The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  The flag-marked route before them now was lightly wooded, the lane narrow and treacherous as it wound between trees, bounded on the right side by a steeply descending slope. One of the race stewards was mounted and watchful as the first seven riders raced up, vying for position. In the lead, the viscount and Mathieson shot past him neck and neck. Finchley came up in a burst of speed, and seconds later forced his way between them with ruthless determination and a complete lack of sportsmanship, so that Glendenning was crowded off the lane and down the slope. Fighting to stay upright and unable to avoid a tree, Flame slammed against it. Horse and rider went down, the chestnut rolling, pinning Glendenning beneath her.

  Cranford knew that to stop would end his chance to win, but no race ever run was worth the life of a good man. Cursing savagely, his heart hammering with mingled rage and apprehension, he reined Tassels off the lane and down the slope. He dismounted while the mare yet ran, and rushed to kneel beside the fallen man and call his name. Flame was threshing about as though half stunned. Glendenning lay twisted under her, face down. For a terrifying instant Cranford thought his neck was broken, then he heard the faint gasped-out words, “Can’t… breathe!” It would be futile, he realized, to try and pull his friend clear, and even as he reached out to calm her the chestnut rolled over, her shoulders falling heavily across Glendenning’s head.

  Springing up, Cranford talked to the mare as calmly as he could, praying that Tio wasn’t suffocating. The frenzied threshing movements eased a little as he stroked her sweating neck, then tugged on the bit. “Up, Flame! Get up, girl!” The great eyes rolled at him in terror. He tugged again, saying firmly, “Don’t dawdle about, pretty lady! Up! Now!”

  Tassels wandered over and bent to snuffle at the fallen mare. As if embarrassed, Flame struggled to her knees, then with a lurch was standing, trembling violently.

  Cranford bent to carefully straighten his friend’s head and turn him. Glendenning’s eyes were closed, his face covered with mud and blood from a cut on his brow. Reaching to feel for a heartbeat, Cranford saw the green eyes blink open. Intensely relieved, he whispered, “Thank God!”

  “And… you,” panted the viscount.

  “Are you hurt? Anything broken?”

  “Just my…pride. Flame…?”

  “She’s up and looks to be all right.”

  “You saw?”

  “I saw.”

  “Then—get after that—that bastard! Can—make up time if you take… left fork… through the woods. Looks impassable. Ain’t. Mayn’t be… purely legal, but—”

  “Legal—hell! I’ll come up with him, I promise. Will you be all right if—”

  “I’ll be mad as… fire if you let him win! Go!”

  The steward was riding along the higher ground, peering down at them. ‘Better late than never,’ thought Cranford, and mounting up, he shouted, “Take care of him!”

  The man looked shocked, nodded, and urged his horse down the slope.

  Following Tio’s directions, Cranford judged the left fork to be indeed impassable, but just as the viscount had said, a path opened unexpectedly. Risking everything on Tassels’ unerring ability, Cranford urged her to a gallop. He held his breath as they shot through the trees, and emerging, discovered that the skies had darkened ominously, and that he was almost up with the other riders. Mathieson and Finchley now shared the lead. Valerian was close behind, surprisingly neck and neck with Duncan Tide’s white mare. They were close to the crossroads that marked the mid-point of the race. The lane was very muddy, but as he made the loop and started on the home stretch, Cranford spurred and Tassels streaked to catch up. Finchley yowled something profane, Mathieson looked surprised, Valerian, riding like a centaur and with not a hair out of place, was smiling his infuriatingly supercilious smile.

  Cranford’s one thought was that whoever should win, it must not be Gresford Finchley, who had almost brought about Tio’s death. He passed Bertie Crisp and was gaining on Valerian and Tiele, whose white mare he guessed must be a mudder and had thus gained ground. Mathieson was alone in the lead now, with Finchley pressing hard, his whip flailing. A low stone wall loomed up, and beyond it a fast-flowing stream. Valerian and Tiele took the wall side by side. Walker almost cleared the stream but lost his stride at the bank and stumbled to regain his footing. Tiele’s mare sailed high but short and came down in midstream. She was, as Cranford had noted, quite plump, and landing close beside Valerian, displaced a great sheet of muddy water, inundating the dandy. Flashing past as Tassels cleared the stream neatly, Cranford caught a glimpse of an unrecognizable man of mud and with a grin heard the dandy’s spluttering howls of rage.

