The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,80

used to being listened to. His cape was open to show the manner of his dress beneath. He saw on the keeper’s face the usual unhappy doubt of the corrupted underling confronted by an authority which, though indeterminate, was inimical to him and threatening and far larger in scope than that which he was accustomed to wield over the wretches in his charge.

“Go and fetch him now at once.”

The man hesitated a moment longer, then turned and went without further words. This time the wait was longer, but Ashton was no longer prey to impatience. His purpose was clear to him and he was intent on it.

The head keeper was an older man, bulky, bald-headed and wigless, with a look of ill temper. It seemed to Ashton that he had been aroused from sleep, or some state of torpor.

“What is it, what is it?” he said. “I am much occupied, sir, I have little time for visitors.”

“You have time enough for brandy—one could get drunk from the breath of it on you.” Ashton could not keep the contempt out of his voice. “I will tell you what it is soon enough,” he said. “You are keeping here, in unlawful custody, a man named Jeremy Evans. I know you have been paid to do so and I know by whom. This is not a private prison, you are answerable to the public authority for the way it is conducted. I intend to see this man and talk to him, here and now. If you deny this to me, I will bring an action against you and against those who brought him here and laid false charges and against whoever it was that signed the order for custody, if ever such an order was made. I will see you hounded out of office, sir.”

“You cannot obtain an order for his release without you bring a writ, you nor any man else.”

The words were sullen, but it was no more than a token defiance that they expressed; even as he spoke he nodded to his assistant, who at once left the room.

“Have no fear, I shall apply for the writ without delay,” Ashton said. “And if you deliver him now to any who come without a writ signed by a magistrate in proper form, you will live to regret the day, I promise you.”

When, some time later, he saw a black man enter, accompanied by the assistant keeper, it came to him with a strange effect of shock and temporary bewilderment that he would not have known that this was Evans, knew it only now that he saw him led here under guard. The night of his rescue from the ship it had been dark, the violent altercation with the captain had taken up his attention, others had released Evans from his bonds and brought him back to shore. Not once had he looked the man in the face. Now, as their eyes met for the first time, he was perplexed to think of all the concern he had felt, the importance of this man to him, the sense of failure and defeat at his disappearance, the hope this day had brought—all for a man whom he could not have picked out among a crowd of others.

“I am Frederick Ashton,” he said. “I shall get you out of here, you may rely on it.”

Evans’s eyes were deep-set and luminous in the strongly marked face. There was the bruise of a heavy blow, still unhealed, on his forehead and right temple. He made a movement toward Ashton as if to take his hand, but this was roughly checked by the keeper.

“Take your hand from him,” Ashton said sharply. “You have no rights in him.” He went some steps toward Evans and held out his hand, which the other took in both of his.

“Have you committed any offense, that you should be brought here?” Ashton asked.

“No, sir, none. Three men come to the house at a time when the house is empty, not those same who take me the first time. Only one comes to the door, says he has a message from you, sir. Then the others come at me from the sides, take a hold of me at the door. I fight with them.” Evans raised his head and straightened his shoulders. “I don’ go easy,” he said. “I fight with them. But it is too many for me. I try to shout, but one of them hits me about the head with