The Spider's Touch (37 page)

Inspiration did not, but good luck did. He had almost reached the corner of Stationers’ Hall Court  again, when two men, dressed in booksellers’ garb, started a loud altercation in front of a shop and blocked the narrow footpath. Tom could easily have avoided them by stepping into the street, but what could have been more natural for an Englishman than to wait in the hope of seeing a fight?

He backed into a spot with a view of Blackwell’s door. The bookshop on this side of it—the one in front of which the two men were shouting—bore a sign with the proprietor’s name, Mr. J. Morphew. On Tom’s first trip into this neighborhood, it had seemed odd that so many of the shops sported signs with words instead of pictures, but eventually he had reckoned that only people who could read would be visiting booksellers’ and printers’ shops.

The men’s argument grew louder. Within seconds, a circle had formed around them, with printers and their apprentices encouraging them each to take the first swing. The argument was certainly heated, but looking on, Tom doubted that the first fist would ever be swung. Aside from a few threatening gestures and puffed out chests, they almost seemed satisfied to wage their battle with words.

He was grateful for the excuse they had given him to dawdle, though. With everyone in the street intent on their fight, Tom could keep a watch on Blackwell’s shop without fear of his interest being noted. Some of their argument did reach his ears. As far as he could tell, they were arguing over pamphlets that had been written about his Grace of Ormonde. One of the booksellers was defending his Grace, and the other was accusing him of treason. Since the Duke had been a friend of the former Lord Hawkhurst and had always brought amiable servants to Rotherham Abbey, Tom almost wished that he could take on the job of shutting the Whig bookseller’s mouth himself.

Too soon for him, the two men grew hoarse and their fight spluttered to an end. The man who had criticized the Duke of Ormonde turned abruptly on his heels, went into his shop, and slammed the door. The other stomped past Tom and entered a house down the street.

The crowd that had gathered to watch them fight stayed on a little while longer to grumble at being denied the pleasure of a bout. Complaints about the men’s lack of courage, and a tendency on the part of some to defend their friends, led to some more pushing and shoving, but a somberness beneath their anger soon had even the spectators returning to their jobs. Before long, Tom was left standing alone in the street.

By this late hour, even the long June day had begun to fade over the roofs of the narrowly spaced houses. The turmoil he had seen would be moving into the taverns with the onset of night. But for the moment, at least, Tom no longer felt conspicuous.

One thing he had noticed was that the door to Blackwell’s shop had remained closed. No one had come out to watch the fight, which could mean either that nobody was there or that Blackwell had something to hide.

The thought that he might be watching an empty house made Tom restless. Irritably he wondered whether he could simply walk up to the shop and peer inside. He was seriously considering this option when another news-hawker came up behind him and asked if he would like to buy a postscript from
The Post Man
.

Tom was about to refuse, considering three half-pence an outrageous sum, when he recognized the boy’s offer for the chance it was. So he handed over more of St. Mars’s money for the opportunity to lean against a corner post and read his paper as long as the twilight would allow.

This was not very long, and he had begun to draw curious glances again, when the door to Blackwell’s shop finally opened. A boy, who surely must have been an apprentice, emerged and, without pausing, came running straight towards Tom. He swerved past him with hardly a glance, before turning at the corner and vanishing from sight.

Well,
at least one of his questions had been answered, Tom thought with more hope. Someone was in the shop. And, if he was not mistaken, that person had sent the boy on an errand.

He began to be concerned that the boy might take greater note of the stranger lurking outside his master’s shop when he passed him a second time. But he need not have worried. The lad came back nearly half an hour later, leading a saddled horse, and it was plain from the trouble he was having that he had never dealt much horses. It was all he could do to get the horse to come, and he had no attention to spare for Tom, who had to dig his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from lending the boy a hand.

Clumsily, the boy eventually managed to tie the horse’s reins to a hitching post in front of Blackwell’s shop. He was about to rap on the door to announce his arrival, when the door swung in, and Mr. Menzies appeared.

