The Prince in the Tower

by Lydia M Sheridan

  Instantly her blood quickened as she picked up the scent. The sooner rehearsal was over the sooner she could begin grilling Mr. Dalrymple.

  “Thank you, very nice. Now, if I could have just the jurors, please. Let’s run over your scene as you decide the verdict. Places. Begin.”

  By the time Mr. Dalrymple edged his way toward the church, Kate was standing there ahead of him.

  “Are you going somewhere, my lord?”

  He grabbed her arm and hustled her behind a tree. “How did you--I mean, my name is Dalrymple.”

  “Please don’t insult my intelligence more than you already have, Lord Granville.”

  “Shush!”

  Kate shushed. She stood looking at him, eyes wide, inviting explanation.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I have my sources,” she smirked.

  Mr. Dalrymple gritted his teeth. “The same ones, no doubt, which have assisted you in stealing and pawning all your ill-gotten gains.”

  She smiled. “No doubt.”

  They stared, each trying to read the mind of the other, when a commotion from the opposite side of the green made them look around. A small pig dressed in a Cavalier hat with grey plumes raced across the grass, squealing at the top of his lungs and scattering picnickers in his wake. Kate staggered back against Mr. Dalrymple as the Amazing Oscar dashed for the platform, chased by a man wearing a matching hat and plumes.

  “Come back here, ye daft porker, else I’ll make ye into bacon, I swear it!”

  The pig galloped about the stage, his little hooves clicking against the unvarnished wood. Several children, delighted with this development, joined in the chase. The jurors laughed and cheered. Oscar, obviously believing this all to be a wonderful new game, kicked his heels, belched, a The piglet danced about, squealing gleefully. The children in the crowd disgraced himself all over the stage.

  The rehearsal ended in the resulting melee of smells, gleefully shouting boys, and giggling girls. When the dust had settled, Kate looked about for Mr. Dalrymple, but he was nowhere to be found. While she picked up forgotten scripts, she saw him pretending to study his lines, but actually peeping into a window of St. Agatha's.

  Suspicion turned to anger. Kate marched across the green into the churchyard.

  “You--you--I knew it!” she hissed, eyes wide in shock. “You know who it is! Who is it? Mrs. Gordon?” Kate named the housekeeper.

  Edmund smiled condescendingly. “Certainly not. I mean, no, I haven't found out. I mean, I was simply looking for the good Father. I may want to become a Catholic.” He tried to look virtuous and pious.

  Kate restrained herself from rolling her eyes, but only with great difficulty.

  “Perhaps you might choose the door next time?” she suggested drily.

  “It was the result of a head injury I suffered in the war,” this time he tried to look innocent and pathetic and once again failed.

  “I see.” Kate thought furiously, but it was no use. For the life of her she couldn’t imagine why or how dear Mrs. Gordon could be involved in such a sordid affair. She decided Edmund must be wrong, as usual, which was indeed not only a source of great delight, but handy for her plans. One more robbery tonight, then time to lay low, what with dragoons flitting here, there, and everywhere.

  Really, they were very much in her way.

  ***

  Edmund yawned, fighting the urge to sleep. The more he'd thought about it, the more he was that Father Flannery wasn't the ring leader of the counterfeiting gang. To accuse a man of the cloth, and one backed by all the might of the Catholic church at that, he would have to make sure every accusation and piece of evidence was above reproach. It would be argued that he was simply an innocent dupe, used, like others, to pass the coin into circulation. A priest wouldn’t be suspect, and who knew what sort of thing was put into the poor box or passed into the collection plate. He had to get evidence more solid than a small turquoise bead.

  The time had come to force action. Which was why he was sitting in the belfry of St. Agatha's, overlooking the entire village. From here he could see anyone who approached from the road, across the fields, or came and went from any of the cottages. It wasn't the most glamorous plan. Kate, of course, would loathe the lack of adventure and dash, but was Edmund's intention to do this every night until the counterfeiters revealed themselves.

