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    Drinkwaters Daughter: A Tale of Highwaymen
    Drinkwaters Daughter: A Tale of Highwaymen
    Drinkwaters Daughter: A Tale of Highwaymen
    Ebook202 pages2 hours

    Drinkwaters Daughter: A Tale of Highwaymen

    By William Stafford

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    About this ebook

    Despatched to Staffordshire to clamp down on crime, Corporal Percival Proudfoot uncovers more than he bargained for in the sleepy village of Wyebury. He also finds himself falling head over heels for the daughter of the local innkeeper but what is her involvement in the criminal underworld Proudfoot stumbles across? This fast-moving tale combines historical fantasy with the sense of humour William Stafford's readers have come to expect.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAG Books
    Release dateMar 4, 2016
    ISBN9781783333615
    Drinkwaters Daughter: A Tale of Highwaymen

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      Drinkwaters Daughter - William Stafford

      damages.

      P

      rologue

      1820-Something

      The young boy tore along the lane, holding onto his shapeless hat. He almost bowled over an old couple who were idling along. The boy stopped to gasp out an apology and to try to explain, between heaves of his breathless chest, the reason for his precipitate haste. The old couple were startled to hear the boy’s news and, reacting as one mind, altered their course and accelerated their pace, heading off in the direction whence the boy had come.

      Satisfied that his excitement was contagious, the boy resumed his hasty path with his free hand clutching at his ribs, which were threatening to punish him with a stitch if he didn’t curtail this running-around nonsense.

      The boy reached his destination and burst through the door. He bent double in the public bar, wheezing like leaky bellows.

      It was early in the day and the Ragged Rascal Inn was as yet untroubled by patrons. The boy was disappointed to realise only one pair of ears would attend his announcement. Those ears were the pendulous and hairy lobes on either side of the innkeeper’s head. They, and the rest of the innkeeper, were situated at the fireplace. The innkeeper was in the process of polishing the horse brasses that decorated the bar but he had arrested his oily cloth upon the sudden entrance of the excitable child. He waited patiently for the boy to get his breath back, wondering what had got the child so riled up this time. A three-legged lamb, perhaps. A shiny pebble perchance - it didn’t take much to overexcite the boy.

      The innkeeper hobbled across to the bar. He poured the boy a tankard of small beer, which was gratefully received and thirstily guzzled within the blink of an eye.

      The boy smacked his lips and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. His eyes were wide, alive with secret knowledge.

      Well, Joseph? the innkeeper prompted. What is it that’s got you fit to be tied this time?

      Oh, innkeeper! The boy Joseph was not on first-name terms with the man but clearly considered his news worth sharing with everyone. It’s - it’s wonderful!

      The innkeeper groaned. Don’t tell me; you’ve been and gone and discovered the opposite sex already. I was hoping to be safely dead and gone by the time you stumbled across that particular source of wonder.

      Joseph scrunched up his nose in disgust at the suggestion. No, no! Nothing like that. He looked positively scandalised. Yuck, he added in case there was any doubt.

      Well, come on then; out with it! The innkeeper refilled the boy’s tankard. It was his weakest, most-watered down ale suitable only for youngsters, child-bearing women and the parson. What’s got you in such a froth this time? Last week it was a two-headed tadpole.

      Kids’ stuff, Joseph scowled in disdain. Listen; I was up in the woods. They’re digging up there, did you know?

      Yes, the innkeeper nodded. He had been among the first to find out, when the gangs of navvies had begun to use his establishment for after-work refreshment. A new highway.

      He shuffled back to his seat by the fireplace. Joseph watched, fascinated by the way the innkeeper favoured one foot over the other. He longed to hear the story behind the pronounced limp. A war wound, perhaps. Bah, Joseph decided. It was probably nothing more exciting than a birth defect. Like that tadpole.

      Well, are you going to tell me or must I forever live in ignorance?

      The boy seemed to remember he had something of import to relate. He shook himself from his contemplations of the innkeeper’s hobbling gait, and the marvelling expression lit up his face anew.

      You’ll never guess what they found.

      Joseph waited for the old man to try. The innkeeper fell quiet, looking into the fire.

      A tunnel, he said, flatly.

