“Deaf as a stone,” the apothecary had proclaimed when the boy was but a toddler. “He can hear naught, I feature. But the vibrations in the floor, that’s another matter. Watch him turn his little head,” and he dropped a tavern chair. The boy did indeed turn toward the source of the sound. When he saw his mother beaming at him, he grinned up at her.
“The medical term is deaf-mute, madam, but it’s not that they can’t speak,” the apothecary had clumsily tried to offer them some comfort that day. “They have the ability to make noise, you see. The vocal apparatus is not impaired, but without the ability to hear, brain-speech is never formed. It was once thought they were imbeciles...” He shrugged as he continued to pack up his small bag of tools for the letting of blood and the lancing of boils that were his stock and trade. “Well, the ones who survive childhood can be taught simple tasks, even if they are impaired. I should say he’s most likely not a complete imbecile. You just raise him best you can. Some of these matters we must leave in the hands of the Almighty,” and with this he ducked out the door of their domicile.
“Never you mind, my girl,” James had said, patting Margaret’s shoulder after the apothecary‘s departure. “This boy will be our heart’s joy always, no matter what. Never you mind.” She noticed that he moved his kerchief to his face, shielding her eyes from his own tears. James had been such a wonderful husband to Margaret and such a good father to his son. That was ten years ago, and the boy had grown up, showing flashes of a profound intellect that only Margaret and James recognized. So clever he was, but tall and strong, he was not. A slight boy--some said scrawny--he jumped around the inn and the barn, bouncing from chair to fence post, causing his father to dub him “the flea.” Father and son sharing a name made lip-reading more difficult for James the younger. Since his nickname was easier to read on her face, Flea he was and always would be. Flea was easy to direct in any task, for he was eager to please and impossible not to love dearly, deaf or no. The word ‘imbecile’ was never spoken in their household again.
Truly, the name ‘Flea’ suited him. Wiry and scruffy, he darted to his tasks amidst the tavern goers day and night. He hauled small pails of water, fed the horses, milked the goats and slopped the pigs. And while everyone knew of Flea, he was more of a fixture in the tavern than a feature. With his watchful eyes and attentiveness to even the smallest detail, he more than compensated for his lack of speech and hearing. Flea watched the playful banter between his mother and the sailors who made their way to the Bramble Rose Inn for her warm smile and wonderful cooking.
Yet Flea wished his mother would laugh and smile all the time, not just when she was serving meals in the inn. Lately the lines on her face were deeper, the filling and spilling of her chest with deep sighs more frequent. Flea could see the fatigue on her face; this was normal. But this weariness of her soul, this was something new. He watched her carefully day by day; he knew her ebb and flow. There was nothing she could hide from him and nothing he wouldn’t do for her. He smiled as she walked by and reached up to help himself to some of her bread she was serving.
“Go get yourself some honey. Honey,” Margaret repeated to his face. At the offer of sweets, he smiled. She had been spoiling him of late and he rather liked it. He knew she was trying to make up for the fact that his new stepfather was a sorry replacement for his grandfather and his father, both of whom had died last year. He missed them desperately.
“Margaret, my lass, marry me!” a kind sailor cried out as he attempted to swat her behind while she threaded her way through the room to serve the warm bread. “Marry me and feed me forever!”
“Hands to yourself, Harry,” she replied as she maneuvered deftly out of his reach. “I’m a newly married lady now, and don’t you forget that.”
“Married ain’t never stopped me before, my Megs,” he replied, winking at her, as several of the sailors chuckled at his antics. She carried on with her work, which was never ending.
“Can’t see me married to the likes of you, Harry,” she quipped. “You’d wed me and bed me and sail off into the sunset to court your first love, the sea. You sailors have a lady in every port and saltwater in your veins; this much I know for a fact. No, I married me a landlubber for my first husband, God rest his soul, and a landlubber for my second, thank you very much.”
“That Will’s a lucky man, Megs. A lucky dog indeed,” replied Harry. She couldn’t argue with that. And she had no clever reply. That Will was lucky dog was inarguable. That she was lucky to have him was another matter. Another matter indeed.
How Margaret had come to choose her new husband—was it desperation? She had lived nearly a year as a widow, hiring out the work that her first husband, James, had done. It cost her a staggering sum. Even with the war over, men returning from Napoleon’s battlefields of Europe and wages coming down, labor was not as cheap as it once was. Her father, who built the inn years ago here on the outskirts of Dover, England, would have been appalled to pay what it cost Margaret to replace James. As if anyone could. Flea had assumed his grandfather’s chores, yet his own small stature prohibited him from accomplishing what James had done daily. With her father and her husband dying in the same year, Margaret had been left to manage the inn with only Flea’s help. The bond between mother and son grew stronger as their financial position grew weaker.
Then though her door one day walked Will Copper; it was not his dark hair nor his blue eyes, but his broad shoulders that had first caught her eye. His charm was not wasted on her loneliness, and in a moment of weakness, she set aside her usually acute discernment of a man’s character, a necessary skill for the proprietress of an inn, and saw him first as an able-bodied business partner and second as a father to Flea.
