The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

“No,” panted Gervaise.

  “And you, my inept Major?”

  Clutching his head, Finchley dragged himself up. “Much… you care,” he moaned.

  “True. I’ve no patience with stupidity. You might have known Cranford would suspect you. Ah, but here come the rest of your rogues, so we are not quite undone.”

  Cranford’s eyes narrowed and he swore under his breath.

  From the open front door came the sound of running feet and men shouting.

  Staring in bewilderment from the barrister to Finchley, Mary stammered, “What—what do you mean? Can it be that—”

  Cranford knew just what he meant. Whirling on Shorewood, he flailed his sword at the pistol and as the weapon fell from the barrister’s grasp he snatched it up. “I always thought Finchley had someone with brains backing him,” he cried, ducking a flying meat cleaver. “Get her out of this, Gervaise! Hurry!”

  “I think you won’t get very far,” said Shorewood gratingly, clutching his wrist, but very aware of the steady hand that aimed the pistol at his heart.

  Valerian gasped, “What—about you, Piers?”

  “I’ll hold them as long as I can—then follow. Go! If they take her we’re done!”

  Valerian jumped out of range, seized Mary’s hand, and ran through the open rear door.

  Finchley’s bravos howled their rage and plunged forward, and more men raced in from the front.

  Shorewood’s great voice boomed, “Hold up, lads. Our former Lieutenant is a crack shot and I’ve no wish to die today.”

  They halted at once, glaring ragefully at Cranford, but not daring to disobey their employer.

  Cranford knew that sooner or later Finchley or one of these ruffians would challenge him and that once he fired the pistol he would be speedily overwhelmed. He could only hope to delay them for as long as possible. He said, “So ’tis you I have to thank for all my disasters, eh, gentleman of the law?”

  Shorewood gave a careless shrug. “Not all. And you are ungrateful, Cranford. Do but consider the lengths to which we went so that you would be encouraged to sell without the need to do you an injury.”

  “You were the rogue bidding on my estate,” accused Cranford. “You caused the floods!”

  “I mean to have your lands,” admitted the barrister. “To which end I did arrange for the landslide, but I promise you my own hand was nowhere near the scene.”

  “You confounded villain! You murdered Gertrude!”

  “The devil,” exclaimed Shorewood indignantly. “I never harmed a lady in my life!”

  “Gertrude is—was—a cow, you fool,” snarled Finchley.

  “To judge me a fool, my dear Major, is a risky error,” said the barrister silkily. “I warned you our Lieutenant was a fighter and that we’d have done well to move faster. You enjoyed your little ploys to whittle him down gradually, but it took too long, and that business with his brother was quite ineffectual.”

  “You curst lawyers all talk too much,” growled Finchley, staring balefully at Cranford. “And don’t put it all off on my head. You were the one set the stable fire and had that yokel’s cottage burnt down.”

  “Mea culpa” acknowledged the barrister with an unrepentant grin. “A neat step, though later events proved it unnecessary I will admit that your poor sportsmanship at the steeplechase took Cranford out of the race very tidily.”

  “Damn your eyes, do not dare name me a poor sportsman!”

  “Can I perhaps assume you have at least succeeded in learning the whereabouts of the burial mound? Or did you botch that simple task also?”

  “I’ll tell you what I have not botched,” snarled Finchley, his hatred for the barrister very apparent. “All these months you’ve talked to me as if I were dirt beneath your feet. And all these months you’ve thought to cheat me at the end, and get your greedy paws on Muse Manor and the hidden fortune! Did you fancy me too stupid to see it?”

  “I knew exactly how stupid you are, dear partner,” purred the barrister, “and planned accordingly.”

  With a lightning move he reached to an inner pocket.

  Finchley grabbed a fallen dagger and hurled it at his partner’s heart.

  The barrister’s face turned an ashen hue. He clutched at the handle of the dagger protruding from his chest, choked something incomprehensible, and collapsed.

  Seizing his chance, Cranford leaped for the opening to the scullery, only to find it barred by a brute of a man flourishing a scythe. He sprang aside but the scythe whistled for his throat, and behind him Finchley shouted, “Finish the swine!” Another sweep of the deadly scythe. Cranford had no choice; he fired point-blank. The big man was hurled back and fell heavily.

