The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  “When Major Finchley is annoyed, there’s no knowing what he’ll say,” Piers answered. “Pay it no heed, and—Did you say you saw two coaches? Who was in the second?”

  Dixon said he didn’t know, but his wife, who had been on the fringes of the crowd, said she’d seen a gentleman inside.

  Piers asked sharply, “Did you know him?”

  Mrs. Dixon shook her head. “He never got out of the coach, sir. And it were dark, y’know, so I couldn’t see clear. Funny, though. I could swear as I’d seen him afore… though when or where, is what I can’t put my finger on.”

  He thought grimly that it might well have been Joshua Pedlar sniffing about again, in which case the man was a safe distance from Tio.

  Mary’s lovely image commandeered his attention, as it so often did. Perhaps she had decided to overnight at the Westerman cottage. He would very much have liked to find her and thank her for her help in their battle, but it was late, and she must be tired. He decided to seek her out in the morning, and went instead to the gaol, where he found Florian occupying the solitary cell and talking with Peregrine and the constable. Mr. Bragg was pale and shaken, with a discoloured lump above his eye where the rock had hit home.

  Piers said, “You’ll have a fine bruise there, Bragg. You’d better get to your bed.”

  “I were just telling Sir Peregrine as I mean to lock up now, sir,” said the constable. “Though I’ll take my rest here tonight, just in case of more trouble. A fine state of affairs England’s come to, when a gentleman hires Mohocks and the like to invade a peaceful village and get its honest citizens so drunk they forget who they are!”

  “Drunk?” Piers turned to his brother. “What’s all this?”

  “It seems our generous neighbour hauled in three barrels of ale this afternoon,” answered Peregrine grimly. “And set them up in the smithy, inviting everyone to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what? The steeplechase? If he claimed to have won, he’s a confounded liar. Roly Mathieson was the winner!”

  “He was?” Peregrine looked disappointed and Florian said a dismayed “Jove, Mr. Piers! I was sure our Tassels would come in first.”

  Peregrine said, “So was I.” Noting his brother’s expression, he added, “There’s a story to be told, I see. But to answer your question, Piers, Finchley claimed he was giving a party to honour Bragg.”

  “On account of I’d been so quick to get the murderer of his groom behind bars.” The constable shook his head. “That ale were powerful strong and our folk bean’t accustomed to making so free. In no time at all half the men was up in the world, which is why they got so ugly.”

  Piers muttered, “Why, that cunning rogue. So that’s how he whipped up his hanging party! And damn near got his way!”

  “I’m more grateful than I can say that you all helped me.” Florian’s voice was husky with emotion. “I didn’t do it, Mr. Piers. I swear on my honour! Sid Grover was a mean-spirited bully with a vicious temper. I’ll not pretend I didn’t loathe him. But if I ever kill a man it won’t be by bashing his head in from behind.”

  Peregrine asked, “Can you think of anyone with reason to murder him? And who would do the thing as you describe?”

  Florian hesitated, and his dark eyes fell.

  Bragg said, “I axed him the same, sir. He says he don’t know of no one.”

  “Does he not, by Jove!” exclaimed Piers. “I could name you a dozen who thoroughly disliked the fellow, and there are very likely as many more! Where was it done?”

  “I found him in the spinney just this side of the boundary line,” said Florian.

  “You found him? You silly clod! What the devil were you doing down there after I’d distinctly warned you—Oh, never mind, I know the answer to that. You went to see Laura Finchley again! Small wonder they charged you!”

  Florian gripped the bars of his cell and said earnestly, “Yes, that’s truth. I did hope to see her. I love her. If you had ever loved, sir, you’d know what it’s like to be kept from the lady you care for. But on the way home I all but fell over the—the body.” He shuddered and closed his eyes for an instant. “I hope I never see such a sight again. It was hideous!”

  Piers stared at him blankly. “If you had ever loved…”

  A male hand was tight on his shoulder. Peregrine said sternly, “Speaking of awful sights, you look burnt to the socket, and we have things to discuss, twin.”

  It was, thought Piers uneasily, the moment of truth.

