by Joan Smith
“Where is your estate, Lord Ravencroft?” she asked.
“Hampshire. It is called Cheyne Bay. Cheyne is a corruption of chene, meaning oak. The forest has some excellent stands of oaks.”
“I assume from the name that it is on the coast?” she asked.
“Yes, but that area is not good for yachting.” His warning glance brought this subject to a close. Even Felix might know that this was nonsense.
“Speaking of Hampshire,” Felix said, “Did you hear about the pig race in Hyde Park last week, Ravencroft? I lost a packet. Made sure Corbin’s Hampshire sow would win. She was ahead by two lengths, when Boo Carter tossed her a cabbage, so of course, being a pig, she stopped and ate it up. Everton’s Berkshire won by a snout. Ought to have been re-run. Pig racing wants a Jockey Club. You interested in taking it on?”
Ravencroft was speechless for a moment, then recovered and said, “That sounds like a job for you, Bratty.”
“I’m no organizer, but I’d join. I’d join. Be a founding member. I mean to have a look around the stye before I leave and see if there ain’t a good trotter there.”
“I noticed, as I drove here, that the Hall has mostly cattle and sheep,” Ravencroft mentioned.
“So it has, but you couldn’t race a cow – could you?” he asked with dawning interest.
Every effort at sensible talk was similarly detoured. Amy could almost feel sorry for Ravencroft when she escaped to the saloon, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars. She went up to see her father, who was in a fretful mood.
“The trees are all dying, Nanny,” he said, brushing away a tear. “All the leaves are falling off. I want to climb the trees before they fall, but Tombey won’t let me.”
“It is dark out now, Papa. Perhaps you could climb them tomorrow.” By tomorrow he would have forgotten. She read him his favorite fairy tale, until his eyelids closed and he slept.
She was surprised to see the gentlemen had left the dining room when she returned only a quarter of an hour later. Ravencroft’s weary expression told her why he had cut the ceremony short.
“Well, this is a cozy little party,” Felix said once again.
“I have been up to visit Papa,” Amy said.
Ravencroft’s dark eyes, alight with interest, turned to her. “How is Lord Ashworth?” he inquired.
“He is sleeping,” she said, to forestall a meeting between them.
“Keep the old boy quiet with laudanum, there’s the trick,” Felix said.
“I did not give him laudanum,” she said angrily. “I read a – the Times to him.”
“Speaking of the Times, I wonder if they’ll report the pig race in Hyde Park.”
“Would you care to play cards, Lord Ravencroft?” Amy suggested, in a last effort to keep the visit on a sane footing.
“Don’t be daft, Amy, “ Felix said. “What can we play with just the three of us? And Uncle can’t play. I refuse to play Pope Joan or All Fours. Dashed insult to ask Ravencroft to play Pope Joan for pennies a point.”
“We could play casino,” she suggested.
“I really must be going soon,” Ravencroft said.
Felix glanced at his watch. “Nonsense, it’s hardly eight o’clock yet. You don’t want to be stuck at the inn with no one to talk to, Ravencroft.”
Ravencroft looked to Amy for assistance. She could think of nothing to say. “You were mentioning that Chinese wallpaper in your room that you were going to show me, Bratty, “ Ravencroft said.
“Yes, by Jove. Come up and have a look. I have a bottle of brandy there. The Gentlemen keep us supplied, here on the coast.”
Amy was uneasy to see them go abovestairs. She had warned Felix not to mention her father’s mental state, but she had not actually said to keep Ravencroft out of his room. As her father was sleeping, however, she assumed they wouldn’t disturb him. She tried to settle down to read, but her mind was too distracted to concentrate. If Felix got into the brandy, there was no telling what he might say, or do.
The time dragged on. She could hardly believe, when she glanced at the longcase clock in the corner, that they had only been gone half an hour. She picked up her book again, and again couldn’t concentrate.
