The Noblest Frailty

by Patricia Veryan

  Postponing the inevitable, Devenish sauntered to the east battlements to scan a fair prospect of rolling hills, lush meadows, and forest land. He breathed deeply of the bracing air and could not wonder that his mother had been so fond of this home of her childhood. Craig stood at the western side between two merlons of the battlements, at the very edge of the embrasure, looking straight down. Devenish thought, “My God! How simple it would be! There’s nothing to stay his fall.…” He went over and murmured a dry, “You’re a trusting soul, I’ll give you that!” His cousin neither replied nor moved and, reluctantly, Devenish looked down, also. It seemed terribly far to the jagged rocks. What had been in his father’s mind as he fell? Only the ghastly certainty that death awaited him? Or had he thought of the wife and little son he loved? Shrinking, Devenish wondered what he himself would think of at such a moment. And he knew: Yolande.

  Tyndale said huskily, “I had so hoped the roof would be faulty. That your father might, perhaps, have stumbled over an uneven or sloping surface. But—see, it is clear, and level.” He drove one fist against the parapet and cried, “I still cannot credit it! I cannot! He may have been wild and reckless; resentful, perhaps. Obsessed with his conviction that the castle is haunted. But—he adored your mother. He would never have sent the man she loved to so cruel a death, knowing it might very well kill his twin also!”

  “You surprise me,” said Devenish, with a curl of the lip. “I had come to think you cared not a button for the whole ugly business.”

  His despairing gaze still fixed on the beach, Craig muttered, “Dolt.” He drew a hand across his eyes, then, regaining his control, said, “Now—tell me what has you up in the boughs. I’ve seen no trace of ’em. Have you?”

  Devenish stared his astonishment. “Trace of who?”

  “Whoever else is dwelling in the castle. Good God, Dev, you surely have realized we’re not alone here?”

  “Not … alone? You—you mean you also have felt—”

  “That we are watched? Oh, yes.”

  “But—but you s-said you had seen nothing!”

  “I said I had seen no ghosts. Which I have not.” Peering at his cousin’s astounded face, he asked keenly, “Lord, is that it? Have you been subjected to more—er—jousts with the Unseen?”

  Devenish fixed him with a defiant glare. “Several!”

  “The deuce! Tell me!”

  So Devenish told him and, because he was extremely angry, spared no details but did not embellish with dramatics, biting out his words in such terse fashion that the fearsomeness of the episodes he described became very vivid to his listener. “Well,” he finished, “do not deny yourself, Major Tyndale, sir! Tell me what I already know; that you do not believe a word of it!”

  Instead, watching him with wide, shocked eyes, Tyndale breathed, “By Jupiter! And you faced that all alone…! What a total clunch! Why in the devil did you not tell me?”

  “Because,” snarled Devenish, “I knew what a fine laugh you would have at my expense, and how you would delight in telling me I ate too much rich food for dinner, or some such fustian. As you did to Monty on that first night!”

  “Gudgeon! Had you only swallowed that ridiculous pride and told me all this sooner! I had my suspicions, but—”

  “You had your suspicions, did you? And kept them to yourself!” His eyes fairly sparking, Devenish raged on, “While I endured hell’s own misery. One word from you—one hint that it was all contrived would have spared me! But—no! Because you have no sensibilities yourself, you just sat back and watched. Gloating! Dammitall! I should…”

  He had paced nearer, thrusting his flushed face under his cousin’s nose, and stepping back instinctively, Craig teetered on the brink, and made a grab for the edge of the parapet. “Will you control that insufferable temper of yours? We must take no chances up here!”

  Devenish paled at the reminder and all but leapt back. “Then let us go inside at once so I can punch your smug head!”

  Tyndale moved away from the sheer drop behind him and caught his cousin’s arm. “Don’t be such a fool! Can you seriously judge me so base as to serve you so vile a turn? I thought someone had been racking up in the castle, but I fancied them vagrants merely, or homeless soldiery. Nothing more. This sheds a new light on it.”

  “Vagrants, indeed! And where did you think these poor starving soldiers hid themselves so that we never saw them—or their belongings? You have inspected every inch of your ancestral home!”

