The track ran straight through the field, so that the heads of the teasels pressed close, reaching as high as Humphrey’s shoulder. The new year’s growth fell away as the horse pushed through it, but the older growth, with last year’s dried heads still clinging to the stems, snapped easily, leaving spiky burrs attached to Ganymede’s mane and coat.
Emerging from the teasel field, the track ran into a narrow valley of smallholdings, busy with chickens, men hoeing, and women draping laundry over bushes, small children at their heels. They all stopped and stared as Humphrey passed by, before turning back to their work.
At the bottom of the valley, the track met a larger lane, but Humphrey had no need to wonder which way to turn, for Ganymede pushed on eagerly, knowing the way. Before too long, palings appeared to one side of the lane and then a gate, standing invitingly open. Humphrey slackened the reins, and the horse turned in at the gate without hesitation.
Humphrey found himself in front of the entrance to a house. It was a gentleman’s house, of that there was no doubt. The size, the well-maintained grounds, with a couple of gardeners hard at work, and the tracks of carriage wheels proclaimed it so. He had no idea where he was, but the horse did, that much was clear.
Dismounting gracefully, Humphrey stepped aside to look about him, and at once the horse trotted off and turned a corner of the house with a whicker of pleasure, as if he had arrived home. With an exclamation of annoyance, Humphrey strode after him. As expected, there were the stables tucked away behind the house, and a man had come out to attend to the horse.
“Well, Ganymede, what are you doing back so soon?” the groom said, catching hold of the horse’s bridle. Then he saw Humphrey. “Hoy! Who are you?” The groom, a man of forty or so, glared at him.
Humphrey made his way along the side of the house to the stables without haste. “I am Lord Humphrey Marford of Drummoor, brother to the Marquess of Carrbridge.”
“Ho, are you now?” the groom said. “And I’m the Prince of Wales.”
“Your Royal Highness,” Humphrey said, executing a deep bow. “What an unexpected pleasure. I had thought you to be at Brighton.”
“Ha,” the groom said humourlessly. “You think you’re funny, I daresay.”
“Oh, no more than mildly amusing. Your name, my fine prince?”
The groom gave a bark of laughter. “Robert,” he said, lifting his chin. “Been groom and coachman here, man and boy, for more’n twenty years.”
“That is commendable,” Humphrey said, politely. “But tell me, Robert, what is this place?”
“Why, ’tis Silsby Vale House, did you not know?”
“I did not. My horse turned in here and—”
“Your horse? Where is your horse?”
“You are holding him,” Humphrey said, bewildered.
The groom laughed. “This ain’t your horse. This is the master’s horse, Ganymede.”
“I assure you, Ganymede is my horse. I bought him from Tattersall’s three years ago, and I can recount his sires and dams for almost as many generations as my own. Who is your master, Robert, and who owns this place?”
“Why, Mr Sharp is master and owns the house, same as he owns this here horse.”
This was not entirely a surprise. Humphrey sighed. “We can resolve this very easily. Is Sharp at home? He will vouch for my name and also my ownership of the horse.”
“He ain’t here, and you can just go about your business, you horse thief, you. Think yourself lucky I don’t set the constables on you. Go on, get out of here.”
“Is anyone else at home?”
“Not to the likes of you,” the groom said stoutly.
The groom’s obstinacy was becoming tedious. By this time, a junior groom had emerged from the stable and the two gardeners were loitering interestedly, scythes in hand. Humphrey enjoyed a good mill as much as the next man, and usually won them, too, but four against one made for challenging odds, and he had no wish to start a fracas around so valuable an animal as Ganymede. He raised his hands and backed away.
But as soon as he had rounded the corner of the house again and was out of sight of the stable and the suspicious eye of Robert, he bounced up the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell. The door was answered by a sour-faced housekeeper of similar age to the groom.
“Yes?”
“Good morning… or is it afternoon? I beg pardon for disturbing you, but I have lost my horse, and would appreciate some assistance. Is anyone at home?”
“No.”
