'Nobody looks like

what they really are on the inside.

… It's true of everybody.'

Neil Gaiman

DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART

13

The next morning, disaster nearly struck.

There were few occasions when Andy Sherman had been allowed outside the suite of rooms on the second floor, but no matter what the necessity, you cannot keep an active teenage boy locked up for ever. Nathaniel had reached a compromise whereby, in return for Andy's cooperative behaviour, he was allowed to ride out, closely escorted, in the morning every second or third day.

This was a time of partial release which Andy eagerly awaited, each time hoping something or someone would bring about a change in his virtual captivity. At least, on a horse, he had some feeling of continuity with his old life, some hope that one day he might be able to slip his close escort and spur the animal to freedom. If only he was sure there was a person and a place to whom he could flee! But Jonesy would not be able to defend him, the relay station was in hostile hands and Jess … Jess might as well be in Texas, and, if he was, how could Andy possible find him in such a vast territory? If he did, he was no longer so sure, after enduring this long, inexplicable silence and absence, that he would even be welcome. He just had to be content with the immediate, each little moment which might bring relief, each tiny scrap of liberty.

This morning, leaving his rooms, Andy descended the stairs at the western end of the central block well ahead of his escort. He was charged with unspent energy and, when he hit the first floor corridor, he turned towards the main staircase at a run. At the same time, he saw a man emerge from one of the bedrooms further along who, as he turned his back to shut the door, was suddenly a figure of heart-stopping familiarity. Andy's emotions were so intense he did not cry out – he just fled desperately to Jess and flung his arms round him with all the fervour of a child's loneliness and love. He burrowed fiercely into the solid comfort of the embrace he knew so well and felt, for a fraction of a second, an equally vehement response. Then fingers touched his neck in the twin hunting signals for 'silence' and 'wait'.

Andy drew a shuddering breath and steeled himself to obey. There was clearly even more danger in his situation than he had been able to work out for himself. As if to confirm this, his uncle's voice sounded with barely concealed anger from the hall below: "Andrew, what do you think you are doing!"

He had no chance to reply, because the answer came from a voice he did not recognise, but which resonated in the deep chest against which he was still firmly held. "I don't mind consoling your niece, Mr Sherman, but I do object to babysitting badly behaved boys."

Andy looked up in amazement and saw the face of the man at the funeral – a stranger, ice-cold, black eyes set in a haggard face and the lips which had just spoken carved in a thin line beneath the narrow moustache. It was horribly disconcerting because he had been bear-hugged often enough by Jess to know without the least suspicion of a doubt what that felt like physically. Now it felt the same, yet he looked and sounded utterly different. The double impact of the sudden meeting and the shock of Jess's totally changed personality made Andy's head spin and his knees shake. He held his breath, wondering how this familiar stranger would act.

One hand tightened in a powerful grip on Andy's shirt and jacket and he suddenly found himself lifted over the balustrade and dangling above the hallway below. "He's becoming an annoyance, don't you think? And you know how I react to children – especially those who need a persuasive lesson or two in doing as they are told! Now where would you like me to put him?"

It was just the kind of trick Jess would play! Andy knew he was completely safe because Jess would never let him fall, but the shock was considerable all the same. His voice sounded so cruel, so much as if he was enjoying the threat to Andy and relishing his helplessness. Andy had no idea what might happen and how he was going to survive this danger. Everything depended on his uncle's reaction.

"My dear Warwick, do please avoid damaging him. As I pointed out before, I prefer to keep the members of my household in one piece, even the rather annoying younger ones. I'd be grateful if you would continue to frame your actions accordingly." There was no hint in Nathaniel's voice of the value of the asset currently suspended over a considerable drop onto the unforgiving tiles of the entrance hall.

"In that case, Mr Sherman, you'd better have him!" The other hand seized Andy's arm, swinging him up again, and he just had time to react to the hand-signal for 'hold on' as he was dropped unceremoniously astride the banisters and began to slide rapidly down into the hall. Typical Jess! Andy thought, struggling with enormous relief and a hysterical desire to whoop and yell with laughter. He would never have let such an opportunity to have fun go unused and by resolving the issue in this way had ensured Andy would not simply be sent straight back to his luxurious confinement.

There was a rustle of silk and a drift of perfume as Catherine came out onto the landing in time to catch sight of this piece of action. She drew close to the man standing looking down at the boy, who had sprinted past his uncle in a determined dash for the front door. "Really, Caine – playing with children? I thought such sentimental behaviour was beneath you."

"Not nearly as far beneath as some adults!" The murmur was barely audible as he turned and politely offered her his arm. He said aloud, "Children have their uses. Encouraging their elders to part with information, for instance!" They proceeded to follow Andy in a decorous manner, although their route of their respective rides did not coincide.

# # # # #

At Colonel Frobisher's residence that afternoon, an ostensibly refined tea-party was taking place. Catherine Sherman-Gordon arrived on the arm of her now customary escort, with a smile for Eleanor which combined triumph and pity under a veneer of politeness. They had scarcely entered the room, however, before another confrontation took place which was far less amicable even than the one between the two women.

As Caine Warwick guided Catherine to a suitably prominent couch, there was a stir on the other side of the room. A red-headed, bearded man with a scarred face shouldered his way out of the gathered company.

"You!" the man snarled. "I never thought you'd dare show your face here again!"

"My face is in rather better shape than yours," Warwick drawled with a smirk. "Try not to be such a nuisance this time, will you? Or I might just have to finish the job."