  Half an hour later, clad in his dressing-gown and seated before the fire in the Muse Manor drawing room, he accepted the glass of Madeira Peregrine handed him. It was as well that Aunt Jane had gone upstairs. She had been overjoyed to welcome her two “dear boys” home again, but she was greatly worried about Florian. They’d done what they might to allay her fears and she had kissed them good night and declared she would sleep easier knowing they were there. “You will want to talk,” she’d said fondly, “so I’ll leave you. I know you’ll find a way to resolve this latest disaster.” He had pretended not to see Perry’s searching stare, and now, trying to sound indignant, he argued, “No such thing! In Town I told you about our leaky roof and the collapse of the steeple at St. Mark’s.”

  “So you did. A bone for the poor dog, eh? What you did not see fit to impart was the flood that took our poor Gertrude, and the fire at old Ezra Sweet’s cottage.”

  Piers shifted uneasily in his chair. He was ill prepared for this interrogation, for he ached with tiredness, his bruises throbbed unpleasantly, and he was beset by a nagging worry about Mary. Several people had told him they’d seen her coach drive away, but perhaps she had not gone to the cottage. Possibly, her Aunt Lucretia had accompanied her on the journey to the village and had insisted on an immediate return to London. His frown eased to a tender smile. He had no doubt but that it was Mary who’d inspired the Muse Village ladies to march to Florian’s rescue. Bless her brave heart! But how she had managed to arrive so soon after him was a puzzle. Stifling a sigh, he realized that his brother was still speaking and that he sounded extremely vexed.

  “… may grin, but I am no longer a child, Piers! You saved my life after Prestonpans, for which I shall be eternally—”

  “Oh, stubble it, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Very well. But I am sick to death of having you shoulder everything that goes awry and keeping me in the dark so as to protect me! I am eight and twenty—”

  “Of which I’m very well aware, twin?’

  “Then be aware that I do not need to be protected! I’ve the right to be told if problems arise concerning our estate. I’d hoped the part I played last year when Ross and Falcon and the rest of us were battling the Squire and his nest of traitors would have given you some respect for me!”

  “Of course I respect you! I fancy all England respects you. You won yourself a knighthood, did you not? Don’t be such a lunkhead!”

  “There! You do choose to think of me as a lunkhead! And you continue to shut me out as if I were a frail child and you my steadfast guardian!”

  “You’re talking nonsense!” Irritated, Piers stood. “And I’m going to bed.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not!” Peregrine stepped in front of him and said with rare harshness, “We’ll have this out now, if you please. I want the whole, with no bark on it! I’ll tell you that I already know more than you think.”

  “Tomorrow, Perry, I’m very tired and—”

  “Yes, I can see that, and I know you’ve had a frightful day. But you deserve being called to account and the sooner we get this done, the better! Sit—down—big brother.”

  Looking into the angry glitter in the blue eyes that were, he knew, so much like his own, Piers heard again Mary’s words when they’d been riding near the park that fateful morning. “I don’t envy you when you must confess the whole.”

  With a rueful sigh he sat down.

  Half an hour later, Peregrine looked aghast, and after a stunned silence exclaimed, “Why, you poor old birdwit!
How in the name of Gabriel and all the angels did you carry on through such a tide of disasters? As God is my judge, Piers, I could deck you when I think—And speaking of decking someone—how did you leave Valerian?”

  “Flat on his back.”

  “He’ll challenge, you realize.”

  “Of course. I left him my card.”

  “Then I’ll be your second.”

  “Thank you, kind sir. Am I permitted to seek out my bed at last?”

  Peregrine pursed his lips, and as they both stood, he said thoughtfully, “I’m aware you don’t like him, but you’ll own he is no coward?”

  “I’ll own that, yes.”

  “Does it occur to you that he may really have come to care for Miss Stansbury and was dealt a leveller when he saw her leaving your bedchamber at that hour?”

  “No. Gervaise Valerian has a love affair with only one person in this world. His dandified self.”

  Side by side, candlesticks in hand, they climbed the stairs.

