Title: The Incident at the Miner's Arms
Author: Sherry Thornburg
Author's Email: Thornburgs77
Feedback: Yes, please
Permission to Archive. Privately only, with notice to me as to where it is.
Category: Short Story, Paranormal
Rating/Warning: K
Main Characters: Phileas and Rebecca Fogg
Disclaimer: SAJV and original characters copywrite Tailsman/Promark/etc., no infringement is intended.
Chapter 1
Eyam of Derbyshire England, located in the northern end of the shire, is a small spot on the map in a treasure trove of mineral deposits. Coal mines all around the shire go deep to fuel the expansion of the British Empire. Lead is plentiful and has been mined in the area since Roman times. Fluorspar, barytes and some galena are also mined and processed locally. There is also a thriving silk weaving industry with two factories to employ the local villagers. Overall, it is a good place to live in nineteenth century England. Even the clergy benefits from the prosperity with the rector being entitled to mineral tithes.
And amongst all this, there are large estates whose landowners do not chose to actively mine but raised crops and flocks. The Foggs, living at Shillingworth Magna, are one of those families that have always kept their lands forested and set on agricultural endeavors. Sir Francis Fogg of the twelfth century decreed that his lands would never become "a great lead pit". In the years since, none of his descendants have ever disagreed with the decision. They, however, are not so short-sighted they haven't seen value of investing in such undertakings. The Fogg fortune owes its founding to Derbyshire industry along with battle prizes won, and an occasional play at privateering. The latter activity was only a rare occurrence during Elizabeth's reign. The Foggs have never been seagoing Englishmen, as a rule.
Over the centuries since Sir Francis, the Foggs diversified their investments to include diamond mining in South Africa, tea plantations in India, and trade goods bought and sold just about everywhere the British flag flew. But back home in England, they still look like simple country gentry, living off the blessings of their own lands.
The present master of that estate is currently being jostled about in a traveling coach: a conveyance he detests and doesn't choose to pull out of the stables often. The coach was the very best that could be afforded when it was bought, but that didn't change the fact that country roads are often in poor repair due to constant rains. The ruts are deep and the once shallow puddles have become bogs waiting to catch at the wheels and drag them into a mire. No coach would have been comfortable under these conditions. This rare use was due to his cousin Rebecca and the unpredictable weather, which had grounded the Aurora. Phileas Fogg and his cousin were on their way to the Miner's Arms in Eyam and Phileas's complaints about Rebecca bringing her work so close to home had been the ongoing topic of conversation for nearly an hour.
"I did not choose the place, Phileas, Richard did. And why are you complaining?" Rebecca's exasperation rose as she held tight to the strap on her side of the coach to keep from being bounced out of her seat. The driver wasn't going fast, yet still, she was taking a beating as the coach fell into one hole after another. "Crossing half of Derbyshire is nothing compared to traveling to London. We could be back at Shillingworth Magna by nightfall if all goes well."
"The way the weather has been of late, I rather doubt it," Phileas said, continuing his grumbling as the coach bounced on. "It is storm season you know. Personally, I would rather be on our own side of the shire than here. The closer one gets to Longdendale the more superstitious the locals get."
Rebecca sent Phileas a quelling look. "More objections to the local color, Phileas? I find the stories about our valley's history quite riveting."
"You would." Phileas snorted. "You, dear cousin, are not called to investigate and report on such nonsense. Every time some stranger comes along and sees an out of place shadow, I hear about it. The reports of fairy lights and bog ghosts are bad enough around Shillingworth Magna. Around here you have the mermaid, the plague cottage ghosts, the warring Princes of Mouselow and Melandra Castle going at it for all eternity…"
Rebecca cut in. "Oh, do stop complaining and stop exaggerating! The local ghosts, if there are any, are of the tamest variety. I have never heard of any ghostly battles around Mouselow or Melandra Castle and the mermaid is said to only bother people fool enough to bother her. Rain or shine, I promise," Rebecca vowed, "I will not make a single complaint about travel across bumpy roads on the way home… if you will find it in your heart to be pleasant at the inn. You did not need to come with me, you know." She added that, giving her cousin another sour frown. I could have met Richard by myself."
"This is the same Richard that channeled Lazarus, is it not?" Phileas said it, pointedly reminding Rebecca of their last association with the agent. "The same Richard that went missing for over four months on assignment in Berlin… The man that Chatsworth is declaring a turncoat. If there is no need for concern, why is he not making a report to Chatsworth in London rather than calling on you to see him here?"