“A boy needs a father,” she’d argued with herself. “And I need a man around here.” The last thing she had considered was whether he would be a good husband, a calculation she regretted. Will’s first months at the inn were without incident, as though he were auditioning for a role. As his initial willingness to tackle the chores of each day disintegrated, he proved adept at sampling the beers and ales and less interested in the care of the animals or the cleaning of the tavern. His skills at negotiating in the market were non-existent; his willingness to pitch in with kitchen duties included only his wish to sample Margaret’s meals and make helpful comments.
“Needs more salt,” he’d say. “Can’t be cheap with the salt, Madam.”
“Salt costs a pretty penny, Will. Those extra pennies you spent at market today have to come from somewhere, you know. I’ve no penny tree out back for you to go pick like cherries.” Friendly newlywed banter had turned to strife, and strife had turned to bitter remarks, which had yet to turn to blows. Flea watched, and his mother’s face told him all he needed to know. All that his watchful eyes had come to know of Will, he was unable to tell her.
“Hey,” shouted Will. “BOY!” He grabbed at Flea’s shirt as he walked by with a bowl of stew for a customer. “I’m talkin’ to you, boy!” Will’s charade of initial kindness to Flea had been abandoned weeks ago. His grab at Flea had missed, so the boy had passed by unmolested.
“He can’t hear you, Will. It does no good to shout. I’ve told you and told you, if you want his attention, just pick up this chair and drop it two times, like this, see?” And as Margaret thumped the chair twice on the floor, the reverberation brought Flea, who appeared in the doorway as if by magic. “He’ll feel the tap in the floor. But you can’t shout at him.” She waved Flea off with a nevermind gesture.
“He’s pulling your leg, Madam. I see him watching everything here. I see him skulking about, out in the town when you don’t know it. Watchin’ and spying and lurking about. With all he knows, he can hear alright. Not like you and me, but he must hear somethin’ to get on like he does.”
“Flea’s deaf, Will. Always has been. Always will be. Yes, he gets on, but he isn’t ignoring you, so don’t take it wrong. Carry the rest of these stews out, would you?” She added a slight smile. “Please?” Will just glared at her, and shrugged.
“Why don’t you just drop your little chair and let Flea do it then,” he retorted, “seein’ as how he is so capable and all.”
Will strode out into the tavern and helped himself to another pint. Had Flea been able to speak, he still might have kept what he had seen in town to himself: Will walking through the back alleys of Dover with a woman on his arm. Flea was old enough to know the ways of men and women; he knew the women he saw Will with were not like his mother, a hard worker. Those women were working girls, but their labors were of a different type indeed. Telling his mother of Will’s wandering ways was an impossible matter. If Will would do what needed done at the inn, Flea might forgive him these indiscretions. Margaret herself might even look the other way. But all this remained unspoken between the boy and his mother. He could only carry on with the chores as best he could, both his and many of Will’s that were left undone.
“Will? Will!” Margaret called up the stairs the next morning. “Will, the cow is bellowing for want of a milking.” She cocked her head at the stairs, craning to hear any movement from the upstairs chamber. The room that once welcomed her into sweet James’ arms now reeked of Will Copper. Truth be told, she had turned him out again last night as he had drunkenly sprawled on her, sending him down the hall to his own room, a small room he’d decided to keep for himself despite their marriage. Which was fine with her. A place for him to snore alone gave her the rest she sorely needed. Margaret walked back into the kitchen to stir the porridge. She dropped the chair to summon her son’s assistance.
“Flea,” she said as he darted around the corner in response to her call. He looked into her face as she instructed, “Go raise Lazarus from the dead.” Flea grinned and sprinted up the stairs to do as she asked.
“Ehh.” Flea intoned as he tapped Will on his sleeping shoulder. Tapping again, more forcefully, he said again, “Ehhh!”
Will rolled over and glared at Flea. “Get off me, you filthy moron. Don’t you touch me, boy.”
“Eehhh.” Flea again tapped Will and gestured down the stairs. Mother wants you, he would liked to have said. Get up. She needs your help. But what came out was all he could say.
“Didn’t you get what I’m telling you, boy? I said, THE LIKES OF YOU DON’T NEED TO BE TOUCHIN’ ME. D’ya understand?” And with that Will batted Flea’s hand away and gave him a little shove across the room.
Flea understood. He could see that Will was downright irritated. But his desire to corral Will into doing as his mother required drove him to press on.
“EEHH!” Flea again said, his own anger rising at his stepfather’s sloth. He pointed again downstairs.
“I said, LEAVE OFF!” and with that Will launched himself out of the bed toward Flea, pushing him into the wall and pinning him there. “Don’t you never come into my room again, boy. You get me?” Will whispered pointlessly into the side of Flea’s face. His stinking breath invaded Flea’s nostrils and the grime on his face caused his flesh to stick to Flea’s cheek. “I can make a boy like you disappear, I can. Just like that,” he said as he pressed two fingers into the shape of a knife and shoved it up under Flea’s ribcage. “And don’t think I haven’t done it before to blokes much bigger’n a bugger like you.” His meaning was not lost on Flea, who suddenly jerked away and ducked out from under the shadow of Will’s arms.
