The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [122]
It had to have been Twelvetrees that Grey had heard in precipitate flight from the summerhouse after the murder. And as the man plainly had not gone to the stable, he must have returned—however briefly—to the main house. Why?
Either to fetch away something, or because he was cool enough to have realized that open flight would be an admission of guilt. Or possibly both, Grey thought. It was a substantial chest; it would have taken two footmen to carry it. Twelvetrees couldn’t merely have scooped it up and ridden off with it under his arm.
It had been nearly noon when Grey found Siverly’s body. Had Twelvetrees ridden up to the property, left his horse, then crept up to the summerhouse and bashed in Siverly’s head with what Grey recognized as an Iroquois war club—doubtless the weapon with which Siverly had attacked Jamie Fraser?
Or had Twelvetrees never come back at all? It was possible, Grey supposed, that Siverly had enemies—given his record, it would be strange if he did not. And his possession of an Iroquois war club argued some fear of his life, did it not? Though the man did collect things; his room showed the normal accretions of a military man.
He sighed, closed his eyes, and tried to find a comfortable position, resting his head on an outstretched elbow.
Bloody hell. He simply didn’t know enough. But he did know that he had to get out of here, and he had to go back to Glastuig, as soon as possible. There was nothing he could do but wait for Jamie Fraser.
THE SOUND OF FEET on the paving stones outside waked him. He blinked and squinted at the barred window, in an attempt to judge the time. The sky was overcast, but from the feel of things, he thought it was well past midnight—and the footsteps he heard weren’t those of the regular midnight guard, in any case. There were several men.
He was on his feet, shod, and buttoning his waistcoat before the key grated in the lock. The door swung open, revealing the sergeant of the guard, lantern in one hand and a look of apoplectic fury on his face. Behind him loomed Jamie Fraser.
“I see ye were expecting us.” Fraser sounded mildly amused. “Have ye got something to quiet this gentleman’s humors?” He prodded the sergeant, a small, rawboned man, in the back with a large horse pistol, sending him stumbling into the cell.
“You filthy cur!” the sergeant exclaimed, the aubergine hue of his face deepening in the lantern light. “Your soul to the devil, ye wicked Scotch dog! And you—” He turned toward Grey, only to be interrupted by Grey’s handkerchief, balled up and stuffed into his mouth.
Tom Byrd darted into the cell, seized the blanket, and, with a huge grin at Grey, drew Grey’s dagger from his own belt and efficiently ripped off several strips, these being used at once to secure the sergeant. Tom then thrust the dagger into his employer’s hand, and with a hoarsely whispered “Good to see you looking well, me lord!” he darted out again, presumably to scout for wandering guards.
“Thank you, Mr. Fraser,” Grey murmured, shrugging into his coat as he headed for the door in his turn. In truth, he hadn’t expected rescue, had only half-hoped for it, and his chest filled with a breathless excitement.
Fraser handed Grey the lantern, then waved the pistol, ushering him out. With a cordial nod at the sergeant, he pulled the door softly to behind them and locked it. He took back the lantern then and turned to the left. Near the corner, he paused, considering which way to go.
“I shouldn’t have addressed you by name,” Grey said, low-voiced. “I’m sorry.”
Fraser shrugged, eyes squinted against the gloom that cloaked the courtyard. It was not quite drizzling, but the slates gleamed dully with wet where the lantern light reached them.
“Nay bother. There’re none sae many redheided Scotsmen o’ my size abroad in County Roscommon. It wouldna take them long to learn my name—and they wouldna require one to shoot me, in any case. Come