Black Wreath (19 page)

James looked at his clothes, imagining his hat and poor shirt set out in print, and wondered what the reward for his capture might be.

And yet, he thought, there might be a way. He had not forgotten the day he had picked up the letter from McAllister in the bookshop at the sign of the Bible. He hadn’t kept the letter but he had committed McAllister’s particulars to his memory, and they were still lodged securely there. What if he were to get a letter to McAllister? Maybe he could find some way of helping him. Who knows, he might even be able to persuade Mackenzie to let McAllister buy him, and then James would be free at last to make his way home to Dublin. But how would he get the letter to McAllister? It was one thing to have the address, but Mackenzie didn’t provide a postal service for his servants and slaves. James would have to find someone to bring the letter from the farm to some place where it could be conveyed to McAllister. He couldn’t think of anyone who might be likely to provide that service for him, yet he must be ready in case the opportunity should arise.

It took some time for James to get his hands on some old paper, and to make ink from a mix of tea leaves, boiling water
and gum. When the ink was ready, he wrote to McAllister telling him all that had happened to him and giving him as much detail as he could about the place he was now in. He pleaded with him to do what he could to come to his aid, for he didn’t think he had the strength to last much longer in this wild prison. When he had finished, he sealed the letter with some wax from his candle and hid the letter under the thin pallet that served as his bed. Now he only had to find someone to give it to.

Twenty-Six

Indelible Affection

S
ylvia wasn’t familiar with this part of the city. She usually kept within the comfort of her own district and had no fear of walking alone there. But today she had walked down to the river and across the old bridge. She was accosted by beggars as she went by but she kept moving swiftly, walking as though she knew exactly where she was going. The din of the crowded Glib Market filled her with fear at first, but she told herself it was just another market, and if the Liberties was an unfamiliar quarter to her, it was not after all another planet. The traders, the buyers, the beggars were not so different from those she was used to. And anyway, if she could manage Red Molly’s, she could manage this. She pushed on, her definite steps more certain than she was, until she found the church and the graveyard behind it, exactly as the woman had described.

It had taken some doing to get this far. She and her father
hadn’t been able to find out much on the day that James disappeared. Many people had seen a carriage travel by at speed, but there was nothing particularly unusual about that. The city was full of carriages that often raced through the streets without regard for who might be in their path. They could only guess that he must have been taken to his uncle’s house. Through many enquiries they had found out that Lord Dunmain had taken a house outside the city and Sylvia and her father had immediately made their way there.

But James’s uncle hadn’t forgotten the indignity of his visit to Phoenix Street, and he treated them with amused contempt.

‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen my nephew since that day in your charming house. Don’t tell me you’ve lost him.’

‘There are those who care for his welfare, and they are more numerous than you might think,’ Sylvia’s father had said.

‘Oh dear, should I be afraid?’ Dunmain retorted.

He made it clear that he was lying through his teeth and that there was not a thing they could do about it.

‘How is your meat, Purcell?’ he’d said before dismissing them. ‘Perhaps you might send a sample to my cook. We can always be doing with a good butcher.’

Sylvia had been desolate on the long walk back to Phoenix Street. Her mind was filled with the terrible things that might have happened to James, but she wasn’t prepared to give up the search, even if it meant finding his dead body. She would know what became of him if it was the last thing she did.

James had told her of his time with the Darcy gang and
though she had been shocked at the time, she began to think that it would take someone like Jack Darcy to find out what had become of James. But how would she find him? You didn’t just walk around the streets asking for a notorious criminal. James had also told her about his friend Harry and she decided to pay him a visit.

‘I don’t know where you’d find Jack Darcy,’ Harry said. ‘Footpads like him are always on the move, they don’t sleep two nights in the same place if they can help it. But I’ve heard of a tavern they go to, Red Molly’s near Watling Street.’

Sylvia didn’t like the sound of the tavern or the street. But if that’s what it took …

‘I’ll come with you, if you like,’ Harry said suddenly, and Sylvia smiled in relief.

