The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake

by Patricia Veryan

  Adair drew back also. That this person seldom if ever bathed was very evident. He said coolly, “I believe you wished to see me.”

  The little man spun around, disclosing a sunken and weathered face sadly in need of a shave. Narrowed dark eyes scanned Adair in a brief appraisal. Snatching off a greasy cap, he smoothed back long wisps of grey hair and said in a shrill whine, “By grab, but you give me a fright, guv’nor. And me, with a poor old heart as don’t need no frights. Crep’ up on me unawares, you done, sir. Not as I mean ter say you meant to fright poor Bill Oxshott into his grave.” He cackled again and bent his head a little, leering up at the younger man’s enigmatic face ingratiatingly. “Ye’ll be the gent as is asking everywhere fer me good friend—Wally Davis. That right, sir? Or has poor old Bill got it wrong agin?”

  “I have business with a man who was coachman for Mr. Rickett a decade or so ago.”

  Adair’s tone was chill but the sly leer did not waver. “Ar, well that’ll be me friend Wally, right enough.” He sniffed noisily and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “If ye’ll tell me what it is you wants to know, sir, I’ll search me memory. Though poor old Bill’s brain-box finds it hard these days—downright painful at times, sir—to rec’lect things. Likely from not never having the rhino to buy proper nourishin’ food, sir. Like—say, a chop now and then.”

  “If you can recollect the directions to Mr. Rickett’s estate, perhaps you’ll be able to buy a beefsteak or two, but don’t be looking for the whole cow, Oxshott. I’m not a rich man.”

  “Old Bill” howled with mirth. “Not many soldiers is rich men, eh, sir?”

  Adair looked into those cunning eyes steadily, and Oxshott gabbled, “S’prised ye, did I, guv’nor? Old Bill can allus tell a soldier-man by the set o’ the shoulders and the way their heads is carried. High, sir. High and proud. Like yourn. Now take me, on the other hand. Just a humble and simple cove is Oxshott, as ain’t too proud to ask if ye could just stretch to—say, a ‘leg o’ lamb,’ Mr.—er, Chatteris…?”

  He was a crafty old rogue, right enough, but Adair found himself wondering what chances fate had offered. Few enough, probably. He said in a kinder tone, “I think you’re a great rascal, Mr. Bill Oxshott.” And above the resultant cackle, he added, “But, depending upon what you have to tell me, a ‘leg of lamb’ it shall be.”

  Old Bill rubbed his grubby hands and became a regular mine of information. Adair was given precise directions to the hamlet near the Rickett estate, which was now the Haley estate. As for his dear friend, Wally Davis had never spoken of his family background. “But he had parents, sir! Oh, yus! He had parents. And still living, for I see Wally not more’n a year back and he tells me he’d like to go down and see his old mum. Surprise her like, he says.”

  “Do you know where Mrs. Davis lives?”

  “No, sir. Wish I did. Might’ve earned meself some sassengers, eh, sir?” This winning no offer of a “sausage bonus,” Oxshott sighed and continued, “Still, if ye goes up round what used to be Mr. Rickett’s house, there might be others knows more’n old Bill. Blest if ever I met a more contrary cove. Argify a donkey’s hind leg orf will Wally, but one thing no one can’t deny—he knows his cattle, and he brung old Rickett’s hacks into the smithy often enough. The blacksmith will likely remember him.”

  A short while later, trotting alongside as Adair rode out, Oxshott called a friendly “Jest foller the Bedford Road to the blue barn like I said, sir, then turn onto the bridge. There’s a tolerable good inn on the far side as sets a nice table if ye’re so minded. The Pilgrim Arms, it’s called, after some cove name of Bunyan, though what he done there I dunno.”

  Adair waved, and letting Toreador have his head, soon disappeared from sight.

  Oxshott’s smile also disappeared. For a moment something almost like regret came into his eyes. Then he shrugged. “A cove got to live,” he advised a passing crow, and began to count out the sizeable tip he’d just earned.

  A sharp wind came up while Adair was riding to the southwest, but he was too encouraged now to feel the chill on the air. He knew where to find the elusive Rickett estate at last. With luck, a little searching about would unearth someone who would remember Walter Davis. The blacksmith Oxshott had spoken of sounded a likely source. Things were looking decidedly brighter.

