The Riddle of the Lost Lover

by Patricia Veryan

  She nodded, but said worriedly that it might be as well to leave the child here so that he could be restored to his family. “The Lannions seem to be good people.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they are. But the boy is my responsibility, you know.”

  “Indeed he is not! I was the one who gave him the chance to run away.”

  “And it is thanks to me that he was not sent back at once. Besides, if we leave him, like as not he’ll run away again and try to find us, and get thoroughly lost in the process. No. I must deliver him to Gaston myself.”

  Consuela had to admit the logic of what he said, but much to her exasperation, she was unable to fulfill the task he had set her. The truckle bed in the room Pierre had shared with Manderville was empty and the boy was nowhere to be found. She gathered her few belongings together and carried them down to the stables. The carriage was ready, the horses harnessed and stamping impatiently. A yawning ostler said that he had seen young Master Pierre carrying the crossbow “like a soldier,” but didn’t know where he was now. Consuela asked him to put her bag in the boot, and wrapping her cloak tightly around her, went outside.

  Dawn was brightening the eastern skies, the air was wintry but, at least at the moment, it was not raining. She went around to the side of the tavern and called, but there was no sign of Pierre. Vexed, she muttered, “Wretched child. Where have you got to now?” Jack was so anxious to get an early start, and he certainly would not leave without the boy. She walked up the lane a short way, calling, and peering through a swirling ground mist for a glimpse of a small figure carrying a crossbow.

  She heard Pierre before she saw him. His answering calls were broken by sobs and she began to run, fearing he had fallen and hurt himself. She traced the cries to a cluster of yew trees some distance across the field. No sooner did she enter their shade than Pierre sped to throw himself into her arms. He was still clutching the heavy crossbow, but raised no objections when she removed it. The defiant warrior had vanished, and he was just a very frightened little boy who clung to her whimpering a plea to go home to Papa.

  “But of course you shall, my dear,” she said, holding him tight. “Captain Jacques is even now preparing to leave. Why ever did you not come when I called you?”

  “Because … because of—them.” He half whispered the words, his big eyes peering around in terror.

  The hedge tavern was out of sight. Consuela thought of the wicked Duncan Keith and his scoundrels, and of Imre Monteil and his terrible coachman, and tried not to look frightened. Lowering her voice she asked, “Who, dear? I cannot see anyone.”

  “There!” He pointed impatiently. “And there, and—there! Oh, but they are all around! I didn’t see them when I came in here to practice with the crossbow. But it began to get lighter and there they were. Watching me!”

  Consuela saw also. An impressive circle of the megaliths with the trees as if clustered to conceal them. With a sigh of relief, she said, “But they are just some menhirs, Pierre. Nothing more than great slabs of stone. They cannot harm you. Only think how clever the ancient people were, to manage to bring them here and make them stand upright.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “This, it is not possible! People today cannot move them. I know, for my Papa and some of his friends tried once. They were big and strong, but it was no use. And if modern men who are clever can’t do it, how could cavemen who were stupids? It was magic, Miss Consuela! And they are here, weaving evil spells all—all round us!”

  In his abject fear his voice had risen shrilly. Consuela said with decision, “Nonsense! That is just silly superstition. Now come and—”

  “No,” he wailed, tightening his hold about her. “Only look at the bad things that have happened. Yesterday the Carpet Collector went to meet his friend, and found him killed stone dead near that great big menhir. And then the old gentleman was shot and is going to die—”

  “But—no, Pierre! Lord Kincraig is much better this morning. Only come and you will—”

  “No! I cannot! He is brave, the old Carpet Man. But he will die, and I like him and it was only because we came near these menhirs it all happened. Do you see how many there are? Oh, I tell you, they are demons, and—”

  “That’s enough!” The note of hysteria in his voice caused her to say sternly, “Whatever would your papa and Captain Jacques think if they saw you blubbering like a baby over a silly old piece of rock? Pick up your crossbow like a brave boy, and come with me at once.” She had to pry his arms away and he struggled and looked up at her piteously, his face tear-streaked and his eyes reddened. Hardening her heart, she said, “Hurry, now. We are going to find a ship to take us back to the village near your papa’s château. If you don’t want to come I shall have to go without you.”

