Blackstone and the Endgame by Sally Spencer

livery, as this one was.
    Why have you stopped?
asked the voice in Blackstone’s head.
    â€˜I’m looking at the carriage,’ Blackstone replied.
    No, you’re not – you’re looking at the coachman.
    â€˜And why would I do that?’
    Because you know that coachmen are at the whim of their masters. They can never be sure when their day’s work will finally end, or even when they’ll be allowed to eat.
    â€˜That’s true, but …’
    So they always carry food with them, don’t they? And perhaps this particular coachman can be persuaded to give a little of that food to a poor wretch who’s eaten almost nothing all week.
    â€˜I won’t beg,’ Blackstone said, firmly and angrily. ‘However bad things get, I won’t beg.’
    And then – perhaps because he was afraid the coachman might have magically read his thoughts and would look down on him with contempt as he passed by – he turned off Tooley Street and on to Battle Bridge Lane.
    He was halfway between the main street and the river when he saw the shape lying in the road. He thought at first that it was just a load of old discarded sacking, but as he got closer to it, he could see that it was a man.
    And not just
any
man, but a gentleman.
    A toff!
    The supine man was wearing an expensive-looking frock coat, and though he was bareheaded, there was a top hat – which must also belong to him – on the ground a few feet away.
    For a moment, Blackstone thought of stepping around him – the man was probably drunk and so had no one to blame but himself – but then he relented and knelt down beside him.
    The man groaned. ‘Where am I?’
    He certainly did not smell of alcohol, Blackstone noted.
    â€˜You’re just near the river,’ he said. ‘Do you remember how you got here?’
    â€˜I was in my carriage, going along Tooley Street,’ the man replied, his voice steadier now, but still confused. ‘I started to feel a little peculiar and thought a walk down to the river might clear my head. I told my coachman to wait for me, and set off down Battle Bridge Lane …’
    â€˜That’s where you are now.’
    â€˜â€¦ and then, I suppose, I must have fainted.’
    â€˜Do you think you can stand up?’ Blackstone asked.
    â€˜Perhaps – if you help me.’
    â€˜Of course,’ Blackstone agreed.
    There’d been a time – only days earlier – when hauling the man to his feet would have been no trouble at all, but Blackstone was so weak now that even offering a little assistance took a great deal of effort.
    Even when he was standing, the man held on to his rescuer for at least half a minute before finally relinquishing his grip.
    â€˜Still feel peculiar,’ he admitted, ‘but I think I’ll be all right now.’
    â€˜Is there anything else I can do for you?’ Blackstone asked.
    â€˜You might retrieve my top hat for me, if you don’t mind,’ the man said, smiling. ‘And then I would appreciate it if you could give me your support until I reach my carriage.’
    â€˜It will be my pleasure,’ Blackstone said, picking up the hat and offering the man his arm.
    The walk back up Battle Bridge Lane put a strain on both of them, but eventually they reached Tooley Street and the carriage.
    As the coachman climbed down from his box to assist his master, the gentleman turned to Blackstone.
    â€˜Look here, my good man, I’d like to give you a little something for your trouble,’ he said.
    Blackstone shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary. What I’ve done for you, I’d have done for any man.’
    â€˜Perhaps
you
would, but there are many people who would not,’ the gentleman countered. ‘You might have robbed me as I lay there, and – God knows – you look as if you could use the money. But instead, you behaved like a Christian, and that is surely