He stole away from the inn, avoiding the road by leading Horse by the reins across rough ground until he cleared the fringes of the village just as the sun began to sink beyond the dales surrounding it. It was still light, however, and so he needed to take care over being seen. The news that his arrival was not entirely unexpected weighed heavily upon him. It had been his intention to merely knock on the front door to gain entry but an increased degree of circumspection was now required. He found a copse of mature oak and wych elm where he climbed down from Horse and let her pull at the undergrowth as he sat with his back against a rounded rock out of sight and waited for nightfall. To pass the time he inspected Tact and Diplomacy, ensured that all was well with their load, for something told him he might need them before this visit was over. That done, he slid the sword from its sheath and wiped the blade with a rag taken from the pocket of his greatcoat, then leaned back to watch the heavens transform from day to night. The canopy of blue and white gave way to streaks of red and gold and, finally, pinpoints of stars pricked through the black velvet, but no moon shone, which suited his purposes.
He left Horse tethered in the woods and walked back along the track towards the river, then followed it downstream. His night vision was well honed so he found the Millhouse with no difficulty. He halted a little way off, his senses alert for movement or sound that was foreign to nature. Candlelight guttering in a downstairs window suggested Templeton was still awake, but the lamp burning above the front door told Flynt that another means of entry would have to be found. He squatted in the shadows, ears straining for any sound, eyes searching for any sight of watchers in the dark. A movement within drew his attention back to the window and he saw a man peering out, his face illuminated by the candle glowing on the sill. He knew not the man’s likeness but he had to assume it was Templeton. His further reconnoitre revealed no watchers in the dark. That didn’t mean they weren’t there, though.
He moved again, remaining cautious, head down, the brim of his hat obscuring his face, taking a meandering route closer to the river’s edge, ever careful not to dislodge a loose stone and send it cascading. He followed the tinkling water to the rear of the house where he circumnavigated a small courtyard until he was satisfied that it was clear before moving to the door. He slowly rotated the heavy metal ring, holding his breath lest it creak, but it was locked fast. His fingers found the keyhole and he smiled again as he fished his dub from his pocket and inserted it. The door was solid but the lock was old and easily sprung by the lockpick, which had been gifted him by Old Tom before he died. He drew a pistol before easing the door open. He stepped inside, finding himself in a small room used as a pantry, a door opposite lying open. Here he stopped to gather his bearings and listen for voices. The house was silent but the need for caution remained, for he didn’t know whether or not Templeton was alone. There had been no watchers without, but that didn’t mean there were none within. Ahead was a hallway leading to the front, a sliver of candle glow slicing the darkness from a slightly gaping door to the right. He crept along the narrow space, his back to the wall, pistol held before him. A staircase rose to his left and he peered up it but the floor above was in darkness. He put one eye to the crack between the door hinges and the frame but the sight-line was extremely limited. There was nothing else for it but to make an entrance and hope that the shock of it would defuse any potential powder keg before it went off. He withdrew his second pistol and stepped back. A deep breath. Eased it out. Another deep breath. Another corridor, he thought. Another deep breath. Another door. Another long, easy exhalation. Another room. Such was his life.
Then he moved.
The door swung back smoothly when he toed it open and stepped in, both pistols ranging around the room, but there was only one person present, sitting at a desk and scribbling at paper with a quill, a man of around Flynt’s own age, tall and thin, his brown hair hanging loose. He shot to his feet and was about to cry out in shock but Flynt silenced him with a finger to his lips. He glanced at the window, which was uncovered by a drape, so remained by the door where he could not be seen by anyone watching.
Keeping his voice to a whisper, he asked, ‘Is there anyone else in the house?’
The man he presumed to be Templeton shook his head, the expression on his thin face displaying relief when Flynt hid his pistols under his coat.
‘My name is Jonas Flynt. You are Christopher Templeton, correct?’
The man nodded, swallowed, then said in a voice still coarsened by surprise, ‘You should not have come here, sir.’
‘I have little time to explain fully but I would have you accompany me back to London.’
