The Corinthian

by Джорджетт Хейер

  No one could see anything, but that might have been because the Captain bent so quickly to pick it up. When he straightened himself, the screw of paper was between his fingers. The tapster took it with a word of thanks, and gave it to one of the waiters, who had come into the taproom for a pint of burgundy, and told him to deliver it to Sir Richard. Captain Trimble, quite as well-pleased as Beverley had been, betook himself to the coffee-room, and ordered a sustaining meal.

  Sir Richard, meanwhile, had returned to the inn. He found Pen awaiting him in the parlour, curled up in a big chair and eating an apple. “This passion for munching raw fruit!” he remarked. “You look a very urchin.”

  She twinkled at him. “Well, I am hungry. Did you—did you have a pleasant day with my Aunt Almeria, sir?”

  “I hope with all my heart,” said Sir Richard, eyeing her with some severity, “that you spent the day in the greatest possible discomfort. I wish it had rained.”

  “I didn’t. I visited my home, and I went to all the particular places Piers and I used to hide in, when people wanted us to do our lessons. Only I hadn’t anything to eat.”

  “I am glad,” said Sir Richard. “Do you know that I have not only found myself in a position where I was forced to lie, and dissemble, and practise the most shocking deceit, but I have also been obliged to consort for five hours with one of the most commonplace young cubs it has ever been my ill-fortune to meet?”

  “I knew Fred would come with my aunt! Doesn’t he look just like a fish, sir?”

  “Yes, a hake. But you cannot divert me from what I wish to say. Half an hour’s conversation with your aunt has convinced me that you are an unprincipled brat.”

  “Did she say unkind things of me?” Miss Creed wrinkled her brow. “I don’t think I am unprincipled, precisely.”

  “You are a menace to all law-abiding and respectable citizens,” said Sir Richard.

  She seemed gratified. “I didn’t think I was as important as that.”

  “Look what you have done to me!” said Sir Richard.

  “Yes, but I don’t think you are very law-abiding or respectable,” objected Pen.

  “I was once, but it seems a long time ago.”

  She finished her apple. “Well, I am sorry you are feeling cross, for I think I should tell you something which you may not be pleased about.”

  He looked at her with misgiving. “Let me know the worst!”

  “It was the stammering-man,” said Pen, not very lucidly. “Of course, I quite see that I should have been more careful.”

  “You mean Beverley Brandon. What has he been doing?”

  “Well, you see, he came here. And just at that very same moment, I chanced to walk into the inn, and—and we met.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, not long ago! You were gone out. Only he seemed to know me.”

  “Seemed to know you?”

  “Well, he said surely I must be your nephew,” Pen explained.

  Sir Richard had been listening to her with a gathering frown. He said now, with a grim note which she had not before heard in his voice: “Beverley knows very well that the only nephew I have is a child in short petticoats.”

  “Oh, have you got a nephew?” enquired Pen, diverted.

  “Yes. Never mind that. What did you reply?”

  “Well, I think I was quite clever,” said Pen hopefully. Naturally, I knew who he must be, as soon as he spoke; and I guessed, of course, that he must know I am not your nephew. Because even if some people think I have no ingenuity, I am not at all stupid,” she added, with a darkling look.

  “Does that rankle?” His countenance had relaxed a little. “Never mind! go on!”

  “I said that in point of fact you were not my uncle, but I called you so because you were a great deal older than I. I said that you were my third cousin. Then he asked me why we had come to Queen Charlton, and I said it was on account of family affairs, though I would rather have pointed out that it was extremely ill-bred and inquisitive of him to ask me such questions. And after that he went away.”

  “Did he indeed? Did he say what had brought him here in the first place?”

  “No. But he gave me a message for you, which I did not quite like.”

  “Well?”

  “It sounded sinister to me,” said Pen, preparing him for the worst.

  “I can well believe it.”

  “And the more I think of it the more sinister it appears to me. He said I must present his compliments to you, and tell you that he perfectly understands your reason for coming to such a secluded spot.”

