Masilda had to be dissuaded from galloping into Gallowmire to wrest her son from the clutches of Fitzgerald. Flynt saw in her the same determination he’d often seen in Cassie in Edinburgh. If her son, their son, was thus threatened she would move heaven and earth to save him. Flynt fully intended to do the same but knew caution had to be employed, and he said so, backed by Gabriel. Masilda dismissed them both but Drummond’s words finally made her see sense.
‘We must listen to these men, Masilda,’ he said. ‘You are spirited, to be sure, and God knows you are motivated, but this isn’t something in which you are expert. Jonas and Gabriel, well, this is what they do, am I right?’
Neither of them denied their expertise in such matters, nor did they admit it, but Masilda reluctantly agreed to wait until they had assessed the situation in the village. Nevertheless, she remained edgy, her feet in constant motion, her grip on the stock of the musket tight, her expression fluctuating from diverted to intense.
Drummond showed them where they could tether the horses away from the road among a stand of trees and Masilda bade Samson to stay where he was, assuring them the dog would alert them if anyone should come by. The innkeeper led them on foot across the moorland to a point from which they could survey the village entire without being seen. They lay flat upon the heather and looked down on the scene below, Flynt studying through his spyglass the men moving through the village. They were all clad in the dark coats and hats that marked those in Fitzgerald’s service but he could see no sign of their employer. Villagers stood sullenly by their doors, but few did anything to prevent the men from accessing their homes and those who did were pushed out of the way. He picked out Old Ralph, his pipe clenched between his teeth, exchanging words with a Fitzgerald man. The old man’s stance was stiff, his hands at his side but his fingers clenching and unclenching as if he wished he held a weapon. Words were exchanged, and by the look of Ralph’s expression they were far from pleasant. The exchange came to an abrupt end when the black rider drew a pistol and whipped the barrel across Ralph’s face. The pipe flew from his lips as Ralph lurched backwards, only to be grabbed one-handed by his attacker and the pistol thrust against his temple. Martha Harland and her husband rushed from their own doorway a little way along the street and pulled Ralph free. The rider’s smile was triumphant as he entered Ralph’s home, leaving the three villagers staring after him. Ralph wiped a trickle of blood from where the pistol blow had broken his skin, then looked about him. He stooped and picked up the broken pieces of his pipe and stared at them as if in mourning.
‘I don’t see Will,’ Masilda said.
‘Neither do I,’ Flynt said. ‘I wonder if…’
He stopped abruptly when a face he recognised appeared in the company of a smaller, bespectacled man. Gabriel must have noted a change in his demeanour or expression. ‘What do you see, Jonas?’
Flynt handed him the glass. ‘In the doorway of the inn, two men. The taller of the two is Lord James Moncrieff, the other is stranger to me.’
Gabriel focused on the doorway, a sibilant breath escaping between his teeth. ‘I know him.’
‘Who is he? He has the look of a clerk or a bookkeeper.’
Gabriel maintained his scrutiny. ‘He is neither clerk nor bookkeeper. His names are legion so who can say which one he uses this day.’ He lowered the spyglass. ‘He’s a killer of men and a right efficient one at that.’ He stared down the hill. ‘Jonas, that wraith we discussed? If he be flesh, then there he stands.’
Flynt was aware of a querying glance from Drummond but didn’t enlighten him as he took the glass in his hand and studied upon the man once again. Could such an unassuming little man really be the Wraith? When Gabriel had said he thought it would be such an individual, did he have this particular one in mind?
His deliberations were set aside when Fitzgerald appeared behind Moncrieff, his hands resting on the shoulders of Will Chilcott. Masilda saw them and snatched the glass from Flynt’s grasp. She hissed something in her own tongue and began to rise but Gabriel hauled her back down.
‘Stay hid, in the name of Christ,’ he said.
Her head whipped round towards him. ‘That is my son…’
‘They’ll cut you down before you reach him,’ Flynt said. ‘We must remain concealed until we formulate a plan of action.’
‘Then formulate speedily, for my patience wears thin.’ She peered through the eyepiece once more and frowned as Fitzgerald guided the boy across the green. ‘What is he doing?’
A horse and cart waited under the gallows pole and Flynt could hazard a guess as to what Fitzgerald was about. When Masilda shifted her focus and tensed even further, he knew she had also made the leap. She lowered the glass again. ‘He can’t…’ she said, her voice hoarse with terror.
Drummond, his eyesight not as keen as Flynt’s, took the glass from her. ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘The man is evil.’