And so, one afternoon, Sylvia slipped out of the house and went to meet Harry, and they made their way to Red Molly’s. Even with Harry beside her, Sylvia was nervous. The lane stank and she started as she saw a huge rat scurry down the middle of the lane as if he owned it.

It was Molly herself who answered the door, and she looked the two of them up and down. ‘No beggars or children here,’ she said.

How could James have been in a place like this, with a woman like this? Sylvia wondered.

‘We’re here about the boy who used to be with Jack Darcy,’ Harry said.

Molly’s eyes narrowed.

‘A fair-haired, well-spoken boy,’ Sylvia added.

Molly considered her. ‘What’s it to you?’ she said.

Sylvia flushed. ‘He was staying with us. My family took him in. And now he’s been abducted.’

Molly’s tone softened. ‘You better come in,’ she said.

When she heard them out, she agreed that Jack Darcy would be the best person to help. ‘If he’s so inclined,’ she added. ‘James did kill one of his men, don’t forget.’

‘He had no choice,’ Sylvia rushed to defend him. ‘It was that or be killed.’

Molly gave her a long look. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

Again Sylvia flushed. Was it so obvious? She could hardly explain her own feelings to herself; she was afraid to consider too closely the rush of warmth she felt when James’s image came into her mind. All she knew now was she wanted him back.

Molly agreed to arrange for Jack to meet Sylvia.

‘I don’t promise anything,’ she said. ‘I can’t even say that he’ll turn up. But I think he liked the boy, so you just might be lucky.’

And so here she was, on the appointed day at the appointed hour, staring at a headstone in the little graveyard with a tight knot of fear in her stomach. The bells of all the churches in the district rang out the hour and fell silent again. No one entered the graveyard. Sylvia walked slowly among the headstones, scrutinising each one to keep her from the possibility that her journey had been for nothing.

Hereunder lieth the corps of Robart Bagot and his wife Ellenor. Here lyeth the body of Mrs Allice Brown. Here lies the remains of
Sarah. This frail record of indelible affection to a beloved husband …
‘Indelible affection’; I hope someone remembers me like that.’ Sylvia started, and gave a little cry of fright. A man stood beside her, tallish, in a handsome coat, a foppish air about him, smiling now in enjoyment of her discomfort. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Sylvia hadn’t heard the gate opening or registered the sound of his boots on the gravel.

‘Jack Darcy?’ She felt foolish the moment she said his name. What if it wasn’t him but some government agent who was following Darcy and had somehow got wind of this meeting?

The man bowed, a little too much for Sylvia’s taste. ‘The very same. And you’re the young woman Molly told me about. She tells me young James Brown is in trouble.’

‘James Brown?’

‘That’s what he went by when he was with us, though I knew he was lying. One of my men got wind of the fact that he was in fact Lord Jim.’

‘Lord Bluecoat they call him in my neighbourhood, because of his blue school tunic.’

‘Very nice, I’m sure. And how is all this of interest to me?’

‘I think James admired you,’ Sylvia said. She may as well flatter him.

Darcy merely looked at her with eyebrows raised. She saw that she should be careful: the man, whatever else he might be, was no fool.

‘And I think you liked him.’ This at least might be true.

‘I’d have liked him better if he hadn’t killed one of my men.’ Darcy didn’t seem particularly aggrieved by the loss.

‘I’m sure he did what he had to do. The man attacked him. Very likely he was in the pay of the man who now has him.’

‘Very likely. But I’m still not sure what my role in this is.’

Sylvia took a deep breath. ‘His uncle pretends he has no idea where James is. He won’t listen to the likes of me or my father. He has no fear of us. But if someone were to strike fear into him …’

Darcy smiled. ‘Someone like me,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Sylvia said. ‘He might listen to you; he might tell you where James is.’

‘With my sword at his throat, you mean. And what might my reward be for this information?’