Tom’s pulse gave a leap when he saw that arrogant face. All his anger towards the man returned in a rush, so that it was a few moments before he noticed that Menzies carried a pack and wore a riding wig.

He took a glance around, giving Tom no chance to duck, before tossing his pack behind the saddle. Tom didn’t think he’d been spotted. Night was nearly here, and he was standing in the shadow of a wall. He watched Menzies buckle down his belongings and check the girth. Then, he told the boy to move out of his way, and leapt into the saddle.

St. Mars’s had told Tom to follow Menzies to discover where he lodged. But, as Menzies headed east, Tom decided that he was making for London Bridge, which meant that he was probably on his way back to France.

There was not a moment to lose. Dropping the news-sheet in the street, Tom turned into the nearest alley and hurried as fast as he could trot down to the river. He hailed the only boat moored at Puddle Dock Stairs, jumped into it before its owner could untie it, and offered the waterman twice his usual fee if he could row him to Vauxhall Stairs in record time.

* * * *

When, feeling dejected and restless, Gideon returned from Ormonde House, he found Tom waiting for him at the dock.

 “My lord, you’ve got to come quick,” he said. He shifted impatiently while Gideon climbed out of the boat and paid the man his fee.

“You’ve found him?”

“Ay, but he’s left. I saw him ride for London Bridge, and I think he’s heading back to France. You’ll have to be quick if you want to catch him.”

The urgency in Tom’s voice spurred Gideon like a tonic. At last there was something he could do! No more of this infernal waiting.

Taking long, fast strides, he headed up the river bank towards the house, with Tom nearly running to keep up.

He would ride after Menzies, and the longer and faster the ride, the better he would feel.

“Have you got Penny ready?”

“Ay, my lord. And I’ve saddled Beau, too.”

Beau would not be able to keep pace with Gideon’s horse, but Tom would not be too far behind, and Gideon still needed him to identify Menzies.

Reaching the house, and taking the stairs two at a time, Gideon took a second to reflect that, for once, he had not been made to suffer an argument with his groom. Amused, but gratified, by his servant’s planning, he wondered what exactly Menzies had done to earn Tom’s enmity. But that story could wait.

In his bedchamber, he removed his Quakerish coat and bob wig and threw them on the floor. He grabbed a black ribbon from his dressing table and tied his hair into a queue, before reaching for his boots.

Gideon sat to pull them on, just as Tom appeared breathless in the door. “I took the liberty of packing your lordship’s cloak and mask, in case you need them,” he got out. “They’re in the pack on your saddle.”

“And my father’s pistols?”

Tom blanched. “Do you think you’ll be needing them, my lord?”

With his boots put on, Gideon sprang to his feet.

“Strange things are going on,” he said. “It would be better for us to be prepared.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You carry them, though. I’d rather not be burdened with their weight. And that way, if you come along and discover me in trouble, you’ll be armed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

 Downstairs, Gideon found the horses, saddled and waiting in front of the house. He gave Penny a hasty greeting, before picking up her reins.

The noise they had made must have waked Katy, for she appeared in the door wearing her nightdress and holding a candle in her hand.

“Is there anything wrong?” she asked.

Before Tom could tell her to mind her own business, Gideon said, “There’s nothing at all. You’d best go back to sleep.”

“Yes, Mr. Mavors,” she said, and retreated back into the house.

When Tom bent to give his master a leg up, Gideon heard him give a miserable sigh. He grinned in the dark, as Tom threw him flying onto the horse’s back.

Then he had no time to think about Tom’s affairs, for Penny began to kick and prance. The elation that always accompanied activity filled him now, as he tightened his grip on the reins.

“How long since Menzies left?” he asked Tom, who had turned to mount his own horse.

“Since just about dark. We’ll have to ride like the dickens, my lord.”

Gideon grinned as he leaned forward to pat Penny on the neck. “You hear that, my love? Didn’t I promise you an entertaining ride?”

He turned her in the direction of the Kent Road and with a slight loosening of his reins, they were gone.

