Josie wasn’t too sure just how to get to Castle Tyndale (having only been there once), but she could smell the sea, and once they were safely out of sight of the house, turned confidently in what she imagined to be a lane leading westward.
Half an hour later, she was a rather frightened little girl harbouring the uneasy suspicion that she was a wee bit lost. The sun was starting to be blotted out by clouds, and she wished she had brought the new cloak Miss Yolande had given her. She looked about worriedly. Scotland was nice, and the hills was bigger than in England. The trouble was, there wasn’t never many folks about, and not many houses nor signposts, neither. How a body was to know which way to go was hard to tell. If the sun would start to go down she would know where was the west, but the sun, uncooperative, was high in the sky. Her heart gave a jump when she heard a cantering horse, and she guided Molly-My-Lass into some tall shrubs by the lane, fearing the grooms from Steep Drummond were after her. She was vastly relieved to see Major Craig’s Indian man riding up. She almost called out to him, but then realized he would be just as liable to return her to Steep Drummond as would the General’s grooms, and so sat quietly while he went on past. She watched him, admiring the easy grace with which he rode, almost as if he was one with the sleek bay mare. He was headed for the castle, that was sure.
Josie coaxed Molly-My-Lass into a trot and followed, careful to stay out of sight and earshot.
* * *
In all his life Montelongo had never seen such a climate as that which bedevilled the occupants of the British Isles. Nor had he imagined that so small an island could manage to be so perplexing. He had been quite sure of his route when he left the castle this morning. Now, not only was he lost, but he would wager a paint pony that the last knock-in-the-cradle who had assured him it was only three miles at the outside from the Kilmarnock road, “give or take a half-mile” was more lost than he! That had been at least five miles back, and he still had not come to the promised large signpost and the turn he was to take. To add to his indignation, the bright weather that had blessed his departure had given way to heavy clouds, so that he could not now judge the position of the sun.
Thus he was pleased to observe two mounted gentlemen a short distance ahead. They were riding at a walk and turned to him amiably as he approached, evincing neither surprise nor curiosity by reason of his unorthodox appearance.
“Hello there,” called the taller of the pair, a well set up individual wearing a frieze coat. “You’ll be Major Tyndale’s man, eh?”
Montelongo nodded.
“Heard of you. I’m in the service of Mr. Walter Donald,” vouchsafed the stranger. “Name of Wood. This here gent is Mr. Barnham.”
Montelongo acknowledged the introduction and asked, in his terse fashion, if they could direct him to Kilmarnock.
They could. They were, in fact, going that way themselves and would be glad to set him on the right road if he wouldn’t mind waiting a minute while they stopped at Mr. Wood’s house. This detail having been agreed to, they rode along all three, the two Englishmen chatting slanderously about their employers, and Montelongo listening with no small amusement.
Mr. Wood’s cottage was located across a field, some way from the lane and so isolated that there was not another house in sight. Messrs. Barnham and Montelongo waited before the battered picket fence while Mr. Wood went later. He reappeared after a few minutes to say that his wife was off somewhere, and if the gentlemen would care to dismount and step inside, he could offer them a spot of ale to wash the dust away before they resumed their journey.
It was the first time the Iroquois had met with such instant hospitality in a strange land, and he willingly accompanied his new friends into the cottage.
Ten minutes later, the shabby parlour swimming dizzily before his eyes, he lowered his head to the table and with a heavy sigh sank into sleep.
Mr. Wood bent over him, seized his shoulder and shook him, at first gently, then roughly. He lifted his eyes to smile with gratification at Mr. Barnham. “Well, that’s done!” he observed. “Now we’ll truss him up all neat and tidy. Just in case.”
“But I thought,” demurred Mr. Barnham, “that we wasn’t to leave no signs of force.”
“No more we won’t. We’ll loose him come dawn. But mark them shoulders, me lad. This here savage has probably got muscles what you and me never dreamt of! There ain’t no telling how long he’ll sleep, for one thing I didn’t dare do was to give him too much. I ain’t taking no chances he’ll wake up whilst you and me is having a nice convivial chat as you might say!” Mr. Barnham applauding this decision, they proceeded to bind their unwitting victim. “Very tidy,” said Mr. Barnham. “If he does start to wake up early, what you going to do?”
