"Do not bury him yet," Harry chuckled. "I ran afoul of an honest Welsh bull, merely. Nought to worry about." He glanced down at his ill-assorted raiment and muttered a rueful, "Forgot about my hand-me-downs, though. Blast! Well, at least you are presentable, Uncle. You can get me past the butler."
The Reverend led the way to a stolid-looking mare who was comfortably devouring a nearby shrub. "My horse threw a shoe, I'm afraid. But—as for getting you into the Hall, dear lad—out of the question! Quite."
Harry ignored this daunting prophecy but was forced to admit the mare could not be ridden. "We'll walk," he decided. "Come on, Uncle Mau—decai. Tell me why you are here."
If Langridge noted the small slip, he gave no sign of it, and still insisting that their journey was pointless, was drawn along by his nephew's more forceful personality and as they went, explained his presence. Harry's absence had smitten him, he said, to the point that he had finally ridden to Three Fields in hopes of finding him there. "But you were not there," he said redundantly, "and Lord Jeremy was from home, so I followed him to Cancrizans and had no sooner arrived than the Marquis returned from Sanguinet Towers in a positively towering fury. Such language!" Considerably in awe of Camille Damon, he shook his head. "Seldom have I seen so violent a temper in such a young man, though he curbed it upon learning of my calling and apologized most humbly, while all the time those strange eyes of his were positively shooting out sparks of rage.
Harry laughed. "He received a rude reception from Sanguinet, did he? Good old Cam. I can all but see him fuming. I hope he didn't seriously offend you, sir. He's a hell of a—er, that is, he's a splendid fellow, you know. Was Jerry there?"
Lord Bolster, it appeared, had indeed been present, and the three had decided that Harry would undoubtedly attempt to question the gentlemen who had taken part in the fateful card game. "So the Marquis drove to Hampstead to see if you had yet visited Mr.Sprague Cobb, and Bolster and I came here and have been taking turns watching the road so as to warn you." Here, the Reverend halted, flung up one hand dramatically, and exhorted. "You must not go on with this, my boy! It is quite useless, and—"
"To the contrary." Walking on. the laughter that habitually lurked in Harry's eyes vanished entirely. "I have reason to suspect that Parnell Sanguinet had a more compelling reason than I'd dreamed for arranging my father's death."
"But—my dear boy, you do not understand.There is no possible way that—"
"It is of no use, sir," Harry interposed. "I know what you believe, but Mitch and I both think—"
"Mitchell? You have seen him? Now heaven be praised! Sergeant Anderson came to the Priority quite overset with anxiety. I scarcely dared tell you of your brother's rash conduct in Dinan! What the ton will make of it I cannot guess! How fortuitous he was not facing Parnell as he surmised!"
"The ton may make of it whatever they wish," said Harry, bristling. "And Mitchell would have done just as splendidly had he faced Parnell rather than Guy Sanguinet! Now tell me quickly, if you will, what you meant when you said you had come to ... warn…" His words died. They were close to the house now, and the front doors were swinging open. Three men armed with cudgels sauntered onto the small area atop the sweep of wide steps. One wore the green of a gamekeeper, but noting the black and gold livery of the others, Harry's eyes narrowed. "Aha… I have it."
"They will not let you in." Langridge plucked nervously at his sleeve. "When we first enquired for Lord Cootesby, they were so insolent it was all I could do to restrain Lord Bolster. Come—before there is a vulgar confrontation-"
Harry had detected a familiar face "Why, Uncle." he murmured, his eyes beginning to sparkle, "A little vulgarity is good for the soul." He shook off the Reverend's pudgy hand and strode forward. "Well, well! My friend, Mr. Fritch."
Hatred glowed in the small eyes of the gamekeeper who had manned the gatehouse at Sanguinet Towers. "I hoped as you'd come." he leered hungrily. "Oh, but you don't know how much I hoped it!"
The butler trod timidly into view and stood just outside the doors, wringing his hands. "You there," called Harry, ignoring the menacing advance of Sanguinet's men. "I am Harry Redmond. Is your master at home?"
'E don't know," sneered a red-faced, heavily built ruffian with deliberate impertinence. "Come and 'ave a spot o' tea wiv me, Sir 'Arry! I got a nice crumpet 'ere wot you can try yer teeth on!" And he smacked his cudgel into the palm of one beefy hand.
