#overrun and this 80 year old family friend has had it three times and is fine every time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stansbooty · 4 years

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the sick and the tired

gift for @whatidoisxsecret for the @itfandomprompts secret santa! happy holidays!

ao3 link

words: 3040

warnings: language, violence (nothing graphic) and major character death

The rain fell from the sky with such a force that the roof sounded like it was going to collapse inwards. Richie knew that logically it wouldn’t. Despite being an old house, it was in reasonable shape and work had been done repairing and reinforcing everything possible. The house was essentially a fortress now. The roof was thick, leak proof and sturdy. The doors were steel and covered in a variety of locks. The windows were boarded. The fence surrounding the house tall and barbed. It had taken months.

“Everything okay?” A voice asked from behind him. Richie whipped around to see Beverly wrapping her arm up in a bandage, her face full of concern. “You’ve been staring out the window for hours now.”

He waved an arm in her direction. “Just waitin’ for the rain to stop.”

She finished wrapped her arm and sat next to him, watching the rain fall heavily and sighed. “We’ll find them. Don’t worry.”

“Pfft.” Richie tried to laugh it off. “I’m not even worried about that. Told ya, I’m just watching the rain.”

“Rich. We’ll find them.” She repeated with a sad smile.

Richie stayed silent for a minute. He focused in on the feeling of Beverly’s hand rubbing circles on his back and tried to loosen the tension building up in his shoulders. He fiddled with the ring on his finger.

“You really think so?” He spoke up.

“I know so. They’re smart and so are we.” She gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “Now c’mon, Stan made rice.”

“Stan always makes rice.” Richie grumbled but stood up nonetheless.

“It’s the only thing he knows how to make.” Bev whispered with a giggle.

The table looked empty, just as it had for the past week. Seven chairs sat around the table, but only four of them were taken. Mike was helping himself to rice and canned chicken and looked up to smile at them momentarily. Richie could tell that no one was feeling particularly chipper at the moment. Approximately 142 hours ago (Although who was keeping track? Certainly not Richie.), three of their best friends had been separated from them, and everyone was beginning to feel the toll of the failing search.

“We’re leaving as soon as the rain ends, right?” Richie spoke up.

“A lot will be flooded.” Stan responded without looking up.

“I don’t care.”

Stan sighed. “Where did you want to look next?”

“In town?”

“You think they’re in there?” Mike asked, speaking softly, hints of fear laced in his voice.

“Where else would they be?” Richie questioned. “We’ve checked everywhere outside of town. The center. The bunkers. Hell, me and Bev ran around the forest for hours. They could’ve been ran into town. Trapped. Why else wouldn’t they come back?”

Stan cleared his throat. “You have to consider the possibility that -”

“They’re fine, Stan.” Richie snapped. “They’re just stuck somewhere they can’t get out of. Ben is too strong. Eddie is too smart. Bill is just…he’s too Bill for them to not be fine.”

Stan turned his attention to Beverly. “And what do you think?”

“I can’t afford to not think they’re okay.”

“We’re in the middle of a fucking apocalypse. We could die at any point we step outside this house. You want to go looking in town, the overrun town, to find people who may or may not be alive.”

Richie slammed his hands on the table and stood up. “Shut the fuck up, Stan. Just because you lost Patty months ago doesn’t mean you can be a dick.”

“This has nothing to do with her and you know it.” Stan stood up as well, matching his tone.

“Yes, it does! These are your best friends you’re talking about!”

“And I don’t want to see they’re eaten corpses. And I’d rather not be eaten either!”

“We still have each other. We owe it to them to find our friends, our family!”

“Our families are dead!”

Richie pushed his plate off the table, the food spilling and the plate shattering. “We’re your family. I’m sorry you lost your wife. But don’t blame me for not wanting to lose my husband, too.”

Stan watched as Richie left the table and heard the slamming of his bedroom door.

“Stan, I -” Beverly began but was quickly interrupted.

“Don’t. I know. That was fucked up of me. I’ll apologize in the morning.”

It had been four years since the beginning. That day that everyone woke up and turned their TVs on and saw mass chaos happening around the globe. A new plague, they called it at first. The days went by and the world realized it was much more.

The thing was, the sick didn’t die. Not really. They got sicker and sicker by the hour, their bodies deteriorating and their minds turning to mush until they didn’t have an ounce of their old self left. And minutes after they took their dying breaths, they would attack. A whole cheesy 80’s movie concept and 100% a horrifying thing to live through.

The friends met at a refugee center only months after the sickness started. Three couples and two best friends had clicked together so perfectly that Richie had joked once that the plague was a miracle. And they had done really well together. Moving from center to center together, learning to stay healthy and kill the sick, functioning as one unit rather than the eight individual people. Years passed.

And then Patty died. Stan’s wife. It was a food mission gone bad and she got caught by one of the sick and couldn’t get away. Stan and Eddie had watched her get eaten alive right in front of them. Eddie dragged a screaming Stan back to the house. He locked himself in his room for a week.

142 hours ago, Ben, Bill, and Eddie had gone on a scouting mission and hadn’t returned. Hours of nonstop searching didn’t bring any luck. Beverly and Richie felt the heavy weight of their husbands’ absences as Mike felt that of his best friend. Stan assumed the worst. He always did.

