at attention, his crude, coarsely woven garments still
glistening and rain-soaked. "Locke," he pronounced slowly. "Russell
Locke."
He
seemed proud of it for some reason although for the world Thomas couldn't
understand why. He had a large mouth, both literally and figuratively. In every
pub from The Hanging Man to the Pig and Whistle, he'd been announcing to one
and all that Thomas Eden owed him a debt, that if it wasn't for him, Thomas
Eden would be in Plymouth now, standing trial.
The
smile on Thomas' face faltered. "Yes, Russell Locke," he agreed. He
leaned back in the chair, warming to the game. "I've heard of you. My
'ears' have heard of you. They bring me reports."
For
the first time, Locke smiled. "Out of respect, milord. I thought they
might. That's why I talked so much. I didn't know any other way."
"To
do what?" Thomas inquired, clearly baiting.
Locke
faltered under that steady gaze. "To—reach you," he stammered, "to"—the
smile widened as apparently more appropriate words crossed his mind—"to
gain an audience."
To
gain an audience! How pretty! Thomas leaned forward in his chair and sipped in order
to keep from smiling. "I am not the Pope, Locke," he scolded.
"Begging
your pardon, milord, but to us you are," Locke replied earnestly.
Thomas
looked up, surprised. Not bad for a country man. He'd learned manners and
diplomacy from somewhere. Too bad his sister had not availed herself of the
same tutor.
"Well,
then," Thomas said sharply, annoyed at the persistence of the girl to
enter his thoughts, "what precisely is it that you've been telling
everyone? Since I'm involved, I feel I have a right to know."
Locke
couldn't have agreed more. He stepped forward, bobbing his head furiously.
"Oh, indeed, milord," he concurred. "You are the only one. I
would have come directly here, but—" He broke off. His face reddened.
"But
what?" Thomas urged.
Again
the man ducked his head as though to offer a final obsequiousness. "I
thought it best to wait for word from you. Then I knew you would be willing to
listen."
Thomas
studied this last remark. The man might look foolish, but he was not foolish.
On double guard, Thomas pushed his glass aside. No more port until later. The
bumpkin had completely captured his attention. He ordered, "Then
talk," carefully on guard, for he knew the rumors of this man's
cooperation with the excise men in Exeter.
Russell
talked. Clearly he was a man who needed only an invitation and having received
it, the floodgates opened. "I am a poor man, milord," he began, still
standing at attention, his eyes focused somewhere above Thomas' head, as though
the speech had been carefully rehearsed and direct eye contact would shake his
concentration.
He
cleared his throat and began again. "I am a poor man, milord, a simple
man. I've never seen a room like this." And with that he gestured stiffly
to the left, still clutching the hat. "I'm not likely to see one again. My
mother's dead, God rest her soul. My father's a fisherman in Mortemouth. In
hire to you, he is, when he's up to working, which isn't often now—"
Thomas
listened, fascinated by the nerve of the man. A family history no less. He'd
heard about Hartlow Locke, but wanted to force the son to state it. "Why
isn't he up to working now?" Thomas probed. "My fishing vessels leave
every morning with the tide. Why isn't he aboard?" There was a sternness
in his voice which he did nothing to relieve. He enjoyed the confusion washing
across Locke's face.
"He's—well,
he's poorly," Russell stammered.
"He's
taken leave of his senses, you mean," snapped Thomas. "I've heard he
sits in his garden all day like an old woman. Is that correct?" There was
an overtone of cruelty in his voice, a clear attempt to insult both father and
son.
But
it didn't work. Russell merely bobbed his head in eager agreement."Right,
milord. He's a weak man, always has been. Jenny Toppinger cares
glistening and rain-soaked. "Locke," he pronounced slowly. "Russell
Locke."
He
seemed proud of it for some reason although for the world Thomas couldn't
understand why. He had a large mouth, both literally and figuratively. In every
pub from The Hanging Man to the Pig and Whistle, he'd been announcing to one
and all that Thomas Eden owed him a debt, that if it wasn't for him, Thomas
Eden would be in Plymouth now, standing trial.
The
smile on Thomas' face faltered. "Yes, Russell Locke," he agreed. He
leaned back in the chair, warming to the game. "I've heard of you. My
'ears' have heard of you. They bring me reports."
For
the first time, Locke smiled. "Out of respect, milord. I thought they
might. That's why I talked so much. I didn't know any other way."
"To
do what?" Thomas inquired, clearly baiting.
Locke
faltered under that steady gaze. "To—reach you," he stammered, "to"—the
smile widened as apparently more appropriate words crossed his mind—"to
gain an audience."
To
gain an audience! How pretty! Thomas leaned forward in his chair and sipped in order
to keep from smiling. "I am not the Pope, Locke," he scolded.
"Begging
your pardon, milord, but to us you are," Locke replied earnestly.
Thomas
looked up, surprised. Not bad for a country man. He'd learned manners and
diplomacy from somewhere. Too bad his sister had not availed herself of the
same tutor.
"Well,
then," Thomas said sharply, annoyed at the persistence of the girl to
enter his thoughts, "what precisely is it that you've been telling
everyone? Since I'm involved, I feel I have a right to know."
Locke
couldn't have agreed more. He stepped forward, bobbing his head furiously.
"Oh, indeed, milord," he concurred. "You are the only one. I
would have come directly here, but—" He broke off. His face reddened.
"But
what?" Thomas urged.
Again
the man ducked his head as though to offer a final obsequiousness. "I
thought it best to wait for word from you. Then I knew you would be willing to
listen."
Thomas
studied this last remark. The man might look foolish, but he was not foolish.
On double guard, Thomas pushed his glass aside. No more port until later. The
bumpkin had completely captured his attention. He ordered, "Then
talk," carefully on guard, for he knew the rumors of this man's
cooperation with the excise men in Exeter.
Russell
talked. Clearly he was a man who needed only an invitation and having received
it, the floodgates opened. "I am a poor man, milord," he began, still
standing at attention, his eyes focused somewhere above Thomas' head, as though
the speech had been carefully rehearsed and direct eye contact would shake his
concentration.
He
cleared his throat and began again. "I am a poor man, milord, a simple
man. I've never seen a room like this." And with that he gestured stiffly
to the left, still clutching the hat. "I'm not likely to see one again. My
mother's dead, God rest her soul. My father's a fisherman in Mortemouth. In
hire to you, he is, when he's up to working, which isn't often now—"
Thomas
listened, fascinated by the nerve of the man. A family history no less. He'd
heard about Hartlow Locke, but wanted to force the son to state it. "Why
isn't he up to working now?" Thomas probed. "My fishing vessels leave
every morning with the tide. Why isn't he aboard?" There was a sternness
in his voice which he did nothing to relieve. He enjoyed the confusion washing
across Locke's face.
"He's—well,
he's poorly," Russell stammered.
"He's
taken leave of his senses, you mean," snapped Thomas. "I've heard he
sits in his garden all day like an old woman. Is that correct?" There was
an overtone of cruelty in his voice, a clear attempt to insult both father and
son.
But
it didn't work. Russell merely bobbed his head in eager agreement."Right,
milord. He's a weak man, always has been. Jenny Toppinger cares
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