  “Why, in the secret rooms and passages, of course. I thought you had guessed that when you quizzed me about pacing off and measuring all the rooms.”

  “Secret … rooms…?” breathed Devenish, his eyes kindling. “By thunder, but you’re right! I recall Uncle Alastair once telling me that the old place is fairly riddled with them. But—what did your sketches and measurements prove?”

  “That there is a wide discrepancy between interior and exterior dimensions. When we were locked out in the rain and prowling about trying to find a way in, I paced off the exterior measurements, and—”

  The elation that had begun to dawn in Devenish’s face vanished. “Then—you knew very early in the game! When exactly, Major Tyndale, sir?”

  Tyndale stifled exasperation. “The first time we went inside I noticed that although there was dust everywhere, one end of the dining table was free of it. I surmised that the table had been in use. No, Dev! Hear me out! I really thought they were demobilized soldiers, and I suspect you have little use for the military. Some of the poor devils have had such a bitter time since the war ended. It seems every man’s hand is against them, so I thought—”

  “You thought I would have them hanged for trespassing!” snarled Devenish.

  Tyndale reddened and his eyes fell. “I—don’t know … but they seemed to be causing no trouble. I thought they would either leave, or show themselves and we—I—could offer them work. I even said as much once, when I was alone in the book room.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “Perhaps no one was listening.”

  “Likely not! They were all too busy ‘haunting’ me!”

  “Well, dammit, I did not know of any of it! I knew you were a trifle shaken that first night, but it seemed perfectly understandable—in the circumstances. When you said no more of it, I thought you had adjusted, and—”

  “Adjusted! My God! To what? Bedlam?”

  “No, really, Dev. You seemed calm most of the time, so I—”

  “Thunderation, man! I came near to losing my mind!”

  Tyndale hung his head, looking and feeling like a chastened schoolboy. “What an unobservant fool I am.” He looked up with his crooked, apologetic grin. “I never even suspected what was going on right under my nose. Poor Dev. A harrowing week you have had!”

  Touched, Devenish cleared his throat and grunted, “Gad, there’s no call to be so damned patronizing. I’m near as old as you, you know!”

  Scanning him, Tyndale thought, “Not really. You are just a boy; a likeable, warm-hearted, but rather too impulsive boy.” And aloud he said, “Oh, but I was born a greybeard.”

  “I’ll agree with you on that point.” Devenish chuckled and went on, “So tell me, O Ancient Sage, what is it all about, think you?”

  Tyndale knit his brows for a moment. “I had thought,” he answered carefully, “it was a relatively minor problem. It is not, very obviously. That portrait business took not only scheming, but either the talent to create such an atrocity, or the funds to commission it done. It could, I suppose, prove an excellent means of frightening away curious children or occasional vagrants, but…”

  “I wonder,” Devenish mused. “By daylight, only those who have seen the original painting, or who remember my mother would be really scared by it. Strangers might merely fancy it an excessive ugly painting—of which there are many, God knows. And I rather doubt many people would wander to so lonely a spot after dark, so as to get the full effect.” He frowned. “How the deuce did they manage it, d’you suppose? How could they hav
e switched ’em so fast?”

  “A hidden panel, perhaps.”

  “What—in a rock wall?”

  Tyndale argued, “Well, perhaps it isn’t rock. Perhaps there is a wooden section, carven and painted to resemble rock, that can be slid aside—lots of priest’s holes have steps leading from a chimney, you know. Someone could have opened the panel while you slept, substituted the changed portrait, and then contrived to wake you. The night you said you tripped over something in the dark, obstacles could easily have been moved into unexpected spots just in case you did have the gumption to charge before they had a chance to switch portraits.”

  Gratified by this small compliment, Devenish nodded. “It fits, all right.”

  They began to pace slowly towards the door to the stairs, each deep in thought. “It was planned from the start,” muttered Tyndale, “with one end in view. I was to be scared off. So terrified that I decided to live anywhere but here.”

  “If they wanted to scare you,” Devenish protested indignantly, “why am I the one to have been victimized? The picture was in the room intended for me!”

  “Not necessarily. Perhaps I was meant to choose that room.”