“Now leave me alone!” he roared, as Flea backed out of Will’s room and tumbled down the stairs. He paused in the empty tavern to catch his breath. His first impulse was to tell Mother—what? How could he show her this man was not only lazy but dangerous. He rounded the corner as she looked up from her duties at the hearth.
“Well?” she asked. Flea shrugged and held up his open hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Lord, this man will be the death of me,” she remarked, shaking as she shook her head. Flea caught the key word: death. He must be extra watchful over Margaret; he couldn’t allow Will to hurt Margaret or impoverish them with his philandering and drunkenness. His father would expect him to take care of his mother. And he intended to do so.
“Go on,” she waved Flea off to his chores. “The cow is calling. Do the best you can.” She smiled at him. Out the door Flea went as she bid.
“What,” grumbled Will as he shuffled into the kitchen, “in the bloody hell were you doing, sending that idiot boy up to my room this morning.” He ran his right hand through his oily black hair as he stood over Margaret with his left hand on his hip.
“You’ll not call my son an idiot,” Margaret replied, as she stood up to face him. “There’s chores to be done and you’re not doing them. This place can’t run itself, Will.”
“Chores?” he retorted. “What do you call what I have been doing. You should have bought yourself a slave, madam, not married a man you pretended to love.”
“ You and I weren’t fooling ourselves, Will. You needed a roof and my roof needed you. We didn’t marry for love. In my mind, love is something that’s built over time, built on trust. Love will come, I told myself. So I married you, God knows why, for a father to my son and a partner in my home. But you seem to think you’re a guest in my inn, and lord an’ master to boot.”
“Lord and master?” he growled at her. “I’ll show you lord and master, my girl.” And with that he brought his right hand down from his head and swung it hard, back-handing her across the face. “You talk to me like that again, my lass, and I’ll show you more lord and master than your puny arse can handle.”
“You don’t scare me, Will Copper,” she replied though clenched teeth as she rubbed her reddening cheek. “You’re a fool and a bully, and if you think I’m going to work myself into an early grave feeding and housing your lazy carcass, you’ve got another thing coming. Another thing coming, indeed. I did fine without you and I’ll do fine again, by God’s grace.”
“You did fine before, did you? You was puttin’ yourself in the poor house hiring out help, you said. So I’m here to help and all I ask is a meal and a bed and beer now and then. You make it sound like I’m not doing nothing. All I want is one day now and again to catch up on my rest. You’re in here stirring the pot in the warmth of the kitchen while I’m out in the cold, slogging in the mud and rain to build a nice place for you and that boy. And this is the thanks I get. This is the thanks I get for all I’ve done for you.”
The change in his tone took her aback. His face was that of a cur that had been kicked into the road. She didn’t love him; she never had. But somehow, she pitied him. And they were married. There was that. And she wasn’t a quitter. Never had been. The boy had been subjected to enough with the loss of his grandfather and his father. Bringing in Will and then booting him out; she paused to think what it would do to Flea.
She responded quietly, “I won’t send Flea to rouse you again, if it displeases you.”
“It does,” he said quietly. “I want to like the boy, Margaret, but I’ve told you, his ways bother me. He takes getting used to. Just give me time to warm up to him, just a little more time.”
It didn’t seem so much to ask, she told herself. “Alright,” she sighed. “But I haven’t time to break away from my morning to awaken you every day.”
“I can get myself up. I’ll admit I can do better. Here, let me make it up to you,” he said suddenly wrapping his arms around her and kissing the cheek he’d just slapped. “Sorry for that, girl. You didn’t have that coming. Don’t know what got into me. Tell you what--I’ll do your marketing today. Make me a list and send me on my way and you stay here for a bit of a rest. You’ve earned it, with all you do. What a good wife I have gotten me.” His charm wiped some of the strife of the morning away.
“Alright,” she said, amazed at her own reply. “A list of goods and prices, but you won’t pay a penny more, now will you?” He nodded in agreement; a morning alone would give her a welcome respite. Most of the ships were out ‘til tomorrow, so tonight wouldn’t be too busy. Convincing herself she’d been short-tempered and owing it to fatigue, a morning’s rest was in order.
An hour later, Flea watched as Will marched off down the hill toward Dover, most likely up to his old tricks, off to see one of his lady friends. Flea peeked into the kitchen; Mother had gone upstairs. Flea decided to follow Will to town, and caught a glimpse of Will as he wandered through the market, at first innocently gathering the purchases he was sent to make. Flea watched from a safe distance as Will meandered from stall to stall, and looked furtively over his shoulder. At the last booth, Flea saw him withdraw an item from his inside coat pocket. Now Will wasn’t buying, he was selling, and the item was one Flea recognized: it was his grandfather’s watch, his mother’s most priceless possession. Other than the inn itself, the watch was all Margaret had from her father. Flea watched as Will returned the coins to his pocket and withdrew another item, his father’s gold wedding ring, small but treasured. When Margaret had been unable to give it to Will, citing her wish that the ring be set aside for Flea, Will’s face had revealed only a glimmer of an affront.
