"You would have a difficult time proving that, Chandler."
The voice came from behind him, and he whipped around to face Burton Farrier, wet and windblown, but with his eternal grin wider than usual, and his pale eyes glowing with triumph. "As hard a time," he went on, "as you will have trying to prove that the goods downstairs are not those you stole when you wrecked the Empress of Calcutta! But you look shocked. Did you not see her name stencilled on the crates? Every one was part of the cargo of that unhappy vessel—or so it will appear. My troopers are going to discover that undeniable proof of your crimes when they come. And I shall have caught you in the act of building the fire to draw another ship to her doom."
Shaken, Chandler said defiantly, "No one will believe it As if I'd be so stupid as to set the fire. It can be seen for miles and would bring the law down upon us before—"
"Do not take me for a fool, sir. The light can be seen for many miles, true. But many miles out to sea. Your estate is vast and there are hills inland and to the west also that block the light. It was for that very reason it was not rebuilt when—" Farrier stopped speaking as another gust hurled against the tower, causing it to sway and creak alarmingly. "Good God! Poinier, call Durwood down. He must go and signal my troop."
"He's already down." Poinier gave a disdainful gesture, and Farrier stepped around the table and scowled at the steward's sprawled form. Poinier added grudgingly, "Chandler always was handy with his fives."
"Much good it will do him. Is the fellow dead?"
"He's been heavy with the bottle and Chandler hit hard."
"Drunken imbecile! Well, since you allowed it, you will have to take his place. I left a burning brand in the bracket at the foot of the steps. Take it with you and wave it when you reach the first pathway. The troop will come at once."
"If the wind doesn't blow it out."
"Then you shall have to run and fetch them! And don't be too long about it. Your last assignment was not a great success and you've used up your quota of failure."
Poinier said sullenly, "My cousin Trethaway died in that curst fiasco. And despite all the Squire's cunning, Glendenning escaped the axe. Your own success rate slipped badly there, eh, dear friend?"
While the two rogues were preoccupied with their quarrel Chandler had edged closer to the log pile. Now, moving with stealthy caution, he reached for his fallen club. He had almost grasped it when Durwood rolled over, snatched it up and howled, "Hey!"
"Another move and I shoot!" screeched Farrier. "I'd just as soon finish you now, Chandler!"
To defy that steady pistol would be suicidal. Reluctantly, Chandler straightened.
Farrier said, "You see what happens! Curse you for an argumentative fool, Poinier! Go!"
"Why the devil did you not just bring the dragoons with you?"
"Because I had to be sure Chandler was found here of course! He could have gone off to the farm with the rest of the men, or sent someone else here."
"What, after he saw that ring? Hah! He and his brother are thick as thieves!"
Chandler stiffened, wondering how these varmints had got their hands on Quentin's ring.
"Why d'you think we went to so much trouble to get it, idiot?" Farrier almost screamed with rage, "Damn your eyes! Will you go?"
"No, I will not! Send Durwood. He's got sufficient brains for that task."
"He's half drunk and liable to fall down the stairs."
Durwood had hauled himself clumsily to his feet. "I ain't too drunk… to even… score," he said thickly. He backhanded Chandler in a savage swipe that knocked him off his feet.
For a dazed minute the room was a whirl of flickering light and echoingly distant voices. When his head cleared, Poinier had gone and Farrier was shouting at Durwood. He lay very still, trying to organize his sluggish thoughts. If Poinier had gone after the troopers there was very little time left. The plotters were evidently not disposed to wait until the ship ran onto the rocks, though how they hoped to retrieve their precious cargo after the troopers came was a puzzle. Perhaps they would be satisfied with having incriminated the Chandlers as wreckers. Perhaps the cargo would be written off as fair exchange for the opportunity to acquire Lac Brillant after it was confiscated and sold. But—
A boot rammed into his side. He had to grit his teeth to choke back an involuntary cry, but managed to smother the sound, and allowed himself to roll loosely. A shadow fell across him.
Durwood growled, "He's fair and far out. When I knock 'em down, they stay down, and I owe this top-lofty Buck more'n that."
Chandler nerved himself to withstand another kick.
