Free Devil's Prize by Jane Jackson Page B

the dread that turned his guts liquid. He needed time and he needed money. But first he needed to know for certain if Trevanion had been telling the truth. Was the emerald really the last of the gemstones? Or had that just been an excuse? What if the colonel was simply backing out of their arrangement like the other two venturers had? Even worse, what if he’d decided to invest with the Carters or the Rinsey boys instead?
    Thomas cleared his throat. It took huge effort to hold his voice steady.
    ‘Make yourself useful and find me two men. But I don’t want anyone local.’
    ‘No need to bring in outsiders. If you want a bit o’ help I don’t mind doing whatever ’tis.’
    Thomas shook his head. ‘No. You’re known in the village. Besides, it could be dangerous. If only Charlie –’ He shook his head.
    ‘Always up for a dare, Charlie was,’ Willie murmured, then lifted his head. His face was haggard with grief. ‘And where’s he to now?’ he demanded. ‘Feeding the bleddy crabs.’ He drained his glass. ‘Say I find someone. What’s in it for me?’
    ‘Same as for them, brandy and tobacco. Keep it or trade it, your choice.’
    ‘Fair enough.’ Willie nodded. ‘Trouble, is it? I’ll get ’e a couple o’ tinners then. Good in a fight they are. What do ’e want ’em for?’
    ‘Don’t ask. If you don’t know you can’t tell.’ Thomas swallowed the remainder of his brandy, welcoming the burst of heat along his veins. Panic was replaced by growing excitement. He’d show them. He’d show all of them. He had a plan. By this time next week all his problems could be over and done with, out of his life for good. And that included his hated brother.
    Jared pushed aside his empty plate and leaned back patting his stomach. ‘’Andsome, that was, mother.’
    ‘Nothing like fresh pilchards.’ Inez rose from her chair. ‘Want any more, do ’e, Arf? Devlin?’
    Both men shook their heads. Her husband pushed his chair round and reached for his pipe. ‘Full as a tick I am. Couldn’t eat another bite.’
    Devlin smiled at her. ‘You’re a fine cook, Inez. Will you marry me when I grow up?’ It was a long-standing joke.
    ‘Here, don’t you go giving her ideas,’ Arf growled, blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke. ‘Took me years to get her trained.’ He winked at his wife who tossed her head and hid a smile.
    Tired and replete, Devlin stretched. Three days ago Becky Couch, who lived above one of the cellars, had heard the stones moving. These were round granite boulders used as weights to press oil and brine from the casks of salted pilchards. They each weighed roughly a hundredweight and were fitted with an iron hook to lift them into the casks.
    No one had ever actually seen them roll about on the cellar floors. But tradition held that to hear them, especially in the evening, was a good omen. It was a month since the last good catch so word of Becky’s visitation had rushed through the streets and alleys like a gale. That night hope made sleep fitful and restless for almost everyone in the village.
    Shortly after dawn the following morning came the cry they had all been waiting for. Sighting a shoal, the boy posted as lookout in the small hut at the highest point on the cliff bellowed, ‘Heva! Heva!’ at the top of his lungs.
    Within the hour every fishing boat was on the water. They worked for three days and nights. Arf’s crew, Devlin’s men, and two more boats handled the seine. Other boats used hand lines to haul in scores of hake that ran with the pilchards to prey on them.
    That evening, when the first of the catch was brought ashore, every woman and child in the village hurried to the cellars. There they piled the fish, layered with salt, in square heaps on the stone floor. It was hard exhausting labour. But no one complained for it brought in much-needed money. For ten days the heaped fish would be left untouched while the blood and brine drained out.
    Devlin wasn’t surprised when