      The boy was as deflated as a pig’s bladder after one kick around the town too many.

      You know about the tunnel.

      Keeping his eyes on the flames, the innkeeper waved a dismissive hand. Everybody around here knows about the tunnel. At least, all of us old ones do. Perhaps I am the only one left... he paused to consider the likelihood of this. But yes, I know about the tunnel.

      Joseph stepped closer, determined to astound the innkeeper yet.

      Well, the tunnel’s not the important bit. It’s what they found in the tunnel...

      He waited. Slowly, the innkeeper turned to face the boy then, as quick as a snake, he shot out his hand and seized Joseph by the arm.

      What did they find in the tunnel, boy? An old coin! A box of old coins!

      Joseph squirmed in the grip of the old man’s bony fingers but he was delighted the innkeeper hadn’t guessed.

      There’s one section... the boy spoke slowly, pausing for dramatic effect, where the roof has fallen in... and - he could contain himself no longer; his words spilled out like a pan boiling over. I was there! I watched the navvies! And there they were! Must have laid there undisturbed for donkeys’ ages. The entire ceiling must have come down and buried them.

      What, boy? What? The old man pulled Joseph closer to him, searching his face as though to read the answer written there.

      It’s so exciting the boy teased the old man a little longer. Here in this dull old place!

      What?

      It’s proper gruesome really. They said I can go and have a better look later on.

      Joseph! the innkeeper lost his patience and barked at the boy. What. Did. They. Find?

      The boy laughed in triumph.

      Skellingtons! Two perfect skellingtons! He took advantage of the old man’s surprise to wrest free of his grasp and skip away. Young men, they reckon, judging by the clothes. Must have been buried alive. Just fancy: being trapped like that and the air running out and water coming in... How long, do you think -

      He broke off, realising the innkeeper wasn’t paying attention. Instead, the old man was staring intently into the flames. A darker realisation struck the boy.

      You know something about them, don’t you, innkeeper?

      The old man raised his head and lowered it again in a slow and sorrowful nod.

      It was a long time ago, Joseph. The mind - hides things. Buries them.

      Tears coursed from his eyes, spreading through the creases of his ancient face.

      Innkeeper? The boy approached again, genuine concern overriding his curiosity.

      Forgive me, the old man offered the boy a wet-eyed smile. Memories I’d forgotten I had have taken me by surprise.

      You do know something! Joseph pulled up a stool, settling in for the storytelling he felt was coming. He joined the innkeeper in watching the dancing flames, a visual accompaniment to the old man’s tale.

      Fifty years... the innkeeper began. Yes, it must be fifty years - where does the time go? - before I took over as innkeeper here. The roads were not as busy then as they are now so if you took it upon yourself to venture forth then you could stake your life (and many did) that your journey might not pass without incident...

      One

      1770-Something

      The wheel of the stagecoach splashed through a muddy puddle, jolting the carriage and the passengers within. The back wheel soon followed, providing another jolt. Inside the carriage, the three travellers set their jaws and tightened their grip on leathern straps.

      Percival Proudfoot ran a hand through his blond hair. There was no point wearing a hat when it could be knocked off at any second of the journey. His tricorn nestled in his lap like a cosseted dog. He straightened his back. It would not do to slouch in uniform. Proudfoot sported the red tunic with its gold epaulettes and brass buttons with pride. He cut a dashing figure in his new uniform and he knew it.

      He eyed up his travelling companions. They were a rather portly gentleman in a beribboned, grey wig and a young woman with ringlets and a powdered face: father and daughter, Proudfoot assumed. Or mayhap even grandsire and granddaughter. The small talk between them had dried up not long after their departure from London and they had settled into a grim silence, focussing their attention on remaining in their seats. Heaven forfend they should end up in a pile of limbs and lace on the carriage floor.

      Another jolt almost made Proudfoot bite his tongue. The portly gentleman’s wig slipped a little on his brow. He and Proudfoot made eye contact. The fat man glowered at him for daring to notice the wig was askance. Proudfoot looked away but slowly; it would not do for a King’s Investigator to flinch and cower. He watched the greenery flickering past the window - Why were they travelling so fast when the road - if you could call it a road - was so poor and uneven? It would be gentler on the axis and kinder to their internal organs if the driver slowed the pace somewhat.