  “Hmmn. Perhaps … No! The voices, coz! They called ‘Alain!’ and begged I ‘avenge’ them.” And recalling the anguish he had suffered because of that trickery, he fumed, “Those miserable blasted vermin!”

  “True,” Tyndale acknowledged. “Unless they planned to thoroughly panic you, so that you would leave. And then—go to work on me. They certainly have succeeded in frightening the local people away.”

  “And Montelongo.… But—why? Regardless of how they went about it, why go to so much trouble? All this skulduggery, when there ain’t nothing hereabouts save for hills and cows and sheep and such.”

  “And … the sea,” murmured Tyndale.

  Devenish caught his breath. “Jove!” he breathed, awed. “You have it! The sea! Free Traders! Of course, but—no, surely this is the wrong coast?”

  “Sometimes the longest way is the quickest. And the safest. I believe there is at least one large cellar here I have been unable to find. If it has been stocked by smugglers, only think how perfect this is for them. They could sail from France, around Land’s End, up through the Irish Sea, slip through the channel, and land here any night there’s moon enough, secure in the knowledge that no one would be the wiser.”

  Devenish eyed him askance. “It may not seem far to someone who’s done as much travelling as you, old boy, but it seems a devilish roundaboutation to me!”

  “It is a bit of a haul, I grant you. But—only think, they could offload into wagons with perfect safety, for no locals would dare venture near the castle by night, and be well on their way before dawn. Why, they could likely even hire Pickford’s in Kilmarnock, or Glasgow perhaps, and have their smuggled goods shipped to London, free as air. ’Twould be worth the long journey, I’d say. And unless I’m fair and far off, there is an entrance to the castle somewhere down among the cliffs. A cave, perhaps!” His eyes bright with triumph, he exclaimed, “That has to be the answer! No wonder they’re so desperate to drive us away, Dev! They’ve the ideal hideaway and do not mean to give it up!”

  Devenish swung the door open and, lowering his voice, murmured, “If you are right, we’re likely to find ourselves nose to nose with some very irate gents! At any moment!”

  “Yes,” Craig acknowledged with his slow smile. “In which case, I should not have been so irked with Monty today. He was convinced we were going to wake some morning with our throats cut. Advised me, just as he was riding out, that he meant to report our uninvited guests to the Constable at Kilmarnock. He means to bring reinforcements this evening!”

  “Good old Monty!” said Devenish blithely. “By George! And to think I fancied this would be a dull journey! With a little bit of luck, my bonnie Colonial, we shall land ourselves a jolly good scrap before your reinforcements arrive!”

  Even as one part of his mind marvelled at his cousin’s transformation from a brooding man of mercurial temper to a cheerful, high-couraged youth, Tyndale still pondered the one detail that plagued him. He had the uneasy feeling that the substitute portrait did not fit into his solution of their puzzle.

  * * *

  The wind was brisk this morning, hurrying the clouds across the pale blue sky, and setting the heather to whipping about beneath the hooves of the horses. Their habits fluttering, the two ladies urged their mounts up the hill beside the pass road, from the top of which eminence Castle Tyndale could be seen, a distant, darkly powerful thrust against the encompassing slate of the sea. The eyes of both riders were fixed upon the fortress, and in green eyes and brown was longing and a measure of hopelessness.

  Heaving a deep sigh, the smaller of the pair murmured, “Whatever will I do if he don’t never come back?”

  Yolande pushed her own dreary reflections aside and, forcing a smile, said reassuringly, “Of course he will come back. And very soon.”

  By mutual accord they stopped the horses. “I’d like him to see me new have-it,” said Josie.

  “I know you would, dear.” The child looked quite ladylike in her pink velvet, a demure little bonnet tied over her dark curls. Watching her, Yolande pointed out gently, “But the word is ‘habit,’ Josie.”

  “It is? I thought a habit was something you did when you shouldn’t ought to have.”

  “Yes. But it is also a riding dress. And you look very pretty in yours. Mr. Devenish will be pleased.”

  “I hope so.” Josie sighed again.

  Yolande suggested bracingly, “Only think of the future. We shall all drive back to England together. Will you not like that?”