Richie left at the crack of dawn. He knew it was stupid, dangerous, a bad idea, and he could hear Beverly’s voice in his head calling him a fucking idiot. But he could also hear Stan’s insinuating that Bill was dead and he knew he couldn’t stand being in the house for a moment longer.

His boots squished in the mud as he walked towards the town. It wasn’t far. Just enough distance between their house and the town that the sick wouldn’t wander over but close enough that they could monitor it if needed. The air was hot and sticky, despite losing all abilities to track time, both daily and in relation to the year, Richie felt it was a good assumption to believe it was summertime, probably mid-July. His hair stuck to his forehead as he trekked through the trees and the birds sang and the sun was high up in the sky.

He reached the edge of the town after about an hour of walking. They hadn’t really bothered trying to find the name of it, but they knew it was somewhere in South Carolina, as that was the last border sign they had passed. At this point, calling it a town was a little bit of a stretch, most of the building falling apart and every surface covered in various plants. There was an old refugee center that had failed years ago in the center of it all and that was Richie’s (fairly difficult) end goal.

As he approached the streets, his took his knife out of its sheath on his hip, pulled his bandana up over his face, and yanked the long sleeves of his shirt down. The less skin showing, the better. He moved slowly, carefully to not make any loud noises as he behind old buildings. He hadn’t seen any of the sick yet and he wasn’t looking to attract any.

He froze in his tracks as he approached an open street and two of them stumbled by. Richie pressed himself up against the wall next to him, holding his breath and stilling any movement. His fingers itched around the knife in his hand, gripping it tighter when one of them would stumble ever so closer.

Richie watched as their forms got smaller and smaller as they walked further away and let himself relax a little against the wall. The relaxation was short lived as a screech broke out next to him. He whipped around in time to see one of the sick running towards him at full speed and he let out a curse as he braced himself.

It was towards him and he tucked down before it could reach him, rolling and successfully tripping it. It lost its balance and fell to the ground, growling and screaming.

“Shit, shit, shit, shut up.” He whispered and plunged his knife into its skull, stopping its noises.

He looked behind him to see that it was too late and the noises had got the attention of others.

“Fuck!” He yelled harshly and began to run.

Richie didn’t bother looking behind him, being able to hear the growling and screams coming from behind him as he willed himself to run faster. The newly infected sick were as quick as a healthy human and were as savage as they were smart. A fire escape on the side of an old building came into view and he jumped up the first couple steps, climbing as quick as he could. Unfortunately, the sick followed.

He grabbed an old piece of metal from the grate beneath him and threw it at the closest window, smashing it and allowing him to crawl inside. Once in the building, he pushed as much junk, including a table and many chairs, towards the windows as possible in only a few seconds and ran out the room. He sprinted up the stairs of the building, skipping as many steps as his legs allowed. The building was big, probably a dozen stories tall and full of rooms, an office building before all hell broke loose. As long as Richie got enough space between him and the sick he could barricade himself in a room and they would never find him.

He paused the moment at the top of another set of stairs, willing his breathing to calm down so he could listen for the tell-tale signs of being followed. When all he could hear was his own heavy breathing and his heart beating harshly, he turned the knob of the nearest door and used his body weight to open it up, quickly locking it behind him. He walked down the hall but froze when he began to hear voices. Not grunts and screams, but the familiar sound of other healthy people. He concentrated on the sound, following it down the hallway until it became less faint and more present.

Richie was outside of the door when he was certain he could make out Ben’s voice. He rapped on the door firmly, not loud enough to echo down the hall but certainly loud enough that he could be heard from inside the room.

“Ben! Ben, oh my god, open the door, holy fuck!” He pressed nearly his whole body against the door, trying to get in.

“Richie?” He heard from the other side of the door.

“Thank god.” He sighed and nearly fell as the door swung upon inwards.

“Richie, what – what are you doing here?” Ben asked as Richie threw his arms around him tightly.

“I’m here to help you guys.”

“By yourself?”

Richie shrugged. “Where’s Bill? And Eddie?”

Ben froze and swallowed hard. “You see, they…”

Richie eyes scanned over Ben’s face, taking in his nervous demeanor. “Where are they?”

“Eddie’s gone.” Ben squeezed his eyes shut. “And Bill…well he’s hurt, real bad.”

“Where is he?” Richie asked, panic building up in his throat.

“They’re in the other room, I came out to get you.” Richie could see Ben attempting to blink away tears.

Richie fell to his knees when he stepped foot into the adjoining room and saw Bill, sprawled out on the floor, blanket held tightly over his body.

“Baby, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He crawled towards him, tears already streaming down his face as he ran a hand through his husband’s hair.

“Richie?” Bill croaked.

“I’m here, don’t worry, I’ve come to get you.”

“Eddie…” A cough interrupted him for a moment. “He’s gone, I tried to save him, I couldn’t.”

“I’m sure you did your best.” Richie cradled his cheek.

“I got hurt.”

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.”

Richie glanced behind him at Ben, standing next to a sheet, draped over something lumpy. He let out a shaky breath.

“Is that?”

Ben just nodded.