  “There’s still much to be done,” said Peregrine. “Finchley, for instance.”

  “Tio is claiming first right to call him out.”

  “From what you’ve told me, I fancy Tio may have to wait his turn. Our ignoble Major must have made a whole troop of enemies during that race!”

  Piers smiled without mirth. “Assuredly. I must see how Tio goes on.”

  “I fancy his lady is with him. You did get word to his people?”

  “He straitly forbade it. Don’t look at me like that! He’s a grown man and has a right to protect his family. I had asked Florian to tell Amy, but he never had the chance. Just as well.”

  “You’re two of a kind,” said Peregrine drily. “Very well, I’ll seek out the chawbacon while you see what can be done for Florian and keep an eye on our sinister pedlar. Jupiter! What a bumble-broth we’re in! But at least I have wrung the truth from you, twin.”

  Piers nodded. “We’ll talk in the morning, when I can get my brain-box to work properly.” He slapped his brother on the back. “Good night, Perry. It will be good to have your help in all this.”

  Turning into his bedchamber, he felt a twinge of guilt. Actually, he had not told his twin everything. He hadn’t revealed his struggles to buy the river parcel and his reasons for wanting the property. He hadn’t revealed his suspicions that both the flood and the attack on Perry and young Grainger had been contrived. Nor had he mentioned the shot that had so narrowly missed him when he’d been driving Florian home in the cart.

  As the silent Blake pulled his boots off, Piers thought wearily that he had a right to keep his prospective wedding gift a secret. Also, he had no real proof about the flood, nor the rest of it. Only suspicion. And in the eyes of the law, suspicion paid no toll.

  In bed at last, he stretched out gratefully. First thing tomorrow, he would discover if Mary had gone back to London. If she had instead decided to overnight at the cottage, he would have a chance to see her. Smiling at this thought, he fell asleep.

  15

  Cranford awoke to pale winter sunshine and the awareness that he had added several more bruises to his colourful collection. He climbed stiffly out of bed, swore, and gripped his right arm, which the blow from a club had left lurid and painful. Taking up his timepiece, he groaned with vexation. It was nigh ten o’clock and he had intended to be at the village by eight.

  Blake appeared in answer to his tug on the bell-pull. Suave and enigmatic as ever, the valet murmured his apologies for having failed to awaken his employer as instructed. “You looked so very worn, sir. When I was unable to wake you at six o’clock, I consulted Sir Peregrine and we thought it best to let you have your sleep out.”

  Cranford informed him in no uncertain terms that he expected his orders to be obeyed. Gathering the shaving impedimenta, Blake bowed and undertook to comply in future, and in response to Cranford’s next enquiry divulged that Sir Peregrine had already left the Manor. “He apologized for his abrupt departure but said you would know where he is gone, and why.”

  Perry had said they would talk this morning. He had evidently changed his mind. Cranford tilted his head as soap was applied to his chin, and asked somewhat apprehensively, “Did my brother appear at all—out of sorts?”

  “Not that I could tell, sir. A trifle preoccupied, perhaps, but he very kindly offered my nephew a seat in his coach for as far as Short Shrift, where Herbert can catch the stage-coach back to London.”

  “Your nephew was here? Did he bring a message from Lord Nugent?”

  “No, sir. In fact, I fear he had—er, taken French leave, as they say. He is much attached to me and tends to bring me his troubles.” The razor was swung aside. “If you will be so kind as to be still for a minute or two…”

  In the interest of self-preservation Cranford complied with this request and tried to stifle his impatience. As Perry had said last night, there was much to be done, and time had a fiendish habit of slipping away.

  The shave completed, Blake brushed and powdered Cranford’s thick hair, and tied it back neatly. His later attempt to attach a snowy jabot to the stock was summarily rejected. Cranford said indignantly, “What are you about, you sly rascal? You know I do not care to have lace foaming out under my chin! Plain, if you please!”

  The valet sighed. “If you would but wear a wig, sir. I fear you are sadly out of the fashion.”

  “Very likely,” said Cranford shortly, and having shrugged into the riding coat Blake held for him, he hurried in search of his aunt.

