Friends and Enemies: A Ruth Bowen Regency Mystery

Copyright 2014 Brenda Dow.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2216-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2218-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-2217-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013923187

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Trafford rev. 12/27/2013

22766.png    www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

fax: 812 355 4082

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Prologue

Spring of 1812, Outside of Badajoz, Spain

S HE HAD BEEN BROUGHT to bed early. The child was not due for another month. Blame it on the hazardous journey she had taken on hearing of the grievous wounds sustained by her husband in the siege of Badajoz. A bullock cart had been all that was available to carry her from the gracious residence, not far from Evora, belonging to a friendly Portuguese family who had somehow survived the massacre by the French that had taken place there a few years earlier. Her husband had arranged her billet there. The bone-rattling jolting on that crude vehicle during the prolonged journey to the site of the siege had brought on the birth. It was a miracle that she had seen her husband before the pains became s evere.

In the adjacent room, Major Markland heard the rising moans that emanated from his young wife. They intermingled with the agonized cries from the two other wounded officers who shared his quarters, lying as they did in a two-roomed farm building, a few hundred yards back from the fortress of Badajoz. His own pains had faded, but he knew he was losing the battle for life.

He could not raise himself. It was not his place to go to her. In normal life, he would be pacing the floor, anticipating the birth of his first-born instead of lying on a blanket on a mud floor.

His dimming eyes sought out the surgeon. My wife! he whispered. Do what you can for her, Mr. Swann!

Harried, the young surgeon, bent over him. I have been to her already. It will be some time. A weakened hand caught at his bloodied shirt. He added, It’s natural to feel concern. Women cry out in childbirth, and I understand this is her first. Do not worry! Gently, he removed the clutching hand. But I will go to her again.

She should never have come. She’s not a strong woman.

There’s no need for immediate alarm. Women are wondrously resilient.

I want to see my son before I die. I want him to live.

I will give Mrs. Markland what help I can spare.

An aging priest came and crouched by the major, ready to offer what comfort he could in his few guttural words of English.

Straightening up, the surgeon gestured to a young lad, who was bathing the brow of a fever-wracked amputee. The lad, who had yet to achieve his full stature, scrambled up from the ground, setting aside his sponge.

Come! Shrugging on his military tunic, buttoning it carefully so as to hide his bloody shirt, the surgeon led him through the mean doorway to the inner room. A young woman, scarcely more than a child herself, lay, gripping the rough frame of the low bed, one of the few sticks of furniture in the place. Her servant, a competent-looking woman of some thirty summers, stood back to allow the surgeon access to the bed.

How are you feeling, Mrs. Markland? he addressed the patient but went on without waiting for a reply. All is going well.

Mrs. Markland focused scared eyes on him. How can you be so sure?

The first is ever the hardest. But you should not have attempted this journey.

My husband’s batman sent word that my husband was wounded. I had to… Aah! A severe contraction interrupted her speech.

The surgeon took her hand and allowed her to dig her fingers into his to help her weather the spasm. An unwise journey, but I must not be lecturing you. Amazing that you managed to get here safely! Quite astounding! You have my admiration.

The servant came forward to wipe the girl’s brow.

Contraction over, the young woman panted. Mr. Swann, how is my husband?

Much as yesterday, Mrs. Markland. That he has lasted near a week is a good sign in itself. His fate is in the hands of the Lord.

Regarding him narrowly, the servant saw the lie in his eyes. He was giving Mrs. Markland false hope. During her time in the Peninsula with Mrs. Markland, following the drum, she had seen the look of death in the face of dying men. She also understood that an army doctor, even if he had experience with childbirth, could not afford time for a lying-in. Severe casualties were resulting from the siege of Badajoz. He was needed elsewhere.

The surgeon disengaged his hand and moved toward the door.

The servant followed him. She cleared her throat, Have you found us a midwife, sir?

He shook his head. There’s not a soul to be found. The women have fled into the hills. He fixed her with his eyes. I am needed where men are dying. You will have to be the midwife, Miss—?

Quail—my name is Liza Quail.

He nodded approvingly at her steadfast tones. Courage then, Quail! You are up to the job.

What must I do?

He gave a few brief instructions as to how to receive the baby and how to tie the umbilical cord. Above all, make sure Mrs. Markland rests. No getting out of bed for her to fuss over her husband. We do not want to court childbirth fever. That is most important.

I will do my very best, sir.

I can spare this man to help you for a short time. He indicated his assistant. Theo! Come here!

Liza Quail’s eyes widened in horror, as the lad wiped his hands dry on the back of his breeches. He’s but a boy!

Nevertheless, a very levelheaded boy. Theo, you will do whatever this lady will demand of you, and find yourself a clean apron!

