“Yes.” Kincraig bowed his head into his hands. “Poor fellow! Oh, the poor fellow!”
Manderville ran up. “Oh—Egad! What happened?”
Vespa bent over the dead man. “Shot. But he was beaten first: savagely. It’s murder, Paige.”
They had both seen death in many terrible forms on the battlefield but like Vespa, Manderville had a reverence for life. “Poor devil!” he exclaimed, paling. “This was your—er, friend, my lord?”
Kincraig nodded and said brokenly, “My very good friend. Known Ivan … all my life. God! I didn’t bargain for … for anything like this.”
Disgusted, Vespa thought, ‘Well, you should have!’
Manderville said, “He’s been dead for some hours, I’d guess. We’d best have a look round. The killers may have waited for us.”
Kincraig shook his head. “They’d have attacked when I drove in. No, I fancy this brave gentleman sent them off on a false trail, bless him.”
“If he came in a waggon, whoever did this has made off with it.” Vespa added ironically, “And presumably, his fragment of the Khusraw Carpet. There are cart tracks leading away to the south.”
“What do you mean to do, sir?” asked Manderville.
Kincraig looked very shaken. “I—don’t know yet. I must—”
“Have done,” interrupted Vespa harshly. “This fiasco has gone on long enough! You’ve led me on a merry chase, my lord, but I am not so blind as you appear to think, and I’ll brook no more of your devious little games.”
Kincraig sighed heavily, but did not respond.
Manderville said a bewildered, “What fiasco?”
“The one I have foolishly drawn you into,” said Vespa, “for which I apologize. But it is over now and I’ll not subject Consuela to one more unnecessary hour of peril. We will turn west at once, and make a run for the nearest port.”
“What d’you mean—west? If we’re to restore Pierre to his home, we’ll have to strike north!”
Vespa was driven by two emotions: the oppression of this gloomy place, and a strong premonition that time was running out. He said tersely, “Too far. We’ll find a boat and a captain willing to sail around to the Golfe de St.-Malo. I want Consuela off French soil by tomorrow!”
“We’ll still have about a thirty-five mile journey overland,” said Kincraig glumly. “Two or three days, at the least.”
“If we push the horses hard we can get there in half that time,” rasped Vespa.
Staring at him, Manderville said, “I don’t pretend to guess what bee you’ve taken into your bonnet, mon Capitaine, but you can’t push horses hard when they’re hauling a load like his lordship’s waggon. They’ll have to be rested and—”
“Whoever murdered this poor fellow is after what Lord Kincraig is carrying,” snapped Vespa. “They’ll be searching for the waggon so it must be abandoned. You’ll not object, my lord.” His smile was humorless. “Since your late friend here evidently failed to bring you his piece of the legendary carpet.”
Lord Kincraig met his contemptuous gaze wistfully. “You’re perfectly right, my dear boy. The waggon must be abandoned.”
“What?” gasped Manderville.
Vespa had been sure his father would protest, and waited for the next stratagem.
“But it must be carefully hidden,” appended Kincraig.
Vespa muttered, “I wonder why that doesn’t surprise me. First, we’d best find some shovels.”
While Manderville and his lordship went in search of these necessary items, Vespa hurried to the carriage and warned Consuela. She was horrified by the new tragedy, and hurried to the house to find Pierre and keep him away from the grim scene.
They buried the dead man under a small apple tree. The soil was soft from the rains and very soon their task was accomplished. Heads were bowed while Kincraig offered a reverent prayer for his friend, then Vespa and Manderville left him alone by the grave to say his last farewells.
Walking over to the waggon, Manderville said low-voiced, “What a ghastly thing. What kind of ghoul would kill a fellow like that?”
“The kind of ghoul in search of information—at any price.”
“I suppose so. Poor Kincraig blames himself, that’s clear to see. You were beastly short with him, Jack. He’s hit hard, and you might at least have tried—”
“I’m trying now,” said Vespa. “Trying to guess how he’ll manage to hide his damned great waggon.”
