by Jan Burke
“A cloaked figure?”
“I’m afraid he was off to one side—the better to swing that branch, I suppose. All I saw were a pair of men’s boots—rather expensive Hessians, if I’m any judge—and the front of a large, black cloak. I was struck down before I saw a face, but I’d lay odds my attacker was wearing a mask.”
I considered this, and said, “Can you travel from the Abbey grounds?”
“I’m not sure. I can move within the Abbey, and at least as far as where you were standing tonight. I’m rather new at this,” he added apologetically.
“Were you in Charles’s room when the fire started?”
“No, although—it’s the strangest thing, Edward. I was merely looking in on him, watching him sleep, when I felt this urgent need to appear to him, even though I knew it would scare him—as if it were so vital to awaken him, I could not remain hidden.”
“It was vital,” I said. “Had he not come to me in the library, he might have perished in that bed.”
“And Henry Bane would have become the Earl of Rolingbroke.”
“Yes. But it was William whose coat smelled of smoke and showed signs of being singed.”
“Hmm. How disappointing. William has actually spoken kindly to me once or twice in the past few years. But then, he needed to borrow money.” He sighed. “He’s not immediately in line for the title, but I suppose if two Rolingbrokes could be disposed of, Henry might have a short tenure as well.”
“Who are you talking to?” a child’s voice asked. I looked in some dismay at Charles, peering at me sleepily from the bed. I glanced toward Lucien, but he had disappeared.
“Myself, Charles.”
“That’s a loud one,” he said, yawning.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, and thought I heard a ghostly chuckle near my ear.
But Charles had fallen asleep again, and though I whispered Lucien’s name, he did not reappear that night.
CHARLES WAS STILL SLEEPING PEACEFULLY WHEN I BESTIRRED myself just before dawn the next morning. I awakened Fibbens, who gladly kept watch over him while I went to the stables. I went down the row of stalls until I came to that of Lucien’s favorite, Fine Lad. An old groom was with the big dark bay, applying fomentations to its legs.
“I’m afraid he’ll be scarred, sir,” the old man said, showing me the horizontal cuts which neatly crossed the front of Fine Lad’s forelegs. “But he should be right as rain otherwise.”
“Those wounds—could they have led to the late earl’s injuries?”
“I wondered about it, sir, and thought p’haps he’d been tripped up, like. But then there was that branch, so I figgered our Fine Lad here hurt himself on the way home.”
“Tell me—what do you mean, tripped up?”
“It’s an old bad ’un’s trick, sir—they puts a rope across the road.”
“But the earl would have seen such a rope.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, but no, sir. The way it works is, Mr. Thief finds a place near a tree, like, and ties th’ rope around its trunk. Then he lays the rope across th’ road, and covers it with leaves, so it’s hidden. Along comes a fine gentleman like our lordship, and Mr. Thief waits until he’s near abreast of ’im, and yanks hard as hell—beggin’ your pardon—he pulls it tight, see, and the horse can’t stop nor mebbe even knows what’s hit ’im, and while all’s confusion, he coshes th’ fine gentleman—if he ain’t already knocked in the cradle by the fall. Then he robs him, and that’s that.”
“How do you know of this ‘tripping up’? Has this ever happened near here before?”
“Oh, not near here, sir. But I rememory it did happen to the earl’s—beggin’ your pardon—the late earl’s uncle.”
“Lord Alfred Bane?”
“Yes, sir. ’Is lordship’s groom told me of it. Said that when ’is lordship were a young man, he was served just such a nasty trick, and took an awful blow to the side of ’is brainbox—and that’s how he went deef in one ear, which is why ’is lordship was forever shouting. I used to hate it when that man came near our horses—his late lordship, I mean, no disrespect intended—but y’see, ours t’weren’t used to all that shoutin’ and carryin’ on. So his groom tells me what happen’d t’him, and tells me that the robbers got to look no how anyways, ’cause Lord Bane hadn’t more ’n a few shillings on ’im, whilst they were caught and hanged, which is what they deserv’d.”
I RODE MY OWN HORSE BACK TO THE PLACE IN THE WOODS where I had found Lucien. I searched for a likely place for an ambush, and found it just a few feet away. I did not find a rope, but one tree bore a mark on its trunk, a line that might have been made by a thin rope being pulled taut—and within the bark near that line, I found strands of bristly fiber, as from a cord or rope.
I searched on the side of the path directly opposite, as I might have searched for signs of an enemy’s camp during the war. My search was rewarded—I discovered a spot with a good view of the path, where sticks and leaves had been crushed. It was a place near a fallen log where fragments of brown shell told me that someone had eaten walnuts while they waited for the sound of an approaching rider, a place where someone’s boots had made marks in the soft, damp earth.
I spent a little time also in studying the tree which had supposedly caused Lucien’s injury, and the place where the branch had broken off. I rode my horse slowly down the path, halting in front of the tree, which allowed me an even better view of the point of breakage.
Back at the Abbey, I again examined the branch. I spoke to Bogsley and two other servants before I went to my room and changed out of my riding clothes—which had become somewhat soiled during my explorations. I cleaned up in time to join Charles for breakfast. By then, most of the family was in the breakfast room. Lady Bane—wearing a purple turban—declared that the previous evening’s disturbance had quite ruined her appetite.
