Chapter 3

The tempest intensified to an all-time record in ferocity for Derbyshire storms. The main body of it seemed to be sitting on top of the village. Phileas idly counted off the lightning to thunderclap timing. It had not changed at all between instantly and two seconds for over thirty minutes. Most of the guests had retired after Richard's demise was announced.

The French brothers switched to the landlord's house wine, taking a bottle each for a nightcap in the common room. They were completely drunk within an hour, which caused them to commit the foolish mistake of making a play for the landlord's daughters as they cleaned.

Passepartout had been downstairs when it happened. The drunken fops were no match for the gallant valet. Jean Passepartout had grown tired of these spoiled boys, making a bad name for French tourists and the French race in general. He grabbed up the worst of the offenders by the scruff of the neck and half carried him outside into the driving rain to sober up. When the fop let out a string of profanity at the treatment, he was dunked into a nearby overflowing rain barrel. The other brother followed, attempting to intervene only to be given a good dunking as well.

Phileas, playing his role as the mourning brother, had been with Mr. Potts upstairs wrapping the body to move to the cellar. Phileas and Mr. Potts heard the commotion and went down to see what was happening. They came upon the sight of two shaken girls huddled together staring at the open door. The landlord's daughters gave their father only a sentence or two of what had happened. Enraged, the man headed out the door to handle the two Frenchmen.

"That will not be necessary," Phileas said, lifting a hand to stop him. He had already moved to the front door to see what was transpiring outside. There near the entryway, he found his manservant forcing one young head and then another into freezing rainwater, sobering up the young scoundrels as they in vain held the rim of the barrel, trying to stay upright. In between treatments, they were receiving a blistering sounding out over their behavior.

The gesture brought the father up short, just as the valet began his last string of scathing rebukes. Together, both men stood grinning at what they could hear of the lecture in manners, recited in French for his countrymen's benefit. Mr. Potts backed off, giving Phileas a look that complimented him on his servant. He then escorted his daughters to their room for the night.

Phileas watched the two half drowned brothers head upstairs when it was over. They sheepishly squished water out of their fine shoes as they went, heads down to avoid eye contact. Passepartout followed them in with the satisfied look of a well-fed barn cat.

Phileas did not say a word. He just tossed his valet a dry bar towel and took up a bottle of wine to pour up two glasses. He then silently made a toast to the gallant Frenchman.

"May I have a bit of that?" Rebecca called from the stairs.

"Certainly," Phileas pulled down a fresh wine glass for her. "Are you feeling better now?"

"Quite, yes." Rebecca accepted her glass, smiled to her cousin and offered one to Passepartout. The smile died once she caught a good look at him. Rebecca gave the valet a perplexed once over and exclaimed, "Passepartout. What on earth have you been doing outside in this weather? You're soaked."

"Only little wet," the valet said rubbing his sleeve with the towel. "I dry quickly. I had small errand."

Rebecca smelled more of a story in that, but a grouping of flashes followed by claps of thunder interrupted any other attempt at conversation. The bright light cast eerie shadows in the nearly empty room. Rebecca caught herself scanning the shadows for movement.

Phileas noticed her unease. "I would think you immune to starting at storms by now, cousin. We have been through this sort plenty of times. Is something bothering you?"

"No, nothing," she said. "I do not suppose Sir Jonathan will get here before tomorrow. There will be no traveling in this tempest."

"No, I expect not," Phileas agreed. "Passepartout, would you help me move the body to the cellar? After that is done, I think we should all retire. Nothing more can be done tonight."

"Yes master," Passepartout answered agreeably.

Rebecca did not move from her place by the bar. "Rebecca do go to bed," Phileas coaxed. She turned, startled at being addressed. What in the world has gotten into her? Phileas turned back from his place at the foot of the stairs to take her arm. Rebecca gathered herself together slowly and allowed herself to be guided up. Phileas deposited her in her room for the night with a nod goodnight and a concerned frown.


Rebecca sat down on her bed after trying to pace her anxieties away and tried to relax. She undressed down to her chemise. The sleeveless calf length garment of thin linen was not what would be needed against the cold damp of the evening, but it would suffice. She took out her hairpins and combed her long hair with the small comb she kept in her reticule. She had no ribbon to tie it back with or secure a braid, so she sufficed with braiding her long red hair tightly and hoping it would not be undone and tangled by morning. The innkeeper's efficient wife had already set the bed warmer in place. The sheets were warm, and the foot of the bed felt toasty enough to keep her feet from turning to ice as she settled into the small bed. Rebecca reached for the lamp after getting in, but her hand hesitated at the globe. Richard's specter came back to mind giving her an unaccustomed childish fear of the dark. Angrily she forced it down and turned down the wick. "I will not succumb to superstitious nonsense. It was nothing but a trick of the light." With that unconvincing pronouncement, she pulled the blankets up to her chin and forcefully blocked out the incident.