  Mrs. Burrows came into the breakfast parlour in answer to his ring. She explained that Peddars had sustained a black eye during the struggle at Muse Village and Miss Jane feared the footman may also have a broken nose, so had taken him to the apothecary. Setting a plate of eggs and sliced ham before him, she shook her head and said heavily, “By what I heard, that was a shameful to-do last evening, Mr. Piers. Sir Peregrine looked quite pulled this morning, I thought.”

  “Did you!” In the act of removing a piece of toast from the rack, Cranford asked, “Was his limp worse?”

  Devoted as ever, the housekeeper nodded. “Seemed to me as it was, sir. I know he was beaten in London, which surely did not help matters. He shouldn’t be rushing about from pillar to post so soon afterwards. As I told him.” She sniffed and filled his coffee cup. “Much good it did me. I can but be glad, sir, as you took no serious harm. The world’s gone mad, so it has, when the Quality can be attacked on their own estate!”

  He said gently, “And you’re worried about Florian, are you not?”

  “Fair worried sick, I am, Mr. Piers.” Her voice trembled and she said shakily, “He’s a fine young gentleman and wouldn’t do such a heathen thing. Though—not wanting to speak ill of the dead, I’m bound to own that Sid Grover was not a good man and was bound to come to a bad end soon or late.”

  Cranford recalled her words as he rode Tassels into the village. He agreed with the housekeeper’s sentiments but could wish that Grover had come to his “bad end” somewhere other than on Muse Manor land.

  When he reached the village, his reception brought a furtive grin to his lips. Every female he encountered sent a smile his way, while the men avoided his eyes even as they touched their brows respectfully. Constable Bragg looked tired but was pleased to report that all was quiet today, and there had been no further trouble. “Keep alert,” advised Cranford. “This being a case of murder, we’ll have Runners down here today, I fancy. I may be out at the Westerman cottage for an hour or so this morning, but you can reach me there, or at the Manor, if you need me.”

  Bragg looked worried, but nodded and took Cranford back to the cell. Florian greeted him eagerly. There was a look of desperation in his dark eyes and when Cranford went inside and sat on the cot beside him he stammered that he could not endure to be locked up in such a confined space. “I suppose ’tis because I lived outdoors so much as a child,” he muttered. “These walls suffocate me. If I am condemned to spend the rest of my life shut up… My God! I ha
d sooner be dead!”

  Cranford gripped his shoulder and shook it, saying sternly that he wanted to hear no more of such nonsense. “You’ve to deal with a nasty bump in life’s road, Florian, but you have friends who will stand by you, and a sweet lady who cares for you. It was Miss Finchley sent me word of your trouble, you know.”

  Florian brightened and asked, “Is that why you came, Mr. Piers? I daren’t hope you would get here in time.” His eyes clouded again. “If you had not come…”

  “Well, we did come. My brother and I, and Peddars and Oliver Dixon and others. Peddars is at the apothecary this very minute because he took a broken nose during the little—er, fracas.”

  “I shall have to thank him, poor fellow. And—the ladies!… Gad! Was that Miss Stansbury who swung the torch? What a swath she cut!”

  Cranford chuckled. “She did, indeed. And trimmed the hair of one of the Major’s hired bravos!” He paused, then asked quietly, “You have no notion of who really killed Grover?”

  A brief pause, then, “None, sir.”

  Cranford looked at him steadily. “Why have I the feeling you protect someone?”

  The dark eyes shifted. Gazing at the door, Florian answered, “I don’t know, sir.”

  “I see.” Standing, Cranford said, “If you should change your mind, lad, send for me at once.”

  In the small office he asked for the constable’s view of the matter.

  Bragg looked solemn. “If young Mr. Consett is shielding someone, sir, he’s a fool and will likely pay the full penalty under the law. The Bow Street men don’t know him as we do, and since Grover was a commoner I fancy they’ll not waste much time on looking for the guilty party. Consett will hang, sure as check. He hated the man and were found bending over the body with blood on his hands. ’Tis all the proof Bow Street will need.”