“Leave his knife close to hand. It’ll take him some time to get it and get loose, ’cause he won’t be thinking clear—spite of all them muscles. Either way, we’ll be least in sight and he can go strolling off, free as air, back to the castle, tripping through the daisies in the dawn. Just like Mr. Shotten wants.” He laughed. “By which time,” he added, “he’ll be what you might call a Johnny-come-lately!”
“You mean a Monty-come-morning!” leered Mr. Barnham.
“Aye. Morning. Spelt m-o-u-r-n-i-n-g,” said Mr. Wood.
This clever play on words so titillated them that they repaired to the kitchen and found a bottle of much stronger content than ale, with which they decided to celebrate their success.
They went back to the parlour, settled down, and enjoyed the bottle together, while Montelongo slept.
Chapter XIII
UNWILLING TO PROVIDE THE SMUGGLERS with any cause for suspicion, the cousins agreed that they would proceed in their usual manner while awaiting Montelongo’s return with the “reinforcements.” They spent most of the afternoon, therefore, in thoroughly inspecting the stables and barn, returning to the castle in a chilly dusk with a long list of necessary repairs.
The fact that Montelongo had not as yet come back was worrying Tyndale. Devenish, however, reasoned that the Constable at Kilmarnock might have felt it advisable to refer the matter to a higher authority, or might at this very moment be positioning his men about the castle. “Suppose they do come,” Devenish whispered as they walked across the stableyard. “What in the deuce are we to show them? We don’t know how to find either Free Traders or contraband! The Constable will laugh at us!”
“I don’t think he will take action yet, but if he does, we will at least be enabled to make a proper search of the basements. That’s where the hidden rooms are, I’m sure of it. And even if we are laughed at, someone in authority will have been warned of what’s going on here. Just—in case.”
Those last three last words caused Devenish considerable disquiet as he walked along the hall towards his bedchamber. It had not occurred to him that the smugglers might really be willing to commit murder. If they did decide to cut up stiff and were able to put a period to him and Tyndale, it would be a proper bumble broth, for everyone would merely think the feud had been fought over again. He was dismayed and, as he opened the door, called down a blessing on the head of the absent Montelongo. It was a jolly good thing that—
He checked, his hand still on the doorknob, his eyes glued to the opposite wall. The portrait was macabre once more and, even knowing that the cruel distortion of his mother’s loveliness was a ruse, goosebumps rose on his flesh. He drew a hissing breath, then sprinted along the corridor to his cousin’s room. “Craig!” he gasped, plunging in without ceremony. “The portrait!”
Tyndale was in his shirt sleeves, in the act of pouring water into his washbowl. He looked up, startled, as Devenish flung the door open, and at once set down the water pitcher and ran with him to the adjoining room. The sight of the portrait checked his hurried progress. He paused in the open doorway, gazing at it. “Lord!” he breathed. “Small wonder it so distressed you!” And he wandered closer, drawn by that monstrous image.
“At least you’ve seen it!” said Devenish. �
��This time we were quick enough.”
“And there wasn’t no need,” sneered a crude London voice. “’Cause it’s all done, coves. All over with!”
The cousins spun about as the door slammed shut. Four men leaned against the wall, watching them with various degrees of amusement. The one who had spoken was a large, powerful individual, dressed without elegance in a brown riding coat, breeches, and topboots. He was whistling in a soft, hissing monotone, as ostlers whistle when currying a horse, and his small, hard eyes were fixed on Devenish in leering mockery.
“Shotten…!” breathed Devenish. “So—Sanguinet is behind this?”
Shotten laughed. “Monsewer’s a vindictive man, ’e is.”
Glancing at his cousin, Tyndale said, “Your French—er, acquaintance in Dinan? Aha! So this is a vendetta. Whatever did you do to so upset the gentleman?”
“Yer kinsman was so foolish, sir,” volunteered Shotten, “so downright stupid as ter kick Claude Sanguinet in the jaw and then throw him in a nasty wet pond! Monsewer, ’e hadn’t never bin treated like that afore. And ’e didn’t take to it!”
