Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

by Patricia Veryan

  An hour later, bathed, dressed in clean linens and clothes that were a close enough fit not to amuse, Harry leaned back in the wing chair beside the salon fire, accepted the wineglass that was handed him, and gave a sigh of gratification. "Dyer." he said as the butler took the chair on the other side of the fireplace. "I always knew you were a prince of a fellow. I feel human again! Thank you. And now, if you will, pray tell me what happened to poor Sir Barnaby."

  "He'd been very low in spirits for well over a year, sir," sighed Dyer. "I always thought it was your father's death that started it all. He never seemed to quite get over it. Nothing Lady Barnaby could do would seem to cheer him. He was… like a man haunted. Many's the time I heard him say, "Poor Colin… dear old Colin…" over and over again, even when there was no one nigh him. For a while I really feared for… for his reason. But then Major Bertram came home from Waterloo, and—well… we had our hands full."

  "Yes. I heard. How does the poor fellow go on now?"

  Dyer stared at his glass. "He's blind, sir. And he never was the kind to—er… That is to say—I hope he may… improve."

  "Took it hard, did he? Cannot say I blame him." And having been well acquainted with the pompous display that masked Bertie Schofield's weak nature. Harry asked shrewdly. "The bottle?"

  The butler nodded. "And I'm inclined to think that was the last straw for Sir Barnaby. He took to doing such—odd things. Things a man of his constitution had no business doing, if you'll excuse me for saying so. He was, for example, driving a four-in-hand, and quite—er—bosky, when he turned over."

  "A coach and four? Schofield? But your footman said it was a curricle!"

  "We felt… the family felt… it sounded less ludicrous, sir."

  "Gad! Had he become one of these looby amateur coachmen, then?"

  "That, and worse." Dyer leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees, his eyes full of sadness. "Sir Harry, I mean no disrespect to the dead, but you being such a close friend… There wasn't anything he wouldn't do! Nothing too wild or too reckless! I used to go to bed at night with the candle set out on the hall table, and Sir Barnaby having told me not to wait up for him. And I'd lie there waiting for the Watch to come—or the Runners… to tell us he'd killed himself. Because—I think that's what he wanted. I think poor Sir Barnaby wanted to be dead!"

  Before leaving the Schofield house Harry imposed on the butler for the loan of pen and paper, and these being made available, he dashed off three quick letters. The first was to Bolster, thanking him for his help at Moire and explaining that he'd been unavoidably detained but would reach the Priory within a few days. The second was to his Hill Street residence, desiring that Anderson come at once to Chichester, bringing some of the meagre funds he'd left in Town, together with a valise containing sufficient of his clothes for a week or so and his new drab greatcoat. His third letter was directed to Mordecai Langridge, asking what he knew of the Carlson affair and requesting that his reply be addressed in care of the Marquis of Damon at Cancrizans Priory.

  Dyer having promised to send the letters to the Receiving Office at once, Harry shook him by the hand, thanked him fervently, and refused his anxious offer to call up a hackney. His remark that 'his friend' had promised to swing by and pick him up brought a look of relief to the butler's worried eyes, and Harry took his leave, pledging to return Major Bertram's garments, duly cleaned, at the very earliest opportunity. He strode off down the lane at a brisk pace. The two golden guineas Dyer had shyly begged to loan him would assure him of a meal and a ticket on the stagecoach. He had no idea where Sprague Cobb lived, but he'd heard that Lord Cootesby owned a small seat outside Chichester, and to that lovely old cathedral town he intended to repair as swiftly as possible. Schofield's death had come as a sad shock, for he'd been deeply fond of the genial man. It had also delayed his hopes of learning more about that fatal card game. Still, with luck he would be in Chichester by early evening, and Cootesby, having been a friend of his father, would likely be willing to put him up for the night, or perhaps— He frowned at the sight of a drunkard weaving along the lane before him, quite obviously scarcely able to navigate. Even as he watched the man blundered into a tree and slid loosely downward. There were no ladies within sight, fortunately, and he went over to help the individual to his feet. "A trifle early in the day to be in that condition, ain't…" The scornful words died in his throat as a pathetically emaciated young face was lifted. The boy was obviously ill and on the brink of collapse. Harry's concerned enquiry elicited the information that he'd been wounded at Waterloo and had only recently managed to work his way home. When it was revealed that he'd served under the command of Timothy Van Lindsay (with whom Harry was sure he had once dined in Madrid), there was nothing for it but to help the poor fellow.

