Hugo and the Maiden

to scream. Didn’t these people know the island was infested with criminals? Hadn’t they learned their lesson already?
He’d easily found the church collection—a handful of shillings and pennies—in a small wooden box with no lock.
As he’d sat looking at the pitiful little pile of coins he’d decided that it felt worse to take such a paltry sum than it would have felt to take a thousand pounds. He didn’t want to take it, but he desperately needed it—and it wouldn’t be nearly enough.
But it was all he had, so he’d scooped it up and wrapped it in a square of torn canvas and tucked it into his trouser pocket, briefly wishing he had a way to leave a note in the box assuring the vicar that he would reimburse him. But he didn’t have ink, quill, or paper, so wishing was pointless.
After stealing God’s money from the vicar Hugo lost all interest in any further thieving.
He had wanted to bring food with him but decided he’d forage once he’d made it across the firth. Besides, he seemed to have lost his appetite along with his will to steal—an affliction he could not recall experiencing before.
Carrying only his shoes and the stolen coins, Hugo tiptoed out the door in his bare feet. He went round to the back of the meeting hall and sat on the ground to put on his shoes. His left foot was calloused and bleeding from the ridiculous dance slipper, which already had a hole the size of a guinea in the sole.
Well, it couldn’t be helped.
Once he was shod, there was no putting it off. He decided to stride down the main road rather than skulk. After all, the bloody island had no trees, so skulking would be difficult to pull off in any case.
As he headed for the narrow path, he cut the little stone house one last glance. “Goodbye, Miss Martha Pringle. I hope you enjoy a long and happy life,” he whispered, stunned by the hollow feeling in his gut.
Hugo shook himself. No doubt he was feeling odd because he’d not been able to eat much at supper, which had been—
“Good evening, Hugo.”
Hugo leapt a good foot in the air and his throat constricted to the diameter of a pin, yet he still managed to utter a mortifying squeak. He spun around and found Mr. Pringle sitting on a low stool on the side of the cottage.
They stared at each other, the only sounds Hugo’s labored breathing and the surf, which was audible from anywhere on the small island.
Mr. Pringle lifted up his hand and Hugo squinted: he was holding a pipe—a meerschaum.
“It is my most persistent vice,” the vicar admitted, his voice low but not a whisper. “I don’t smoke it any longer—it upsets Martha too much—but it still makes me feel meditative to simply hold it.”
A compulsion to confess struck him. “I took—”
“I know you took the money.”
“What? How? You never returned to the church, did you?”
“No. But I could see it in your eyes. Not what you were going to do, only that you were going to do something that made you uneasy. It was simple to guess what.”
“I’m going to send you back your money and a good deal more.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Hugo gaped at the unexpected response.
“Did it ever occur to you that you could simply ask me for the money?”
Hugo scoffed. “And you would have given it to me?”
“Yes. The money you took is for those who need it. I believed your story about being innocent of what you were charged with, Mr. Higgenbotham.”
He heaved a sigh. “Buckingham.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name—it’s Buckingham.” That was another lie, but a much older one. “I only told your daughter it was Higgenbotham to tease her.”
The vicar chuckled. “It makes her smile whenever she says it—and Martha is such a serious girl that I love seeing her smile.”
Hugo had no idea what to say to that.
“I won’t tell them about the money, but you must know that they will come looking for you. Taking a boat—even for temporary use—is a grave infraction to people who rely on such things for their livelihoods. If you do this tonight, Mr. Buckingham, you will have no defense when the authorities apprehend you. And I think you must know they will catch you. Have you ever lived in the country before?”
“No.”
“I thought not. You will be an easy target. But if you stay—”
“If I stay I shall be an even easier target,” Hugo said with barely suppressed anger.
“Not if I help you.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pringle, but how can you help me?”
“The word of a clergyman carries weight in this area. Not only that, but it is my understanding there was something odd about the ship you were on. The fact that a convict transport was up near Stroma, for a start.”
“But how can you help me?”
“I won’t tell you how, I just give you my word that I will see to it that you are not taken back when the constables or runners or what-have-you come to fetch the prisoners.”
Hugo wondered if he were dreaming. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
“I want a favor.”
“I beg your pardon—did you say you wanted a favor?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask what kind of favor?”
“I believe you just did.” The vicar grinned impishly. “I’m sorry, that was childish. As to the favor—I will tell you what I want after I have guaranteed your freedom. That is the bargain, Mr. Buckingham.”
“How do you know I’ll keep my part of the bargain?”
“That is entirely up to you.” The kindly old vicar suddenly looked terrifyingly stern.
Hugo glanced away, unable to bear the other man’s piercing gaze, which seemed to burn its way into his soul. Or what he supposed was his soul, not that he’d ever given the matter much thought.
Mr. Pringle stood, the action accompanied by creaks and pops as his old body straightened. “I will leave you to your decision, Mr. Buckingham.” He smiled, once again a