Jack on the Box

by Patricia Wynn

  Jack limped out into the yard just as the horses came to a halt. He watched as the driver stepped down from the box and then offered him his mug. The man accepted it with a condescending air before turning to extract the parcels from the foreboot. He seemed a cheerful fellow, full of his own importance and certain of meriting admiration.

  The back of the coach was what interested Jack the most, however, for there he spied his old guard, Davies. At first, Davies did not see him, for he was occupied with the important task of recording his time in the logbook. The mail sack for Hockley Heath had been taken from the cache beneath his feet and was hanging from his shoulder. When he glanced up, however, to see whose face belonged to the boots before him, he started and let a rare grin escape.

  “Eh, young fella,” he said. “I didn’t know t’was you. Up and goin’ on your feet already now, are you?”

  Jack assured him he was and presented him with the pint. The guard waved him away with a chuckle until he could deliver his precious sack, but promised to return shortly. Jack took the time to look over the harness that the ostlers were rehitching and to admire its neat appearance. Mr. Rose was a coach owner on this ground and took good care of his property.

  Davies returned quickly, and Jack begged his attention. The coach made only a five-minute stop, so they would have little time to chat.

  “How was your report received on the accident?” Jack asked him.

  Davies shook his head sadly at first, but then grinned impishly at Jack’s show of consternation. “Nay, lad. You’ve nought to worry about. It was the proprietor’s fault in Shipston. The coach ought to ‘ave been looked over better that mornin’. It was a weak spot up under the carriage—you just missed it, that’s all.”

  “They don’t think I ought to have seen it?”

  Davies shook his head. “Perhaps you ought, but they’re not blamin’ you for it. It was too hard to detect.” He looked Jack over and lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Aren’t they treatin’ you well up at the manor? Are you ready to come back into service?”

  Jack took a deep breath. “I’ll be ready in a week. Do you think they’ll give me my old ground back?”

  Davies shrugged, but his expression was encouraging. “I’ll put in a good word for you. And who knows but what the passengers might not insist upon it.” He cocked his head towards the front of the coach. “This fella’s not as sober as you got to be.”

  Jack laughed and thanked him. Davies clapped him on the back and prepared to climb back onto his perch. But before the mail coach could take off with a lurch, Jack took a few steps back and away from it and almost collided with a gentleman who was strolling into the inn.

  “Watch your step, my good man,” said the other man testily. “You nearly trod on my good boots and disturbed the polish. You ought to watch where you are going.”

  Jack apologized good-naturedly and turned to smile up at Davies. He found, however, that his friend was not smiling so broadly.

  “Popinjay,” muttered the guard under his breath. “That fella rode up from London with us yesterday,” he explained. “A conceited peacock if I’ve ever seen one. Talked the whole way about his friendship with Lord Stourport, lorded it over the rest of the passengers, and forgot to leave his shillin’s to boot. If you want my opinion, that one’s no better than he should be, and if you want to step on him, Jack, you’ve got my blessin’.”

  As Davies put the horn to his lips to sound the departure of the mail, Jack turned quickly to look after the object of their conversation, who had just disappeared inside the inn. Jack waved goodbye to the guard with a thoughtful expression, and then turned to follow the self-proclaimed friend of Lord Stourport into the public room.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Jack entered the smoke-filled room, he was greeted by a gentle hum of voices. It was approaching midday, and people had begun to drift into the inn for a spot of ale before heading home for their dinner. As soon as Jack’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he espied the gentleman Davies had indicated, sitting at a table.

  Mr. Rose was busy at the tap, so Jack limped over and sat as close to him as possible. After a few minutes, the innkeeper asked him for his order.

  “Saw you talking to the guard on the mail this morning,” ventured Mr. Rose. “Happen you’ll be taking up the reins again soon.” He regarded Jack with interest.

  “That’s right,” Jack said. “It’s time for me to get back into harness.”

  They chatted on about the mail for a while, until Jack, who had never taken his eyes off his quarry, asked Mr. Rose about him.

