CHAPTER 6
The Knavesmire, site of York’s Race meetings, was originally a marsh; but in 1730 the wardens of Micklegate were ordered to drain it, then level and roll the ground for horse racing. The first meeting took place there in the following year, and subsequently became an annual event. In the 1750s, a fine grandstand designed by the architect John Carr was erected to accommodate genteel racegoers; but, in common with other tracks throughout the country, the ground was always crammed with people from all walks of society. Elegant ladies walked about twirling their parasols or sat in carriages picnicking; their menfolk perched on the roof of the vehicles or pushed their way to the paddock to watch the horses parading with their jockeys in a colourful spectacle. Persons of a more vulgar stamp mingled freely with the Quality, some there for love of the sport, others for more nefarious purposes. All manner of sideshows assembled nearby with vendors bellowing their wares: peep shows, pea and thimble tables, and even a fortune-teller’s booth.
This latter attraction caught Anthea’s eye when she arrived at the Knavesmire with the party from Firsdale Hall. She halted before it.
“I positively must see what the future has in store for me!” she exclaimed. “What say you, Louisa? Shall we venture in?”
“Do not be so absurd, Anthea!” snapped her Aunt Julia. “Surely even you couldn’t be so outrageous as to enter such a — such a flea-bitten, unspeakable place! The notion quite appals me!”
“Which is what she wished it to do, dear Julia,” said Justin, with a grin. “How you do rise to the bait, don’t you?”
She was about to turn on him with an angry retort, but at that moment they were strolling past the de Rydes, who were accompanied by Sir Eustace Knowle. They halted to exchange greetings, and Sir Eustace soon managed to manoeuvre himself next to Anthea.
He had been observing her party for some little time before they exchanged greetings with his, and referred at once to the argument between Anthea and Lady Marton.
“Couldn’t help overhearing,” he said, with a disarming smile, “that there’s something you wish to do that don’t meet with your aunt’s approval. Dare say it’s not an infrequent dilemma — but pray satisfy my curiosity, impudent though you may think me for asking?”
Seeing no reason why she should not tell him, she did so, then joined in his laughter at the reply.
“Oh, famous!” he exclaimed. “And why not? Tell you what, Miss Anthea, if you can contrive to shake off your chaperone, I’ll escort you into the booth.”
She saw that Rogers was scowling at her while he was trying to maintain a polite conversation with Mrs de Ryde, Aunt Julia and Louisa. She tilted her chin defiantly.
“Truly?” she answered, with a roguish look. “Well, I’d certainly like to see Petula, Queen of the Gipsies, and hear what she may tell me — not that I believe in such stuff, I promise you, but it’s tremendous fun!”
“To be sure, and where’s the harm?” returned Sir Eustace. “See, there’s a party of highly respectable gentlefolk about to enter now. Tell you what, ma’am, I’ll hang about here until you turn up, be it never so long, I promise you!”
She laughed, but shook her head at him reproachfully.
Just then, they were approached by the Cholmondeleys and a small group of their house guests, including the three who had accompanied them to the masquerade: Sir John Fulford, Mr Barnet and Mr Fellowes. The latter looked slightly less absurd in sporting attire than he had in Tudor costume. Mr Barnet appeared much the same; he favoured Anthea with a long stare, Justin observed. But it was Fulford who moved forward out of the group with the evident intention of ousting Sir Eustace from her side. Justin was quite used to seeing men fall over themselves to reach his rogue of a niece, and found the spectacle highly diverting. Glancing at Rogers, he saw that this amusement was far from being shared.
After a few moments, Lady Marton said that they really must return to the carriage to see how poor George was faring, and her party moved away.
“Don’t forget,” murmured Sir Eustace in Anthea’s ear, as they separated, “I shall be waiting here.”
A demure smile, and she turned away to walk beside Louisa and their aunt, with Justin and Rogers bringing up the rear.
Two races had been run before Anthea’s original impulse returned. Caught up in the excitement of seeing which horse would win as the animals thundered round the track, for a time she was sufficiently diverted.
During the interval before the third race, however, the urge returned, and she gained her aunt’s permission for Louisa and herself to walk about a little. Justin and Rogers had already moved off to have a word with Harry, who had come to the Races with some friends of his own age. She saw them in the crowd as she and Louisa made their way along, but carefully avoided them.
Her only difficulty now, she thought urgently, was Louisa. She knew her cousin would never agree to accompany her to the fortune-teller’s booth, but she could not possibly leave the girl on her own at a race meeting. To her delight, she suddenly espied Louisa’s admirer Mr Giles Crispin strolling along with a lady whom she vaguely recognised from the wedding as his mother.
She drew Louisa’s attention to the pair just as the gentleman had evidently seen them, for he started towards them with Mrs Crispin in tow.
“Louisa,” she whispered, hurriedly, “pray don’t make any remark if I leave you with these people after a few minutes. They will escort you back to Aunt Julia, I am sure.”
“But — but where are you going?” Louisa asked in agitated tones. “Pray, Anthea, don’t get into a scrape, I implore you!”
There was no time for more, as the Crispins were face to face with them. Anthea was able to excuse herself from their company in a very short time, elatedly making her way to the fairground.
Sir Eustace was there, just as he had promised. For a moment, Anthea’s more mature judgement questioned her impulsive actions; but she dismissed the intruding thought with a shrug, smiling provocatively at Knowle in a way which made him decide to follow up this happy meeting with others, more intimate.
They were admitted by an underling to the fortune-teller’s presence in an aura of mystery. The interior was hung about with dark curtains, so that only the light from a shaded lantern cast a dim glow over a table in the centre. A large crystal ball, many faceted, had pride of place here. Over it brooded a veiled figure in dark, flowing robes and a headdress in Eastern style. The figure gestured to them to be seated on two chairs at the opposite side of the table from herself. Anthea perched on the edge of hers, leaning forward curiously to study the crystal globe.
