‘Do you really think the woman who screamed was Anne Horner?’
‘It’s more than possible, Charlotte. On the particular night, she would have been somewhere in that lane at that time. It was the ideal place to overpower her.’
‘Why would anyone wish to do that?’
‘I can only guess at their motives.’
‘So where do you think she is now, Peter?’
He was decisive. ‘I believe she’s being held somewhere against her will.’
The dank cellar was at the rear of the house so her pleas would be unheard by any passers-by. In any case, the woman had warned her that, if she tried to call for help, she would be bound and gagged. A truckle bed occupied a corner and a stinking wooden bucket stood beside it. She had no idea why she was being held or who her gaolers were. When he brought her food, the man never spoke a word. The grating that provided ventilation let in enough light for her to see the bare stone walls covered in mildew and the undulating floor. The stench was unbearable. A small candle gave her the only illumination at night.
Having lost all track of time, she was in a state of utter bewilderment. All that she could do was to pray again and again for delivery. As she lay on the bed, she thought she heard a noise outside the cellar. She hauled herself to her feet and scurried across to the heavy oak door.
‘Is anyone there?’ she cried.
CHAPTER NINE
Jubal Nason was a sharp-featured man in his fifties with an ill-fitting grey wig, a pronounced squint and a sallow complexion. His back was hunched, his hands skeletal and his manner surly. Compared to his three visitors, he was smartly dressed but his dark suit had faded and the cuffs of his coat were threadbare. Since he’d been dismissed from his job as a lawyer’s clerk, he’d fallen on hard times and iron had entered his soul. Nason was not pleased when Dermot Fallon came to his house with two strangers in tow. He looked at Moses Dagg with especial disdain.
‘We’ve a task for you,’ explained Fallon. ‘It’s an important one.’
‘Go elsewhere,’ said the other. ‘I’m too busy.’
‘You’re never too busy to help an old friend.’
There was a dry laugh. ‘I’d never call you a friend, Mr Fallon.’
‘You were happy enough to shake my hand when I chanced along and saved you from being torn to pieces by that mad dog.’ He turned to Tom O’Gara. ‘There’s gratitude for you! I went to his rescue and he turns his back on me.’
‘That’s unfair, Dermot,’ said his cousin, hotly.
‘It’s worse than unfair. If I’d known he’d behave like this, I’d not only have let the animal eat him alive, I’d have cheered him on.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ said Dagg, scowling. ‘He doesn’t look worth saving.’
Confronted by three menacing visitors, Nason decided that it was not in his interests to annoy them. He manufactured a smile of appeasement. Fallon had indeed saved him from attack by a dog. What he didn’t know was that the Irishman owned the animal and had trained him to threaten people. Nason was simply the latest victim tricked into believing that Fallon had just happened to pass at a critical moment.
‘I need a favour,’ said Fallon, making it sound more like a command than a request. He indicated his companions in turn. ‘This is my cousin, Tom O’Gara and that is Moses Dagg. They’ve come all the way from America to meet you.’
Nason was surly. ‘What can I do for you all?’
‘You can mind your manners for a start.’
‘I’m not sure we can trust him, Dermot,’ said O’Gara. ‘He looks sly.’
‘I agree with Tom,’ said Dagg. ‘He could double-cross us.’
‘Mr Nason knows what would happen to him if he did that,’ said Fallon, shooting the man a warning glance. ‘I’d be back here with a whole pack of wild dogs. But don’t be fooled by appearances. I know he looks like a cock-eyed back-stabber but he’s a good scrivener and we need his help.’ He bared ugly teeth in a grin. ‘And he’ll be glad to offer it, won’t you, Mr Nason?’
The scrivener’s eyes went from one to the other. All three were big, strong and had an edge of desperation about them. Provoking them would be a mistake. At the same time, he was determined not to offer his services for nothing.’
‘I’ll need payment,’ he said.
‘You’ll get it,’ Fallon promised.
‘Pen, ink and paper don’t come free. My time is even more expensive.’
‘We’ll judge what it’s worth afterwards.’