Really it was very annoying that Ravencroft had weaseled his way in the door. He had certainly not come to enjoy an evening of Felix’s idiocy, nor had he been very gallant, which would have mitigated the unpleasantness of his coming. He had come in hope of talking to her father – and if he was ever going to do it, this was the time. They had been upstairs for forty minutes now. Surely it didn’t take that long to look at the old age-dimmed wallpaper in Felix’s room and drink a glass of brandy.
She set aside the book and went quietly upstairs, planning to go into her father’s bedroom and guard his door herself. The master bedroom was just to the right of the staircase. As she reached the landing, her father’s door opened. She stopped in her tracks. Felix and Ravencroft came out. Ravencroft looked pale and pensive. He lifted his dark eyes to her and just stared. Was it pity or accusation she read in that dark look?
“Don’t cut up at me, Amy,” Felix said. “There was no hiding that uncle has gone completely loony. We could hear him from my room, bawling like a baby. Had to go and see what ailed the old boy. Tombey says he wants his tin soldiers. I shall have a rout about the attic for them tomorrow.”
“You shouldn’t have disturbed him,” she said.
“Dash it, he was already disturbed. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He is old as the hills. It ain’t as if the family is tainted with insanity. Why Ravencroft was just telling me he has an old auntie who dresses herself up in short skirts and lisps that she is four years old.”
Amy brushed past them with an angry whisk of her skirts and went into the bedroom. Tombey had got her father quietened down for the night. “What happened?” she asked.
“He awoke, as he often does, and began to make a racket. Mr. Bratty came to see what he could do.”
“What did Lord Ravencroft say?” she asked.
“He didn’t say anything, ma’am. He just looked at his lordship for a moment, sad like, then looked all around the room and left. He could see by the hobby horse and books of fairy tales and nursery rhymes that your papa has reverted to childhood.”
She looked around sadly. “Yes, he could certainly see that,” she said, defeated. And what would he not say to herself now that he knew she had been feeding him a bag of moonshine? She went to her room to consider how she could talk her way out of this. She could do nothing tonight with Felix hovering at her elbow. She wanted to crawl into bed and pull the coverlet over her head, but as the hostess, she must go and say goodnight to their guest.
She straightened her shoulders and went down the stairs, wearing a proud face to conceal her feelings. Ravencroft was at the door with Felix, just putting on his hat. Good, he was leaving! Her relief was short lived. He directed a long, enigmatic look at her. This was just a reprieve. Tomorrow, or very soon, she would have to meet Ravencroft again.
“Leaving so soon, milord?” she asked, in a nervous voice that did not match her expression.
“Ravencroft just remembered he has an appointment this evening with a house agent in Easton,” Felix told her.
“I look forward to seeing you soon, Miss Bratty,” Ravencroft said. “We did not have much opportunity to talk. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He took two steps toward her and shook her hand, while gazing steadily into her eyes. She felt a slip of paper, and held on to it as he withdrew his fingers. Then he was gone. She could not face another hour or more with Felix, even if it was only nine o’clock. She claimed fatigue and went to her room, where she lit a lamp and read the note. It was dashed off on a corner of a news journal. How had he managed it? Perhaps while Felix was pouring himself a glass of wine.
The note was necessarily brief, but very much to the point. “Tomorrow, 8 a.m., abandoned house.” There was no signature, At least he had chosen the hour well. Felix would not be up much befor
e noon.
Ravencroft had succeeded in his aim of seeing Lord Ashworth. He already knew that Cocker was not the man who had told her about the French smugglers. Her lies were being uncovered, one by one. But she was not ready to give up her exciting adventure yet. She would convince him somehow that what she had told him was true, as indeed it was, and vital information too. She must not forget that.
But if she told him the truth, he would immediately insist that a lady should not be involved in such important and dangerous matters. She must convince him that her papa, the legendary Cougar, had lucid spells during which he continued his work. Now who could she claim spoke French, and spied for Papa?
As Ravencroft drove home, his mind was also busy. Ashworth’s condition left no doubt in his mind that Miss Bratty had been weaving a tissue of lies. Her father’s bedchamber held no books or papers, no writing utensils. It looked like a nursery, which told him the man’s condition was permanent. Yet someone at Bratty Hall had been sending Fitz good, reliable information.