  He gulped a sob, but took up the crossbow and walked as close to her as was possible, trembling with fear at every step.

  Consuela rested a hand on his shoulder, and as they stepped out of the circle of yews, she said comfortingly, “there now. That wasn’t so bad, was it? And we are quite safe in spite of those silly menhirs.”

  But glancing up she saw that she had spoken too soon.

  * * *

  Manderville was dismounting as Vespa rode at the gallop into the yard, and the two men exchanged shouts of “Any luck?” The host ran from the tavern and looked from one troubled face to the other. “The luck there is not,” he mourned. “But you have been searching for three hours, messieurs—how can they have gone so far?”

  “How, indeed.” Vespa handed Bruine’s reins to the ostler. “There has been no letter for me, Monsieur Lannion? No message?”

  The host shook his head.

  Manderville looked at Vespa sharply, but said nothing, and sneezed his way up the steps.

  The host trotted along beside them. “My spouse she says we should perhaps restore your papa to his bed, Monsieur Jacques. Elegant as it is, he does not rest so comfortably on the sofa.”

  The window shades were still drawn in the small parlour, and the room was dim. There were no customers at this hour and a maid hovered about dusting half-heartedly.

  Fully dressed, propped by several pillows and with a blanket thrown over him, Kincraig lay on the sofa that only a determined optimist could describe as ‘elegant.’ Vespa scanned the drawn white face and, as if the injured man sensed his presence, the hazel eyes opened. The glow of affection dawned at once. Vespa knew too well the after-effects of wounds, and he took up the glass of water on the occasional table and offered it. Kincraig drank gratefully. Vespa asked, “How can we make you more comfortable, sir?”

  “By leaving.” The voice was weak but clear. “You should—should have gone at sun-up.”

  “If you mean, without you, that is not to be thought of. I’ll confess I’ve a heart of stone, sir. I’d have packed you in the coach and driven out long ago. Unfortunately, the boy and Miss Jones have wandered off somewhere. The lady has a habit of—of disappearing.”

  His lordship’s head jerked up, he flinched painfully and lay back again. “You never think … Duncan?” he gasped.

  “Your son spoke of dragoons, sir,” said Manderville, carrying in two mugs of coffee. “But we’ve seen no sign of military.”

  Vespa accepted one of the mugs with a nod of thanks. “They were on foot,” he said, his eyes bleak. “We searched every area they might conceivably have reached. Pierre’s an enterprising rascal. He doesn’t want to go home and he might well have led Consuela a merry chase, but—”

  He broke off as the ostler ran in, flushed and excited and waving a note. “This it is left for Monsieur Jacques!”

  Vespa was across the room in two long strides, and tearing the letter open.

  Manderville asked, “Who delivered it? Did you see?”

  The ostler shook his head. “I walk the little mare to cool her down and when I come back, the letter it is stuck on a nail on the stall. I see nobody.”

  As if turned to stone, Vespa was staring at the paper he held.


  Manderville asked hoarsely, “Well? What does it say?”

  Vespa neither moved nor spoke.

  Manderville took the paper from his hand. The writing was neat and clear:

  This time your lady visits me by invitation. You have one hour to exchange her for the location of the waggon. If you prefer to keep the waggon, I will give her to the dragoons who are everywhere now, and collect the reward for foreign spies.

  Do you think she will be shot—when they finish with her?

  Or guillotined?

  How sad it would be for such a pretty head to fall into the basket.

  My coach will wait by the shrine on the west side of the lake.

  I. M.

  Manderville swore and handed the note to Lord Kincraig.

  Deathly pale, his mouth set in a tight line, Vespa walked to the door.

  Manderville sprang to seize his arm. “What are you going to do?”

  Tearing free, Vespa said harshly, “D’you think for one instant that I’d trade Consuela’s dear life for that damned waggon?”