  “The devil!” said Sir Richard.

  “I was afraid you would not be excessively pleased,” Pen said anxiously. “Do you suppose that it means that he knows who I am?”

  “Not that, no,” Sir Richard replied.

  “Perhaps,” suggested Pen, “he guessed that I am not a boy?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She thought the matter over. “Well, I don’t see what else he could possibly have meant. But Jimmy Yarde never suspected me, and I conversed with him far more than I did with this disagreeable stammering-man. How very unfortunate it is that we should have met someone who knows you well!”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Sir Richard, putting up his glass.

  She looked innocently up at him. “On account of his being aware that you have no nephew or cousin like me, I mean.”

  “Oh!” said Sir Richard, lowering the glass. “I see. Don’t let it worry you!”

  “Well, it does worry me, because I see now that I have been imprudent. I should not have let you come with me. It has very likely placed you in an awkward situation.”

  “That aspect of it had not occurred to me,” said Sir Richard, faintly smiling. “The imprudence was mine. I ought to have handed you over to your aunt at our first meeting.”

  “Do you wish you had?” asked Pen wistfully.

  He looked down at her for an instant. “No.”

  “Well, I’m glad, because if you had tried to, I would have run away from you.” She lifted her chin from her cupped hands. “If you are not sorry to be here, do not let us give it another thought! It is so very fatiguing to go on being sorry about something which one has done. Did you order any dinner, sir?”

  “I did. Duck and peas.”

  “Good!” said Pen, with profound satisfaction. “Where has Aunt Almeria gone, do you suppose?”

  “To Chippenham, and then to Cousin Jane.”

  “To Cousin Jane? Good gracious, why?”

  “To see whether you have taken refuge with her, I imagine.”

  “With Cousin Jane!” Pen exclaimed. “Why, she is the most odious old woman, and takes snuff!”

  Sir Richard, who had just opened his own box, paused. “Er—do you consider that an odious habit? he asked.

  “In a female, I do. Besides, she spills it On her clothes. Ugh! Oh, I did not mean you, sir!” she added, with a ripple of sudden laughter. “You do it with such an air!”

  “Thank you!” he said.

  A waiter came in to lay the covers for dinner, and presented a small, twisted note to Sir Richard on a large tray.

  He picked it up unhurriedly, and spread it open. Pen, anxiously watching him, could detect nothing in his face but boredom. He read the note through to the end, and consigning it to his pocket, glanced towards Pen. “Let me see: what were we discussing?”

  “Snuff,” replied Pen, in a hollow voice.

  “Ah, yes! I myself use King’s Martinique, but there are many who consider it a trifle light in character.”

  She returned a mechanical answer, and upon the waiter’s leaving the room, interrupted Sir Richard’s description of the proper way to preserve snuff in good condition, by demanding impetuously: “Who was it from, sir?”

  “Don’t be inquisitive!” said Sir Richard calmly.

  “You can’t deceive me! I feel sure it was from that hateful man.”

  “It was, but there is no occasion for you to t
rouble your head over it, believe me.”

  “Only tell me! Does he mean to do you some mischief?”

  “Certainly not. It would, in all events, be a task quite beyond his power.”

  “I feel very uneasy.”

  “So I perceive. You will be the better for your dinner.”

  The waiter came in with the duck at that opportune moment, and set it upon the table. Pen was, in fact, so hungry that her thoughts were instantly diverted. She made a very good dinner, and did not again refer to the note.

  Sir Richard, maintaining a flow of easy conversation, seemed to be wholly devoid of care, but the note had annoyed him. There was very little fear, he considered, of Beverley’s being able to harm Miss Creed, since he could have no knowledge of her identity; and his veiled threat of exposing Sir Richard was a matter of indifference to that gentleman. But he would certainly meet Beverley in the spinney at the proposed hour, for it now became more than ever necessary to despatch him to London immediately. While he remained in the neighbourhood there would be no question of delivering Pen into Lady Luttrell’s care, and although Sir Richard had not the least desire to relinquish his self-appointed guardianship of that enterprising damsel, he was perfectly well aware that he must do so, and without any loss of time.

