a slow reader, or he was rereading it. He finally set the letter down, rubbed his chin, then shook his head.

“André Belato. That’s a surprise.”

“Why is that?” Beckworth asked. The man didn’t ask his name, and Beckworth assumed the letter explained everything.

Since he hadn’t been able to read the message, and Hensley didn’t say what was in it before giving it to him, he could only hope it explained enough that he wouldn’t have to answer too many questions before getting André out of the prison.

The man shrugged but didn’t look away from Beckworth’s steady stare.

He sat back and relaxed into this chair.

“We had a French spy in here a few months ago who’d been working for England.

He wasn’t rebellious, per se, but you could tell he stayed aware of everything going on around him.

But Belato? He does everything he can to avoid others.

He keeps to himself, does his work, and rarely speaks.

Beckworth smiled. “You mean the perfect spy who blends in unnoticed?”

The captain gave him a long look before his lips twitched, and Beckworth let his pent-up tension slip away. “I’ll have Belato collected. If you could wait by the front gate, I’ll have him delivered within the next half hour. He doesn’t have much in the way of belongings.”

Beckworth nodded. “I appreciate your promptness to the Crown’s request.” He paused. “The sergeant at the gate won’t be a problem, will he?”

“Yes, but I’ll send someone with Belato who the sergeant won’t question.” He handed the letter to Beckworth. “There’s no need for me to keep this. It might help you, should you be stopped on your return to London.”

Beckworth returned it to his pocket. Without another word, he stood, nodded to the captain, and left the room with Jamie in tow.

The sergeant waited outside the building, giving them a sneer before turning and leading them back to the main gate. The two men remained several feet behind the sergeant, and Jamie nudged Beckworth’s elbow.

“I feel like an anchor without a ship.”

“Let’s just get André and put this place behind us.”

“No argument there.”

Beckworth continued walking until they were several yards from the gate, not wanting to engage with the sergeant until necessary.

He turned his back on him, as did Jamie, and while they waited for André, Beckworth started a conversation on one of his favorite topics—the three-month-old colt from his prize stallion.

Jamie had been at Waverly a couple of days after its birth and had taken a personal interest in the foal.

They were so involved with their discussion that Beckworth almost missed the three men walking toward them.

Two were in uniform, and the one between them wore clean but tattered clothing.

André Belato.

He was leaner than the last time Beckworth had seen him, but prison would do that to a man.

André had turned his face to the sky as if seeing it for the first time in months, though the prisoners had an exercise yard.

Beckworth understood, after being held captive himself.

It wasn’t that André was looking specifically at the sky.

He was smelling his first day of freedom, and he had a smile on his face until they were a few yards away, and he recognized Beckworth.

André didn’t scowl, nor did he pull back, but his eyes narrowed, and he gave the two soldiers a quick glance.

“I think our prisoner smells a trap,” Jamie whispered.

“Let’s hope he waits until we’re clear of this place before it becomes ugly.”

When the trio reached them, a man about Beckworth’s age, with a clean shave and impressively sharp uniform, gave them both an appraising look.

“I’m Lieutenant Forster. I understand this prisoner, André Belato, is to be released to you on behalf of the Crown.”