‘What do you want?’ demanded Clarissa, and then she saw the pistol in his hand.
‘The papers,’ he said. ‘Get them.’
And then down below the street door slammed. The Tribbles had come home.
He pressed the pistol into Clarissa’s side. ‘Call them,’ he said.
Clarissa called through white lips, ‘Miss Amy! Miss Effy.’
She heard Amy’s answering call and then footsteps on the stairs.
‘Do not harm them,’ she whispered. ‘I will give you the papers.’
Amy, Effy, and Baxter came into the drawing room. They saw Sir Jason holding the pistol against Clarissa’s side. ‘Over by the window, all of you,’ he said. He pushed Clarissa a little way and stood with the pistol covering them all.
Then from the top of the house came a long, loud scream.
‘Yvette!’ said Amy, identifying that scream. ‘She has gone into labour. I don’t know what you want, but in God’s mercy, sir, I beg you to let me go to her.’
‘Shut up!’ said Sir Jason. ‘You stay here while Miss Vevian gets me some papers from her room. If you move from here or call for help, I will kill her.’
Yvette screamed again.
‘And I’ll silence that noisy wench when I’m up there,’ he snarled.
Amy had never thought so frantically or so quickly in all her life. She wanted that baby of Yvette’s. The house in Holles Street should have that baby. She and Effy were past the age of child-bearing, and all Amy’s frustrated maternal feelings had concentrated on that baby.
‘Wait!’ she said. ‘She does not have the papers. I have.’
She looked at Clarissa as she spoke, her whole mind screaming a silent message to the girl to be quiet.
‘They’re here,’ she said, kneeling down by a low cupboard in the corner.
Effy knew what Amy was going to do and let out a bleat of fright and clutched hold of Baxter. There were no papers in that cupboard but there was a hideous stuffed cobra which Mr Haddon had brought back from India and given to Amy as a present.
‘Here they are!’ said Amy. She seized the cobra and flung it full at Sir Jason.
What he saw flying towards him was a hideous venomous snake with glaring eyes. He threw up his hands to protect his face, and Miss Amy Tribble flew clean across the room and brought him down by cannoning into him with all her force.
Winded and desperate, he squirmed on the floor, his hands reaching for the pistol he had dropped.
Clarissa jumped down on his searching hand with all her force while Effy seized the pistol and held it in one shaking hand.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ howled Amy, sitting up. ‘Hit him with something!’
Sir Jason struggled to his feet and made a dive for the door. Effy closed her eyes tightly and pulled the trigger and then howled with pain as the recoil from the pistol sprained her wrist.
Sir Jason fell face-down on the floor, a dark-red stain spreading through the back of his coat.
‘A flush hit,’ cried Amy.
Effy swayed and dropped the pistol.
‘No, you don’t,’ said Amy. ‘No time for fainting. Yvette needs us. Come along. Clarissa, go and see what has happened to the servants.’
‘But him?’ whispered Clarissa.
‘He’s dead, ain’t he?’ snapped Amy. ‘Harris can go for the constable.’
Clarissa ran down the stairs and then stood swaying in the hall, overcome with dizziness. There came a thundering knock at the door. ‘Greystone! Open up!’ called the earl’s voice.
Clarissa wrenched open the door and tumbled into his arms, crying incoherently about papers, and snakes, and Yvette’s baby.
‘Where are the servants?’ he asked.
‘I think he must have locked them in.’
‘Who?’
‘Sir Jason Pym.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Dead. Upstairs. Miss Effy shot him.’
He pushed her into a chair in the hall and told her firmly not to move. He unlocked the door of the servants’ hall and cut through the babble of exclamations by telling Hubbard first to attend to her mistress, the footmen and the knife-boy to run for help, and the maids to make themselves useful.
He then raced upstairs to the drawing room and recoiled in horror at the sight that met his eyes. Sir Jason was lying face down on the floor with a hideous snake reared above him. It took him a few moments to realize the snake was stuffed.
He then went farther up to where the screams were coming from.
