a servant too. He certainly seems to think I’ve been severely restricted in my experience of the world and in urgent need of education. He’s helped me before;
not so long ago, he was sniping at murderers on rooftops in my company – and a fine shot he is too. I’d not want to get in front of him. Heron picked him up years ago in London, rescued
him from transportation and made him respectable.
Allegedly. I never saw anyone less respectable in my life. A lean, deceptively strong man, with no loyalty to anyone but himself and Heron.
He grinned at me in the mirror. I winced as his fingers brushed the wound on the back of my head; he set about washing it and unmatting the hair with capable hands. “Nothing much,”
he said dismissively. “Hardly worth a headache, even.”
“You’ve had much worse?”
“Of course. I told his Lordship as much but he would insist I take a look at it. He’s gone down to the village to enquire after poachers. Want to hear what I think
happened?”
“No.”
“It was Mr Alyson.”
“Alyson?” I started, and gasped as my hair pulled in his grasp. “Why the devil should he attack me?”
“Flat broke.” Fowler leant forward to whisper in my ear. “Spends what he doesn’t have. Always did.”
I sat up straighter. He dipped the cloth he was using into my washing water, leaving it alarmingly pink. “ Always did ? You know him?”
“Not know , exactly,” Fowler said, giving me a meaningful look in the mirror. “Not in the biblical sense.”
I sighed. “I didn’t mean that way!” Fowler’s tastes have apparently never run to women, a fact that I consider none of my business, and a secret I rather wish had never
come my way. A dangerous secret for Fowler. “Did you come across him in London?”
“Five or six years back, before I was lucky enough to take a potshot at Heron. A baby sheep ready for fleecing.”
“Six years ago he’d have been seventeen.”
“And looked younger. He couldn’t game for love nor money but thought it was just a matter of time until his luck turned .”
“Where did he get his money?”
Fowler finished his minstrations, combed my hair down and regarded me critically in the mirror. “It’ll do. Sit back so I can shave you. He kept disappearing – he’d lose a
fortune he didn’t have, get out of town, come back a month or two later with his pockets full, pay off his creditors and start the whole process again. Trustees, he said.”
“Trustees gave him money?” I echoed. “Then they’re not like any trustees I’ve ever known.”
“Well,” Fowler said, draping a cloth round my shoulders. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? Now he has his hands on this estate. He can indulge his tastes in cards and wine
and women.”
“He was probably borrowing from moneylenders,” I said, “against the expectation of his inheritance. And talking of women...”
“No,” Fowler said firmly. “They’re not. I’d stake my life on it. Not married.”
“I thought not,” I said. “But she’s not a typical mistress – I’d lay odds she was respectably reared.”
“She’ll want what women always want – money.”
I sighed and changed the subject. “Did someone arrive late last night?”
“Old man, young wife. Just back from their bridal trip.”
“Do these people have names?”
“It’s your friend,” Fowler said, with a devilish gleam in his eye. “Ord.”
He was about to lather my cheeks; I stared at him. “Philip Ord? Good Lord.” Ord and I had crossed paths several times in the past, most notably just before his marriage; he did not
regard me with any favour. “I used to teach his wife, Lizzie Saint as was. Daughter of the printer in Newcastle.”
“Married into trade, did he? Must have been hard up.”
I closed my eyes, submitted to Fowler’s swift and competent work – it was strangely soothing. Well, at least there’d be one person who’d listen to my playing; Lizzie was
a keen harpsichordist
not so long ago, he was sniping at murderers on rooftops in my company – and a fine shot he is too. I’d not want to get in front of him. Heron picked him up years ago in London, rescued
him from transportation and made him respectable.
Allegedly. I never saw anyone less respectable in my life. A lean, deceptively strong man, with no loyalty to anyone but himself and Heron.
He grinned at me in the mirror. I winced as his fingers brushed the wound on the back of my head; he set about washing it and unmatting the hair with capable hands. “Nothing much,”
he said dismissively. “Hardly worth a headache, even.”
“You’ve had much worse?”
“Of course. I told his Lordship as much but he would insist I take a look at it. He’s gone down to the village to enquire after poachers. Want to hear what I think
happened?”
“No.”
“It was Mr Alyson.”
“Alyson?” I started, and gasped as my hair pulled in his grasp. “Why the devil should he attack me?”
“Flat broke.” Fowler leant forward to whisper in my ear. “Spends what he doesn’t have. Always did.”
I sat up straighter. He dipped the cloth he was using into my washing water, leaving it alarmingly pink. “ Always did ? You know him?”
“Not know , exactly,” Fowler said, giving me a meaningful look in the mirror. “Not in the biblical sense.”
I sighed. “I didn’t mean that way!” Fowler’s tastes have apparently never run to women, a fact that I consider none of my business, and a secret I rather wish had never
come my way. A dangerous secret for Fowler. “Did you come across him in London?”
“Five or six years back, before I was lucky enough to take a potshot at Heron. A baby sheep ready for fleecing.”
“Six years ago he’d have been seventeen.”
“And looked younger. He couldn’t game for love nor money but thought it was just a matter of time until his luck turned .”
“Where did he get his money?”
Fowler finished his minstrations, combed my hair down and regarded me critically in the mirror. “It’ll do. Sit back so I can shave you. He kept disappearing – he’d lose a
fortune he didn’t have, get out of town, come back a month or two later with his pockets full, pay off his creditors and start the whole process again. Trustees, he said.”
“Trustees gave him money?” I echoed. “Then they’re not like any trustees I’ve ever known.”
“Well,” Fowler said, draping a cloth round my shoulders. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? Now he has his hands on this estate. He can indulge his tastes in cards and wine
and women.”
“He was probably borrowing from moneylenders,” I said, “against the expectation of his inheritance. And talking of women...”
“No,” Fowler said firmly. “They’re not. I’d stake my life on it. Not married.”
“I thought not,” I said. “But she’s not a typical mistress – I’d lay odds she was respectably reared.”
“She’ll want what women always want – money.”
I sighed and changed the subject. “Did someone arrive late last night?”
“Old man, young wife. Just back from their bridal trip.”
“Do these people have names?”
“It’s your friend,” Fowler said, with a devilish gleam in his eye. “Ord.”
He was about to lather my cheeks; I stared at him. “Philip Ord? Good Lord.” Ord and I had crossed paths several times in the past, most notably just before his marriage; he did not
regard me with any favour. “I used to teach his wife, Lizzie Saint as was. Daughter of the printer in Newcastle.”
“Married into trade, did he? Must have been hard up.”
I closed my eyes, submitted to Fowler’s swift and competent work – it was strangely soothing. Well, at least there’d be one person who’d listen to my playing; Lizzie was
a keen harpsichordist
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