  The rain began in earnest, but only two riders were ahead of him now and a quick backward glance showed very few others had survived thus far. Finchley turned a face contorted with fury to glare at him. Cranford shot past, avoiding the flail of the Major’s whip to draw level with Mathieson’s Rumpelstiltskin. Mathieson glanced at him and, good sportsman that he was, his white teeth flashed in a grin.

  Jubilant, Cranford gasped, “We can do it, Tassels! I knew you would win! Perry will have his home, after all, and we’ll be able to—”

  He reeled to a violent jolt and Tassels lost her stride. Even as he grabbed for her mane the saddle jerked sideways and he was hurled from the mare’s back. The countryside became a spinning mix of green grasses, naked trees and blackening skies. He landed heavily, and sprawled, the breath knocked out of him. Dimly, he heard a triumphant shout as Finchley galloped past. Hard on his heels, the muddy Valerian yelled, “Sleeping, cousin?” Tiele rode up roaring, “All right, Cranford?” and he nodded, climbing giddily to his feet. Still persisting, Bertie Crisp called, “Are you done, Cranford?”

  No, he wasn’t done! By heaven, he wasn’t done! He peered about and saw his saddle. Staggering to it, he saw also that it was useless; the girth strap had snapped. He whistled and Tassels trotted to him at once. Dizziness thwarted his first attempt to climb onto her back. The five-barred gate in a nearby fence offered a solution; leading the mare to it, he used one bar as a step and was able to hoist himself up.

  A distant rumble of thunder set Tassels to dancing about uneasily. Patting her, he said, “Poor lass—you’ve had an unsettling day! But we must keep on!” A light touch with the spurs urged her forward at a canter coming quickly to the gallop, the pretty mare responding willingly as if she’d understood his words and his need. Cranford had ridden bareback as a boy and once or twice of necessity, during the retreat from Prestonpans and his desperate effort to bring his wounded brother through enemy lines. It seemed more of an effort now, perhaps because his battered head had not benefitted when he’d fallen from the saddle at speed. But the mare’s gait was smooth, bless her, and the countryside blurred past until once again he could see the riders ahead. They were strung out now, Mathieson holding a good lead, then Finchley, and in third place Valerian, not riding as gracefully as usual. Tiele had fallen back, and three other surviving riders vied with Bertie Crisp to avoid the last place. Except, Cranford thought grimly, for himself. He recognized one of the landmarks, a big blue barn, which meant they were only a mile from the finish. He urged Tassels on, knowing he had no hope of winning, but determined to make sure that Finchley was held accountable for his shameful conduct.

  His eyes were fixed on the cheating Major when Finchley appeared to overlook an opportunity to gain ground by keeping to the lane and instead swung his mount onto the turf at Mathieson’s right. Momentarily puzzled, Cranford suddenly thought, ‘It’s Roly’s blind side! That bastard means to cut Rump off at the turn before Roly sees him!’ With an inarticulate shout of rage, he kicked home hard. Startled, Tassels all but flew, but it was too late. In flagrant violation of the rules, Finchley’s big bay was cutting through the turn in the road directly in front of Mathieson, who failed to see him until the last instant. Rumpelstiltskin shied in alarm. A superb horseman, Mathieson was not thrown, but Finchley had raced into the lead. There remained only the last
water jump and no hope that Mathieson could pass in time. Cranford swore, seething with frustration and fury.

  The Major was braying his triumph and spurring hard.

  A sudden brilliant lightning flash was followed by an ear-splitting clap of thunder. Perhaps Finchley’s temperamental animal was afraid of thunderstorms, or perhaps he had suffered enough from those cruel rowelled spurs. Whatever the case, approaching the water jump at full gallop, he slowed suddenly, came to a dead stop and dug in his hooves.

  The result was inevitable. Before Cranford’s delighted eyes, Major Gresford Finchley soared without grace through the air, and splashed down in the muddy stream.

  Not one of the contestants stopped to give him a helping hand.

