Distant Voices. Barbara Erskine

his own cover still intact, directing these men to their doom?

      Why? Why did he do it?

      She paced back and forth a couple of times, the image of Susan and her pale, strained face, her hacking cough, constantly before her. When she had mentioned the cottage to her father at luncheon he had frowned. ‘I’ll speak to Joe Randall again about those hovels,’ he had said. ‘They are a disgrace to the parish. It wouldn’t have happened in his father’s day. He looked after his workers.’

      And with that she had had to be content.

      Twice more she paced up and down the room. She had to do something. She couldn’t let Jake be caught. His companions might have killed a man, and they should be punished, but would more deaths solve anything? Weren’t they all men driven to crime by poverty and despair? All except Charles Dawson, who had no such excuse. She was desperately angry. How dare he! How dare he send these men to their deaths?

      Almost without realising she had done it she had slipped out of her muslin gown and reached for her riding habit. She would ride to see him. However much she detested him, she had to speak to him and force him somehow to call back his men; to warn them of the trap. She had to save Jake for Susan.

      She paused outside her father’s bedroom door and listened for a moment as she tiptoed down the stairs. Sure enough she could hear the faint sound of snoring. He had retired to rest in the heat of the afternoon.

      The groom was asleep too, on a heap of hay. It was several minutes before he could bestir himself enough to saddle Caroline’s pretty bay mare, Star, and lead her out of her cool shadowy box into the blinding sunlight of the stableyard. He offered to ride with her – part of his duties if she rode out alone – but with little enthusiasm and was obviously relieved when she turned down his offer.

      Charles Dawson’s parish was some five miles away through narrow lanes and across trackways over the Downs. It seemed a long way in the heat. Time and again she slowed the sweating horse, letting her walk in the dappled shadows beneath the trees which bordered the lanes. There was plenty of time. The raid would not take place till after dark, but he had to have time to send messages to his men. The closer she got, the more slowly she rode. Her anger had evaporated slightly in the heat and she had to admit that she was a little apprehensive. She was not looking forward to meeting Charles Dawson again.

      The Rectory at Pengate was a large Georgian house, set between two graceful cedar trees. As Caroline rode up the long drive she saw the curtains in the main rooms were drawn against the sun and her heart sank. It had not crossed her mind that he might be out. Dismounting, she pulled the bell and waited, Star’s rein looped around her arm. Her heart was thumping painfully now, and she found she was having to hold tight to her courage before it oozed away completely.

      It was several minutes before the door opened and she found herself confronting the tall figure of Charles Dawson’s butler. The rector, she was informed, was indeed out.

      ‘He can’t be!’ she cried out in dismay. ‘He must be here.’

      ‘I am sorry, Miss. He is not expected to return until tomorrow!’ James Kennet was eyeing her crumpled habit and the dishevelled wisps of hair flying from beneath her hat. He frowned.

      ‘Then where is he? He was going to the Rixbys’ this evening, but surely not already?’ She knew she sounded desperate.

      ‘I am sorry, Miss.’ He tightened his lips in disapproval. ‘I do not know where he is.’

      And with that she had to be content. Disconsolately Caroline turned the mare’s head back towards home.

      The afternoon had grown hotter. The baked mud in the lanes was like stone; the air, as the horse left the shade of the deep lanes for the open downland, was stifling.

      But she was not going to be defeated that easily. She would have to go to the Rixbys’ and lie in wait for him. That was the only choice she had left. She had no idea how late he would be – perhaps too late – but what else could she do? She was not going to give up. Not yet. Kicking the reluctant Star into a canter before she could change her mind and cravenly seek the cool shadows of her curtained bedroom she took the road that led towards the archdeacon’s house in the cathedral precinct.

      The roads were busy and a pall of dust lay over the city of Larchester as she threaded her way through the streets praying she would not meet anyone she knew, trying to decide how to go about reaching Charles before he got to the Rixbys. Now that she was nearly there, the practicalities of the situation faced her squarely. She was in Larchester, unchaperoned, looking for an unmarried gentleman whom she was, to all intents and purposes, about to accuse of murder! She bit her lip. So what! It had to be done. Jake had to be saved.