Chapter 12
Dressed in his best suit, which had been the height of fashion four months ago, a young man caught a coach to the city of his destination, reaching it at noon. Upon arriving, Jules decided the place would more properly have been called a provincial town.
Jules Verne did a walking tour of the main street before finding lodging. The inn he was to stay at was on the far north end of town. The police station and civil offices were toward the town center, where the church and courthouse stood massively over everything else.
There was a tavern amid that, judiciously far enough away from the church for propriety. The people seemed out of date and worse for wear. Jules looked over his surroundings with a writer's mind for detail. He felt as if he had stepped out of Dumas's time machine twenty years in the past.
Just as he was having an unaccustomed attack of superior thoughts toward his surroundings, a group of men stepped out of the courthouse. They were not out of date or worn looking. They were as polished as the Foggs. He watched as they talked together, heading for the nearest tavern. Within a few minutes, more men came out heading in the same destination. That seems to be the place to be, Jules accepted. He walked across the street to join them.
Inside, the tavern seemed no different from the one he habitually frequented with his friends in Paris. The room was large, with tables scattered in front of a long bar. Men sat at the bar and tables, eating, drinking, and talking. Taking a table along the wall, Jules ordered a glass of wine and a meal. Quietly, he ate while shamelessly ease dropping.
One table with four occupants discussed a trial concerning cattle of stolen or questionable ownership. Two farmers were claiming the right of possession. As further details came to light, Jules learned that the calves of a wandering bull had been the objects under dispute. "Did the results of the unintended breeding belong to the owner of the heifers or the owner of the bull?"
Jules answered instantly. The farmer who owned the heifers. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and the offspring always belonged to the owner of the mother. Jules recited that as if taking a test.
The next conversation to be heard concerned the sale of property. Another had to do with a property tax increase. Jules was served his food.
An older gentleman, obviously popular, came into the room with three others. The whole tavern welcomed and congratulated the newcomer. The man of the hour was in high spirits over something and ordered a round for the entire room.
"Let it not be said that Joshua Kingston is an ungrateful man this day," he said to all. "I have been vindicated in my hometown and am ripe to fight in Dublin if need be."
The declaration was cheered with baritone and tenor here, here's across the room. Toasts were offered as the man was given a place of honor by the proprietor.
As the patrons in time returned to their own conversations, the hum of the tavern talked only of Joshua Kingston's triumph. The information now coming to Jules was more than he could keep up with. The patron of honor was a wealthy landowner. Mr. Kingston had been through a scandal concerning his use of tax funds. The records of his office had been brought forward today in a town meeting and all had been declared in perfect order. The man had then been returned to his local office and was sure to be vindicated in Dublin at the end of the month.
"When that happens, his hat will be back in the ring for the seat in Parliament. Just see if it isn't," one man at the table of four said.
But one table was giving Jules a different slant on the tale. Two men, two tables away against the wall, were discussing the public meeting in terms of what had happened before the hearing convened. They were congratulating themselves on their excellent re-creation of certain tax records. They had also mentioned what it had taken to bribe some officials presiding over the hearing. All these quiet admissions of town corruption led to pay-dirt on the subject the ease-dropper had been patiently hoping for.
"So, when is Drummond expected to arrive?" The man in a green coat said.
"Tomorrow maybe," the gentleman in a burgundy coat, facing away from Verne, said. "I'm told they had to take a mail packet around from France to the port of–"
The port name was lost when a platter of dishes hit the floor. The noise lost him only part of the sentence next in coming. "…tossed in the cellar at Kingston's estate."
"Not the city jail?" Mr. green coat said in disbelief. "You would think he would want to bring the man in with a parade."
Mr. burgundy coat said, "No, no, Kingston is being more cautious. Drummond has lots of friends. Kingston and Ashley do not want any publicity. The trial will be kept quiet after hours. Drummond will be stretched at roadside gallows before anyone can send help. The charges are such that no one should quibble. Who cares when a highway thief has his trial?"
Jules winced, but knew the truth of it.
"Harris will do the defense. Marshall will handle the prosecution. Judge Brady will hear it and sentence Drummond according to Kingston's wishes. Simple as that." Mr. burgundy coat said. The two men finished their lunch without further conversation and headed out.
Jules was astounded at his luck. His information hunt had landed him in the enemy camp's lair. The inn he was supposed to be spending his nights at would most likely have a different slant on the tale, as its proprietor was Drummond's supporter.
Verne then finished his free glass of wine and was about to leave when a man Mr. Kingston had come in with casually strolled to his table to introduce himself.
"Sir, the man said, I am Mr. Phillip Harris. Mr. Kingston, and I noticed you to be new to our city and had hoped to make your acquaintance."
"Jules Verne, sir," Jules said, taking the man's hand. "I am traveling through Ireland on holiday. I just arrived in the city this afternoon."
