Curse of the Gypsy (17 page)

“How would Grover have gotten your brother away?” Darkefell asked.

“That would not be so difficult as it seems. He must have lured him on some pretense,” Anne said. “Jamey is very strong and robust. No one could have carried him away, nor even led him away violently. But he’s an innocent, Tony. If someone said they had a pretty butterfly for him to see, or asked him to identify a beetle, he would have gladly gone along, and wouldn’t see the trap until it was sprung.” That was why the retired cottage of Farfield Farm was chosen, Anne thought but did not say. Jamey had little contact with anyone but the Jacksons.

“I don’t understand what Grover means by the ‘Oat House beyond the Dell.’ What the devil is that?”

Anne stared at the paper for a long minute. “Not oat house, but
oast
house. Tony, he means one of the oast houses, where the hops are dried and kilned!”

Mr. Jackson mused, “The oast house beyond the dell … why, that must be the abandoned one, milady, the one Mr. Destry was gonna have redone next year, if’n he got round to it.”

“Where is this oast house?” Darkefell said.

Anne opened her mouth, then clapped it shut. If he knew exactly where it was, he would leave her behind and go to confront Grover alone. “I’ll tell you as we go,” she said grimly. She sensed that he tensed, then relaxed.

“Let’s go, and quickly.”

Anne left instruction for Dorcas to take the Farfield Farm pony cart to Harecross Hall to retrieve Sanderson, who was to meet them at the abandoned oast house with a coterie of armed grooms. She scribbled a note for her driver, but warned him not to worry her father about the trouble. He was useless to help, and if they managed to solve the calamity swiftly, he could be told later in a way that would make light of the adventure.

But Anne feared that this would not be solved easily.

***

As frightened as she was, Anne would not be bowed by Hiram Grover’s wickedness, and Darkefell was impressed once again by her fortitude. And yet a little maidenly trembling would have allowed him to take the role of comforter. He didn’t wish her to be less than she was though, and those moments when she did turn to him for strength were precious. It showed him more about her reliance on him than he supposed she knew.

They rode back the way they came, then Anne directed him along an overgrown path that shot away from the main carriage trail toward a hill, beyond which he could see the peaked roof of a building of some sort. He had seen oast houses in Kent before, he supposed, but never taken notice, as their property, Hawk Park, was a simple hunting box with no home farm or acreage beyond some unfenced pasture. The rest was kept wooded and natural with only a game manager and his wife in attendance.

“Is that the place?” he asked, pointing to the peaked roof visible beyond the rise.

“Yes,” she replied. “It is the first oast house on Harecross property, built when my grandfather began to plant the crop many years ago. I believe it’s used for storage right now.”

“How long will it take Sanderson to arrive?” asked Darkefell. He well remembered how useful the laconic driver was in the trouble in Cornwall, lending his strength and silent presence whenever and wherever needed.

“A half hour or more,” Anne said. “We can’t wait for him, though! Who knows what that man is doing to poor Jamey.”

“Calm, my dear Anne!” He turned his mount left and trotted along the hill toward a wooded patch that appeared to run behind the oast house. He leaped off Golden and helped Anne down, then looped the horse’s reins over a nearby branch.

“Why aren’t we closer?” she asked.

“Do you want to announce our presence?” he said, taking her hand. “Stay close to the trees.” He hunched down, pulling her toward the edge of the woods. “Let’s observe for a moment. Nothing will be gained by blundering into trouble.”

“Of course,” she murmured, stumbling over the brushy ground. “I wasn’t thinking.”

They crept along the wooded edge, startling a covey of partridges that flew up from the grassy patch by a dead thorn bush. “Are you sure this is the building?” Darkefell murmured, after they watched it for a few minutes but saw no discernible activity. One part was a square brick tower, about twenty feet tall, and a long low building adjoined it. They crouched in the brush slightly to one side of the barn portion.

“Yes. This oast house is further from the fields than the others, which is one reason Mr. Destry, my father’s land steward, has been considering having it torn down. It hasn’t been used for years.”

“Why does it still stand then?” Darkefell said, irritated by such laxity in governing the estate. “Why has no decision been made?”

“Mr. Destry is ill and too old to be effective, I think, but Father will not hear of pensioning him off, since he’s the sole support of a family. I’m going to try to convince my father to hire the man an assistant.”