      Robber country. The old man seemed to have read Proudfoot’s thought. Proudfoot glanced at him and nodded.

      Robbers!

      The sad truth was the country - the whole country and not just this particular region - was rife with them. The happy truth was Percival Proudfoot had been despatched to address the problem. He was to assess the extent of the robberies and submit a report to his uncle at the end of three months. Uncle Nathaniel would then submit the report to the appropriate officer - perhaps even to His Majesty the King himself.

      Proudfoot placed a hand on his tunic, reassuring himself his papers of office were still in his shirt. A feeling of pride warmed his face and teased his lips into a pout. Important work, to be sure!

      How lucky he was to be selected, to be entrusted with this weighty task!

      That his own uncle had arranged the posting did not enter into it. Proudfoot found it easy and preferable to discount the sneers of nepotism that had arisen when his appointment had become known. Pshaw! That he shared a name and blood with the officer in chief was merely coincidental. Proudfoot had got the job solely on his considerable merits. The proof of the pudding - his report - would quash those uncharitable rumours once and for all.

      Another jolt unseated all three of them. Proudfoot was thrown forwards; his nose thrust into the cleavage of the young woman seated opposite. With a gasp, Proudfoot righted himself and sat back. The girl’s father glared at him but the young lady herself seemed amused. She opened a decorated fan and waved it, masking her smirk.

      The gentleman’s lip curled in a sneer. The carriage lurched to a sudden and unscheduled halt, tipping its passengers in a heap of limb and fine garments on the floor. The gentleman, being the largest of the trio, surged up like Poseidon from the waves; the other two fell away like water. The gentleman muttered something about Guy Fawkes not being treated so abominably. He raised his silver-topped cane and rapped the carriage roof to draw the attention of the driver.

      I say, there! he called upwards in a gruff voice. The tilt of his head caused his wig to slip back a little. Proudfoot wondered if it would be politick to suggest the name of a reputable perruquier in London who would ensure the gentleman’s hair wear would fit properly. Stap me vitals! Have the wheels come off this confounded contraption or what? Why have we stopped in the blasted middle of nowhere?

      From outside and above the carriage came the voice of the woman who was riding alongside the driver. She spoke with a sing-song cadence, reciting oft-quoted words.

      Kindly refrain from poking one’s noddle through the window while the carriage is in motion. Thank you!

      The gentleman was incandescent. But that’s just the matter, you cretinous wench! The carriage is no longer in motion.

      The young woman beside him patted his arm.

      Papa! she fanned him, Do not work yourself up so! You are not unlike a bag of wasps. Remember your gout.

      The gentleman sank his chin into his chest and grumbled. Smelly creature with a beard, if memory serves. Always eating.

      "No, Papa! Your gout." She flashed a nervous smile at Proudfoot and then concealed her face with her fan.

      The absolute limit! the girl’s father roared. I shall demand a full and immediate refund.

      He shoved the door open and climbed out of the carriage, leaving the young fellow in the red tunic to help his daughter to her feet.

      Now look here -

      Proudfoot and the young woman heard the gentleman bluster before the driver’s wench interrupted. If Sir would care to resume his seat. We are experiencing an ongoing interceptive situation. Her jaws were clenched and she was signalling with her eyes but the gentleman failed to catch on.

      What the deuce?! he appealed to the driver, who was the more plain-speaking of the two.

      We’ve been stopped, mate.

      Still, the portly gentleman did not understand. What! This is highly irregular! And why have you both raised your hands in that curious manner? I’ve no time for shilly-shallying. Get this carriage moving at once!

      The driver’s wench looked genuinely apologetic. We regret we are unable to comply with Sir’s request at this present time.

      Beg pardon? the gentleman was aghast at the temerity of the woman.

      No can do, the driver offered a translation.

      What! The gentleman roared like a prodded walrus. I’ve never heard the like! Why not, I prithee? What’s the hold up?

      The driver and his wench jerked their heads in the same direction. The gentleman followed their gaze, bubbling like a kettle trying not to boil. His anger dropped away when he saw what the holdup was.

      A holdup.

      In the path of the coach was a gang of robbers. Three were

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