Read Online The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) by Fiona Buckley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Fiona Buckley
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just too late, my misgivings began.
In restrospect, I think I already had them, but I hadn’t wanted to pay attention. Something had nudged uneasily at my mind when I saw how the handwriting straggled, but I wanted to be with Matthew so much that I had muffled my instinctive doubts as thoroughly as my boatman had muffled his person.
The boatman seemed to have a powerful build, but it was difficult to tell because he was so enswathed in garments: cloak, boots, hat, and even a dark blue scarf across his lower face. Even in this weather, I thought, such clothing must be far too hot for comfortable rowing, and surely it was hindering his movements. I triedto say something of the kind, lightly, but he merely grunted in answer and rowed steadily on.
Time passed. My oarsman was clearly not the talkative type. I looked again at the dark river, rippling under a fretful breeze, and at the banks which here consisted of empty meadows, and thought, I am travelling into the unknown. The Thames was like the Styx, the river of Greek legend which the dead must cross to reach the hereafter. There was a ferryman in the legend: Charon. My silent, anonymous companion would do very well for Charon. He was so extremely silent and anonymous that he made me uncomfortable.
“Surely we’ve been going for more than half an hour?” I said.
“We’re almost there.” I got a sentence out of him that time. He looked over his shoulder, towards a grassy bluff jutting from the north bank, and changed course. Beyond the bluff there were signs of habitation: a house in the distance, and several boathouses by the water. We were making for them. A moment later, we were alongside another landing stage and my escort was tossing the painter round a bollard. “Here we are, madam. Out you come.”
He handed me out. The nearest boathouse, one of the largest, was firmly shut and there was no sign of life. My Charon, however, led me round the side of it on a wooden walkway which brought us to the landward door. I saw with disquiet that although it had probably once had a lock, the lock had been hacked out, and a piece of timber nailed over the place where it had been. Two stout new bolts had been fitted to thedoor instead, top and bottom. He undid them. “In here, madam.”
I looked across the fields, noticing how far away the one house was. The place was very lonely and no one seemed to be about. I didn’t want to enter the boathouse, but Charon seized my arm and pushed me, quite roughly. I found myself inside, willy nilly.
“Watch your step now,” he said.
The warning was necessary because the interior of the boathouse was very dark, with only a narrow walkway round the sides. The rest was water, on which lay a sizeable barge. I hesitated, still trying to resist, but Charon propelled me onwards for a yard or two and then stopped above a ladder which led down to the barge.
“You go down there. You’ll feel safer on the barge. I shan’t come with you. Turn round and go down backwards. Go on!”
His manner had unquestionably changed. It was no longer respectful. Badly frightened now, I twisted round to look at him. “Where’s Matthew de la Roche?” I demanded.
“You’re going to see him, right enough. Down that ladder with you. Go on, now. Nothing to be afraid of.”
But there was. There was Charon. I looked at the muffled-up face, with the scarf which covered it from the bridge of the nose downwards, and the overshadowing hat beneath which his eyes too were almost hidden, and all I wanted to do was back away. Suddenly afraid that he might actually pick me up and carry me down, or worse still, pick me up and throw me down, possibly into the water instead of the barge, I acceptedthe alternative of the ladder. I crept down backwards and stood on the barge, looking up at him.
“But where is Matthew? He’s not . . . ?”
For an awful, panic-stricken moment, I thought that Matthew might be dead, and that some hideous jest had been played on
In restrospect, I think I already had them, but I hadn’t wanted to pay attention. Something had nudged uneasily at my mind when I saw how the handwriting straggled, but I wanted to be with Matthew so much that I had muffled my instinctive doubts as thoroughly as my boatman had muffled his person.
The boatman seemed to have a powerful build, but it was difficult to tell because he was so enswathed in garments: cloak, boots, hat, and even a dark blue scarf across his lower face. Even in this weather, I thought, such clothing must be far too hot for comfortable rowing, and surely it was hindering his movements. I triedto say something of the kind, lightly, but he merely grunted in answer and rowed steadily on.
Time passed. My oarsman was clearly not the talkative type. I looked again at the dark river, rippling under a fretful breeze, and at the banks which here consisted of empty meadows, and thought, I am travelling into the unknown. The Thames was like the Styx, the river of Greek legend which the dead must cross to reach the hereafter. There was a ferryman in the legend: Charon. My silent, anonymous companion would do very well for Charon. He was so extremely silent and anonymous that he made me uncomfortable.
“Surely we’ve been going for more than half an hour?” I said.
“We’re almost there.” I got a sentence out of him that time. He looked over his shoulder, towards a grassy bluff jutting from the north bank, and changed course. Beyond the bluff there were signs of habitation: a house in the distance, and several boathouses by the water. We were making for them. A moment later, we were alongside another landing stage and my escort was tossing the painter round a bollard. “Here we are, madam. Out you come.”
He handed me out. The nearest boathouse, one of the largest, was firmly shut and there was no sign of life. My Charon, however, led me round the side of it on a wooden walkway which brought us to the landward door. I saw with disquiet that although it had probably once had a lock, the lock had been hacked out, and a piece of timber nailed over the place where it had been. Two stout new bolts had been fitted to thedoor instead, top and bottom. He undid them. “In here, madam.”
I looked across the fields, noticing how far away the one house was. The place was very lonely and no one seemed to be about. I didn’t want to enter the boathouse, but Charon seized my arm and pushed me, quite roughly. I found myself inside, willy nilly.
“Watch your step now,” he said.
The warning was necessary because the interior of the boathouse was very dark, with only a narrow walkway round the sides. The rest was water, on which lay a sizeable barge. I hesitated, still trying to resist, but Charon propelled me onwards for a yard or two and then stopped above a ladder which led down to the barge.
“You go down there. You’ll feel safer on the barge. I shan’t come with you. Turn round and go down backwards. Go on!”
His manner had unquestionably changed. It was no longer respectful. Badly frightened now, I twisted round to look at him. “Where’s Matthew de la Roche?” I demanded.
“You’re going to see him, right enough. Down that ladder with you. Go on, now. Nothing to be afraid of.”
But there was. There was Charon. I looked at the muffled-up face, with the scarf which covered it from the bridge of the nose downwards, and the overshadowing hat beneath which his eyes too were almost hidden, and all I wanted to do was back away. Suddenly afraid that he might actually pick me up and carry me down, or worse still, pick me up and throw me down, possibly into the water instead of the barge, I acceptedthe alternative of the ladder. I crept down backwards and stood on the barge, looking up at him.
“But where is Matthew? He’s not . . . ?”
For an awful, panic-stricken moment, I thought that Matthew might be dead, and that some hideous jest had been played on
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