The middle-aged fellow pushed his fingers under his hat and scratched his head. “Only the hackney coach. They don’t often come this far from town, but he must have dropped his passengers at the Nelson’s Head ’cause he came back the ways ten minutes ago.”
“With an empty coach?”
“It looked empty. Oh, and there was that burly fellow who said he was in a rush. Complained he’d had to stop while the shepherd herded sheep across the road. And I had to make him wait at the gate as I was desperate for a piddle.”
Burly fellow? Perhaps he meant Bower.
“Where’s the Nelson’s Head?”
The collector pointed. “Just along the road.”
Daventry thanked him, and Turton paid the toll.
The fellow moved to open the gate, but the crack of a gunshot in the distance had him practically jumping out of his frayed coat.
“Lord Almighty!” the collector cried, clutching his hat to his head.
Dante’s heart stopped, but somehow he pushed the carriage door open and vaulted to the ground. He raced to the gate, knocked the collector aside, and squeezed through the narrow walkway for pedestrians.
Daventry followed behind, as did Sloane, Ashwood and Cole.
“The shot came from across the meadow, near the windmill,” Daventry said before instructing Ashwood and Cole to visit the Nelson’s Head and make enquiries there. “I’ll not have us all tearing across fields when Miss Sands might be at the inn.”
But Dante took to his heels, regardless. Every fibre of his being told him to head to the windmill. The collector said the hackney had passed through ten minutes earlier. Beatrice would have escaped at the first opportunity.
Daventry and Sloane charged across the meadow, slipping and sliding on the sodden ground, but neither man was as fast as Dante. It was his life hanging in the balance. His love trying to escape a murdering fiend.
Dante crossed the first field—twenty yards ahead of Daventry—vaulted the low stone wall and darted towards the mill. The white slatted sails creaked with each revolution, the leisurely rotations at odds with the violent churning in Dante’s stomach.
The gate leading to the mill was open. Some distance to the right stood a horse and cart, split sacks of grain littering the ground. The horse must have bolted upon hearing the shot. Indeed, there was another full grain sack on the tree-lined drive, abandoned by an equally fearful fellow.
Dante gestured for Sloane and Daventry to keep out of sight, scout the area.
Sloane pulled a knife from a sheath hidden inside his boot and indicated he would go left. There wasn’t a man in London as skilled with a blade.
All was quiet, except for the rustle of the wind, the creak of the sails and the faint grinding of the millstone. Had it not been for the deserted sacks, Dante might have cursed his mistake and darted back to the Nelson’s Head. But then he heard someone whisper his name from behind the hedgerow at the end of the drive.
Bower peered above the shrubbery and pointed to the open mill door.
Dante edged closer.
“Miss Sands ran into the mill, sir,” Bower whispered. “The devil followed her. He’s got a pistol, but I don’t think he means to kill her. I shot him, nicked him on the shoulder, but I’ve brought nothing with me to reload.” He pointed to a cottage on the right. “The miller and his family are hiding there.”
“Does he have a single barrel or a side-by-side?”
“Looked like a single barrel.”
Good. John Sands had but one shot.
Dante told Bower to remain outside, then crept towards the three stone steps leading into the mill. Grain sacks lined the walls of the entrance. Spots of blood left a trail all the way to the meal bin.
Dante stopped. Listened. Heard nothing but the ominous whirring of cogs and the grinding of stones.
He fought the urge to call out, to tell Beatrice not to worry, and proceeded to climb the wooden staircase to the next level.
But there was no sign of John Sands there. No sign of a coward cowering in the corner. The blood trail led to another flight of stairs, and it was clear he’d taken Beatrice to the upper gallery, an exterior balcony used by the miller when he needed to climb the sails and adjust the cloths.
Tension coiled in Dante’s stomach. One slip from the gallery and a man would plunge eighty feet to his death. Still, there was nowhere else to hide, so the devil must have climbed to the top.