The Foundling

by Georgette Heyer

  ‘You better think it over, guv’nor!’ Mr Shifnal said. ‘You won’t have nothing else to do, so take your time! I’m striking the gigg now, and you won’t see no more of me, nor anyone, till I brings you your supper. I daresay you’ll be thinking different by then.’

  He rose from the floor, picked up the bowl and the lantern, and went away, locking the door behind him. The Duke lowered himself on to his unpleasant pillow again, and bent his mind to the problem of how he was to escape. For he had made up his mind that escape he must and would.

  No method immediately presented itself to him, and he wasted some time in cursing himself for not having gone armed to the Fair. His only weapon was his malacca cane, which had been propped against the broken chair, with his curly-brimmed beaver poised on top of it, and a malacca cane pitted against Mr Shifnal’s pistol would stand little chance of success. The possibility of taking Mr Shifnal off his guard seemed remote: he plainly held the Duke to be of little account, but he did not look as though he were in the habit of being taken off his guard. Moreover, the Duke was still feeling extremely battered, and he doubted whether he would have the physical strength to stun Mr Shifnal. He thought that the most pressing need was to recruit his forces, and with this end in view he closed his eyes, and tried so hard to go to sleep that he did so at last through sheer exhaustion.

  He was awakened by the sound of footsteps again, but they did not come to his door. A heavy tread passed it; he heard a latch lift gratingly, and the sound as of a wooden case being dragged across the stone floor. Other and rather shuffling footsteps came down the stairs. The Duke heard the murmur of voices, and strained his ears in vain to catch what was being said. He failed, but as the footsteps passed his door again, a rough voice said: ‘Mind how you carry that, you clumsy chub! Give me them daffy-bottles!’

  The Duke’s brows twitched together, for the voice was familiar. For a long time he could not place it, but by dint of recalling the various persons whom he had encountered during the preceding week he at last reached the right conclusion. The voice belonged to Mr Mimms; and if that were so it was more than likely that his cellar lay under the Bird in Hand. And if that again were so, then there could be no doubt that Mr Liversedge had had a hand in the abduction.

  It seemed a little puzzling to the Duke, and for a moment he wondered if he had been kidnapped for revenge. Then he thought that this was too foolhardy a thing for even Mr Liversedge to undertake, and he supposed that by some means or other that astute gentleman had discovered the identity of his visitor. Why Mr Liversedge was remaining in the background he could not imagine, unless it were that his sensibilities were too nice to permit of his openly confessing himself a kidnapper. The Duke decided that such questions as these were not of great moment, and applied his mind to the more urgent problem. If he was to attempt to break out of the cellar, and if this was indeed in the Bird in Hand, the best time for the attempt would undoubtedly be during the evening, when the tap-room might be supposed to be full, and Mr Mimms and his satellites busy in serving drinks. In all probability there would be a good deal of cheerful noise in the tap-room, which would be helpful. The Duke considered afresh the only plan he had been able to hit upon, and thought it was worth a trial. Since money was what his captors wanted, they were unlikely to kill him, whatever he did; and if he failed he would be no worse off than he was now.

  Not the most boring day spent in his tutor’s company had ever seemed as long to the Duke as this one. The darkness was like a blanket, and no sound from above penetrated to the cellar. He thought that if he failed to escape it would not be long before he would agree to pay any ransom. When he heard Mr Shifnal’s quick step approaching down the stairs, he had almost given up hope of being brought any of the promised supper. He knew that he stood in need of sustaining food, however little he might relish the thought of it, for he had tried the effect of standing up, and of taking a few groping steps in the darkness, and he had felt abominably dizzy and weak-kneed. His headache, however, had considerably abated. He thought that it would be just as well that Mr Shifnal should suppose him to be still prostrate, so he lay down, and closed his eyes, groaning artistically when the door opened.

  Mr Shifnal had brought him a plate of cold beef, a hunk of bread, and a mug of porter. He set these down, and asked him how he felt.