Consuela hurried to them. She was pale and shaken, and to turn her mind from its horror of the murder, Vespa told her of their latest problem. She gazed at the waggon and said hesitantly, “It will be very difficult, I think, because it is so big.” Lord Kincraig came up, and she asked, “Perhaps there is a cave or—or gully nearby where we could conceal it, sir?”
“I wish I knew of one, m’dear. But as you suggest, there must be a hundred likely hiding places; I’m sure we’ll come upon one.”
“What are we going to hide?” asked Pierre, approaching with a hop and a skip.
Consuela said, “We can’t take the waggon any further, dear. Bad men are trying to steal Lord Kincraig’s carpets.”
“Oh.” The boy raced off and ran twice around the waggon, then came leaping back to announce that he knew just where to hide it.
Manderville ruffled his curls. “Tuck it in your coat pocket, eh, scamp?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Pierre, jerking his head away. “It’s the best hiding place in the world! If I tell you, will you buy me some sugar cakes?”
“What you are, my lad, is a rogue! Sugar cakes, indeed!”
“We must leave at once, your lordship,” urged Vespa. “If this was the work of Monteil’s bullies, they may very well come back. You’d best get your personal effects together.”
Kincraig nodded and went over to the waggon.
Pierre tugged at Vespa’s coat. The boy had taken to regarding him with hero-worship in his eyes, and now said anxiously, “I’ll show you, mon Capitaine. Please do come; it will only take a minute. One minute, only!”
Vespa could not resist that pleading look, and exchanged his irritated frown for a smile. “If it’s a good hiding place you shall have a dozen sugar cakes,” he promised.
“Wheee!” squealed Pierre, and taking his hand led him to the house, then stopped.
“Around the back, do you mean?” asked Vespa. “I’m afraid it would soon be found, Pierre.”
“No it wouldn’t, Capitaine, because this farm was accursed, and people do not come here. But I don’t mean that we should hide it behind the house. I mean in the house!”
Vespa hadn’t really expected anything much, but this piece of folly caused his brows to lift, and he said, “Oh, you do! Have some sense, lad. How do you suppose we could get that monster inside? Through the front door?”
Pierre giggled and tugged him at the run around the side. There had once been a sort of wooden lean-to at the back that had evidently served as a wash-house, but a big branch had fallen and caused part of the outer wall to cave in. Vespa frowned at the ruins thoughtfully.
Consuela had followed, and she slipped her hand into his. “I’m sorry, Jack. Pierre means well, but this is silly; houses are not built to accommodate waggons.”
“Exactly so.” He lifted her hand and kissed it absently. “Which fact might work strongly in our favour. I judged it mad at first. But do you know … it just might serve. I’ll go in and have a look.”
He climbed over the branch and, brushing away webs, made his way inside. Pierre went after him eagerly, but Consuela waited, saying she would forego the delights of mould and mice and spiders.
They emerged in a minute or two, and a look at Vespa’s face caused her own to brighten. “It will serve?”
“I think it may! It’s a dirt floor, so there’s no fear of boards collapsing from the weight of the waggon.” He patted the exuberant Pierre on the back. “Jolly good work, young fellow! If you were under my command, you’d get a promotion out of this!”
“I am a sergeant!” the boy howled. “Monsieur Manderville! Your lordship! Your problem it is solved by Sergeant Pierre!”
Kincraig and Manderville were incredulous at first, but Vespa pointed out that if they moved the branch and cleared away the buckled rear wall they could back the waggon inside, then replace wall and branch so that the waggon was concealed from view. “If we take care to cover any betraying wheel ruts,” he said, “who would ever think to look inside a house for such a vehicle?”
Manderville pursed his lips. “To abandon his lordship’s beautiful carpets is too chancy by half, in my opinion.”
“It is,” agreed Kincraig. “And if I could but think of a better solution, I would take it. The pity is—I cannot. I have lost my—my dear friend, and the most important thing now is to get Miss Consuela and Sergeant Pierre to safety.”
