as they tried to pretend he wasn’t there. The captain was indulging in what appeared to be a massive fit of the sulks. Emily found herself wishing the staff had not turned up, so that they could all be back in the friendlier atmosphere of the kitchen.
But the coachman, Old Tom, could not bear a silence for long. ‘You ladies and gents may think this here storm is a great occurrence, but us coachees is used to disaster and adventure. Yus. Why, I mind when I had a fight on me hands. I’ll tell you how it happened. ’Twas when I was driving the Exeter Defiance, the coach what belonged to Mrs Anne Nelson. That lady owned several of the Flying Machines, but it was me what took the Defiance on the Exeter run. Well, as you know, them toll-keepers is supposed to pay over the tolls they collect every Monday morning. But this here toll-keeper at Ilchester was a gambler, and so he had been using the money to play dice. So the trustees told their clerks to serve notice to the guards o’ the coaches not to pay the toll-keeper any money. Now that there toll-keeper, he was desperate for the money, and so to make sure he got it, he closed the toll-gates afore the coach arrived. As we was coming up to Ilchester toll, Jim Feathers here, he blew on the yard o’ tin, but them gates stayed tight shut. Well, what was we to do? Coach had to get through. So we paid this robber the three shillings. But he was in league with the other toll-keeper further on, so he got a pony and trap and rode ahead o’ us and told that there toll-keeper to bar the gates there.
‘I wasn’t having none o’ that. Enough’s enough. I got me tool-box and climbed down to chisel the bolt off the gate and them two toll-keepers come at me, one o’ them swinging a gurt pike. Jim Feathers here, he come up with the gun and smacks the one wi’ the pike over the head with the butt and I land me bunch o’ fives in the face o’ the other. There ain’t no stopping the Exeter coach.’
‘It is stopped well and truly now,’ pointed out Hannah. The coachman paid her no heed.
‘I never race my cattle,’ he said, ‘but there’s some can’t resist temptation. Now Harry Lyndon was the best coachman in the whole length and breadth o’ Engand and he was on the Portsmouth run and famous for being sure and steady. But one day at the Wheatsheaf at Liphook, disaster fell. He’d been a calm man all his life and was getting on in years, but just as he was changing his horses, two coaches passed him, one, the Hero, and the other, the Regulator, and as they passed him, one coachman cocked a snook at him and the other stuck out his tongue. Now Harry had a fresh team of thoroughbreds hitched up and he was determined to show these cheeky young fellers, as he called them, a thing or two. So he sprung ’em. He passed the Regulator as it was going up Rake Hill. Now he had t’other rival in his sights and he sprung them horses more than ever until a poor soldier on the roof was being thrown up and down like a shuttlecock on a battledore. There was a lady inside the coach screaming like a banshee, but Harry could see nothing but his rival and he drew alongside o’ him at the top of Sheet Hill.
‘Have you ever been to Astley’s Amphitheatre? Ever seen them Roman chariot races? Well, it was like that, said Harry. Down a steep hill they raced, neck and neck. At the bottom of it was a post-chaise, and that terrified post-boy only saved his neck by driving into a ditch. Now Harry, he saw a place on the opposite rise where he could safely pass the Hero. Victory was nearly his. But do you know what that young whippersnapper what was driving the Hero did? He pulled his horses right across the old coachman’s leaders’ heads and they pulled the coach all the way up a bank.
‘Fortunately, no strap or trace or buckle was broken, but Harry couldn’t get nearer the Hero but the back boot all the way to the next stage. But that young coachman lost his job, for three of the Hero’s horses never came out of the stable again. Old Harry, well, he never raced again.’
‘What became of him?’ asked Hannah, her odd eyes shining.
‘Died in harness, you might say. Up on the box, arter having brought his team safely home to London, and he snuffed it, just like that, with the reins in his hands. Had to wrench his hands open, he had such a grip on them reins. That’s how I’d like for to go.’