  By easy stages and the benefit of Harry's supporting arm, the youthful veteran was enabled to reach a small coffee shop near the stagecoach office. He was, he imparted when the first pangs of hunger were eased, Billy Ernest, and with the flicker of a smile he said it had always been a joke with his mates that he had two first names. His health was gone, the long battle to recover from a shattered hip not likely to be won. But he said with quiet courage that he was nearly home now, and if he could just reach Winchester and see his family, he'd not so much mind dying. He looked as though he would probably do just that and, his heart wrung, Harry said sternly that he couldn't picture one of Van Lindsay's chaps selling out so cheap. A sudden spark in the hollowed eyes encouraged him. He left Ernest rapturously tackling a large slice of custard pie and hurried to the stagecoach office. The coach from Chatham to Southampton departed in ten minutes; it would stop at Chichester, and there was one seat left—outside. The coach from Canterbury to Guildford would arrive in half an hour, and connections could be made at Guildford with a stage that would pass through Winchester. There was no way that Harry's gold pieces would stretch to cover both journeys; nor was there any doubt in his mind. He returned to Ernest and chatted with him until the last of the pie was tucked away and a trace of colour had returned to the drawn young face. Then he escorted him to the coaching station and, having exchanged a few words with a sympathetic guard, left Rifleman

  Ernest, the ticket clutched in one thin hand and tears of gratitude shimmering in his eyes.

  What had him fairly into the hips, thought Sergeant Anderson glumly, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair in the solicitor's waiting room, was where was the Captain? When the hackney had rattled to a stop in front of the house an hour ago, he'd thought Sir Harry was come back and his heart had fairly jumped through his ribs. Never had he been so put about as to find that little twiddle-poop, Mr. Mitchell, had slipped his leash and slunk back to Town. And what a roll of flimsies he'd flashed in that purse of his! The jarvey had all but fell off'n the box waiting for some of it to be put in his greedy paws! Good thing he'd been there or nodcock Mitchell would've give him a pound note 'stead o' the two shillings he warranted for the journey from the coaching station.

  Anderson rested his brooding gaze upon the frail, balding little man who laboured at the tall desk just outside Mr. Crosby Frye's inner office. Poor scrawny little chap. A nice life he must lead with that cantankerous solicitor to bow and scrape to all day. A slippery customer, Crosby Frye, with his smiles and subservient bows for the Quality and snarls for common folks. The Sergeant could not help but grin a little to recall how breezily Mr. Mitchell had strolled straight into the inner office, without so much as a by-your-leave. The clerk had seemed mesmerized by the young man's easy manner and pleasant smile, not realizing until it was too late that Redmond had no intention of stopping at his desk.

  One thing, Anderson thought grudgingly; Mr. Mitchell had taken the news of their changed circumstances calmly enough. When he'd walked into the house and discovered the rooms bare of furniture, he'd paused for the barest instant and drawled lazily, "Has my brother removed, Sergeant?" And when he'd been told straight out that the Captain had no more lettuce in the bowl, he'd looked only
mildly surprised. Not until he'd learned that his brother had been gone for five days and no word had the smile left those grey eyes. They'd come here 'tooty sweet' then, as the Frogs would say. Though what for, he—

  A small bell over the door commenced to jangle violently. Sergeant Anderson stared in astonishment as the clerk literally leapt into the air and, with his tall stool toppling behind him, scurried not for the office of his employer but for the outer hall. Lord, how the chap ran! Like a scared rabbit!

  The inner door opened and Mitchell exited briskly closing the door behind him. "Come on, Andy," he said, striding past. "Cannot wait all day."

  "Andy!" thought the Sergeant furiously, standing and thumping after him.

  Their driver had taken his hack for a walk up and down the street; a logical enough procedure yet one that put a small crease between Mitchell's brows as they hastened to the vehicle. He snapped something to the jarvey and sprang inside. Climbing in after him, Anderson barely had the door closed before the hackney plunged forward. Flung down, he glared at Redmond as he righted himself. "Where we orf to now?"

