Lord Sidmouth and secure Corday's reprieve. The Home Secretary had said he did not want to be disturbed by official business on the Lord's Day, but Sandman did not give a damn about his lordship's prayers. Sandman would keep the whole government from its devotions if that meant justice.
In mid-morning Sandman changed places with Berrigan. Sandman now guarded Mackeson and he lifted his coat to let the driver see the pistol, but Mackeson was cowed and docile. He was taking the carriage down ever narrower roads, beneath trees heavy with summer leaves so that both he and Sandman were constantly ducking beneath boughs. They stopped at a ford to let the horses drink and Sandman watched the blue-green dragonflies flitting between the tall rushes, then Mackeson clicked his tongue and the horses hauled on and the coach splashed through the water and climbed between warm fields where men and women cut the harvest with sickles. Near midday they stopped close to a tavern and Sandman bought ale, bread and cheese which they ate and drank as the carriage creaked the last few miles. They passed a church that had a lych gate wreathed with bridal flowers and then clopped through a village where men played cricket on the green. Sandman watched the game as the coach rattled along the green's edge. This was rural cricket, a long way from the sophistication of the London game. These players still used only two stumps and a wide bail, and they bowled strictly under arm, yet the batsman had a good stance and a better eye and Sandman heard the shouts of approbation as the man punished a bad ball by striking it into a duck pond. A small boy splashed in to retrieve the ball, and then Mackeson, with a careless skill, wheeled the horses between two brick walls and clicked them on past a pair of oast houses and down into a narrow lane that ran steep between thick woods of oak. 'Not far now,' Mackeson said.
'You've done well to remember the way,' Sandman said. His compliment was genuine because the route had been tortuous and he had wondered whether Mackeson was misleading them by trying to get lost in the tangle of small lanes, but at the last turn, beside the oast houses, Sandman had seen a fingerpost pointing to Nether Cross.
'I done this journey a half-dozen times with his lordship,' Mackeson said, then hesitated before glancing at Sandman. 'So what happens if you don't find the woman?'
'We will find her,' Sandman said 'You brought her here, didn't you?' he added.
'Long time back, master,' Mackeson said, 'long time back.'
'How long?'
'Seven weeks near enough,' the coachman said, and Sandman realised that Meg must have been brought down to the country just after the murder and a full month before Corday's trial. 'All of seven weeks ago,' Mackeson went on, 'and anything can happen in seven weeks, can't it?' He gave Sandman a sly look. 'And maybe his lordship's here? That'll cool your porridge, won't it?'
Sandman had fretted that Skavadale might indeed be at his estate in Nether Cross, but there had been little point in worrying over much. He was either there or not, and he would have to be dealt with or not, and Sandman was far more worried that Meg might have vanished. Perhaps she was dead? Or perhaps, if she was blackmailing Skavadale, then she was living in country luxury and would not want to abandon her new life. 'What sort of house is it?' he asked the coachman.
'It ain't like their big ones up north,' Mackeson said. 'They got this one through a marriage in the old days, that's what I heard.'
'Comfortable?'
'Better than anything you or I will ever live in,' Mackeson said, then he clicked his tongue and the horses' ears twitched back as he flicked the leaders' reins and they turned smartly towards a tall pair of gates hung between high flint pillars.
Sandman opened the gates that were latched but not locked, then closed them after the carriage had passed. He climbed back onto the box and Mackeson walked the horses down the long drive that twisted through a deer park and between fine copper beeches until it crossed a small bridge and there, amidst the overgrown box hedges of an untended garden, lay a small and exquisitely beautiful Elizabethan house with black timbers, white plasterwork and red brick chimneys. 'Cross Hall, it's called,' Mackeson said.
'Some marriage portion,' Sandman said jealously, for the house looked so perfect under the afternoon sun.
'All mortgaged now,' Mackeson said, 'or that's what they say. Needs a fortune, this place, and I need to look after these horses. They want water, proper feed, a rubdown and a good rest.'
'All in good time,' Sandman said. He was watching the windows, but could see no movement in any of them. None was open either, and that was a bad sign for it was a warm summer's day, but then he saw there was a smear of smoke coming from one of the tall chimneys at the rear of the house and that restored his optimism. The carriage stopped and he dropped down from the box, wincing as his weight went onto his damaged ankle. Berrigan opened the carriage door and kicked down the steps, but Sandman told him to wait and make sure that Mackeson did not simply whip the horses back down the drive.
Sandman limped to the front door and hammered on its old dark panels. He had no right to be here, he thought. He was probably trespassing, and he felt in his tail pocket for the letter of authorisation from the Home Office. He had not used it once yet, but perhaps it would help him now. He knocked on the door again and stepped back to see if anyone was peering from a window. Ivy grew round the porch and under the leaves above the door he could just see a shield carved into the plasterwork. Five scallop shells were set into the shield. No one showed at any of the windows, so he stepped back into the porch and raised his fist to knock again and just then the door was pulled open and a gaunt old man stared at him, then looked at the carriage with its badge of the Seraphim Club. 'We weren't expecting any visitors today,' the man said in evident puzzlement.
'We have come to fetch Meg,' Sandman replied on an impulse. The man, a servant judging by his clothes, had plainly recognised the carriage and did not think its presence strange. Untimely, perhaps, but not strange, and Sandman hoped the servant would assume it had been sent by the Marquess.
'No one said she was to go anywhere.' The man was suspicious.
'London,' Sandman said.
'So who be you?' The man was tall and had a deeply lined face surrounded by unkempt white hair.
'I told you. We came to fetch Meg. Sergeant Berrigan and I.'
'Sergeant?' The man did not recognise the name, but sounded alarmed. 'You brought a lawyer?'
'He's from the club,' Sandman said, feeling the conversation slide into mutual incomprehensibility.
'His lordship said nothing about her going,' the man said cautiously.
'He wants her in London,' Sandman repeated.
'Then I'll fetch the lass,' the man said and then, before Sandman could react, he slammed the door and shot the bolts and did it so quickly that Sandman was left gaping. He was still staring at the door when he heard a bell ring inside the house and he knew that urgent sound had to be a signal to Meg. He swore.
'That's a good bloody start,' Berrigan said sarcastically.
'But the woman is here,' Sandman answered as he walked back to the carriage, 'and he says he's fetching her.'
'Is he?'
Sandman shook his head. 'Hiding her, more like. Which means we've got to look for her, but what do we do with these two?' He gestured at Mackeson.
'Shoot the buggers, then bury them,' Berrigan growled, and was rewarded by two of Mackeson's fingers. In the end they took the carriage round to the stables, where they found the stalls and feed racks empty except for a score of broody hens, but they also discovered a brick-built tack room that had a solid door and no windows and Mackeson and the stable boy were imprisoned inside while the horses were left in the yard harnessed to the carriage. 'We'll deal with them later,' Sandman declared.
'Collect some eggs later, too,' Berrigan said with a smile, for the stable yard had been given over to chickens, seemingly hundreds of them, some looking down from the roof ridge, others on the window ledges and most hunting for grain that had been scattered among the weed-strewn, dropping-white cobbles. A cockerel stared sideways at them from the mounting block, then twitched his comb and crowed lustily as Sandman led Berrigan and Sally to the back door of Cross Hall. The door was locked. Every door was locked, but the house was no fortress and Sandman found a window that was inadequately latched and shook it hard until it came open and he could climb into a small parlour with panelled walls, an empty stone fireplace and furniture shrouded in dust sheets. Berrigan followed. 'Stay outside,' Sandman said to Sally and she nodded agreement, but a moment later clambered through the window. 'There could be a fight,' Sandman warned her.
