Page 51 of The Scholar’s Spy

Instead, his eyes raked over the inhabitants of the tavern, the ones he could make out. Taking in the shabby wooden structure, the dusty glasses, the grime on the window cases, as well as the mismatch of chairs and jumble of tables, and the collection of faces some of whom he recognized and knew him as ‘Mr. O’Sullivan’ and others of whom he didn’t.

At present they were friendly, the buoyancy of the Lyme Regis’s recent law breaking having spread to the outcrop of buildings too it seemed, but how many of them knew the truth about Judith Fossey, knew her as Punch, and would be prepared to murder Robert before he left Dorset.

Leaning closer to his tankard, he forced his breath to remain steady as he slowly slipped the ale, exchanging the occasional smile or nod with the passing traveler. To his own personal distaste, Mr. Monaghan had been called inside and sat lolling in a sublime ease, and chatting animatedly to his neighbors, just a few seats away from Robert.

“Quite a find,” Mr. Monaghan was saying. It was a common enough term Robert knew for booty and goods taken in, during nighttime smuggling activity. To Robert it came as no surprise to hear that Mr. Monaghan was guilty. In his mind, he tried to imagine the handsome man cajoling Judith Fossey along with a plan or scheme of his own, but then the sharpness of her flinty eyes recalled him to himself, and he rejected the notion. Judith Fossey was entirely responsible for herself of that Robert had no doubt. Why had he not seen it before?

Mr. Monaghan’s neighbor laughed in response to him. The amused chuckle had a rich, hearty strength to it, and Robert forced himself not to look up, and discover who was likewise engaged in the smuggling ring. The list he had created of suspects which had included Abigail’s cook, Maria Schillers, had not gone the way of the letter, and lay concealed in his coat pocket. Were the two or three men seated behind him to turn around and snatch him up, divest him of his jacket and search the pockets, he would be dead. Despite Forester’s good cheer and friendliness, Robert had his doubts that the tavern owner wasn’t all too aware of what went on around these parts. Robert forced himself to continue slipping his ale. It was so bitter it stung, but he swallowed it down.

“I’ve a fancy to some new nags,” Mr. Monaghan said merrily. “Forester doesn’t have anything right at present, and I am heartily tired of begging for uncle’s scraps. Don’t you think I would be quite the sight in a barouche?”

“You will not have to wait forever. After all, you are his heir.” There was a whining-note to this response. It took a great deal of Robert’s willpower not to turn and access the man.

“Of course, I am. Still not befit a gentleman like me to always be playing second to a woman.” There was a quality of anger to his voice which made Robert wonder what had happened last night doing the landing of the gear, that would have caused Mr. Monaghan to seek Judith out. Had she berated him? Had she not given him enough booty? For a fleeting moment Robert told himself perhaps it was just as well the Fossey girls had slipped away. “Just because it is a role my uncle plays for Judy—” A sharp cough here, issued from another man at the table, and Mr. Monaghan adjusted his voice, lowering the volume although he did not sound especially pleased at the interruption. “Very well, if I must, Punch. Does that please you? It does not mean I should bow and scrape in the same manner.”

How had Robert missed such details previously? Aye, he had not been out to this tavern in weeks, nor Robert told himself had the gangs conducted such a plunder in a long while. The confidence of their successes must be the cause for Mr. Monaghan’s overconfidence. The former could be blamed on Abigail, and himself for his increasing fixation on her. The idea made a rogue grin spring to his face—in actual fact the latter according to Montacute could be blamed on Abigail too.

“She’s headed off up to Town, without making nice and saying her goodbyes.” Monaghan made a tutting noise, as if Judith or Abigail Fossey should have run the idea past him, before they departed. For a moment, Robert wondered if the women had left because of this ‘gentleman’ rather than because of his investigation.

“Always got a scheme, our Punch.” There was a note of pride in the man’s voice, and Robert was struck by the loyalty of the men to Judith Fossey. She would have had to inspire that, and a fair amount of devotion too, in order to run a smuggling gang. Or perhaps beneath her sisterly gaze there was an equally ruthless character. One that was happily able to arrange blackmail and murder—the current course of actions for those involved in smuggling.

“Course, Bill here reckons she’s up there to sell.”

“No,” came the outraged remark from Monaghan, and it masked Robert’s own shock. What was the blasted woman selling? He needed that horse immediately. Fury and fear guided his steps into the courtyard and back to Forester, who gave him a grin.

“Ah, there you are sir, Jimmie just brought her up for you. Or the coach is just ten minutes out.”

“Excellent, I’ll take the horse.” Robert surveyed the nag, taking in the mount’s strong legs and saddle, before he neared the bridle and swung himself up and into the seat.

“Let me suggest changing at The Yeoman, it’s in Yeovil. The coaching service is the quickest in the country, or so they promise.”

Robert barely listened as he tore out of the yard, he made himself think only of his culprit and not her sister. With his spurs, he encouraged the horse to a canter, keen to close the distance between him and the escaping Fosseys.

*

To Robert’s immense frustration, when he arrived in Town, two days later, it was to find that the baron was away in Brighton. It was not clear from Commodore Dulisse, who was a fussy and short-sighted man, but the one the baron had left in charge, quite what Montacute wanted done about Lyme, the Pinhayers or what Robert’s next steps should be.

‘He’s away managing that dratted cousin of his,’ was all Commodore Dulisse would say.

From his own personal inquiries, he had discovered an address of where the Fosseys were staying. It was a reasonably smart townhouse two miles south of Fladong’s Hotel. The trouble was that the older Miss Fossey might be selling secrets. Was she up in Town to see her handler who might further undermine the empire?

Determined to continue investigating, Robert set about trailing after Miss Fossey, whilst telling himself not to dwell on Abigail’s whereabouts.

It was hard as he followed Judith Fossey down the streets and alleyways, with the occasional tilt of her head, or movement of Judith’s hands, it recalled Abigail far too well. When Judith cut into Marylebone, Robert was confused that she could be so bold, and the momentary lapse in his judgement caused him to pause, and it was then that Miss Fossey turned and saw him. She recognized him, but rather than realize what she was caught, she cocked an eyebrow at him, and crossed the street meaning to join him.

“Mr. O’Sullivan, or should I say Captain Davenport?” She nodded a touch ironically. “Are you following in an effort to inquire after my sister?”

Guilt and anger swirled through him in equal measure, and if she were a man he’d take a fierce delight in dragging her back to the Whitehall and placing her under arrest. But as she stared at him, Robert knew that if he ever hoped to win Abigail back, he could hardly arrange to have her sister thrown in jail. Or transported. Yet now it was before him as a possibility it struck him differently—was he really prepared to let a criminal go because he loved one of her family members?

“Well, Captain, are you going to stand there gawping at me all day or get to your point?” Her tone was sharp and biting, and he could tell whilst he might have his reservations about hurting her, Miss Fossey would have no such second thoughts over his welfare.

“I am not the only one who goes by many names, am I, Punch?”

For a moment, just a fleeting intake of breath, Miss Fossey looked surprised that he had rumbled her. But then her lips narrowed, and she fixed him with a fierce stare. “You worked it out.”

“You should have hired better men.”

She grimaced and guessed immediately, “Monaghan?”