by Joan Smith
“A footpad shot him in the back? Without removing his watch and wallet? I had not thought you were so gullible, or so disinterested in your father.”
The ferocity of his attack astonished me. Shock soon gave way to anger. “You are forgetting your place, Snoad. He was my father. How I handle his death is no concern of yours.”
“It ought to be someone’s concern. Next you will tell me you plan to set the birds free, or have them shot.”
“Certainly not,” I replied smugly. “Lord Fairfield will be coming to look them over tomorrow, and take those that he wants for his own collection. He is particularly interested in Caesar and Cleo, for breeding purposes. Where is Caesar?”
An angry spark flared in his black eyes. “I see! So that explains it. It is the dashing Lord Fairfield who has put your father’s death out of your mind.”
A pigeon, interested in our talk, flew down from a roost and perched on Snoad’s shoulder. He brushed it away impatiently. I noticed a small metal ring just above its foot. The sort of ring that a message might be attached to. It registered in the back of my mind, without interrupting the flow of argument.
“You are impertinent, sir! Remember you are here at my pleasure. If you wish to continue in this position, you will behave yourself properly.”
Anger warred with necessity. Snoad swallowed his anger, and his pride, and apologized, because he was determined not to be ousted from this loft. “I’m sorry. You are quite right, Miss Hume. I let myself be carried away by my concern for Mr. Hume.” His smoldering eyes were a reminder of my lack of concern. I was sorry to give him such a poor opinion of me, and annoyed with myself for caring a groat what he thought.
“I expect Lord Fairfield tomorrow. He will want to see what you are doing here. He is very interested in my father’s work. I will expect you to show him what he wishes to see. I’ll just have a look around and see that everything is tidy.”
This was a mere pretext for snooping. I don’t know what I expected to find. If he had stolen the pistol, it was unlikely he had stashed it in a pigeon’s nest. Snoad forced himself to civility and accompanied me, to prevent me from finding anything.
The loft had rows of boxes built one on top of the other, rather like a bookcase with compartments. The nesting birds had built extremely insubstantial-looking nests in them with twigs and straw and weeds. Snoad lifted one to show me a clutch of two white eggs. The brooding bird attacked with the angry vigor of a swan, and I leapt away in fright. “She did not like our prying,” I said.
“Actually, that was a he. I told you the males incubate by day. They’re touchy when they’re nesting,” Snoad explained.
Other birds had already hatched. I had a fairly gross exhibition of a parent feeding its young. The chick stuck its head right into the parent’s mouth, and looked as if it were being swallowed alive and whole. Snoad assured me it was merely taking pigeon’s milk from the crop.
As we came to the end of the nests, we discovered a little commotion. A group of birds, about a dozen in all, were strutting around, not in circles, but as if examining each other. They were cooing in a deep, throaty way, more loudly than the pigeons usually do. Some of them were raising their wings, and others were pecking angrily at one another. I would have taken it for a mating ritual, except that so many of the birds were angry, and fighting the advancer off.
“Is this some territorial war?” I asked. “Is the loft overcrowded?” I had seen something similar when we had too many hens in the yard.
Snoad’s smirk told me I had asked the wrong question. “I am surprised a farmer’s daughter does not recognize the mating ritual of birds,” he said.
“It did occur to me, but why are so many of the females rejecting their would-be suitors?”
“Is that so unusual?” he inquired, with a laughing eye. I gave him a glacial stare that brought him back to propriety.
“The fact is, what you are calling females are males,” he explained. “Unlike many species, the males have no physical embellishment. The pigeons cannot tell by appearance whether they are dealing with a male or a female. They must go by trial and error, and have to take many a peck before they find a mate. When you see a bird edging shyly away from another’s advances, and acting as if she could not care less, then you know that is a female. The males of the species are more forthright. They give the fellow a sharp peck, take a flying leap at him, and he leaves them alone.”
I found this talk slightly broad, and turned my gaze seaward.
“Folks have a peculiarly personal reaction to animals’ mating,” Snoad said pensively. “It is a natural function, like eating or walking. Odd that we should feel embarrassed.”