  The innkeeper quirked an eyebrow in the direction of his guest and snorted with disgust. “That fella? I don’t know what you would want with him. Name of Sudbury, or some such thing. Tries to pass himself off as a gentleman. Even asked me for one of my private parlours, but I knew better than to waste one on him! More of a gentleman’s gentleman, I would say, and I’ve entertained enough of the gentry to know the difference. Claims he’s a friend of that Lord Stourport what’s staying up at the manor with Sir Waldo. But what I say is, if he is such a friend of his, what’s he doing down here instead of calling up at the manor?”

  “What indeed?” Jack agreed, staring at the man with interest. The name Sudbury had made his ears prick up, and a wave of excitement rolled through him as he realized he was on to something.

  “Is he staying on tick?” he asked Mr. Rose suddenly.

  The innkeeper shook his head. “Not he. I wouldn’t venture to give him a bed unless I knew he could come up with the reckoning. There’s something too havey-cavey about him if you ask me. But I will say this,” he admitted, “he’s had no trouble paying his way at the bar. Waves his purse all around so that everyone can see how full it is. And he ordered himself a big meal last night and gave our serving girl quite a tip for it. Course, it was easy to see what he had in mind, but our Betsy’s not that sort of a girl, if you get my meaning.”

  “I see,” Jack mused. And indeed, his thoughts were rapidly forming a connection that could explain the man’s identity. He was certain that this Sudbury was the same fellow who had so lately been in the employ of Alfred—his former valet, in fact. If the name had been needed to identify him positively, his style and bearing alone would have betrayed his calling, despite the clothes of a gentleman. No one except a personal manservant would carry himself so stiffly, and his perfect, white neckcloth, the absence of any wrinkles in his coat, and the impossible shine on his boots proclaimed the hand of an expert. Evidently Sudbury, in spite of coming into recent wealth, performed his own toilet. Jack doubted he would be satisfied with anything less.

  But how had he come into money? It was true that this might be possible for any valet. Wasn’t it said that Beau Brummell himself had a valet for a grandfather? But changes in circumstances did not, as a rule, come about so drastically. And not usually without the patronage of an employer. Jack knew that Alfred had broken with his former valet, and he now suspected that the reason for the rupture had been more serious than Alfred had led them to believe.

  After thanking Mr. Rose for the ale and the conversation, Jack took his glass and walked over to Sudbury in a modified stagger. He took pains to appear as if Mr. Rose’s pint of ale had not been his first.

  He was passing Sudbury’s table, pretending not to notice him, when he suddenly stopped and stared. “ Hoy there, friend!” he cried, lowering his face to gaze myopically at the valet. “Aren’t you the fellow I nearly stepped on outside?”

  Sudbury drew his head back as far as he could, but Jack responded by bringing his face closer. The accosted valet spoke haughtily. “I am, indeed, my good man, but that does not qualify you as an acquaintance. Move along now, and do not bother me.”

  Jack laughed and, as if he had not heard Sudbury, took a chair across the table. “Well now,” he said. “I can’t have you goin’ away all offended now, can I? What’ll it be? What will you have?”

  Sudbury’s nostrils flared with offence, and h
e drew himself up with a rigid back. “I have no intention of drinking with you, you lout. I ought not to have come into the public rooms at all, and I would not have if there had been any private ones available. But I will not be insulted by any clodpole who fancies a talk with his betters.”

  He might have spared his words, for Jack, feigning a drunken fog, appeared not to have heard them. He called loudly to the innkeeper and ordered two pints of his best bitter. He had deliberately placed himself so that Sudbury could not rise, unless Jack moved the table backwards.

  Mr. Rose brought their drinks instantly and threw Jack a puzzled look as he set them down. Sudbury was protesting at that moment that if his dear friend, Lord Stourport, were only there, he would be certain to be drinking with him privately without such rude intrusions.

  Mr. Rose, perceiving a sly wink from Jack, ventured to remark, “If it’s Lord Stourport you’ll be wanting, Jack here can tell you all about him. He’s been staying up at the manor these five weeks and more.” He smiled at the look of incredulity which came over Sudbury’s face.