One of Fitzgerald’s men hefted Will onto the rear of the cart then climbed up beside him and draped a noose around the boy’s neck. Fitzgerald wandered into the centre of the green and rested his clenched fists on his hips. He strutted in a circle for a few moments until he was certain that all eyes were upon him, and only then came to a halt.
‘I want Jonas Flynt!’
His voice was faint but they could make out his words. Flynt took the glass from Drummond and swung it across the faces of the villagers. Before they had been surly but now, as they looked at the boy standing on the cart under the shadow of the pole, he believed he saw something else. Ralph, blood drying upon his cheek, leaned over to Martha at his side, murmured something and she nodded.
‘I want him here and I want him now.’ Fitzgerald pointed dramatically towards Will. ‘That will be the price paid if my wishes are not met. The boy will die unless that hell spawn Jonas Flynt either comes to me willingly or is brought to me unwillingly but alive.’
He walked in a further circle.
‘I know some of you are aware of where he cowers.’
He looked beyond the village, even shielded his eyes as he gazed at the hill on which they lay with the sun behind them.
He raised his voice even further. ‘He may even be watching me at this very moment, and if he is, let me assure him that I will do as I say. The boy’s life is forfeit unless you present yourself. A life for a life, Flynt. Yours for his. Let’s see what kind of man you are.’
He made a show of removing a timepiece from his waistcoat.
‘You have precisely one hour.’ He raised one finger of his free hand. ‘One. Hour. Your life for his, Flynt. Only you can save this poor lad.’
Flynt focused the glass on Fitzgerald’s smiling face. The man was enjoying this. He breathed out harshly and resumed his study of the villagers. Yes, there was something more there than fear and resentment. There was fury.
Fitzgerald strode back to the inn, passing Moncrieff and the other man without a glance or a word. Flynt fixed on them, noting the sharp lines in his half-brother’s face as he stared across the green to the boy on the cart. He thought he saw a slight shake of the head before he followed Fitzgerald inside, the other man’s gaze lingering on the gallows pole, then sweeping around him before he, too, turned to vanish into the gloom beyond the inn’s door.
‘Jonas.’
The plea from Masilda in that single word was clear and when he looked at her he saw the tears brimming in her eyes.
‘We must do something,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he said.
He didn’t know what else to say, so crawled away from the brow of the hill and, when it was safe to do so, rose to his feet. Gabriel caught up with him.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Jonas.’
Flynt glanced over his shoulder to ensure Masilda and Drummond were far enough behind not to overhear. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking, so I fail to see how you can.’
‘Because I know you and I know you intend going into that village. I assure you that sacrificing yourself will not change things. Don’t do it.’
Flynt knew that it was fruitless to deny that was what he was thinking. ‘I can’t let the boy die for me.’
‘Fitzgerald may simply be manoeuvring.’
‘This is no manoeuvre. The man is mad. He will do this.’
‘If he is mad then he will do it anyway.’
Flynt had already considered that. ‘You would have me stand by and allow him to hang the lad? Is that it?’
‘Damn it, Jonas, don’t you see? This cause is lost. It depended upon the people finding the will to defend their own interests and they are manifestly unwilling to do that.’
Flynt wasn’t as certain about that. ‘We have Masilda and Drummond.’
‘A man who could not even hold his pistol without trembling and a woman are not enough.’
‘Need I remind you that woman proved herself well enough this morning.’
Gabriel ceded that point. ‘You know I make no comment upon her gender, for I have known women to be most proficient at the slaying of men, but it is still not enough. We’re outmanned and outgunned and you submitting yourself meekly to the rope is nothing but folly.’
Flynt put a little more heat in his words. ‘Then what would you have me do, Gabriel?’
Another snatched glimpse of Masilda revealed that she watched them most intently. Their conversation had been hushed but perhaps not sufficiently. Gabriel also glanced behind him, saw the woman’s expression, and turned away, a flash of guilt crossing his own face. Masilda quickened her pace, as if she wished to contribute to the debate but Flynt waved her back. Thankfully, she did so.
He maintained his silence for a few paces and when he spoke he lowered his voice even further. ‘Jonas, this is not our fight. You and I are thieves. We gamble. We wench. Well, I do, but you also did once. Thievery, gaming and women. That is our life. Not this, not fighting for lost causes.’
‘A cause is only lost when you stop fighting for it. But you must look to yourself, Gabriel, for this never was your fight.’
‘Nor yours.’
‘Moncrieff made it mine when he had me lured here. Fitzgerald made it mine when he murdered Templeton and then involved the boy. I cannot desert the lad. I cannot desert the mother. I’ve done that before and won’t do it again.’