‘No place for a gentleman,’ said Amy, barring his way. ‘Yvette is having her baby. Go to Clarissa.’
It was to be a long night. At first, it was only the parish constable, then the magistrate, then the militia, and then a deputation of gentlemen from the War Office. Clarissa told her story over and over again while the earl held tightly on to her hand.
‘We’ll get Sandford,’ said the earl at last. ‘But we don’t know who the rest are.’
Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph had arrived to swell the throng, followed by Angela and Bella, who had called to complain about Amy and found no one wanted to hear so trivial a story.
Clarissa had handed over the papers. Numb with horror, she heard of the death of Epsom and how it was more than likely that Sir Jason had killed Mrs Loomis too.
The gentlemen from the War Office were rising to take their leave when the two Tribble sisters appeared in the drawing room. They were hot and dishevelled. Effy was crying quietly.
‘It’s a boy!’ said Amy. ‘Oh, Lord save us all, we’ve got a boy!’
When Sir Jason had left, Lord Sandford backed away from Mr Ryan. ‘Look, old chap,’ he said, trying to smile, ‘what say I go away and forget about the whole thing?’
Mr Ryan smiled and raised the pistol.
Lord Sandford looked at him in horror. ‘You are going to kill me. Why?’
‘Because your very incompetence is a danger to us,’ said Mr Ryan calmly.
Lord Sandford went very still. Inside he felt cold yet suddenly calm and calculating. He affected to tremble and his hands scrabbled on the table top as he cried, ‘Oh, spare me! I will get my father to pay you anything you ask. Spare me!’
Mr Ryan looked at him, the contempt in his eyes mixed with cupidity. Perhaps he could fleece this young buck before disposing of him. He lowered the pistol slightly. Lord Sandford’s groping fingers closed over a paperknife on the table.
‘Yes, yes,’ babbled Lord Sandford. ‘You must not kill me. You must listen to me!’
‘Perhaps we might do business,’ said Mr Ryan, leaning forward and placing the hand which still held the pistol on the table.
Lord Sandford struck like a snake. He drove the paperknife into Mr Ryan’s neck with the force of a madman.
Mr Ryan fell forward, blood gushing from the wound in his neck, his eyes already glazing over as the life poured out of him.
Lord Sandford got slowly to his feet. Soon the whole country would be looking for him, of that he was certain.
Miss Vevian knew about the papers and would surely not be sitting waiting for Sir Jason to arrive.
He would need to get out of the country. There were two drawers in the table. He pushed Mr Ryan’s body onto the floor and slid them open. In one, he found a great pile of banknotes and a bag of guineas. He stuffed the money into his pockets. In the other drawer was a small notebook with a list of names. He balanced it in his hand. How many of the names listed were young fellows like himself who had been lured into treason by Sir Jason?
Damn Sir Jason. Lord Sandford thirsted for revenge. He put the notebook in his pocket. He left the room and made his way through the streets until he found a second-hand clothes shop. He bought himself a plain drab suit. Then he went to a wig maker’s and bought a large full-bottomed wig. He could not risk hiring a room at an inn to effect the change. He forced himself to return to Ryan’s.
Soon, he had effected the transformation.
He went out to Charing Cross
and hired a hack. He asked to be taken to the main post office in the city. Once there, he asked for pen and ink and sat down and wrote a long letter of explanation and apology to a general at the War Office whose name he had read recently in the newspapers. He then enclosed the notebook he had taken from Ryan and sealed them together in a packet and sent them off.
Feeling much better, he hired a horse from a livery stable and rode out of London, keeping away from the main roads. This way, it would take him a long time to reach the coast. But he was alive and free. He began to whistle.
8
Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,
I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air.
Whether ’twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer,
Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.
Sir Theodore Martin
The Tribbles were a sensation. Effy Tribble had shot down a dangerous spy, aided by her sister, Amy – which was rather hard on Amy, who had been the real heroine of the piece.
At first, they both enjoyed the notoriety immensely. The tale of the spies was talked about over and over again as their drawing room was filled day after day by an eager audience. The notebook which Lord Sandford had sent to the War Office meant many arrests and more sensation.