“I didn’t know what to do. Bill can hardly move, and I couldn’t carry him and Eddie back. And I wasn’t going to leave him alone.”

Richie ran his hands down Bill’s body until he reached his hands, holding them tightly. He didn’t look away from the injured man as he responded to Ben. “I’m not blaming you. I get it, I’m glad you didn’t leave him.”

“This is my fault.” Bill croaked.

“Be quiet.” Richie snapped. “None of this is your fault.”

“Eddie…he fell and I didn’t get there in time.”

“This. Isn’t. Your. Fault.”

“Leave me here, Rich.” Bill voice was strained, as if he was attempted to hold back sobs.

“Why the fuck would I do that? I’m here now, Ben can carry Eddie and I’ve got you.”

Bill shook his head. “I’m dying. You can’t get me out of here.”

“You’re not fucking dying.”

“Richie…” Ben whispered from behind him. “He’s getting worse every second.”

“I’m not gonna make it another hour, baby.” Bill smiled softly.

“Stop.” Richie felt a sob build up in his throat. “Stop it, yes you are. You’re Bill Denbrough, you can make it through anything. Everything.”

“Stay with me.”

Richie looked back at Ben with his lip trembling. “What do I do? Ben, help!”

“I’ve given him medicine and I’ve tended his injury, I don’t know what else to do. I don’t have any supplies.”

“You have to think of something!” Richie

“You don’t think I’ve tried?”

“Richie.” Bill said and he immediately snapped his attention back to his husband. “Ben tried his hardest. Please. Just hold me. And do what you have to do when it comes to it.”

“Like hell I will.”

“You have to.”

Richie finally truly took in the appearance of his dying husband. A large bandage covering his torso where he could see blood seeping through. The greenish tint spread across every inch of his skin. The dried blood around his nose and mouth. The redness to his eyes. Richie had seen in before in many people over the years. And to this day, a cure had yet to be found.

Richie laid down next to Bill, knowing the only way to catch the infection was to be injured by one of the sick, cradling the dying man’s head into his chest and letting out a deep sob.

“You’ll be okay, Rich.” Bill whispered.

Richie shook his head rapidly, unable to bring himself to speak as hot, wet tears streamed steadily down his face. His chest felt tight and shook with sobs. Richie heard Ben leaving, not wanting to step in on the moment.

Bill and he had gotten married when they were freshly 18 years old, had gone to the courthouse on a whim one afternoon and done it with no questions asked. That was nearly eight years ago. Since then, they had made a decent life for themselves before all this. College degrees. Good paying jobs. A house to share. Plans for a family in the future. But now, the love of his life lay in his arms, losing a bit of life with each passing moment.

“We were gonna adopt remember? You wanted twins. We were supposed to have the meeting that Friday.”

“I remember.” Bill whispered back.

“All I wanted was a little girl to spoil. And to be a dad with you.”

Richie didn’t know how much time had passed but he noticed when Bill stopped speaking, only giving hums in response to Richie’s words. And then when the hums stopped. And then when the rhythmic sound of Bill’s breathing stopped.

Ben came back in the room when he heard a sharp scream, running in to see Richie draped over Bill’s body.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why, Ben, why him? He never did anything wrong!” Richie’s face was red and splotchy and wet with tears.

“I’m sorry.” Ben repeated, this time a little wetter.

“I have to do it, don’t I?”

Ben nodded.

Richie grabbed his knife from his side. He reached up to Bill’s face, pushing his eyes to close. Then he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

“I love you.”

Ben tried to look away as Richie pulled the blanket up over Bill’s face and positioned the knife against his temple.

“Will you help me?” Richie asked him, sounding like a child who had lost everything.

He stepped forward, nearly next to Richie and grasping the knife as well, rubbing his thumb on the back of Richie’s hand in an attempt to provide any comfort. Together, they pushed the knife in, cringing at the squelching sound. Richie fell into Ben’s chest harshly, crying into his chest.

The time after that moved in a blur for them. Wrapped up their friends’ bodies and planning their escape route. Ben through Eddie over his shoulder as Richie did to Bill as they navigated their way out of town. They ran into Mike, Bev, and Stan outside of town, they had left the house as soon as they realized Richie had left alone.

The friends all sat barely inside the woods, just far enough in to be hidden, and mourned. They all whispered encouraging words to Richie but to no avail.

They told him tomorrow might be kinder to them. Richie didn’t know if he had a reason to stick around to see it anymore.

#okay you said no perfect happy ending and this is literally absolutely not a happy ending and i'm very sorry #mine #bichie #i will proofread better in the morning i am sorry #it

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letterfromtrenwith · 6 years

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Les trois Français - Ch. 4, 5 & 6

A crime/mystery AU

1793. After returning from the Americas to find only disappointment and heartbreak in Cornwall, Ross Poldark fled the place he once called home. Several years later, he leads a disordered, secretive life as one of London’s infamous Bow Street Runners, losing himself in the city’s murky alleyways and dark criminal workings.

His Aunt Agatha’s declining health finally convinces him to go back to Trenwith, the Poldark family home. There, he finds his cousin Francis, the county’s chief magistrate, embroiled in the perplexing case of the murders of three French emigres. Unable to resist the lure of a mystery, Ross must confront local politics, long-neglected friends, old enemies and lost loves in order to find the truth.