Flea realized then that all the time Will had spent upstairs was not just for sleeping; he must have discovered the hiding places where Margaret kept her few treasures. And the cache of coin she kept on hand. Flea knew where it was--Margaret had shown him, in case something should happen to her—and he wondered if all or any of it was still there. The hair on Flea’s his neck stood up as he watched Will walk toward the jigsaw puzzle of docks that hid shrouded figures along the waterfront. At the Unicorn Arms, Will ducked inside. Flea skittered down the alley, concealed himself, and waited for Will to make the next move. He hadn’t long to wait. Will emerged with two men, dressed in finer clothes than Will wore, but bearing the same shifty expressions. Will’s back was to Flea, who peered around the corner as he read the men’s intentions on their faces and lips.
“Tonight, then,” the taller man said. “He’d won so many games on the continent, his purse was bursting.” The smaller man nodded and offered, “But still, we let him win every hand on the ship as we crossed. He didn’t even need to cheat us.” The laughed at this game of cat and mouse.
“He’ll want one last game before he heads back to London,” continued the tall man. “We’ll see him in town today and tell him to meet us out at your inn. The woods out that way will do nicely.”
“One last game!” the shorter man exclaimed. All three men guffawed.
Then the taller man asked, “What will your missus say about havin’ a card game in her inn?” and Will bristled. As he strode away from the men, Flea caught only a glimpse of the side of his face as he shot a comment back to them. “Her inn…..won’t be… longer, lads. …not missus....run things my way. A card game….tavern, …brothel upstairs…..important bloke……. have my own place. Soon enough…. Tonight, then.” And on he went to his next stop.
Down a nearby alley went Will, threading his way through the underbelly of Dover. Not far behind followed Flea, who watched as Will tapped on a door and stepped into the arms of one of the girls who occupied the rear quarters of the Blue Mermaid, ready to spend from his largess on the pleasures of the body. Flea trudged back home with a heavy heart. Not only was Will unfaithful, he was a thief. And even if his intentions toward Margaret weren’t completely clear to Flea—some of the longer words escaped him—Will’s morning knife-gesture left no room for interpretation. The word Flea knew he saw and understood was simple: “Tonight.” Flea decided to watch for what Will had planned, hoping he would see the means to bring Will down some way. And the sooner, the better.
He climbed the hill toward home with his head carried low, wishing for the answer to come to him. He rushed through his chores, consumed with his own thoughts and feelings of helplessness. He was but a boy; what could he do against this man who wished him ill? From around the corner of the barn, Flea caught a glimpse of Will, back from town having finished all his business. He delivered the market goods to Margaret, and greeted her with a traitor’s kiss.
“You must be starved,” Margaret offered, and Will nodded.
“Yes, let’s eat. All three of us in the kitchen. Together. Like a family should,” Will replied. This pleased her, he could tell. Three steaming bowls of stew, a nice heel of bread and some cheese made up their meal. They ate quietly until Margaret broke the silence as she looked at her son.
“Sometimes I wonder,” said she, “what it is he thinks about all day. I wonder if he thinks like we do, since he has no speech to form his thoughts. Does he think in pictures or movement or does he have his own language in his head when he talks to himself…” Her voice trailed off in contemplation.
Will looked at her and nodded his head, feigning affection. “Yes,” he said as he looked at Flea. “I wonder the same--what does he think about in that head of his.” Flea avoided Will’s gaze and kept his eyes averted. He could see his mother once again falling prey to this man’s charm. He couldn’t look up at her and let her see the panic rising in his heart. He dared not look at Will without revealing the depths of the hatred growing in his chest.
There was a gentle, warm place in his middle when he thought of his grandfather. There was a warm, comforting glow when he thought of his father. But when he looked at this man, he felt only an icy spot, a cold and growing place of hellish cold that he knew would guide him. Soon, Flea thought, soon I will rid this house of your presence. His thoughts were pictures indeed: he saw the inn free of the presence of Will, whom he envisioned winging at the end of a rope or placed into the bottom of a newly dug grave or lying on the bottom of the lake underneath a layer of ice. Flea’s resolve rested in the bottom of his stomach, hard and cold as flint.
The tavern was only half-filled that night, as Margaret had predicted. With fewer demands on her, her mood was considerably lightened. Normally she discouraged card playing.
“The gambling sort are a sorry lot,” she’d told Will when he’d first asked. “Not the kind of customers we want to attract. They drink too much and eat too little and steal a nap in a chair rather than paying for a room.” Somehow tonight, she had let Will convince her that no harm could come of a simple game of cards. She had conceded, thinking a bit more conciliation toward Will might improve his mood and influence him to pull his weight without so much prodding. If he felt more sense of ownership, she told herself, he might be more willing to help around the place.