I did not wish to appear a prude, though it was obvious to me that there is a difference between eating and mating. I took an unconcerned glance at the performing birds. One male had found an acquiescent female, and was, I feared, about to have his way with her. I hastily averted my eyes and began to walk away. Snoad remained behind, studying them.
“I think even birds would like privacy at a time like this, Snoad,” I said sharply.
“I want to see this.”
“Voyeur!”
“I must check to see who Queenie is mating with” was his excuse. “These are valuable birds. I think–yes, by God, she’s chosen Alphonse. Now, that surprises me. I was sure the Captain had the inner track. He’s been wooing her all week.”
“If they mate for life, you will soon know which she has chosen.”
“I must also record the date and time of mating. Your father kept strict, accurate records. I plan to continue his method. Ah, look at the poor Captain, dragging his tail behind him. Cut to the quick by Queenie’s fickleness.”
I just glanced at the birds, making sure to avoid the mating pair.
“The Captain was the better man—er, bird.” He finally pulled himself away from the spectacle and joined me. “There is no accounting for ladies’ taste. When did you say Lord Fairfield is coming?”
I gave him a sharp look, wondering if the sudden mention of Fairfield was intentional. His eyes were brimming with laughter.
“Tomorrow,” I said, refusing to recognize any ulterior meaning in the question. “Everything seems in order here. You’ll remember to give me the bill for the feed you mentioned the other day.”
“It was evening when we first ... became friends,” he said, just hesitating over the last words. I gave him another icy look. “I’ll take it to your office this evening, Miss Hume.”
“I shan’t be in my office this evening, but you may leave it there.”
“Surely you could arrange to be there for a few minutes. Say, about eight-thirty?” He peered down at me with a conning look.
“I have company this evening.”
“I thought Fairfield was coming tomorrow.”
“Lord Fairfield is coming tomorrow. Mr. Smythe is spending a few days with us.”
“Is there a special reason?” he asked.
It was none of his business, but I did not wish to arouse his curiosity and said, “After the break-in, my aunt feels we require a man about the house. Thumm is getting on, you know.”
“But you have a younger man, Miss Hume. I would be happy to sleep downstairs—if it would make you feel safer.” He kept his lips steady during this studied piece of impertinence.
“That is very kind, but unnecessary. Good day, Snoad.”
He gave his forelock a playful tug and bobbed his head. “I was honored by your visit, your ladyship. I hope you will come again.” Then his grin dwindled to a nice smile, and he added, “Soon—and often.”
“I shouldn’t think that will be necessary,” I said grandly, and regretted it as soon as I had strode away. Because my duty would bring me back soon, and often. It was not an unpleasant duty either. Snoad was an accomplished flirt. I decided that a lady might enjoy a small flirtation with her servant without wounding her dignity.
While I was in my room, checking that my unpacking had been executed to
my satisfaction, I reviewed that visit with Snoad. “The dashing Lord Fairfield,” he had said. How did Snoad know what Fairfield was like?
Was Depew correct in his suspicions of Lord Fairfield? Were he and Snoad working together? I remembered that bird with the ring around its ankle, too, but there had been no message attached to it. Like a ninny, I never gave another thought to one question I had asked, and failed to get answered. Caesar had not been in his tree, nor had he been in Cleo’s nest. He had not been in the loft the other day either. But I did not think of that at all. I had been too diverted by Snoad’s expert flirtation.
Chapter Nine
Nothing of great interest happened during the remainder of the day and evening. Bunny returned with his pistol. We had the servants set a truckle bed up for him in Papa’s office, and hid the pistol under the pillow for easy access, if it should prove necessary. Bunny went up to keep an eye on Snoad and returned to inform me Snoad was awake on all suits. “Asked a hundred questions, but I fooled him. Didn’t answer anything to the point.”