  “You mean to tell him where it is?”

  “Be assured of it!” He started for the door again.

  “No!” Coughing, Manderville sprang to block his way and said breathlessly, “You cannot!”

  “Like hell I can’t! Stand aside!”

  “You don’t understand! The waggon holds more than carpets! The roof—”

  “Is full of stolen gold. Oh, yes, I knew. I didn’t think you did. Perhaps that explains your ‘devotion’ to my search, eh?” Vespa said bitterly, “I should have guessed. But if you think I’ll exchange the life of my precious lady for a few hundred gold louis—” he shoved Manderville aside and reached for the door handle.

  His lordship, dragging himself to one elbow, panted, “Jack! Wait … you don’t—”

  “Sorry, sir. But you’ll have to get along without your ill-gotten gains!”

  Manderville seized his shoulder, wrenched him around and struck hard and true.

  Vespa measured his length on the floor.

  Dazed and astonished, he gasped, “Why, you … damned blackguard!” and started up, only to pause as Manderville’s small pistol was levelled at him. Even now, he’d not expected this. “You … wouldn’t,” he said.

  “I will. If you leave me no choice.”

  Staring into his friend’s unwontedly stern face, and noting the blurred look to the eyes and the high flush, Vespa muttered, “You … really are ill!”

  “No. But I daren’t take the chance you might level me with that confounded right of yours.”

  “You’d shoot me—for a few filched bags of gold?”

  Lord Kincraig said faintly, “We’ll have to … tell him, Paige.”

  “You’re in it together,” said Vespa, sitting up and wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “My God! Well, nothing you could tell me would make a difference. You’ll have to pull that trigger, Paige, because I’m going after my lady.”

  “The gold wasn’t … filched, Jack,” said Kincraig. “I—I rather suspected you thought it was.”

  Manderville said, “And it’s not a few bags.”

  “I’d guess about four hundred louis,” said Vespa contemptuously, kneeling and watching for his chance.

  “Try guessing about forty thousand,” said Manderville.

  Staring at him, Vespa gasped, “You’re out of your mind! The roof wouldn’t hold that much weight.”

  “No, but the waggon also has false sides and a false bottom.”

  “And some of the carpets have—have gold sewn into the backings,” said Kincraig.

  “Great heavens! How long have you been in the bank-robbery business, sir?”

  Manderville sat down wearily and blew his nose. “Wrong business, Jack.”

  Kincraig explained, “I am … by way of being a—a courier, you see.”

  A courier? Vespa thought, ‘What kind of courier would take such a fearful risk as to haul a fortune in gold louis across France? Towards Spain…’ And it all fell into place at last. He groaned and slumped back on his heels. “Oh—my God! Wellington?”

  Kincraig said weakly, “The Field Marshal hasn’t been able to pay his men and—he is desperately in need of funds. Without them, he faces sure defeat in—in the spring.”

  “And you work for him?”

  “Not exactly. I—at present—work for Nathan Rothschild, who—who made the loan. We had to get the gold to Wellington somehow.”

  “And I’m under orders.” Manderville stood and put up his pistol. “Have been from the start.” He reached out and pulled Vespa to his feet.

  Manderville’s stubborn insistence that Lord Kincraig was not in France, his persistent attempts to turn them aside and then his determination that they keep together made sense now, and Vespa exclaimed, “Damn you, Paige! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Sworn to secrecy, old boy. I wouldn’t have broken my word now, if this hadn’t happened. You can guess the need for it to have been kept so desperately quiet. We had to ship £800,000 in gold under Bonaparte’s nose, you might say.”

  “Eight … hundred … thousand?” Vespa tottered to the end of the sofa and sat there, trying to take it all in.

  “I am but one of many couriers,” explained Kincraig, holding his injured side painfully.

  “Your father has taken some really horrendous risks.” Manderville broke into another spasm of coughing. Wiping tearful eyes, he wheezed, “He was supposed to rendezvous with a British warship off Belgium, but a trap was set and he had to make a run for it. Afterwards, he took the chance of trying to get through to Wellington direct. When you began to sniff around in search of your family tree, Wellington was horrified, and assigned me to try and head you off.”