Terrified, the lad gulped and nodded his head. But where shall I—

But the surgeon was already gone. As his hurried footsteps clattered away on the cobble path outside the farmhouse, Liza Quail and Theo stared at each other, nonplussed. Another splitting contraction caused an agonized scream from Mrs. Markland as her child plunged through to the outside world.

In the adjacent room, the sound of a wailing infant brought a faint smile to the lips of the major, as the priest started to administer extreme unction. Markland was not a Roman Catholic, but he evinced no protest as he was anointed with oil. Accepting the rite, he muttered feverishly at the end, Bring the child to me.

In a little while, Lisa Quail brought in the tiny newborn, swathed in a travelling shawl. A fine, sizeable child, sir, despite arriving ahead of time!

Markland tried to raise himself. His eyes were dim. Ah! I’m as weak as a damned kitten. Let me hold my son. Is he healthy?

Now don’t be worrying yourself, sir. Eight months is well enough. Kneeling beside him, she propped the baby in the crook of his arm, watching the whole time lest he could not sustain the strength to hold the child.

The wounded man lay motionless for a few moments, just feeling the warmth emanating from the little bundle. Good, old Quail! he muttered. His breathing was shallow. How I’ve longed for . . .

I know! Don’t be trying to talk, sir.

My wife? he asked. My Elinor?

Praise be, she is through it safely! She is sleeping now, sir, for it was a hard night. She smiled fondly. She will be a good mother to this little one. Rest assured, sir.

I pray so, he breathed. She was never a strong woman. His eyes closed. She should not have come—into this—corner of hell.

Pained by the hard floor, Liza Quail took the child and rose to her feet.

The removal of weight from his chest seemed to awaken Markland. He opened his eyes. A look almost of pleading crossed his face. It is a boy, isn’t it?

Liza Quail did not hesitate. Her face was nuzzling the tiny infant. Of course, sir. Would it be anything else?

His name will be James, like mine. Ellis for his mother. James Ellis Markland.

A shadow darkened the outside doorway as a military figure entered. His uniform denoted the rank of colonel. His voice was clipped but calm. Mr. Swann?

The remaining surgeon’s mate put aside the tray of dressings and saluted. Not here, sir.

Where is he, man?

Mr. Swann went down to the field hospital, sir.

The colonel nodded acknowledgment. Prepare these men for evacuation.

He noticed the woman standing with the baby wrapped in a shawl. What’s this? He pulled back a fold of the shawl and let a tiny hand curl around his finger. Gently disengaging the grasp, he knelt down beside Markland. Congratulations, Marky, old fellow.

Meet James Ellis Markland. The voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

A strapping youngster, like his papa. In the midst of death, there is life. Berry sighed philosophically.

And, Berry, if I am… His voice faded away.

The colonel nodded gravely to the unfinished request and gripped his hand. He looked up briefly at the priest.

The priest shook his head. No move—for Major—him.

The reverberations of a renewed bombardment filled the air. The colonel stood. No immediate cause for alarm. The heavy guns are ours. He looked speculatively at the child. Mrs. Markland and the child must be moved away as soon as possible.

Markland roused himself. Colonel Berry!

The colonel went back to his side.

My son—James. The danger!

I’ll see him safe—and your wife. I’ll find something better than a bullock cart for them.

Christened. I want him christened now.

We should rather be thinking of how to get Mrs. Markland and the baby away from here, now, urged Lisa Quail.

Colonel Berry gave the servant an astonished look.

Begging your pardon, sir, she amended. But the doctor ordered her to stay in bed. What is to be done? She is sleeping.

Let her sleep, then! decided Berry. I will stand sponsor to young James. We will do it now, for I cannot tarry.

The little priest indicated with much nodding and gesticulating that it was a wise precaution in such perilous times, and a baptism was hurriedly performed on James Ellis Markland.

As the priest completed the sacrament, a look of satisfaction smoothed Major Markland’s face as he lapsed into the coma that preceded death.

Chapter 1

Spring of 1818, England

T WO MEN STOOD IN an open tract on the high vantage point, watching lights flicker dimly across the city of Norwich. The shadowy expanse of Mousehold Heath spread out around them. One was a broad-shouldered man, tall and possessed of fierce eyebrows in a square face. He took a turn around impatiently with the step of a vigorous man in the prime of life.

The other man, older and of meagre build, stared around the gathering gloom with an air of uncertainty. Where can he be, Your Honour? Before dusk, he said.

Samson Garrett stopped pacing and returned to the older man’s side. Julius Ruv can be a law unto himself. Give him time. You told me he feared for his life.

He swore to me that Flamborough is back in England and out to get him. If I brought you all the way down from London for nothing, I’ll never forgive myself, Your Honour.

No need to ‘Your Honour’ me anymore, Warmington. I’m no longer a judge.

And that’s a crying shame, sir.

My choice, old friend.

Warmington coughed deprecatingly. The word in the City is you’ve got political intentions. Planning to reform the law, like.