“For an estate this size?” Darkefell said, his tone dismissive. “Shouldn’t be necessary.”

“Tony, it’s not your business,” Anne said sharply. “You pointed out it is not my property, but it isn’t yours, either. Can we just keep on the business at hand?”

“I know you’re worried,” he said, putting one warm hand on her shoulder. “Let’s consider our course of action, as it will be some time before we can expect Sanderson and your men. If we tried to tackle this alone we could endanger your brother’s life, and I know you wouldn’t want to take that chance.”

They crouched in the long grass, concealed by a cluster of bushes, and talked quietly for a few minutes while they watched the oast house for signs of movement, but when tears began to flow down Anne’s cheeks, all Darkefell could think to do was hold her. He pulled her into his lap and held her head against his shoulder, letting her sob out her worries.

Not being a naturally weepy woman, she soon recovered and moved away, scrambling awkwardly off his lap and landing in a clump of yellow grass. She wiped the tears from her eyes and cleared her throat. “How I wish I had that devil here right now,” she said. “Why did he not just leave the country, once Pomfroy bungled everything and let him loose? That is what any sensible person would do.”

“I’m afraid he’s gone too far to make me believe he is anything but insane now.”

“For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do,” Anne said. “I am absolutely paralyzed with indecision. If we make the wrong move, Jamey could die.” Her voice caught and she choked back a sob. “I couldn’t bear that; I just couldn’t bear it!”

“Look,” Darkefell exclaimed, rising up on his knees.

Anne turned her gaze toward the oast house but didn’t see anything to warrant Darkefell’s excitement until a flash of red in the side window of the storage section caught her attention. It moved. “Jamey!” she gasped. “I think that’s likely Jamey’s favorite jacket, red wool. He’s army mad and had to have a red jacket. Damn that man … my poor frightened Jamey! We must go get him.”

She began to rise up, but Darkefell grasped her habit skirt and she fell onto her bottom, pulled down by one sharp tug.

“Stop!” Darkefell said, gripping her arm with one hand. “Anne, I’m the last person to preach caution, but we don’t know what Grover has in there. Or even that he’s alone.”

She took in a long shuddering breath and slumped down. “You’re right, of course. It would do me no good at all to charge in there and become a prisoner along with him.”

They waited. The rattle of a cart in the distance, approaching, caught her attention and she touched his shoulder. It was, indeed, Sanderson, though he approached circuitously. He had three of the sturdiest and most intelligent of the grooms in the cart, and two were armed with pistols used for dispatching sickly animals.

Anne swiftly informed her driver what was going on, for Dorcas had given him only a vague and garbled account. Darkefell pointed out that as the oast house was on the edge of the woods, that back side was likely the best direction from which to approach it, with the trees to screen their movement.

“There are no windows on the back side,” Anne added, “just on the front and sides to let in daylight.”

It would be pointless to tell Anne to stay out of the way, Darkefell knew. It was her brother, but even if it hadn’t been, she had shown herself intrepid, and willing to risk any danger in the pursuit of justice. His only choice was to do all he could to keep her safe. Sanderson took charge of the grooms, and the entire group slipped into the woods to approach the oast house from behind. Darkefell touched Anne’s arm and beckoned the others, once they got closer.

“We are not at all sure how many may be in the oast house, or where in the house they are. We saw movement in the barn section.”

Anne said, “The door between the kiln and shed could be open, so they could be anywhere inside.”

“Our intent is this: first, we wish to free Lord James,” Darkefell continued. “You all know him by sight. Hiram Grover is his captor. He is an older man, stout, bandy-legged. I have not seen him since he escaped captivity, so I do not know what he wears, or if he is still bewigged.”

“Sanderson,” Anne said, “while his lordship and I distract Grover and try to free Jamey, you and your men secure the rest of the oast house and make sure there are no others. You may be able to trap Grover, I don’t know. I can’t imagine they would be in the kell, for the upper floors are in terrible shape, likely to break through after a leak in the kell roof.”

Sanderson nodded.

“I beg your pardon,” Darkefell said, “but I’m not sure I understand what a ‘kell’ is?”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Anne said. “That’s a local word for the kiln. The upper floors of the kiln section—the tower, you know—are constructed of thin slats covered by horsehair to allow the heat to circulate through the hops and dry them for bagging. Walking on the kell floors, especially after years of abandonment, would not be wise, as they are inclined to be precarious.”