After conjuring with the problem, he became convinced that that someone could only be either Miss Bratty herself or Felix.
It was obviously not Miss Bratty. A lady couldn’t disguise herself as a rough and tough Gentleman and help with the smuggling. How else could she have known about Bransom’s murder? It had to be Felix Bratty. His facade of happy fool was to divert suspicion. And he played the role to the hilt. In fact, he rather overdid it. No one could be that foolish.
What he could not understand was why Bratty wanted to keep his role a secret from Fitz, and others in the business like himself. Was it because society considered him a bit of an idiot, and he feared he would not be taken seriously? That was the only reason he could come up with.
It would be a relief to be able to discuss it with him like a reasonable man. It was unnecessary that he meet Miss Bratty after all. On the other hand, she had looked rather pretty that evening. She obviously acted as a messenger for her cousin, so she knew what was afoot. No doubt he would be meeting her often in her capacity as messenger.
Then he put these thoughts from his mind and concentrated on more serious matters. He had spent part of the day looking for places where Bransom’s body might be buried or otherwise concealed. Like Amy, he didn’t think it was in Easton. He had ridden through the countryside on the far side of Easton, but hadn’t found any clues. Bratty might have an idea. He was eager for morning.
Chapter Eight
Amy was at the abandoned house at eight the next morning. As the wind was cold, she waited in the kitchen for Ravencroft, who arrived very soon after her. Their stiff “Good morning’s” were followed by an uncomfortable silence, as each considered how to begin the conversation, As there were no chairs in the room, they stood throughout their meeting.
“I’m sorry to have brought you out so early,” he said.
“I am always up early.”
Ravencroft, noticing her uncertainty, was not slow to take advantage of it. “About last night–”
She stiffened, but faced up to it. “My father has spells when he is not himself. It is unfortunate you caught him at a bad time.”
“Your father is not only bedridden, Miss Bratty, he has reverted to childhood,” he said bluntly. “From the condition of his bedchamber, I would say he has been that way for some time. The inevitable question is – who has been sending information to Sir George?”
She lifted her chin to hide her chagrin. “I have already told you, I handle my father’s correspondence.”
An impatient “Bah!” and a wave of his hand told her his opinion of that. “You know what I’m asking, where do you get the information you send Sir George?”
“Papa has men working for him,” she replied mysteriously. “Messages come to the house.”
“Who reads them? Who decides whether they are important? Not your father.”
Again she lifted her chin. “As I have already explained, Papa has lucid spells.”
He wondered if she knew her chin rose a few millimeters every time she lied. “Miss Bratty, don’t treat me as if I were an idiot. I have seen your father, and I have seen other elderly people in the same condition. I don’t wish to be rude, but I doubt very much if Ashworth has had a lucid spell in over a year. The mantle of the Cougar has obviously passed to someone. It is imperative that I speak to this man.”
Of course he would assume it was a man. “What is it you want to know? I know as much about what is going on as anyone.”
“Very well, if that is your attitude. If you refuse to tell me who the Cougar is –” He turned and strode to the door.
And with him went Amy’s hopes for adventure. If he convinced Sir George that her father was in his dotage, she would be left out of the investigation completely. They would pay no attention to her findings. “Wait!” He turned. She looked him in the eye and said firmly, “I am.”
He blinked, waiting. Had he not understood? “Yes, go on. You are what?” he asked.
The impossibility of convincing him was made clear in that speech. He had asked who the Cougar was. She said, “I am.” And he not only didn’t believe it, he didn’t even hear it in any meaningful way. She might as well have said she was the Queen of England, or of Sheba. What was the point of trying to convince him?
“I am – under an oath of secrecy,” she said gravely. “The gentleman for whom I send messages wishes to remain anonymous because of his position.” Now what would the Wolf make of that?
