Chapter 32
When the day of Lucy’s departure neared, her family shared her anticipation but little of her nerves.
They saw their daughter as visiting an established craftsman and business.
Correspondence had been made several times from the Hackney address, which involved either an established cover or an expert interception of Royal Mail.
Lucy was uncertain whether the subterfuge was the product of Dashwood or Torres, both seeming equally capable of it.
Her family did not know the invitation had come from an eccentric Swiss inventor living in parts unknown with a mixed band of rogues.
The band of rogues in turn did not know they were being investigated in regard to a string of robberies.
Lucy and Captain Dashwood did not know if their subjects were guilty, or dangerous, or some combination of both.
There were so many unknowns that Lucy was envious of the simplicity her parents and sibling were managing.
But there was nothing for it now. If all went well, they would never know anything different.
On the morning of the arranged collection, Lucy waited nervously, sitting, then pacing, then sitting again when she felt her pacing threatening to turn into a sprint. One way or another, she knew that coaches awaited her, so she focused on that.
Underwood, Thornbrook, Rawleigh, Pemberley Cross, Norfolk.
She pictured each coach in her mind, visualising them in motion.
She was so focused on this thought that she initially wondered if the hoofbeats were imagined, but as they drew nearer she realised there could be no mistaking the sound of a real-world coach.
‘My goodness,’ Alice Elliot exclaimed. ‘Have you ever seen such a fine vehicle?’
Lucy did not reply. As it happened, she had seen that very coach before, up close and in motion.
It was the racing coach of Dante Torres, carved lovingly, tuned to perfection and now out in daylight for the first time that she knew of.
The lone driver came into view and Lucy repressed the brief urge to give a familiar wave to Hekili, seeming quite at ease in the driver’s seat and less so in the jacket and trousers.
It was an old but smart suit, one she imagined not out of place for a man of his style in London.
He drew the cart to a halt and tipped his hat.
The door to the coach opened and a smartly dressed woman exited.
It was the first time Lucy had ever seen Elsa Reinhardt without a long coat. She wore a light green dress, her hair was, for once, in a respectable bun that suited her very well, though she retained her glasses.
‘Mr and Mrs Elliot. I am Elsa Reinhardt.’ She curtsied politely.
‘Reinhardt?’ Mrs Elliot commented. ‘You are related to the business?’
‘I am from a fine line of engineers and inventors,’ she replied. ‘And you are Miss Lucy Elliot?’
‘I am,’ she played along.
‘It is a pleasure to be formally introduced. Your bags?’
Hekili dismounted and helped steer the valet to the rear of the coach to load Lucy’s bag.
She was certain the luggage carrier was an addition, as she had never noticed it during racing before.
Other aspects of the coach looked faintly different too, but she dismissed it as possibly being simply the daylight view.
‘I am grateful for your permission for Miss Lucy Elliot to come work with us. We are quite excited about what can be learned together,’ Elsa said to Lucy’s parents.
‘You are an inventor yourself?’ her father exclaimed.
‘In a family business it is difficult not to be. But I can assure you that the wellbeing of your daughter is my focus until she is returned safely to your doorstep.’
It was a fine performance. Her parents certainly believed it. Had she not known the truth, Lucy might have been wholly convinced too.
The Elliots exchanged brief farewells. Concerned she might give away her greater trepidation, Lucy finished these and stepped up into the coach, and Elsa followed. Lucy leaned to the window, ignoring her travel mate for now, waving to her family one last time as the coach began to move away.
It was not until they were finally off the grounds of Atherton, and her family was well out of sight, that Lucy sat back in the coach.
It was the Swiss woman who broke the silence.
‘You’re wondering what you’ve got yourself into.’
‘Yes,’ Lucy admitted.
‘Well … that is another thing we have in common.’
She was silent again, observing Lucy as if waiting for something.
Unsure of what that might be, and content to wait it out, Lucy reclined in her seat. It was surprisingly comfortable, especially when—
‘You cannot possibly race with such seating!’ Lucy exclaimed. ‘The mass of the fabric alone would create needless dead weight.’
Reinhardt laughed at the outburst and Lucy realised it had been precisely what she had been awaiting.
‘The interior is crafted to be flexible. The seating can be removed in its entirety.’
‘But that in itself is an inefficient element for racing.’
‘You assume it is meant solely for racing. Not everyone has the luxury of a separate coach for separate needs.’
‘No. I suppose not. The luggage compartment?’
‘Today it is a coach for transporting a gentlewoman. It can be many things when the need arises. But I think we should dispense with the small talk and get to the heart of the issue.’ Elsa leaned forward with a knowing smile.
Lucy returned the smile, thinking briefly of the knife in her boot. ‘And what issue is that?’
‘Your speed booster, of course! I know full well it wasn’t the horses. I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.’
‘Your best guess?’
‘Galvanic magnetism. But I cannot conceive of a storage mechanism for such that would not be of impractical size.’
Lucy smiled further and wondered just how far she should wind up her companion before she came to the answer like clockwork.
If there was any intention of keeping the path to their destination a secret, Lucy could not see it. The coach followed the main route south and she wondered at first if it might be misdirection, but as they continued, it became clear it was their route.
After an hour they exhausted their initial topic of the mystery mechanism, with Elsa impressed at its simplicity and frustrated she herself had never thought of it.
Their talk came to a natural end and the Swiss woman turned her attention to a small book.
Lucy, who found reading in coaches made her unwell, instead considered the scenery and her own state.
She was nervous, but that was natural given the uncertainty she was entering.
But there was no excessive anxiety like she might feel before a ball or similar occasion.
That, she was aware, might come later, but for now she felt in control of herself.
