The Riddle of the Lost Lover

by Patricia Veryan

  He managed to imbue them with his sense of urgency, and very soon they were back on the lane. This time Kincraig had volunteered to drive the carriage, noting kindly that poor Manderville was worn out from his cold and lack of sleep. He had obtained excellent directions from his peasant friend, he said, and now knew the quickest route to the coast. “A most excellent fellow! He was even able to tell me where a likely fishing boat lies at anchor.”

  Riding Bruine beside the coach, Vespa said, “Was he, indeed. And did his excellence cost you enormous largesse, my lord?”

  Kincraig laughed. “What a cynic!”

  “What’s a ‘cynic’?” asked Pierre, who had claimed a seat on the box.

  “I am,” said Vespa dryly. “And we should put ’em along now, sir. It’s liable to rain again at any minute, and there’s little enough daylight left.”

  Kincraig cracked the whip, the horses leaned into their collars and the coach bounced and jolted over a surface poor to begin with, but made worse by potholes and mud.

  The afternoon was drawing in and Vespa’s hope to drive through the night had to be abandoned when the clouds darkened and an icy rain began to patter down once more. He shouted, “Hold up a minute, sir. Our sergeant must go inside, else we’ll have him down with a cold also!”

  The boy was wet and shivering and raised no objections. Vespa swung him from the box and handed him in to Manderville. Consuela looked wan and tired, but she had a smile ready, and set to work at once to dry Pierre’s curls.

  Vespa asked, “Are your pistols loaded, Paige?”

  Manderville nodded. “Trouble?”

  “Perhaps not, but I’ve twice thought someone was behind us.”

  “We’ll have to stop, even so, old fellow. Won’t be able to drive after dark. Not one of us knows these roads.”

  Another half hour and Vespa saw a ribbon of smoke rising above a rolling hill some distance ahead. If it came from the hearth of an inn, it might be their last chance of shelter for the night.

  He called, “My lord, are there are any inns or pensions along—”

  There came a high-pitched metallic twang. It was an evil sound, and one he knew. For an instant of stark terror his mind warned that a crossbow bolt could go right through the back of the carriage! Dreading to hear a scream, he heard instead a choking cry. His gaze flashed to the box. The reins had slipped from Lord Kincraig’s hands and he was slumping forward.

  Rage seared through Vespa. He leaned perilously from the saddle and caught the leathers. Drawing the team to a halt, he turned Bruine and rode to the window.

  “Help his lordship!” he shouted, then drove his spurs home.

  It was a hurt the little mare had not expected from this man. Ever faithful, she sprang into a gallop. Vespa crouched low over the saddlehorn, retribution in his heart, pistol in one hand, the wind whipping at his face and his narrowed eyes fixed on the distant rider who had left the lane and now plunged at reckless speed across the meadows.

  15

  There was no doubt in Vespa’s mind but that the fleeing assassin was one of Duncan Keith’s hired bullies and that he was now making a frantic dash to rejoin his comrades. The awareness and with it the knowledge that he himself might very well be riding straight into an ambush did not for an instant weigh with him. All that mattered in the white heat of his fury was that he bring down this cowardly murderer.

  His quarry left the lane and headed across country. Vespa followed, not slackening his speed. The assassin turned and glared back at him. It was a costly move for at that moment his mount stumbled. He was a good horseman and retained his seat and the animal recovered almost at once, but the distance between them had shortened. A moment later the useless crossbow was flung aside. Again, the assassin turned. Vespa saw the flash before he heard the shot, followed by the hum of a bullet whizzing past. They topped a rise and he saw the gleam of water below. The other man was looking back to see if his shot had gone home, and he turned too late to avoid the lake.

  With a howled curse, he wrenched at the reins. Frightened and confused, his horse tried to change direction only to flounder and go down with a tangle of legs, a shrill neigh of fright and a great splash.

  Vespa was on the bank then, pulling Bruine up and hurling himself after his adversary who had been thrown a short distance from the shore.

  The water was like ice. It was hip deep when he reached the assassin, but the man seemed dazed and was evidently finding it difficult to stand.

  “Murderous cowardly swine!” Vespa pushed his head under the water.