  And reveal themselves they would. That was one thing he’d learned during his crash course at the Home Office. Criminals, unlike spies, were likely not the most intellectual of folks. Eventually, they made mistakes which would give them away. But Edmund suspected that this particular ring leader might be smarter than most. Indeed, to have kept his identity concealed in the aftermath of two murders seemed to point to one who was playing a deep game, someone who had more to gain or lose than mere wealth. From the beginning he’d worried that British traitors were working with the French, but even Lord Sidmouth had poo-pooed the idea. However, just because Napoleon was once more incarcerated, more well-guarded than ever, didn’t mean there weren’t many, perhaps hundreds, of his supporters who would be glad to continue fighting, behind the scenes, if necessary, on the behalf of their emperor and the republic.

  So here he was, sitting for a bum-numbing -- he checked his watch, squinting, turning it to catch the tiniest ray of moonlight -- four hours. Edmund shifted uncomfortably. The indignity he’d suffered that night in the cavern was healing rapidly, but sitting on a cold, hard bench for several hours was beginning to aggravate it.

  Oh, good God, he grimaced. He sounded like an old man, all aches and pains and groans. His thoughts touched here and there, random images, really, nothing more. He thought of his parents, his father dead many years, his mother, thrilled that Edmund had succeeded to the title, and equally thrilled she was not to be styled Dowager. He grinned. His mama was a pistol in her own right. She and Kate would make a fine pair, provided they didn't end up on the gallows.

  Louisa, his elder sister, was quieter, more intellectual. Like Lucy, but still with a streak of independence. Her grand scheme was to set up as an intellectual and hold grand salons of poetry and music in London.

  And George, the little brother who was always buried in his books, studying hard at Eton.

  George was more of an age with Caro, but not nearly as outgoing. Perhaps her influence could liven him up a bit before he became a stuffy old man long before his time. And he could direct her mind to a bit more of quiet contemplation and study. Although he wouldn’t wager a groat on that.

  His mama would dote on the little ones. He wondered how she would get along with Lady Alice. Though the two were of an age, they were both used to being the chatelaines of their own homes. Although Lady Alice might prefer to spend her time at the home she’d always known, keep an eye on the running of things for Bertie. They could all come for a month in the summer, perhaps. Edmund pictured Kate in the summer sun, her laughing face turned to his, her hair glinting orange, just as it had this afternoon. After the Christmas holidays -- now he pictured her in the great hall of Middle House, ivy and greens all around, firelight flickering on the walls, her eyes narrowed with a glare as he leaned in to steal a kiss under the mistletoe. A shrew, yes, but his shrew--

  Edmund came out of his brown study so fast he overbalanced and had to grab at the railing to steady himself. His heart raced in panic. He was not wondering how to blend the Thoreaus and the Middlesons as a family. Good God. How ridiculous. Any man who voluntarily aligned himself with such a motley bunch ought to be clapped up in Bedlam.

  He shivered, drawing his arm across his brow to wipe away the beads of sweat. Maybe he'd been dreaming, having a nightmare brought on by worry and lack of sleep and a shot-up buttock. It wouldn’t happen again.

  And so determined was he not to think of Kate and her family, that he focused so hard not to think of them that he could of course think of nothing else and almost missed the arrival of a shadowy figure skulking around the far side of the graveyard. In a flash he was
up and tip-toeing down the spiral belfry stairs, but by the time he got silently to the bottom and eased out the side door of the church, the figure was gone. He stood in the night, straining to hear a hint of a footstep or crackle of a branch, but nothing came to his ears. At last, furious with himself for losing track of his quarry, he climbed back up the winding stairs to look out again at the fields.

  The trick to seeing something in pitch dark, of course, is to not look directly at whatever one is looking for. If one has no idea where that something might be, it's doubly hard. Every speck of Edmund's soldierly training came into play to stop him from haring off half-cocked into the woods without a definite direction. Finally, his patience was rewarded. Far off to the west he could see the merest hint of movement. In a flash, he raced once more down the steps as quietly as he could and ran off into the night.

