Under Thring’s umbrella, Stoke trudged towards the door and the charms of Miss Derby.
I unbent myself out of the trap and looked about.
‘Best get inside, Colonel,’ Braham said. ‘Get a hot toddy in you.’
Mod Derby opened her arms and spread oilskin bat wings as if to envelop Jasper Stoke.
Then another woman appeared, from behind a bush, and levelled a rifle at Stoke. He threw himself into the mud, squealing. The grim-faced harpy, dress front torn open and hair caked with dirt and twigs, stood over the Master of Trantridge and took surprisingly steady aim.
The Firm was on the point of losing a client before the job was half started.
The woman’s weapon was a Brown Bess. The musket might have been a relic of Waterloo, kept for seventy years in a corner with the brooms. I doubted the would-be assassin had kept her powder dry.
Stoke fairly blubbed for his life. He crab-walked backwards three or four yards, making a muddy arse-and-boot-heel trail in the grass. No wonder he’d quit Tombstone. If an apparition with an antediluvian firearm reduced him to wailing terror, I could imagine the effect of a sharp-eyed Earp with a working Winchester.
‘Mattie Ball, come away,’ said Braham. ‘Kill him and you’ll swing for sure.’
The woman didn’t take heed. With her thumb, she pulled back the cock.
I strode into the scene and interposed my chest, shoving up against the musket’s cold barrelmouth.
‘If you want to shoot someone,’ I said. ‘How about me? Got the sand for that, eh? I’m Colonel Sebastian Moran, of the First Bangalore Pioneers. I’ve cheated death in all corners of the world and don’t fancy a Wessex grave. Not at all, my good woman. If you were in shooting mood, you’d already have discharged this antique.’
I recollected Stoke had turned a family named Ball off the estate. Mattie must be a survivor of the clan, demented by sufferings too sordid to dwell on.
She could fire her musket but once — if, indeed, it would fire. She’d not get a chance to reload, pack and take aim again. The avenging farmgirl wouldn’t want to waste her shot on anyone but the author of her misfortunes.
Mattie Ball was demented, but I faced her down. I’ve done as much to men and beasts — and similarly bloodthirsty females — before. A moment of clarity, of understanding, decides the way the cards will fall. Such encounters are over with between the ticks of a clock… but the seconds stretch to hours while you’re in it.
Thus far, the turn has always been in my favour.
Hesitation sparked in the woman. I made a grab for her gun, got a grip and forced the barrel upright. I slipped my gloved thumb into the lock, which bit as Mattie Ball jerked the trigger. The lock scarcely penetrated leather.
I wrenched the musket from her hands. The Albino, who should have kept better lookout, was suddenly there, holding Mattie from behind, spade-bladed Bowie to her neck. Not the proper tool for opening a throat, but it’d do.
Braham wanted to protest, but Nakszynski showed yellow teeth in pink gums which matched his eyes. He began a shallow, preliminary cut.
‘Enough of that, Chalky,’ I said. ‘Miss Ball is just leaving.’
I wasn’t having some bunny-eyed Johnny-come-lately Yankee Polack mule-skinner spoiling the moment. I’d shared something with Mattie Ball, more intimate than the usual mess between man and woman. I wasn’t minded to let it go yet. The knife-touch pricked the woman’s soul. Her eyes and teeth were set in defiance.
Nakszynski gave me a ‘Who are you?’ look, but didn’t press on with his murdering.
Stoke, muddied all over, was helped up by Thring and Dan’l. Mod indicated she’d like to fuss over him, but held back because of the dirt.
‘Hello Mattie,’ Saul said. ‘I was sorry to hear about your poor mama… and your brothers… and Granver Ball… and…’
I assumed Stoke would have need of Nakszynski’s whip. Instead, he broke free of his aides and sloshed at Mattie. Squirting angry tears, he stuck a craven fist into her belly. She doubled, twisting out of the Albino’s grip, and fell, retching. Stoke kicked her in the side, and rolled her over. He spat on her and kept kicking. Animal whining and growling came out of him. His kicks echoed inside her chest as if it were a tight drum.
I started to feel the pinch of the gun-cock.
I gently eased it back and removed my throbbing thumb. I was right about the musket’s age, but it had either been cared for well over the years or recently restored.
Mattie curled, hugging her face, knees over her stomach. Stoke kept booting her spine. Thring stood by, umbrella raised over his Master’s head. A little more rain could hardly put the self-declared tyrant and villain in a sorrier state.
In the spirit of experiment, I cocked the musket and pulled the trigger.
The blast caught everyone’s attention. I’d like to say a far-off bird tumbled from the sky, but the ball went wild and fell spent. Brown Bess had a fine record in seeing off England’s enemies, but only in the days when Jean François marched close enough for you to smell the garlic breath before you let fire. For accuracy at a distance, you were better off with a longbow.
The crack of the shot echoed.
Stoke froze in mid-kick and Mattie Ball scurried away, quick for someone who’d taken such punishment. She hared across Trantridge Hall’s well-kept lawns towards tangled forest. The Chase. Mattie paused, tiny against the thick, tall trees, and raised a fist. Then she was gone.
No one was inclined to follow.
‘Moran,’ shouted Stoke, ‘what the Devil do you think you’re about?’
‘Put a bounty on the pelt and I’ll bring her down from here,’ I said, raising Brown Bess as if to take aim. The gun, of course, was empty, though I judged Stoke in no state to distinguish a single-shot musket from a repeating rifle. ‘But my understanding is that I’m here to hunt a dog. Anything else is out of season. Now, someone mentioned “hot toddy”. It would behoove us to show the sense to get out of the f--ing rain…’
No one argued the point.
I strode to the door, where I encountered Mod Derby. She gave me a welcoming wink and hand squeeze.
‘Colonel Sebastian Moran, ma’am,’ I said, raising her hand to my lips.
‘Welcome to Trantridge, gallant Colonel,’ she said. Her smile put a dimple in her cheek, and I always appreciate a dimple. ‘You have saved us all from murder.’
It was possible that, after putting her single ball in Stoke, Mattie Ball could have found a bayonet in her shawl, fitted it to the musket and skewered the entire household. I’d have laid odds against, though.
‘I suppose I have,’ I said, as if the thought of receiving thanks never entered my head. ‘All in a day’s work, ma’am.’
‘Modesty,’ she said. ‘But you may call me Mod.’
As with Mattie, I shared a long moment with Mod in which things were settled. Again, my hand took a trick. Without words, something to our mutual benefit was decided.
Stoke, plastered with filth, barged past into his house. He took no notice of what had passed between me and his supposed fancy woman.
We all went into Trantridge Hall.
IX
In conduct under fire, Jasper Stoke had settled the question of the hue of his innards — a sickly custard-yellow. His hands, the servants and the Derby siblings knew it. Even simple Dan’l and fairy-feathered Saul. Having ‘lost face’, as the Celestials say, mine host kept the company waiting for supper. Another theatrical device, no doubt. Probably made sense in German economics.
We convened in a big gloomy room. Blazing logs raised steam from damp furnishings within a few feet of the fireplace. Cow-gum stink suggested wallpaper paste liquefying. Paintings above the mantel, warped by years of radiant heat, did not hang true. However, the warmth did not reach as far as the table. We might have sat in Siberia or Staines for all the good the fire did us.