Bonfire Night

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Bonfire Night Page 6

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

“Oh, for the love of God,” I began, but Portia cut me off with a sharp hiss.

  “You know Jane is speaking,” she said, sotto voce, but the damage had already been done.

  “LOVE OF GOD,” crowed Jane the Younger.

  Plum rolled his eyes. “Excellent work, Julia. You have lost a maid and corrupted the youth of the family in thirty seconds. I commend you.”

  “Do shut up, Plum,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “SHUT UP,” Jane the Younger screeched.

  Portia swept inside with her daughter and the nanny while I sent Morag and Jack to join them. Brisbane and Plum organised a search party for Liddell from amongst the household staff. In a remarkably short time we had divided up and began to cover ground. Brisbane and Plum searched the copse, on the grounds that if she had fallen, she would need to be carried back and that task would fall more easily to one of the men. I volunteered to walk into Narrow Wibberley to ask if she had been seen. I passed the plague cottages, pausing to have a quick nose around for any sign of her. But the little dwellings were as sober and still as they had ever been, and I hurried on. I called in at the post office and the pub and the smithy, but no one had seen her. My last stop was the vicarage, where Mr. Belton kindly gave me a quick cup of tea and the promise to begin searching at once on his own. He did so with a smile behind his hand, and that, coupled with Mrs. Smith’s odd manner, persuaded me that somehow our village ghosts were behind this newest misadventure.

  I left him abruptly, suddenly tired of their childish tricks, and made up my mind to return with Brisbane to London as soon as the girl had been recovered. I strode purposefully through the churchyard, but on a whim, I stopped. The churchyard was a small one, and the largest memorial was clearly that of the family who had inhabited Thorncross Manor. It was the most impressive construction, a lavish affair of sculpted angels and wreaths of roses, and the bronze plaque, though worn with age and weather, confirmed what I had begun to suspect.

  I hastened from the churchyard as quickly as my stays would permit, making straight for the copse. As I walked through the little wood, the leaves began to rustle. My heart beat faster and I sped along, slowly becoming aware of a deep breathing behind me. I dared not turn, but broke into a run as did my pursuer. My plan was not an elaborate one, for there was no time for such things. I intended to dart behind a tree once I had passed a bend that would conceal me for a moment. From my hiding place I could either flee another direction or face down the villain behind me.

  But I had left it too late. Just as I rounded the bend he reached me, touching my shoulder. I gave a banshee shriek and turned to defend myself, expecting to clip the fellow neatly on the chin. As it happened, my pursuer was rather shorter than I had anticipated. My tidy blow to his jaw landed instead on his temple and he fell as swiftly and flatly as a felled tree.

  At that moment Brisbane rounded the bend and took in the scene before him. “Julia, did you assault the vicar?”

  “Yes. But I had an excellent reason,” I told him.

  “I have no doubt of it. Shall we see if he is still living?”

  We bent and prodded him, looking for significant injury, but he bore none. Of course, this did not prevent him from abusing me in the foulest language possible when he came to consciousness with the result that Brisbane struck him a second blow, this one landing precisely where I had intended mine. A spectacular bruise was blossoming on the fellow’s chin as we marched him into the manor.

  Mrs. Smith stared at him with wide eyes, but he shook his head, wincing. “Never mind, Smithy.”

  She rushed to bring him cold wet towels and when they had been applied, Brisbane turned to her sternly.

  “It’s time to make a clean breast of it, Mrs. Smith. Tell us why the lot of you have been playing at ghosts and tell us what has become of Liddell.”

  She looked to Mr. Belton but he waved a wan hand. “Go on, then. They’re not going to rest until you do, and no coin is worth this.”

  She gave a snort. “I should have known better than to think you could manage this. He warned me you would be the weak link, but I spoke up for you.”

  Her voice was cold with scorn, but he did not react. He merely pressed another cold towel to his chin as we waited. At length, she sighed.

  “Very well. Yes. As you guessed from the first, we were engaged to do a bit of play-acting, to pretend the village was haunted. We each had a part to play.”