Devenish made a swift appraisal of the others. One was lean and leathery, his narrow face holding an expression of sneering malevolence. The other two were as burly as Shotten, and both held horse pistols. This, he thought, his pulses beginning to race with excitement, would be a close-run thing.…
With unruffled calm, Tyndale drawled, “If you expect us to believe that Monsieur Sanguinet has expended all this time and effort on a simple matter of revenge—”
“You mistake that, sir,” said Shotten, with that infuriatingly oily deference. “Fact is, we don’t give beans fer what you believe. And just look at me, fergettin’ me manners! That there thin little cove as ye see aholding up the wall—that’s Fritch. The chap with all the pretty curls”—he gestured to a man who was quite bald—“his monicker is Jethro—he’s a very gentle, friendly type o’cove.”
The “friendly type” uttered a roar of mirth at this witticism, displaying a few crooked teeth. The younger, sandy-haired man next to him stood away from the wall and interrupted harshly, “You talk too much, Shotten. They can live without knowing of my name!”
“Ar,” giggled Fritch. “But not fer long, Walter, me bucko!”
The cousins exchanged swift glances. “A fine set of rum touches you cry friends with!” protested Tyndale. He turned from Devenish’s irrepressible grin to Shotten’s beady-eyed antagonism. “When shall we meet your master?”
“You know what, Major War Hero?” said Shotten, strolling forward. “I don’t like yer face, nor yer way o’ talkin’, nor nothing else about yer. Ain’t no man is my master! No man! Clear?”
“The words.” Tyndale shrugged. “But they are of doubtful veracity.”
Shotten’s little eyes narrowed, and the pistol in his hand swung upwards a trifle. “And wot might that jawbreaker mean?”
The sandy-haired man laughed. “He means as you be lying, Shotten. Which you is. Sanguinet’s your master just as much as what he’s ours.”
“Keep yer dirty fat mouth in yer pocket!” Shotten snarled murderously.
“Never mind about Walter,” Fritch advised in his nasal, whining voice. “He’s a bit upset like.”
“You’ll be upset if we make a hog wallow of this,” snapped Walter, his pale eyes glinting. “It could mean the nubbing cheat for the lot on us!”
“You would do well to heed him,” Devenish corroborated. “Else you will most certainly end up swinging on Tyburn.”
“Well, don’t worry about it, me dear old friend,” said Shotten with a broad grin. “’Cause you won’t be invited ter watch us kick!”
Devenish clicked his tongue. “Pity. I would so enjoy it.”
“I think it all a Canterbury tale from start to finish,” Tyndale interposed hurriedly, misliking the way Shotten advanced on his indomitable cousin. “You were using my castle long before we chanced up here, and for something more profitable than pure vengeance, I’ll wager.”
Shotten halted abruptly. Fritch looked shaken. Jethro and Walter exchanged scared glances, and the bald man wiped off the top of his head with a grimy sleeve. “If the soldier come at that much,” he muttered uneasily, “maybe he told that old devil up at Steep Drummond.”
“And maybe that ‘old devil’ is bringing up his men this very minute,” taunted Devenish. “My military cousin is full of tricks, I warn you. You had best scamper whilst yet you may.”
“Shut him up, Shotten!” whined Fritch, his cunning eyes darting about. “As well snuff him now as later.”
“Wot?” exclaimed Shotten, much shocked. “Rush me dear old friend off quick and easy? Oh, no, my cove. I want Mr. Devenish ter be give plenty o’ time ter think of it … afore he follers his poor dad orf the roof.”
Something very cold clamped around Devenish’s heart.
Tyndale, his fists clenching, said, “I see. You mean to keep the legend alive by a repeat performance. So it was Sanguinet who spread the news of the original tragedy. Had he planned this from the start?”
“’Course not,” jeered Shotten. “We didn’t know nothing about you, Major, sir. Monsieur didn’t even know as the owner o’ this ruin was related ter our old friend Mr. Devenish. But—well, strike a light, guv, you can’t ’ardly blame him. I mean—arter all, it was fair made to order, eh?” He sighed and shook his head dolefully. “Wot a shame as you went and bubbled it. We was so hoping ter surprise yer.”
“I doubt you will surprise anyone,” Tyndale said contemptuously. “If I am believed to have pushed my cousin off the battlements, how shall you explain my own demise?”