His companions let out loud guffaws, and the Reverend whispered, "They're ugly customers! Come—you are in no condition to—'"
"Have you a pistol about you, sir?" enquired Harry softly, keeping his attention on the sneering bullies.
"No. And lad—hasten! They are too many, and you—-"
"Yes, blast it all! Oh, well—cannot always play fair, I'm afraid!"
With a lith spring, he was in the saddle. Langridge fell back with a startled exclamation. Harry wheeled the gelding and galloped back down the drive, followed by shrill hoots and shouted profanity. When he'd enough distance, he turned about and slapped the sorrel's flank hard. The animal fairly leapt toward the house. The three stalwarts, who had converged upon a dismayed Langridge, now flung themselves for the charging horse. Not without courage, Fritch raced to intercept Harry at the steps and sprang forward, club upraised. The sorrel stumbled and almost fell. The club whistled past Harry's ear and landed glancingly on his mount's flank. Screaming, the sorrel bucked. The other hirelings retreated from those flailing hooves with commendable alacrity, but Fritch, caught off balance, was tardy. Harry's boot shot out and connected with his narrow jaw. Fritch flew backward and lay unmoving. Harry jumped the hack up the two remaining steps and through the front doors, even as the butler sprang clear, uttering a shout of excitement.
The foyer of Cootesby's ancestral hall was a good size, but it had not been designed to accommodate a large, plunging, and thoroughly frightened horse; and as two more men wearing Sanguinet's livery ran from the rear of the house, it became very crowded, indeed.
Harry gave a whoop and guided the hack to the stairs beside which a tapestry hung on a long iron rod- He sized the rod and whirled the sorrel towards the eager group who charged him, the rail—tapestry and all—held like a lance in his right hand. He caught the first bully squarely in the chest, and the man zoomed backward carrying a comrade with him. The other two separated. The horse screamed, its terrified prancing hindering both Harry and his attackers, the tattoo of hoofbeats deafening in that enclosed space. A door flew open at one side of the hall and an elegant, grey-haired gentleman paused on the threshold, staring in astonishment at the mayhem. To add to the uproar, a Pekingese dog, having halted beside his master as though similarly stunned, was galvanized into indignant reprisals and, yapping shrilly, tore around the horse's hooves. Eyes rolling, the sorrel danced, the dog yapped, Harry laughed, and Sanguinet's men dodged frantically to avoid the thrusts of the makeshift lance and the cavorting gelding.
A wiry fellow, bald save for two small tufts above his eyebrows, made a dash up the stairs and launched himself downward. Harry sent the gelding sideways, and the flyer missed his target but sailed into a grandfather clock, accompanying it to the floor amid a clanging crash and the chink of breaking glass. The clock began to chime, adding its mellow and incessant voice to the turmoil.
"If you're Cootesby," laughed Harry, "call your louts off before we wreck the place!"
The gentleman spread his hands helplessly. Mordecai entered at the same instant that Harry was attacked from either side. One end of the lance doubled the first man neatly in half. The tapestry slid from the other end of the rod as Harry almost dropped it. The oncoming bully was enveloped in its voluminous folds and disappeared from view amid a plethora of muffled curses. The redfaced individual who'd been on the front steps now made a lunge for the swinging end of the rail, caught it, and wrenched powerfully. Half torn from the saddle, Harry reeled back, still clinging to his 'lance' with stubborn determination. Fritch, his jaw swelling, staggered up and m
ade a savage swipe at this hated opponent. The long club missed Harry's head by a whisper but caught his left arm fairly. He choked back an involuntary cry and was dully cognizant of a great deal of confusion, but the only true reality now was the white-hot pain that seared through him, reducing all else to insignificance…
Cold marble was pressing against his cheek… He was sprawled on the floor. Distantly, Maude's voice was upraised, a shrill and unfamiliar quality to it that angered him. They'd better not hurt gentle old Maude! He crawled to his hands and knees. His eyes were dim, but he could discern his uncle, crouching between his own helplessness and the gloating advance of four of the defenders. As Harry stumbled to his feet, his hack galloped madly out of the front doors and down the steps, the Pekingese in full-throated pursuit. The red-faced man jumped for the Reverend. To Harry's amazement, his uncle struck out. In some strange fashion he was armed with Dicon's baton, and the red-faced one yowled and reeled away.