Flea watched on as Will deftly cut and dealt the cards. Around the table sat local men, as well as the two strangers Will had met with that morning. Will pretended not to know them, but Flea knew otherwise. Around and around they went, putting down and picking up cards, gathering the coins in the middle of the table, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning. The larger stranger had a bulge in his side pocket from which he withdrew a deer-skin pouch containing a sum of money greater than a man of his station would possess. He concealed the pouch on his lap and withdrew coin after coin. Flea could see that the leather was exquisite. These pouches were usually stamped with a crest, an object of vanity, like a fine wallet or a silk scarf indicating wealth, commanding respect. The money could not have possibly been his, Flea concluded.
Without staring, Flea stole glances at both strangers from many angles as he refilled their tankards of ale. He saw their eyes meet Will’s when no one else was looking. Players came and went from the card game, but the two strangers stayed with plenty to lose, hoping always to win. Flea looked on the black cards and the red cards as they were held in each man’s hand.
“Don’t you never mind him,” Will assured the players. “He can’t tell the difference in a King of Hearts and an Ace of Spades.” The men laughed at Will’s joke. Flea sensed the jest was at his expense.
“Harmless idiot boy,” Will continued. “He’s not walking behind you to reveal to me your cards, lads. Of that you can be certain. Can’t speak a word.” Again they chuckled and on they played.
“But you could train him for that, Will. Might provide a nice little side-income,” one of the farm hands jested. “Flea could bring in more helping you with your card game than milking your goats, eh?”
“Well, that’s true enough. True enough, indeed,” Will replied good-naturedly. “I could use some help with this hand, gents, if any of you cares to have mercy on me!” The table erupted into laughter. Flea watched as the two strangers exchanged knowing glances between themselves, while Will continued to play as though he had never met them.
“Flea,” his mother called as she dropped the chair on the floor to get his attention. “Bed.”
He nodded and off Flea went, pretending he would undress and climb into bed. But the strangers’ presence beckoned him to do otherwise. The cold place in his chest was growing and the sense that something was afoot compelled him to disobey. He waited in his room under the stairs until his mother returned to the kitchen. He shut his door quietly as he slipped out the side door and stood in the shadows to wait.
Soon the kitchen door opened, silhouetting his mother as she tossed out a bucket of water onto the yard. She extinguished the lights in the kitchen and went off to bed, while the tavern lights still burned. Flea ventured up to the window of the tavern. Only three men remained at the table: Will and the two strangers. The cards had been set aside and their heads were close together as they talked in low tones. Their lips moved slightly, and they were too far away for Flea to read what they were saying. Will passed a sum to the two men who nodded in agreement. Their demeanor told him all he needed to know. They had been up to no good or were planning something. Or both.
Flea wished with all his heart this meant Will would be leaving of his own accord. Perhaps they had a room for him in Dover right now; he might leave this very night. The boy in Flea was thrilled at the prospect of Will’s leaving, but deep down, he knew better. Flea envisioned Will as a fat tick on a dog, one whose head was sure to stay buried stubbornly in the hide of the host.
The lights in the tavern went out as the two strangers emerged alone. Flea pressed against the wall, waiting to see which way they would go. Will must have gone on up to bed, no doubt hoping to join Margaret there. The thought of their relations disgusted Flea, but he pushed the image out of his mind. The strangers headed back down the road toward Dover; Flea followed silently along, moving from tree to tree lest they cast a look behind and spy him. At the bend in the road, they headed into the woods. Flea paused to determine their purpose.
A drizzle had begun, making it hard to see into the dark woods. The men lit a lantern they must have left in the thicket. Now Flea could make out two men standing over an odd-shaped mound. The taller man patted up and down the mound, removing a small object, placing it into his own pocket. A long pointed object was flung off into the forest. A piece of fabric was withdrawn from the mound and stuffed into the man’s other pocket. The second man had walked a short distance away and lifted up a rock, checking something. Once satisfied, he returned to the first and together they gathered leaves and twigs, spreading them over the mound. Their tasks complete, they put out the light and walked back to the road. Down toward the docks of Dover they strode, without tarrying further.
Something inside Flea told him to remain here. He sat hoping he would see Will pass by on his way to join them. The child in him wondered what was under the mound, while the young man in him already sensed he would find whoever had been enticed to the card game at the inn. He sat stock still most of the night, feeling comforted in the dark cloak of the woods where he had happily tramped along with his father and his grandfather. Instead of danger, he felt a sense of urgency. With his back against a tree, he dozed lightly, waiting for inspiration to lead him forward. The cold spot was still in his chest but the thought of being rid of Will was beginning to warm him.