I did not return to the loft again, nor did I visit Papa’s office at eight-thirty. Now that Bunny and I were spies, we took a keener interest in the war, and studied the journals to learn in detail how matters were progressing abroad. We learned that since Napoleon’s defeat in Moscow the year before, he had had to withdraw troops home from the Peninsula. It seemed the Spanish guerrillas were keeping, four French divisions busy in Biscay and Navarre. Wellington had marched from Portugal. The French were falling back to the Ebro.
There was a suggestion that Napoleon must send more forces to Spain. Bunny thought this was a clue that the English would attack before they could arrive. We both thought that my father’s birds were carrying messages on this weighty matter back and forth along the postal relay route.
“The duke will run those Frenchies right back over the Pyrenees,” Bunny said, eyes gleaming. “And we’ll help him, by jingo.” I gave him a warning glare.
“How will you do that, Mr. Smythe?” my aunt asked indulgently, and fortunately did not wait for a reply. “What has caused this sudden interest in the war?”
I answered swiftly, before Bunny revealed more than he ought. “Why, because of Papa’s work, of course,” I said. It is always best to stick to the truth when possible.
“That is what I thought.” She nodded, satisfied. “It all seems more relevant, somehow, when a loved one is involved.”
Later Bunny announced that he was going up to the loft to blow a cloud with Snoad. He narrowed his eyes at me in a meaningful way, but I didn’t know what he meant. When he returned, he managed a moment’s privacy to tell me his real motive had been to search Snoad’s rooms. “Keeps his rooms locked. Looks pretty suspicious, eh? Where could we find a key?”
We searched Papa’s office, but without luck. “The time to do it is when Snoad is out,” I decided. “He will have to take the birds out to continue their training sooner or later.” He was not likely to do it at this hour of the night, however.
We retired early, and rose early the next morning to prepare for Lord Fairfield’s visit. The whole house was in confusion, with servants applying beeswax and turpentine to the furnishings, and sprinkling tea leaves over the carpets to keep down the dust when they swept them. The kitchen, I knew, would be in an uproar. There was talk of a suckling pig, and the tantalizing aroma of cakes and pastries filled the house.
My own special contribution was to see to the preparation of the Gold Suite for our guest. This is the best guest suite, with a view of the ocean in front, and of the park on the east. I oversaw the servants’ work, and arranged a bouquet of flowers from the conservatory. Bunny selected a bottle of Papa’s best sherry from the cellar, and another of claret, “in case he’s a red wine man.”
Bunny made another trip into Hythe, and finally spoke with Depew. “What did he say about the note I left him in Brighton? I am worried that Snoad might be sending messages out by the pigeons,” I said when he returned.
“He hadn’t received your note.”
“I sent it to his hotel in Brighton. It must have been intercepted by the French. I daresay every step Depew takes is watched.”
“Very likely. And us, too, for all we know.” We exchanged an important look, and peered around for listeners.
“I fear he is quite ignorant of how the pigeon relay operates, Bunny. Snoad could be sending messages off to France while we sit on our thumbs. I must arrange a visit with Depew.”
“Said he’d be in touch. Told him about the blasted pine in the park.”
We made a dash out to it, but there was no message. In case I did not see Depew when he came, I wrote down how the pigeons operated, and stuck the letter in the pine. Bunny came with me.
“Depew says he’s pretty well convinced Fairfield is in on it,” he said. “Dipped. Doing it for money. Says to be sure you don’t let out that he’s here; Depew, I mean. Er, Martin. We’re only to refer to him as Mr. Martin, in case they’re eavesdropping.”
“It’s very exciting, is it not?” I asked, looking around the park to see if I could spot any of our cohorts, as Depew had said he would post men. They were so proficient that I could not spot them, but it felt good, knowing they were there. The glory of it filled me with joy. It was an exultant feeling, like being in love. My whole body seemed more alive, almost glowing.
“Demmed exciting.” Bunny smiled. I knew by the gleam in his eyes that he felt the same way. “Heroes, in a way.”
“Perhaps you will be given a baronetcy when it is over, Bunny. Sir Horatio Smythe.”
“They’ll have to make you a baroness—er, baronetess.”