  ***

  The damp, cool air was heady with the autumnal scent of wet, decaying leaves, ripe with the tang of an early winter’s chill. Kate guided Diana silently through the spinney which lined the area between the road and the Malford estate.

  She held Diana to a slow, deliberate walk. The dragoons were in town to catch the counterfeiters, so it behooved them to pay attention. The last thing she needed was to get in the middle of a shoot-out between some desperados and the officers of His Majesty. But tonight was to be her last robbery, if her luck held. Kate was still determined to catch the felons and win the five thousand pounds, but a bird in the carriage, so to speak, was worth two in the cavern.

  The thought that this might be her last robbery should have been a pleasant one, she tried to convince herself. No longer would she have to hide her doings from her family and friends.

  Kate’s spirits fell a bit.

  No longer would she have to pretend megrims in order to decline or leave early from a party or dance.

  Her shoulders drooped dejectedly.

  No longer would she be putting herself in mortal danger, not only from the passengers, but from the law.

  Kate sighed heavily.

  Oh, and neither would she be breaking the fourth commandment. She perked up as she speculated idly if theft was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Adam Weilmunster knew, certainly, and even more certainly, would be happy to expound at length, ad nauseum, for her benefit.

  Though her spirits were low, they plunged even lower as she worried that the affair de couer between Lucy and the chinless wonder was showing no signs of abating. Kate hoped that her sister would soon lower her pride enough to admit that it had all been a terrible mistake, a schoolgirl’s--well, not fantasy. A schoolgirl’s infatuation. Kate began to suspect Mr. Dalrymple was right, that Lu might have done so before now had she not proclaimed her love before her family and Belinda Dogget with such passionate fervor. The embarrassing scene at the house the other day might be the last straw. She hoped.

  Yes, things were looking up and it was a shame that she couldn’t bring herself to appreciate her great good fortune in soon-to-be full coffers, a life on right edge of the law, and a sister who would soon, if Kate had anything to say about it, be making a love match even better than anything in a Minerva Press novel.

  But rain, so light, but penetrating that it was more a heavy mist, began to fall. With a feeling of intense sorrow for herself, soon to be alone, unloved, with the children grown and gone, only herself and Lady Alice left to rattle around that great empty pile of a house. Until Bertie married and brought home a wife, a shrew, without a doubt, Kate predicted gloomily. Because the dragoons were staking it out, she couldn't even carry out her last robbery from the huge oak down by the river, protecting her and Diana until they roared through the hedgerow and up the hill toward the oncoming coach--

  What on earth?

  There, on the rocky bank of the river, just past where it crossed the post road, lay a mound of what looked like sodden cloth. But the clenching of her stomach told her without doubt that it was more than a mound of cloth, still wet from the rushing waters.

  Her desire to flee warred with her sense of right. With every step Diana took toward the pile, the more Kate yearned never to have come out this night. Let someone else find the poor person, let someone else get off her horse, pull off her mask, walk toward the body. But there was no one else, so Kate reluctantly dismounted from Diana’s broad back.

  A few feet from the body, the breeze changed direction. Kate could make out the outline of the body, half in the river, half out, lying pitifully on the bank, the current lapping at his limp arm. Or perhaps it was a leg. The unimaginable odor caused her to stumble, recoiling. Vomit rose in her throat and she retched. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her mouth on her cloak, covering her face with her silk scarf. Then she leaned over to see the face.

  No amount of water-log could disguise the features completely of one whom her family knew so well. Nothing could cause his chin to grow or his eyes to close, not now.

  It was Adam Weilmunster.

  Kate pressed her cloak to her mouth with both hands to stop the scream. The horror of the moment was so terrible as to be almost unbearable. Not knowing what she was doing, she heard someone pray.

  "Hail Mary, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our deaths.”

  Then she realized it was herself repeating the ancient prayers learned at her mother’s knee, repeated so often, granting so much comfort, that they were second nature. She reached to grab an arm to drag Mr. Weilmunster out of the river, grateful beyond words that she was wearing heavy gloves. She fancied she could feel the clamminess of his skin through the heavy leather. His eyes stared up at her, sightlessly accusing--

  "Halt! In the King’s name!”