Chapter Seventeen

Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find,

Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind?

First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,

Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less?

Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made

Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade?

Or ask of yonder argent fields above,

Why J
OVE’S
Satellites are less than J
OVE
?

I. i.

A moon lit their way, as they twisted down the narrow lanes,
separating the neat, little market plots to the north and east of Spring Gardens. Gideon chose this route to avoid the parade of drunken revelers, who would be returning to the boats that had brought them. At this late hour, only wealthy strollers with their servants, thieves, and spies would be awake. Respectable farmers would long have been abed.

Once safely past Vauxhall, he followed Kennington Lane until it ended at a fork. There, he abandoned the road to ride across Lock Fields, not joining the Kent Road until he had skirted the turnpike north of Walworth Common.

As Gideon rode, keeping a watch for any sign of danger, he tried to reckon how far ahead his quarry might be, but soon abandoned the effort as useless. There were too many choices Menzies could have made. If haste was his object, as Gideon believed, he would ride fast and stop often to change his mount. But if concealment played any part in his plan, he would pace his horse, stopping only where he knew he was safe.

This last thought gave him pause, for if Menzies had places in which to hide, he might turn off the main road anywhere or any time, making his trail easy to lose. Since he had availed himself of two—Lade’s inn and Blackwell’s printing shop—he could very well have others, which was why Gideon hoped to catch him before he changed his horse.

At least, Menzies had left Blackwell’s long enough before that Gideon could be certain he was ahead. Otherwise, they would have had to wait along the road until reasonably sure that the man had passed. But with an hour’s lead or more, Menzies would have had plenty of time to walk his horse to the Thames, cross the bridge, and make his way through Southwark, even at a walk.

There were a number of troublesome choices he might have made, but Gideon had placed his bet that Menzies would use the safer turnpiked road rather than risk crippling his horse in the dark.

By the time Gideon had finished this reckoning, the highway had taken a turn south, and Penny had begun to climb the high, chalk hills of the Downs, so he gave himself up to the pleasure of a fast midnight ride. He leaned over her muscular neck and soothed her with his voice and the lightest touch of his hands.

Penny galloped up the first great rise with the strength and exuberance her famous sire had given her. It was not Gideon’s intention either to lame her or deprive her of wind, so he tried to restrain her pace. Even so, her swiftness was such that he rejoiced in the freshness of the air against his face, the smoothness of her stride, and the challenge that staying on her required.

* * * *

Two hours later, the Downs had given way to the gentler hills and woods just north of Sevenoaks. Gideon had stopped to pay the toll, waking the toll-keeper to inquire if he had opened the gate for any other lone rider in the previous hour. The grumbling answer was, “Yes,” with curses mumbled about gentlemen who didn’t have the sense to do their journeying during the day and to leave good Christian souls at peace in their beds.

Gideon thanked them for his trouble with an extra coin to smooth the way, which had loosened the man’s tongue enough for Gideon to learn that he was gaining on Menzies. The quality of his mount was nothing compared to Penny, the toll-keeper told him, saying that Menzies would surely have to change his horse in Sevenoaks.

Penny was tired, but she was far from spent. Gideon hated to push her faster, but the knowledge that Menzies would soon have a fresh mount made it imperative. If he could not catch up with his quarry before the posting-house at Sevenoaks, then his next chance might not be before the Fox and Goose in Pigden—and, then, only if Menzies intended to stop there.

Before spurring Penny on, Gideon trotted her past the next bend in the road. And, there, he stopped to don the blue satin cloak and black half mask that Tom had strapped to his saddle. Then, with a pat on Penny’s neck, he urged her to her best.

Fortunately, the toll-keeper must have erred in his notion of time. Gideon was obliged to ride at a full gallop only a few miles before he was taken up short by the sight of a rider in front of him. He quickly reined in his mare, but he had no sooner crested the hill and caught a glimpse of the man on horseback than the rider heard the hoof beats behind him, and with a hasty glance over his shoulder, took a whip to his horse’s rump.