With strict instructions to keep out of sight, Pierre once again became their lookout, and went skipping off full of his own importance. Consuela reconnoitred the front of the house to be sure that, once inside, the waggon would not be visible from either of the small windows, and the three men set to work. The fallen branch was heavy, but between them they were able to move it aside. They took down the rotted wall in sections, and then dragged an old tub and a rusted mangle into what had been the kitchen/parlour. Much accumulated rubble had to be cleared from the lean-to before the waggon could be backed through the gap in the wall. It would be a tricky manoeuvre for there were scant inches between the roof and the top of the waggon. Kincraig knew his horses and spoke reassuringly to each one, then stood beside the leaders, assessing the gap they must negotiate.
Vespa said, “We’re fortunate that the ceiling is so high. Even so, once inside it will be a tight fit. The tail will be right against the far wall. If there’s anything more you need to take with you, now would be the time to get it, sir.” He waited cynically for his father to reclaim at least one sack of the stolen gold, but Kincraig said he had already removed his “necessaries” and that Manderville had been so kind as to store them in the boot of the chevalier’s coach.
Consuela clung to Vespa’s hand nervously. “It’s going to be terribly difficult to back it into such a narrow space. If only he could just drive it in.”
“Even if he could, the inside door is on the wrong wall, and we wouldn’t be able to get the horses out. But they’re fine animals, and if you will be so good as to guide him from this side, and Paige from the other, I think his lordship will manage.”
She was only too glad to be given a chance to help. Vespa watched as the challenging process began, then slipped away. He went quickly to the carriage. Kincraig’s belongings had been packed into two boxes. He inspected each item, even feeling in the pockets of the garments. There was not a single louis. So all the gold was to be left in the waggon. To be retrieved, of course, either by his lordship or an accomplice; probably, the man riding the black horse.
There arose a deafening screeching sound as he closed the boot, and he limped rapidly around the side of the house. The waggon was backed halfway into the lean-to, the horses rolling their eyes in alarm and Kincraig trying to calm them. Vespa was struck by the incongruity of the scene—the giant waggon looking for all the world as though it was being extracted from the house.
Manderville was on the top, struggling to break away a portion of the roof of the lean-to that had sagged down, blocking any further progress. “Where did you get to?” he demanded irritably. “The waggon is fairly stuck! Can’t budge it back or forward, confound it all!”
Vespa retrieved two of the shovels and handed them up, then climbed to join him. The sagging portion of the roof had scraped across the top of the waggon, leaving deep gouges before it dug in, halting any further progress. He said, “If we use the shovels as levers, perhaps we can raise the roof enough for the waggon to move.” He called down to Lord Kincraig to be ready to back the team again, then he and Manderville attempted to lever the roof up. It was hard going and he wondered cynically what would happen if the pressure of the shovels broke through the top of the waggon. He was denied that scene as the obstructing section of the roof suddenly buckled and broke off. He and Manderville cleared away the debris and climbed down and Kincraig once more inched his team backwards. Within minutes the waggon was inside and halted by the far wall.
The cart-horses were lathered from their efforts and Manderville walked them away to allow them to cool down.
Consuela, his lordship and Vespa stood gazing at the remains of the lean-to.
Kincraig said, “It’s very tight, but once we replace the wall and that big branch, I do believe it will show not a sign.”
“Except for the pole, of course,” said Vespa. “It will have to come off, and should slide underneath—or is that not possible, sir?”
“The work of a few moments, merely. When I designed my waggon, I tried to anticipate any predicament, you see.”
“You did indeed.” Vespa met Kincraig’s gentle smile but did not return it and wondered how many ‘predicaments’ his larcenous sire had surmounted these past few years.
Consuela exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness! What about the horses?”
At last that dilemma had been mentioned. Vespa thought with bleak irony, ‘Well? Speak up, my lord!’
Kincraig said, “Oh, they’ll fend for themselves well enough. We’ll simply turn them loose.”
