three locals at a table near the bar.
Even as she idly, apparently absentmindedly, stared in that direction, he made some comment and the other three laughed. His hair had been roughed up, so it no longer sat as it should, making him look more loutish, especially with his beard shading his cheeks and jaw. A napkin tucked into his collar, he had both elbows on the table, leaning on them as with a fork he scooped up stew — and spoke while he chewed. She’d never met his late mother, but could they see him, his sisters would be appalled.
Still, his disguise definitely worked. Although he wasn’t a local, and still clearly stood out as someone different, he nevertheless fitted into the Nutberry Moss’s picture. He appeared to belong.
The relief still coursing through her — that had flooded her the instant her eyes had alighted on his dark head — was intense; she must have been more worried than she’d let herself admit.
But now he was there, close, she could set aside said worry and concentrate on extracting every last piece of information she could before McKinsey’s pending arrival forced her to escape.
The serving girl arrived with their meals. Heather said nothing but applied herself to consuming the thinly sliced roast lamb, parsnip, and cabbage, while inwardly she compiled a list of all the little telltale snippets Fletcher, Cobbins, and Martha had let fall.
When Breckenridge and she met later, she would need to put forward all she’d learned in support of her contention that, with McKinsey still days away, they need be in no rush to slip away from the Nutberry Moss Inn. They could stay a few days more and see what more she might learn.
Although Fletcher kept looking at her assessingly — she suspected he was waiting for her to have hysterics over the implications of the nearness of the blacksmith’s forge — she kept her head down and clung to her passivity. It wasn’t at all natural, but her captors didn’t know that.
Once she finished mentally cataloguing all she’d learned, she turned her mind to what other questions she might conceivably ask — and her arguments for remaining to ask them.
The meal ended. Martha glanced at her, then humphed. “Don’t know about you, but I want my bed. Come along — upstairs.”
With that Martha heaved herself off the bench. Heather glanced at Fletcher, then sighed and slid along the bench to rise and join Martha. Fletcher and Cobbins remained seated; both were still nursing pints of ale.
As she walked up the room, following in Martha’s ample wake, Breckenridge glanced at her and she met his eyes.
Immediately he cut his gaze forward — out of the door, across the foyer.
She looked that way, saw the reception counter, and the narrow door behind it that led to what appeared to be a tiny cloakroom.
Glancing back, she found Breckenridge looking at her again. Along with all the other men in the tap.
Tilting her head, she poked at her hair, as if a ticklish lock was the reason for the movement.
Breckenridge looked down, into the ale mug cradled between his hands.
Turning, Heather followed Martha out of the tap and up the stairs.
Satisfied she’d understood him, Breckenridge drained his pint, then offered to refill the mugs of the other three men who’d provided him with such excellent cover through the evening. Friendly souls.
They all drained their mugs and handed them over, but one thought to say, “Here — thought you was out of work.”
“I am.” Gathering the mugs, Breckenridge stood and grinned down at them. “But it’d be a hard day when a man can’t share a drink with like-minded souls — what’d be the point of working at all if you couldn’t at least do that?”
They all vociferously agreed. Crossing to the bar, he leaned on it while the barman refilled the mugs. Most of those in the tap appeared to be locals, not inn guests; although he’d assumed he and Heather would be at the inn for only one night, if he needed to, extending his stay wasn’t likely to be hard.
Swinging around, he glanced back at his table of ready friends. In the edge of his vision, he could see Fletcher and Cobbins, talking quietly over their beers. He toyed with the idea of approaching them, but if they did remain here for more than one night, then putting in the time to establish his bonafides as a harmless solicitor’s clerk — one accepted by the locals — might bear better fruit than a more direct befriending.
“There you be.” The barman placed the last of the four refilled mugs on a tray.
“My thanks.” Breckenridge remembered just in time to pull out some coins and pay, rather than simply expect the man to put it on his slate. Unemployed solicitor’s clerks were unlikely to be afforded credit.
Carrying the tray back to the table, he set it down and sat, then he and the other three all reached for their mugs. Silence reigned as they all sipped. It was in fact a quite palatable brew.
Then one man commenced a tale of a local drover whom the Customs and Revenue men stationed in Gretna had halted before he could cross the border. “He’s having to prove all the steers are his.”
One of the other men snorted. “I’d like to see him do that — everyone round about knows he ‘finds’ his stock up in the hills. Just amble along and join his herd, they do — least to hear him tell it.”
There was general laughter, and the conversation continued, addressing various aspects of local life.
Trays of ale came and went. After a time, the man sitting next to Breckenridge nodded down the room at Fletcher and Cobbins. “Any notion who they be?”
Along with the others, Breckenridge shook his head.
“Well, then,” said his companion, well-flown with ale, “let’s see if they wanna come and join us. Be friendly like.” Raising his voice and his mug, he called down the room, “Here — you two over there. Come join us and drink.”
Demonstrating, the good fellow drained his mug, then smacked it down onto the table.
Breckenridge watched Fletcher and Cobbins exchange a look, a few words, then both pushed back their chairs, picked up their mugs, and, dragging their chairs over, came to join the table.
Introductions were made. The youngest man of the four already seated, Breckenridge waited. Helpfully, one of his unwitting allies waved at him and said, “And this here’s Timms. A solicitor’s clerk up from Lunnon, he be, but sadly out of work and headed up Glasgow way to look for a new post.”
Breckenridge nodded to Fletcher and Cobbins and shook their proffered hands. Beyond that, however, he made no further overtures, allowing Jim, Cyril, and Henry to carry the conversation. They, naturally enough, were curious as to what had brought Fletcher and Cobbins onto their patch. When they inquired, Fletcher glibly related the tale Heather had told Breckenridge about. If previously he’d harbored any notion that said tale would be easy to contradict, hearing Fletcher smoothly explain it all eradicated any such hope.
Fletcher was totally believable. He presented exactly the right persona for a man acting as hired agent for some ageing lordling.
In his role as Timms, Breckenridge nodded sagely. “Lots of young girls run away when they think their guardians are too strict. Saw it all the time in London. Lots of girls find themselves in trouble there.”
He let the conversation swirl on, satisfied with his now established role, with the way Fletcher no longer studied him but now viewed him as one with the others. Not the same, yet indistinguishable, unremarkable.
The barman finally thumped the counter and told them he was closing up. “Just leave those mugs there — the girls’ll fetch them in the morning.”
They all exchanged glances, then drained the dregs of their ale. Setting down their mugs, they lumbered to their feet. Breckenridge was grateful for his earlier years of dissipation, of drinking spirits into the small hours; at least he was steady on his pins.
Between him, Fletcher, and Cobbins, they got the other three out of the front door. The landlord thanked them, threw the bolts, and wished them a hearty good night.
Breckenridge headed for the stairs. Fletcher followed, Cobbins laboring in the rear.
At the head of the stairs, Breckenridge paused and glanced back at Fletcher. “I was going to head on to Glasgow, but I’ve an old wound in m’side”—he pressed a hand to his right side and grimaced painfully—“and it’s twingeing something awful. Probably from driving all this way in my rattle-trap of a gig.” Raising that hand, he saluted them as he turned away. “So I might see you tomorrow, or I might not. But good luck to you anyway.”
“And you,” Fletcher called after him.
Without looking back, Breckenridge gave an acknowledging wave and strode on down the corridor. Smiling.
Heather crept down the stairs of the Nutberry Moss Inn, clinging to the balustrade to