Garrett gave a short laugh. Heaven knows I might do more good in parliament than I ever did on the bench. Wist! His hand gripped Warmington’s shoulder as his searching eyes caught movement in the fringe of the clearing. Someone’s there.

A tall, thin figure in a broad-brimmed hat was momentarily silhouetted against the sky. Have a care! That’s not him, hissed Warmington.

Who’s there?

There was silence.

Garrett gripped the handle of his cane, a small enough defense if they were confronted by an armed footpad, but at the moment, they appeared to have the advantage of numbers. Give an account of yourself!

Friend. The figure was suddenly in front of them. A messenger.

In the dim light, little could be seen of the face of the man under his black beaver but the flash of white teeth and the dull luster of the nacre buttons of his jacket. He was heavier built and older than the Ruv that Garrett remembered.

Who sent you?

You first. Who are you? The man came up close to Garrett. "What is your name, gorgio?"

Is your message for Garrett or Warmington?

Aha! The man’s voice relaxed. Ruv bade me come. He cannot get here.

Garrett smothered his annoyance. Why not? The request came from him.

He is no longer in the dingle, brother. The man looked around cautiously. "His son is gone. Ruv fears harm will come to him. He and his rawnie have left the dell to find him."

An imprecation escaped Garrett’s lips. The boy? Tell me what happened.

The Romany took a step back. Ruv told me little—just that he had gone.

How old is this boy?

Garrett sensed rather than observed the man’s shrug.

Not a man yet, much as he thinks he is. Older than he looks.

Too old to get lost? Did he run away?

Or was he stolen? appended Warmington.

The man muttered something, angrily in a strange tongue. Then he said, Ruv said look for him toward Thetford. Then, as suddenly, he backed away.

Wait! ordered Garrett, but the man broke into a loping run and merged into the enclosing darkness.

Warmington gave a soft whistle. Ruv expects a lot. I’ve my job to do. They’ll never spare me for that.

You’ve done all you can be expected to do. I’ll make some enquiries about him on my way back to London. He clapped Warmington on the shoulder, throwing off his annoyance. Don’t fret about things. How’s your appetite? I’ve bespoken dinner at the Angel.

The older man hugged himself. That would be where you are putting up? It’d be a real treat, Your Honour. Indeed it would.

The two men carefully made their way down the steep hill. As they crossed the ancient Bishop’s Bridge into the city, Garrett requested that Warmington enlarge, if he could, on the letter which had brought him down from London. You wrote that Ruv wanted me to know that Ambrose Flamborough had returned to England and was vowing to extract revenge on him for what happened to his mother. What does Ruv have in common with Flamborough’s mother, other than their Romany blood? Garrett strongly recalled the events of the previous summer when Ambrose Flamborough had stabbed and nearly killed Julius Ruv, the man he had set to keep watch on Ruth Bowen, when he had sensed she might be in danger. Why would Flamborough wish to be revenged on Ruv? Ruv has more cause to be revenged on Flamborough. Tell me all the man had said.

Then you’ll have to slow your speed a little so I can get my breath.

Garrett laughed and moderated his pace. Sorry, old friend.

After Ruv got so grievous wounded last summer, I saw neither him nor his old nag for a long time, and I thought he’d stuck his spoon in the wall. Most Gypsies come and go, but I did hear they were physicking him pretty well at their encampment. When I went to look for him, they were gone. However, one fine Sunday recently I took a fancy to take a ramble on Mousehold Heath, and I noticed they were back.

Was Julius Ruv there?

He was indeed, sir. He seemed pretty well his old self when I talked to him.

I am glad of that. He took his wound while he worked for me. You know, I tried to find him at the time of the winter assizes, but I had not your luck.

He was that glad to see me but had this tale to tell. Ambrose Flamborough ended up in Spain, and his mother with him. I fear someone was making game of Ruv.

Spain? Yes, it’s possible. It seems the Romany folk have their own ways of knowing what goes on. What you don’t know, Warmington, is that Flamborough shipped out on a prison ship bound for the Antipodes, pretending to be a doctor. His mother was one of the guests.

Ha! That’s a good one, sir. She would be that Mrs. Paddock, if I remember correctly.

The ship was forced to make landfall on the Iberian Peninsula.

That explains it—his mother being with him in Spain.

Garrett gave a short laugh. I hate to admire the man, but he’s as slippery as an eel. I was aware he got his mother out! Go on with your story, man.

Seeing as Mrs. Paddock was Gyspy, they found another band of Gypsies, hoping they would lead them across the Pyrenean Mountains into France. Well, by the story, they chose the wrong lot. They were distant kin of Ruv and had heard about his hurts from a cousin. They took it on themselves to take revenge on Flamborough. They led him into a wild part of the mountains and abandoned him and his mother. Let him know why, too! The long and the short of it is that they were lost. His mother took a fall and perished. Word came that he swore to take it out of Ruv and all his kin.