As the morning grew closer, the night sky reversed to the hues of twilight. Grey skies overhead lightened the woods, and Flea opened his eyes remembering the mound. He advanced to the place where he had seen the strangers go through their forest floor rituals. A grey rock off to his right was one among many, but the disturbed dirt around the base showed him this was the one he sought. He lifted it up and pushed aside a few handfuls of dirt, revealing three deerskin bags with leather tasseled drawstrings. These all bore the imprint of a family crest. He opened the first bag which held a sum of silver only royalty could hope to gather. The second bag and the third held not silver, but gold. Even better, Flea thought quickly, and taking the two bags of gold, he walked a distance deeper into the woods. Selecting a flat rock, he buried the two bags of underneath, noting carefully the location before leaving the spot.
Flea withdrew just three coins from the bag and returned it to the hiding place beneath the first rock; he stood up and looked east to the mound the strangers had sought to cover. Ahead of him lay the mound with shafts of morning light dappling it in this oak cathedral. He treaded lightly, bent over, and removed bits of debris to confirm his suspicions. The body of a young man, a dandy, perhaps the son of a Duke, lay cold as a stone in this earthy bier, his throat cut ear to ear in a gaping red grin. Flea thought for a moment: what had the men flung off into the woods? He walked in that direction, taking his time to scan the earth for something out of place.
He found it. A dagger, perhaps the young man’s own, lay under a bush, only slightly concealed by the leaves. The silver handle sported an engraved “B.” The shine of the handle stood out against the brown of the leaves, but the blood on the blade blended in as dried brown. Flea picked it up as, at last, a plan formed in his mind. He concealed the body, inserted the blade into the back of his own jerkin, and took off at a gallop toward home. Up the road he sprinted as the light of the morning turned from pale gray to soft gold.
“Well, aren’t you the early bird this morning,” said Margaret as she turned to see Flea coming in the back door. “Getting an early start on your chores, are you? I wondered where you were.” Flea looked at her face, hoping his thoughts were concealed by his smile. “Hungry?” she asked to his face. He looked at her to insure he had revealed nothing. He smiled and nodded as she handed him a heel of bread.
“What’s he up to?” said Will as he rounded the corner into the kitchen.
“Doing his chores, I ‘magine. And look at you, up like my early bird as well. We’re about to have a good day, I can tell,” she chirped. “Off to a good start anyway. Here,” she gestured at Flea as he sat to eat, “Don’t forget your honey.”
Will scowled at her. “Honey for the boy this morning, and vinegar for me last night?”
“I was fast asleep, Will. You stayed up at cards to late for me, my love.” Margaret knew he’d slept alone in his own room. Again.
“I’ll eat later,” Will growled. “If anybody even cares when I eat. Or if.” Flea ate his bread and honey and drank his milk as his eyes followed Will out the door. He waited until Will was well in the barn before he darted out of the kitchen and up to the small room at the top of the stairs.
“What are you up to this morning, Flea?” his mother remarked, mostly to herself. Will’s room had been his grandfather’s room. Flea knew every inch of it, and searched for the best spot. With the toe of his boot, he lifted up a loose floorboard by the bed, revealing a cavity just the right size. Into the cavity he laid the silver dagger and two of the silver coins. With childish bravado, he thought if Will attacked him again, he would at least have the dagger nearby to defend himself. He replaced the floor board, darted back down the stairs, and without pausing in the kitchen, shot straight out across the courtyard and into the barn just as Will was sitting down to begin the milking.
“Eghh.” Flea announced to Will. The boy’s face clearly anxious. Flea was panting.
“What do you want, deaf boy?” Will responded in his typical surly fashion.
“Eghhhh…” Flea intoned, with emphasis, tying to relate his desire to make haste. He raised his arm and pointed down the road to the woods. He looked over his shoulder toward the kitchen. He didn’t want his mother to see him. Raising his eyebrows and putting his face forward, he tried to make Will see that he had something to show him, something important. He even tried to smile at Will.
“I am busy. Go bother your mother,” Will grumbled. “She understands your grunts.”
Desperate, Flea ran over and grabbed Will’s sleeve, a supplicant beseeching a saint. Again, he gestured, looking at Will and looking down the road once, twice, three times. Then he handed Will a coin.
“What do you have here, boy?” Will’s eyes flew open, and his mood softened as he muttered, “Well, I might need to rethink the order of my plans. Perhaps you may be of use after all.”
Then he brightened and said directly to Flea, “Let’s see what you are trying to tell me, shall we?” Will’s fatherly tone was wasted on Flea, but he saw clearly enough the softer lines in his face. The cross expression was gone from his brow and Will followed the bait merrily along as Flea ran ahead to the opening where the men had entered the woods. Flea waited for Will to catch up with him and together they walked into the woods. Flea veered far away from the mound of leaves to their left and bore off to the right, walking straight to the round rock. He lifted the rock, revealing the single bag of silver.
Will’s eyes lit up as though he’d seen Drake’s Spanish treasure chest. “Boy,” he said in a low tone. “What have you found here? Eh? Where did this come from?” Will opened the bag and fingered the contents greedily. Only then did Flea sense that his plan would work.