‘Reward?’ Sylvia said. ‘I hadn’t thought …’

‘It’s an expensive business, you know. It won’t be a case of calling to his door. There will be preparations to be made, colleagues to be enlisted. I can see you’ve done little robbing or kidnapping.’

Sylvia was about to reply indignantly when she realised he was toying with her.

‘He’s bound to have money, and his house is probably full of valuables. I thought you might combine robbing and information getting.’

Sylvia hadn’t thought any such thing, and she was shocked at how naturally the idea had presented itself to her.

Darcy was smiling again. ‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? Does your father know what a little criminal you are?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what would happen if anyone were to hear us now?’

‘The dead have no ears to listen to us,’ Sylvia said.

‘I hope not,’ Darcy said. ‘Some of them might well have something to say to me. Look, I liked the boy, as you said, so I’ll undertake this. And since the dead are so obliging, I’ll meet you here one week hence at the same hour. By the same indelible affection.’ He pointed to the headstone, and then turned and was gone.

Sylvia didn’t have to wait a week to find out that Darcy had indeed undertaken the enterprise. From Harry she learned that the city was buzzing with news of Jack Darcy’s latest exploit. It had even made it to the pages of
The Journal.
An outrageous assault. The carriage of Lord Dunmain attacked. His lordship accosted, his watch, clothes and money taken.

‘You’d better be careful,’ Harry said. ‘The sheriff will feel the heat of this; he’ll have to look like he’s doing something about it.’

‘They’ll hardly be looking for a young girl,’ Sylvia said.

‘Just make sure no one sees you with Jack Darcy. They hang girls too, remember.’

A week after her first meeting, Sylvia made her way across the city again, this time more nervous than the last, with Harry’s words ringing in her ears. To comfort her, he said he’d wait for her by the Cornmarket House. This time when she entered the graveyard she was horrified to see that she wasn’t alone. A man of middle years stood before a headstone looking intently at the inscription. Sylvia panicked and turned on her heel to go, but then thought better of it. To leave now would look more suspicious than staying put and doing the
same thing the man was doing. She stood before a headstone at the far end of the graveyard and immersed herself in its inscription. After a while, the man left and she breathed easily again. Some time after the appointed hour Darcy appeared beside her.

‘Did you find out where James is?’

‘What happened to “Good day, sir, how are you”? That was quite a job, you know.’

‘So I hear. But not unprofitable, I think.’

‘A man has to live.’

Sylvia’s face must have betrayed her impatience, for he quickly continued.

‘It was difficult to find anything out at first. He needed a lot of persuasion, I’m afraid.’ Darcy touched the hilt of his sword.

‘Where is he?’ Sylvia said, unable to restrain herself.

‘It’s not that simple,’ Darcy said. ‘Dunmain had the boy sent away, that much I did find out. But even if you are disposing of your own nephew, with people like that there’s always someone else to do the work for you. You wave your hand and say let this be done or that be done and lo, it’s done, but don’t let anyone bother you for the detail of it.’

‘But where was he sent, and who
does
know?’ Sylvia was close to despair. It seemed the nearer she got the farther she was slipping away.

‘The idea was to send him off to the American colonies as an indentured servant, which is a fancy term for slave if you ask Jack Darcy.’

Sylvia looked at him incredulously.

‘But can you do that? Can you just abduct someone like that and send them off to the other end of the world?’

Darcy looked at her pityingly. ‘You can do what you want if you have the money to pay for it,’ he said.

‘Did he say who arranged it?’

‘A man called Grady. But I didn’t see him.’

‘It’s his thug. He was in my house. You can’t mistake him, a big, ugly brute.’

Darcy shook his head.

‘It’s no small thing to do what I did,’ he said. ‘The gentry take particular exception to being attacked. They own the place, after all, so they take it personally. So, begging your pardon, I have to lie low for a while. I’d like to live a bit longer. I’m not ready for the rope just yet.’

‘But what am I to do?’

‘Ships have captains and like most men they like to drink and talk. Try the port taverns, someone might have heard something …’ And he was gone, as quickly as he came.