  Accordingly, he sent her to bed shortly after half-past-nine, telling her that if she were not tired she deserved to be. She went without demur, so probably her day spent in the open had made her sleepy. He waited until a few minutes before ten o’clock, and then took his hat and walking-cane, and strolled out of the inn.

  There was a full moon, and not a cloud to be seen in the sky. Sir Richard had no difficulty in seeing his way, and soon came to the track through the wood. It was darker here, for the trees held out the moonlight. A rabbit scuttled across the path, an owl hooted somewhere at hand, and there were little rustlings in the undergrowth, but Sir Richard was not of a nervous disposition, and did not find these sounds in any way disturbing.

  But he was hardly prepared to come upon a lady lying stretched across the path, immediately round a bend in it. This sight was, indeed, so unexpected that it brought him up short. The lady did not move, but lay in a crumpled heap of pale muslin and darker cloak. Sir Richard, recovering from his momentary surprise, strode forward, and dropped on to his knee beside her. It was too dark under the trees for him to be able to distinguish her features clearly, but he thought she was young. She was not dead, as he had at first feared, but in a deep faint. He began to chafe her hands, and had just bethought him of the tiny stream which he had observed that morning, when she showed signs of returning consciousness. He raised her in his arms, hearing a sigh flutter past her lips. A moan succeeded the sigh; she said something he could not catch, and began weakly to cry.

  “Don’t cry!” Sir Richard said. “You are quite safe.”

  She caught her breath on a sob, and stiffened in his hold. He felt her little hands close on his arm. Then she began to tremble.

  “No, there is nothing to frighten you,” he said in his cool way. “You will be better directly.”

  “Oh!” The exclamation sounded terrified. “Who are you? Oh, let me go!”

  “Certainly I will let you go, but are you able to stand yet? You do not know me, but I am perfectly harmless, I assure you.”

  She made a feeble attempt to struggle up, and succeeded only in crouching on the path in a woebegone huddle, saying through her sobs: “I must go! Oh, I must go! I ought not to have come!”

  “That I can well believe,” said Sir Richard, still on his knee beside her. “Why did you come? Or is that an impertinent question?”

  It had the effect of redoubling her sobs. She buried her face in her hands, shuddering, and rocking herself to and fro, and gasping out unintelligible phrases.

  “Well!” said a voice behind Sir Richard.

  He looked quickly over his shoulder. “Pen! What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you,” replied Pen, looking critically down at the weeping girl. “I brought a stout stick too, because I thought you were going to meet the odious stammering-man, and I feel sure he means to do you a mischief. Who is this?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” replied Sir Richard. “And presently I shall have something to say to you on the subject of this idiotic escapade of yours! My good child, can’t you stop crying?”

  “What is she doing here?” asked Pen, unmoved by his strictures.

  “Heaven knows! I found her lying on the path. How does one make a female stop crying?”

  “I shouldn’t think you could. She’s going to have a fit of the vapours, I expect. And I do not see why you should hug people, if you don’t know who they are.”

  “I was not hugging her.”

  “It looked like it to me,” argued Pen.

  “I suppose,” said Sir Richard sardonically, “you would have had me step over her, and walk on?”

  “Yes, I would,” replied Pen promptly.

  “Don’t be a little fool! The girl had fainted.”

  “Oh!” Pen moved forward. “I wonder what made her do that? You know, it all seems extremely odd to me.”

  “It seems quite as odd to me, let me tell you.” He laid his hand on the sobbing girl’s shoulder. “Come! You will not help matters by crying. Can’t you tell me what has happened to upset you so?”

  The girl made a convulsive effort to choke back her hysterical tears, and managed to utter: “I was so frightened!”

  “Yes, that I had realized. What frightened you?”

