The Beast of Bath by Chasity Bowlin

Author:Chasity Bowlin [Bowlin, Chasity]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-05-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

In a lowly tavern on the London Road, Archibald Fairington drank deeply from a tankard of watered ale. Regardless of its diluted state, he’d drunk enough of it to be well and truly foxed. It had been a week since Thessaly slipped from his grasp. He was no longer safe in Bath and London, after crossing the abbess of the Red Spade, there would be no safe harbor either.

“Took her right out from under me, he did! What am I to do now?” he wailed to no one.

The man at the next table moved over, ordering two more ales from the tavern wench asked, “Who stole her from you, friend?”

“Bloody Norcross! The Beast! The foul beast!” Fairington slurred, banging his fist on the tabletop for emphasis.

The stranger nodded, a sly smile playing over his lips. “Norcross, you say? I’ve heard of him. Is he as hideous as they say he is?”

Fairington shook his head. “And how would I know the answer to that? Hides his face behind a hood...Must be ugly then,” the last uttered on a loud belch.

The stranger grimaced in distaste. He stayed nonetheless and when the ale was brought over, he pushed one full tankard toward Fairington with a smile. “Drink, my friend, and tell me of your stolen love.”

“Not my love,” Fairington said, gulping at the drink. “My stepdaughter...only damn thing I had worth a guinea.”

“Let’s step outside. I need a bit of air.”

Fairington dutifully followed the stranger outside, settling onto a bench that butted up against the far wall of the inn.

The stranger followed suit. “She was a good girl, then, your stepdaughter? Surely, we can rescue her from this beast and see her safely back to your house?”

Fairington laughed then. “Don’t matter if she’s a good girl!” Another peal of laughter escaped him. “Wasn’t going to stay one where she was going! No good girls at the Red Spade, no indeed! Bought and paid for by Bess herself!” Mention of the abbess dampened Fairington’s mood and he looked forlornly into his glass. “Bess will see me dead, even if she does get the money!”

The stranger smiled. “No. Bess will not see you dead, my friend.”

Fairington started to question him, but his perplexed look became replaced by one of almost comical horror. His beady eyes widened and his fleshy lips parted in a shocked ‘O’. A bit of blood trickled from the corner of his lips.

The stranger slipped the knife from between Fairington’s ribs, wiping the serrated blade on the dead man’s clothes. “No, indeed. Not Bess, at all.”

Propping the dead man against the wall, the stranger pulled a cheroot from his waistcoat. Opening his matchbox, he realized it was empty. Patting the pockets of the corpse beside him, he retrieved a small tin from Fairington’s waistcoat. Striking the purloined match on his boot heel, he lit the cheroot and inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke into the darkness.

“I promised you, Norcross,” he said, softly. “You will never know happiness. Too bloody bad for the stepdaughter.

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