Cold Shoulder Road (12 page)

To their dismay, though, when a chaise drawn by two horses presently drew up outside the front door, and Dominic de la Twite jumped down from it, they saw there was a driver as well – a big, wooden-faced fellow with ginger hair.

“Oh, mercy! That is Will Fobbing – the Leader’s bodyguard. I should have thought of that . . . I doubt there will not be enough cordial for two—”

“
Bodyguard
? He has a bodyguard? What for, in Hengist’s name?”

“Oh, there have been various threats against him – from the Merry Gentry, we are told – and from people of Seagate who resent the Silent Sect—”

The front door burst open and the Leader strode in without troubling to knock. Arun, behind him, looked like a sleepwalker.

“Where is Micah?” demanded de la Twite.

Mrs Swannett made gestures as of wheels turning and pointed northward. She curtsyed politely as she did so, but Is, catching her thoughts, found them full of mutiny and dislike.

“Oh. A pity. He could have come too and been of use. Never mind. You – girl – shift yourself. You must ride with us now to show where your sister lives.”

His commanding eye rested on the air about a foot over Is’s head, as if she were not worth a direct look. Seems he don’t think much of females, excepting Arun’s Mum, thought Is, and had a warning thought-message from Window Swannett:

“Watch out! The Leader is no fool! Keep your thoughts well away from his. And – make no mistake about this – he
hated
Ruth Twite.”

Now Mrs Swannett was handing Is a parcel of food, neatly wrapped in brown paper, and a stone jug with a cork in it. “Provisions for your journey,” she mimed to de la Twite, and he acknowledged the things with a gracious nod.

“Thank you, that was well thought of.”

“And these things were in your pocket – a penknife and some acorns and hazel-nuts and the silver coins,” Window told Arun, gently touching his arm. He took the things dazedly, not seeming to catch her thought-message. She gave him a look full of worry and concern.

“How far to your sister’s?” The Leader asked Is, pushing her impatiently towards the waiting chaise.

“Couldn’t reckon to get there afore sundown,” she answered shortly, climbing into the carriage. The only vacant seat was facing Arun and de la Twite, with her back to the driver. She sat down. De la Twite kept his hand on Arun’s neck in what seemed a friendly, fatherly gesture, but, Is guessed, was no such thing; it was to maintain total control over him.

She kept trying, over and over, to make contact with Arun’s thought-stream, but could get nowhere near. He was locked away from her.

But – as they drove away from the house – she had a sudden picture, painfully clear, of Window Swannett walking wearily back into her empty room, sitting down at the table, and bowing her head on to her folded arms in a terrible seizure of grief and loneliness.

Now she hasn’t even got their clothes, thought Is.

The chaise bowled briskly out of town.

D
OMINIC DE LA TWITE WAS A TALL, BULKY MAN
, grey-haired, but with a smooth, youthfully rounded, high-coloured face. His hair, long, coarse, thick, and wavy, curled and swept about his head; a lock of it kept falling forward, which he constantly swept back. He wore no hat. There were deep dimples in his chin and cheeks, and when he smiled – which happened every time he spoke to Arun – his large round face sparkled with warmth and interest, two curved grooves flashed out on either side of the big, jutting nose, the eyes crinkled, and the nose itself appeared to tilt eagerly forward.

And it’s all as big a sham as a tin sixpence, thought Is, coldly regarding him. Aunt Ruth was dead right in what she said about this cove; he’s as bent as they come.

She remembered what the Admiral had said about de la Twite: “Impressive presence.
Godlike
—” pursing up his thin lips. “I would never choose a man with eyes that colour to be my first officer.”

Though – thought Is fairly – I wouldn’t take the Admiral’s advice either, if I was buying a pony; not if he stood to gain by the sale. I reckon him and Dominic are a pair.

When he was angry, the Leader did not scowl, but his face went curiously blank, as if a light had been blown out. This happened several times on the way out of Seagate, when the carriage passed a wall or stretch of fencing on which the word
LOMAK
had been written. Sometimes it was just
MAK
. Each time he noticed this inscription, de la Twite made Will Fobbing stop the horses, get out, and wipe off the offending letters.

