Inferno Read Free Page A

jetty and a gaggle of boats at moorings in the barely ruffled inlet.
    They dropped the mainsail and glided in, the smell of pines, heather and the stink of fish mingled with the smoke of peat-fires coming out to enfold them in a fragrant welcome.
    Curious eyes watched them disembark. As Stirk straightened, there was a hail, and a short, stout individual lumbered across. ‘Wha’ hae, m’ fine friend!’ he puffed, clapping Stirk familiarly on the shoulder. ‘Away wi’ ye, but it’s bin a hoora long time.’ Shrewd eyes swept over Kydd. ‘Then who’s this’n?’ The Scottish burr had fallen away to a more understandable English at Kydd’s appearance.
    â€˜It’s … an old navy shipmate. Name o’ Paine.’
    â€˜Aye. Well, pleased t’ take the hand of owt who knows Toby, Mr Paine.’
    Stirk introduced him to Kydd. ‘This is Brian McFadden. We calls ’im Laddie. Hails from the south, like we. Owns the fishing boat,
Aileen G
,’ he added.
    Kydd shook hands, taking in the hard, calloused grip. The life of a fisherman would be far from easy in these waters.
    â€˜Mr Paine, I’d be obliged should ye go wi’ Laddie to the White Lion in town while I sees m’ sister, like. Pony an’ trap will be along for ye after.’
    Stirk lifted his sea-bag and swung it over his shoulder, then stumped off up the hill out of Dunlochry.
    â€˜I’ll be takin’ your bags an’ all, Mr Paine,’ McFadden said, rapidly sizing Kydd up. ‘Nowt to worry on.’
    The diminutive village consisted of a short main street – a church at the higher end and two taphouses by the waterfront, with several shops between in an uneven row of houses. The late-afternoon sun had tempted several patrons to take their beer at the tables outside and they looked up with guarded curiosity.
    Inside the White Lion a comfortable stink of sawdust and beer toppings lay thickly on the air, and there was an animated hum of conversation from the men at the tables. A fiddler played to himself in a corner and a tapster idly cleaned the counter.
    As they found a table, talk tailed off and faces turned: creased, work-worn features, characterful and wary.
    â€˜What can I get you, Mr McFadden?’ Kydd asked. It fell into a stony silence. The man stared back at him, unblinking. ‘A beer – or is it a whisky you Scots prefer?’ Feeling every eye on him, Kydd started to ask again but then eased into a smile. ‘I’m sorry, Laddie, I didn’t ask properly, did I?’
    McFadden’s weathered face split into a grin. ‘Aye, ye dinnae.’ He swivelled around and called loudly to the tapster, ‘A shant o’ gatter, twice, Angus lad.’
    The conversations about them resumed.
    The beer was dark and strong. Kydd relished it, after so long with fine wines, and eased back in his chair. He allowed McFadden to make the running. It turned out that Stirk had come to his rescue in a street brawl in his youth. Stirk’s family was liked in Dunlochry, even if they kept to themselves most of the time. And if it wasn’t too personal, could he know how Mr Paine, with the cut of the gent about him, had got to know the likes of Toby Stirk?
    It was easy enough recounted. In perfect truth he told of his press-ganging into
Duke William
and Stirk’s inspiration to him as a young seaman. Their ways had parted but they’d met again, and Kydd, being of a mind to seek a spell of peace, had come up here with him.
    â€˜So ye’ve done well out o’ Boney’s war, then, Mr Paine?’
    â€˜Better than some,’ was all Kydd would say, giving a saintly smile.
    True to his word, Stirk soon arrived with the pony and trap.
    â€˜Ah, Connie’s fine an’ all, but ’ud be much obliged if you asks accommodation here, seein’ as the cottage ain’t in proper shape t’ have ye stay.’
    â€˜Of