  Finchley roared, “Three of you new fellows go out to the backyard and surround him!”

  The youth with the lecherous grin complained, “There’s a curst tall fence back there, guv’nor!”

  “Then run around it, you lazy clod! You four, get after Valerian and the girl. They can hang the lot of us!”

  The new arrivals obeyed at once. The remainder, numbering, about six now, closed on Cranford. Fighting them off desperately, his sword whirling, but retreating step by step, he knew there were too many. His only chance was to escape before he was completely surrounded.

  The big ruffian from the park attack yelled exultantly, “We got him, mates!”

  They plunged eagerly at their solitary opponent.

  Cranford leaped onto the table and the lamp on it flickered. The lamp! Snatching it up, he shouted, “You like to play with fire! Here!” and hurled it at that lusting charge. It shattered and exploded into flame.

  The joy had gone out of the attackers; howling with fear, they drew back. The big man’s breeches were ablaze and his shrieks added to the uproar.

  Not waiting to see the result, praying he had bought Mary and his cousin sufficient time, Cranford sprinted out of the back door, across a weedy and overgrown garden and through an open gate. He could discern men jumping down from the side fence and running at him. There was no sign of Walker or Tassels, but, confident that Valerian would not have left him without a mount, he ran swiftly from the cottage and, gathering his breath, whistled.

  The shouts behind him were closer and louder. He recognized Finchley’s howl and guessed the Major would have appropriated Shorewood’s pistol.

  A silver horse cantered to him.

  “Bless you, my beauty!” he panted and vaulted to her back.

  An enraged roar went up from the cottage.

  There came the ear-splitting crack of a shot and a mighty unseen hand almost knocked him from the saddle.

  He gasped, “Come on, lass! Faster!”

  And, as always, Tassels obeyed.

  Finchley and his ruffians would lose no time in following, and the villainous Major had already sent some of his men in pursuit of Mary and Valerian. The dandy would head for the nearest source of help, which would be the Manor. Cranford turned Tassels in that direction. The moon was brighter now. Leaning forward, he scanned the meadows for other riders. Valerian had been hit, he was sure; God send he would have sufficient strength to protect Mary!

  Racing at breakneck speed, he saw four horsemen ahead, apparently making for the village. He swung Tassels to the east and Muse Manor. It was taking the deuce of a time to get there. Tassels was doing her best, that was certain, but she had developed an odd gait and at times seemed almost to float through the air. He could hear hoofbeats behind him again, and tried to look back, but abandoned the attempt when pain, sudden and sharp, reminded him that Finchley had shot straight. Wearily, he urged the mare to greater speed. There were lights everywhere, waving about, and voices shouting. He wondered in a detached fashion if the Major’s bullet had actually killed him and he was riding Tassels to the next plane of existence. For some reason that amused him, and he chuckled to himself.

  “Piers! Thank goodness!”

  Mary’s voice, sounding very relieved.

  Mary’s face, glowing in the light of a
ll the lanterns.

  He blinked, and saw that Valerian stood beside Walker, talking to Tio Glendenning. There were others there now. Familiar faces drifted at him: Perry, dismounting; Constable Bragg in his cart; Bobby Peale, riding his old hack; all peering at him anxiously.

  Mary looked frightened, but thank the Lord, she was safe now. Eager to tell her this, he swung down from the saddle, then caught at the stirrup, irritated because his right side hurt so fiercely.

  Perry came up and threw an arm about him. “You clunch! Why did you not send for—”

  Piers said in a faraway voice, “Mary… you’re quite…”

  Valerian swayed and sank down like a puppet whose string had snapped.

  With a shrill cry of terror, Mary ran to kneel beside him. Looking up, her eyes frantic and full of tears, she stretched out a blood-stained hand and sobbed, “He is hurt! Please help! Oh—please!”

  The viscount slanted a quick glance at Piers’ white and enigmatic face. Catching his eye, Peregrine tightened his arm about his brother. “Look after her, please, Tio. Bobby, perhaps you and Mr. Bragg can carry Mr. Valerian into the house. Can you manage, if you lean on me, twin?”