  Strengthened by terror the assassin fought and struggled madly. He succeeded in breaking free and his head shot from the surface. Vespa grabbed his hair and forced him down again, avoiding the arms that flailed in frenzied attempts to beat him away. The desperate struggles weakened, and then ceased. Vespa let his head come up and he sagged, choking for breath and gasping out faint pleas not to be drowned. The temptation to deal him just such a fate was strong, but Vespa wanted information. Dragging the half-conscious rogue by the hair, he waded to shore. His prisoner tried feebly to crawl out, but he was too weakened. Vespa hauled him onto the grass and kicked him onto his back.

  The face was pale and half covered by strands of wet hair. But even in the fading light there was no mistaking him.

  “You accursed fool,” panted Vespa. “You’ve just murdered your own father!”

  * * *

  “But—m’sieu,” wailed the proprietor, wringing his bony hands and trotting along the narrow passage beside Vespa, “you both are very wet! And it is that I have floors, you comprehend! And rugs, m’sieu! They will be ruined, m’sieu!”

  “Where are my friends?” Vespa had tied Keith’s hands and now used the crossbow he’d retrieved to prod him towards the stairs of this small hedge-tavern.

  “I cannot,” moaned Keith, swaying drunkenly. “I shall … fall down.”

  “Then I’ll have the pleasure of kicking you until you get up,” said Vespa grittily. “I saw our carriage in your yard, host,” he added. “Don’t make me drag this carrion up your stairs to no purpose!” He flourished the crossbow and the host recoiled eyeing the weapon in horror.

  “No, m’sieu! I mean—yes, m’sieu! The poor gentleman is above-stairs and my girl but a minute ago finished washing the blood from the floor, and now, m’sieu—”

  “You will be well paid.”

  At these magical words the host brightened. “It will be the second door to your right hand, m’sieu. Madame Lannion, my wife, is with the young lady.”

  Vespa nodded and urged Duncan Keith on. “Move, dog’s meat!”

  The stairs were steep and winding. At the top the second door in a short passage was partly open and Vespa shoved Keith inside.

  Manderville and a tall middle-aged woman, Madame Lannion no doubt, were bending over the bed. Kincraig lay on his side with his eyes closed, the crossbow shaft still transfixing his right side just below the armpit. Consuela, pale but composed, was taking his lordship’s shirt as the woman cut it away. She looked up when Vespa entered, and said unsteadily, “Thank God you’ve come!”

  “Is he still alive?” asked Vespa.

  She nodded, staring at Keith.

  Vespa experienced an overpowering sense of relief, but there was a lot of blood and, remembering his lordship’s medicine bottle, he knew death lurked nearby.

  Manderville turned his head. “Caught the bastard, did you?” he said, forgetting the presence of ladies. “I wonder you troubled to fetch him back, if—” He broke off, staring at Keith. “Good Lord! It wasn’t him?”

  “My murderous half-brother.” Vespa shoved Keith hard and the man staggered to the wall and slid down it to sit sprawling on the floor.

  Consuela gasped, “Oh! How wicked!”

  “Yes. A new low point in depravity, would you say?” Advancing to the bed, Vespa asked low-voiced, “How bad is it?”

  “The poor gentleman is not so bad as wouldn’t be better without all the evil words a
nd violence,” said Madame Lannion severely. Glancing at Vespa, she saw the crossbow and uttered a muffled shriek. “Ugh! Take that wicked machine from my house!”

  Pierre, who had been perched in the window-seat, jumped up and volunteered to take the crossbow away.

  Vespa handed him the weapon and looked up to find Kincraig’s eyes on him. “I’m very sorry, my lord,” he said gently, bending over the bed. “I knew we were followed. I just didn’t think it was this particular group of ruffians.”

  Manderville sneezed and went into a bout of coughing, and Madame Lannion eyed him uneasily, then handed another strip of cloth to Consuela and stood straight. A handsome woman with a proud face and a splendid bosom, she met Vespa’s anxious gaze levelly. “This I do not at all like,” she said. “I help the Gentlemen where I can, but—” she shrugged, “This young man is ill, and—”

  “Who—me?” Manderville wheezed indignantly, “Sound as sixpence!”

  “—and I will not be responsible for the death of the Carpet Collector,” Madame swept on. “You must tend him yourselves.”