“No one? Who lives here, then?”
“Mistress lives here, but she don’t receive casual callers.”
“And your mistress’s name?” Humphrey said patiently.
The housekeeper stared at him, obviously debating whether to answer or not, but whether his expensive riding clothes or his accent convinced her that he was a gentleman, at length she said, “This is the home of Mrs Cecil Andrews, sir.”
“Would you give my card to your mistress and ask if she would be so good as to receive me?”
The housekeeper’s eyes widened as she read his name on the card. She disappeared inside, shutting the door. Humphrey waited without impatience on the step until the door creaked open again.
“Mistress will see you.” The surprise in her tone made it clear that this was a rare honour.
Humphrey was shown into a pretty little drawing room, furnished more to comfort and practicality than fashion. Mrs Andrews was alone, a woman approaching fifty, but with her looks intact, and her gown designed to flatter a rather fine figure.
“Oh, do come in, my lord. Oh yes, I see the likeness now. Your father had fair hair, too.”
“You knew my father?”
“Many years ago. Pray be seated. Mildred, bring some tea.”
Humphrey declined the tea, but sat on a well-cushioned sofa, while the lady of the house perched on its twin.
“How very kind of you to call, for I am so out of the way here that I have few visitors, as you may imagine,” she trilled, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “Such a treat for me! But I daresay you bring me a message from Mr Sharp?”
“No, not at all,” Humphrey said. “I had no knowledge of Sharp’s connection to this place until five minutes ago.”
“Oh!” Her face registered first bewilderment and then alarm. “Oh, but I thought… since you are from Drummoor, I assumed—”
“That Sharp had sent me? No. He… owns this house, I think the groom said?”
She stared at him, then nodded very slowly.
“How interesting. But not relevant at the moment. My problem, Mrs Andrews, is that your groom, Robert, is claiming that Sharp also owns my horse, Ganymede, and is refusing to release him to me. This is, as you may imagine, rather inconvenient. Please tell your servant to return my horse to me, and then I shall leave you all in peace.”
“Ganymede is yours?” she said faintly.
“He is. Sharp had no business to take him out. So if you would be so good—”
“I can’t!” she said, hand to mouth. “I just can’t! Ambrose would flay me alive if I interfere with his horses. The house… I may do as I please, but the stables are his domain. One of the gardeners rode one of the carriage horses once, and—” She broke off, shuddering, and two great tears rolled down her cheeks. She was one of those rare women who still look pretty while in tears, and Humphrey guessed it was a stratagem she had used for effect many times in the past. He was not influenced by her tears, but it was clear that Sharp was a firm master here, and he had no hope that she would relent.
He rose to his feet. “Is there a village nearby where I might hire a horse?” She shook her head. “An inn, perhaps?”
“The… the Old Cross. At the top of the vale.”
“On the York road?” He sighed. He had a long walk ahead of him.
4: The Old Cross Inn
Humphrey went back round to the stables first, to check that Ganymede was being properly cared for, but his enquiries of the groom
elicited the same response that he’d had from Mrs Andrews — the nearest inn was on the York road. There was nothing for it but to climb back up the vale, past the fulling mill and upwards through the trees until he reached the moors again. A few miles, no more — perhaps an hour, or maybe two, and then he could hire a horse. He would be late for dinner, but Connie would forgive him.
As he walked steadily up the vale past the farmers, he mulled over the odd situation at Silsby Vale House. Was it feasible that Sharp really owned the property? He spent nothing on himself or his wife, so perhaps it was possible. But what then was his relationship to Mrs Andrews? If she were no more than a tenant, there would be no need for Sharp to visit more than once each quarter, or perhaps only on Lady Day. Yet Ganymede was familiar enough with the house to find his own way to the stables — that was not the result of quarterly visits.