Templeton’s head shake was emphatic. ‘That is out of the question, I am not safe there.’
‘You are not safe here.’
A faint gleam reflected in the man’s eye as he took a step away from the desk. ‘I don’t know you, sir, but I will not be leaving this place of safety with you for there are people who…’
‘Colonel Charters sent me,’ Flynt said, abruptly.
The man didn’t react. ‘I care not who sent you, sir.’
Flynt paused, sensing something amiss. ‘Whose house is this?’
‘It belongs to my Lord Gallowmire.’
Flynt kept his face impassive, the sense of disquiet growing. ‘And who sent you here?’
The man continued to approach the window. ‘You should leave…’
‘Was it Romulus Trask?’
‘Yes, it was he…’
Flynt drew a pistol. ‘You’re not Christopher Templeton.’
The man froze, one hand stretching out towards the window. ‘Of course I am.’
‘Then who is Romulus Trask?’
‘A friend, from London, he…’
Flynt aimed the weapon directly at his face. ‘Where is Christopher Templeton?’
The man’s mouth opened and closed. He licked his lips, edged a little more to the window.
Flynt said, ‘Friend, you take one more step and it will be your last.’ The man obeyed, his eyes fixed on the pistol. ‘I ask you again and for the final time, where is Christopher Templeton?’
He swallowed. ‘His lordship has him in keeping.’
‘Lord Gallowmire?’
A nod, another swallow, another lick of the lips.
‘What interest does he have in Mr Templeton?’
‘I know not. I was told to sit here and wait.’
‘Wait for what?’
The man wasn’t willing to answer so Flynt took a step closer, still careful not to be seen through the window. ‘Do not make me repeat my question.’
‘For you.’
Flynt expected the answer but even so, it vexed him. The phrase wheels within wheels came to his mind as his memory shot back to when a woman of his acquaintance, who also had knowledge of the Fellowship and its ways, had once explained that any circumstance in which they were involved was like the interior of a timepiece.
The dial is merely the public face of the clock. The maker needs you to know only what he believes you must know, that is the time of day, and so will have you look at the face alone where all is straightforward. One hand marks the minutes and in turn moves the hour hand. But to understand how it all works you must look below the surface. There are cogs and ratchets and little wheels… so tiny it is a wonder the clockmaker can operate them at all, and they all work in harmony while at the same time working against each other. One may turn this way, another that, but together they make the timepiece tick.
There were indeed wheels turning and Flynt had no clear picture yet of who the clockmaker was, or who was turning the key to put them in motion. What was clear now was this entire machination was a lure, and he was the prey.
He backed out of the room, his pistol still trained, and confidence seeped back into the eyes of the bogus Templeton. He darted swiftly to the window and raised the candle, shouting ‘He is here! He is here!’
Flynt didn’t trigger the weapon, for the man was unarmed, but he did fire off a stream of invective. He spun and ran towards the back door, voices and footsteps already approaching the front. He twisted and fired a shot into the wood, heard muffled curses but the door remained closed. That should hold them for a few moments, he believed, and laid hands on the door handle. He stood a better chance outside, in the darkness.
He opened the door to find the man Cooper, his fist already bunched and raised at shoulder height. Flynt had only time to register the wide grin on his face before the heavy blow to his chin spun him backwards and sent him tumbling. Jagged pain shot through his skull accompanied by flickering shafts of bright light but he knew he could not allow himself to be incapacitated. He recovered quickly, his hand reaching for his second pistol, but Cooper picked him up as though he were no weight at all and tossed him against the wall with such force that the impact vented the air from his lungs. He managed to free the weapon, but it was knocked from his grasp by one beefy paw while strong fingers threaded through his hair to slam his head against the stonework. His vision burned with a light that fractured and gyrated, accompanied by a harpy-like screech that filled his head. Cooper’s strong hands cracked his head against the brick again. He pushed back at Cooper but his strength was waning. The next time he was slammed against the wall consciousness began to slip.
As he drifted into a warm, welcome blackness, he heard a voice say, ‘That’s enough, Joshua. We must leave something for the hangman…’