Til Death Do Us Part by Sara Fraser Page B

Charles Bromley’s face staring through the bullseyed panes of glass.
    â€˜It wouldn’t do for us to engage in fisticuffs, would it now, Walter?’ Ainsley grinned. ‘That nosey fellow might run and fetch a constable, might he not. And coming to any unwanted attention of the constabulary wouldn’t benefit either of us, would it?’
    â€˜Is all well, Reverend Winward?’ Charles Bromley was now standing in the shop doorway.
    Walter Courtney forced a smile and turned to face the shopkeeper. ‘All is very well, I thank you, Master Bromley. This gentleman and myself are old friends who have not had the good fortune to encounter one another for many years. It has come as a most welcome surprise for both of us.’
    â€˜It most certainly has, Master Bromley. Pray allow me to introduce myself. I am Archibald Ainsley, sole proprietor of the London Theatrical Company.’ Ainsley smiled and bowed with a flourish. ‘But alas! I fear that the Reverend Winward and myself must now take our leave of you, since we have many matters to discuss. So we must bid you Adieu for the present, Master Bromley.’
    He took Courtney’s arm. ‘Come, my old friend. Time is pressing.’
    â€˜Indeed it is,’ Courtney assented. ‘Good day to you, Master Bromley.’
    The pair got into the gig, and Courtney set the horse into motion.
    Ainsley was chuckling to himself.
    â€˜What’s so fuckin’ amusing?’ Courtney snarled.
    â€˜You were always brilliant at playing the God Botherer, Walter. What is it this time? Parson? Rector? Vicar? Deacon? Archdeacon? Canon? Or have you risen through the ranks to become a fuckin’ Bishop, no less?’
    Courtney only grunted sourly.
    Ainsley’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Now listen to me, my old friend. Just cast your mind back to when we worked together. Haven’t I always been brilliant at ferreting out all the details of any “mark”? And didn’t I always steer a safe course and make sure that we never hit any submerged reefs?’
    He went on at great length, but underlying his apparent easy confidence and bonhomie was the note of desperation.
    Courtney remained silent, his features dourly expressionless. But now that he had fully recovered from the shock of this totally unexpected reunion, he was beginning to realize that he could turn it to his great advantage.
    â€˜So what do you say, old friend? Have you got anything for me?’ Ainsley finally ended.
    Courtney stared hard into Ainsley’s eyes for several seconds, then queried, ‘What’s your cover story here?’
    Seized by a rush of hope, Ainsley almost babbled the words. ‘It’s ideal for your present purpose. I’m a prominent figure of the London Stage who is currently looking for suitable venues for my touring troupe to play in. Which means I can go anywhere and ask a deal of questions, because I’m the potential bringer of good fortune, ain’t I?’
    Courtney again pondered silently for a considerable period, slowing the horse to a walk and circuiting the limits of the town’s broad central plateau. He finally reined to a halt, and asked, ‘Where are you lodging?’
    â€˜At the Unicorn, just down from the crossroads where the chapel is.’
    â€˜I know where it is. Now how well lined are your pockets?’
    â€˜Lined well enough for me to carry off my role to perfection, and to obtain all the information you’ll be needing.’
    â€˜Give me those letters.’
    Ainsley’s tension was now palpable as he handed back the two single sheets of notepaper.
    There was a long silent pause, then Courtney nodded. ‘I’ll give you a trial run, Archie.’
    Ainsley gusted a sigh of relief. ‘You’ll not regret this, Walter. It’ll be just like old times, you’ll see! I’ll not fail you, I swear on my life!’
    Courtney’s tone was now avuncular.