“Perhaps a dame,” I mused. “Dame Heather Hume has a nice ring, has it not?”
“Dandy. Would you get the sword over the shoulder, like a knight?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t think they tap very hard.”
“We might get invited to the Royal Pavilion. Aunt Lovatt would like that.”
We were interrupted by the clatter of wheels from the road. Glancing down, we espied an elegant black chaise with a lozenge on the door, followed by a curricle, trailing a mount.
“Fairfield,” Bunny said. “Why the devil has he brought so many rigs and prads? Looks as if he plans to stay a month. Look at all the servants you’ll have to feed! Two drivers; there’ll be a valet in that chaise with him for certain. Fairfield’s a famous dandy. Hard to believe he’s a spy. Don’t usually care for anything but his nags and jackets. A dandy bit o’ blood,” he added, gazing at the bay mare that trotted smartly along behind the curricle, breathing dust. “I wouldn’t mind throwing a leg over her.”
“We’d best go in to greet him.”
We returned, entered by the side door, and ran immediately to the north front door, which we call the road door. Thumm had thrown the portals wide, giving us a view of Fairfield’s carriage, drawing to a stop with a jingle of harnesses. A liveried footman hopped out to open the carriage door. I mentally added another servant to the list of mouths to be fed. Another head in the carriage proved to be his valet.
As Lord Fairfield stood, gazing at the house through his quizzing glass, all the bother seemed worthwhile. He had removed his curled beaver. His golden head glinted in the pale sunlight that penetrated the white cloud covering. His broad shoulders, his elegant biscuit pantaloons and Hessians, were all in the latest jet of fashion.
I noticed Bunny looking down at his own country breeches and top boots with dissatisfaction. While we gazed, the quizzing glass was lowered and Fairfield lunged forward, throwing some comment over his shoulder to his footman in a splendidly cavalier fashion.
Aunt Lovatt rushed up behind me, all out of breath. “He’s here!” she exclaimed. “Oh my! What a lot of carriages and servants.” There was no dismay in her accents. She was highly impressed at this lavish display.
When Fairfield discovered the welcoming committee hovering inside the door, he gave one of his dazzling smiles. The golden head inclined, and he sai
d, “Miss Hume.”
I curtsied. “We are very happy to welcome you to Gracefield, milord.”
He stepped in. “Not nearly so happy as I am to be here, ma’am. A very interesting house. I look forward to exploring it.”
Aunt Lovatt and Bunny came forward to curtsy and shake hands respectively. After a general commotion of greetings, we invited our guest into the saloon for tea. Thumm would handle the servants and the disposition of the trunks. And hopefully warn our groom to get in a good supply of hay and oats for all those horses.
I was hard-pressed to remember it was possibly a spy I was entertaining with Cook’s mutton and tea cakes. It seemed impossible that Fairfield should be involved in anything underhanded. There was a guileless air about the man, and an innocence in his noble blue eyes.
“Such an interesting house,” he said more than once. “Quite like a fairy castle. Does it have a ghost?”
“No, not even a secret passage,” I confessed.
“It must surely have an interesting history at least. So conveniently located for smuggling brandy. How I wish one of Papa’s houses was on the sea. All our places are landlocked. The castle in Hampshire, the hunting lodge in the Cottswolds, and the estate my uncle Eustace left us in Scotland are all boring old heaps. Of course, the London house is no more than a free hotel for relatives.”
“Pity,” Bunny said, without the least shred of sarcasm.
“Mind you, we have an oubliette at the castle,” Fairfield added, with all the enthusiasm of a boy. “I scratched a message on the wall to fool Algernon. That’s my younger brother. He is a captain in the Guards,” he added, proud of this accomplishment. Surely a lord with a brother in the army would not be a spy! Snoad must be duping him, as he had duped Papa.
“What message?” Bunny asked.
“I wrote, ‘Good-bye, cruel world. I am innocent of the crimes ascribed to me by the wicked Marquess of Albemarle.’ That is my papa’s title. Well, one of them. The one he uses.”