CHAPTER THREE
Wine and Prison Escapees
The cracking sound of a gun-shot woke Michael Brearly from his drunken slumber.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, sitting upright in the armchair on which he was sprawled.
He rubbed his bloodshot eyes with the sleeve of his unbuttoned shirt, and looked about his study in some consternation. Hearing a second and closer shot, he rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered over to his bedroom window to take a look outside. In his haste to get to the window, he knocked over the empty bottle of wine he had been drinking from earlier in the afternoon. He had just bent down to pick up the bottle from the floor, when a servant burst into the room.
‘I’m sorry to intrude, sir,’ the servant began breathlessly, ‘but—’
‘But what, Dobson?’ an irritated Michael questioned. He hid the incriminating evidence of the bottle behind a picture frame on a nearby shelf, and stood up straight. ‘This had better be good,’ he slurred. ‘I don’t appreciate people interrupting me when I’m working.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s plenty important.’
‘Nothing short of a death or the prospect of easy money will rouse my interest at this point,’ Michael replied, unsteadily returning to his chair. ‘So, which is it? Death or money?’
‘Neither, sir. There’s another trespasser in the fields. MacMillan’s in the fields now with ‘is rifle.’
‘Well, what do you expect me to do about it? It sounds as though MacMillan has everything under control.’
‘But, sir,’ Dobson protested.
‘I don’t want to hear about it, Dobson. I have no intention of involving myself in this matter, and that is final.’
‘But what about the reward money?’
Michael pricked up his ears. ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, eyeing his servant shrewdly.
‘There’s a reward out for that Wilson prisoner that escaped last week. If me memory serves me right, it were quite a tidy sum.’
A combination of greed and a feeling of bravado, both brought about by excess drinking, made Michael hasten towards the door. ‘Well come on then. Don’t just stand there like a scarecrow. We have a villain to catch.’
Without waiting for Dobson, he rushed out of his room towards the landing. By the time he was half way down the stairs, his servant handed him his coat and boots. He changed his clothing at the foot of the stairs, and supporting his throbbing head with an unsteady hand, he migrated to the back door. Dobson joined him there, and together they stepped out into the night.
As soon as they left the house, however, Michael’s nerves began to fail him. He had never been overly fond of the dark, and coupled with the prospect of encountering a prison escapee, he was beginning to feel rather unwell. The lure of the reward money soon diverted his anxious thoughts, and feigning confidence, he strode out into the darkness. Without a lamp he had no idea where he was going, and it wasn’t long before he began tripping over invisible objects in his path.
‘Are ya sure ya don’t wanna lamp, sir?’ Dobson whispered.
‘Don’t be impudent. He’ll see us coming from a mile away!’
Dobson’s shoulders slumped despondently. He was not used to his master treating him with such rudeness, and not wishing to excite any more of the young man’s drunken ill-will, he bit his lip and made no rejoinder. In the meantime, he followed Michael at a disrespectful distance.
‘But what if MacMillan shoots us by mistake?’ Dobson eventually inquired.
‘Providing I’m the one who doesn’t get shot, I’ll dismiss the ‘paragon of ineptitude’ from my employ. Are you satisfied?’
Dobson was anything but satisfied. ‘Very comforting,’ he lied.
‘Now, never mind about MacMillan. Where did you say this trespasser was?’
‘Near the fence, but if I was ‘im, I would of cleared off when I ‘eard the gun shots.’
‘Fascinating,’ Michael replied. ‘When next I require your opinion, I’ll be sure to ask you for it.’ Dobson said nothing to this, but his moustache twitched agitatedly. ‘So,’ Michael added conversationally, unaware that he had insulted his servant, ‘what’s this Wilson fellow in gaol for anyway? Forgery was it? Or robbery perhaps?’ As he waited for a reply to his question, he felt the cool breeze nudge his neck and face.
‘Murder,’ Dobson remarked casually.
‘Oh, I see,’ Michael began, ‘I was just going to say…’ Suddenly the reality of Dobson’s words struck him. He stopped walking and caught his breath. ‘Did you just say murder?’ He then grew strangely quiet, and his eyes began to dart fearfully about him.
‘Yep, murder. Killed ‘is victim with ‘is bare hands. Was due to be hung next week.’
‘Good God!’ Michael exclaimed, feeling shivers of terror ripple up his spine. ‘I, I think I’ve heard more than enough for one evening.’ He instinctively sidled up to his servant.
‘You aint frightened are ya, sir?’
‘Frightened?’ Michael echoed. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘What makes you think I’m chicken-hearted? I was just going to say how late it was, that’s all. There’s no sense in gadding about like this. Best if we went back.’
‘Wait,’ Dobson said, grabbing a sudden hold of his master’s arm. ‘Did ya hear that?’ The only sound in Michael’s ears was the thudding of his heartbeat. ‘It’s comin’ from over there,’ Dobson added, setting off towards several lichen covered rocks that were stacked up alongside the fence.
‘God in heaven,’ Michael murmured under his breath, sensing that the last moments of his life were swiftly approaching.
Dobson stoically stood his ground. ‘Is that you, MacMillan?’ he asked in a raised voice. ‘If you’re there, MacMillan, don’t bloody shoot us.’ There was no answer. ‘I know someone’s there,’ Dobson persisted. ‘Show us your face now, or me companion will blast you in ‘alf with his gun.’
‘What gun?’ Michael whispered. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘They don’t call my friend, ‘Bullseye Brearly’ for nothin,’ Dobson declared loudly to whom-ever might be listening. ‘Best shot this side of the river.’ In the next moment, Dobson’s ears detected movement, and he swung around to face the opposite direction. ‘Get ‘im, sir!’ he cried out without warning. ‘Over there!’ He then dashed forward with great urgency.
While Dobson lurched through the dark obscurity towards the trespasser, Michael remained rooted to the spot. He was too confused to speak, let alone follow his servant’s instructions. He soon perceived the sounds of a scuffle, followed by a rip of fabric.
‘Don’t shoot me!’ a desperate voice cried out. ‘Please don’t shoot!’
To the surprise of both men, it was a woman’s voice. Dobson quickly let go of his captive, and a young, out of breath woman emerged before them.
‘Please, I beg you,’ she pleaded, holding up her hands, as if in surrender. ‘Don’t hurt me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m lost. I’m Frances,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Frances Norwood. Louisa Wentworth’s niece.’