  She had said ‘the Gentlemen’—the widely-used term for free-traders. Vespa took a chance. “I was counting on you, ma’am. Paul said if I came this way I must stop and say good day.”

  She checked. “Paul? You know Paul Crozon?”

  “I but left him two days since. He was with Jules and Léon and the rest, and his nephew sends you his love.”

  “Ho!” she said with a flash of her dark eyes. “That one! A rascal is what, and will grow up to be as foolish as his Papa. Ah, but this changes matters, Monsieur…?”

  “Jacques, Madame.”

  She smiled. “No last names, eh? It is as well. I will do what I may. With luck our farrier is in the tap. He is a finer doctor than most who have the title, and he will know what is to be done. Try to keep your poor friend quiet.” A nod, a swirl of voluminous skirts, and the door closed behind her.

  Kincraig whispered, “Crossbow … Then—then it was—” His gaze fell on the sullen features of the man on the floor, and he groaned, “Duncan—did you … hate me so much?”

  Vespa said quickly, “He didn’t mean to hit you, sir. It was me he aimed at. Missed again, didn’t you, Keith!”

  “Oh, no,” sneered Keith.

  Kincraig’s wound was bleeding sluggishly. Bathing it as best she might, Consuela exclaimed in horror, “You really meant to kill your father?”

  Kincraig tried painfully to lift himself, but Vespa eased him back down. “You must lie still, sir. We’ll have help for you in only a minute or two.”

  Keith laughed. “No, you won’t, fool! You can’t push the bolt through, nor pull it back. He’s as good as dead.”

  “Shut your mouth,” snarled Vespa, turning on him in a fury.

  “No,” gasped Kincraig. “I want to know … Why, Duncan? I’d have left you a rich man, even … even allowing for Jack’s share of the inheritance.”

  “Well, now I’ll be a very rich man, won’t I? You won’t live to acknowledge him as your bastard, or to change your will, and, more importantly, you won’t have time to enjoy a son who’d suit your antiquated notions better than I do. A gallant soldier, a fine athlete, a man of noble principles. What pitiful stuff! And only look at what’s left. The gallant soldier has been discarded. The fine athlete is now a cripple. And his ridiculous principles will keep him from enjoying the Vespa fortune and estates—if there are any left.”

  Manderville started forward, fists clenched. “Why, you filthy wart! I’ll—”

  “No!” Pale with fury, Vespa held his friend back. “We’d as well hear it all.”

  Keith grinned, and added, “On the other hand, there is your legal son, Papa, who is hale and whole and has done quite well in the Trade. Didn’t know that, did you? I’ve been a smuggler for years. Brandy, scent, guns—right under the noses of the stupid Excise men.”

  Manderville said stuffily, “What you mead is that in addition to your other revolti’g qualities, you’re a traitor!”

  “Not to myself,” said Keith, laughing.

  Vespa saw the glint of tears in Lord Kincraig’s eyes. He said, “My apologies, Consuela,” and crossed to where Keith sprawled. His half-brother’s bravado vanished, and he cringed against the wall, babbling, “You can’t hit me! My hands are tied! You must play fair!”

  Bending over him, Vespa said softly, “One more word out of you, disgusting whelp that you are, and when we get that bolt out of my father, I’ll use it on your own slimy hide! And you had better pray he lives, for if he dies—be assured that I’ll do it anyway!”

  Keith saw death in his eyes and recoiled, whining that he was freezing cold and sure to become a victim of pneumonia.

  Madame Lannion hurried back into the room carrying a tray of medical implements and followed by a stoop-shouldered nondescript-looking man wearing a knitted cap and clutching a bottle of brandy. “This is our good Monsieur Aunay,” she said. “He will help the poor gentleman.”

  Frowning, Vespa reached for the bottle. “I think you won’t need this, monsieur.”

  “No,” said the farrier in a deep boom of a voice. “But—he will!” He poured a generous portion and said, “Lift him. A little. No, not you, monsieur! You’re soaking wet!”

  Vespa drew back and Manderville and Madame Lannion raised Kincraig to the point that he could sip the brandy. Clearly, he was in much pain, but he didn’t utter a sound while the farrier inspected the wound.

  Leading Vespa aside, Aunay said, “We have two chances, monsieur.”

  “You m-must cut it out,” said Vespa, through chattering teeth.