  ‘My head aches,’ complained the Duke fretfully.

  ‘Well, you got a rare wisty castor on it,’ said Mr Shifnal. ‘What you want is a nice bed, like you’re used to, and a breath of fresh air. You could have it, too, if you wasn’t so bacon-brained.’

  The Duke said: ‘But how could I pay thirty thousand pounds?’

  Mr Shifnal caught the note of doubt in his voice, and congratulated himself on his wisdom in having left the young swell alone all day. He explained to the Duke how the sum could be found, and the Duke listened, and raised objections, and seemed first to agree, and then to think better of it. Mr Shifnal thought that by the following morning he would know no hesitation, and was sorry that he had fortified him with meat and drink. He had been a little afraid that so delicate a young man might become seriously ill if starved, and a dead Duke was of no use to him. He determined not to allow him any breakfast, if he should still be obdurate in the morning, and he refused to leave the lantern behind him. Continued darkness and solitude, he was certain, would bring about a marked improvement in the Duke’s frame of mind. He went away again, warning the captive that it was of no use to shout, for no one would hear him if he did. The Duke was glad to know this, but he hunched a shoulder pettishly, and turned his face to the wall.

  He forced himself to wait for what seemed an interminable time. When he judged that the hour must be somewhere near ten, he stood up, and felt in his pocket for the device he used to light his cigars. Under his finger the little flame sprang up obediently. He kindled one of the matches at it, and holding it carefully on high, located the position of the heap of lumber. He went over to it, and had picked up a splinter of wood before the match went out. He could feel that the wood was dry, and when he kindled a second match and held it to the splinter, it caught fire. The Duke found a longer splinter, and kindled that from the first, and stuck it into one of the bottles on the floor. The light it threw was not very good, and it several times had to be blown to renewed flame, but the Duke was able, in the glimmer, to find what he wanted, and to carry it over to the door. He built up there a careful pile of shavings of wood, scraps of old sacking, the broken chair, the broom, and anything else that looked as though it might burn easily. His tablets went to join the rest, the thin leaves being torn out, and crumpled, and poked under the wood. The Duke set fire to his heap, and thanked God that the cellar was not damp. He had to kneel down and blow the fitful flames, but his efforts were rewarded: the wood began to crackle, and the flames to leap higher. He got up, and observed his work with satisfaction. If the smoke rose to the upper floor, as he supposed it must, he could only hope that it would be drowned by the fumes of clay pipes in the tap-room. He collected his hat, and his cane, buttoned up his long drab coat, and added an old boot to his bonfire. It was becoming uncomfortably hot, and he was forced to stand back from it, watching anxiously to see whether the door would burn. In a short time he knew that it would. His heart began to beat so hard that he could almost hear it. He felt breathless, and the smoke was making his eyes smart. But the door was burning, and in a few minutes more the flames would be licking the walls on either side of it. The Duke caught up the horse-blanket, and, using it as a shield, attacked the flaming woodwork. He scorched himself in the process, but he succeeded in kicking away the centre of the door. He paid no heed to where the burning fragments fell, but he did smother the flames round the aperture he had made; and then, abandoning the charred blanket, swiftly dived for his hole, and struggled through it.

  One moment he spent in recovering his breath, and settling his hat somewhat gingerly on his head, and then, taking a firm g
rip on his cane, he stole up the stairs.

  He reached the top, and knew that he had been correct in his assumption that he was imprisoned in the Bird in Hand. He remembered that there was a door leading into the yard at the back of the house, and he made for this. From the tap-room came the sound of convivial song and laughter. There was no one to be seen in the dimly lit space by the yard-door, and he thought for a moment that he was going to make his escape unperceived. And then, just as he was within a few steps of his goal, a door on his right opened, and Mr Mimms came out, carrying a large jug.

  Mr Mimms gave one startled grunt, dropped the jug, and lunged forward. The Duke was expert in the use of the singlestick, but he employed none of the arts he had been taught. Side-stepping Mr Mimms’s bull-like rush, he made one neat thrust with his cane between his legs, and brought him crashing to the ground. The next instant he had reached the yard-door, and had torn it open, and was stumbling over the cobbles and the refuse outside the inn.