“Well, well, well. Someone’s gone and hidden their treasure here. A highwayman, no doubt, robbed some posh fellow by the looks of this bag. Hid his loot here and won’t he be surprised when he comes back to find it gone? Won’t that be a nasty surprise for him? But who will he tell? The constable?” And Will laughed out loud and slapped Flea on the back at the thought of robbing the robber. Will put his hand on Flea’s shoulder and said, “Well done, my lad. Your watchful eyes have finally paid off. I may keep you yet, my boy. Even after….” Flea looked up into Will’s eyes, knowing the admiration he saw there was but a fleeting sham. Still, Flea returned his most ingratiating grin. His plan required that he carry on as the useful idiot a little while longer.
“Let’s just keep this,” Will gestured, pointing to himself and pointing to Flea, back and forth, “just between you and me. Alright? You and me.” As they picked their way out of the woods, Will again pointed to Flea and to himself. Then lifting his finger to his lips he said, “Shhhh. Not a word of this to your mother, understand?” Flea understood the gesture for quiet. And he understood ‘mother.’ He hadn’t intended to tell her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
They walked up the road to the Bramble Rose Inn side by side, like father and son. Margaret stuck her head out of the front door and chimed, “Well, where have you two boys been? Leaving me with all the work, I see?” Flea smiled up at Will, who hollered back at her, “Off for a little walk to the woods, we were. Just a short walk in the woods, my dove.”
At the midday meal, farm hands gathering grain nearby came for a hearty supper, while travelers on their way through Dover crossing to France came to stay for the night. By mid-afternoon, the news from town had trickled out to the Inn: Lord Brompton’s nephew was missing. He’d arrived by ship in Dover two days before after touring the continent where he had acquired a fierce habit of winning at cards. He had been traveling home, rumor said, with a small fortune, having fleeced the son of a Prussian duke at the tables.
“That’s what done ‘im in, Miss Margaret,” said Harry, the sailors around him nodding in agreement. “Couldn’t hide that he was well-heeled in the first place, then him traveling with his winnings aboard a ship. Seen men killed for a tenth of what he might have had, y’see?” Again the sailors nodded. They’d seen it before.
“Too many pounds and not enough cents!” blurted out one irreverently, and they all gave a chuckle. Without wishing disrespect, for someone to be parted from their ill-gotten gains seemed some measure of justice to them who’d never had a single gold piece to call their own. Margaret listened, only slightly interested. The fate of a Lord’s nephew piqued her interest her only a little. As always, she had work to do.
“Welcome again,” Margaret commented to two men at the bar. Of course she remembered them from last night’s card game. Will had explained to her that he’d lost a great sum to them.
“Ma’am,” the taller man doffed his hat. “Steak and kidney pie, if you please.” The second man raised two fingers indicating he would have the same, and as Margaret vanished to the kitchen to retrieve their meals, Flea came in from the barn to serve the noon ale. The cold place in his gut spread to the back of his throat at the sight of the men; somehow, he was thankful Will was out in the barn counting his treasure.
An hour went by and the coach headed from Dover to London stopped by to pick up passengers and to drop someone off at the inn. When the constable came through her door, Margaret became more than just interested in the fate of Brompton’s nephew.
“Madam,” announced the constable with a slight bow. His duties in Dover extended to the outskirts of town and beyond; the inn fell within his jurisdiction. “We are seeking information about a missing person, young Brompton as you may have heard.” Margaret nodded. Missing persons along Dover’s docks were common, and were often overlooked by the law. But not a member of the peerage. Their welfare was the crown’s business.
“So I have heard. But I haven’t seen him, sir. I would recognize a young man of means coming through my door, Your Honor. The farmers, seafarers and travelers that come and go up the road are my customers. Lords and ladies we see here seldom, though the coach travels through once a week, as you know. Are you sure he is nowhere in town?”
The constable shook his head as he continued, “No, it seems the young man left Dover yesterday afternoon intending to join a game of cards. The last person that saw him in town understood he was headed toward your establishment for that purpose. He didn’t return to his lodgings last night. You are quite sure you haven’t seen him?”
Margaret paused. “We usually don’t have card games here, sir. Last night was an exception, yet I don’t recall seeing the young man here. Our regulars were in on the game, but none of them have royal relations, I can assure you. Oh, but there were these two gents who came from town…..” As she turned to the bar, she was met with two empty seats.
“Two men? One tall, one short?” he asked. “These were the men I followed out here to interview.” Before he could continue to probe for their whereabouts, Flea walked into the room. He had been worried all day how his next play would unfold. He had been relieved to see the two men leave the inn. Now his hair stood on end and his eyes grew wide as he faced the constable. He ran up to his mother, and tugged on her skirt like a child.
“Egh?” he said, looking plaintively into her face.
“Not now, Jamie. Not right now, my boy,” she pushed his hands away with a gentle gesture.
“Who is this youngster?” asked the constable. “Is this your son?”
“Yes, he’s my son, sir, a deaf-mute. I can assure you, he’s knows….” But before she could say ‘nothing,’ Flea pressed his hand into hers. His hands were so cold. She could feel his pulse racing wildly.