- A clue to the identity of a killer, an unexpected reunion and a surprise visitor complicate the case.

Chapter 4

“How long have the dead Frenchmen been here?” There was an abrupt silence at the breakfast table, and Ross realised that he had spoken the question aloud unprompted. After Francis explained the case to him the day of his arrival, Ross had sworn up and down that he did not want to get involved, that he was only here to see his family. Francis looked unconvinced but apparently accepted it. However, in the intervening two days, Ross had found himself turning the issue over in his mind, leading to Agatha snapping at him more than once for not paying attention to her.

“Come all the way back here just to ignore me!”

Now, he had given himself away and the triumphant smirk Francis failed to hide behind his tea cup was highly irritating. He had been away for over ten years, and somehow his cousin could still read him like a book.

“Changed your mind, cousin?” Ross said nothing, annoyed at having given in. Francis chuckled. “Very well. de Vayssiére arrived in ’91 – he landed at Falmouth. du Pas came to London sometime in the ‘80s, but came down here last year to see if he could find more work – as I’m sure you know, London is overrun with medical men, both genuine and otherwise. d’Aubigné arrived shortly after, also from London.”

“Both from London?”

“I thought the same thing, but there’s no evidence they met in the capital, or knew each other before lodging at Killewarren. They’re from different parts of France, and I can see no other connection.”

“There must be one.”

“Not necessarily. If they were killed by different people, as your friend Dr Enys says.” Ross ignored the stab of guilt the mention of Dwight Enys brought. As a young medic, Dwight had treated Ross in the battlefield hospital in Virginia, turning a potentially disfiguring head wound into a neat scar beside his left eye. They had become good friends thereafter, travelling home to England together before Ross made his first terrible visit to Cornwall.

They were eventually reunited in London – when Ross finally made it there. Dwight had patched him up – and sobered him up. The doctor’s decision to return to his native county after completing his medical studies had come dangerously close to tempting Ross to return also. They promised to keep in touch, but like everyone else Dwight had had to contend with sporadic, abrupt replies. Bar Verity, he was the only one to persist in writing. Ross knew he should visit Dwight – should really have done so already – but the self-recrimination that his reunions with his family had brought was quite enough to be going on with.

“Must we discuss this at breakfast?” Verity’s complaint butted into his thoughts, and Francis tutted.

“Very well, sister, we shall take our discussion elsewhere, since we have a call to pay.” It took a moment for that to register with Ross.

“We do?”

“Yes.”

“This is Nampara land, is it not?” Ross frowned as their horses crested the small hillock. They had ridden east from Trenwith, towards the sea. His memories of his childhood home seemed so far back in time as to be shrouded in mists, but he was sure that he recalled running along these paths with Francis as a boy.

“Yes, it is. We are to visit one of your tenants.”

“Tenants? I have tenants?”

“Well, some income had to be generated for the estate while you were gone. Uncle Joshua left it in my father’s care until you returned, so I had to take it on after his death. I look forward to handing all the papers over to you!” Ross grimaced, reminded of yet another thing he had neglected while burrowing himself into the chaos and filth of London.

They approached a clifftop cottage, a rough-hewn but attractive building that he remembered little of. A gaggle of dirty peasant-children scampered towards them as they tied up their horses. Francis fished in his coat and distributed a few coins into eager little hands. A moment later, the cottage door opened and a thin, sallow-looking woman emerged. Her clothes were worn and much-mended, hair piled under a grubby cap. Clutching a small package, she made to gather the urchins before coming to a startled stop when she noticed Ross and Francis.

“Oh, sirs – I –“ With a jerky bob, she rushed away, the little ones scampering behind her.

“Do you know that woman?” Ross asked, watching her disappear along the cliff-top.

“Not particularly. I believe her husband is a miner – Drabble, I think?” What business would that woman have with his mysterious tenant, Ross wondered? Who were they coming to see? Francis offered an immediate answer by promptly knocking on the cottage’s oaken door. It opened to reveal a young woman, her face brightening as she saw who called upon her.

“Fr – Oh.” She halted her enthusiastic greeting as she caught sight of Ross. “Sir.”

“D - Miss Carne, this is my cousin, Captain Ross Poldark, lately arrived from London.” She sketched an unpolished but neat curtsey, light catching on her vivid red hair.

“Cap’n. Mr Francis has spoken of ye, Sir.” Her accent was a working-woman’s, but not quite.

“Is that so? I quite thought he had forgotten all about me!” Ross made the jest, although he was somewhat bewildered. Why had Francis brought him to see this girl? His cousin had made out as if they were to meet someone who could help with their solving of the murders. What could some serving-wench – albeit a seemingly well-kept one – possibly have to do with three aristocratic Frenchmen?

“Cousin Ross means to help me seek out the truth about our unfortunate French guests. I believe you can offer us some aid?”

“Of course, sir. Please…” She stepped aside, and Ross followed Francis inside, still none the wiser as to what they could hope to achieve by coming here. They should be talking to the other French, and checking the woods where d’Aubigné was found, not wasting time!

“Ross? Miss Carne asked if you would like some tea?”