  As they had a way of doing lately, his thoughts drifted to Miss Cecily Hall. No shrinking violet, that lady, but one couldn’t deny she was a lovely creature. Recalling the fierce way she had levelled that pistol at him brought a grin. She’d courage enough, certainly, and deep loyalties. He wondered where she was at that moment, and whether her indomitable Grandmama was caring for her.

  A gust of wind set the trees swaying as he passed the blue barn and turned onto the bridge. An inn nestled under a huge oak at the far side of the bridge, as Oxshott had said. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, to be whisked away by the wind, and a tantalizing smell of cooking wafted on the air. Adair glanced at his timepiece. It was nearing one o’clock, a good time for luncheon at the “tolerable good” Pilgrim Arms and a rest for Toreador.

  When he rode into the yard an ostler ran to take charge of the dapple-grey, and the host, a small man with a large smile, greeted Adair at the door. He was conducted across a neat parlour to the adjoining coffee room and a table remarkable for its cleanliness. This being a week-day, he was mildly surprised to find the room well patronized and ringing with talk. The noise level diminished while he was seated and several heads turned his way. He ran his eyes over the gathering just in case, but saw no familiar faces. A serving maid gave him a dimpling smile and took his order and he was soon enjoying some excellent cold roast beef, thick bread still warm from the oven, and a tankard of ale.

  He was finishing his meal when an all-too-familiar voice rang out loud and clear. “As I live and breathe! If it ain’t the infamous Colonel!”

  The buzz of talk in the room trailed into silence.

  Adair took a deep breath, lowered his tankard deliberately, and stood.

  Thorne Webber’s swarthy countenance was slightly flushed, the hard brown eyes glinting triumph. As before, he held a heavy riding crop and was raising it threateningly. “Still carry the mark I put on you,” he blustered. “If I give you another, you’ll likely run away as you did last time, but—”

  Adair crouched, his hand flashed out and caught Webber’s up-flung arm. With a quick shift of weight he continued the motion. Instinctively resisting that relentless upward pressure, Webber uttered a howl and the riding crop fell from his numbed hand. “Damn you!” he snarled, clutching his arm painfully.

  “Now, now, gents!” The little proprietor rushed to dance about between the two men. “Now, now! Outside, if ye must, but—”

  “You’ve broke my arm, you worthless carrion!” bellowed Webber.

  “Dislocated, more like,” drawled Adair. “The penalty for missed opportunity. You should have hit me when I wasn’t looking, as you did in Town.”

  “I’ll hit you, all right! By God, but I will! Host! Get me a doctor! You’ll meet me for this, Adair!”

  “Gladly. But the challenge is mine. You struck first, and—”

  “Did the gent say Adair?” A beefy individual wearing a lurid purple neckerchief shoved back his chair so that it fell with a crash. “Hi, mates! This here must be that wicked devil of a left’nant-colonel what’s gorn and ruined poor Miss Prior! And very likely murdered the little lady!”

  “And what oughta bin put a end to afore this!” cried a very dark youth with a narrow pallid face.

  Three other rough-looking men who were seated at the same table sprang to their feet, shouting their approval of these sentiments.

  “Now—now!” wailed the proprietor desperately. “Not in the house, mates! Outside, if—”

  “Outside it is!” roared the owner of the neckerchief. “We don’t want no dirty woman-killers comin’ here. They might buy their way free in Lun’on Town—but not in these parts! Ho, no! Come on, lads! Let’s show
this here nob what good country folks do with kidnapping rapists!”

  More men were on their feet now, glaring at the “wicked colonel” and voicing their enthusiasm for justice so heartily that the windows rattled. Adair looked around that ring of hostile faces. Clearly, they were about to rush him. He stepped back, drew his duelling pistol, and aimed it steadily at the purple neckerchief.

  The lusting charge halted.

  “See that?” snarled his target. “A murdering varmint, right enough!”

  “Go and fetch a doctor, damn your eyes,” howled Webber.

  Ignoring him, the dark youth snatched up a chair. “He can only get one on us, mates.”

  Adair smiled grimly. “Do you volunteer?”

  He saw the youth’s eyes shift. From behind him came a whisper of sound. He flung himself aside. A long cudgel whistled past his ear. He seized the arm that had wielded the weapon and tugged, and a tall ruffian was wrenched into the path of those who had again plunged to the attack.