His sardonic sneer told her he didn’t believe it. “What are you suggesting, ma’am? That the Cougar is an archbishop, perhaps, or a member of a religious sect that abhors physical violence? Or just a gentleman who wishes to be thought a fool!”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“Then by God I’ll get it from him myself. This is a ridiculous, childish way to carry on.”
He stormed out the door, hopped on his mount, and pounded through the meadow to Bratty Hall, with Amy hard on his heels. He didn’t take his mount to the stable, but left it tethered to an iron ring in the forecourt. Amy caught up to him as he strode to the front door.
“You can’t disturb Papa!” she said, clutching at his arm.
He shook her fingers off. “It is not your papa I am going to give a piece of my mind.” He yanked the door open and went in.
“Then who?” she asked, scrambling after him.
“Your cousin, Bratty.”
“Felix? He won’t be up for hours yet. Why do you want to speak to him?” As his meaning sank in, she could only gasp in disbelief. “You cannot think he knows anything!”
Hearing voices, the butler came rushing forth from his room, where he had been going over Cook’s accounts. “Miss Bratty! Your lordship, can I be of any assistance?”
“I would like to speak to Mr. Bratty,” Ravencroft said. “It is urgent.”
“I’m afraid he’s out, sir,” the butler said.
Ravencroft directed a triumphant stare at Amy. “He’s never up before noon,” she said.
“He was up early this morning, ma’am,” the butler insisted.
“Has he returned to London?”
“Oh no, ma’am. He had his lordship’s gelding brought around. As he asked for a gun, I assume he went out for a spot of shooting. He should be back soon.”
“I’ll wait,” Ravencroft said, and strode into the saloon.
Amy asked Bailey to bring coffee, then went to join Ravencroft in that cold, grand room. “I can’t imagine where Felix has gone,” she said.
“Cut line, Miss Bratty. You know perfectly well where he has gone. Where I should be myself – looking for Bransom’s body.”
“He’ll not find it near here. I spent the whole afternoon yesterday looking for it. And I know the likely spots for hiding better than Felix. Have you asked Felix to help you?”
He gave a mock smile. “Let us say, he volunteered.” Ravencroft preferred working alone, but if there was an unofficial agent on the job, he must know who it was, a
nd what he was doing. Bratty’s familiarity with the area could be useful.
“So that is what you two were discussing so long last evening when you let on you wanted to see the Chinese wallpaper. I could have saved you time if you had included me in your discussion. I believe Bransom must be buried on the far side of Easton.”
“If he is, they did a good job of it. I and my servants went over the area with a fine tooth comb yesterday.”
Amy considered this a moment. “I shouldn’t think they would have killed him in town, or buried his body there.”
“Not in the parts of town a lady is likely to be familiar with,” he said. “There is usually a part of every town where the low life, criminal element gather. A gun shot there wouldn’t cause undue concern. Or it might have been a brawl, and a knife in the back.”
Amy’s lips clenched. She had not known Bransom long, but due to their work she had come to know him fairly well. She had thought him a glamorous, gallant gentleman. She had accepted mentally that he had been killed, but to actually picture him with a knife in his back, or a bullet in his head was unnerving. This was a dangerous business she had pitched herself into. Perhaps Sir FitzHugh was right to think it was not for ladies.
“I expect Easton has such an area?” he said.
“The coal yards,” she replied. “Just beyond the northern edge of town, right on the coast. An estuary there has been deepened to allow the ships to come in. Coal is stored there. There are great black mountains of it. Ships bring it down from the north, smaller ones come and are loaded to take it to the cities in the south.”
“I expect there is a guard posted to protect the coal from theft.”
“Yes, Jemmy Folker. But he drinks. Give him a bottle of wine and you could carry away the whole shed. The McIvors keep their house boiling hot all winter and have never had the coal wagon call.”
Ravencroft shook his head. “Why doesn’t the constable arrest him?”
“McIvor is the constable,” she replied.
Ravencroft’s lips trembled. “I see. What else is at the coal yard?”
“I have never been there, but you can see it from the High Street. There are some ramshackle old houses and a tavern and a place called the Spanish Lady where, er–” she came to a halt.