  The steady rain had failed to diminish the crowd and excitement knew no bounds when the riders came in sight. Mathieson was given a rousing cheer as Rumpelstiltskin flashed over the finish line. Valerian came in second and Tiele placed third. There was no sign of Major Finchley. Cranford was fourth and three others brought up the rear, among them Bertie Crisp.

  Cranford congratulated Mathieson hurriedly, and was himself surrounded by a curious group demanding to know why he’d ridden in bareback. He said a terse “Girth snapped,” and dispatched a stable-boy to ride back and discover if the steward needed help in caring for Lord Glendenning. His remarks were overheard and gave rise to a storm of anxious enquiries that turned to outrage when he described the behaviour of Gresford Finchley. Slipping away from the crowd then, he jerked his head at Sudbury, who was holding Tassels’ bridle and watching him anxiously.

  Cranford led the way to a less crowded area and interrupted the groom’s questions about the broken strap. He said curtly, “It looked to me as if it had been cut near through. You noticed nothing amiss, I take it?”

  Sudbury looked horrified and insisted he had given the master’s saddle and bridle “extry special” attention before the race. “Nor the mare wasn’t out o’ my sight for a minute, sir. Save for when the gent fell down. A proper rasper he took, right outside that temp’ry stable what—”

  Cranford interrupted tensely, “Which gent? And how were you involved?”

  “Why—I dunno his name, Mr. Piers.” Sudbury wrinkled his brows worriedly. “He seemed to have hit his head and for a minute or two I were thinking to call for a physician, but he wouldn’t have none of it and said he’d just rest a minute and would do very nicely—as were the case, in fact. Wanted to see the horses, he said, but tripped on a rake what had fallen under the straw. A proper nice gent he were. Most respectable, and not the kind to—”

  “What did this ‘proper nice gent’ look like?”

  The groom sensed his employer’s impatience and blinked unhappily. “Why—I—I didn’t pay much heed, Mr. Piers, sir,” he stammered. “Being as I were more anxious lest he’d hurt hisself.”

  “You must have some recollection. Think, man! Was he tall? Short? Fat? Thin? What was his voice like?”

  “Well now, it were—just a voice, Mr. Piers. A nice soft-spoke gent, with a eddicated way of talk—like yourself. Nor he wasn’t short, exact. Taller’n me, I think.”

  “Young? Old? Dark eyes? Light eyes?”

  “Why, he weren’t old, sir. Not what you’d call old. Though he weren’t all that young, exack. He had eyes, a’course, but… Er—” Sudbury groaned. “Lor’, sir. I’m that sorry. I just didn’t pay no heed.”

  “Had you ever seen him before? In Muse Village, for instance?”

  “Our village? That gent? Oh, no, sir! That I is sure of! If I ever see a swell like him in the village, I’d ha’ noticed for sure!”

  “Suppose he’d been dressed differently? Not a gentleman of fashion, for example?”

  Sudbury scratched his head and, clearly bewildered, said, “I dunno about that, sir. But—what would a gent be doing dressing up in our village?”

  Stifling a sigh, Cranford acknowledged to himself that it was hopeless. He sent the groom off to care for Tassels and find him another horse and saddle and to dispatch someone to retrieve his own saddle. “And my hat!” he added, anxious to rescue a certain small handkerchief. He snatched a quick wash and changed his linen and torn coat while he waited. A knock at his door announced the arrival of the steward who’d stayed with Glendenning. The man looked rather guilty, rightfully so, in Cranford’s opinion, considering his tardiness in arriving at the scene of the accident. He reported that the viscount was not seriously injured, but had been carried to a nearby farm and an apothecary had been sent for. “I can direct you, Mr. Cranford, if you wish to see him.” The directions were given, the steward, fully aware of the stern blue eyes that seemed to pierce him, took himself off, and Cranford hurried downstairs. Sudbury had a likely-looking bay gelding ready and he rode out anxious to assure himself that his friend was being properly cared for.

  He found the farm easily enough. The viscount, his left arm splinted, had been settled into the feather bed in a small but immaculate bedchamber and was being fussed over by a buxom farm-wife. Her even more buxom daughter advised Cranford that “his lor’ship” had been treated by the local midwife. “He be in my bed, zur,” she confided with a blush and a giggle.