  All then was noise and confusion. A woman’s voice called urgently, “This way, sir! Be quick now, do! Your horse is ready and waiting.”

  It was no time for heroics. Adair ran through the door that the host’s lady held open and then slammed behind him. He tugged out his purse and tossed some coins onto the counter. “My thanks, ma’am,” he called, and sprinted to where a scared-looking stable-boy held Toreador. The boy’s eyes widened as Adair snatched the reins, mounted up even as the big grey was running, and was away at the gallop.

  From the inn came shouts and wrathful curses. A small bloodthirsty crowd erupted through the front door. Someone fired a shot, but by then Adair was out of range. He had little fear of any other horse coming up with his superb dapple-grey, but even so, he knew his wisest course would be to leave the area and go back to Town. He swore softly. He had come so close to learning something of the elusive Walter Davis. Be damned if he’d give up so easily! If he were trapped again, he’d have no choice but to head for London; meanwhile, it was unlikely that the bullies behind him had the remotest idea of his next destination.

  Having made up his mind, he continued to ride to the southwest, while trying to make sense of this latest imbroglio. He heard again the beefy fellow’s roared threat to show what “country folks” do with kidnapping rapists. The lout had certainly not been describing himself, for both he and the dark youth had accents straight from the slums of the City. If they were Londoners they were probably Thorne Webber’s hirelings, for it was stretching the bounds of credibility to suppose that Webber should have come into the Pilgrim Arms by chance. Besides, the leader of those bullies must have had prior knowledge of him, for he’d referred to him as a Lieutenant-Colonel, whereas most people simply addressed him as Colonel. On the other hand, for an instant it had seemed as if Webber had been surprised by the sudden and enthusiastic support he’d received.

  More puzzling was how Webber had known he would be at the Pilgrim Arms on this particular day. He’d not known it himself until this morning, when Bill Oxshott had—Oxshott! A slippery rogue if ever there was one. Could Oxshott have been paid to send him to the Pilgrim Arms? Such a scheme must have required advance planning. Much as Webber loathed him, would he really have had him followed all this way and gone to such pains to set a potentially murderous trap? It did not seem very likely. Unless the man had some deeper motive for wanting him dead. Was it possible that Thorne Webber admired poor little Alice Prior, and had spirited her away to some secret love nest?

  Adair smiled ruefully. “Toreador,” he said, “I think your master is grasping at straws and conjuring up some very melodramatic nonsense!”

  But before he had gone another mile there came again his ominous warning voice and the strong sense that he was being watched.

  He detoured, riding in a wide loop, but when he returned to the road he encountered only an exasperated riding master attempting to instruct a dozen or so young boys on the fine points of equestrianship. The master, a rather prim and dandy-ish type, rolled his eyes heavenward in long-suffering fashion as they passed. Adair grinned, then enchanted the bored youngsters by allowing Toreador to show off his imitation of a whirligig and render an equine bow before cantering on, followed by a chorus of whoops.

  A quarter of an hour passed, and he still could not dismiss the sensation of eyes boring into his back. This time he rode in amongst some trees and stayed hidden for several minutes. Two farm waggons, a lumbering coach drawn by four fat horses, a donkey cart top-heavy with hay and sacks of grain, and a clergyman riding a sway-backed cart-horse passed by, none seemingly interested in those who had preceded them.

  Adair rode on, prepared for trouble.

  He came to the hamlet at last, just as Oxshott had described it, lying on the west side of a fast-flowing river. Toreador trod daintily through the thick mud and debris that had accumulated on the approach to a narrow and obviously ancient walled bridge. Beyond was a quaint collection of thatched cottages grouped about a green with snow still visible under clumps of gorse. The ring of hammer-blows guided Adair to the smithy. The blacksmith was massively built, smoke-blackened and good-natured. He apologized for not stopping work, and Adair’s questions had to be sandwiched between the strokes of the hammer meeting red-hot iron. The smith remembered Walter Davis well. “A quarrelsome sort of cove,” he shouted. “But he knows hosses, does Wally. What’s he bin and gone and done?”

