The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [299]
MacDonald was a half-pay officer, with neither official duties nor an active regiment. It was by no means unusual for such men to eke out their meager salary by the acquisition of small bits of intelligence, which might be sold or traded. No price was being asked—now—but that didn’t mean that the debt would not be called in later. Jamie gave a brief nod in acknowledgment of the situation, and MacDonald nodded in turn, satisfied. He would say what he wanted, in good time.
“Well, sir. I was, as ye might suppose, intrigued to learn who this Bonnet might be—and if he were indeed a golden egg, which goose’s arse he’d dropped out of.”
MacDonald’s companions had regained their caution, though, and he could learn nothing further of the mysterious Bonnet—save the effect he had on those who had met him.
“You’ll ken that often enough, ye learn as much from what men don’t say, as what they do? Or from how they say it?” Without waiting for Jamie’s nod, he went on.
“There were eight of us at play. Three were making free with their speculations, but I could see they kent nay more of Mr. Bonnet than I did myself. Two more seemed neither to know nor to care, but the last two—” He shook his head. “They became very quiet, sir. Like those who will not speak of the devil, for fear of summoning him.”
MacDonald’s eyes were bright with speculation.
“You are familiar with the fellow Bonnet yourself?”
“I am. The two gentlemen who knew him?”
“Walter Priestly and Hosea Wright,” MacDonald responded promptly. “Both particular friends of the Governor.”
“Merchants?”
“Among other things. Both have warehouses; Wright in Edenton and Plymouth, Priestly in Charleston, Savannah, Wilmington, and Edenton. Priestly has business concerns in Boston, as well,” MacDonald added as an afterthought. “Though I know little of their nature. Oh—and Wright’s a banker.”
Jamie nodded. His hands were folded together beneath the tails of his coat as he walked; no one could see how tightly his fingers clenched.
“I believe I have heard of Mr. Wright,” he said. “Phillip Wylie mentioned that a gentleman of that name owns a plantation near his own.”
MacDonald nodded in affirmation. The end of his nose had gone quite red, and small broken blood vessels stood out in his cheeks, mementoes of years spent campaigning.
“Aye, that would be Four Chimneys.” He glanced sidewise at Jamie, tongue probing a back tooth as he thought.
“Ye mean to kill him, then?”
“Of course not,” Jamie replied evenly. “A man so well-connected wi’ those in high places?”
MacDonald looked at him sharply, then away with a brief snort.
“Aye. Just so.”
They paced side by side for several moments without speech, each occupied with his private calculations—and each aware of the other’s.
The news of Bonnet’s associations cut both ways; on the one hand, it would likely make the man easier to find. On the other, those associations would complicate matters quite a bit, when it came to the killing. It wouldn’t stop Jamie—and MacDonald clearly perceived that—but it was a matter for thought, to be sure.
MacDonald himself was a considerable complication. Bonnet’s business associates would be interested to hear that someone meant to cut off their source of profit—and would be more than likely to take action to prevent it. They would also pay well for the news that their golden goose was threatened; a prospect MacDonald would naturally appreciate.
There was no immediate way of corking up MacDonald, though; Jamie lacked the means for bribery, and that was a poor recourse in any case, as a man who could be bought once was always for sale.
He glanced at MacDonald, who met his eye, smiled slightly, then turned his head away. No, intimidation wouldn’t serve, even had he a mind to threaten one who’d done him a service. What, then? He could scarcely knock MacDonald on the head, only to prevent his spilling to Wright, Priestly, or Butler.
Well, and if it could not be bribery or force, the only thing left to stop the man’s mouth was blackmail. Which presented its own complications,