  “Do you even live here?” I asked.

  She bristled. “I do. As does everyone in the village, God help us. Narrow Wibberley was a good place to live until the railway came. Ask anyone here, and they’ll tell you. It was a tragedy when they laid the tracks on the other side of the valley. All of the village custom dried up. Those jumped-up folks in East Wibberley knew what they were about. Called themselves Greater Wibberley, as if they were better than us. Built a new hotel, they did, and travellers liked it better than the pub. Then shops opened, and the shopkeepers were happy because they could get their goods directly off the train. No more hauling them across hills and down into the valley. And so it went, with everyone and everything being replaced and all because some fellow in London drew a line on a map,” she said in disgust. “We suffered here, and the folk who depended upon the manor suffered most of all. As it happened, I knew a gentleman,” she said, her expression opaque, “and he was a clever fellow. I knew if anyone could figure out a way to make us a bit of money, he could. And he did. He said he had a friend, a London man he wanted to play a bit of a prank on. He said he wanted him to think he had inherited the manor. He laid it all out, careful as you please. How we were to act, what we were to say. He told us what books to have in the library, what meals to cook. And he said that wasn’t enough. He said you were curious folk, and that you would like a bit of mystery about the place. So he arranged the haunting, as well. He even wrote up that book to be printed out, the one that made up all the legends of ghosts and other nonsense. Gathered us all together one evening in the pub and gave us each a part to play.” She looked thoughtful. “Mrs. Ninch’s boy will be right sad to miss out on playing Guy Fawkes’ ghost. He’s been practising so hard. Makes quite a terrifying effect, it does.”

  “And did your gentleman friend arrange the drugging of the chocolates and whisky,” I asked tartly.

  She had the grace to look embarrassed. “He never told us about that,” she said. “He sent them on with instructions to place them in your rooms, but never said they were drugged.”

  “No doubt just a bit of fun to heighten the experience,” I mused.

  “And that’s all it was,” she said, her manner as earnest as any beggar in the street. “He said it was all in fun, and that we were, above all to treat you like royalty. We were to give you the very best holiday here, and—”

  She broke off suddenly, and seemed reluctant to say more.

  “And you were also instructed not to tell us anything about the real owners of Thorncross, isn’t that true?” I asked softly.

  Her shoulders sagged a little. “Yes, my lady.”

  “What owners?” Brisbane asked.

  “This afternoon as I was crossing the churchyard it occurred to me to look for the grave of our mysterious Mr. Thornhill. But there was no grave. There was no Thornhill family marker at all. Because the Thornhill family never owned this manor, did they, vicar?”

  The vicar shook his head miserably. “No,” he said, his voice muffled by the towel.

  I explained to Brisbane what I had read on the plaque. “The family name was Padgett. They were the owners of Thorncross. The last of them died out only this past year. An elderly lady. I imagine the house has stood empty since then, hasn’t it, Mrs. Smith?”

  She nodded.

  “Now, what about my maid?”

  Mrs. Smith raised her shoulders in a sigh. “She’s my niece, my lady. I told her to lock he
rself in my room and not to come out. I knew you would never look for her there. I couldn’t let you leave, so when Mr. Brisbane said he was bound for London, I had to think quick. I said she was gone because I knew it would keep the pair of you here, at least for tonight.”

  “How is it that your niece is my lady’s maid? I engaged her in London. How does she fit into your scheme?”

  “My gentleman friend wanted to put a servant in your household, someone to keep an eye upon you when the house staff were not about. He bribed your former maid to leave your service and tell him all your little likes so he could make you as comfortable as possible here,” she told me.

  I shuddered. “That’s revolting. I’m glad the girl is all right, but tell her she is out of my employ as of this instant, and I shall not be giving her a reference. It is disgraceful that your friend planned this joke to such an extreme degree. It defies all rational behaviour.”

  “Does it?” Brisbane put in softly.

  I looked at him, and I knew his expression well. It meant the picture, still hidden from me, was coming together quite clearly in his head.