  “You?” emitted the valet in shocked tones. “You have been staying up at the manor?” He examined Jack’s clothing with repugnance.

  “I have,” Jack confirmed, pretending not to notice the offensive note. “Not as a guest, o’ course, but in the house, mind you. I broke my leg when the mail come through more than a month ago. Sir Waldo, he’s been puttin’ me up. But I’m up and around now,” he added cheerfully. “Won’t be much longer before I’m back to work.”

  As he had hoped, Sudbury quickly brought him back to the subject. “But you have seen Lord Stourport?” he inquired eagerly, “You must have heard me mention how great a friend he is. Why there is no one nearer to Lord Stourport than I!” This last assertion seemed to amuse him greatly for he ended by chuckling to himself.

  “Well, now!” Jack said, in the heartiest tones. “Isn’t that a rare thing? Why you ought to come back up with me to the manor! I could drive you in Sir Waldo’s carriage.”

  Sudbury started to speak, and then hesitated, one finger to his lips. “Thank you, my good man,” he said finally. “But I do not think that will serve. Sir Waldo is not expecting me, you see. I do not think that would be the proper way to go about it.” He seemed to be speaking this last almost to himself.

  Jack shrugged. “As you like,” he said. “But I’m sure Lord Stourport would be happy to see you. He’s not been too well, they say. Stayed in his bed this morning.” He watched his companion closely for a reaction.

  The news seemed to please Sudbury inordinately. “Not well, you say?” he said, smiling. “That is too bad. I hope he will not regret coming to see Sir Waldo. I advised him against it.”

  “Oh?” Jack was scarcely able to control his interest. When that remark drew nothing, however, he raised his eyebrows significantly. “They do say,” he said in a low voice, “that he’s come to offer for Miss Cecily, Sir Waldo’s granddaughter. She’s his cousin, you know.”

  Sudbury’s eyes contracted, and he stiffened. Then he looked disdainfully at Jack. “If you mean Miss Wolverton, young man, I am well acquainted with the matter,” he said sharply. But Jack could see he was not pleased. “I warned him against it,” the valet mumbled.

  Jack pretended not to have heard this comment, which was clearly not intended for him. “Well, ‘tis of no moment to me, but you really ought to come up to the manor. His lordship’s not lookin’ too perky.”

  Sudbury came back to attention with a start. “Has he hired a new valet?”

  Jack could hardly restrain a smile. He shrugged. “Not that I knows of,” he said without interest. “I never had too many doings with valets and the like, to own the truth. Too high in the instep, if you ask me. Not a good fella like you.” He leered at Sudbury with an overly friendly smile. It was a temptation he could not resist.

  Sudbury responded with a look of disgust and was about to leave the table, when Jack ventured one last word. “Happen his lordship don’t even know you’re here,” he said casually.

  The former valet could not resist refuting the sly implication. “There, my good man, you are mistaken,” he asserted. “I have sent my card up to his lordship, and he has every intention of calling on me at his earliest convenience.”

  Jack gaped in silent awe at the impression these words were intended to create, and Sudbury bowed condescendingly and wished him good day. If he had not been upon such serious business with the valet, then Jack would have had a good laugh. But he could not stay amused. Too many thoughts were crowding into his brain.

  He strove to put them together. Sudbury had admitted to sending his card up to Alfred. That would have to have been the note at breakfast that morning, for Davies had said that Sudbury came in by yesterday’s mail. And the note had clearly upset Alfred. He had been even further distressed to learn that Jack intended to go down to the village that day. No doubt he feared a chance meeting of exactly the kind that had occurred. Knowing Sudbury as he did, he must certainly have known that he would puff their acquaintance to the limit. The two men were well matched in their conceit.

  Jack had his own suspicions of the relationship that now existed between these two men, but he decided not to waste any more time thinking it through at the inn. Cecily should be told of Sudbury’s arrival as soon as possible, he reflected seriously. He had a notion that whatever was going on between the two men had more to do with her than with anyone else.