"All good questions which I will ask when we get to the inn." Rebecca assured him. Actually, those were questions that Rebecca had been asking herself since yesterday when a messenger from Eyam had delivered the note from Richard. It had been addressed, Dear Sister, and had asked that she come straight away. That had been impossible due to an evening storm. Today, however, with a clear moment in the weather, she hadthe coach hitched up right after breakfast. Rebecca had not intended Phileas's company, but he had insisted on going anyway, threatening to lose her the use of the coach if she refused him.
Rebecca had been following reports of Richard's disappearance from the beginning. She had partnered with him several times over the years. They had saved each other's lives many times over. The last time she had helped clear his name was when he had been accused of treason after the ghost of the agent turned anarchist, Lazarus, had taken over his body. That evil spirit had also taken over hers for a short time, taking a shot at Sir Jonathan. Rebecca did not recall that attempt at murder, any more than Richard recalled his transgressions. In the end, her failed murder attempt was Richard's saving grace. Sir Jonathan could not believe Rebecca capable of shooting him in cold blood without outside influence.
Now with a near four-month absence, Chatsworth had begun to accuse Richard of defecting to Prussia. Rebecca vehemently defended her associate. "Richard is a quiet humble man and no less a patriot than I. He would never turn against the Queen."
Chatsworth's evidence is too sketchy to be taken seriously anyway. She looked out the carriage window. They were passing the road marker for Eyam. Richard's last known location had been near the embassy offices in Berlin. He had been seen entering a coach with a Prussian Army officer. A few days later, his wife had received a large sum of money with a note from Richard saying he would be away for an unknown amount of time. The handwriting appeared to be Richard's, but his wife had not believed it. Brenda had brought the note and money to the Berlin offices, begging that her husband be searched for. No one knew the officer Richard had disappeared with. No one knew where the two men had gone either. Richard had simply vanished.
The coach hit another deep hole in the road, tossing Rebecca into Phileas's side yet again, despite her hold on the strap. He automatically reached out to steady her when the jostling was over. She settled herself back into her side of the seat.
Phileas looked out the window and saw their destination up the road. It was an old seventeenth century inn made of local stone. As they drove up to the building, the rains started up again. Rebecca dashed out of the coach the minute Passepartout opened the door before the sprinkles could turn into a deluge.
Phileas stepped out of the coach after her and gave orders for Jimmy, a junior groomsman, to put the vehicle in the stables and see to the horses. "I doubt we will be going anywhere tonight," he said looking to the sky. "Passepartout, go in and secure us all rooms. And do keep your curiosity about the local ghosts under control. The innkeeper here will go on for hours at the least provocation."
"Yes master," Passepartout agreed disappointedly as he headed inside.
"Sir," the coachman called to Phileas. "If you're not expectin' to need me before mornin', I have a cousin here I'd like to visit." Jimmy said, looking down through the misty rain. "I'd stay with him overnight."
"By all means, go," Phileas said. "If the storm passes, be back here by dawn to see to the horses. Otherwise enjoy your visit as long as it lasts. I have no wish to be out on the road while these storms continue."
"Yes sir." Jimmy tipped his hat and set the horses for the stables. Now that's why we all like working for the Fogg family, Jimmy thought grinning. Such agreeable sorts, not the least pretentious. Right good people for gentry, those Foggs. All ye have to do is a good day's work, pretend ye don't notice their crown business, and all is sweet as cherry tarts.
Fogg entered the inn. Thank the Lord for large English families. He had been wondering how he was going to keep the young groom out of the way of this business, short of sending him back home. Phileas and Rebecca did not advertise their places in the service of the Queen to their servants. He supposed a few of the older members of the staff might know. Sir Boniface may have allowed some to work with him as Passepartout helped Phileas keep Rebecca safe. But he did not know which, so he tried to keep them all in the dark.
The rainfall intensified to icy sheets as Phileas looked back out the door. Inside, he shook the water off his hat, and let Passepartout take his overcoat. The old inn looked like any other for miles around, ancient, and dark with the smell of pipes, ale, and wood smoke from the great hearth. The common room was large and open, with tables scattered about. There was a bar to one side with a large mirror over the back wall. To the right side of the bar was a door, presumably leading to the kitchens. Yes, it did go to the kitchen. Phileas observed a girl of maybe sixteen coming out with a plate of roast mutton so mouth wateringly aromatic, it could have come out of Miss Betty's kitchen back home.
