Free Death at Knytte by Jean Rowden Page A

his balance upon the bank of the ditch, but almost assoon as the carriage’s wheels had passed him, the reins were hauled in so viciously that the two fine chestnuts between the shafts threw up their heads in pain, one of them squealing in protest. The magnificent animals’ spanking pace was broken up into a frantic clatter of hoofbeats. Beddowes scowled and walked on, having no suspicion that this act of wanton cruelty had anything to do with him, until the driver threw the reins to a servant who had hurriedly dismounted from the rear, and leapt down from the box.
    The road was dusty and the sun bright, which might have excused the wide-brimmed hat drawn down over the man’s brow, and the scarf wrapped across the lower part of his face, but the day was warm, and as he approached he pulled the scarf higher. Beddowes felt a prickle of apprehension on his skin, as if some sixth sense was issuing a warning. This encounter was not to be a friendly one.
    ‘You!’ the single word confirmed Beddowes’ fears. He had seen little of his attacker the night before, but he recognized the voice at once.
    With no time to think, the sergeant’s hand went instinctively to his chest; there was no weapon there, but he drew out the package. ‘Is that you, y’r lordship? ’ere, I got it safe. I was lookin’, but I di’n’t know where to find you.’
    His fist already drawn back to deliver a blow, the man halted, staring at the package. He snatched it, tearing it open to stare at the contents. Rewrapping them roughly, he strode to the landaulet and tossed the jewels to the man who sat hidden inside. ‘Check it’s all there.’
    Within the shadows under the hood, Beddowes saw no more than an outline of a pale face, with feverishly bright eyes. ‘Is it him?’ a voice croaked. ‘By God, if I didn’t feel so damned weak I’d help you give him what he deserves.’
    The sergeant recalled that one of Sir Martin’s men hadclaimed to have scored a hit at the crossroads; evidently he’d been right. Cringing back, his eyes once more on the shrouded figure of the man who stood before him, Beddowes assessed his opponent. From his stance the man had studied boxing, and he already knew the strength of his grip. He had only one advantage; this man would expect little resistance from the crippled Fetch’n’carry Cobb. Even now, Beddowes was reluctant to give himself away. If it came to a fight he couldn’t be sure of success; there was the servant to contend with, and the injured man, who might be armed. This might be his last chance to keep contact with the thieves; lose them now and there was little chance he’d get close to them again.
    ‘You miserable piece of filth.’ He was seized by his ragged collar and shaken. ‘We were nearly taken last night. You sold us out.’
    ‘I never,’ Beddowes whined. He’d had plenty of time to invent his story, a different one from that he’d told to Bragg and his cronies, but that encounter had given him information which made his tale more credible. ‘It weren’t my fault. Them gents come by the gibbet soon arter I got there. What was I to do? They ’ad sojers with ’em, I couldn’t ’ardly run, could I? They said I’d do ’ard labour for the rest o’ me days if I didn’t do as I was told. I ’ad no choice, y’r honour. But they weren’t arter you, see, so ’tweren’t so bad. They was lookin’ fer a gang o’ rum-runners workin’ the coast ’ereabouts, tha’s what I ’eard, once all the shootin’ an’ the shoutin’ stopped.’
    ‘How did you get away?’ The fingers moved to tighten on his windpipe ‘I can’t believe they set you free, and never even searched you.’
    Beddowes winced; his throat still ached from their previous encounter. ‘The fire got out of ’and.’ His voice was a barely audible whisper. ‘I crep’ down a dyke while they was beatin’ at it, and jus’ kep’ goin’. I ’eard ’em chasin’ arter me, but I ain’tthat easy to catch, not me.