  Glendenning looked white and spent, but his ready smile dawned, and gripping Cranford’s hand, he said rather wearily, “At it again, Piers! You’ll do anything to place me in your debt, you rogue! And be damned if you don’t look worse than I feel!”

  “If that were truth they’d be burying me,” argued Cranford lightly. “How badly is this pest damaged, ma’am?”

  The farm-wife was round-eyed with shock that her highly born guest should be referred to as a pest, and preparing to carry out a tray of medical supplies said with faint reproof, “His lor’ship has suffered of a desecrated shoulder and his poor wrist do be broke, zur. Please to keep him quiet as may be is what Mrs. Blakeley said, zur. An’ Matilda Blakeley, zur, be as good a midwife as you’ll find even in Lunon Town. Quiet—as—may—be, she says. She do have just now left, more’s the pity, else she could have told you herself.”

  “And that properly threw you ’gainst the ropes,” murmured Glendenning, after Cranford had meekly ushered the kindhearted woman into the passage and closed the door.

  “You may believe it did,” admitted Cranford. “Phew! The innate dignity of the British rustic never fails to put me in awe! And the lady was perfectly right, for I’ve always suspected you were ‘desecrated.’”

  The viscount’s answering grin faded abruptly. “Sufficiently so to even the score with your damnable neighbour! He’ll have my glove in his face as soon as I’m able, but if you mean to tell me he won that ridiculous race, I’m liable to have a spasm—at the very least!”

  Cranford sat on the side of the bed and assured his friend that a spasm was not indicated. “Roly Mathieson won. My deplorable would-be cousin came in second.” He grinned broadly. “And mud from head to toe!”

  The viscount threw up a delaying hand. “Valerian? I thought he didn’t believe in dirt and such. Elaborate, when you can stop gloating.”

  Cranford obliged with gusto and Glendenning gave a shout of mirth, then groaned that it was brutal to bring a man with numerous broken bones to laughter. “Go on, go on,” he urged breathlessly, “but try to give me a more sober account.”

  “I’ll try, noble martyr. Well, if you can believe it, Duncan Tiele’s white and overweight lady mudded her way to third place. Finchley neither came up to the finish line, nor has he been seen since he—Oh, I forgot—but I suppose you couldn’t endure it were I to describe his swan dive?…”

  His eyes glinting with joyous anticipation, Glendenning commanded, “Tell me, you fiend!”

  Cranford did so, once more reducing his friend to painful laughter and wails of regret that he’d not been present to see the Major meet his just desserts. Mopping a corner of the sheet at his brimming eyes, Glendenning sighed, “I’m sorry you didn’t win, old fellow. My fault. If you hadn’t stopped to help me—

  “Yes
. Well, I’ll hold it over you forever, you may be sure.”

  Horatio smiled and asked, “What shall you do now?”

  Cranford shrugged. “Go home and see what else has fallen down or caught fire,” he said with a rueful grin. “But I’ll find a way to raise the funds, never fear.”

  Shifting painfully against his pillows, the viscount declared that he had no such fears. “Just don’t take it upon yourself to call out the flying Major. That’s my privilege. Dash it all, he could have put a period to me!”

  “Which merely proves that you should have heeded my warning and not ridden in the race, you silly block. And how comes it about that you were treated by the Midwife Blakeley? We’re not that far from Woking, and there’s likely an accredited physician thereabouts.”

  “Yes, there is. But I chance to be acquainted with that particular gentleman. So does my sire.”

  “At your secrets again, are you, Tio?” Despite the stern words, Cranford had noted the strain in the green eyes and he added quietly, “Does this mean I am forbidden to notify your lady and your family of your latest little escapade?”

  Glendenning hesitated, then asked, “Any more appearances by our infamous village pedlar?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but I had little time to look about after the race. For some reason the fellows wanted to know about your mischance.” He grinned in response to the viscount’s indignation, and added, “So you want your people kept clear, do you? The Earl won’t thank me, Tio.”

  “He will if you’ll be good enough to send Florian up to Windsor. Amy will be glad to see him, and he can explain that I took a small spill.”