A stairway at the opposite side of the common room led the way to rooms for rent upstairs. Rebecca stood at the main desk situated at the foot of the stairs, speaking to the portly balding landlord. He, Mr. Potts, nodded at something she said, and led her upstairs. Phileas joined them, bidding Passepartout to remain downstairs to keep watch.
"Your brother is in a bad way," the landlord informed them. "My missus has been tending 'im. The village doctor saw 'im yesterday mornin', when 'e stumbled through my door. Sorriest sight I ever saw." Mr. Potts shook his head. "'e were wet through and through; chilled to the bone and burning up with fever. 'is clothes were a mess and 'ad bloody holes from gunshot wounds. Those are already half healed. A highwayman on the road from Dover robbed 'em, or so 'e said. But don't worry none for infection. Those wounds didn't give 'im the fever. The doctor says 'e has pneumonia. Doctor Glover an't hopeful for 'im. Why 'e would be travelin' in such a condition is beyond me."
"I thank you and your wife for your excellent care, sir," Rebecca offered as they reached the door. "I will see to him now."
The old innkeeper smiled to her. When they reached the top of the landing, he led them to the sick man's room. Inside, the room was clean and dark, smelling of sweat. It was still daylight, but the storm had darkened the skies so only the lamp seemed to be giving the room light. A dark-haired young man lay in the bed coughing with a cloth to his mouth. The innkeeper's graying, grandmotherly wife sat on a stool beside the bed. She had a cup of broth in her hands that she was coaxing Richard to drink. At her husband's gesture, she relinquished her seat to the newcomers and left the room.
Rebecca and Phileas quietly approached the bed. Rebecca took the stool while Phileas stood at the foot board looking on. Richard looked terrible and sounded worse. He could not seem to catch his breath. Rebecca took a spoonful of the broth and fed it to him. The liquid calmed the coughing a little. After four spoonful's he was quieted but appeared completely drained of strength. Rebecca took up a wet cloth from a bowl of icy water to bathe his face. She turned to her cousin. "He is burning up Phileas."
Richard's bed had been packed with ice bags to control the fever. He shivered and trembled as he lay there, eyes closed. His skin was waxen and ghostly pale in the light of the oil lamp, as white as the pillowcases. The contrast made his brown hair, now plastered to his head from sweat and sponging, look far darker than normal. His eyes were red rimmed and sunken. Richard looked up at Rebecca and then to Phileas for several minutes before speaking. When he did his voice was strained and wispy.
"Gave up on your coming," he said smiling weakly. "Storms… followed me out of Prussia, and… across the channel. Haven't been dry in weeks."
"Can you tell us what happened to you?" Rebecca said.
"Got caught," he said in a whisper. "Was in prison for months. Shot escaping. Had to keep moving. Stayed in barns and woods. Found passage with smugglers. They… found me a horse. Outside Sheffield I… I couldn't go on. Sent word to you… You were the closest I could think of." A fit of coughing stopped his disjointed explanations. When it was under control again, he pointed to a pile of clothes in a chair. "There, there is what you need… Give to Chatsworth." With that he collapsed, sinking deeper into his pillows, losing consciousness.
Phileas strode to the pile of filthy clothing. Underneath it all was an oilcloth satchel full of papers and maps. All he could scan, immediately, had been written in German. "We will have to go through this to figure out what it is. Do you know what his assignment in Berlin was?" He asked Rebecca.
"There was no assignment," Rebecca answered. "He was there to relay intelligence messages, nothing more."
"Well, he must have gotten wind of something damnably important to get arrested and held for months in a Prussian prison. King Wilhelm I's intelligence service does not hold foreign agents like that for small infractions." Actually, they didn't as a rule hold captured agents at all. Phileas left unsaid the usual fate of a captured spy. They all knew from the beginning; their lives would not be worth a farthing once caught. He held the satchel in his hands considering possibilities more carefully. "This must have been very important and… Richard must have hidden this before being captured; then collected it again on his way home."
"Have it right, there," Richard said weakly. "Wanted it back… badly. Killed Will trying… to force him… to…" The rest was lost in a fit of coughing. It did not need to be voiced. Both Phileas and Rebecca understood.
Rebecca stood and motioned Phileas to the door away from the sickly agent. "Phileas, he is very sick. So pale… Richard may not last much longer. If that satchel is important enough to get someone killed, and drive Richard to travel in this condition; I think we should send for Chatsworth."
"Yes, I will send Passepartout to the telegraph office straight away."