  Adair assured him that he knew of nothing to Davis’s discredit save that he seemed to have disappeared. He repeated his untruth about the ‘small inheritance’ and the smith was so impressed that, briefly, he abandoned his task. Saying he would “rack his brain-box,” he proceeded to seize his thick hair and jerk his head so violently from side to side that his eyes began to water. This startling performance ended in an admission of failure. He had been unable to shake loose any knowledge of where Wally Davis had lived prior to working for the late Mr. Rickett, and Davis had seldom spoken of his family. “I do know as he had a mum what took in washing from some castle,” he offered. “Wally said she were a fine hand with a iron and starch.”

  “Can you recall the name or location of this castle?” Adair took out his purse. “I’d be most grateful.”

  “Lor’ bless yer, sir, ye don’t need to pay me. I’d tell yer soon enough, if I knowed. Don’t. You can go up to the great house yonder.” He gestured towards a nearby hill. “It belongs to a gent name of Haley now. But I reckon they won’t know any more’n what I do. Most of ’em be Londoners. The only one as useter work fer Mr. Rickett, Gawd rest his clutch-fisted soul, would be Sammy Henshaw, and Sammy were just the bootblack in them days. Doubt if he ever spoke to Wally.”

  Adair thanked him and turned Toreador back onto the lane.

  There was some difficulty ahead. A very large Berliner coach had come to grief and leaned sideways, blocking the bridge. The red-faced coachman was striving—with the assistance of a scared footman and several amused onlookers—to back his team.

  “Lord, what a silly block,” muttered Adair as he rode up.

  A villager grinned at him. “It do be stuck fast, sir. A wheel went into a rut and the whole lot tilted over. Hi! Coachman! Do ’ee want a bootjack?”

  Another wag yelled, “Some bacon grease, more like!”

  There were hoots and laughter, and from inside the coach a feminine voice was raised in anger:

  “Let me out at once, Peters! Did you not hear what I said, man?”

  It was a familiar voice, and Adair realized suddenly that this was the same coach that had passed by while he’d waited in the trees to see who was following him.

  The coachman moaned unhappily, “I heard you, milady. But open the door I cannot.”

  “The coach is wedged ’gainst the wall, ma’am,” wailed the footman.

  “Of all the ridiculous…” A younger female voice this, and a face appeared at the coach window. “Peters! Whatever were you thinking? We’ll never come up with him at this—” Miss Cecily Hall cut off that an
noyed and pointless remark and said, “You’d best send someone to fetch the blacksmith. He’ll likely know what…”

  Here, her glance falling upon Adair, she left a second sentence unfinished.

  She seemed lovelier each time he saw her and was charmingly clad in a dove-grey cloak and hood that accentuated the clear blue-grey of her eyes. He was relieved to note that she looked well and showed no sign of having suffered an injury a few days ago.

  Raising his hat, he said, “Come up with—whom, Miss Hall?”

  Her colour was heightened. She stared at him speechlessly.

  “Who is it? Who is it?” Lady Abigail Prior’s angular countenance, framed by an enormous bonnet with three lofty black feathers, thrust its way to the window.

  “Good day to you, ma’am,” said Adair, taking off his high-crowned hat once more.

  “Oh, dear,” said her ladyship and vanished as the feathers caught against the top of the window, tilting the bonnet over her face. Fighting her way out of this embarrassment, she said rather breathlessly, “I think we’re dished, Cecily.”

  Amused, Adair said wickedly, “In more ways than one. Do you think it proper, Lady Prior, to allow your granddaughter to pursue me in this, er—rather brazen fashion?”

  There were some stifled guffaws from the onlookers.

  Miss Hall, her cheeks now scarlet, gasped, “Braz-en? Ooh! I would not pursue you to—to the river bank yonder!”

  “Then how remarkable it is, ma’am, that I could have sworn your coach followed me from Newmarket to—”

  “And we will keep on following you,” she said, recovering her breath but contradicting herself, “until you lead us to—” She glanced at the gawking and titillated spectators, and hesitated.

  “Nor are we the only ones following you,” put in her ladyship.

  “He knows that, Grandmama,” said Miss Hall. “Why else does he keep dodging about so?”

  “Which being the case,” said Adair, replacing his hat at its customarily jaunty angle, “I must abandon you, dear ladies, and get on with my—er, dodging.”