  Her heart in her throat, Kate froze.

  "Halt or I’ll shoot!”

  “Show yourself, man!”

  There was a dull gleam of moonlight on metal through the underbrush. Kate threw herself up in the saddle, turned Diana short and clapped her heels to the horse's flanks. They raced as fast as she dared through the rain-slick forest. She had no thoughts of keeping silent. They’d heard her, they’d seen her, and now they dogged her flight every step of the way. Not even a corpse could deter them.

  Up, up, they went, splashing through the shallow bit of river, then up the hill. At the crest, she paused. across the post road, down the other side of the hill lay the old oak. The sight of it drew her up short. Too close lay the grounds of Bellevue. She tugged the reins and she and Diana veered off to the south. Once more they splashed through the river, circling below the Malford House. Kate listened carefully, her ears sensitive enough to hear a squirrel’s heartbeat--or was that the sound of a horse?

  In the distance lay Malford House. Several windows on the ground and first floors glowed a cheerful yellow, unknowingly obscene on this night of death. Slowly, she took the opportunity to slide down from Diana’s back. Working swiftly, she tore off the plumed hat, rolling it mercilessly into her saddlebag. She tore off the wig, her hair frizzing out wildly in the gathering mist. She ripped off the cloak, flinging it about her waist to hide the boots and breeches. The scarf she tied about her neck. There was nothing she could do about the brass-buttoned coat from another era. She debated keeping it, but instead rolled it up with the hat, beard, and scarf, and tucked it under a rotting log. Then, she leapt up awkwardly on Diana’s back, hooked her leg about the pommel as a dangerous side-saddle, and chirruped to Diana. They continued the ride around the Malford House, then circled back left toward the road.

  Her heart pounded, the blood thrummed in her ears. There was no help for it but to trot through the village, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. No one would suspect. No one--

  Just in front of the museum, a light flashed, blinding her. She squinted.

  "Halt, who goes there?”

  Every ancestor who had ever lifted a brow, hoisted a quizzing glass, or sneered to depress pretension came to her aid. Ramrod straight in the saddle, Kate glared haughtily at the young man in the scarlet regimentals.

  “I would
pass, sir.”

  He stepped closer. The lantern swayed in his hand, casting lacy patterns of light and dark on Kate. “May I ask your name, miss?”

  “You may not, sirrah,” Kate snapped. “Furthermore, I am accustomed to being addressed as ‘lady.’”

  He was just a youngster, and very uncomfortable interviewing one of the obvious quality.

  “Begging your pardon, your ladyship. We have reason to believe a desperate criminal is abroad tonight.”

  “Indeed?” Kate replied icily. “And what has that to do with me?”

  He almost tugged a forelock before he remembered he was a soldier. “You might be in danger, miss--my lady, going about after dark.” He debated telling this noble creature about the murder, and decided not to risk feminine hysterics that evening. “Where have you been?”

  “If it is any concern of yours, I was paying a visit to a sick tenant.”

  “It's mighty cold tonight. Where might your coat be, your ladyship?” his words sounded suspicious to Kate’s ears, but his open face showed concern. Kate unthawed a trifle.

  “Charity, lieutenant, begins at home.” Before he could unravel her mysterious sentiment, she nodded, dismissing him. Slapping the reins on Diana’s neck, she urged her to a canter. At the Lady and the Scamp, she turned left down the post road. The inn and the road itself were swarming with red-coated men, armed to the teeth. She carefully pretended well-bred indifference as she rode past. Indeed, it was terribly difficult not to stop and gaze back in horror at the spectacle, now illuminated with the light of a dozen lanterns, on the bank of the river.

  It was only as she unsaddled Diana, discarding her cloak, breeches, and boots under the floorboards in the tack room and changed into her worn muslin gown that she began to tremble, not from cold, but from fear.