  Jack hastened back to the manor. He had to wait impatiently to speak to her, for Cecily had retreated to Sir Waldo’s room during his absence. But before too long he was able to join her for a small midday repast in the dining room.

  Then, of course, Alfred was with them. In spite of his morning malady and his intention to stay abed all day, it seemed he could not resist satisfying his curiosity about whether Jack had run into his former valet. He posed Jack several innocuous questions in an endeavour to discover the information. But Jack’s innocent looks deceived him, and he retired to his bed that afternoon not a whit the wiser.

  He did try once again to persuade Cecily to grant him a private audience, but she reminded him firmly that Jack’s walk must come first. That the doctor insisted upon it was her excuse. Alfred’s spirits were so under siege, however, that he gave up the struggle with no more than one hateful look at Jack before stumbling, with the assistance of a footman, up to bed.

  Jack waited until they had reached the far end of the garden walk before he told Cecily his news. There, seated under the shade of a trellis of rose leaves he related his discovery of the morning.

  “Sudbury!” Cecily cried, upon hearing his name. “Whatever could he mean by coming here in such a guise? Do you suppose his intention is to embarrass Alfred? Was he so offended when Alfred turned him off that he chose this manner of avenging himself?”

  Jack regarded her intently as he spoke. “I suspect there is a good deal more to it than that, Cecily. Mr. Rose informed me that Sudbury has money—enough to demand all the comforts of a gentleman, even though his manner is somewhat less than convincing.”

  “But where would he get . . .?” Cecily began. Then she stopped, as a thought struck her. She raised eager eyes to Jack and said, “From Alfred! Do you think he could have taken money from Alfred?”

  Jack nodded, glad that she had quickly arrived at the same conclusion. “I am convinced of it. Sudbury told me he had sent his card up to the manor to notify your cousin of his being here. If that was the note Alfred received at breakfast this morning, we have plenty of evidence as to its effect upon him. He has scarcely been able to stand. I can only conclude that Sudbury pursued Alfred here to extort more money from him.”

  “But that is blackmail!” Cecily cried.

  Jack raised his brows expressively, but said nothing. He still wanted to see what interpretation she would put upon the evidence.

  When he did not speak, Cecily frowned and added, “Then, that would mean Alfred has something very serious to hide.”


  Jack bent closer to her and took her hands in his. “Cecily, I must tell you that when I talked to Sudbury, he twice indicated that he had warned Alfred not to come here. Oh, it was not expressed so clearly,” he added quickly, when he saw her alarm, “but he did not think I was attending properly. I made it appear that I was a trifle foxed.”

  He was glad to see that his explanation had relieved her. Cecily pursed her lips to suppress a smile at his antics.

  He continued, watching anxiously for her reaction. “Cecily, do you think as I do? Can you think of something Sudbury might know about, which Alfred would wish to remain concealed?”

  She gazed at him solemnly. The answer was already on her lips. “The theft of my father’s will.”

  Jack nodded grimly. Unconsciously, he began to caress the small hands he still held. “My thoughts precisely. If, as you say, Alfred did not go into your father’s study during his visit to your father’s deathbed, then he must have instructed Sudbury to go in and nick the will. In that case, Sudbury would know quite enough about the proceeding to cause Alfred much damage, were he to divulge it.”

  It was Cecily’s turn to nod. Her cheeks were flushed with suppressed excitement. All at once Jack realized what he had been doing with her hands and, after clearing his throat of its sudden constriction, released them. They smiled at each other self-consciously. He would have liked nothing better than to take her into his arms at that moment, but he restrained himself with the thought that they must carry this talk to its conclusion.

  Cecily’s next sentence was delivered in a voice which sounded robbed of breath. “But surely Sudbury could not reveal the existence of the will without endangering himself as well! Alfred ought to know that.”

  Her words made Jack frown with renewed concentration. “That is so. And if Alfred has the will, what good would it do Sudbury to accuse him of anything? Alfred could simply claim that they were the vengeful ravings of a dismissed servant. Sudbury could not prove his assertions without severely endangering himself, as you say.”