“What’s it mean, Mister – that word?” Is enquired, the third time this happened. “Why does it rile you? Is that somebody’s monacker? Who is Lomak?”

The Leader glanced at Is coldly but did not deign to reply, except to say, “Girls should be seen, not heard.”

“
I
ain’t a member of your sorbent Sect,” Is pointed out. “Nobody can’t stop me speaking.”

“Then why did you put on our raiment?”

“Mrs Swannett kindly give ’em to me and Arun ’cos ours was in shreds and her boys drownded.”

And it was
your
fault they drownded, Is recalled. She glared at the Leader, who ignored her glare. It was then that
Is
noticed, under his seat, a gleam of something wrapped up in sacking. Something that looked uncommonly like pistols and pairs of handcuffs.

“
Hey! Arun! They’ve got duke-irons aboard!
What kind of a havey-cavey start is this? What do they want famble-snickers for?”

She poured out these messages to Arun, but he was not receiving anything she sent him.

Arun had curled up against the Leader, fast asleep, like a cat; even the whites of his eyes had turned up, as those of cats do, when they are stretched out in really deep slumber.

Dominic de la Twite gave Is a cold, sharp glance, and she wondered if he could be catching some restless movement, some kind of mental draught, from the thoughts she had been hurling at Arun. Better not chance it any more just now, she decided. Instead she turned and gazed out through the glass, thinking sadly how pleasant it would have been to ride through the country like this, travelling towards her sister Penny – if only she were certain that Penny would be there at the end of the journey, and – to be sure – if the carriage held different travelling companions.

On either side, the fields of Kent rolled past. Sometimes there were orchards, coming into bud. Sometimes, marshy meadows. They struck into a straight Roman road and made better speed. Now the meadows were replaced by hop-fields, where men were striding to and fro on stilts, setting up the high spindly framework of poles and fine cords needed for the summer’s hop harvest.

They passed a tiny hamlet, just two or three houses nestling among trees, about a quarter of a mile from the highway.

WOMENSWOLD
, said the sign pointing to it.

Where have I heard that name lately? wondered Is, as the horses trotted on. Somebody spoke of it in the last day or two; now who? A place where something right odd happened; now what?

As they drew away from the village and entered the forest, which lay very close by it, she remembered. It was Captain Podmore. A thirty-three-gun frigate had been blown inland by the gale and came to roost in a chestnut tree.

As the memory returned, she had a far-distant glimpse of what might be the ship itself – something bulky and black, lodged in a huge tree, among a clump of other huge trees. She would have liked to rouse Arun and draw his attention to the interesting sight, but they had drawn past it before there was time to do so. And anyway, poor boy, let him sleep, she thought. Maybe it wasn’t the ship after all. Maybe somebody just took a fancy to build a house in a tree. Would be a fine way to keep out of wolves’ reach. Recalling various battles that she and Penny had fought to prevent wolves entering their forest dwelling, she drifted into a light sleep.

When she woke she found that the hop-fields with their spiky poles had given way to dense forest on both sides – the great oak-woods of Kent. Mighty trees crowded close to the road. Mostly they were leafless and bare, still, but just the presence of the forest round her made Is feel at home and comfortable.

After all, she thought, I know these parts well; it’d be a rare rum go if
I
couldn’t contrive to give these nikeys the slip . . . But Arun? How will I ever rouse him? What about Arun?

She looked up from her considerings to see the Leader giving her a cold, assessing stare.

After a few minutes, he asked, “Do you know your aunt Ruth Twite?”

“Never met her,” Is told him promptly. And she added, “But she sounds a real nice lady. And clever, too.”

“Your uncle Hosiah? Did you know him?”

“Met him only the once.”

Is did not mention that she had given her uncle Hosiah, on his death-bed, a promise to find her runaway cousin Arun and see him safe back to his sorrowing Mum; Dominic de la Twite certainly had no right to that piece of family information.

Anyway –
was
Arun’s Mum still sorrowing?

Arun continued to sleep; she had never known him sink into such a deep slumber. Maybe he was still tired out from their struggle through the cave last night, or maybe it was something to do with the Leader’s baneful presence.

De la Twite went on with his catechism.

“Did you see Ruth Twite’s pictures, girl?”