I thought Charles might make some remark about this, as her plate was quite full, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts, not even responding to her lecture about young children never being allowed to dine with their elders at Bane House. At one point, he looked up and smiled and winked at me, just as his father might have done. But before I could respond with more than an answering smile, my attention was drawn back to Lady Bane, who asked why I was smiling, and if I thought fires in the middle of the night were amusing.
“Mother!” William said desperately, “Your breakfast grows cold. Do try to eat something.”
She ignored him. She had other complaints to make, and ended her lengthy list of criticisms by saying, “We are leaving immediately after breakfast, Edward, and I cannot tell you what a relief it will be!”
“I’m sure it defies description,” I said.
She eyed me in an unfriendly manner, but was distracted when William said, “I am staying—if it will not be an imposition, Edward?”
“Staying!” Lady Bane thundered. “Why?”
“To better acquaint myself with my cousin,” he said.
“Edward is not your cousin!”
“I meant Cousin Charles,” William said, then added, “And Edward, too, of course.”
Henry, who entered the room at just that moment, said, “An excellent notion, William! I believe I will join you.”
William seemed displeased, but said nothing. There was no opportunity for him to speak. Lady Bane found their plans extremely objectionable. The matter was decided when Fanny said, “I’ll leave with you, Mother.”
It was decided because Lady Bane, ever contrary, said, “No, I’ll not have it said that I was backward in any attention due to my family. We’ll all stay.”
Into the awkward silence which met this decision came Charles’s voice. “I wish to discuss a private matter with Uncle Edward,” he said, then frowning, added, “If you will excuse us, please?”
He stood, then took my hand, and led me to the library. He closed
the doors, then said, “All right, Papa!”
“Excellent, youngster!” Lucien said. “My son, as you can see, Edward, is a stout-hearted fellow.”
“I’ve known that for some time now,” I said.
“He whispered to me during breakfast!” Charles said gleefully. “He was with me while you were out riding this morning.”
“And Fibbens?”
“I believe he has recovered from his initial shock,” my brother said. “I’ve asked him to break it gently to Bogsley.”
“’Zooks, Lucien! Is this wise?”
“I’d prefer they knew, rather than to come across me, er—accidentally. Fibbens will be here shortly to take Charles through one of the passages to the servants’ quarters. Charles will be my ambassador.”
“That means I’m going to tell them I’m not scared of Papa, so then they won’t be either. I’m helping.”
“Yes,” I said, “you are.”
As soon as Fibbens—amazingly at home with members of the spirit world, it seemed to me—had led Charles from the room, I told Lucien what I had learned. He listened thoughtfully.
“I took another look at the branch this morning,” I said. “I realized that the bloodstains were on a section of the branch that you could not have struck with your head while riding. The bloodstains were on a part of the branch that was too close to the trunk of the tree—close to where it broke off from the trunk.”
“A part of the branch much thicker, I suppose, than the section I would have struck if I had ridden into it.”
“Yes. The Banes undoubtedly heard the story of their father’s encounter with ruffians many times. And of the persons currently staying or working at the Abbey, only the Banes and their personal servants would not know that Charles prefers his chambers to be darkened.”
“It could be one of the Banes’s servants, I suppose,” Lucien said, and I did not miss the note of hopefulness in his voice.
“No servant would gain from your death, Lucien. I do not like the idea of scandal in the family any more than you do, but Charles is very young, and by the time he is in society, this will be long forgotten.”
Lucien gave a bitter laugh. “Murder is unlikely to pass so quickly from even the haut ton’s collection of shallow minds. But for now, our first thoughts must be for Charles’s safety.”
“Yes.”
“So it is a Bane,” he said. “I do not believe it was Lady Bane—she would have made sure her wig was on.”
I laughed. “Nor can I picture her waiting patiently in the woods, or wearing Hessians.”
“All well and good. But now what?”
“I’m not certain which of the three ‘thatchgallows,’ as you once called them, it is.”
“Surely not Fanny?”
“I would have ruled her out, until you told me of the boots. She was wearing a pair of them last night—and William and Henry were each already wearing their own. She’s strong. And remember how she used to spy on us?”
“Yes. But what would she have to gain?”
“I don’t know. Does she bear you any grudge?”
“Nothing to signify.” He couldnt exactly blush, but he was obviously embarrassed.
I raised a brow. “She had a tendre for you?”
“She believed we ought to marry. It was certainly not out of affection—it was a stupid idea placed in her head by her pushing mama. Aunt Sophia also tried to persuade my father that I should marry Fanny, but he was opposed—said he had seen at least three bad results of a marriage of first cousins. Alfred Bane was their first cousin, you will remember. Aunt Sophia was quite insulted, and nothing was said for years, but shortly after he died—let us say I told them I would respect my father’s wishes on the matter. When I became a widower, I almost thought Fanny would raise the subject again, but I think the notion of being stepmama to Charles put an end to her pursuit. Now—let’s look at Henry and William, then. William’s coat reeked of smoke.”