  “Brisbane?”

  He explained, half to himself, as he worked it out. “It is revolting because it intrudes upon every particle of decency to pay people to spy upon us. But that was not the point. It was not the purpose of this exercise to keep us entertained or engaged in a silly mystery in a haunted village. The point was to keep us away from London, wasn’t it, Mrs. Smith?”

  She said nothing, but the defeated sag of her shoulders was eloquent.

  Brisbane went on. “We had to be kept away from London through Bonfire Night,” he said slowly.

  “Who is the villain capable of such a convoluted, ridiculous, theatrical—” I broke off in horror. “Oh, no.”

  “Yes,” Brisbane said coldly. “My father.”

  “But why Bonfire Night? What is so special about this night?” I persisted.

  Brisbane hesitated only the barest second before he had it. “Fireworks,” he said suddenly. “To hide an explosion.”

  He grabbed my hand and pushed me towards the door. “Hurry up—we’ve got to catch the next train to London. My father is going to blow something up.”

  Chapter Six

  We did not depart quite as quickly as Brisbane wished. First, we had to find Portia and Plum and apprise them of what we had learnt. We left the children in the care of Plum and the nannies while Portia remonstrated with the staff with such vituperation even the watermen were moved to tears. I would have liked to have heard the rest, but I made Plum promise to take note of what she said as Brisbane and I hurtled through preparations to catch the London train.

  Properly abashed, the blacksmith harnessed up his phantom coach for a nobler purpose. His black horses, the swiftest in the valley, were whipped up to a frenzy to deliver us to the station in Greater Wibberley on time, and we understood it was a gesture of apology on the part of the blacksmith. He refused payment for the journey, muttering it was the least of what he owed, and Brisbane and I threw ourselves onto the train, landing upon the steps just as it pulled away from the station.

  The ride to London was interminable. There were delays upon the line, and each minute that ticked past only heightened our impatience. Rather than fret at the time wasted, we applied ourselves to discovering Black Jack’s plan as far as we could with such limited information.

  “What on earth can he mean to destroy?” I asked for the tenth time as we waited for a herd of cows to clear the line. I gave him a fearful look as I considered Guy Fawkes’ own target. “You don’t think even your father would attempt to actually blow up the sovereign and Parliament?”

  Brisbane stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He might if it suited him, but Parliament isn’t sitting and the queen is at Windsor. No, it must be something else—something small enough to be mistaken for fireworks should anyone notice.”

  “A bank vault?” I guessed.

  “Possibly,” he said slowly. “But why would he need us out of the way? I didn’t even know he was in England. Did you?” he asked, quirking a brow at the heavy emerald on my finger.

  “Of course not! And if I had I would have told you,” I said, attempting to hide my annoyance he would even ask. Brisbane’s father was fond of me, at least as fond as he could be of anyone, but his affection was an unwanted thing. I had seen too clearly the havoc he had wrought in the lives of others. I wanted nothing whatsoever to do with him. The fact that I wore the emerald Black Jack had given me was due solely to its beauty and my own avarice. It was the loveliest jewel I had ever owned, and I wore it with pride—so long as I didn’t think too long on the fact that it had been robbed from a Borgia grave.

  “Remember,” I told Brisbane firmly, “it was my cousin he married and terrorised until she fled from him.” My cousin Lucy’s brief marriage to Black Jack had been a study in catastrophe. The only good to come of it was our son.

  Brisbane returned to the question of Black Jack’s intentions. “No, he wouldn’t need us out of London to break into a bank.”

  “Something closer to home,” I began, but even as I said the words, we both knew. “Oh,” I said slowly. “Home.”

  He nodded. “We were no threat to him until we had the builders in. They’re preparing to take the cellars apart. Something of Black Jack’s is down there, and I daresay it has been all the time.”

  “But what? And why hide it in your house?” I demanded.