Well, it would not be the first time a man kept a mistress hidden away, yet the cost of such an establishment must be large. Even if the gardeners came in now and again from one of the farms, there were still the two manservants — Robert the coachman, and a younger man to act as both groom and footman. Adding in several female servants indoors, and it could not be sustained on much under a thousand pounds a year, he suspected. No matter how he looked at it, he could not reconcile such an expenditure with Sharp, who spent nothing at all on himself or his wife, not even the price of a new gown or coat once a year. He shook his head and walked on.
It was only when it seemed to take an unconscionable length of time to reach the mill that he began to wonder about his timing. He was not a slow walker, but the sun was already well down the sky before he made his way through the teasel field and past the fulling mill. Then there was a seemingly endless climb through the woods. Humphrey had eaten nothing since breakfast, and now rather regretted turning down the offer of tea and perhaps cake.
He was beginning to wonder if he had gone astray, although there had been few branches away from the track, when, quite abruptly, he came out into open country. Now there was no more than a mile or so to reach the inn. He saw it on the horizon long before he reached it, its walls painted red by the dying sun. Beside it, the silhouette of the leaning cross that gave the place its name.
The inn was not one popular with the coach trade, being largely a cheap place for wagons to pass the night. Often, the wagon drivers did not even bother with a room, spending the evening in the tap room and then bedding down for the night on their own wagons. But there were stables and hot food and plenty of ale, and Humphrey was known there, so he was not greeted by facetiousness when he gave his name.
Tommy, the innkeeper, was appropriately deferential, but he regretted to inform his noble patron that there were no horses to be had. He kept three or four spare as a rule, but by ill fortune all were elsewhere, and he had nothing suitable to offer.
“Nothing I’d want to ride across the moors at night, any road,” Tommy said. “Not with no moon, and riding alone and all, milord. Why, if you was to fall and break your neck, think how badly I’d feel.”
“I should not feel too cheerful about it myself,” Humphrey said. “You are right, it is too dark now to ride. May I take advantage of your hospitality, Tommy?”
“Course, my lord. Tilda, light a fire in the best bedroom for his lordship. And you’ll be wanting a parlour, I daresay?”
“No need for that. The taproom will serve me well enough. I hope Meg has something edible left in the kitchen?”
Humphrey was soon provided with a jug of ale and another of something Tommy assured him was wine, together with a bowl of brown liquid with unidentifiable lumps floating in it. He felt that opinions might differ on whether this concoction was actually edible or not, but he made a valiant attempt to find out. At least the bread was not too stale. He wondered what delights he was missing at Drummoor — goose, perhaps, or a tasty pigeon pie, with the first peas and strawberries from the vegetable garden, and a syllabub to follow, washed down with a decent drop of claret. He sighed, and pushed aside the bowl. There was nothing for it but to go to bed.
Here again the standards of the establishment left something to be desired. Humphrey was used to the best inns on the London to York route, with everything of superior quality. He had never stayed at the Old Cross Inn before, but he could see at a glance that the bedrooms were most definitely not of superior quality. The bedding was rough, and he suspected the mattress to be stuffed with heather. There was no other furniture in the room apart from a small table, a rickety chair and a stained rag rug. There was no bar for the door, and nothing more to secure it than a metal latch that rotated into a hook, but Humphrey had nothing with him apart from the clothes he was wearing, a small purse of coins and a thin dagger tucked into one boot. His pistols were back at Drummoor.
He sat down on the bed, and realised with a rueful smile that he had no way to remove his tightly-fitted riding boots, a task normally left to his valet. He sighed, toying with the idea of summoning a boy to wrestle them off, but then reminded himself of the consequences if his boots were inappropriately handled or even, perish the thought, damaged, and decided not to attempt it. Billings would sulk for a month! Never was a valet so proud of his way with boots. Humphrey himself cared little for such matters, but it never did to upset one’s valet. He would just have to sleep in his boots, indeed, in all his clothes, for he had the strongest apprehension of bed bugs. He lay down, his head on his folded coat, snuffed his candle and closed his eyes, but somehow sleep eluded him. For hours, it seemed, he turned this way and that, half-dozing before some horrid dream jerked him awake again.
But then something else woke him, a sound just on the edge of hearing.