“Oh, er, yes, thank you.” He could at least affect some semblance of manners, not that politeness and decorum had been in the greatest of need these last few years.

“So, what do you have, D – Miss Carne?” Ross came to two simultaneous realisations – this young woman was some sort of informant, and that that was the second time his cousin had almost addressed her by what Ross assumed was her Christian name; and she had made the same mistake in return.

“I’m afraid I cannot help ye with the French doctor, or M. d’Aubigne -” her French pronunciation was surprisingly good “ – but the first man, de Vayssiere, was killed by a navy man.”

“A naval man?”

“Aye, a fight over a card game. John Bligh saw it – ‘is wife told me.”

“Why did Mr Bligh not report it?” She had gone to the stove to tend to her kettle, and Ross saw her brow crease at his question.

“He ‘as ‘is own ‘istory with the law. Like as not constables would ‘ave arrested ‘im for it. Whether they thought he did it or no.” Ross could not exactly argue with that – he had seen plenty of that sort of behaviour from so-called lawmen in his time.

“Would Mr Bligh speak with me? If you assured him that I did not wish to arrest him?” Francis accepted the steaming cup from her hand, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully as she passed another to Ross.

“P’raps.”

“Does he know the naval man? Or can he describe him?”

“Can’t say. But ‘e did tell his wife he saw whole thing clear.”

“And how do you know Mrs Bligh?” Ross took a sip of his tea and balked. “Ugh – what is this?”

“It’s nettle.”

“Miss Carne tends to the health of our district, along with Dr Enys.”

Ross finally took a proper look around the parlour-kitchen of the little cottage – his bemusement at their visit had made him remiss – taking in the haphazard mixture of jars and bottles on the shelves, pots of flowers on the windowsill. This woman was obviously some sort of herbalist - that explained how she obtained her information; her clients would likely share local scandal and rumour, and be more inclined to speak to her than to a magistrate or a constable. An astute choice of informant on his cousin’s part; Ross was impressed.

In an attempt to be somewhat polite, Ross forced himself to finish the awful tea – which Francis seemed to quite enjoy – and drifted out of the conversation, which moved onto some other apparently routine matters of Francis’ business, and Miss Carne’s, although he did hear her agree to see if Mrs Bligh could persuade her husband to give a statement.

As with every other piece of information so far collected, this one simply added to the pile of questions, assuming that Miss Carne’s information was correct, of course. Who was this Naval officer? Did he kill the others, too? Why?

Actually ‘why’ might be fairly easy – a serving sailor could certainly come up with plenty of reasons to hate the French. But killing in the heat of battle was not the same as cold-blooded murder.

Chapter 5

“You insisted on coming, so you could at least try not to look utterly miserable about it.” At Francis’ admonishment, Ross attempted to school his features into something like a pleasant expression, and Francis chuckled. They were in the great hall at Killewarren, attending Caroline Enys’ soirée. Francis had to admit that he was a touch surprised when he learned that the party had not been cancelled, considering the recent fate of her houseguest.

“We considered calling it off, but thought perhaps it might buoy the mood of the district a little. And if there is some madman hunting the French, show him we are not to be cowed.” Dwight had confided when he visited Agatha a few days ago. Francis certainly appreciated this, and admired it. Of course, as Ross had immediately pointed out, the occasion offered other advantages. All of the French emigres were invited, along with many other important figures in the district. It was an excellent opportunity for observation.

They could certainly do with more information. Demelza had – as she ever did – turned out to be entirely reliable. She had also managed to persuade John Bligh to speak to Francis privately, confirming what his wife had related and managing to give a decent description of the naval officer. William Henshawe, the only useful man Francis had managed to recruit as a constable, had by means of some discreet enquiries, and one or two palms crossed with silver, ascertained the likely identity of this officer as one Second Lieutenant Robert Havering. Said Havering had, three days after stabbing M. de Vayssiere, departed the country on HMS Surprise, and therefore could not have killed the other two Frenchmen.

One down, two to go.

Of course, even discounting de Vayssiere from the equation did not put them much further forward. At Ross’ insistence, they had returned to the woods where d’Aubigné’s body had been found. It was raining on the night of the man’s death, and the woods were a common shortcut for locals and estate staff alike, so what he hoped to find Francis hadn’t known. He hadn’t visited the site himself, but sent two constables to look it over. He’d found himself cursing his useless men once again when Ross alighted upon still evident bloodstains on the fallen leaves.

“Here, look at these footprints.” The marks his cousin pointed at were somewhat blurred by later traffic, but Francis could see that they were deeper than the others surrounding them, and lacked a heel print.

“Someone was running.”

“Two men. You see, these are formal shoes. These here are larger – heavy boots; and they cross the others in some places.”

“So if the first lot are d’Aubigné, then he was pursued by his killer.”

“It would appear so.” With Francis in tow, Ross had followed the trails back to a clearing. This seemed to be where the pursuit began, as the deeper prints disappeared, and were obscured by a great many others, the clearing being the crossing point between three commonly used footpaths. Despite a thorough search, they found only one other thing in the clearing, a rope tied around a tree trunk, the trailing end peculiarly severed.

“It looks new. But does it have anything to do with the murder or not?” Ross had mused, examining the frayed end. They had no idea.