In his rooms on the other side of the hall, Phileas was getting ready for sleep, too. Storms did not bother him in the least. He had the amusing recollection of his valet giving a pair of spoiled fops an old-fashioned dunking to lighten his spirits this night. That particular punishment had gone out of vogue a century ago, but still seemed to work. Phileas expected the two young Frenchmen to be very respectful in their manner on the morning.

Before going to bed, Phileas scanned the papers Richard had brought to England once again. Prussia was a powerful force in Europe at present, and the Netherlands only a small bit of real estate on its northwest corner. Not a great deal of land, but it was rather important. Important enough to feature in the bulk of what he read. The quality of this information, not the political aspects of it, was what Phileas found most intriguing. It was very detailed and specific about timing and method. This sort of intelligence is not come by easily.

He also wondered about Richard's flight from the prison he said had been held in, and how he had escaped. One would have assumed he would have made a direct western route leaving Europe from Hamburg or Amsterdam straight to Dover. But he had also mentioned gaining passage back with smugglers. Illegal trade across the channel still existed, but not in any great quantity.

Fogg knew a bit about the smuggling that had gone on during the wars with Napoleon. Some of those old routes had come from the Brittany Islands and other spots along the northern coast of France into the Essex coastline which was littered with coastal caves. Still others came out of the Netherlands disembarking their wares along the eastern Scottish coastline. That area was harder to patrol and might still be used by smugglers. If so, Richard and his borrowed horse would have traveled a long way just to get here, which was still only halfway to London. The sick man must have been completely out of his mind to make up that story about getting shot on the Dover Road. Either that or he had been deliberately misleading. The Dover Road was well to the south and less than a day by horse from London. No. Richard must have disembarked in Scotland somewhere.

Phileas placed the papers carefully back in the satchel and took it to the best hiding place he could see, between the wall and backboard of the small writing desk. Looking on his work from all angles to make sure the satchel was not visible, Fogg then undressed for bed.

As he slept, the first image that entered Phileas's dreams was of a small mist-cloaked bog pool sporting a dunking chair. Passepartout and the innkeeper were dressed in old-fashioned coats, breeches, and tri-corn hats. They were sternly at work tying one of the French brothers into the chair. A small crowd of townspeople stood by, nodding approval.

Mists swallowed up the historical reenactment before it could be completed. In that dream's place, a young man speared through the swirling mists in the distance. He staggered as he walked through a forest, often using tree trunks for support. The sounds of hounds in the background had the man turning back to check his heels frequently. One arm was held close across his stomach as if for protection. Closer now, the dark-haired man stumbled to a halt by a massive dead oak tree. He dropped to his knees and reached inside the rotted out lower trunk searching for something. After a moment, he pulled a satchel out of the tree. He held it close to him as if it were the most precious thing on earth.

Then the young man, Richard, looked directly at Phileas. His pain-filled eyes pleaded. "Get this home," he begged. "Do not let them get it back! It is all in here, all the evidence." His words were cut off as the mists swirled, pulling him away into the dark woods. All that was left was the satchel, which was now covered in blood.

Phileas came out of his troubled dream suddenly. He sat up, soaked in sweat and chilled to the bone. Cursing his mind's penchant for cryptic imagery, Fogg pushed back the sheets and stood, letting the chill of the darkened room bring him fully awake.

"Of all the rot and rubbish!"

Frustrated, Phileas stripped the sheets from the bed and threw them in a corner. He took an icy bath using the water in the washstand pitcher. Once clean again, he sat back down on the bed. "No dreams." he commanded. As he began to lie

He laid down again. Movement. His door opened halfway and closed again before he could see who had been on the other side. A pair of voices giggled in the hall, feminine and girlish. Phileas rolled his eyes to the ceiling. The inn keeper's daughters. He sat in nothing but his drawers. When had they gotten that door open and how much had the pair of little voyeurs seen?

"Little minxes!" Phileas muttered.

A fresh burst of giggles rang out loud enough to seem just on the other side of the door.

Phileas was in no mood for silly games. He left the bed, grabbing his coat. He pulled it on for cover and tore the door open to confront the two girls. The giggling went silent the moment the door opened. To his shock, Phileas found nothing in the narrow hallway but darkness and chill.