He strained his ears, but all was silent. The room was no longer night-black, the dawn not far off. He turned over for the fortieth time, and closed his eyes. Still time for another two or three hours of sleep.
Scratch, scratch. His eyes flew open. Rats? But then a slight metallic clink, that was caused by no rat. Silently, he reached into his boot for the dagger and drew it forth. Even as he watched, the metal latch inside the door was lifted by some device from without — a knife, perhaps? The door opened silently on well-greased hinges. But Humphrey now had no apprehension that he would be murdered in his bed. The odd little latch, so easy to open from the outside, the greased hinges — all spoke of a regular type of thievery, perhaps even with the connivance of Tommy. This was one of the ostlers or taproom boys, looking to steal a coin or two from unwary travellers.
But Humphrey was by no means unwary. He lay still, the dagger hidden beneath him, pretending to sleep, but listening intently to the stealthy movements. The intruder crept into the room — Humphrey could hear him breathing — then stopped, no doubt looking about assessingly. But there was nothing to assess — no boxes or saddle-bags, not even a coat cast carelessly over a chair. There was nothing in the room but Humphrey, seemingly asleep on the bed, his coat under his head.
A sensible thief would judge the pickings thin and possibly risky, and make his exit at this point, but clearly this was not a sensible thief. He came nearer to the bed, his location betrayed by his heavy breathing and a certain horsey odour. One of the ostlers, then. Humphrey lay, eyes almost closed but not quite, as the would-be thief leaned over him and them stretched out a hand to investigate under the coat.
Humphrey’s eyes shot open and in one smooth movement he sat up and grasped the intruder by the neck. The man gasped, widening eyes just visible beneath a well-wrapped scarf. Definitely an inn employee, then, hiding his identity. Humphrey was on his feet, dragging the intruder across the room, before he had time for more than a squeak of alarm. Slamming him against the wall, he hissed in the man’s face, “Want something, my fine fellow? You are lucky I did not stick you with this.” He waved the dagger under the man’s nose.
“Sorry! Sorry! Please, I meant no harm! Just… just lookin’ about!”
“Just stealing,” Humphrey said. “You know the penalty for that, I assume.”
“Please, I’ve took nothing, mister, honest. I was just lookin’. Don’t send me to the magistrate, please!”
Humphrey realised too late that the fellow was right — he had as yet stolen nothing. His only crime was to enter a guest’s bedchamber, and if he were truly an inn employee, he could claim he was checking the fire or some such excuse. With an exclamation of disgust, Humphrey released him.
“Thank you, sir, thank you! You’ll not report me? I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear! I’ll leave you to sleep now, sir.”
“As if I could sleep a wink,” Humphrey said. “Even before you decided to pay me a visit, there was no possibility of sleep in this wretched place. It is not what I am accustomed to.”
“Aye — you’re a gent, sir,” the intruder said, grinning. “I could tell as soon as you opened your mouth. That’s no local accent.” And to Humphrey’s astonishment, he repeated his words with the exact intonation. “‘Even before you decided to pay me a visit, there was no possibility of sleep in this wretched place.’ That’s a real gent’s accent, that is.”
Humphrey laughed. “That is very clever. Who are you, my fine mimic?”
He reached for the scarf, but the man danced aside. “No need for that, sir. Just passing through, you wouldn’t know me.”
“Nonsense,” Humphrey said. “You work here, I am certain of it. You know your way around too well. Besides, you smell of the stables, so you must be an ostler here. I can get Tommy to find out who you are easily enough.”
“No, please, sir! I need this job, sir.”
But when Humphrey reached for the scarf, he stood still and allowed it to be unwound, revealing a mop of untidy blond hair and a surprisingly handsome face.
“Well, now,” Humphrey said, staring at him in astonishment. “What is your name, my good thief?”
“Not a thief,” he said sullenly. “I’m Charlie, sir.”
Humphrey laughed. “Charlie! Of course you are. Do you like your work here, Charlie? Do you like horses?”
Sons of the Marquess Collection Page 25