  “There was a man!” gasped the girl. “And I hid, and then another man came, and they began to quarrel, and I dared not move for fear they should hear me, and the big one hit the other, and he fell down and lay still, and the big one took something out of his pocket, and went away, and oh, oh, he passed so close I c-could have touched him only by stretching out my hand! The other man never moved, and I was so frightened I ran, everything went black, and I think I fainted.”

  “Ran away?” repeated Pen in disgusted accents. “What a poor-spirited thing to do! Didn’t you go to help the man who was knocked down?”

  “Oh no, no, no!” shuddered the girl.

  “I must say, I don’t think you deserve to have such an adventure. And if I were you I wouldn’t continue sitting in the middle of the path. It isn’t at all helpful, and it makes you look very silly.”

  This severe speech had the effect of angering the girl. She reared up her head, and exclaimed: “How dare you? You are the rudest young man I ever met in my life!”

  Sir Richard put his hand under her elbow, and assisted her to her feet. “Ah—accept my apologies on my nephew’s behalf, ma’am!” he said, with only the faintest quiver in his voice. “A sadly ill-conditioned boy! May I suggest to you that you should rest on this bank for a few moments, while I go to investigate the—er—scene of the assault you so graphically described? My nephew—who has, you perceive, provided himself with a stout stick—will charge himself with your safety.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Pen mutinously.

  “You will—for once in your life—do as you are told,” said Sir Richard, and, lowering the unknown on to the bank, strode on down the track towards the clearing in the wood.

  Here the moonlight bathed the ground in its cold silver light. Sir Richard had no doubt that he would find Beverley Brandon, either stunned, or recovering from the effects of the blow which had felled him, but as he stepped into the clearing he saw not only one man lying still on the ground, but a second on his knees beside him.

  Sir Richard trod softly, and it was not until he had approached to within a few feet of the little group that the kneeling man heard his footsteps, and looked quickly over his shoulder. The moonlight drained the world of colour, but even allowing for this the face turned towards Sir Richard was unnaturally pallid. It was the face of a very young man, and perfectly strange to Sir Richard.

  “Who are you?” The question was shot out in a hushed, rather sca
red voice. The young man started to his feet, and took up an instinctively defensive pose.

  “I doubt whether my name will convey very much to you, but, for what it is worth, it is Wyndham. What has happened here?”

  The boy seemed quite distracted, and replied in a shaken tone: “I don’t know. I found him here—like this. I—I think he’s dead!”

  “Nonsense!” said Sir Richard, putting him out of his way, and in his turn kneeling beside Beverley’s inanimate body. There was a bruise on the livid brow, and when Sir Richard raised Beverley his head fell back in a way that told its own tale rather horribly. Sir Richard saw the tree-stump, and realized that Beverley’s head must have struck it. He laid his body down again, and said without the least vestige of emotion: “You are perfectly right. His neck is broken.”

  The boy dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped his brow with it. “My God, who did it?—I—I didn’t, you know!”

  “I don’t suppose you did,” Sir Richard replied, rising to his feet, and dusting the knees of his breeches.

  “But it’s the most shocking thing! He was staying with me, sir!”

  “Oh!” said Sir Richard, favouring him with a long, penetrating look.

  “He’s Beverley Brandon—Lord Saar’s younger son!”

  “I know very well who he is. You, I apprehend, are Mr Piers Luttrell

  “Yes. Yes, I am. I knew him up at Oxford. Not very well, because I—well, to tell you the truth, I never liked him much. But a week ago he arrived at my home. He had been visiting friends, I think. I don’t know. But of course I—that is, my mother and I—asked him to stay, and he did. He has not been quite well—seemed to be in need of rest, and—and country air. Indeed, I can’t conceive how he comes to be here now, for he retired to his room with one of his sick headaches. At least, that was what he told my mother.”

  “Then you did not come here in search of him?”

  “No, no! I came—The fact is, I just came out to enjoy a stroll in the moonlight,” replied Piers, in a hurry.

  “I see.” There was a dry note in Sir Richard’s voice.