After an early lunch in Witham they continued, but veered sharply south well before Chelmsford.
After this point they were quickly surrounded by trees and Lucy abandoned any attempt at plotting their location, though she did stay alert for forks in the road.
The woods grew denser as the path grew rougher, suggesting they were heading away from commonly used roads.
Briefly, they were off the gravel path altogether on what sounded like earth, and then the unexpected sound of wheels on cobblestones found her ear.
At the same time the shade diminished, opening out into what seemed more like a clearing.
Peering out the window, she was surprised to see an expanse of stone ruins, reclaimed by vines and trees. She wondered briefly if it might be simply a landmark in passing but the coach was slowing and then came to a halt, indicating they had arrived.
Elsa opened the door and exited the coach.
Lucy, unsure what to expect, followed. The ruins spread out before them, buildings in various states of overgrowth.
With forest all around, the property seemed out of keeping and yet clearly it had once held pride of place.
Her analytical mind examined the structure and recalled what she knew of historical architecture.
She could see where the outer walls used to be, the courtyard, the keep.
She estimated that the ruins were of fourteenth- or fifteenth-century construction.
No one had lived here for several hundred years.
Yet that was not quite true. There were paths visible, some trodden by human feet, some larger.
There were vines and foliage trimmed back, walls rebuilt.
The castle had been abandoned long ago, but someone most certainly lived there now.
Existing and reconstructed walls had been repurposed, with several buildings of varying size spread between the stone, with thatched roofs, timber frames and one or two chimneys.
What was once a sprawling castle was now a small settlement.
She noticed Hekili leading the coach and horses towards a large stone building off to one side.
Stables. They had their own stables. They had their own everything.
There was even a small stream running past for fresh water.
And here it all was, built in the middle of the woods where no one ever came.
‘Quite a sight, isn’t it?’
Lucy turned to see Captain Dashwood strolling over to her. He was dressed in his stable clothes, remarkably at ease. She had to admit there was something tranquil about the setting; dwellings in the midst of nature.
‘It is indeed. Whose land is this?’
‘Blakes Woods. Crown land. They’re living off the grace of King George. They even have chickens.’
‘Is that legal?’
‘Keeping chickens?’
‘Living on Crown land?’
‘Almost certainly not. But I shan’t hold it against them.’
Lucy instinctively flinched at the casual disregard of the law, but when she forced herself to look at it logically, she could see no harm. If people did not claim the castle, the forest certainly would.
‘It’s not every day one gets to visit a secret hideout,’ Dashwood mused.
‘I never said it was a secret,’ came the voice of Torres as he appeared from one of the buildings. ‘I just didn’t advertise the address.’
‘Oh, do allow me some kind of boyish wonder. A secret hideout is so much more adventurous.’
‘If that is what you are looking for. Most of the time we live a quiet life.’
‘A racer like yourself wants a quiet life?’ Dashwood asked.
‘I said most of the time.’
With that, Torres began to lead them on a tour of the grounds.
Lucy had decided to call them the space, rather than the ruins, which seemed uncharitable.
She had never doubted that Dante Torres was a proud man, but as they walked, she saw for the first time a different kind of pride, an eagerness to show others what they had accomplished as a group.
They each had their own quarters, with several other rooms to spare.
There was a food store, a dinner room, even a rebuilt forge and smithy.
Where possible the remaining stone of the castle had been used, but additional beams and walls had been added over time.
In a courtyard was a large patch of various vegetables with chickens wandering among them, scratching the earth.
It gave Lucy a peculiar feeling as she took it all in.
On one hand it was all makeshift, thrown together with what was available and without concern for aesthetics.
And yet it was all so efficient, everything built for a purpose, without waste or frills.
Gutters channelled rain back to the stream, walls faced to make the most of the sun.
She could not help but respect the engineering of what had been built here.
‘How ever did you chance upon such a place?’ Dashwood marvelled.
‘As you say – chance. Some years ago, I found myself travelling apace and in need of concealment, for reasons I shall not bore you with. I passed through these woods using back ways and came across this place. I made myself a shelter, which expanded over time, as did my family. Someday, perhaps we will have to move on. But for now, we put down our roots.’
‘And what is that?’ Lucy pointed to a fresh mound of rocks and earth. It was not something that would have held her attention but for the fact it seemed to be smouldering.
‘That,’ Torres smiled, ‘is your winnings.’
To her amazement he had not spoken in jest. The meal had been prepared in a style Hekili had imported from far away: a firepit, burned down to embers and hot stones, upon which food was placed, covered in leaves or cloth, then piled with earth and left to cook in a natural oven.
Lucy was both horrified and intrigued as the large man explained the process to her, elaborating on explaining how it was done with the volcanic rocks of his homeland, and how it was a delicacy he missed, enjoying the chance to share it on special occasions.
It was a wide world indeed.
When the time came to dig it up, Captain Dashwood insisted on helping Hekili and Torres.
In the early evening of a warm day, over the hot earth, it was hard work and when Lucy’s traitorous gaze wandered back to the men – one man in particular – her eyes widened on the discovery they’d discarded their shirts.
A stray gust must have blown her way for she felt a sudden flush of heat that could only have come from the fire.
She swiftly averted her eyes, though not before completing an entirely objective assessment of Dashwood’s well-defined frame.
Even from a distance, she thought she’d seen a red scar crossing his right shoulder.
Definitely not a shaving cut, she mused, averting her eyes yet again.
Perhaps sensing her discomfort, or perhaps aware of her role as chaperone, Elsa ushered Lucy away to show her the workshop. Lucy swiftly agreed, though she could not resist one last peek at Captain Dashwood amid the steamy air.