  Mitchell ran long white fingers tenderly over his right wrist. "Into the country," he murmured. "London's noise distresses me."

  Anderson's disgust was as eloquent as it was silent, but it was also very brief, for as they rounded the corner they all but collided with a black, enclosed carriage racing past at great speed. He peered after it curiously. "Bow Street. Looks like the Runners is after a hot one." Mitchell made no reply, and glancing to him, Anderson asked indifferently if he had hurt his hand.

  "Think I must have sprained it," Mitchell yawned. "Probably picked up something too heavy."

  The Sergeant snorted. "A book, most likely."

  Mitchell's response to this barb was to appear to go to sleep, not stirring again until they had left the metropolis behind. Rousing at length, he looked absently out of the window but, feeling his companion's scorching stare upon him, enquired, "Have you ever noticed, Andy, how magnificent a creation is a tree?" Well aware of the tightening of that grim mouth, he went on drowsily, "I know of few things more restful than to watch the flutter of the leaves."

  "Flutter of the leaves…" muttered Anderson, sotto voce. "Luv a duck!"

  "You prefer to contemplate birds? Well, you've a point. Ducks, though… " Mitchell wrinkled his brow. "I'd not thought…"

  "Gawd!" snarled the Sergeant. "What we a'doing of in this ruddy, stupid wilderness, Mr. Redmond, while Sir Harry's up to I dunno what all by himself?"

  "But you said he was with Jeremy Bolster. And if ever there was a fighting fool, it's old Bolster. I remember once…"

  He continued to remember in lazy detail while they headed northwest towards the hillside cluster of habitations that was Hampstead. It seemed to the infuriated Anderson that the driver wound about as fancy took him, and they came at last to a charming district of large homes set along winding, tree-lined lanes. Leaning from the window at the junction of two such lanes, Mitchell murmured, "Tranquillity Avenue—is it not delightful? Stop here, driver." He opened the door and sprang down, not troubling to lower the step. "I think I shall take a short stroll—you may wait here, Anderson. Just look at that acacia! I simply must have a closer view of it…" And he was gone, leaving the Sergeant to glare after his tall, slim figure and consign him, his Tranquillity Avenue, and his perishing acacia to the hottest area of Hades. Within a few moments, however, rather cramped from the drive, Anderson also alighted from the vehicle. There was no sign of Redmond, but the air was warm and fragrant, the lane inviting, and the beauty about him not lost upon Anderson, despite his frustration. He began to wander along, admiring the fine houses in their spacious, well-landscaped grounds. He was not the only one thus engaged; a buxom nursemaid, her perambulator at a standstill, was staring at a dwelling of Grecian design with a fine portico across the imposing front. Following her gaze, Anderson's eyes became fixed and glassy. High at the side of the house, a gentleman clung precariously to a vibrating trellis. Even as he watched, Redmond launched himself sideways and barely caught the edge of a second-storey windowsill. "Gawd!" gulped the Sergeant. The nursemaid turned a pale face and shocked eyes towards him. He touched his hat. "No n-need to be alarmed, Miss. He's a student and a bit forgetful-like. Always losing his doorkey. And—it's the butler's day orf."

  She recovered sufficiently to gasp out, "Cor . . !" and hastened along her way, her journey marked by many a backward glance.

  Anderson held out little hope of escaping arrest but sped across the lane and made his horrified way to the criminal. "Mr. Mitchell!" he cried in scandalized accents. "What in the devil is you about?"

  "Do be quiet, Andy!" And hanging by both hands from the window ledge of the residence of Mr. Sprague Cobb, Mitchell pointed out, "You are attracting attention!"

  Chapter VII

  Between badly blistered heels and the recalcitrant kitchen pump of a kindly farm wife, it took Harry two days to reach Tunbridge Wells again. His success with the pump earned him a fine breakfast and the loan of a farmer's razor, but otherwise it was a lonely two days, affording all too much time for contemplation of Past, Future, and—more depressingly—Present. He passed the first night under a haystack, and the second less successfully, discovering that the leaves and bracken he piled over himself provided neither warmth nor protection from the drizzle which, by the time he awoke from a fitful doze, had become a steady downpour.

