The Scarlet Thief by Paul Fraser Collard Read Free Book Online Page B

laundry was shut. The stifling heat of the huge boiling coppers meant the door was never closed, the fresh breeze offering some respite from the steamy, suffocating rooms. Jack knew then that something terrible was happening behind its ordinary everyday facade.
    He hit the door hard with his shoulder, his hands still gripping the bundle of washing. He half expected the door to be locked but it flew open and crashed heavily into the wall inside.
    Jack half fell into the laundry’s outer room. He lost his footing and would have hit the wooden floorboards hard were it not for the bundle of washing that cushioned his fall, protecting his ribs from the worst of the painful impact.
    ‘No!’ Molly’s voice screamed out in warning.
    Jack was still on the floor but he turned his head in time to see the black shadow of a hobnailed army boot aimed at his head. He rolled to one side and the boot whispered past his face, missing a violent connection by a hair’s breadth. His assailant hissed an oath and in a heartbeat Jack scrabbled to his feet, throwing himself at the huge figure that had attacked him. He still didn’t know who it was but it did not matter. He had heard Molly scream. It told him all he needed to know.
    Jack smashed into his assailant with his full weight and the two of them went crashing down in a twisting frenzy of limbs. They scuffled on the floor, arms and legs thrashing wildly. Fists bounced off arms and elbows, glancing blows, neither man gaining the advantage. Jack could feel the strength in the body that was wrapped round his own, could sense the power in the punches that came down with terrifying speed. One vicious blow connected with his skull and his ears rang and his vision faded. He tried to fight back but his attacker twisted powerfully, pushing him backwards, a huge meaty paw pressing hard against his chest, crushing him where he lay.
    Jack aimed a wild blow at the man’s head but there was no strength in the punch and his fist bounced off the thick line of his opponent’s jaw.
    As Jack lay beaten and defeated, the face of Colour Sergeant Slater leered down at him.
    A thick line of saliva trembled at one corner of Slater’s mouth. Jack saw the red patches on the sergeant’s skin where some of his punches had found their mark and a thin stream of blood flowed from one nostril to congeal in the thick, bushy moustache.
    Slater spat a globule of bloody phlegm on to Jack’s chest.
    ‘Oh dear, Lark. You appear to have got yourself in a spot of bother. I warned you that you would be next but I hadn’t dreamt it would come so soon.’ Slater wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing the blood and saliva across his cheek.
    Jack noticed Slater had removed his red coat. His cotton undershirt was unbuttoned nearly to the navel, thick curls of dark hair peeking through the opening, and his breeches were loose, held together by a single button and threatening to fall. Slater would never allow himself to be seen in such disorder, especially in a public room such as the laundry. Jack’s heart stopped as he realised what it meant.
    His body tensed as the anger surged through him. It was all-consuming, a wave of such loathing that all his fear and pain left him. Nothing mattered except the need to fight. To pound into oblivion the man who had attacked the one person Jack held dear.
    ‘You bastard!’ Molly’s shriek of rage took both men by surprise.
    The dolly paddle in her hands was made from pine. It was thick, shaped like a short-handled oar, and it made a vicious weapon. Molly swung it round like a cudgel, smashing it with all her strength into the side of Slater’s skull.
    Slater was flung to one side and hit the wall with a thud.
    Jack staggered to his feet. If he noticed Molly’s torn clothes or the dark red mark that coloured her pale cheek then it did not give pause to his actions. Heedless of the pain in his battered body, he leant down and grabbed hold of Slater’s shirt collar, jerking his head