Sovay by Celia Rees Read Free Book Online Page B

candles, and all. Why d’you think that could be?’
    Betty couldn’t guess, and neither could Emily. They were distracted from their speculations by news from the stables. Merrick, the lad who had been given care of the horse, had found something of such great import that he could not possibly keep to himself. A sprig of broom.
    ‘Found this twined in the horse’s bridle,’ he breathed, full of awe as he held up the wilted yellow flowers. ‘I reckon it’s that Captain Blaze!’
    News that the gentlemen of the road had gained a dashing new recruit had spread quickly from turnpike to turnpike along the highway used by the stage coaches, and Merrick immediately gained everyone’s attention.
    ‘Ah!’ Jeremiah Berrow spoke up from the chimney corner. ‘I heared he was about. Stepped off the road, bold as you like, begged a cup of milk at Harrison’s Farm. Paid for it with a kiss. So young Jenny that works there told Jem the carter.’ The old man gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘She didn’t have no kisses for Jem, though.’
    ‘He banged up that fancy coach and all,’ Merrick added.
    Sir Royston’s carriage had limped in that afternoon and was at the coachbuilders being repaired, Sir Royston being forced to continue his onward journey by stagecoach.
    There was more discussion as to whether the mystery traveller presently upstairs was, indeed, the highwayman in question, and if he was, what should be done about it. After some talk, they came to the general conclusion that nothing should be done. Gentlemen of the road were held in sneaking admiration and, besides, they were always well-armed and known to be of a ferocious and violent disposition. As Cledbury had no constable and the watch was next to useless, no one in the Saracen’s Head suggested challenging the fellow.
    There was another stranger present, sitting on his own in the far corner. Digby Clayton specialised in anonymity and no one really noticed his small, shabby figure in dusty black clothes and cheap, ill-fitting wig. He kept his own company, nibbling at a plate of bread and cheese and sipping his half-pint tankard of small ale. He said very little and drew scant attention from his fellow travellers, or the natives, but without ever seeming to, he was taking a keen interest in the discussion, noting everything that was said and by whom. His lips moved very slightly as he submitted each assertion to the lexicon of his memory. Days, weeks, months later he would be able to recite every utterance word for word. It was a valuable skill. He would nip out later to see the lad about the nag that would take him on his journey south. While he was in the stables, he’d take a look at the mysterious gentleman’s horse. You can tell a lot from horses.

    Upstairs, the object of their speculation was reading through the sheaf of papers contained in the wallet. She was thorough and careful in her study, reading each sheet with attention. Some were in French. Her knowledge of the language was adequate enough to interpret that these were from agents reporting on events in Paris. She put those to one side and began to sift through the rest, placing each one on an appropriate pile in a system of her own devising.
    There were warrants, letters, affidavits and reports of meetings from all over the country. The statements were signed with initials, D.C. , D.P. , J.E. , L.C. ; single names, Sykes , Oscar , Warner ; or soubriquets, Dave the Hat , Tom Spitalfields , John the Missionary . She assumed that this was because of the need for secrecy. Some were original documents, while others had been transcribed from some other source in small, neat, spiky writing. Some pages were marked with initials or an X . She took these to be oral depositions. Some of the statements were written in a fine, educated style, others were near illiterate. Among the papers, she had found the names of her father and his friends, the members of the Monday Club, and similar groups up and down the