  With a great effort, Piers said wearily, “I can manage.”

  18

  My dear boy!” Alarmed, General Lord Nugent Cranford rose rapidly from behind the desk in his study and hurried to pat his grandnephew gently on the shoulder and pull up a chair for him. “Whatever can you be thinking of? Only a week since you were shot and you’ve essayed a tiring journey into Town? I wonder Peregrine didn’t put a stop to it! Be dashed if I can see what could be so curst urgent!”

  Piers drew a slow breath and sat down cautiously. His side was stiff and painful and the journey to town in the rocking coach had been a good deal less than pleasant. He’d felt it both an obligation and a vital necessity, however, and not to be delegated to his twin, who was for the third and hopefully final time planning for his wedding. He said, “Perry doesn’t know I’m here, sir.”

  “Nor should you be! Look at you! A regular death’s head, and weak as a cat! You and your cousin are two of a kind, I declare! Here you’ve journeyed to Town for no sensible reason, and he’s gone frippering off to Italy for no possible reason! Italy! When he should be recruiting his strength here in Town, and tending to nuptial arrangements. You’ll know he has offered for Cordelia Stansbury?”

  Piers tried not to flinch, but he was weaker than he knew and his eyes betrayed him. “I supposed he would, sir. You must be pleased.”

  The General had seen that briefly desolate look and to conceal his own sense of guilt said with forced heartiness, “And there’s a massive understatement! I’m delighted! Purely delighted that the young rascal came up to scratch and honoured his obligation at last! But—there, I know you’ve never liked him and I think you cherished a tendre for the girl, so I’ll say no more on that head. Though why he must dash off to Italy… of all places, baffles me!”

  Piers could have enlightened him but he said, “Have you seen Miss Stansbury, sir?”

  “Oh, yes. Delightful girl. A bit on the—er, harum-scarum side. But—these modern women, y’know. Like to take the bit ’twixt their teeth. Not demure and gentle like your grandmama, eh?”

  Startled, Piers thought, ‘Demure and gentle? Grandmama?’ and tried to equate that description with a large lady with a large voice and a domineering personality, who had ruled her husband and the family with a rod of iron. He smiled and kept his reservations to himself, which was as well because the General had not waited for comments.

  “Even so, Miss Stansbury is charming. And much prettier than I had remembered. Good God! Do you say she ain’t been to see you? After you and Gervaise risked your lives to wrench her from the hands of that dastardly Gresford Finchley?”

  Actually, Mary had come to see him. It had been a difficult visit, for although, at his insistence, he had been allowed to get out of bed and sit in an armchair to receive her, and had made light of his wound, she had wept. Had she not allowed herself to be hornswoggled by the horrid Major, she’d said, scattering tears, neither Gervaise nor Piers would have been hurt. He had assured her she was talking nonsense, and had then been really hurt when she had blown her little nose and said earnestly that he was the best friend a lady could ever wish for. He pushed that bitter recollection from his mind and tried to concentrate on what his great-uncle was saying.

  “… fine example of an Army officer, he showed himself to be! Small wonder he made a run for it. Hell be clapped into prison if he ever dares set foot on British soil again! As will that murderous solicitor should he recover of his wound. He is opinionated as ever, I’m told. Shows no whit of shame for his crimes, and means to conduct his own defence in Court. Much good will it do him! You might know that Nathan Stansbury would make such a mull of choosing his man of the law. A proper rogue he picked, eh? Though that don’t surprise me. Lawyers ain’t to be trusted. Too clever for their own good, most of ’em. Bear that in mind, my boy.”

  “Yes, I will, but—”

  “Well, speak up, speak up! Why are you here? And don’t say ’tis out of filial affection, for I shall not believe you!” He laughed heartily at this good joke, then asked, “Do you expect someone? You keep watching the door.”

  “I had sent for young Turner, sir.”

  “Herbert? Why? You’ll not get a sensible conversation out of that poor fellow. He’s likely talking to his cabbages. He does, y’know.”