The devil you say! And Ruv’s son is missing, eh?

That is not why Ruv was wanting you, though to bring you all this way is more than I should have done.

Believe me, if it had been anyone other than Ruv, I would not have felt it my duty to be chasing Flamborough like some catchpole, although I have sworn to bring the fellow to justice. But I owe a debt of gratitude to Ruv. Damme! Yesterday, I would have called this a Banbury story, but with Ruv’s boy missing, that puts a different complexion on things.

That and the fact that some local ale-bibber reported seeing him in one of his old haunts. No one believed him, for he’s one of those fellows who are eager to make a shilling by informing on anyone.

Walking up through the cobbled back streets of Norwich, they reached the Angel Inn, under the lee of the castle that dominated the city. They had hardly been seated when a face familiar to both of them passed and entered the dining room.

Alderman Baillie!

The jolly-faced gentleman took a back step. My word! Is it that time of year again? Well met, Judge Garrett!

Jumping to his feet, Garrett wrung other man’s hand. You know better than that. It doesn’t take the assizes to bring me to Norwich, Alderman.

Oh, I believe you have other interests here—calling on Papa, are you?

You’re a sly fellow. No, actually. Mr. Carstairs and his family are in London presently, visiting Mrs. Bowen. Have you dined? Pray join us!

Thank you! I was planning on having a bite with a friend. My wife is entertaining the tabbies tonight. Let’s hope she won’t beggar housekeeping at silver loo. However, my companion seems to have let me down. I’m too sharp set to wait longer. My innards are ready for their beefsteak.

Have some now! At a signal, a waiter dashed forward to lay another cover.

Here, you remember Mr. Warmington, don’t you? continued Garrett.

Alderman Baillie nodded and shook hands with the old gentleman. If he found it odd that he should find the former judge dining with a humble court clerk, he made no sign of it, but curiosity demanded the question, What brings you to Norwich, Your Honour?

Have you heard any rumors that Ambrose Flamborough has returned to Norwich?

Baillie’s eyes widened. No, I haven’t, though he has friends not so very far away. I’ve often suspected he got help in that direction when he got clean away from the sheriff’s clutches before. The scoundrel! He nearly succeeded in killing that neat little Mrs. Bowen. He poked Garrett in the ribs suggestively.

Well, perhaps there’s nothing in the rumour, said Garrett dismissively, not wishing to start a false hullabaloo through this garrulous alderman. He decided to change the subject. I hear great things about your son in London. Hugh Baillie is already well regarded in the City.

At that point, another gentleman arrived with mud-splashed boots and dressed in a riding coat with three narrow capes. Looking around, he spotted Baillie. He threw his outer garment on a coat tree.

Baillie waved a fork at him. Couldn’t wait, Milton. What kept you? Here, waiter, set another place.

You should have lent me your chaise. As it was, I had to hire a job chaise. And the horse! The newcomer cast up his eyes to the rafters. The jade was ready for the glue factory! He came over and joined them at the table.

This is my wife’s young brother, explained Baillie. He’s one of those gentlemen of the press.

I got called out of town to report a fire, explained Milton. It was further than I thought. I had the devil of a time finding the place. It is close on the Suffolk border, not too far from Stowmarket.

Garrett glanced up sharply.

Is that where you’re standing, Mr. Garrett? enquired Warmington.

Possibly! Where exactly was the fire, Mr. Milton?

A place called Markland Chase. It’s rated a medium-sized estate, though it looked huge to me—follies and artificial ponds, and all that sort of modern nonsense!

Why would a Norwich paper be interested in a fire that far away from the city? asked Baillie.

Because the family was recently in the news—society thing. A wedding. The woman’s family came from here.

Markland, Markland! Baillie pulled at his chin. That name has a familiar ring? Garrett! That was the name of one of Flamborough’s particular associates at one time. Stewart was his first name. Wild young fellow! I wonder if it’s the same family.

After a quick glance at him, Garrett called for some more wine and encouraged the newcomer. Tell us about it.

What? Before I’ve written it up? With all due respect, sir, my editor would have my hide. He made a throat cutting gesture and looked ghoulishly around at the older men.

I may have an interest in the region. I am planning to run in a by-election in that area later this year.

The brash young man looked impressed. It suddenly seemed not so improper to talk a little about the event. Dreadful thing, really. A boy and his nurse burned to a crisp.

Oh, dear! Warmington sounded genuinely distressed. Was anyone else hurt?

What about the family—the servants? demanded Garrett. Didn’t anyone try to save them?

The fire was not in a house, explained Milton. "It broke out in a pavilion quite a way from the main house. The boy and his nurse were the only ones in it. It was nighttime. By the time anyone noticed the fire, it had taken too