  It was a dark night, and the yard seemed to be full of obstacles, but the Duke managed to get across it, to grope his way round a corner of the barn, and, as his eyes grew accustomed to the murk, to reach the field beyond. In the distance behind him, he thought he could hear voices. He thanked God that there was no moon, and ran for his life, heading in what he hoped was the direction of the village of Arlesey.

  By the time he reached the straggling hedge that shut the fields off from the lane he was out of breath, and staggering on his feet. He was obliged to stand still, to recover himself a little, and he took the opportunity of looking back towards the inn. It was hidden from him by trees, but he was able to see a faint red glow, and realised that his fire must have taken good hold. He gave a panting laugh, and pushed his way through the hedge on to the lane. Mr Mimms would have enough on his hands without adding the pursuit of his prisoner to it, he thought; and if the man in riding-dress thought the recapture of his prize of more importance than the quenching of the fire, the deep ditch beside the lane would afford excellent cover for a fugitive. The Duke walked as fast as he could down the lane, straining his ears for any sound of footsteps behind him. But he thought that he would be searched for in the fields rather than in the road.

  The first cottages of Arlesey came into sight. Chinks of lamplight shone between several window-blinds. The Duke, reeling from mingled faintness and fatigue, chose a cottage at random, and knocked on the door. It was presently opened to him by a stolid-looking man in fustian breeches, and a velveret jacket, who opened his eyes at sight of his dishevelled visitor, and ejaculated: ‘Lord ha’ mussy! Whatever be the matter with you, sir?’

  ‘Will you allow me to rest here till daylight?’ said the Duke, leaning against the lintel of the door. ‘I have – suffered an accident, and – I rather fancy – some murderous fellows are on my heels.’

  A stout woman, who had been peeping round her husband’s massive form, exclaimed: ‘The poor young gentleman! I’ll lay my life it’s them murdering thieves as haunts the Bird in Hand! Come you in, sir! come you in!’

  ‘Thank you!’ said the Duke, and fainted.

  Eighteen

  The Duke left Arlesey on the following morning, unmolested, but slightly bedraggled. His hosts, upon his dramatic collapse, had carried him up to the second bedroom, and had not only stripped him of his outer garments, but had revived him with all manner of country remedies. They were very much shocked, Mrs Shottery as much by the scorched state of his riding-coat as by his alarming pallor; and they perceived, by the fine quality of his linen, that he was of gentle birth. By the time that he had recovered his senses, the worthy couple had convinced each other that he had fallen a victim to the cut-throat thieves who infested the district, using the Bird in Hand as their headquarters. The Duke was feeling quite disinclined for conversation, and merely lay smiling wearily upon them, and murmuring his soft-toned thanks for their solicitude. Mrs Shottery bustled about in high fettle, bringing up hot bricks to lay at his feet, strong possets to coax down his throat, and vinegar to soothe a possible headache, while her husband, having seen the glow of fire in the distance, sallied forth to reconnoitre. He came back just as the Duke was dropping asleep and told him with much headshaking, and many exclamations, that the Bird in Hand was ablaze, and such a to-do as he disremembered to have seen in Arlesey before.

  In the morning, the Duke was touched to find that Mrs Shottery had washed and ironed his shirt, and had even pressed out the creases in his olive-green coat. He said that he would not for the world have had her put herself to such trouble, but she would not listen to such foolishness, she said. Instead she showed him the scorch-marks on his drab riding-coat, mourning over the impossibility of eradicating them. Her husband eyed the Duke with respect, and said he reckoned he knew how the gentleman had come by the marks.

  ‘What happened to the inn?’ asked the Duke. ‘Is it quite burned down? Really, I never thought of that!’