  “That is our second choice. The first is a seldom-used tool of surgery.” The farrier nodded to Madame Lannion, and she brought him a pair of heavy pruning shears. “Do not look so appalled, monsieur,” said the farrier with a smile. “Fortunately for us, the bolt has the cruel steel barbs, but a wooden stem. If it were a steel bolt, I would have no alternative but to cut it out.”

  Vespa eyed the shears uneasily. “If it’s wood, couldn’t you just saw through the beastly thing?”

  “I could try, but I had rather not. It would be more trying for my patient. With luck, one or two hard snaps with these, and we can pull out the bolt. One thing in our favour is that it is so far to the side. I think it has not touched the lung, but the gentleman—your father, sir?”

  “Yes. He is not young, is that what you’re th-thinking?”

  “He is, I can see, a brave man. But it will be a shock. You accept that I am not a bona fide surgeon, monsieur?”

  “You come highly recommended. I am sure you will do your best.”

  “As you wish.” Aunay looked pleased. “Then—we proceed. The young lady she must leave while we remove your papa’s garments, and I wish you will swiftly find dry clothing, or I will have two patients on my hands!”

  “Th-three,” moaned Keith.

  Vespa ignored him and turned back to the bed. Looking into the haggard face of the injured man, he knew suddenly that whatever his crimes, the bond between them was deep and binding. He said, “No tricks please, father. I want you to dance at my wedding.”

  Kincraig said nothing, but his eyes brightened and the white lips twitched into a smile.

  * * *

  It was still dark when Consuela ran down the stairs. A fire was burning on the hearth of the tiny coffee room and breakfast had been set out on a table. Vespa stood with one hand on the mantel, gazing down at the flames, and she ran to him, saying anxiously, “What is it? When I left you last night he seemed peacefully asleep at last.”

  He turned with a smile and took both her hands. “And how incredibly brave and kind you were, to stay with us as you did. Our clever amateur apothecary had given him some laudanum, so he slept through much of the night.”

  “Which is probably more than you did.” She touched his tired face worriedly. “Have you seen Monsieur Aunay this morning?”

  “Yes. He looked in just now and told me my father goes alo
ng nicely. I wish to heaven we could leave him here, but we must be on our way at first light.” He led her to the table and pulled out a chair.

  She sat down and said, “You never mean to take him with us? Jack, you cannot! He endured that dreadful ordeal very bravely, but the poor man is in no condition to travel.”

  Vespa had already snatched a hurried meal, but couldn’t resist the chance to share these few minutes. He poured her coffee and moved the butter and jam and the bowl of hot rolls closer, then sat beside her. “He will be in worse condition if we don’t get away from here quickly.” With a grim look he went on, “My delightful half-brother won free in the night!”

  “Oh, never say so! I thought you had him securely tied in the cellar?”

  “I did. Like a fool! I should have kept him under my eye. He managed to persuade a gullible kitchen maid to loosen the ropes, and was free in jig time. I came down on the run when I heard her screeching. Keith had turned out all the the horses. I tried to stop him but he went off at the gallop on a fine hack.”

  Dismayed, she said, “And will bring back his nasty friends, I suppose.”

  “No. When I hauled him out of that lake yesterday afternoon he was in a rage because his hirelings have deserted him. Apparently, there are dragoons out searching for us, and his men were English and decided the risk was too great.”

  Spreading jam on a roll she asked, “Then—why must we leave so quickly? You and Paige could deal with Keith, surely?”

  “Most assuredly we could. But the unnatural varmint promised to find the dragoons and send them after us. He’s sure to implicate his lordship. It would present an ideal way to be rid of him.”

  “Oh, what a horrid creature he is! But surely they’ll not believe what he says? Lord Kincraig has wandered about the continent for years and everyone knows—forgive me, Jack—that he’s more a joke than a threat.”

  “They’d change their minds in a hurry if Keith should fabricate some tale about my father being a British spy.” He thought, ‘or a ruthless bank robber!’ “And I’ve your precious self to consider.” He ran a finger down her cheek lovingly. “I dare not risk it, Consuela. We must make a run for the coast. Paige is poling up the horses. Poor fellow, he really has a brute of a cold. Madame has been changing my father’s bandages. I’m going up now to help him get dressed. Will you see about young Pierre?”