  He shrugged, his posture nonchalant, but I noticed the muscle playing in his jaw. He was deeply angry, a not uncommon state of affairs with his father. “What better place? If he had some small hoard—jewels or gold or some relic—he might gain access to the cellar and leave it for safekeeping. The walls are ancient and riddled with holes. It would be an easy matter to cache his treasure then brick it over. No one would be the wiser.”

  “True,” I agreed. “Tradesmen are always coming into one’s cellars. Coalmen and rat-catchers, plumbers to lay pipes and wine merchants to deliver orders.” I caught my breath suddenly. “I’ve just had the most terrible thought—if his illicit gains were discovered, you would be the one to bear the blame.”

  “I wondered when that would occur to you,” he said tightly.

  “It’s fiendish,” I told him. I gripped his hand in mine. “Whatever happens tonight, that man is an absolute devil from hell. He must not be allowed to take Little Jack. Promise me,” I ordered.

  He pressed a kiss to my temple. “With everything I have and all that I am. I will keep Jack safe.”

  * * *

  It was late when we made our way to the house in Half Moon Street, but the streets were full of revelers and bonfires glowed in the distance. Overhead, fireworks shimmered against the black of the night sky, the report echoing in our bones as we raced towards the house. Just as we stepped from the cab, I felt a reverberation under my feet, and hard upon Brisbane’s heels, I raced to the cellars. When Brisbane opened the door, a cloud of soot and smoke poured forth, choking us. We put handkerchiefs to our mouths and carried on, Brisbane’s pocket torch lighting the way down the stairs. The bottom was blocked with rubble, but Brisbane stepped over, giving me a hand as I scrambled after. There was an ominous creaking from the beams overhead, and Brisbane swore savagely.

  “We dare not go further,” he told me. I opened my mouth to protest, but just then there was a stirring from the rubble.

  “Bloody imbecile,” muttered a familiar voice. “I told him just a bit to blow a single course of bricks and he mines enough to bring the house down over my head.”

  “Hello, Father,” Brisbane said, shining the torch into his father’s eyes. Even begrimed, Black Jack Brisbane was a fine figure of a man. He boasted the same height and breadth of muscle as his eldest son and the same thick locks, his a sooty silver with only a long streak of black at the temple to sho
w what colour they had once been. His eyes were alight with unholy mischief, just as I had often seen Little Jack’s, and I shuddered as he fixed them on me.

  “Well, isn’t this an unparalleled delight! My son and his wife, come to wish me bon voyage,” he said in his deep, silken voice.

  “What did you leave here?” Brisbane demanded.

  Black Jack brandished a box. “The proceeds from a rather tidy little robbery. You might know them as the Duchess of Reinenberg’s rubies.”

  “Rubies I was engaged to find,” Brisbane said in some irritation.

  His father grinned. “Rather neat twist, I thought. You taking the duchess’ money to look for jewels I had stashed right under your nose. They’re flawless, you know. Without equal in the world. I have a maharajah who will pay dearly for them. Apparently, they were originally stolen from his family by an ancestor of the duchess, and he’s willing to pay astonishingly over the odds to get them back.”

  “Short of money, are you?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Still tart of tongue, I see. Well, I’m glad to see one woman in your family has some spirit. Lucy was a sore disappointment to me from the very first. If it hadn’t been for her late husband’s money...” he trailed off with a sigh. “Still, one cannot have everything. And I took my regrets out on her flesh,” he said with a cruel smile.

  “Yes, I know. You drove her halfway to madness.”

  The smile deepened. “Only halfway? I oughtn’t to have given up so soon.”

  “You didn’t give up,” I reminded him sharply. “She ran away.”

  “Only because she was expecting my brat,” he replied. “Oh, you didn’t think I knew about that, did you? Poor Lucy, creeping away to have my child in secret,” he mocked.

  “You’ll not get him,” Brisbane told him. “And I don’t much care if I have to kill you to make sure of that.”

  Black Jack threw back his head and laughed. “You think I want him? What would I do with a puling infant? I’ve no more use for the imp than I did for you. You want the little devil? He’s entirely yours. Take him and be damned.”

 

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