Now, they hoped something useful might be gained by examining the dead men’s countrymen. Subtly, of course.

“Ah! The famous Captain Poldark. How delighted I am to meet you at last!” Caroline approached, resplendent in a pristine white gown under a turquoise robe. She looked much more like her usual self than a few days earlier, and Francis admired her outward strength.

“Ross, my friend Mrs Caroline Enys, you know her husband, I believe.” Dwight had followed her.

“Hello, old friend. I am glad to see you looking well.”

“Considering Dwight mended your face, it seems to me you have been a most neglectful correspondent!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ross shift awkwardly from foot to foot and hoped his cousin would not take Caroline’s words the wrong way. She loved to tease, always without malice, but Ross did not know her as he did.

“Yes, Mrs Enys, I believe I have. I shall beg your husband’s forgiveness forthwith.” It seemed Ross had taken her admonishment in the spirit it was intended, and whatever slight tension there may have been had vanished. Until, that is, the voice of a servant announced the party’s newest arrivals.

“Mr and Mrs George Warleggan!”

Oh no.

“You can make a report to the Admiralty, but whether they will take action is another matter.”

“Bligh agreed to speak to me, but I do not think he would agree to appear in court, so I could offer little evidence against the Lieutenant.”

“Well,” George took a thoughtful sip of his wine. “Considering the current conditions at sea, I doubt you could inflict more severe punishment upon him. The Surprise heads for the Southern Americas- dangerous waters, and not merely because of the French.”

“How do you know that?” Francis frowned. He had never known George to be especially interested in military matters, and besides, surely the movements of His Majesty’s fleet were secret?

“Oh, the Admiralty has agreed to share certain information with shipping companies, so far as is necessary to safeguard what trade we are able to conduct. I trust, of course, your own discretion.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I must find Elizabeth. See how much money she has lost us at cards.”

“You mean how much she has enriched you, surely?!” Elizabeth’s skill at cards was significant, and more than a few ladies and gentlemen of the district had emptied their coin purses for her over the years, although she would rarely accept more than a guinea or two.

“Well,” George replied, amused, “there is always a first time for everything.”

Francis spent the next short while mingling, exchanging general chat with the other guests. It would not do to question anyone too closely, for fear of offending them. Besides, his French was not really up to anything more than small talk. Ross’ was better, so he eventually set off in search of his cousin, catching his voice through a doorway.

“Oh. Good evening.” The odd note in Ross’ voice didn’t register with Francis until he heard the replying voice, at which he darted back out of sight.

“Good evening, Ross.” It was Elizabeth. Francis did not know what to do. He had no especial desire to eavesdrop on what would undoubtedly be a difficult moment. However, he also wondered if it might not be best to stay close by so he could strategically interrupt if necessary. Awkwardly, he lingered as Elizabeth continued. “You look well.”

“As do you Mrs Warleggan.” Francis winced at the slight sneer in Ross’ voice, but Elizabeth either did not notice or elected to ignore it. He suspected the latter – Elizabeth was far from imperceptive.

“I am glad to see you back.”

“Are you?”

“Of course. Why should I not be? I know how your family have missed you. And considering I once believed you dead…”

“You did not seem to mourn me for long.”

“Oh, Ross! Must we do this? After all these years?” Silence. That was something about Ross which had not changed evidently. His sullen stubbornness had always annoyed Francis, and apparently it irritated Elizabeth also, considering her tone as she continued. “I was devastated when I was told you had been killed. But I was barely nineteen years old. What would you have had me do? Spend the rest of my life in mourning? A life of spinsterhood and bitterness? Perhaps you think it wrong of me, but I could not live without love.”

“And you found it with a man you knew I disliked.”

“Forgive me, Ross, but your feelings about him were never mine.”

“Hm. Evidently.”

“Oh, Ross, can we not be friends now? Could we not have been then? So many years have passed. Surely you have not spent them in anger and resentment?” Francis would not be at all surprised if that was exactly what Ross had done. “Besides, we were both so very young when you proposed to me. I was just a girl, and you barely a man. Did you have any real notion of love? I do not believe I did.”

“Hmph.” That was probably as close to an acknowledgement that she was right that Elizabeth would get, and Francis decided now was the appropriate moment. Affecting a casual air, he stepped around the door way.

“Ah, Ross! Elizabeth! Here you are!”

Chapter 6

Ross took a deep breath as he broke the surface of the water, shaking his head to clear his eyes. Pushing wet hair back off his face, he swam further out with a slow stroke. There was still a chill to the water this time of year, but it only added to the sense of refreshment Ross felt. How he had loved sea-bathing as a young man – running down to the beach on bright early mornings to plunge into the clear, cool water. Smooth, wet sand under his feet, fresh salty air in his lungs. The London bath houses he frequented were pleasant enough in their own way but nothing compared to this.

Back here, he realised just how used he had become to the city and its filth and stink. The fresh air of Cornwall was almost overwhelming, along with the open spaces, not to mention the quiet. He sat up at night in his room at Trenwith listening to…nothing. Nothing but the occasional hoot of an owl, and the rustle of the wind through the trees. It was never peaceful in the city – drunks shouting and brawling, prostitutes and pedlars hawking their wares, carts and carriages rattling back and forth at all hours.

