Sir Arthur had made it known that he would see them later, and try as they might they could get little information that might lead them to believe they could help Deborah. The nearest was the exact location of the Wimbarton estate, which Sam wheedled from a younger girl by a combination of charm and browbeating which left him not exactly proud. Even she, though, reported on the house as if it were a fortress, and probably haunted into the bargain. When called to luncheon they were clean, depressed, and not seeing at all which way the day would go.
It was a long affair, with their host in brooding mode, discoursing at length on Charles Yorke's past, the possibility that he might be saved, and his helplessness at what to do immediately. Although Sam and William added little to the conversation, they both sensed that it was heading somewhere, as if Sir Arthur had been thinking something through, searching for a fixed direction. However, it was not until the maids had cleared away, and hot chocolate and biscuits had been brought, that he revealed his hand.
"Young man," he said to William. "Or Will, I must learn to call you Will now you and Sam are friends. I have been thinking, and I have a thing to ask. First though; correct me if I have it wrong.
You know Hampshire well, do you? Especially round where you live, you know the wood paths and the secret ways?"
Will felt his stomach hollowing, but he nodded, dumbly. The old man's face was so stricken, so torn with anxious hope.
"Ah, you do, you do, of course. And you know the smugglers of thereabouts, and their ways. And you are an honest man, and brave."
His voice had dropped to just above inaudible. Will wet his lips.
"I shall not beat about the bush," said Sir Arthur, more normally. "Charles Yorke is missing and I am quite prepared, almost prepared, to think him dead. Now he was going under cover, for the Customs House in London, and it has taken all his colleagues, all those men, this time to find poor Warren's corpse. In a word, there is no chance in hell that they will find a culprit, because I have it on authority of the highest that it was fortune alone that led them to Warren, he was stumbled over by a farmer's boy. No information, no hints, no intelligence either bought or gathered. Wherever my own Charles is, sir he will remain there. Unfound, unsaved, unshriven or unburied. That cannot, shall not, be."
He looked at both of them, and both bravely kept his eyes. The hollowness inside Will Bentley's stomach grew.
"You can guess what I am driving at, I think," Sir Arthur said. "I know both of you hate this trade, these men, as much as I do and Sam, at least, knows Yorke. What I would ask of you is that you become my spy, or spies, and follow in their footsteps for a while. If Charles lives you may find him for me, if he is dead, knowledge brings its own relief of sorts. I wish you to divest yourselves of Navy personality, and become my spies. Only for a little while, for if you discover nothing, what's the point? Just a few days, enquiring of the people that you know, searching out the secret ways. Please, Will. Will you do it for me?"
Both, in some ways, were aghast, but both could see the attraction it must hold. At best a long, long shot, at worst probably fatal. Each knew they could not refuse.
"But the Biter?" said Holt. "You said yourself, sir, Lieutenant Kaye would slaughter us. It may not be entirely a jest, I fear."
He pooh-poohed it. There were ways and means, he said, there were people in the Admiralty and the Office. Lieutenant Kaye was
his lip curled in contempt a booby and a fool from what he'd heard, despite his father was a duke. In any case, how long would it be before they were truly missed? In the end, checking the clock with great impatience, he called for quills and ink and paper.
"We will have it on a proper footing, after all. Kaye might be troublesome but I have greater power in a fight like this. How long to London, if I give you good horses? Not many hours. You can go to Deptford if that is where she lies and give him letters to his hand. First to the Admiralty Office, where all shall be made good. I'll write to Bobby Beaumont, and if Kaye cares to defy him we should have some capital fun, capital in the hanging sense, mayhap! Then, when you have cleared it all, back here and sleep, and off betimes tomorrow. Does that meet expectations?"
Sam, for Will's sake, mentioned Deborah. Was there a possibility, he asked, that they might ride that way?
"Deborah?" asked Sir A, blankly. "What way?"
"The magistrate's," said Sam. "Wimbarton's. It could be that ... well, just to '
Sir Arthur's eyes cleared with sudden anger.
"Are you mad?" he snapped. "Just what, to rescue her? I have told you, there is nothing we can do. Who mentioned Wimbarton? Not Tony, surely? Charlie lies bleeding somewhere, in an unknown place, and all you think about is '
He stopped, and touched his forehead and his eyes.
"I am sorry, Sam," he said. "Mr. Bentley, my humblest apologies, that was uncalled for. But believe me, if she is at Wimbarton's, there is noth Look, maybe tomorrow. Maybe I could ride over. You must away now, it is getting late. Please ring the bell again. Where are my ink and paper?"
They left a half an hour after that, and, by the young maid's directions, went via the 'fortress house' of Chester Wimbarton, just to see. The nearest they could get was to a road lodge, at a gate, with three men outside it who indeed were armed. They did not stop, or reveal their faces for too long, but passed along the way to London. William was in a kind of agony.
In the coach house about a mile away, Deb's agony was just beginning.
Twenty
The night before, when Wimbarton had won his point, thus saving Deborah her teeth, she had been awake already but was shamming. Through part-closed eyes she took in some of the scene, and thought she knew the thoughts that all were having. Wimbarton, a whip-like, sharp-like man, had changed his mind about the operation, and wanted her instead. More, he wanted his wife to leave them on the instant so he could have her now, and never mind the blood and bruises. The wife, she saw, had read this in his mind, and would not have it. Despite his exhortations, despite his wheedling, she was hard as adamant, and prepared to scream if need be, as well as argue. The mountebank, that evil fox she hated, was watching and pondering which way to make the greatest profit from her body, and to save his skin.
Deborah's hurt was terrible but she knew that Cec was dead and that was worse. The kidnap had been fierce from the start, but the moment she had realised it was Dennett the dread had almost overwhelmed her. Cec had become an ugly, bitter thing, laughed at by the harlots and ill-used by the men about the place, which filled Deb with a guilt she did not understand. Even the knowledge of her death was guilty, for she feared that in some obscure way she'd caused it; and worse, Cec had died attacking Marcus Dennett to defend her. The real dread though, was that she would have her teeth torn out in turn, so her death would surely follow, and so what? To end like Cecily would be a death itself.
The argument the magistrate was deploying went like this: the maid was at death's door and needed attention from the mountebank, immediate. The wife could do no good by being there, but could upset herself, exhaust herself, exacerbate her already weak condition. She needed rest, as much as possible, and the physician (ho, a promotion, noted Deborah) could give her a gentle potion, could he not? Deb almost opened her eyes full out at this audacity, but Milady's snort erupted from the depths unprompted. The only potion Deb had got from him came in a wooden bottle labelled club, but at deadly poison Dennett was equally a dab. Wimbarton's last try was that she needed sleep to make her fit before the morrow's operation, while he needed to talk to Mr. Dennett of business things. Mistress Wimbarton, looking like death on legs and smelling worse, had kept her spirit.