"Why, you -!" The red-headed man stopped as he obviously recalled where he was and bit back the label, no doubt fully justified, which he had been about to apply to his opponent.

"Don't waste my time!" Warwick turned his back and focused his attention on the women. "You're annoying me."

The provocation proved too much. "I'll do more than that!" the other man snarled, as a knife appeared in his hand and his stance dropped to a fighting crouch. Warwick turned swiftly and took two paces towards him, treating him to a look of savage contempt, as they came face to face. They were pretty much of the same height and built, but there the resemblance ended. The stranger was furious, clumsy and, in the heat of the moment, barely civilised; Warwick was cool, sophisticated, deadly as a polished knife-blade himself.

"You wouldn't dare to cut butter with that knife!" There was a sneer on Warwick's face to match the words. His right hand had pushed back the tails of his coat and was hovering intentionally above the first knife in his belt.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" The Colonel strode towards them, his tones icy. Then he turned to a tall man in black, who had moved out of the group to join him. "Can't you do anything to control your relative, Stewart?"

"Another of them!" the red-headed man shouted, still poised ready to fight. "Which one of the hell-tribe are you?"

The man in black stepped between the pair and picked the red-head up casually by the lapels of his coat, as he said, "Stewart Vincent St John Warwick. I don't believe we have been formally introduced, but I am willing to overlook that for a little co-operation." He paused a moment as something seemed to occur to him: "Oh, and for not cutting up my cousin in front of the ladies."

"Oh, do put him down, Stewart!" Caine Warwick remarked goadingly, "I'd like to see if he can to any better the second time." His fingers closed round the hilt of his first knife, although he did not draw it.

"Gentlemen!" the Colonel exclaimed again. "Two at least of you come from a good family and should know better. I suggest you withdraw to my study and settle this matter without further disturbance to this gathering."

"With pleasure!" The red-headed man wrenched himself out of the grasp which was restraining him and strode towards the doorway.

Caine Warwick turned to Eleanor, a very faint smile touching his lips. "I apologise, Miss Eleanor. I hope he has not been making himself disagreeable again?" She shook her head as he took her hand and bowed over it. "In that case, I'll try not to damage him too much for irritating me!" He turned on his heel and stalked from the room, without so much as a glance at Catherine.

The drawing room door closed behind the four men and Eleanor turned her attention to pouring the tea once more. Her hand was rock steady and her eyes were gleaming as she noted Catherine's expression, which hardly added to her beauty or her sophistication.

The study door closed too. The four occupants drew breath and relaxed very slightly.

"Now, quickly," the Colonel said. "This excuse isn't going to last for ever."

"Vin, I need the Ranulfhjar – tonight."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Rescue a prisoner. Top floor, east wing, last room on the right."

"Guards?"

"Stair-head. Maybe corridor. None in the room."

"Access from outside?"

"Window from the balcony roof. Needs grappling or a ladder. Lock's forceable." Suddenly his breath hitched and he clenched his teeth, fighting back the emotions he had pinned ruthlessly down for so long.

"Bad?" the red-headed man asked softly.

"Torture. Ribs broken. Maybe more injuries. Needs doctor. Jonesy too. Will you …?"

"Of course!"

"Bring him here," the Colonel ordered decisively. "It's safer and public enough."

"Need you too, sir."

The Colonel nodded in agreement as he pledged his support. "To challenge Nathaniel Sherman to account for himself and what we're going to find in his house. Between us, Stewart and I have traced enough of his dealings." His tone was full of condemnation.

The other Warwick amplified: "Moving arms for hostiles - money from hold-ups and bank-robberies, forgeries maybe – contraband, alcohol, gem-stones - narcotics too, Li's folk think. Anything which can be concealed as freight and distributed along the stage routes for a good profit."

"Now that we have evidence of the extent of his criminal intentions and actions, he will certainly be brought to trial," the Colonel informed his listeners.

"For what he did over there?" The dark man was staring out of the window. "For kidnapping and torture?"

"Yes!"

"Still don't see why the Laramie station was worth the effort?" The question sounded as if it had been dragged from his throat.

"Closeness to Canada," Vin Warwick replied promptly. "You know first-hand that things are, to say the least, unsettled over there. But even more, I don't think he liked being thwarted!"

The man they had been calling Caine Warwick nodded slowly. He was still staring with a frown of concentration fixed on the Sherman residence just down the road, as he went over in his mind the possible courses of action and the provisions they had made. The other three waited expectantly. He drew in a long breath, then continued in the verbal shorthand which was all which was necessary between men who had fought for their lives together.

"Six more men. East wing, first floor. Leave Bradley."

"The woman?"

Caine Warwick shrugged. "Knows. Doesn't care." The cold rage in his tone indicated to whom these statements applied.

"The boy?"

"West wing. Second floor. One guard at night. Door double-locked."

"I'll get him," Cal promised.

"He knows. Spotted me today. That's why it must be tonight." He hesitated and then his voice cracked as, with bitter anguish, he admitted: "I can't keep this up much longer!"

Vin exchanged glances with Cal, both of them inwardly appalled at the toll this impersonation had taken, the way in which outward appearances had bitten into the inner core of the younger man's spirit. Cal's instinctive move towards him was aborted before it had even begun, because he understood that there was no comfort anyone could offer to redeem this agony of the soul, except the loyalty they had given all along.

"Tonight, then!"

NOTES:

I am indebted in this chapter to the crime writer, Dorothy L. Sayers, who pointed out that backs are much more distinctive and difficult to disguise than faces.