"Stay back!" roared Mordecai, brandishing the baton with sinful delight. "You are not blind! You know what manner of man you challenge!"
The eyes of Red Face fastened to that baton, and he hesitated.
"Rush him! Damn you! Rush him!" screamed Fritch, clutching his jaw.
Harry, half immobilized by the pain that radiated from his arm, knotted his right fist. "Come on… then…" he invited thickly.
They came on. With a squeak of excitement, Mordecai gripped his baton tighter. Four clubs, wielded by four expert hands, swung upward.
So did one musket.
"Out!" commanded a crisp, cold voice.
Lord Cootesby stood halfway up the staircase, the musket aimed steadily at Sanguinet's men. His head was held proudly, his face pale but stern with resolution. "You have terrorized my servants, insulted my guests, and intimidated me," he itemized. "No more!"
"You wouldn't dare," Fritch taunted, sliding forward a pace. "You know what Monseer said." He jerked a thumb at Harry. "He wants Redmond. Bad."
"That's enough of your impudence!" Cootesby snapped. "Out! Or—" The musket swung to point squarely at Fritch's middle. Shall you be the first to discover I would indeed dare . . ?"
The red-faced man had evidently lost his aggressive spirit and was backing away. Fritch turned on him furiously. "You going to let him run you orf? He doesn't dare shoot. Monseer's got him—"
"Ar," said his cohort. "But his lordship's got a musket. And that'n—" he indicated Langridge, "he's got a baton wot I don't like the look on. Not a'tall! I ain't going up agin no perishing Runner!"
He beat a path to the door. His companions, alerted by his ominous words, turned their attention to the weapon clutched in Mordecai's chubby hand and vacillated. The butler trod into the side hall. He held an enormous blunderbuss whose gaping muzzle was levelled at the intruders. It was the last straw. They snarled dire threats but backed away. The last to go was Fritch. On the threshold, he levelled a malevolent glare at Harry. "When my monseer comes up with you" he snarled, "you'll wish you never bin—"
The musket roared. Glass shattered in the window beside Fritch, and the wall became peppered with shot. With a shriek he galloped after his fellows, urged on by the ribald comments of grooms and gardeners, who had appeared as if by magic to support the belated stand taken by their employer.
"See them off the premises, lads!" shouted the butler, hastening to the door.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Cootesby, walking swiftly down the stairs. "I feel halfway clean again!"
"Thank you, sir," said Harry feebly. "Jolly…jolly good've…" As from a great distance he heard his uncle ask anxiously if he was all right. He attempted to reply, realized with horror that he had used the hated nickname, but could not seem to complete his apology. The room was becoming quite dark, which was odd because the sun had not yet gone down. An arm was firmly about him, and Maude's voice echoed, "… game… to the last…"
"There, I think he's coming round now, sir."
Harry sighed and looked up into the kindly eyes of a white-haired, motherly lady wearing a lace-edged cap, who was bathing his brow with a damp rag. He was sprawled in an armchair in a large, pleasant library. Nearby, Cootesby stood watching him anxiously, and the Reverend Langridge, hands clasped behind him, was surveying the proceedings, an aghast expression on his face.
"Deuce take it!" said Harry, sitting up in dismay. "Did I make a confounded fool of myself, then?"
Cootesby smiled, crossed to a table, and poured a glass of wine. "You did exceeding well, Redmond," he contradicted, returning to give Harry the glass.
"Indeed, I cannot see how you could fight at all, sir," the lady put in gently, "with such a dreadful gash in your poor arm."
Harry glanced down then and discovered that his jacket had been removed and fresh bandages applied to his injury. "Good Lord!" he gasped. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Only about a quarter of an hour," Langridge said reassuringly. "We made no attempt to revive you, dear boy, until Mrs. Hart was finished."
Harry stood rather unsteadily to thank the woman, obviously Lord Cootesby's housekeeper, for her efforts. She warned him gravely that he must consult a physician at the earliest possible opportunity, and upon his promising to do so, she called to her maid to remove the tray of medical paraphernalia, and left them.
Lord Cootesby opened the door for his two servants and returned to take a chair beside the fireplace, his calm features reflecting no trace of his inner curiosity.