“According to Fibbens, William did attempt to help put out the fire. But since he was not trained in one of your drills, he was more a nuisance than a help, and Bogsley—in his inimitable Bogsley way, persuaded him to leave before he caused harm. Still—how did he find out about the fire so much sooner than the others?”
“And Henry?”
“Supposedly drunk.”
“Supposedly?”
“Oh, several bottles of your finest port are missing.”
“Charles’s port! But you sound as if you doubt he drank them.”
“I’m not sure. I find myself wondering where the empty bottles are, and why, at breakfast this morning, he did not appear to be suffering any ill-effects of such a binge.”
“A veteran drinker might be able to manage both the bottles and the morning.”
“True. And since I have long avoided the Banes, I have no idea if our cousin is a souse or abstemious.”
“Which leaves us where we started.”
“Do you know, this morning I found myself thinking like a soldier for the first time in a long time.”
“Meaning?”
“We must use strategy, Lucien. And I believe we would do well to take the offensive, rather than wait for the murderous Bane to make another attempt on Charles’s life.”
“Ah!” he said, smiling. “You want to set a trap.”
“Yes. We will each have a role—including Charles. Do you suppose, dear Lucien, that you could play the part of a headless monk?”
CHARLES PROVED TO BE HIS FATHER’S EQUAL AS AN ACTOR. HE staged a perfect tantrum, with Fibbens providing able support, just outside the morning room, where Henry had settled into a chair before the fire to read a newspaper. Lucien told us that was how he was occupied just before Act I, Scene I. Five minutes or so later, a child’s voice was heard in the hallway just outside the morning room door.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts!” Charles said angrily.
“Perhaps not, your lordship, but the north tower is dangerous. Your father meant to undertake repairs but—”
“I’m not afraid. It’s my treasure!”
“Not so loud, please, your lordship!” Fibbens said, knowing perfectly well that Henry Bane was undoubtedly pressing his ear to the door.
“Uncle Edward knows how to find it.” Charles declared. “We’re going treasure hunting!”
“Not with a houseful of guests, your lordship. It would be—er, impolite.”
That was my cue. “Charles, Charles! Are you talking that treasure nonsense again?” I asked. After a brief pause, I said, “Fibbens, I believe I will need my heavier cloak—and his lordship will need his own as well.”
“Yes, sir,” Fibbens said, and treading heavily, left the hallway.
“Charles, what have I told you about the treasure?”
“That we will find it tonight, because you promised Papa you would show me where it is.”
“Yes, And what else?”
“Not to tell the Banes. But Fibbens isn’t the Banes.”
“Fibbens is entirely trustworthy, but you never know who might be listening. So please don’t discuss it with anyone else. Now, here’s Fibbens with our cloaks. Have you your gloves? Excellent. Let’s go for our walk.”
Two slight variations on this performance were given—once for the benefit of Fanny and once for William.
Only Lady Bane seemed to enjoy a normal appetite at dinner that evening. Charles kept looking conspiratorially at me, which required no real acting.
Lucien’s role was proving the most difficult. To our dismay, he could not move objects, and any attempt to dress him in something other than the riding clothes he had been wearing on the day of his accident met with utter failure. Bogsley had unearthed the old headless abbot—the one the village seamstress had manufactured for that long ago Christmas haunting. It was losing its stuffing and looke
d a little aged, but we only needed the robe itself. However, when Lucien tried to put it on, it simply fell to the ground.
Making the best of what he could do, he practiced materializing, and soon had the knack of partial materialization. “I do so hate the prospect of being dead from the neck up,” he said, when he had managed to appear before us without a head. Charles, who had been rather thrilled with our story of swinging the “headless monk” past the Banes’s windows, asked the housekeeper if it might be possible to repair it. She stuffed a few pillows into the old costume, and our headless abbot had yet another round of life. Before falling asleep, Charles enjoyed playing with this large, if rather gruesome doll.
“Boys is all alike,” was the housekeeper’s assessment, with a nod toward Lucien and me.
At ten o’clock that evening, I awakened Charles from his brief slumbers. Bundled up in warm clothing, we carried shielded lanterns as we went through one of the secret passages to the north tower. The tower was built into the rise on which the Abbey stood. Perhaps at one time, it had indeed towered over the castle that had been here, but very little of the castle remained. Now the only apparent entrance to the tower was near the top of it—the tower was more akin to a well than a tower—more of it was reached by descending a staircase than by climbing. It was dank, musty smelling, and of no practical use.
I knew of no Rolingbroke who would dream of tearing it down.
After the treasure story had been spread about, Fibbens, several footmen, and other servants had taken turns keeping an eye on the Banes. None of them had yet been seen at the only tower entrance—the only entrance they would know of. In addition to it, there were two means of reaching the tower by secret passage. The one we were in ended on a sturdy, wide, stone platform, about halfway up (or down, as it seemed) the tower. Above us, a relatively new wooden staircase led to the tower entrance, off one of the Abbey hallways. Below us, at the foot of a crumbling stone staircase, was the other. As boys, Lucien and I had explored it, half-hoping, half-dreading we’d encounter the Headless Abbot. We found damp stones and little else.