His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee
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disappeared again.
Knight’s heart was thumping hard. The folded paper was fragile and yellowed with age. He could see the shadow of writing shining through its thinness. His mouth dried with anticipation. The question had haunted him every day of the last fifteen years—now he held the answer in his hands. He took a breath and carefully unfolded the document.
His eyes scanned the faded ink. The document was dated for June 1795 and was a letter from a senior government minister of the time to Misbourne. Several sensitive topics were discussed and it was clear, from both the tone and the detail revealed, that the two men were on friendly terms. It was a letter that many might have paid to read, the stuff of petty scandal, but Knight crushed it within his hand as a red mist descended before him.
Marianne heard the footsteps outside in the alleyway before the highwayman’s accomplice did. The highwayman strode into the room wearing the same long dark coat he had worn upon Hounslow Heath, but his hat was the smart beaver she had watched him don in the coach, and beneath the coat she caught a glimpse of the fine white shirt and dark waistcoat. The mask tied around his face had moulded to his features and his boots left a trail of footsteps through the dirt of the floor.
After all these hours of waiting, he had finally come to return her to her father. Her stomach tightened with anticipation. Then she met his eyes, and they were not golden and light but dark and dangerous and filled with such a cold hard rage that she knew, before he even spoke the words to his accomplice, that it had all gone wrong.
‘Misbourne played us false.’
‘He didn’t deliver the document?’ The accomplice sounded as shocked as Marianne felt.
‘Not the right one. Does he think me so much a fool that I would not notice?’
‘You said he was a blackguard but, even so, what manner of man risks his own daughter?’ the accomplice whispered, but she heard him just the same.
‘No!’ Marianne leapt to her feet so suddenly that the chair tipped back and clattered on to the floor. ‘You’re lying! My father must be confused. You cannot have made it clear what you wanted.’
The highwayman walked right up to her and his eyes were dark and deadly. ‘Your father knows exactly what I want, Lady Marianne.’
‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head, knowing that what the highwayman was saying could not be true. ‘He would not leave me here with you. He would do everything in his power to save me.’ She knew it with all her heart.
Something of the rage diminished in the highwayman’s eyes and the way he was looking at her made his words ring true more than any angry assertions could have done. ‘I am sorry, Lady Marianne.’
‘There must be some mistake.’
The harshness of his whisper softened. ‘There is no mistake.’
‘You’re lying,’ she said again and her voice was very quiet and controlled, in such contrast to the terrible frenzied thud of her heart. Of course he was lying. He had to be lying.
He said nothing, just stood there and looked at her, and she could not bear to see the pity in his eyes.
‘You’re lying!’ she shouted it this time. ‘You just want more from him!’
‘Lady Marianne.’ Gently he tried to take her arm.
‘No!’ She flinched and pushed him away. ‘Do not touch me!’
‘We have to move,’ she heard his accomplice say in the background. ‘What do we do with the girl?’
The highwayman did not take his gaze from hers as he answered, ‘We take her home with us.’
The accomplice gestured the highwayman aside. They talked in hushed tones, but Marianne could hear some of what they were saying.
‘Maybe we should just let her go. If Misbourne isn’t going to give up the document…’ The accomplice was arguing to release her.
‘We keep her until he does.’ The highwayman was so adamant that she knew his accomplice would not persuade him. He meant to keep her and heaven only knew what he would do to her. He glanced round, saw she was listening and pulled his accomplice further away, turning his back so that she would not hear their words. They were so intent on their conversation that they did not hear the sound of feet and voices, children’s shouts and a man’s growl. The door opened and four children ran in, and behind them, a man and a woman carrying a puppy wrapped in a filthy shawl.
The children did not seem fazed to find the highwayman, his accomplice and Marianne.
‘All right, governor?’ The oldest fair-haired boy sauntered across the room and gave the highwayman a nod.
‘Tom,’ the man snapped at the boy, but the boy was not cowed in the slightest. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ said the man to the highwayman. ‘We thought you would be gone. Excuse us and we’ll leave you to your business.’ And then in roughened tones to the children, ‘Out, the lot of you.’ His head gestured to the still-open door.
One of the boys emitted a harsh hacking cough and the puppy began to whine. The family smelled of dampness and dog and unwashed bodies.
‘Our business is done for today,’ replied the highwayman. ‘Here…’ He slipped his hand into his pocket and she saw the glint of gold. The children gathered around him like flies round a honeypot. Her gaze slid to the open door and the woman standing beside it. All eyes were on the highwayman’s gold. Marianne did not hesitate. She hitched up her skirts and she ran.
‘Stop her!’ She heard the highwayman’s shout. ‘Marianne, no! This place is danger—’ But she slammed the door shut behind her and did not look back.
She hurled herself down the close, through the gaping main door and out into the street. The clatter of her shoes was loud against the stones, seeming to echo against the crowding walls all around. Shabby clothing hung on washing lines strung high between the houses, flapping dark and grey and damp. Marianne dodged beneath them and kept on running, ignoring the sharp press of the cobbles through her thin leather soles. A quick glance behind and she could see his dark figure further down the street, running so fast that the tails of his greatcoat were spread and billowing behind him like great black wings.
‘God help me!’ she whispered and, ignoring the stitch in her side, pushed herself to run faster, knowing that she could not afford to let him catch her. The paving was uneven and covered in filth. A dog snapped at her heels and a woman sitting in a doorway swigging from a bottle shouted something at her and laughed, but she kept on running. She stumbled, almost sprawling her length as she caught her foot in a hole in the road, but righted herself without slowing. Round the corner, she dived up a narrow alleyway to her right and the next one on her left, crisscrossing, desperate to find a way out, but every turn just seemed to take her deeper into the forest of houses.
The streets were growing narrower and darker, the buildings taller and more rickety; the people she passed were more sharp-faced and beady-eyed. Her breathing was so hard she could taste blood at the back of her throat, so loud that it masked the sounds around her. She knew she could not keep going, that she was spent. She dodged into another narrow street on her right and shrank back against the wall, closing her eyes and gasping air into her lungs. Her side ached like the stab of a knife blade with every breath.
There was no sound of the highwayman’s footsteps. No sound of anything except the distant hum of everyday life and her own panting breath. She had lost him. She had escaped. She breathed her relief.
And then the scent of tobacco smoke drifted to her nose and Marianne knew that she was not alone. She opened her eyes and looked around her. A little further up the street, three men lounged completely motionless against the fronts of the houses. Their clothing was all browns and greys, merging with the stonework of the buildings. Two sucked on long thin clay pipes. All three watched her with sharp hungry faces.
And for all that Marianne had sought to escape the highwayman, she knew these men were