Farrier said curtly, "That's enough! He may be down, but he's a gentleman and fought bravely. If you feel so spry you can go up and throw some more logs on the fire, and see if the ship's on the rocks yet."
"You think you can manage him if he comes round?"
"He may be handy with his fists, but fists cannot outrun a pistol ball. Do as you're told."
Chandler heard Durwood's resentful grunt as he gathered some logs. Then came the squeak of the treads of the ladder. This would be his best chance, while he had only Farrier to deal with. He opened his eyes a crack. He lay between the "table," and the steps. There was something on the floor near him; an object he could not at first distinguish. He realized then that it was the candelabrum. Farrier had either not been willing to take the time to pick it up, or had not seen it, for the flickering glow from the fire above them threw areas of the room into deep shadow.
He could not locate "the King's officer," and of necessity moved his head slightly.
At once the purring voice said, "Well, well. Our valiant patriot is returning. Wake up, Chandler. You'd not want to miss meeting your brother."
Chandler rolled onto his back. Farrier was sitting on the piled logs. In a very faint voice, he said, "You're bluffing. Quentin's not… within miles."
"Very true. But the ring brought you just where we wanted you. A good plan, eh?"
So they'd found another dragon ring. Thank God! His hand inched toward the candelabrum. Still in that faint voice, he murmured, "Not one devised by… a man of your… level of intelligence, I think." His fingertips touched the coldness of brass.
"Never underestimate my level of intelligence, Chandler. Many better men than you have paid with their heads for—"
Chandler had gripped the heavy candelabrum. He sat up and, hurling it with all his strength, shouted, "Then this is for them, you slimy head-hunter!"
Farrier jerked his pistol up, but the heavy candelabrum whizzing at his face startled him, deflecting his aim. Still, he fired, the shot thudding into the table.
Chandler had sprung to his feet and with a shove sent the roof ladder crashing down. No coward, Farrier seized his pistol by the barrel and flailed it club-like as Chandler rushed him. Chandler blocked the blow with his left arm, and smashed his right fist into Farrier's middle. As he straightened out the bounty hunter with a well-placed left to the jaw, he had the impression that someone had run across the room. Farrier went down hard. Durwood had certainly heard all that! Chandler whipped around. Durwood was leaning down through the roof aperture sure enough, but his pistol was aimed at the steps. From the corner of his eye, Chandler saw who was coming. "No! Don't!" he shouted. But Durwood's finger was tightening on the trigger. Desperate, Chandler threw himself between that deadly muzzle and the person coming up the steps.
The ball that would have caught that most unexpected new arrival in the head, struck Chandler like a gigantic hammer. This time, the blackness was immediate, and absolute.
Ruth hunched her shoulders against the screaming force of the gale and stumbled breathlessly onto the relative protection of the cottage porch. The boys would be home by now, surely? She had searched and searched, screaming their names, no longer caring who heard, but to no avail. Almost, she had been killed in the woods, for she had leaned wearily against a big elm, heard an ear-splitting creak above her, and had run madly as a dark mass came crashing down.
The tips of a branch had raked her skirts, telling her how narrowly she had escaped and increasing her dread that the twins may have gone to their favourite retreat for a last visit and been struck by one of the many trees that had fallen.
She opened the front door, managed to close it, and ran into the kitchen. Her calls were answered only by the outer uproar. Distracted, she lit a candle and hurried upstairs just in case someone might have returned and was sleeping. The rooms were empty. A pane of glass had shattered in her own bedchamber, and the curtains billowed into the room. Shielding her candle flame she was appalled by the sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had come down and straggled in soaked tangles beside her tired face. 'As if it matters,' she thought, and hurrying back into the hall gave a cry of relief as there came a crash and a bluster of wind from downstairs. The front door had been opened.
"Mrs. A.? Are you come home?"
"Yes! Yes!" She ran down the stairs.
Grace was almost as wet and muddy as Ruth. She had just come from the main house, and she shook her head dismally. "They're not there, dear Mrs. A. I went to all three buildings. Never look so scared, though. They're safe somewhere—I knows it!"
Ruth asked worriedly, "Have you heard anything of Mr. Gordon?"