  “Head me off? Why in hell didn’t he just order me off?”

  “I don’t pretend to know, dear boy. He’s been heard to remark that you were one of his finest staff officers. He knew about—er, Sir Kendrick, and that you’d been wounded again. Perhaps he sympathized, or perhaps he thought you’d never get this close. At all events, Hasty Adair said the great man’s hand was over you. To an extent.”

  Vespa was briefly silent. Then he said slowly, “You’ve been splendid, sir. And I’ve been a proper fool. I am so sorry!”

  “Nonsense. You reacted exactly as—as you ought. I knew you wouldn’t blame me … once you learned the truth.” Kincraig held out his hand.

  Vespa took it and held it firmly, then he stood and offered a short and rather shy bow. “I’m very proud to be your son, sir. But—I’m afraid I must leave you now.”

  Manderville, who had moved back to lean against the wall, stepped forward. “I’m with you, Jack. What d’you mean to do?”

  Vespa smiled. “Why, I’m going to tell Monteil where the waggon is, of course.”

  “No!” Aghast, his lordship protested, “You cannot! I—I know how much your lady means to you, Jack, but—if Wellington loses this war, Bonaparte will enslave all Europe, and Britain! The prospect—”

  “Is terrible indeed, sir. But, tell me, if you will, do you think it possible that Imre Monteil knows what you carry in the waggon? Or is he drawn by the lure of your legendary Spring Carpet?”

  Kincraig hesitated, then replied slowly, “I really believe that the only men who know the truth of it are Rothschild’s people, who are, I would stake my life, incorruptible; and Field Marshal Lord Wellington.”

  “Yet—Manderville knew. Who else, Paige?”

  “Prinny, of course. Cannot very well keep our next monarch in the dark. Hastings Adair, and one or two other high-ranking officers, probably.”

  Vespa frowned thoughtfully. “You said you were one of many couriers, sir. Have the others run the gauntlet successfully?”

  “I’ve no idea. The reason I failed was that, as Manderville said, I was prevented from keeping the rendezvous with our warship.”

  “You were able to keep other rendezvous, though.” Kincraig looked puzzled and Vespa said, “The fel
low who rides the black horse. I think you had a chat with him after the waggon toppled. One of our people, is he?”

  “We have him to thank for leading Monteil astray,” said Manderville. “Otherwise we’d have had him and his Chinese juggernaut on our heels before we ever reached Chateau Coligny.”

  Vespa nodded. “And your friend who was killed at the meeting place, sir?”

  “Poor Ivan…” Kincraig sighed. “Such a good, brave man. A ship has been despatched to take me up. Ivan was to tell me where to meet it.”

  “He was badly beaten, sir. Did he know what you carried?”

  “You mean—might the secret have been forced from him? I think not. He was of the Intelligence Service, and those poor fellows are seldom given the full story, you know. He—er, he did manage to leave me a message, however.”

  “He did?” Startled, Manderville asked, “How?”

  “He must have still been alive when his murderers abandoned him. He’d managed to scratch a sign in the mud. An arrow. Pointing southwest.”

  “By Jove, but here was gallantry!” exclaimed Manderville, awed.

  “Gallantry, indeed,” agreed Vespa. “One last quick question, Father. You said there were louis sewn into some of the carpets. Would that constitute a great sum?”

  “There are fifty in each of two rugs.”

  “A hundred pounds, roughly. Hmm. Well, we must be off or the hour will be up.” Vespa gripped his father’s hand once more. “Don’t wait for us, sir. Get to the coast and a ship as soon as you’re able.”

  Lord Kincraig said fervently, “Come back safely, my dear boy. God be with you both.”

  As they hurried to the stables, Vespa outlined his plan. Manderville said dubiously, “It’s not much of a plan. D’you really think it will work?”

  “It must work! I’ll get Consuela out of that bastard’s hands, or—” Vespa paused, looking very grim.