  “Then perhaps we could send for him again. I’ve some questions he may be able to—”

  “Pish! Nonsense! As well ask a snail. What the deuce are you about? Sit down, lad! Oh, very well. I’ll send for him.” The General reached behind him and tugged on the bell-pull, and when the butler appeared, sent him off to find his gardener. “Meanwhile,” he said, apparently in an expansive mood, “you shall have a glass of cognac, Piers. Put some colour in your cheeks!”

  He poured the brandy, handed Piers a glass, and was grumbling at the tardiness of his servants when the housekeeper came in.

  She shot a quick glance at Piers and said in a nervous flurry of words, “Did you wish to see me, sir?”

  “No, Eliza,” said the General. “lieutenant Piers wants a word with Herbert. Be so good as to desire him to—”

  “He’s—he’s not here, sir. He has—er, gone out. In fact, I doubt he will return to—er, today, so you had best not wait for him, Mr. Piers.”

  “Not—return?” echoed the General, mystified. “What gob-bledegook are you mouthing, woman? Send the boy here at once. I know he’s about—I saw him just minutes ago in the back garden!”

  “No, no, you must be mistaken, sir. Herbert’s away. If there’s something the Lieutenant wants to ask him, why, I can relay a message when—er, when he comes home.”

  “Which will be—tomorrow?” asked Piers gently. “Or never, perhaps? And why do you not look at me, Eliza?”

  “Look at you?” said the General. “Why should Mrs. Turner look at you? Seen you before. Lots of times. In fact, I—”

  “Your pardon, sir,” interrupted Piers. “It’s of no use for him to run, Eliza. Better for him to talk to me than to Bow Street.”

  Lord Nugent’s jaw dropped and he half-whispered, “Bow Street?”

  The housekeeper quailed, and wringing her apron said fiercely, “Oh, but you’re a wicked young man, Piers Cranford! All these years being so friendly and kind, and now you try to get my boy into trouble only to help your worthless gypsy friend! Nugent! You must not let him make up his lies and deceits and false accusations!”

  “What in the name of all that’s wonderful are you blathering at?” demanded the General, having reached the end of his patience. “And what the deuce has Bow Street to do with my gardener, Piers?”

  “I had hoped Herbert would tell you that himself, sir. It would be better were he to do so, Eliza.”

  “It’s all lies, Nugent,” cried the housekeeper shrilly. “Don’t believe a word he says! He’ll
do anything to—”

  “Hold your tongue, woman! And whether for better or worse, Piers, the boy’s not here, so let’s come at the root of all this backing and filling.”

  A timid voice interjected, “I—I’m here, lieutenant Piers.”

  “No!” The housekeeper’s scream was piercing, and she flew to throw her arms around her tall son and demand in near hysteria that he say nothing, that he had done nothing, and that Piers Cranford was cruelly trying to make him the scapegoat to protect his murdering steward.

  The General, at his sternest, said, “That… will… do, Eliza! Herbert, have the goodness to explain all this rigmarole.”

  Herbert said, “’Tis of no use, Mother. They’ll find out anyhow.” He put her from him firmly, and said, “I’m the guilty one, my lord. I killed Sidney Grover!”

  Mrs. Turner burst into a flood of weeping.

  The General said softly, “Now did you, by God! I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you…”

  “Because he so mercilessly tormented you?” asked Piers.

  “No, sir! He was a bully and a beast, but I could have stood that. It was when he kept bragging and saying such evil things about Miss—Miss Laura. She is so beautiful and—and so pure. And the things he said… Vile, loathsome things about what he would do when she was his wife.”

  “Sidney Grover?” exploded the General incredulously. “Finchley’s groom fancied he would wed a lady of Quality? Fella must have been demented.”

  “He claimed he knew things Major Finchley had done, sir. Bad things that could have ruined the Major, and very likely got him hung. He said the Major wouldn’t dare deny him. Miss Laura was as good as—as in his bed!”

  “Pretty talk, and so much hot air, likely,” said the General with a snort of disgust. Scowling, he added sombrely, “Blackmail must be the most vicious crime under the sun… Still, you’d have done well to laugh at him rather than ruin your life by beating him to death.”

  “He didn’t, my lord,” declared the housekeeper between sobs. “My poor son knows not what he says. Don’t pay heed to—”