‘You didn’t desert Cassie and her son, Jonas. They had their life and you had yours and neither the twain would mix. You know that. Throwing your life away this day will not benefit them or anyone else.’
Flynt sighed. ‘This may well be my last day upon this earth, but it needn’t be yours. Go now, back to London, or take to the road. You’ve proved to be a good friend and a stalwart companion but it’s time to part.’
They had reached the horses now, where Samson lay in the shade of the trees, his tongue dangling from his mouth, but his eyes alert. Masilda stared directly at Gabriel as she and Drummond caught up with them. ‘Well? Will you help me save my son?’
Her words were demanding but her tone was not. Her eyes implored Gabriel and he held her gaze for a moment before his eyes narrowed and he exhaled long and hard as he looked back up the hill as if he could see over it to Gallowmire. Flynt knew he was torn between friendship and common sense and didn’t know which way he hoped his friend would go. Finally, Gabriel rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. ‘Damn you, Jonas Flynt, I do believe I’ve spent too much time in your company because I think I’ve been infected by your altruism.’
Tears formed in Masilda’s eyes and she reached out to Gabriel’s arm. The touch was gentle, fleeting, but it was a way of showing an appreciation she could not vocalise. Gabriel looked at where her hand had rested so briefly and smiled.
‘I think we’ll need a miracle,’ he said. ‘Or at least a plan.’
All eyes turned to Flynt.
Fitzgerald seemed most relaxed while seated in a shaft of light that beamed through the inn’s open door, sipping a glass of wine and occasionally glancing at the timepiece he had laid on the table before him beside a silver cane. Apart from the men moving outside and the occasional lacklustre protest from locals, the only sound was the tick of that watch marking the passage of time. The innkeeper had been nowhere to be seen so he had helped himself to the best bottle in the house, declaring it to be far from vintage but adequate. Moncrieff had declined to partake, and had taken a seat as far from him as possible, although that wasn’t far enough, for the inn was cramped and dull, the sun barely penetrating the interior so illumination was provided by rushlights dipped in grease, which gave off a powerful stench. The floor was of hard-packed earth and Moncrieff was sure he could still smell the bullock blood that had been mixed with it to help it harden. The heavily beamed ceiling was low and the smoke from the rushlights gathered between the handful of small, poorly constructed tables and chairs, with a rough-hewn plank set upon trestles acting as a bar. Lester sat alone in a shadowy corner, as still as death, his face as impassive as ever. The man Moncrieff had been introduced to as Justice Black took up another table, a bottle of brandy before him. He was small and overweight, his face bloated with too much liquor, but he was obviously unhappy with the turn of events. His hand shook as he lifted cup to lip in an attempt to wash away his role in the affair.
The events earlier on that small farm and Fitzgerald’s threat to kill the child churned Moncrieff’s gut. He had been complicit in, and had ordered, the deaths of men before, for the work of the Fellowship required an extreme degree of ruthlessness. He had been happy to have the lawyer Gribble murdered to ensure his silence. Templeton had a price to pay for having broken his compact with his employer. He had sent men to dispose of Flynt. But in all those cases there had been a considerable remove between word and deed. That morning, as those men had dragged the woman away, and the boy was carted off over the saddle, the bile had risen in his throat. He had not intended this. He had no desire to see the mother and child being so abused. He thought of his wife, Katherine, back in London, and their joint desire for a family. He berated himself for not being more forceful in his protestations and, taking his own timepiece from his fob pocket to see that only a few minutes remained of Fitzgerald’s time limit, he resolved to correct that failure.
Fitzgerald languished in the wooden chair, his left hand resting beside the glass, his other unseen under the table, presumably draped over his lap, his languid gaze towards the sunlight framed by the doorway. His attention drifted towards Moncrieff as he stood over him.
‘You will put an end to this madness now.’
Fitzgerald’s eyes seemed amused. ‘Madness, my lord? I merely carry out your wishes…’
Moncrieff again felt guilt lance his chest but he ignored it. ‘I did not wish innocents to be harmed.’
‘Innocents. Now, there is a concept. Is anyone truly innocent?’
‘The boy…’
‘Ah! The boy. The son of a gypsy, so will there not be generations of guilt coursing through his blood? And what of the notion of original sin? And so I ask again, is anyone truly innocent? I know you are not, my Lord Moncrieff, and I am sufficiently self-aware to know that I am not. Justice Black has been party to many a dark deed in the name of law and order, or rather in name of his purse, have you not, your honour?’