"I heard he done wonders down at the stables, getting out the men what was trapped when the whole lot was blown down. Mr. Swinton and Mr. Starret are nailing boards up in one of the red bedchambers where a chimney come right through the roof. Some of the men went to clear the road, and the rest are helping at the Home Farm. Perhaps Mr. Gordon's with them."
"Yes. What about Sir Brian? Is he all right?"
"Up and about, he is. Giving orders right and left, and keeping folks' spirits up. They've got their hands full at the main house. One of the maids was cut by flying glass, and the scullery boy was knocked down the cellar steps when someone opened the back door and the wind caught him. A tree came down by East House and broke some windows, but… Oh, Mrs. A.! Did ever you see such a awful storm? Like the end of the world! I only hope…"
They stared at each other.
Distraught, Ruth cried, "Wherever can they be? Do you think they've run away? Jacob was dreadfully upset when I told him we must leave."
Grace thought it was exactly what the twins might have done. She said sadly, "Master Thorpe told me that Sir Brian had said he should go for a sail one day, and Mr. Gordon had promised Jacob he'd take him up to the top of the old lighthouse. Both the lads was wild to go up there. But, surely, in this storm they'd not have gone all that way?"
"Oh, I pray not! Yet, if they thought it was their last chance, they might."
Grace nodded. "They took Being. Did you notice his cage was gone? Mayhap that's it! The little thing ran off, and they're looking for him."
"But they've been gone for hours, and it is so dreadful outside." Ruth bit her lip, then said resolutely, "I'll go down towards the cove, just in case they have tried to get into the lighthouse. Please find Sir Brian and ask if he can spare anyone to help us search."
She stopped only long enough to wrap a dark cloak and hood about her, and then hurried out into the storm once more.
For a moment Jacob was too petrified with terror to move. The smoke drifted from the muzzle of Durwood's pistol, then was whipped away by the wind that shrieked from the open trapdoor in the roof.
Durwood growled ferociously, "Danged brat! Who the devil are you?"
Jacob's eyes were still glued to Chandler. He had fallen on his back and lay with both arms wide-tossed. Out of breath from climbing all those steps, Jacob gasped, "You've hurted him… bad!"
"He's a wrecker. He'd be hanged anyway. Now you go on. Get out!"
"But—but he's bleeding. If we don't help him, he'll die!"
"What're you doing up here, boy? Come to see the fire he made on the roof, did you?"
Jacob knelt beside Chandler and stared in horrified fascination at the slowly widening stain on the white cravat. He began to feel sick, but gulped, "Please, sir. Help him."
Perhaps that small frightened face galled Durwood. He snarled savagely, "You'd best run, my lad, if you know what's good for you, else I might throw you off the top!" Jacob looked across the crate "table" at the big man with the red face and angry frown. 'Papa,' he thought, trying not to shake so, 'was a brave gentleman. An' I must be one, as well.' He waited out a bellow of wind, then said through chattering teeth, "You're… a bad man."
"Well that's done it, that has! Now I'm going to throw you down the stairs." Durwood took a menacing step closer to the child.
"You couldn't." Jacob drew a shuddering breath. "Afore you could touch me, I'd of jumped behind you."
Durwood picked up the gin bottle and said with a grin, "That'd be a good jump, that would. I'd like to see it. Do it now."
"If I was a real boy I 'spect I couldn't. But I'm not a real boy. An' I don't need to jump. I c'n change myself from here to there. Look! There I am!"
Durwood uptilted the gin bottle. When he lowered it, the boy was gone. A screech sounded behind him. With a gasp he jerked his head around. There was the boy, beyond the wood pile!
"Here!" gasped Durwood, setting the bottle down hastily and fixing Thorpe with a bleary-eyed stare. "How the hell d' you do that?"
"I'm a b'ginning wizard. I c'n do lotsa things. Mean things, if I like. I c'n go back over there so quick you'd never see me go."
Durwood rubbed his eyes. "No, you can't. You're a lying brat is what you are."
Thorpe put his arms straight out at the sides, waved them up and down, and sank while uttering a screeching howl.
The sound broke through Chandler's dulled consciousness. He opened his eyes, and stared blurrily at the wall and two words chalked there in large letters: Châtiment deux!
