Chapter 15 #2
But the lad was likely from Bristol. He wouldn’t know where they were or which way to go to summon help quickly, and there were no houses along that stretch of the river.
She didn’t have time to think further. Hillary strode out and halted before her.
She kept her gaze apparently lowered, but watched him from beneath her lashes. With his Good Samaritan mask long gone, he was surveying her coldly through narrowed, piggy eyes.
Then a chilly smile curved his lips. He reached down, seized her arm, hauled her up, and propelled her before him into the mill.
Kit drove the curricle into the outskirts of Saltford without having sighted the gig. From the position of the church tower well away to the left, he surmised the vicarage, no doubt close to the church, lay some distance off the Bath Road, closer to the river.
Kit eyed the tower.
Hillary had said he would drive Sylvia to the vicarage, but Hillary had lied about multiple things. What if he’d lied about that?
If Kit drove to the vicarage and Sylvia wasn’t there, he would lose precious time—time she and Jack might not have.
Kit swiftly weighed his choices; as they reached the village proper, he drew on the reins.
As soon as the horses had halted, he handed the reins to Smiggs.
“Follow along behind us.” Kit swiveled on the seat and looked at Ned and Ollie.
“Boys, we need to ask everyone who might have seen it if the gig passed this way. We need to be sure which way it went.”
The boys nodded and scrambled down to the road.
They joined Kit in ranging along the road, asking anyone they saw if they’d spotted a man and a lady driving past in a gig.
Soon, Kit came upon an old lady, a basket on her arm.
When he asked his question, she blinked at him “By lady, do you mean Miss Buckleberry, dear?”
“Yes.” Kit managed to keep his voice even. “We’re trying to work out which way she went.”
The old lady pointed down the street. “On along the Bath Road.”
“Thank you.” He wanted to rush on, but paused to ask, “How long ago was that?”
“Oh, not much more than five or so minutes,” the old lady said. “I was just on my way into the shop, and I didn’t spend that long in there.” She paused, then added, “I did wave, but dear Sylvia seemed a tad distracted.”
Kit flashed the old lady a smile. “Again, thank you. I’ll mention that when next I see her.” Quickly sobering, he moved on.
He called the boys to him and told them what he’d learned—that as he’d feared, Hillary hadn’t driven Sylvia to the vicarage. “We need to keep going as fast as we can and see if he continued on toward Bath.”
Letting the boys go ahead, Kit dropped back to tell Smiggs the news.
Smiggs frowned. “He must’ve spun her some tale about where her father is, else she’d have kicked up a fuss when he didn’t head to the vicarage.”
Grimly, Kit nodded. Smiggs was right. But their only option was to follow the gig’s trail, such as it was.
Ollie found an older man seated outside a cottage, watching the passing traffic. The man remembered the gig and Sylvia; Kit came up in time to hear him say, “Aye. ’Bout five minutes ago, it were. Odd, I thought, seeing our Sylvia up beside that ramshackle fella.”
Ollie turned wide eyes Kit’s way.
Kit halted beside Ollie, dropped a hand on the lad’s shoulder, and nodded to the man. “Why ramshackle?”
“Well, it was that Nunsworth fella.” The man gestured with his pipe.
“He was run out of the village years ago. Claimed to be a churchman, but all he was interested in was stealing from those silly enough to listen to him.” The man paused, then looked struck.
“Mind, that was a good long time ago. Sylvia was just a child then—she might not know.”
Kit’s heart sank. He gripped Ollie’s shoulder and dipped his head to the man. “Thank you.”
He and Ollie swung around and hurried on down the road.
They went as fast as they dared, but there were several lanes leading into the countryside; they had to be sure the gig hadn’t taken one of them.
Urgency rode Kit’s shoulders, gaining weight with every passing minute.
They reached the other end of the village proper; ahead, the road continued on through fields dotted with the occasional farmhouse or cottage.
A farmer driving a yoke of oxen pulling a heavily laden cart was toiling up the slight rise.
Kit hailed the man and asked if a gig carrying a man and a lady had passed him.
The farmer studied Kit for an instant, then said, “Not passed, no.” When Kit blinked, the farmer turned and pointed. “I saw them head down the lane there.”
The entrance to the lane lay ahead on Kit’s left. His heart thudded. “How long ago?”
“Not that long—say ten minutes. Might be less.” The farmer gestured down the rise.
“Me and the beasts were just rounding the corner down there when I looked up and saw them.” Kit opened his mouth to thank the man when the farmer went on, “Odd, really, to go that way.” The farmer glanced at Kit.
“It’s called the Shallows on account of following the river along.
” The man shrugged. “Scenic, I suppose.”
Reining in his impatience, Kit thanked the man. Smiggs drew up the curricle. Kit leapt to the box seat; while the boys scrambled up behind, Kit stood and peered down the lower-lying lane. All he could see were the tops of trees.
He turned and called to the farmer, “What lies that way?”
The farmer looked back. “It’ll eventually land you near the church, but along the way, there’s just the brass mill. Not much else.”
Kit saluted the farmer, then, grim-faced, sat, picked up the reins, sent his horses pacing forward, then swung them in a tight arc and plunged down the narrow lane.