“Simple, sir. Mr. Devenish will be found with a pistol still clutched in his cold meat hand. He shot you, Canada, just afore he went over!” He laughed his triumph and added, “Tidy, ain’t it?”
Devenish swore under his breath and took a step forward. The pistols were raised at once, and Tyndale put a restraining hand on his arm. “You must all be deeply devoted to Monsieur Sanguinet,” he said dryly, “to be willing to commit two murders for him.”
Walter scowled. Fritch said with exaggerated innocence, “But we ain’t goin’ ter murder no one, Major, sir. You two loving cousins been a’fighting and a’quarrelling halfway ’cross England. And only fancy—just s’arternoon you was almost coming ter blows, right in front o’ Mr. Respectability Hennessey. Most shocked, he was. Most shocked!” He folded his hands piously, his eyes mocking, while his friends hooted their mirth.
Tyndale threw his cousin a wry look. “We properly set the scene for them.”
“You are, like the flash coves say, all consideration,” Fritch agreed.
Leering, Shotten added with relish, “And ternight when it’s nice and dark so no gawking yokels can’t see what’s goin’ on, we’ll ’ave the final act. And arter that, me fine coves, there ain’t none o’ these country blubberheads what’ll set foot within a mile o’ yer cozy castle, Not a one, gents. Not a blessed one.”
Devenish looked grimly from one face to the next. They were savagely inflexible. Even Walter, who seemed to have sufficient sensitivity to know nervousness, if not conscience, looked merciless.
Tyndale glanced to the windows. Already it was dusk. Within an hour, it would be full dark. “Monty,” he thought, “please do bring your reinforcements. And soon!”
* * *
At about the same time that Mr. Hennessey was delivering the supplies to Castle Tyndale, Josie, concealed by an overgrown hedge, was waiting for Montelongo and his friends to come out of the cottage. She had been quite dismayed by their meeting, but had followed them, believing it to have been a chance encounter, and that the Indian would soon resume his journey back to the castle. After a while, when he still did not come out, she dismounted, tied Molly-My-Lass’s halter to a branch and began to wander up and down. She really should not stay away from Steep Drummond much longer. Molly’s foal would be needing to be fed, and the family had probably noticed by now that both the mare
and herself were missing. Dismay seized her as the thought came that because she was a gypsy they might fancy she’d stolen the valuable animal. She glanced apprehensively at the cottage. It must be at least an hour since the men went inside. Goodness knows how long it would take to get to the castle, and then Mr. Dev would probably make her go back to Steep Drummond and everyone would be in a proper pucker. She’d likely be walloped and sent to bed without supper. Well, she would simply have to go and ask Mr. Monty the way. Sighing and reluctant, she crossed the weedy lawn and knocked on the front door.
A roar of laughter was the only response, but it was sufficient to send her scuttling around the corner of the house, for she had seen men when they were shot in the neck, and she knew from bitter experience that they were best given a wide berth. If they went on drinking much longer, she could not hope for any help from Mr. Monty. She waited undecidedly, and, full of nervous fears, wandered around to the back of the house. The laughter was louder here, and the voices more clear, but the conversation, such as it was, puzzled her.
“Lor’!” howled a man’s voice. “How I’d love to’ve seen them throw the Frog in the pool! Wonder he didn’t drown of hisself!”
“Frogs don’t— don’t drown, friend,” advised another voice. “They just gives a sorta hop … and out they come!”
This sent them into guffaws again, though why a frog being tossed into a pool should be amusing was more than the child could fathom.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said the first man. “I’m g-glad as bedamned I didn’t do it! The Frenchy will hold that grudge as long as Devenish lives!”
“Then he ain’t got long to hold it, has he, my cove?”
Another roar of laughter, but Josie didn’t think it funny at all. Whatever did they mean? Mr. Dev was a young man. He wasn’t going to die for years and years! Especially now there wasn’t any wars what killed all the nice soldiers. She worried at it while the rough talk went on and on, growing ever more raucous, until it dawned on her that through it all, not once had she heard Mr. Monty say anything. She was quite frightened by this time, her fears having nothing to do with whether or not she had been missed at Steep Drummond. A window of the room stood open, the curtains flirting in the rising wind. She thought, “I must not be a coward. I must have a look, for Mr. Dev’s sake.”
The Noblest Frailty Page 26