“Ehhhh…” Flea said. He looked at the constable and back again to his mother. When he fled up the stairs, the constable was not far behind. Margaret followed along, leaving the sailors to fend for themselves.
Once in Will’s room, Flea stood by the loose board, hoping the constable would discover what was concealed beneath. This room had once been a place of comfort, and it might be yet again. The constable cast his eyes about.
“Whose room is this?” he asked. “And whose belongings are these?”
“My husband, your honor. We…,” she paused, “we’ve not been married long, sir, so he often sleeps here. Alone. You understand.” The constable looked at her face carefully. She was telling the truth.
“What is this?” he spied the floorboard slightly out of place. He had followed the trail Flea had left for him. That he had tracked the murderous pair here to the inn was more than Flea had hoped for, but Flea knew Will would deny knowing them or the role he had played.
“What have we here?” the constable asked, flipping up the wood, revealing the cavity in the floor.
The silver dagger gleamed in the light. Margaret gasped and jumped back as the constable withdrew the dagger from concealment in the floor.
“Do you know whose this is? Have you ever seen this before, madam?” the constable asked. She shook her head violently, disgusted at the dried blood she saw on the blade. In his other hand, he held up two silver coins. Just then Will came thumping up the stairs.
“Margaret! What goes on here? The guests are awaiting meals, Flea has let the drinks run dry. This is no way to run an establishment….” But he stopped his bellowing as he came face to face with the constable, and his face said he had experience running into the law.
“What’s all this?” he asked belligerently. “What right have you to be in my room?”
“I have every right, sir, by the power vested in me by your sovereign, the King of England. And you, sir, will explain this,” said the constable as he held up the dagger.
Will looked at the dagger, confused. Then he panicked and bolted for the door, headed down the stairs. But before he could reach bottom, the constable shouted, “Stop him! Murderer!” and at the hue and cry, the sailors leaped to their feet to grab Will. Once they had secured him by means of ropes and seamen’s knots, the constable went through Will’s pockets and sure enough, too greedy to part with the bag for even one minute, he had the deerskin pouch of silver still on him. Flea stood by with a blank expression, feigning idiocy, as he waited for his final flourish. He knew Will had played a role in this murder; perhaps this wasn’t a first. And Flea suspected he and his mother were next on Will’s list. Flea could leave no doubt in the mind of the law. He would seal once and for all the fate of Will Copper.
While the sailors kept watch over the prisoner, Flea led the constable on a quick tour of the woods. Without haste, Will was arrested, tried, and convicted. His defense had been futile; he blamed two mysterious strangers, who had been seen never before nor since. In desperation, he even blamed Flea, claiming the boy must have committed the murder and then led him to the money, planting the knife and coins in his room. It must have been the boy, he cried. Preposterous, everyone had agreed.
“Little Flea?” the magistrate had chuckled. “He’s a deaf and dumb boy of twelve with the body of an eight year old child, and the mind of a toddler, I’d warrant. Deaf-mutes are imbeciles. Every simpleton knows that. Guilty.” And though poor Will was innocent of the actual killing of Lord Brompton’s nephew, he was indeed complicit in the plan. And there were other capital crimes he had committed for which he had evaded capture and punishment. Will was hanged within a fortnight.
*********
“Harry,” called Margaret, “can you help me out here in the kitchen for a moment?” Harry complied, smiling at the sailors who knew their friend’s seafaring days might soon be at an end.
“Harry, come help me in the kitchen,” one sailor sing-songed in a falsetto.
“Just so, my Megs,” he answered, winking at the lads as he rounded the corner into the kitchen.
“Stir this gravy for me, will you? Flea has gone out to gather a few more eggs for me.”
“What a good boy he is, Megs. Such a blessing,” said Harry. “Not a day must go by that you aren’t ever so proud of him.”
“Don’t you come sidling up to me trying to butter me up, Harry Tomkins. You know Flea’s my soft spot,” says she. “Always has been. Always will be.”
“Alright, alright, don’t get your dander up. But, tell me something, Megs. Will you tell me something, truly? Because you know I love you; I always have. And I worry about you. How are you getting’ on now with wicked Will gone? I know the boy helps out best he can, but a lad of fourteen, and a small lad at that, can only do so much. With all this help you’ve had to hire, how’re you gettin’ by? What I mean is, do you need any help at all…can I help you with a few coins from my own purse?”
Margaret smiled at Harry. What a dear man he was, she thought, so helpful and generous and of a good humor. Flea liked him. No, Flea loved Harry. Perhaps she would have to give this some consideration soon. But to answer his question, she simply shrugged. “No, no, I’m fine, we’re fine. Not to worry, Harry, my dove. Let’s just say,” she added coyly, “Flea and me, we had a little bit laid by.”
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Disclaimer: This journal is being created as a graduate project for a Creative Writing Workshop whose focus is an exploration of the business of publishing. All material published on this blog is the sole property of the authors who indiviually retain the ownership of their intellectual property. All material contained herein is governed by laws established under U.S. Copyright. All general blog contents are copyrighted 2011 by the editor, Beth Rodgers.
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