Conversation became general. Everyone began to talk about how they would like to die. Mrs Bradley said she would like to die in her sleep; Hannah, anywhere at all so long as it was quick; Emily said she would like to be so very old that death could come as a friend; Lord Harley glanced at her in surprise but said he would like to die in the arms of a pretty woman. He had meant to be flirtatious, but Emily, imagining him in the arms of some opera dancer, glared at him. Captain Seaton, who seemed unsnubbable, said he would like to die in battle, and the rest agreed with Emily.
Hannah suggested a game of cards after dinner provided no one gambled. There were protests at that suggestion, but it was at last decided it was better than doing nothing at all, and they moved through to a large round table in the taproom and played cards until the landlord brought in a bowl of punch and suggested they all have a nightcap, ‘courtesy of the house’.
‘And so he should,’ said Captain Seaton, ‘considering we have all been working as his servants without pay.’
‘All except you,’ said Hannah, but the captain was flushed with wine and had forgotten his earlier misery and paid her no heed.
Emily refused the punch. Hannah had made a jug of lemonade, which was all Emily had drunk at dinner and she felt the better for it.
Everyone began to yawn and an early night was proposed.
They all made their way upstairs, with the exception of Lord Harley, who sat clutching his head. He felt very groggy and was sure he had not drunk all that much. He also felt sure he would wake up in the morning feeling like the devil if he did not do something about himself. He went out to the privvy and was very sick indeed. He splashed his face with water from the pump and then made his way upstairs. Mr Fletcher was lying fast asleep.
Lord Harley still felt groggy. He undressed quickly and climbed into bed and was fast asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Emily lay awake reading. She had had to help Miss Pym to bed, a Miss Pym who kept staggering and saying in a thick voice that she would never touch hard liquor again.
The lurid romance continued to hold Emily’s attention until late into the night. She put down her book, her heart suddenly hammering hard. There were sinister bump-bump-bump sounds coming from the staircase. Emily slowly sat up in bed. This was what came of reading gothic stories. They made even the most ordinary of household sounds seem sinister. She waited, listening. From downstairs came dragging sounds and then a door opened and closed.
She was just picking up her book again when she heard a sound like wheels coming from the inn yard.
Emily climbed down from the high bed and went to the window, which overlooked the inn yard. She drew back the curtains. She looked down and then stifled a scream.
The yard was flooded with bright moonlight. A man was pushing a handcart, and on the handcart lay a body.
Emily flew to the bed and shook Hannah. ‘Wake up!’ she cried. ‘Oh, please wake up.’ But no matter how hard she shook Hannah, that lady could not be roused.
Scrambling into her clothes and tying the tapes with trembling fingers, Emily wondered what to do. Then she thought that it was all very simple. She would rouse the men.
She ran to the Red Room and hammered on the door. Silence.
She opened the door and went in. The room was in pitch-darkness. She opened the curtains and let the moonlight flood the room and then drew back the hangings on the bed.
Lord Harley was lying there fast asleep, but there was no sign of Mr Fletcher. All at once Emily was sure that the body in that cart had been that of the lawyer and that the figure pushing it had been Captain Seaton.
‘Wake up!’ she shouted at Lord Harley.
To her relief, he did wake up and stared at her dizzily.
‘Get up!’ screamed Emily, jumping up and down in an agony of fear and impatience. ‘The captain has killed Mr Fletcher and has gone to get rid of the body.’
Lord Harley looked at the empty space in the bed beside him. ‘Get the others,’ he said to Emily. ‘I will join you shortly.’
Emily ran to the room Lizzie shared with Mrs Bradley but could rouse neither of the women. She tried the coachman and the guard with the same lack of success. Back she ran to the Red Room, gasping that there was something up with everyone, for she could not get them to move.
‘Drugged,’ said Lord Harley bitterly. ‘We’ve all been drugged. It must have been the punch.’
‘I didn’t have any. Oh, let us go. Perhaps poor Mr Fletcher is not dead but only drugged.’
‘Calmly,’ said Lord Harley. ‘What exactly did you see?’