And then as the weeks passed, Amy and Effy began to settle down again and feel very tired indeed. Yvette was a good mother, but nothing stopped either of the Tribbles from waking at the slightest cry from that precious baby. He was to be called George after the king, despite Yvette’s unpatriotic protests that she did not want her son to be named after a madman. Amy pointed out that the Prince Regent was also called George, which did not please Yvette either. She said the prince was a lecher and a drunk. But she was so grateful to the Tribbles that she at last agreed, and so George it was – a small black-haired baby who ruled the house in Holles Street.
To Clarissa’s amusement, Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph, the nabobs, were every bit as doting as the Tribbles and sat in the evenings planning out the education of the boy.
She was to leave soon and go back home to Bath, where her delighted parents were preparing for her wedding. Lord Greystone was to escort her. Much as she loved the Tribbles, she longed for her day of departure, for the Tribbles had become very strict chaperones indeed and did not seem to trust the earl alone with Clarissa.
Clarissa was rarely clumsy these days. She did break a cream jug and fall over a table, but these incidents were considered minor in one who had once been capable of setting carpets on fire.
The one thing that dimmed Clarissa’s happiness was the prospect of living with Angela and Bella. They would all be together in the earl’s home near Marlborough, and at times she felt she could not bear the idea.
She held her dislike in check but it was always there, polluting the atmosphere.
One day, when she was sitting alone in the drawing room, the earl came in. He looked about and raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I never thought to see you alone again, my sweeting,’ he said. ‘Come and kiss me. I have great news.’
‘What is it?’ asked Clarissa.
‘Kiss first. News afterwards.’
She melted into his arms. ‘Oh, that is so very good,’ he sighed at last. ‘Kiss me again.’
They sank down together on the sofa, kissing wildly. He was just bending her backwards, his lips seeking her neck, when a peremptory cough startled them both. Clarissa sat up, blushing and straightening her hair.
‘Lord Greystone!’ said Effy Tribble severely. ‘You should know better. Not until after you are married.’
‘How very strict you are,’ he said. Amy came into the room.
‘He’s been at it again,’ said Effy primly.
‘At what?’ asked Amy with interest.
‘You know. Kissing and cuddling.’
‘Oh, dear. Do try to restrain yourself, my lord,’ said Amy, making the earl feel sixteen years old.
‘What is your news, Greystone?’ asked Clarissa hurriedly.
‘Wonderful news for us. Bella is engaged to be married, to Baron Smithfield, the very rich Baron Smithfield. Angela says she will live with Bella after they are married.’
‘And what of the boys?’ asked Clarissa anxiously.
‘They too.’
‘What a relief,’ exclaimed Clarissa. ‘Does that mean we can both lead a nice dull quiet life?’
‘As dull and quiet as you like. The Misses Tribble will no doubt go on being a sensation.’
‘I hope not,’ said Amy anxiously. ‘We need another client and I really don’t know how we are going to get one. Now Mrs Edgefield, that rich widow who lives in Park Lane, her daughter is spoilt to a fault and as ugly as a boot besides. I said to her, I said, “Why do you not turn your Helen over to us? Look what successes we have had.” And she said, very stiffly on her stiffs, “Could not contemplate sending my ewe lamb into a household where everyone gets murdered.” “Would you rather have her a spinster?” says I, for Helen is as ugly as a toad. But I had forgot how blind mothers can be. “There is no question of that,” says she. “No girl with my Helen’s looks and dowry need ever want for a husband.” Such a fool. You should see Helen Edgefield. Any man getting his leg over that would need to put a bag over her head first.’
‘The reason we cannot get anyone,’ said Effy icily, ‘is because of your shocking vulgarity, Amy. Have you ever heard a coarse expression pass my lips? I do not know how poor Mr Haddon and Mr Randolph can bear your company of an evening without shuddering.’