"I'm sure you must be wondering why I look such a fright, sir," said Harry, sitting down again since his head still spun in an unsettling fashion.
"Not at all," his lordship lied politely. "I am instead most grateful that you—" he gave a whimsical smile, "dropped in."
Harry laughed. "An unorthodox arrival, wasn't it? I'm afraid my hack may have damaged your floors, and I'm dashed sorry for the destruction of that fine old clock." The brandy was commencing to make him feel steadier, and he took another swallow from the glass.
"There!" cried Langridge triumphantly. "Don't sound like a bloody vendetta, does it, Cootesby? You should never have listened to Sanguinet's lies."
His lordship agreed. "The man was so deuced convincing. And when I heard your brother had shot Guy, I thought… perhaps…" He shrugged ruefully.
"If you thought we seek vengeance upon the man responsible for our father's death, you are perfectly correct, sir," said Harry. "But I've gained the impression you were not to blame."
Cootesby's gaze lowered. Staring at the finely embroidered fireplace screen, he sighed, "I was, though." He looked up and said remorsefully, "I should have stopped it, Redmond. We all of us should have stopped it! Poor Cobb took it almost as hard as did Schofield. I told him we were not responsible—but we were. I own it. Your father was in no state to play."
Harry's hopes plummeted. "Then—he really did play?"
Cootesby stared at him, then flashed a troubled glance to Langridge.
"But—my dear boy," said the Reverend uneasily, "I told you that he—'
"Yes, I know you did. But I was sure there must be some mistake. I've lately discovered that my father had reason to mistrust Sanguinet, so why—"
"Mistrust?" Cootesby intervened. "No, no—I assure you he did not. I would say, in fact, that they were fast friends. Extremely attached."
Harry was shocked into a brief silence. Then he asked, "How well did you know my father, sir? Had you often played cards with him?"
"I'd not met him prior to that evening. I am seldom in Town, you see, and not well-acquainted at the clubs. Schofield was a good friend of mine." He shook his head regretfully. "He never got over it. He was the one who—who reached the room first… After… we heard the shot."
It seemed to Harry as though that fateful last word stopped time, as though all movement was suspended. He no longer heard the tick of the clock, the rustling of leaves outside the open windows, the calls of homeward-bound birds. His very breath felt frozen in his throat.
"Poor lad!" Langridge came
to slip a compassionate hand onto his shoulder. "All so unprepared, alas! And who must bear that cross but myself? Oh, may God forgive me, but I have made wretched work of it!"
Scarcely hearing the words, Harry thrust him away, sprang to his feet, and confronted the startled Cootesby. "You… lie!" he accused in a murderous half-whisper.
"No!" cried Langridge frantically. "He don't mean it, Cootesby!"'
His lordship stood at once but, instead of hurling the challenge the Reverend so dreaded, said a distressed, "Indeed, I wish I did, my dear fellow."
"It is truth!" Langridge moaned. "I lacked the courage to tell you, Harry. But—your… your poor papa, having lost all… Oh, merciful heavens! He—he shot himself!"
With a sob of rage Harry leapt forward, his hands darting for his uncle's throat. Langridge staggered back, choking, spluttering, striving vainly to tear away that merciless hold. Maddened, lost to all thought or reason, Harry tightened his grip, conscious only of the need to kill anyone who dared voice such an accusation against his beloved father. Cootesby fought desperately to loosen his hands, peering into the contorted young face and shouting, "Redmond! Let be! Are you run mad? Your uncle was not even here! I was—I saw it!"
Gradually, the words penetrated his anguish. The red mists that clouded mind and vision began to fade, and he saw Langridge's face, the eyes starting out in terror, the pudgy cheeks purpling. With a muffled groan he relaxed his hold, and his uncle reeled to the nearest chair and collapsed into it, wheezing and clutching at his throat. For an instant, Harry glared ragefully down at him. Then he strode to the window and stood holding his throbbing arm and staring at a tabby cat cleaning itself on the terrace. The gallant gentleman who had sired him would never have used a pistol to escape the consequences of his folly. Even at what must surely have been the darkest hour of his life, when his adored wife had died in his arms following a riding accident, Colin Redmond had somehow come through it without surrendering to despair. Surely, the loss of home and fortune—terrible though it would have been—could not compare to the loss of his lady? Surely his father had not so changed as to—
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 24