CHAPTER SIX
“When I was a barmaid and a man pinched my arse, I clouted his ear…unless he was handsome, then I pinched him back.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
The inn was a welcome sight to Lucas as he flung the reins and his instructions to the stableboy and headed to the entrance. The moon peeped through the heavy cloud and colluded with the light that spilled from the small windows, causing the inn to be bathed in a silvery glow.
He could just make out the gently swaying sign, creaking in the breeze. Verdant leaves and twining stems curled up the legs and thighs of a man standing tall and broad whilst his hair blew wild with bramble and berry. A pair of stag antlers crowned his head.
The Green Man.
It was an ancient name for an ancient inn. An olden belief, in spirit and wildness, its image could be found in church and inn alike. In this land, people were deeply Christian, but there was still a tradition set in soul and bone that celebrated all of nature. Most could no longer remember why. Why did they celebrate Mayday, the maypole or the stag? Why did they dance in the moonlight around the old oak and dress a man in verdancy?
The Green Man gazed down upon it all: silent but knowing. Watching the people come and go – good and bad, clever and chuckle-headed, farmer and earl.
The timeworn inn was set just off the main thoroughfare to provide welcome rest for passing carriages but it was a quiet night. Old men cackled together in the corner, dominoes in hand, whilst young fellows played shove halfpenny on a scratched oak table.
A few had looked up as he’d opened the door, but he had worn the old clothes he used for the charity hospital. Farmers were generally a strong, brawny lot so he didn’t look out of place. In fact, he felt more at home here than he did in the dainty rooms of Stonebridge Hall.
The smell of dried hops was strong in the air and made his nose twitch; they caressed the top of his head as he made his way to a table, bunches hanging low from the beams.
A barmaid, generous in hip and bosom, came by and leaned over. In the old days, she would have been just his type of woman – a prime wench with a wholesome phizog and freckles dotting her nose. Now, even if she could ignore the scars, he was more partial to a certain intelligent tongue and delicate face.
“Wot can I get you, sir?”
“A tankard of ale and whatever you have to eat.” He had a feeling no one ate dog pie in The Green Man.
“That’ll be the colcannon then, Major,” an Irish brogue roared from behind him. He spun to meet a swarthy, thin face with devilish ebony eyes laughing, a mop of black hair flopping over the man’s forehead.
“Bloody Christ! What the hell are you doing here, O’Carroll.” Lucas stood and shook hands firmly with his former lieutenant.
“The devil’s arse, I could say the same for you. It’s like seeing a bloody ghost.”
“I’m here for…well, shall we get a table? Are you passing through? Where are you headed?”
O’Carroll guffawed. “I own the bloody place, Major.”
Lucas was aware that his mouth was gaping and the man slapped him on the shoulder, herding him to a different table positioned in the corner by the cracking fire.
“Maggie, lass, two tankards of Barnstormer and a plate of venison and colcannon. ’Tis a night to celebrate when two men that confounded death are brought together.”
The treacle-like ale slid down his throat with ease. A thick winter brew, it sorted out the men from the boys; to be utterly truthful, Lucas preferred a lighter ale, but it certainly suited the weather.
“We heard ya’d died in Bayonne, Major. What in sweet Jesus happened?”
What indeed. Both he and O’Carroll had been part of the first wave of men on the Peninsula in ’08 under the temporary command of Wellington, who was just plain Lieutenant General Sir Arthur Wellesley in those days. They’d gained victories together in Roliça and Vimeiro. After that, Lucas had gone on to play a different role in the war, but O’Carroll had stayed in Lisbon with his men.
“I was doing a little reconnaissance but got captured. A long, unpleasant story but there was a fire at the chateau where I was held. I…managed to escape.”
“Only just, by the looks of ya face.”
Lucas smiled. He liked the bluntness of soldiers. No shilly-shallying or sly looks, just frank, honest expression. Miss Trewent seemed to be the same – did she really just see him?
“And what are you doing here then?” O’Carroll continued. “Buying a horse? Canny bugger, Stonebridge. Never lets one go for a penny less than it’s worth.”
“I am staying there, but I’m actually here to help investigate the deaths of those two girls.”
“Ach, good, the magistrate’s not done much.” O’Carroll shook his head. “Nasty, nasty affair. Those poor girls. I guess you’re here for the local chat then? We’ll talk after you’ve eaten. I’ll getcha another Barnstormer.” He walked away muttering – it proved there was a God when the major walked into your bar.