“There be a back door to the stowage; we’ll hafta go in that way, all of us,” Sanderson muttered.

Anne’s stomach was twisted into knots, fear for Jamey making her feel quite ill. She peered through brush at the edge of the woods, wondering if Grover had seen them, trying not to think about what her poor brother was suffering. He disliked change, and this was certainly a vast alteration in his routine. “Let’s go, then,” she said, anxious to get it done. There was no way to determine if the two men were inside, where inside they were, or what the situation was. The rescue needed to happen rapidly so as not to give Grover any warning.

Hampered by her skirts, she followed the men to the back of the long stowage barn that abutted the square kell, or kiln, section of the oast house. Sanderson and the marquess were about to kick in the rickety door, when Anne hissed at them. “No!” she muttered. She moved forward and lifted the latch quietly.

Darkefell looked sheepish, but the moment passed as she prayed the hinges wouldn’t squeak too badly. Unfortunately they did, obliterating any benefit of opening the unlatched door rather than breaking it down.

“Jamey,” she shrieked, peering past the men and seeing her brother down on the floor.

“Annie!” he cried, lumbering to his feet, lens in hand.

That was when she spied Grover. He swiftly raised a pistol to Jamey’s head, so as the men swarmed into the barn, dust raised from their booted feet drifting in the sunlight leaking through the one window, she grabbed Darkefell’s arm and shouted, “Stop! Everyone!”

Silence.

“Grover, let Lord James go,” Darkefell said, his voice guttural and grim with anger darkening the tone.

“Why would I do that?” he asked.

Anne was shocked by the man’s appearance. He had lost weight, a lot of it, and his belly sagged like a deflated cow bladder the village boys kicked about. He was unshaven, wigless, and wore clothes more suited to a laborer than the country squire he had styled himself to be.

“You will let him go or I’ll kill you,” Darkefell said.

“Not before this young fellow dies,” he said, waving the pistol barrel at Jamey. “I don’t want to do that. I’ve no quarrel with the simpleton.”

Anne stepped forward. “Mr. Grover, let my brother go,” she said, elbowing past Darkefell, who was not, in her opinion, helping any. “He has never harmed you and has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Of course he doesn’t.”

“Then let him go,” Anne pleaded.

Silence. Grover appeared baffled, his brows drawn down over his pale watery eyes. He was shrunk and shaking, the gun wavering in his hand. “I came here looking for you,” he said, waving the gun at her. “But you weren’t here for the longest time. I had to steal food!” he cried. “Outrageous, that a man of my … my stature in the community should be reduced to such … such … scrabbling like a rat for food.”

The men shuffled, wondering what to do, no doubt, Anne thought, trying to figure out the best solution. Her breath caught in her throat and she sobbed, trying to hold it back, but it escaped.

“What’s wrong, Annie?” Jamey asked.

“I watched and watched,” Grover went on, as if Jamey had not spoken. “For weeks! The gypsy camp, those filthy wretches … dregs of humanity.” He drew himself up. “To think that I have had to consort with such filth!”

Anne, her voice trembling, said, “You’re worse than any gypsy, you foul slaver, murderer, killing Cecilia and her unborn baby!”

“Fornicator! She was a fornicator!” he shouted.

“Anne, this is not getting us anywhere,” Darkefell muttered, moving slightly, his boots scuffing on the dirty wood floor. “Grover,” he said gently, “Theo wants you to give yourself up.”

The man didn’t appear to hear the marquess, and went on, muttering, his voice growing louder and then softening as he raved, “I have been watching you for weeks, but there were always people about!”

Anne took in a deep shuddering breath, thinking of all the times she had been alone, on her way to the gypsy camp. A sudden pain shot through her shoulder and she gasped. Was he responsible for the shot at her? Was he her would-be assassin? Thank the Lord he had been so improvident to shoot and graze her, and that in front of others! Otherwise, if he had been a better shot and more patient, she could have fallen and died with no one the wiser. “What did you think, Mr. Grover? Of course there are always people about at Harecross Hall,” she said, casting a glance at Darkefell and shrugging. She would have to explain to him later.