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 f
armer, 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.
CHAPTER 16
Sylvia struggled to make sense of what was happening. Hillary had all but flung her to the ground so she was sitting with her back to the side of the huge stone platform on which the brass was pounded into sheets. He’d squinted at her for a moment, then gone off muttering, apparently searching for something.
She tugged and twisted, trying to free her hands. The lad, at least, knew she was there. She had no notion who he was, but he’d known her; perhaps he was a friend of one of the schoolboys. Regardless, she had to believe that he would find and tell someone eventually.
She wondered whether she could get her feet under her and, hobbled though she was, make a dash for the door, but Hillary loomed out of the shadows to her left, clutching several lengths of rope.
He came to stand over her, his boots thudding down on the floorboards, one on either side of her knees.
She glared up at him, but he appeared oblivious. Indeed, he seemed to be smiling to himself.
“This will do nicely,” he muttered, then he reached down, seized her bound hands, and hauled them high.
Sylvia gasped as her arms were wrenched.
Hillary didn’t seem to hear. He drew a small knife from his pocket and, with a quick flick, sliced through the cord binding her wrists. With one big hand, he held both her wrists while he maneuvered to wind separate lengths of the heavier rope around each of her gloved hands, the ropes passing over her palms.
Then he released her left hand, leaned to her right, and secured her right hand to the base of the railing of the stone platform, tying the rope securely so her arm was stretched wide.
Confused, she stared, then Hillary stepped to her left and secured her left hand in a similar position on her other side.
Hillary drew back and surveyed his handiwork. There was nothing in his gaze as it passed over her to suggest he saw her as anything more than an inanimate object—a prop for some scene he was constructing.
Her gaze on Hillary’s face, Sylvia felt cold dread run icy fingers down her spine.
What in all the heavens is he planning?
* * *
“I can see a roof on the right,” Ned reported in a hushed whisper. “’Bout a hundred yards on.”
Kit slowed his horses to a walk and looked. An old, lichen-covered roof loomed beyond a stand of trees; it appeared to cover one large building, with an add-on to the rear. Several tall stone chimneys pierced the roof, also toward the rear of the building.
“Presumably that’s the brass mill,” Smiggs murmured.
Kit nodded. Has Hillary stopped there or has he gone on?
Kit was debating his options when the bushes lining the lane ahead rustled, then a figure burst through, yanking his jacket free and stumbling into the lane.
“Jack!” Kit managed to keep his voice muted.
Jack caught his balance, swung around, and saw them, and the relief that washed over the boy’s face told its own story.
Then Jack started running toward the curricle, waving at them to stop.