He stopped and floated gently on the water for a while. The weather had improved and the sky was clear, a few whisps of cloud drifting gently by. Tiny waves lapped around him as two seagulls wheeled overhead, looking for fish no doubt. His environment may be tranquil, but Ross’ mind was not.

Pretence to indifference had long since been abandoned regarding the murdered Frenchmen. The case had ensnared him and it would not let him go until he had resolved it to his satisfaction. Like a hound at the scent, Blackstone often said, not entirely inaccurately, so much as Ross did not like to admit it. The thought of his colleague, as well as London, niggled him. He had sent a message back to Bow Street , claiming that family matters detained him in Cornwall for longer than he had envisaged. This was not entirely a lie – Agatha’s illness was not improving, and as much as they did not truly wish to acknowledge it, all in the family knew she was fading – but being home had raised some complicated emotions in him.

Seeing Elizabeth had redoubled that. He felt frozen to the spot as she walked down that hallway toward him, radiant in her white gown and golden robe; no longer the girl he remembered, but a beautiful, assured woman. She glowed with health and happiness – her wide, gentle smile and soft, warm eyes had not changed. It was obvious she did not lie when she said she was pleased to see him, but he could tell her feelings for him were not the same as they once were.

As if he had not been a fool to expect them to be. It pained him, but she was right about them. His misery and heartbreak at what he had chosen to regard as her betrayal had consumed him for a long time, but in truth he had not thought of her quite so much for many years. Disappointment and grief had simply been excuses for his shiftless life, something he knew had been slowly dawning on him for a while.

Thinking of Elizabeth brought him back to the case again. After Francis chanced upon them – although Ross suspected not entirely by accident – Ross had taken the opportunity to ask Elizabeth what she knew of the French emigres. Her French had always been excellent, and he had been right to assume that she had therefore spoken with many of them.

“I have not been out much lately,” she had explained – and he had to admit it was still something of a blow to learn that she had five children; he had once upon a time dreamed of what his children with her might look like, although it was rather more that it emphasised once again how long he had been gone.

Dr du Pas had attended on her once or twice during her pregnancy, and she could account for no reason why anyone should wish him ill. M d’Aubigné she had not known especially well, but again had no notion as to a motive for his murder.

“He was a little…grand. Rather pompous, which I imagine came from his time with the royal retinue. I think he rather considered most other people beneath him. “ She pursed her lips in disapproval. “He also spoke very often and very openly of his hatred for the revolutionaries and the French republic. They have their sympathisers in this country, of course, but none that d’Aubigné would have been much in company with.”

Ross was impressed with her frankness, and her thoughtfulness. She had been a great help, too, in speaking to the other emigres. His own French was not bad – better than Francis’ – but Elizabeth’s was flawless.

Not that the other foreigners had actually offered much information – the usual mix of gossip, wild speculation and self-interest which generally greeted any crime, particularly those committed amongst the gentry. Many were genuine in their desire to help, but knew very little. Several had been patients of du Pas, and most knew de Vayssiere as a gambler and womaniser, but both seemed to have been generally well-liked. Elizabeth was also not alone in her assessment of d’Aubigné.

Having encountered quite a few in London, Ross had found French aristocrats rather like English ones – religion and dislike of English food, fashions and customs aside, of course. Those resident in Cornwall were no different – the snobby, gossipy Madame de Voyer; pretty young Comtesse de la Chatre, who was clearly and understandably very upset about the whole matter; the foppish macaroni M. de Dreux and his sycophantic associate M. Leféron; a wine-soaked priest, Pére Cornet. A M. de Cygne, who had arrived from London only a few weeks previously and therefore knew nothing at all, bothered Ross for some reason. He suspected it was because the man’s rather bulldog-like countenance and gruff manner reminded him of his late Uncle Charles.

Back on the sand at last, he dried himself roughly, pondering the facts. It seemed de Vayssiere’s death was simply a coincidence – a fatal scuffle, like the dozens which happened every night in the city. Ross had examined the unofficial statement taken by Francis from the man Bligh and could find no issue with it. But as he and Francis had discussed over a night cap, identifying de Vayssiere’s killer did not actually help much. There were still two others to find, and not much with which to find them.

He was greeted by an enthusiastic Verity upon his return to Trenwith after a leisurely ride along the cliffs. She ushered him into the sitting room to find a tall, handsome young man in naval uniform.

“Ross, this is my step-son, Lieutenant James Blamey. James, my cousin Ross.”

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Sir. Step-mama has spoken of you often.” He regarded Verity with obvious affection and it truly pleased Ross to see it. He had been genuinely delighted to learn that Verity had married and had a family of her own, although reading between the lines of her letters had told him it had not been quite straightforward. She had come to Trenwith alone, leaving her family in Falmouth, and he was sure she must be missing them.

“James came to surprise me!” Verity beamed.

“My superiors charged me with a letter to Truro, and were kind enough to allow me a detour.”

He had even been given permission to stay overnight, which struck Ross as unusually generous, but then again he was not a Naval man. Perhaps they were more indulgent masters. James had obviously visited Trenwith before, greeting his step-uncle with fondness when Francis returned from a morning at Grambler. Even Agatha seemed to like the boy, having been helped from her rooms into her chair by the fire in honour of his visit. He let her win several games of cards in a row, delighting the old woman.