"Indeed?" Mr. Harris said. "Well then, welcome to our city. Would you agree to an introduction to Mr. Kingston? He is most eager to meet you." With a nod, Jules stood and followed the gentleman to the table where Mr. Kingston and his associates were sitting.
Butterflies ran amok in his stomach. In the enemy camp and caught? Jules shook himself. Nobody has any idea I have a link to David Drummond.
Introductions were quickly made at Mr. Kingston's table. Jules was invited to join them.
"What brings you to Ireland, sir?" Joshua Kingston said.
"Just taking a holiday from studies," Jules said. "I study law at the Sorbonne. It was suggested I make myself acquainted with the laws and procedures of other countries. I have sat in on trials in England and Scotland and wished to see if there would be any differences in the procedures between different parts of the British Isles." That was true because the young law student had gone to court with Rebecca twice in London to watch her testify.
"Do you have anything of interest going on in court at present?" Jules said.
"Oh, nothing of great interest; things are quite peaceful here," Mr. Kingston said.
During the conversation that followed, Jules noticed how he was getting appraised. His hair was of the style of most students of his age at university. It was longish and full of unruly curls. The suit, of course, was of top quality, paid for by the Foggs when he had accompanied them to a formal tea, where Jules had helped Rebecca keep watch over the scene of a blackmail drop. His head had sported a fine hat, which was now sitting on a peg by the door, and his throat sported a perfectly arranged cravat, thanks to Passepartout's skill. Verne's good shoes also looked better than normal after a quick, thorough polishing. Jules had even been given a watch from Fogg's collection. Adding to that, Phileas had thrown in a few other distinctive items of vanity that would be essential for the ruse.
One of those things was the gold ring on his finger, a thing Fogg never wore, but younger men had taken to wearing of late. It had all been placed on his unaccustomed person or packed in a small travel bag before he was sent on his way. Why Fogg had such things to lend, Jules had no idea.
Properly dandified, Jules now realized he was cutting quite a dash for the men who were looking him over. By their effuse friendliness to a foreign stranger, Jules knew he had carried it all off properly. In the end, they not only approved of him, but they were also asking him to dinner that evening at a local restaurant.
"Where are you staying?" Mr. Kingston asked.
"I had been recommended the Boar and Lion," Jules answered.
"A poor recommendation," the man warned with distaste. "Have you checked in yet?"
"No," Jules said.
"Then let me save you an awful night's sleep. The Queen's Inn is a much more hospitable place and is the site of our dinner this evening." The gentleman said.
Jules thanked him and went on his way to the better hotel to obtain a room. After settling his travel bag, Jules took another walk around town, ending it at the Boar and Lion for the Foggs rooms.
He stopped in, making an order for ale this time, and sat surveying the conversations. This place was primarily a tavern with rooms to rent upstairs. It was a much lower-class establishment than the Queen's Inn, without doubt.
The proprietor was a fat man with a shiny baldhead who eyed the newcomer with open suspicion. There were only two other tables occupied. The topics of conversation were too quietly spoken to hear. Verne waited until only one table of patrons was left before going to the bar to talk to the proprietor.
"Sir," he said carefully, "I would like to inquire about a friend of mine who recommended your ale." It was the phrase used by anyone looking to give David Drummond a message, according to David's written report on how his network worked.
The man behind the bar looked up but said nothing.
"My friend told me you keep shelter for him when he is in the area. Other friends of his will come tonight. They will need lodging, a man, and a woman. They watch for Drummond's arrival."
"Drummond?" The bald man asked, as if he could not have cared less who might have made the recommendation.
Jules made sure the last table of patrons weren't listening before answering. "David Drummond," he said.
The man kept polishing the tanker he had been working on, but his eyes looked up to catch hold of Jules's.
"Drummond has been kidnapped from France," Verne said. "My friends and I mean to see him freed. You are a friend, too?"
The tanker in the man's hands was set down on the bar in answer. The bald man motioned for Jules to follow him to a desk by the door. He asked if one or two rooms were needed for the guests to be arriving. Jules said one, as the Foggs had requested. They did not plan on staying for long and wanted to be separated as little as possible. Jules paid for the room.
"I have it that Drummond will arrive by ship a day from now. He will be imprisoned on the Kingston estate. Tell my friends when they get here and tell them my plans have changed. I will stay at the Queen's Inn. They can send a message to this room," he said, showing the man his key number.
"Drummond's other friends. What do they look like?"
"The man is a relative, gray-haired," Jules said. "The woman has red hair and blue eyes. I need to tell them what I learned since coming here as soon as they arrive."
"I will send a message." The man looked him over. "David never mentioned relatives or friends abroad to us."
"You will know the truth of it when you see the man coming," Jules said. "They are like brothers."
Jules left, not knowing just how strong the resemblance between the two men had grown.