  He reached the Wells in mid-morning, in so disreputable a condition that it was doubtful any friend or acquaintance would recognize him even did they chance to be abroad before noon. Encouraged by this thought, he ventured into the Constable's Office and reported the theft of Lace. His story created a sensation. He was compelled to remain and add his impressions to a pile of sketches and descriptions of Devil Dice that were as diverse as they were inaccurate. His hilarity over one lady's tale of the dashing young highwayman who had kissed her hand even as he gently slid the rubies from about her throat irked the stern minions of the law. An indignant Harry was interrogated at great length. It was obvious that his appearance and lack of identification caused them to doubt his veracity and he was required to dictate a detailed account of his experience to a dim-witted youth who seemed barely capable of discerning one end of a pencil from the other.

  It was late afternoon before he escaped and continued upon his journey, eating the roast beef sandwich he had purchased from a small but clean ordinary. And although the rain continued drearily and his heels hurt, it was not these discomforts that gradually caused his spirits to become depressed. On the Peninsula he had cheerfully endured conditions a hundred times less pleasant, with lashing rain and icy wind; bones that ached with exhaustion; a stomach cramping from near-starvation; and the deadly crack of rifles echoing across the Spanish hills. But also there had been the merry laughter of comrades; the badinage of fellow officers who would die before admitting their own misery; the cheerful profanity of the rank and file, their courage undaunted by hardship, their loyalty fierce and inflexible. He sighed, wishing he'd not told Diccon to go on and not wait for him at Maidstone. He'd been so sure Barney would be able to provide him with many answers… poor old Barney. Now, he must get to Chichester—a matter of sixty miles and more, and the munificent sum of two shillings and threepence halfpenny could not be stretched to include a warm bed en route. Once at Chichester, of course, he would be very close to the unfailing hospitality of Lucian St. Ciair's Beechmead Hall, or the Earl of Harland's Hollow Hill Manor. But regretfully, he knew he could not go to either of those gracious homes, or to Lord John Moulton's lovely old Greenwings. His friends would press him to stay. They would look at him with affection—and sympathy. And sympathy he found he could not endure.

  He scowled and pulled his sagging shoulders erect. What a gudgeon to be lumping along like this! Fate may have dealt him a leveller, but although he could not call on them he was blessed by friends! Many, loyal, and good friends. And he had Mitch and Mordecai and the numerous other m
embers of his family. He walked on at a brisker pace; and because the wind was colder and blew the trees mournfully, because the rain grew ever heavier and the leaden skies were no whit gloomier than his prospects, he whistled cheerily.

  The hoofbeats that came up behind him were those of a single animal and proceeded at a leisured pace so that he knew he would neither have to jump for his life as the mail coach flashed past, nor guard against the sheeting mud and water flung up by racing carriage or chaise wheels. With luck it might be some good-natured carter, willing to let him ride along for a while. But even as he started to turn around, he heard the hooves quicken to something almost approaching a canter, while a great rattling and clanking was accompanied by a shout, a feminine squeal, and an outburst of wild braying. Harry's heart gave a joyous leap, and he ran to meet as royal a welcome as ever he had known.

  Mr. Fox brayed and butted at his ribs; Diccon swung down from the cart to seize him in a hug; and even Miss Nanette, shielded from the rain by a man's greatcoat and with a piece of oilcloth held over her head, exclaimed with apparent enthusiasm chat it was like meeting a long-lost comrade and urged him to get into the cart, "For you look," said she, "like a drowned rat."

  Harry's protests that it would be too much of a load for Mr. Fox were overruled. Diccon insisted that he had been riding all day and it would do him good to stretch his legs. He waved Harry to the driving seat beside Miss Nanette while he went to Mr. Fox's head, and they started off once more.

  "How glad I am that we met again," said Harry with real sincerity. "Does Diccon take you to Devonshire now?"

  "Yes, for he has no more trading to do for a little while and promises we shall go straight there. Indeed, we thought we would have come up with you before—" She checked, then finished rather lamely, "Unless you got a ride."