“Sure did, Mister.” Since Arun had already told the story, there would be no point in concealment. “Arun and me shifted ’em all into the old Admiral’s cave. There he thought they’d be safe from neighbours.”

“All
of them?” said de la Twite. “The portraits as well?”

“There wasn’t no portraits, Mister. Maybe,” Is added, consideringly, “the owd Admiral had took those already,” and got a very sharp look from the Leader. This feller must certainly be acquainted with the Admiral, Is thought, if he lived right next door to the Twites in Cold Shoulder Road. For they was right matey with the old boy, Uncle Hose used to mend his brogans and play golf, and Aunt Ruth looked after his Missus. So . . . stands to reason this Mr Dominic musta been acquainted with him, or at least know him by sight.

But the Admiral’s a pretty rum customer, a
mighty
rum customer; he’s tough and I reckon he’s sly. In fact – come to think – he and this Leader cove are two of a kind . . .

“So – where is this cave?” asked de la Twite carelessly, “this cave of the Admiral’s?”

Is decided to be economical with the truth.

“Well, Mister, that I can’t rightly tell you. We was only there in the dark, see, a-stowing the pictures away. But it’s somewhere not too far from the Admiral’s house.”

I reckon the Leader is just dying to get his paws on those pictures, she thought. Let him just try, that’s all. He’ll come up against Rosamund maybe, that’ll surprise him.

Soon after this they passed a signpost pointing to Eltham. All this time the horses had been keeping up a very respectable pace. Sixteen-mile-an-hour tits they must be, thought Is.

But we’re getting mighty close to home, now, she realised. Time I took a hand.

Aloud she said, “How about a bite of prog, mister? Care for an oatcake or a dried plum? Arun! Stir your stumps, boy! How about a bite to eat? Or a sup of tansy tea?”

Arun woke up drowsily and accepted a dried plum. His thoughts were still screened away from Is, she could not tell what was going through his mind, and she hoped he remembered that the tea was drugged. The Leader carelessly accepted an oatcake and a morsel of cheese.

“How about the driver?” suggested Is. “Isn’t he peckish? Won’t he want summat?”

She hoped that they might pull to a stop, for dusk was now beginning to creep through the trees. Once they came to a standstill, surely it would not be hard for her and Arun to give these men the slip and vanish from view. If only she could transmit her plan to Arun! But he was looking dazed and bewildered, hardly seemed to know where he was.

“The driver needs nothing. He is well enough without,” said de la Twite shortly.

But at this the driver – who could evidently hear all they were saying – suddenly bawled out, “
No, I bain’t!
I’ve a thirst on me like the go-shop desert; I’d break me neck for a sup o’ drink.”

“Oh, all right, very well,” said de la Twite shortly. “The gal’s got some tansy tea; she’ll pass you the bottle.”

“Tansy tea! What sort of a jossop is
that
?”

But still, he accepted the stone bottle when Is handed it over the box; to her dismay, he then drained it completely.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Now there’s none for you, Mister.”

“Wouldn’t have touched the stuff anyway; tea is about as welcome as water in my shoes,” said the Leader shortly, and drank from a bottle of his own which he produced from his greatcoat pocket.

But oh, drabbit it, thought Is;
now
what’ll we do? If only it had been the other way round! For that driver fellow seems as thick as a plank, no sweat getting away from him; but the Leader’s quite another basket of eels. Now we’re really in the suds.

Indeed, the Leader appeared more and more alert, as they approached Blackheath Edge. He kept asking Is for directions at every crossroads, at every path or turning, almost at every tree. His eyes bored into her like drills and Is found that – entirely against her own will and convictions – she was guiding him, willy-nilly, along the tangled way through the forest to the remote and unvisited region where she and Penny had lived in their peaceful barn.

Supposing Penny’s there with Arun’s Mum, she thought desperately. How’ll we manage, what’ll we do? How could I have let this happen? How
could
I?

The horses were tired now, plodding along more and more slowly; or perhaps it was because the driver sat nodding, almost asleep, on his seat. The last part of the way followed a woodland ride, grassed over, where the trees crowded close to the track, so that it was just as well the pace of the chaise had dwindled to a weary walk.