The judge’s head dropped to study the table and he raised his cup once more but made no reply.
Fitzgerald laughed. ‘And Mr Lester over there, he carries more sin on his conscience than all of us together, although I remain unsure if he actually possesses such a thing as conscience.’
Lester must have heard him but remained motionless, his face and upper half of his torso shadowed. Lester was not Moncrieff’s concern at this moment, though.
‘Do you have a conscience?’
Fitzgerald raised the glass to his lips. ‘Conscience is for clergy and women. Men must do what must be done, surely you above all understand that? After all, and I repeat, this was of your making.’
Moncrieff’s anger bubbled over. He’d berated himself for his error in judgement, he didn’t need this obviously deranged individual to continually remind him of it. He placed both hands on the tabletop to lean closer to Fitzgerald’s smirk. ‘I wanted Flynt dead, not women and children. Had you been able to retain a grip of the man it would be him on that cart and not an innocent lad.’
Fitzgerald shrugged. ‘There’s that word innocent again…’
‘Free the boy.’ Rage seethed over Moncrieff’s words.
Fitzgerald placed the glass carefully back on the table. ‘Matters have proceeded too far now. If you have lost your appetite for the game then so be it, but I have not. Flynt has shamed me and I will see him dangle. The boy is the means towards that end.’
‘How do you know he will come?’
A quick glance at the watch face. ‘He will come.’
‘There are but minutes left on your ultimatum, how can you be certain?’
‘Are you not certain? You know him better than I, do you not? Do you not believe he will come?’ Moncrieff had not the first clue as to whether Flynt would sacrifice himself. Fitzgerald, giving him close study, smiled. ‘I see you do not understand your adversary, Lord Moncrieff. But I do. I understand him decided well. He will come.’
‘How can you have such surety? He may not even know of your threat.’
‘He knows. The innkeeper is not present and he is a countryman of his. Those Scotch vermin stick together like shit to a boot. Drummond will have gone for him as soon as he saw us with the boy.’
‘Then you have no need for the charade out there. Flynt can be taken immediate upon showing himself. I am ordering you to free the lad immediately.’
Those mocking eyes rose again. ‘That I cannot do.’
‘Cannot or will not?’
A shrug. ‘The distinction is immaterial. I will see this through, for a man must be deliberate and resolute in his actions or he will have nothing.’
Moncrieff’s jaw tightened as he straightened. ‘Then I will issue the order.’
Fitzgerald’s right hand appeared with a small pistol aimed squarely at Moncrieff’s chest. ‘If you take one step towards that door I will not hesitate to put a ball in you.’
Moncrieff was at a loss for words. He had never before been presented with the business end of a pistol and he felt alarm tingle his flesh. His voice, when found, was strained by the combined effects of fear and outrage. ‘You would threaten me?’
‘I believe I stated previous that I do not threaten. I make promises, and I promise you most solemnly that I will not hesitate. I am exceeding deliberate and I am decided resolute, you see. Now, if you please, resume your seat and allow me to proceed with my business as I see fit. One way or the other this will all be resolved in a few minutes.’
‘Do you expect me to simply sit back and…’
Fitzgerald’s calm evaporated. ‘Damn you, sir, I care not whether you sit or stand or float in the blasted air, but say nothing further for I will hear no more about it.’
Moncrieff bristled but he understood now that there was nothing further he could say that would deflect this creature from his path. He didn’t return to his table, but took instead a seat beside Lester. He glared across the room at Fitzgerald, who paid him no further attention. The pistol was hid again and he poured himself another glass of wine as if he were in his own salon having recently enjoyed a fine meal.
‘We must stop him,’ Moncrieff muttered to Lester.
Lester took his time to respond. ‘He is not my concern.’
‘This cannot be allowed.’
Lester’s tone was sharp, ‘I have one priority here, and that is Jonas Flynt.’
‘The boy…’
‘The boy is nothing to me. Only the contract matters. And I will see it completed, one way or the other.’
‘But…’
‘Damn it all, sir, do not persist in this! I have stated my position clear and I will stand by it. Jonas Flynt dies, either by Gallowmire’s hand or mine.’
Fitzgerald’s eyes had turned towards them, and he raised his glass in a grim toast. Their voices, though hushed, had carried in that small, noxious, dingy little room.
And in that very moment, in that small, noxious, dingy little room in a forgotten little village on the way to nowhere, Lord James Moncrieff knew that before this day was out he would either kill his first man, or be dead himself.
And then he heard a man’s voice call from the street that a rider approached.