infection from the dirty cloth than of expiring through trauma and blood loss. The bloody edges of the tear fitted together perfectly. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Hawkwood took out his knife and cut a flannel-sized strip of material from the hem of Gadd's shirt. Jess took it from him and dipped it in the pail then began to clean the blood from Gadd's shoulder. Gadd groaned and his eyes flickered open.
'It was Jed Cooper who shot me,' he murmured. He peered at Lasseur. 'Hope you got the bastard.'
'Take it easy, Tom,' Hawkwood said. 'Don't speak.'
Gadd lapsed into silence, flinching as the cloth skirted the edges of the wound.
Hawkwood looked around. The cellar wasn't large; about the size of the kitchen above it. Punnets containing fruit and vegetables rested on shelves around the walls.
'I don't know if we're that safe from the fire. This cellar's stone-built, so it won't burn; but if too much smoke gets in here, we're dead. We'll run out of air, which means we'd have been better off letting Pepper shoot us. If you've got any petticoats under there, Jess, we can cut them into scarves to soak in the water and cover our faces. I'm told it's what heroines are supposed to do.'
She dabbed the last of the blood from Gadd's shoulder, wetted the cloth again and squeezed out the moisture. Then she held out her hand. 'Knife.'
She cut four strips of material from her underskirt and dropped them in the pail.
Hawkwood got up and examined the underside of the trapdoor. It was heavy wood banded with iron. Though a snug fit, it would not keep out a determined fire. If the flames grew hot enough, the metal would warp and the wood would burn and smoke would infiltrate the cellar and kill them where they lay. There was no sign of the grey demon yet, but it was up there, searching, and eventually it would find them.
A crash came from above. Hawkwood wondered if part of the ceiling had come down. He returned to the others. The dog was pacing back and forth, whining and uttering plaintive yips of distress. It looked at Hawkwood and gave a tentative wag of its tail before lying down next to Jess Flynn with its head on its paws. It did not remain still, however, but kept raising its head and staring dolefully towards the cellar roof.
More noises came from within the burning house. The dog's ears twitched.
They stubbed out the candle to conserve air and their one source of light. And then, in the darkness, in silence, they waited.
Hawkwood wasn't sure whether he had been sleeping or not. He hadn't been conscious of closing his eyes, and in the absolute blackness of the cellar it wouldn't have made any difference, but it occurred to him that he felt curiously rested. He knew that in the absence of light the mind could play strange tricks. Once the candle was extinguished, his thoughts had been full of random images; all of them, without exception, violent and bloody and fearful. But then, as the time passed, the darkness had begun to have a palliative effect. His body ached, but there was no pain. He wondered if it was because his mind had accepted the inevitability of death. His fate had been ordained, so why fight it?
But so long as he was thinking, he was still the master of his own fate and nothing was inevitable.
He was conscious of movement close by and of a panting sound. It was the dog, suddenly on its feet and making faint gruffling noises at the back of its throat. Then it let out a bark. Hawkwood heard a flint strike and then there was a spark and the candle flickered into life. Jess Flynn's face materialized out of the shadows.
Lasseur said uneasily, 'I smell smoke.'
Hawkwood could smell it, too. He wondered why he hadn't been aware of it sooner. He looked up, but couldn't see anything untoward. The stone at his back was still cool to the touch. Retrieving one of the strips of cloth that had been soaking in the pail, he tied it around his nose and face, then he picked up the candle.
The dog broke into a fit of frantic barking. In the confines of the cellar, the cacophony was so intense that Hawkwood thought his eardrums might burst.
As he approached the trapdoor, despite Jess Flynn's soothing words, the noise behind him grew more abrasive.
The smell of smoke was stronger now. He suspected it was because it had been building up steadily over the time they'd been down there, which indicated they'd been underground for a while.
There was no sign of burning on the underside of the trapdoor, but the smell of charcoal was pervasive. As he reached out to touch the iron banding, he heard a scraping noise above him followed by a heavy thud.
Instantly, he paused.
Pepper! Returning to finish the job.
He realized he had no weapon, save for the knife and that was behind him, with the woman.
But then he thought wearily, what did it matter? They were dead anyway.
The trapdoor swung open. A large shadow filled the opening. Hawkwood tensed.
'Well, you look like seven miles of shit,' Jago said.
CHAPTER 21
'I'd lose the beard,' Jago said. 'It puts years on.'
They had emerged to find that dusk had fallen. They had been in the cellar for nearly three hours. All four of them must have fallen asleep for some of the time. The smoke had not infiltrated the space because the outer wall of the pantry had collapsed in on itself, leaving that side of the house exposed, so that the smoke was allowed to dissipate in the air.
The rest of the house was in a similar state of ruin; a shell of scorched brick and blackened timber. None of the furniture had survived. Most items had been reduced to charcoal and ash. The stench of smoke was overpowering.
Jess Flynn knelt on the ground supporting Tom Gadd as he drank from the canteen Jago had filled in the stream. The old man swallowed eagerly. His eyes were open and moving. He seemed more alert now that he was out in the open air. Lasseur sat beside her with his elbows on his knees, surveying the wreckage. The dog lay with its head on its paws next to them.
Jago turned to the two men at his back.
Hawkwood saw an individual of similar build to Jago; thick set and sturdy with a heavy face and farmer's hands. The second man was younger. Well set, with a strong, clean-cut face and dark eyes. He regarded Hawkwood in cool appraisal.
'You remember Micah?' Jago said.
'Of course,' Hawkwood said.
Micah nodded. 'Captain.'
'And this here is Jethro Garvey.' Jago nodded towards the first man.
'Jethro,' Hawkwood said.
'Take a look around,' Jago instructed.
The two men turned away.
'Who's Garvey?' Hawkwood asked.
Jago thought about it. 'He's what you might call my local representative.'
'How the devil did you find me?' Hawkwood was having difficulty believing it really was Jago standing in front of him and not some figment of a dream or an extension of the images he'd experienced in the cellar.
'Magistrate Read was worried when he hadn't heard from you. He sent for me. Obviously thinks you can't cope on your own.'
'He did what?'
'Told me about your assignment, too. Your man Ludd sent Bow Street a dispatch about a possible sighting of you and the captain boarding a boat at Warden. I figured that was as good a place to start as any. I had a quiet word with the local landlord, Abraham. Very accommodating, he was. Seems it's a well-used route for escaping prisoners - and not just foreigners, either. Anyway, he confirmed that an American and a French officer had boarded a lugger bound for Seasalter on the night in question.'
Hawkwood wondered about Jago's definition of a 'quiet word'.
'But how did you find this place?' Hawkwood asked.
'You familiar with a culley named Higgs?'