  ‘Well, it ain’t clean gone, but no one couldn’t live in it no more,’ replied Mr Shottery, with satisfaction. ‘And where that scoundrel Mimms has loped off to the lord alone knows! They say as he and the barman and another cove went away in the cart, and so many bits and pieces piled up in it that it was a wonder the old nag could draw it. A good riddance to them all, is what I say!’

  ‘If they don’t come back, which they likely will!’ said his wife pessimistically.

  ‘I think they will not,’ said the Duke. ‘You may depend upon it that they are afraid that I shall lay information against them.’

  ‘Which I trust and prays, sir, as you will!’ said Mrs Shottery, in minatory accents.

  The Duke returned an evasive answer. He had certainly meant to do so, but a period of reflection had shown him the disadvantages of such proper action. His identity would have to be disclosed, and he was as little desirous of having it known that the Duke of Sale had been kidnapped as of advertising his presence in the district. He discovered, too, upon consideration, that having outwitted his enemies he felt himself to be quite in charity with them. His most pressing wish was to return to Hitchin, where his two protégés must by now be fancying themselves deserted.

  He drove there in a gig, beside a shy man who had business in the town, and had agreed to carry the Duke along with him. The Shotterys bade him a fond farewell, and indignantly spurned his offer to pay them for his lodging. He said, colouring like a boy, that he thought he had given them a great deal of trouble, but they assured him that they grudged nothing to anyone who could smoke out a nest of thieves, as he had done.

  The day was fine, and a night’s repose had restored the Duke to the enjoyment of his usual health. He was inclined to feel pleased with himself, and to think that for a greenhorn he had acquitted himself creditably. It seemed unlikely that Liversedge and his associates would dare to make any further attempt upon his life, or his liberty, and it was reasonable to suppose that he had come to an end of his adventures. Nothing now remained but to convey Tom and Belinda to Bath, and to hand Belinda over to Harriet while he himself searched for Mr Mudgley.

  He reckoned without his hosts. When the gig set him down at the Sun Inn, and he walked into this hostelry, he was met by popping eyes and gaping mouths, and informed by the landlord that no one had expected to see him again.

  The Duke raised his brows at this, for he did not relish the landlord’s tone, and said: ‘How is this? Since I have not paid my shot you must have been sure of my return.’

  It was plain that the landlord had had no such certainty. He said feebly: ‘I’m downright glad to see your honour back, but the way things have been ever since you went off, sir, I wouldn’t be surprised at nothing, and that’s the truth!’

  The Duke was conscious of a sinking at the pit of his stomach. ‘Has anything gone amiss?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no!’ said the landlord sarcastically, his wrongs rising forcibly to his mind. ‘Oh, no, sir! I’ve only
had the constables here, and my good name blown upon, for to have the constables nosing round an inn is enough to ruin it, and this a posting-house which has given beds to the gentry and the nobility too, and never a breath of scandal the years I’ve owned it!’

  The Duke now perceived that he had not yet come to the end of his adventures. He sighed, and said: ‘Well, I suppose it is Master Tom! What mischief has he been engaged upon while I was away?’

  The landlord’s bosom swelled. ‘If it’s your notion of mischief, sir, to be took up for a dangerous rogue, it ain’t mine! Robbery on the King’s highroad, that’s what the charge is! Firing at honest citizens – old Mr Stalybridge, too, as is highly respected in the town! He’ll be transported, if he ain’t hanged, and a good thing too, that’s what I say!’

  The Duke was a good deal taken aback by this disclosure, but after a stunned moment he said: ‘Nonsense! He has no gun, and cannot possibly –’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, he had a fine pistol, and it was God’s mercy he didn’t kill Mr Stalybridge’s coachman with it, for the shot went so close to him it fair scorched his ear!’

  ‘Good God!’ ejaculated the Duke, suddenly bethinking him of his duelling-pistols.

  ‘Ah, and well you may say so!’ nodded the landlord. ‘And a great piece of black cloth hanging down over his face, with a couple of holes in it like a mask, enough to give anyone a turn! Locked up in prison he is now, the young varmint!’