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Laughter. “For Chiver,” Husher said. “Ha ha.”
The Long Meg had her hands full, that was plain to Freame. She was struggling with the horses, and sure to lose the fight. That was good.
But not good enough. Better if the horses overturned the carriage. Better still if the damned lawyer broke his neck when he went down. But no, he was putting up a fight.
Time to give Husher a hand—or better yet, a knife.
But before Freame could move, another cove jumped up from the box, launched himself at Husher, and took him down.
The bloody damned box! Why hadn’t Squirrel gone up one of the hills or into the trees, to see what was in there?
Freame didn’t wait to weigh the odds. He ran.
With all the strength he could muster, Radford shoved the huge hand gripping his against Husher’s face. The whip handle cracked against Husher’s nose, and he roared and let go, clutching his nose as blood poured down his face.
Something thundered nearby. A flurry of movement, then Husher went down, over to one side into the road, Stokes on top of him.
Radford dragged himself to his feet. Another tide of darkness swirled in. But that was the park, whirling about him. Shadow-filled now. He struggled to get his bearings. He caught a glimpse of dimming sunlight through tree branches. He heard a noise he recognized, of a carriage in motion.
He turned toward the sound, in time to see the mail phaeton moving, gaining speed as it rumbled away.
Clara.
In a runaway carriage.
Clara had got the animals to stop rearing and dancing but they were still jittery, dragging the carriage along the road. Ahead lay a downhill stretch, with a dangerous turn near the bottom. She held on, fighting for calm while she tried to remember what Longmore had taught her about panicked horses. Stay calm, yes, but what else?
Then she spotted Freame. She’d been too focused on the horses to notice much else, but there he was, running as though the devil himself were after him.
“No, you don’t!” she shrieked. “Raven! He’s getting away!”
Chapter Twenty
In ravens’ weather, that is, when the sky lowers and portends storms, or after the storm has just passed, they may be seen upon the more open parts of the woods, sitting on a dark mass of stone and eyeing the desolation around them with keen and cautious glance.
—Charles F. Partington, The British Cyclopedia, 1836
Freame heard the Long Meg’s scream. He ran for all he was worth. He wouldn’t let himself look behind him. He heard it all: the hooves thundering too close behind, the chains rattling, the wheels rumbling. But he daren’t leave the road. It was all trees, rocks, bushes on either side. He wasn’t sure how much woodland there was or where the water was. He didn’t fancy breaking a leg or stumbling into an icy pond or bog.
Never mind. Not far to go now.
Squirrel waited with the curricle, only a little farther down the road. Freame could make it—though he might have to jump out of the way of the bloody damned horses. But they’d end in a crash, and the long Meg would end in pieces.
Next turn on the carriage road from there would take him and Squirrel to the Sheen Gate. From there, they’d be on the road for Putney in no time, then on to Putney Bridge. Then London, not four miles from the bridge.
He made himself run faster.
Make them think running is your idea, Longmore had said. Be in command. Pretend it’s a race.
The horses were already worked up. They needed to run. The rest was up to Clara.
All she had to do was stay calm and in control, watch for obstacles, hope nothing else alarmed the creatures, and keep them following Freame. Trees flew past her, pebbles flew up from the roadbed. The way ahead looked perilously steep and the horses were picking up speed, racing headlong down, toward the wicked turning and the thick stand of trees, stumps, and rocks it held.
But he whistled, then shouted something and signaled with his hand. She noticed movement in the stand of tall shrubbery not far ahead of him.
After a moment, she caught a glimpse of something, partly hidden in the shrubbery. It seemed to be a boy. Behind him, something else. Large animals. Horses. And more: the black hood of a carriage.
Freame was running toward them, about to round the bend in the road.
She couldn’t let him get in that carriage and get away. He couldn’t be let to run loose, to keep plotting against Radford.
She urged the horses on.
Freame looked back over his shoulder. His narrow face was white. He turned forward again and shouted something to the boy. But the boy had stopped short and he was gaping at Clara bearing down on them, wheels and horses’ hooves like thunder above the rustling leaves and the birds’ cries. Freame roared something and turned abruptly toward the boy—and escape—and she screamed, “No!”
The scream went through Radford like a knife. He watched the carriage list precariously to one side as it entered the turning. His racing heart stopped, and for one icy instant, he saw in his mind’s eye the vehicle slowly toppling, toppling, unstoppable, over and onto her . . . tree branches and stumps and rocks—all deadly weapons if she landed on them.
Bernard’s head . . . striking a rock . . . instant death.
Radford pushed the image away and beat back panic.
He heard her scream. Then another. Not hers this time, but male. The mail phaeton teetered, then came fully upright again. Gradually it slowed and stopped.
Radford dragged in what air he could and raced to the spot.
Clara was looking down and to one side of her, but she must have heard his footsteps because she turned and looked at him, and smiled. Tremulously.
Tremulous or not, it was a smile, and it was like sunshine breaking through the deepening gloom of the park.
She was alive and unhurt, by the looks of it. But she had to be shaken. He was shaken, limbs trembling now, heart pounding against his chest wall.
Radford started toward her.
“Never mind me,” she said. She nodded toward a crumpled heap, a few feet from the horses’ hooves. “I was trying not to run him down, only keep him in view and running, but the road here is so narrow . . . then he jumped out of the way. He must have tripped over something. He cried out as he fell, then he didn’t get up again. I don’t know if he’s dead. But please take care he doesn’t get away.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when a boy irrupted from the patch of woodland ahead and ran, at stunning speed, along the road leading to the Sheen Gate.
Radford could only watch him go. Had he been fresh, he’d have a devil of a time catching him. As it was, he hadn’t a chance. But he didn’t need to try. By the time the boy reached the gate, even he would be winded. He’d have to slow down—and stumble into the arms of the constables waiting there for escapees.
More police waited at the Putney Bridge. The Metropolitan Police district didn’t include Richmond and large segments of the park, but it covered the parish of Putney, where the boy was obviously headed. Stokes’s colleagues wouldn’t let Squirrel slip through their fingers this time.
Radford moved toward the prone figure of his would-be assassin.
A short time later
They had arranged beforehand to meet the police at the Sheen Gate.
Thence Radford, Clara, and Inspector Stokes—aka John Cotton, Purveyor of Fine Furnishings to the Nobility—proceeded with their captives. The brutal young man Stokes called Husher, handcuffed, and Freame, immobilized, his shattered leg on a makeshift splint, shared the mail phaeton’s box, with Stokes on guard on the servants’ seat at the rear. Everybody was bloody and bruised, except for Clara, who was merely dusty.
Radford’s coat hung in filthy shreds. The rest of his attire matched it. In the dusky half light, even with the lamplights’ illumination, she couldn’t id
entify the stains on his black clothes. Dirt, yes, but bloodstains, too, most likely. She could make out the marks on his face as well—more dirt, bruises, cuts—and signs of swelling. He probably had lumps on his head. He’d fallen hard.