‘Ho! Look at who is talking. Do you never think, dear sis, that mothers might shy away from this house because you look like a demi-rep with those eyelashes of yours painted black and your shrivelled body showing itself through near-transparent muslin?’
‘You are jealous,’ screeched Effy. ‘No man is ever going to look at you unless he has a penchant for broken-down cab-horses!’
‘Ladies! Ladies!’ begged Clarissa.
‘I do all the work while you swan around,’ said Amy passionately. ‘We need money to care for little George, to give him a decent home, but all you do is sit on your bum and sigh and hope by some miracle the work will come to you.’
‘That is not true. Why, only the other day I asked Lady Strutton if we could not sponsor her Charlotte. And she said it was out of the question as her Charlotte was very delicate and refined, and she said that Amy Tribble’s coarseness would send her into a spasm.’
‘Oh!’ said Amy weakly, all the fight going out of her.
‘Now, Miss Effy,’ chided Clarissa, ‘I do not believe a word of that. You just made it up to score a point.’
‘Did you?’ demanded Amy.
‘Well . . . yes,’ said Effy, ‘but I am sure that was what she meant.’
Amy, tired of quarrelling, sat down. ‘I think Clarissa is our last client and we’d best face up to it and think of something else.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Clarissa. ‘You must let me be your advertisement. You must let me tell all the Bath ladies of your successes. You will have someone else soon. You’ll see.’
The day of Clarissa’s departure soon arrived. She felt a lump rising in her throat as she hugged Effy and Amy and told them they were expected to arrive in time for the wedding. ‘And I am sure I shall be able to find a client for you by then,’ she said.
Yvette, looking very French and matronly, stood holding baby George. Clarissa kissed the baby and gave Yvette a purse of gold. Then she walked out to the carriage where the earl was waiting. Amy and Effy went with her.
‘Do you not think,’ said Clarissa, her foot on the step, ‘that you might not use your great talents to find a husband for Yvette?’
Amy and Effy looked startled. ‘Then, you see, there could be a proper christening,’ went on Clarissa. ‘She is a handsome lady and still young. I am sure some man would be glad to wed her in return for a certain security.’
Amy looked at the gr
ound. ‘But a man would take her – and George – away from us.’
‘But it would be better for little George in the long run,’ said Clarissa.
‘We love her and George,’ said Effy, ‘which is more than some fellow who merely married her for money would do.’
‘Then make sure she meets suitable men and then someone might fall in love with her.’
‘We’ll try,’ said Amy reluctantly.
Clarissa hugged them again and climbed into the carriage. She pulled down the window and leaned out. ‘Thank you for everything,’ she said, gratitude making her eyes fill with tears so that the two sisters were a blurred image. The carriage began to move. ‘Thank you for saving my life,’ called Clarissa. The carriage reached the corner of the street. ‘I love you!’ called Clarissa, and then subsided back in her seat, took out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.
‘I shall become jealous of the Tribbles if you go on like that,’ said the earl, putting an arm around her.
A cough like a dog’s bark came from Hubbard, sitting opposite. The earl sighed and removed his arm. Like Clarissa, he had forgotten they would be chaperoned by Hubbard on the road to Bath. They were to be married in a month’s time, but right at that moment, it seemed like a lifetime away to the Earl of Greystone.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Amy, drying her eyes. ‘I wish God would send us another like Clarissa Vevian.’
‘A splendid girl,’ said Effy, ‘but I hope the next one will be someone a leetle smaller.’
‘If there is a next one,’ said Amy gloomily.
Clarissa’s fame had spread to Bath. Everyone wanted to know all about her adventures and she became weary of telling the same story over and over again. Each time, she praised the Tribble sisters to the skies, but the disappointing response was usually that Clarissa was terribly brave but their little Mary, or Beth or Dorothy, would simply have died of fright in such a household. Clarissa began to despair of ever finding anyone for the Tribbles.
But her praises of them had not fallen on totally deaf ears. Clarissa was walking in the pump room with her mother when a certain Mrs Kendall approached them, smiling broadly.
Finessing Clarissa Page 13