Francis retreated to his study to take care of some estate paperwork and so Ross spent an idle afternoon of chat, tea and cards with his relatives, which frankly made him rather discomfited. He was truly happy to see Verity and Agatha so animated, but the pleasant scene was one of many, many things which filled him with guilt over his years of neglect of his family. Furthermore, he had never been at ease with such lack of activity, especially when there were killers to be caught! He would much rather be doing something, but he could not actually think of what to do. With James visiting, he would not get time alone with Francis after dinner. He had been hoping to ask if Francis or his constables had any other informants they could consult.

Agatha dined in her rooms, and Verity excused herself to sit with her before bed shortly after. The two Poldark men were therefore left alone with young James. Ross expected an at least pleasant evening of chat and port, but realised that he might be wrong when he watched how carefully James made sure his step-mother was definitely gone.

“Gentlemen, I must confess that I have not been truthful with you. Nor with my dear step-mama, much to my grief.” He sat in the chair opposite Francis, expression very serious. “I was in fact sent here by my senior officers to speak especially with you both. They considered me best placed for the task, considering my family connection.”

“Forgive me, but you say the Admiralty wishes you to speak with us?” Ross asked.

“Yes. About the matter you are both interested in. The unfortunate Dr du Pas and M. d’Aubigné. We know you have been looking into their deaths, as is your right as Magistrate, of course, Uncle, and only natural considering your occupation, Captain.” It did not surprise Ross that James knew he was a Bow Street man. Even if the fact had not managed to make its way into the news-sheets, the Admiralty were generally well-informed, in his experience.

“And what of it?” Francis asked, frowning over the rim of his port glass.

“We would like to politely ask you to stop.”

“Stop?”

“Yes. You see, you could well jeopardise some very important work of our own…which I am not at liberty to disclose.” He hurried to anticipate their natural question. Ross frowned, but Francis beat him to his objection.

“Now, see here, James. If your superiors believe that our ‘family connection’ means I will be quite happy for you to just walk in here and tell me how to conduct my business they have got another think coming. It merely means that whatever objections I have will be rather more polite than otherwise!” James looked utterly taken aback by this response, and Ross was torn between amusement and feeling something quite similar.

“But, Uncle – “

“Don’t ‘But, Uncle –‘ me, young man. I don’t answer to your admirals and commodores, no matter what they might like to think. I act under the same authority as they do – the King’s, and for the same purpose, the security of this Realm. They may fancy their work is of greater import than mine, but if the country is to be overrun with thieves and murderers, what is the point in fighting a war for it?” Ross was once again struck by the change in his cousin – from the nervous, highly-strung young man he remembered, to this confidant, self-assured figure who could have a naval lieutenant squirming in his chair. “So, if your masters want to convince me to stop my investigation into these heinous crimes, they had better be prepared to offer a damn good reason for it.”

“I – “

“Oh, come now, James. You know he is not going to let you wriggle off the hook. And, if your senior officers are as well informed about me as you seem to wish to indicate, they should know full well I’m not to be easily commanded.” Indeed, Ross thought wryly, the Admiralty would not need to look hard to discover that.

“Oh, very well.” James sighed. “We were warned this would not be easy. The fact of the matter is, there is a French spy operating in this district. Reporting upon the movement of ships at port, as well as our civil defences, amongst other things.”

“You have proof of this?” Francis demanded. Ross saw his cousin’s grip on his empty glass tighten. He could understand Francis’ agitation – the idea that an enemy agent operated here without his knowledge had to be a disturbing one.

“Yes. There are things I cannot disclose – on pain of court-martial! – but British agents abroad intercepted messages to the French command containing secret information. One of our people was able to insert themselves into the line of communication, making sure accurate information was not passed on, but allowing us to trace back to the source. However, something of a wall was hit after we found how the messages were taken across the channel.”

“In short, you do not know the identity of the spy.” Ross raised his eyebrows at the young man, who looked abashed.

“No. We believe there is also an intermediary we have not identified. Our agent in the district believes that his group is close to finding them – and we have no reason to doubt that – but we fear that your investigation may cause the spies to flee before they can be apprehended.”

“….Which is why you ask us to cease and desist.”

“Yes. Please.” It was a rather pathetic plea after all that, but James had evidently not been expecting the resistance his uncle was prepared to put up. Francis sighed.

“Very well.” James’ relief was palpable.

“Oh, thank you, Uncle. The Admiralty will be most appreciative of your co-operation. Now, er, perhaps I should retire. I did have a long ride this morning, and I have another tomorrow.”

“James…” Francis called him back as he was about to depart. “Please do not consider any of this personal.”

“I do not, Uncle. I wish that I had not had to bring such things into the family. Good night.” With a sketch of a bow, the young man withdrew. The two Poldark cousins sat in silence for a moment. No doubt, Ross thought, Francis was doing as he was, and absorbing what had just happened. Eventually, Ross voiced his most immediate thought.

“You are going to just give up the search for these murderers?” Francis turned in his chair to look at incredulously.

“What on Earth do you take me for?”

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