Durwood was also having difficulties with his vision, the result of too many samples from the gin bottle. It seemed to him that the boy melted. Incredulous, he took a cautious step toward the wood pile. A louder screech rang out behind him, and he jerked around to find the horrid brat leering at him from beyond the crate. Once, he had known a man who'd come under the evil eye of a witch, whereof he had been trapped in a burning house, and died. Beginning to be afraid, he backed away, peering at Jacob apprehensively. Then he wet his lips and lurched forward again. "Y-you can't make a f-fool 'f me," he declared unsteadily, and took up his pistol. "I'll brain you. Then we'll see how quick y'can move!"
To Chandler, puzzled on several counts, this conversation was ever more curious. He supposed he must be dreaming, and tried to get up. The immediate and excruciating stab of pain high in his chest took his breath away, but restored memory with a rush. What was going on in this room was beyond him, but he had no business lounging about while that accursed fire still blazed on the roof. His right arm made it clear that it was best left alone, but he strove doggedly to get the other elbow under him.
He saw Jacob then, crouching down beside him. He also saw Jacob pop up across the room. He shut his eyes hard, then looked again.
Jacob over there, Jacob crouching here.
He was either in the grip of delirium, or there were indeed more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of… But yet—Jacob was not actually disappearing as he claimed to do. He merely popped up when the other— The other! 'Oh, my Lord!' he thought. 'There's another one!'
At once everything fell into place. This was why "Jacob" had shown such strange personality shifts. This was why the boy loathed eggs one day, and loved 'em the next! Twins! His naughty love had hidden not one, but two nephews! And whether one, or two, they were only small boys. And here was he, half knocked out of time, one arm useless, and a drunken murderer to deal with!
Jacob had popped up again, but the scared eyes glanced to Chandler and relief dawned in them. "Oh, sir!" he said softly. "Whatever shall I do?"
Chandler fought his way to the point that he could lean his back against the crate and thus free his left arm. "Try to kick that bar over to me," he whispered. "And—and keep h
im talking… if you can."
Jacob's foot groped out toward the fallen piece of stair railing as he cried shrilly. "You better stop, or I'll turn you into a hedgehog!"
Durwood had swung around again and at this he paused, irresolute. "I don't b'lieve you!"
"I'll make myself into one, an' show you!"
"See!" screamed Thorpe, as Jacob ducked.
Durwood turned but saw no boy this time. Instead, a hedgehog wandered about on the logs. It was the last straw. With a hoarse cry of terror, he staggered back.
Gripping his makeshift club, Chandler dragged himself to his knees.
Durwood's gaitered legs passed the crate. Chandler shoved the stair railing between them. With a startled yell, Durwood tripped, but fought to regain his balance. Chandler lurched to his feet and shoved hard, and the steward reeled back and disappeared through the aperture beside the steps. They heard his shocked cry, abruptly cut off.
The room rippled before Chandler's eyes. He reached out blindly.
Jacob sprang to support him. "Lean on me, sir!"
"An' me!" cried Thorpe, coming up on the other side.
"Don't—touch my arm!" gasped Chandler.
Thorpe looked frightened, then gripped the top of Chandler's breeches.
Between them, they manoeuvred to the steps and peered downward. Durwood lay in a huddled heap on the floor of the storage room.
In a quivering voice Jacob asked, "Is he—"
"I don't know," said Chandler. "Are you Jacob, or… ?"
"Yessir. That's Thorpe. He's my twin."
Chandler peered at the two blurred faces. "Rascals," he said thickly and sagged against the wall.
Thorpe gave a squeal of fright.
Jacob stammered, "We b-better tie up your hurt, sir!"
The wound was bleeding, but only sluggishly. Probably, thought Chandler, because the ball was still in him. To expect the twins to tear up shirts, then struggle to tie so difficult a bandage and to tie it tight enough to be of use would be asking a great deal of two little boys. And would likely be just a waste of time. If he moved fast, he might be able to hold out long enough to accomplish his purpose. The boys helped him back to the crate, and he sat on it and took two healthy swallows from the bottle. He wasn't fond of gin, and it made him cough, which was racking, but he began to feel less faint. He looked at the two so similar, so scared young faces, and managed a grin.
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