nightmarish horror.
Fire was a terrifying phenomenon. Marcus had seen it rip through a battleship more than once. Even now he could hear the crack as the arsenal exploded and feel the shock wave run through the water. The fire that had gutted the second floor of his house at Salterton had been on a much smaller scale, but it was no less devastating. He could still see the image of the young lad lying on the gravel, a small, crumpled figure barely more than eleven years old, too pitiful to think of as a criminal. When he reached the boy's side he feared him dead, but the youth was alive and delirious. His eyes were open and he kept repeating the name Warwick like an enchantment When Marcus questioned him gently, he murmured, "Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his." And then he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Marcus called the physician, who was still up at Salterton Hall, and paid for the treatment himself. He felt an obscure guilt over the boy's injuries, as though he were responsible for the lad's plight. The boy was the son of one of the Salterton villagers and they took him home to nurse him. There was puzzlement and embarrassment in their eyes as they tried to explain to Marcus that Edward was a good lad and they did not understand where it had all gone wrong. Marcus did not press charges, despite the disapproval of the constable. And then a few weeks later he heard that the lad had run away, although still dangerously weakened by his injuries. His parents shrank still further into themselves and became shadows of the people they had been. Once respected and sure of their place in the community, they became like ghosts. John Channing worked in his cobbler's shop as he had always done, but was dour and unsmiling. Mary Channing took in laundry but turned her face away from the gossip of her neighbors. And when Marcus called, he soon realized that his presence was a torment to them, not a comfort, for it reminded them of the disgrace their son had brought on their name.
It was then that Marcus determined to find out what had happened to lead Edward Channing astray. He wanted to discover the identity of the mysterious puppet master whose manipulations drove Edward to ransack Marcus's house and then burn it down. He needed to know what the lad had been searching for.
And there was another mystery. On the evening of her death, Lady Jane Southern had a visitor. No one saw him leave and, in the aftermath of her death, most people forgot him. But Marcus possessed a strange conviction that his appearance had something to do with both Lady Jane's death and the fire.
"Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his. . . ."
Marcus had no notion what it was that he apparently possessed. He had only the name of Warwick to give him a lead, and he trod very carefully in his investigations, making no overt inquiries, drawing as little attention as possible.
It was when he approached the home secretary, Lord Sidmouth , that he discovered the connection to the Fleet Prison. Sidmouth proved to be most interested in Warwick and his activities. The man was a master criminal, the home secretary had said, drawing his supporters from those desperate debtors who thronged the Fleet. He'd given Marcus tacit permission to continue his inquiries—inside the prison.
Alistair was waiting patiently, his gaze thoughtful on Marcus's face. His friend was the only other person who knew of Marcus's quest to find Edward Warwick.
"I had to go very cautiously to avoid suspicion," Marcus said now. "I let slip that I had heard of a fire at a big house in Salterton, and of rich pickings there, and a few agreed that Edward Warwick had said that there had been treasure there but that it had not been found."
"Treasure?" Alistair said, frowning.
"That was the word they used."
"Which could be money, or jewels. . ."
"Or information.''
Alistair rubbed his brow. "Information in your own house of which you know nothing, Marcus?"
"Perhaps," Marcus
Fire was a terrifying phenomenon. Marcus had seen it rip through a battleship more than once. Even now he could hear the crack as the arsenal exploded and feel the shock wave run through the water. The fire that had gutted the second floor of his house at Salterton had been on a much smaller scale, but it was no less devastating. He could still see the image of the young lad lying on the gravel, a small, crumpled figure barely more than eleven years old, too pitiful to think of as a criminal. When he reached the boy's side he feared him dead, but the youth was alive and delirious. His eyes were open and he kept repeating the name Warwick like an enchantment When Marcus questioned him gently, he murmured, "Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his." And then he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Marcus called the physician, who was still up at Salterton Hall, and paid for the treatment himself. He felt an obscure guilt over the boy's injuries, as though he were responsible for the lad's plight. The boy was the son of one of the Salterton villagers and they took him home to nurse him. There was puzzlement and embarrassment in their eyes as they tried to explain to Marcus that Edward was a good lad and they did not understand where it had all gone wrong. Marcus did not press charges, despite the disapproval of the constable. And then a few weeks later he heard that the lad had run away, although still dangerously weakened by his injuries. His parents shrank still further into themselves and became shadows of the people they had been. Once respected and sure of their place in the community, they became like ghosts. John Channing worked in his cobbler's shop as he had always done, but was dour and unsmiling. Mary Channing took in laundry but turned her face away from the gossip of her neighbors. And when Marcus called, he soon realized that his presence was a torment to them, not a comfort, for it reminded them of the disgrace their son had brought on their name.
It was then that Marcus determined to find out what had happened to lead Edward Channing astray. He wanted to discover the identity of the mysterious puppet master whose manipulations drove Edward to ransack Marcus's house and then burn it down. He needed to know what the lad had been searching for.
And there was another mystery. On the evening of her death, Lady Jane Southern had a visitor. No one saw him leave and, in the aftermath of her death, most people forgot him. But Marcus possessed a strange conviction that his appearance had something to do with both Lady Jane's death and the fire.
"Mr. Warwick sent me to find what is rightfully his. . . ."
Marcus had no notion what it was that he apparently possessed. He had only the name of Warwick to give him a lead, and he trod very carefully in his investigations, making no overt inquiries, drawing as little attention as possible.
It was when he approached the home secretary, Lord Sidmouth , that he discovered the connection to the Fleet Prison. Sidmouth proved to be most interested in Warwick and his activities. The man was a master criminal, the home secretary had said, drawing his supporters from those desperate debtors who thronged the Fleet. He'd given Marcus tacit permission to continue his inquiries—inside the prison.
Alistair was waiting patiently, his gaze thoughtful on Marcus's face. His friend was the only other person who knew of Marcus's quest to find Edward Warwick.
"I had to go very cautiously to avoid suspicion," Marcus said now. "I let slip that I had heard of a fire at a big house in Salterton, and of rich pickings there, and a few agreed that Edward Warwick had said that there had been treasure there but that it had not been found."
"Treasure?" Alistair said, frowning.
"That was the word they used."
"Which could be money, or jewels. . ."
"Or information.''
Alistair rubbed his brow. "Information in your own house of which you know nothing, Marcus?"
"Perhaps," Marcus
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