WILD BEAR COACHING STATION
PUBLIC HOUSE
HOT FOOD BEER BLACKSMITH STABLES
NEXT TURNING.
He could smell the smoke of the Wild Bear’s woodfire. Was this where they had gone? Perhaps one of the horses had lost a shoe, perhaps one of the men needed food. Or perhaps it was a coincidence. Still, Lenox took the turning.
The inn was a squat, stone house with two modest gables in the upper story and a large stable attached to it, the sort of place where travelers stop for a bite and where local farmers congregate if it’s closer than the village.
A boy appeared as he rode up. “Take your horse, sir?”
“Please. She’s had a hard morning — water her and rub her down, if you would.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
Lenox stepped down from the horse, gave the boy a coin, and passed him the hack’s bridle. Might as well let her have ten minutes’ rest, even if there was nothing else to keep her here. It might mean another hour’s good riding down the road.
He waited until the boy had gone out of sight and then followed him with soft footsteps. He came to a door in the stable and pulled it slightly ajar.
With a thrill he saw, unmistakable in its trim and its construction, his cousin’s carriage.
So they were here. Now he had to consider what he wanted to do.
He pulled his hat low over his eyes, so that it gave him some protection from recognition, and went around through the front door of the Wild Bear.
At this hour it ought to have been empty, but in fact it was rather full. A market day locally, perhaps. Or happy chance. Either way he accepted the luck with gratitude. The walls were dark from decades of smoke, and even now there was an eye-watering concentration of it floating constantly upward and collecting at the ceiling, from the badly ventilated hearth and from the pipes the men along the bar constantly refilled.
He moved toward the bar, catching the eye of the publican who stood behind it. “A half of stout, please,” he said.
“Right away, sir.”
When he had his drink he could sip it slowly, concealing his face, and scan the place. There were perhaps twenty people in the room all told, crowded around small tables and along benches at the back wall. He looked very carefully but saw that none of them was Oates, or Wells, or Frederick. He cursed under his breath.
Just as he was deciding that he ought to go straight to the coach and risk being shot, however, the door opened and there he was: Wells. Lenox saw him first, and quickly turned his back to the door. He wondered if he would stand out — dressed better than the men in here, no coat (that was still with Chalmers), and with dirt spattered up and down his breeches from the long morning of riding.
Wells approached the bar. “Pint of mild,” he said, “and wrap up some sandwiches for us to take away. Six should do.”
The barman nodded and pulled the pint of mild — contrary to its name the strongest of the ales that most public houses sold — before going into the kitchen through a pair of swinging doors behind him.
During the order Lenox had settled upon a plan. He took a deep breath, lifted his head, did a double-take, and then cried, from his end of the bar to the other, “Mr. Wells! Imagine seeing you here! What an unexpected pleasure!”
Wells had turned at his name, and when he saw Lenox his face blanched. He was caught off guard by the greeting, but other people were looking, so he played along. The two men shook hands. “Mr. Lenox. Excellent to see you again.”
Almost immediately people stopped paying attention, the murmur of the pub increasing again, and Lenox could whisper to the coiner. “You and Oates in league, was it?”
Wells hesitated, but then nodded grimly. “Yes.”
It was a sorrowful confirmation. Oates — he had seemed such a good man, so incapable of surprising people. In the end greed had gotten to him, too. “Is my uncle safe?”
“Yes. We mean to leave this place, the three of us, or take out a fair few of you with us.”
Lenox shook his head. “That is not necessary. Listen, I am quite alone. You have all the advantage. I only want my uncle. You may still go free. In fact, if my uncle’s life is spared it is a matter of indifference to me whether you escape or not.” This was false, but it was also true to a point. “It will be impossible to tell people that I didn’t see you, but I will say, and it will be the case, that I have no idea where you might be going. London, Bath, the north, even overseas.”
Wells shook his head. “You’d send up a cry. Then we couldn’t get at—”
He cut himself off, but Lenox understood. They’d secured money somewhere, enough to fund their lives as fugitives, he and Oates, and they had to retrieve it before they escaped. “I can promise you, upon my word as a gentleman, that I will give you time to go. All that matters is my uncle’s safety. You must understand that — I don’t care if you’re caught. Weston won’t be any more or less dead. On the other hand if you were to harm Freddie or me, it would be national news — it would be the gallows. Would you rather be dead in a month or alive and away and rich? The choice is yours.”
Wells smiled thinly. “That is precisely why we took your cousin. Thought he might buy us our life, if we did. But I need some guarantee.”
“I have an idea,” said Lenox. “Take me with you in the carriage. I don’t mind. I’ll leave my horse, and my uncle can stay here.”
“He’ll call the police.”
Lenox thought for a moment, ignoring the faint relief in the back of his head at the rejection of that idea. “Then you must trust us. Take my horse, if you like, she’s a runner. Leave the carriage behind and you’ll go swifter. My uncle and I will have no means of catching you, of warning anybody. You’ll be down the road, miles in whichever direction you like. I give you my word, my solemn word, that I’ll tell them nothing other than that I exchanged my horse for my uncle.”
Wells was a rational man. Oates had been drinking his sorrows away, was likely, at just this stage, capable of irrational action. The right man had come into the bar. Wells understood his situation: He wanted his money; he wanted to live.
“Very well,” he said, at last. “Give me the money in your pockets, too, so you can’t hire a carriage out of here.”
Obediently Lenox handed over his billfold. “There are nearly twelve pounds in there.”
Wells opened it greedily and verified the truth of this. “Nice to be a gentleman, ain’t it. Come, we’ll go to the carriage. You’ll tell the boy we need your horse, and we’ll take one off the carriage.”
Lenox nodded. “Just remember, if you feel the urge to trick me, how much worse it should be for all of us — for you — if we don’t make a clean exchange. Why should any of the four of us drop an ounce of blood?”
Wells laughed. “Don’t worry on that count. I know where my bread is buttered. We’ll make the exchange, I’ll get Oates, and Freddie will stay in the carriage.”
“No. I need to see my cousin before you go.”
“Fine, then. He’s taken a knock on the head, be warned.”
Lenox mastered his anger at this, and nodded. Wells drained his drink, stood up, and led the way out of the Wild Bear.
In the stable there were two boys, the one who had taken Sadie and another, older one. He came forward. “Help you, sirs?”
Lenox said, “My horse—”
Wells interrupted sharply. “No. I need to speak with Oates first.”
He went into the carriage, stayed a few minutes, and came out, apparently satisfied. “All well?” Lenox asked.
“Saddle up the horses. Food in the saddlebags.” He pointed toward the better of the gray carriage mares and