  “Not Mr. Craig. He cannot go. Not if you marriages Mr. Dev.” Josie turned to look up at this beautiful vision beside her and ask hopefully, “I don’t ’spect as you would sooner marriage with Mr. Craig, would you?”

  Yolande’s heart gave a terrifying jolt, and she stared at the child speechlessly.

  Alarm came into the small, pointed face. “You ain’t never going to have a bad turn, is you, Miss Yolande?” cried Josie. “Old Ruby used to have ’em, and stagger about carrying on something drefful ’bout her poor old eyes and limbs. But Benjo said it was the gin, and I ain’t never seed you swig blue ruin. Your face is awful red, though, so p’raps—”

  With a shaken laugh, Yolande denied an addiction to blue ruin. “What—whatever,” she asked, “would cause you to think I might wish to marry Mr. Tyndale?”

  A third sigh was torn from the child. “I didn’t really think it. I knowed there wasn’t much hope. What lady would want Mr. Craig when Mr. Dev is there? Only I knows how bad Mr. Craig wants you, and—”

  Her breathing becoming highly erratic, Yolande intervened, “Good—gracious, what an imagination! I—I thank you, dear Josie, but—there are lots of ladies much prettier than I for—for Mr. Craig to—er, choose.”

  “Are there? I never see one.” A gleam coming into her dark eyes, Josie asked thoughtfully, “Is there one up here? Like—in Drumdownie, p’raps? I like Mr. Craig. He’s kind, and he has scrumptious eyes.” She thought for a moment, then said sadly, “It’d be so much easier if you would just marriage Mr. Craig, ma’am.” And with a rather pathetic desperation, she enquired, “Are you quite sure as you wants Mr. Dev?”

  “Are you quite sure as you wants Mr. Dev…?” For an aching moment, Yolande saw a strong, lean, rather pale face, with steadfast grey eyes and a wide, humorous mouth. Her own eyes dimmed. Wracked by anguish, she thought, “Dear God! Is there never to be an end to it?” And afraid her misery might be seen and understood by the discerning small woman beside her, she spurred her horse forward. “Come dear, I’ll race you back to the house!”

  Josie gazed remorsefully after the graceful retreating figure. She’d really gone and done it now. She’d made Miss Yolande cross, and Miss Yolande was good and gentle, and had promised to help, just in case Mr. Dev didn’t take her to live with him. Starting her pony and fol
lowing the chestnut mare, Josie could not wonder that Miss Yolande had not bothered to answer such a silly question. No lady could resist Mr. Dev, with his beautiful face and happy nature. Just to think of the smile that could so suddenly warm his blue eyes was enough to give her goose bumps, and she was only a little girl. As from a very great distance came the echo of a soft voice, “Aide-toi, le ciel t’aidera.” Her small chin set. It was possible. If she helped herself, heaven might indeed help her! She touched one heel to her pony’s sleek side and began to weave plans. Lost in her own introspection, Yolande did not notice how quiet the little girl had become, and two subdued ladies made their way back to Steep Drummond.

  When they arrived they found the grooms all agog because young Mr. MacInnes had come to show off the paces of his fine new hunter. Yolande went at once to join the small crowd gathered in the meadow, but Josie stayed to watch as the mare and the pony were unsaddled, rubbed down, and turned out to graze. She declined the offer of Mr. Laing, the head groom, for a piggyback ride to the meadow, saying that she wanted to play with Molly-My-Lass’s foal for a little while, and watched as the genial man hurried off to join his colleagues in the meadow. They would be busied there for a good half hour, she knew. Ample time, surely, for her to get to Castle Tyndale and dear Mr. Dev. How she was to plead her case did not concern her. Time enough for that when she faced her god. She went over to Molly-My-Lass, and the Clydesdale nuzzled her affectionately. Molly wouldn’t mind helping, though it was unfortunate, Josie admitted, that she did not herself possess the Rat Paws, as did dear Mr. Dev. Nonetheless, it was the work of a few seconds only, to climb up the first few rungs of the fence and hop onto that broad back. A kick of heels, a tug at the thick mane, and they were off, Molly-My-Lass perfectly willing to get some moderate exercise.