“If we do that, sir,” argued Vespa, “anyone coming upon them will surely realize there’s a cart or a waggon somewhere about.”
“Or steal them,” said Consuela. “They’re beautiful animals.”
Kincraig made light of such objections. He would leave instructions with a peasant who dwelt nearby. The old man would be glad enough to earn a few pence in exchange for making sure that the cart-horses were taken care of and kept from the hands of thieves.
Vespa thought, ‘And kept available for your friends!’
The roof and walls were propped and nailed more or less together again, the branch hauled back in place and another branch added to brace it and conceal a hole in the wall. Manderville and his lordship led the cart-horses off to the peasant’s hut, and Consuela worked beside Vespa to obliterate the ruts left by the heavy wheels.
“When people conceal things, my Captain,” she said, wielding a large rake industriously, “other people are apt to imagine much worse things.”
It was true. And it would be kinder to tell her now than to let her go on dreaming her dreams of their happy future. He slanted a quick glance at her face; none too clean after this hectic day, the wet dark curls straggling about her flushed cheeks, and her blue eyes watching him with such trust and devotion. No complaints that she was tired and cold and her clothes wet from the rain; no moans about missing her Grandmama, or the need for her maid and a comfortable bed and a chance to bathe and change clothes. She was the bravest and loveliest creature he had ever known, and he loved her so much it was an ache inside him.
His jaw set, and he went on raking with swift angry strokes. How could he tell her their last hope was gone? How could he bring her such grief—especially now when her beloved Nonna was not here to comfort her? Besides, he did not really know that his suspicions were justified. Suppose it developed that his lordship was an innocent dupe? After all, he’d been ready enough to leave the treasure waggon—perhaps he wasn’t aware of what the roof contained. But that was grasping at straws, of course, and a foolish attempt to delude himself. There were too many pieces that fit the puzzle, too many coincidences for there to be any—
Consuela leaned on her rake and pushed back a curl that had tumbled down her forehead. “What has he done, Jack?”
Startled, his eyes flashed to her face again.
“My poor dear,” she said tenderly. “Don’t you know yet that you cannot hide your sorrows from me? Oh, I admit you do very well at concealing your feelings from others. But when you are distressed, I can feel it. And you have been deeply distressed ever since Lord Kincraig’s waggon alm
ost fell over. Something happened then, I know it. Won’t you tell me? Perhaps I can help.”
A lump came into his throat and his eyes blurred. He said brokenly, “My precious little Signorina … I don’t deserve—”
“Capitaine! Capitaine!” Pierre galloped down the slope at reckless speed, knees flying. “Bad … people! A great black coach with … with the coachman and a footman in black livery. The coachman was that seasick pirate from … the ship!”
“Ti Chiu!” whispered Vespa. “Then Monteil’s found us! Outriders?”
“Oui, mon Capitaine! There are two other men besides.”
“The same pair we chased off yesterday?”
The boy’s eyes became very round. “But—yes, sir! With the grey horses. How did you know?”
“They’re coming here?”
“No. They went on past, but the great giant coachman looked this way. Oh, but my heart it stand still! And the black and white man he put his head out of the window and give a shout, and the great giant slowed the coach. But then he saw it, and I saw his face, and I thought, ‘No, Sergeant Pierre! He is very afraid. He will not come here!’ And I was right! He drove on. Fast. Just as I knew!”
“What did he see?” asked Consuela curiously.
The boy led the way from the yard and pointed up the slope towards the lane. “There! That is what frightened the giant! I did not see it when first we came, but it is why this farm died and why nobody comes here!”
Vespa said, “It’s another of the menhirs.”
“Where?” asked Consuela, “I do not see it.”
“There, by the sycamore trees. And it’s one of the larger specimens.”
At first, she could only discern the trees, but then she realized that the shadows in the centre were not shadows, but instead one of the great standing stones left by the ancient people. “How fascinating they are,” she said.
“And how lucky we are that Imre Monteil’s coachman is superstitious,” said Vespa. “But he’s much too close. We daren’t give him another chance.”
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 26