Petula, Queen of the Gipsies, began to utter the usual small talk of fortune-tellers, in a deep, guttural voice that might have been female or male. A journey, a dark stranger (Sir Eustace was fair to mid-brown) whom Anthea should not trust, a letter, a pleasant surprise, a happy marriage — everything a young lady might be supposed to desire. Anthea drank it all in, chuckling to herself, yet, in spite of this, trying to apply the prognostications to her own circumstances.
Sir Eustace openly laughed.
Petula turned a baleful eye upon him, leaning forward over the table in almost a threatening attitude.
“I see danger!” she hissed. “Dark danger, honourable gentleman, which will come upon you out of the past! Beware, beware, lest ye should not escape retribution!”
“What the devil —!”
Sir Eustace leapt to his feet. At that same moment, the dark curtain beside him was seared with flame. It quickly spread to the other hangings.
The Gipsy Queen jumped up and made good her escape through an unseen rear exit. At the same moment, Sir Eustace seized Anthea’s hand and together they rushed for the entrance. Already the curtains concealing it were ablaze.
“Stand aside!” somebody from outside shouted.
Anthea recognised the combined voices of Justin and Rogers. She hastily obeyed.
A bucket of water cascaded over the curtain, followed by another, extinguishing the fl
ames near the entrance sufficiently for the two to escape.
Anthea ran straight into the waiting arms of Rogers.
“Oh, my dear!” he exclaimed, looking anxiously into her upturned face. “Are you hurt?”
By then, a crowd had gathered from the neighbouring sideshows. Eager hands wielded buckets filled from a nearby horse trough, until all the flames were extinguished and the interior of the booth resembled a duck-pond.
Recollecting herself, Anthea withdrew from the shelter of Rogers’s arms, blushing deeply.
“No, not the least little bit,” she assured him, somewhat breathlessly.
Justin hailed Watts, who had that moment appeared on the scene. The Runner had been keeping general surveillance inside the enclosure, but hearing the commotion outside, he hastened there.
“What’s happened, guv’nor?” he demanded.
“Damned if I know. Perhaps my niece can tell us. She crept off to visit this fortune-teller, and I got wind of it from her cousin, Miss Harvey, so came in pursuit accompanied by Mr Rogers here. Always in some devilish scrape or another — she’s the most outrageous girl! Yes, and I’d like to know where that fellow Knowle comes into it, too,” he added, with a dangerous glint in his eye.
Sir Eustace was standing beside Anthea and Rogers, looking very much at a loss; for the moment these two were taken up with each other.
As Justin and Watts approached the trio, they all made some effort to appear normal.
“I take it you’re not injured, Anthea?” began Justin. “Or you, Knowle?”
Both disclaimed.
“Then mebbe ye’ll tell us what happened, sir?” Watts demanded of Knowle. “I’m a Bow Street Runner, understand.”
“Damme if I know,” replied Sir Eustace, with attempted nonchalance. “Saw Miss Rutherford about to enter the booth, so thought it best to escort her.” The look that passed between him and Anthea was not lost on either Watts or Justin. “The fortune-teller’s table and seats were surrounded by dark curtains, so couldn’t see much. We both sat down, and this female started spoutin’ some devilish fustian — you know the kind of thing! All at once, the hangings were on fire — God knows how — and the old witch vanished. I seized Miss Rutherford’s hand and made a bolt for it. That’s about all I can tell you.”
Watts nodded. “Yes, thankee, sir.” He turned to Justin. “I’ll find this fortune-teller and then question some of the other show folk. Accident or arson, I wonder? Dare say ye’ll want to know what I turn up, guv’nor?”
“Yes, indeed. I’m escorting Miss Rutherford to the grandstand, but I’ll look out for you afterwards.”
Taking the hint that his company was not wanted, Knowle parted from the others with a few words and a casual bow.
“That fellow seems on pretty easy terms with you after a very short acquaintance,” Justin said to Anthea accusingly.
She tossed her head. “Oh, pooh, pray don’t be so stuffy, dear Uncle! He’s prodigiously amusing, which is more than may be said for some people!”
Rogers looked stung, but Justin laughed.
“Ay, dare say he is — I’m sufficiently acquainted with men of his kidney to warn you to avoid them, my dear, but that I know it would only have the opposite effect,” he replied lightly. “Tell me, did it all happen as he said?”
“More or less,” she said in the same tone.
He looked at her sharply, guessing there had been some kind of assignation between Knowle and herself. No matter; he knew Anthea was quite able to make her admirers toe the line, flirt though she might.
He nodded. “You didn’t see how the curtains caught fire?”
“No, we were concentrating on that crystal ball on the table, and listening to what the fortune-teller was saying! You know, Justin, of course it’s all nonsense, but it’s surprising how sometimes it seems to fit!”
He laughed again. “That’s the art of it. Well, perhaps Watts will throw some light on the matter. Meantime, I recommend you should remain with the others.”
She looked demure, and promised she would.
Watts had very little information to offer when he and Justin met later. He had found Petula; the Queen of the Gipsies turned out to be a dark visaged man of short stature.
“He was quaffin’ ale with some of the other showmen, sir, swearing powerful, like, about the damage. Reckons it was done by a lad he gave a hiding to yesterday for snoopin’ around his booth. No sign o’ the lad now — well, wouldn’t be. One odd thing, though.”
He paused, frowning.
“What?” queried Justin encouragingly.
“Mebbe it’s of no account, guv’nor. But he let slip that someone had greased his fist to say certain things to the gennelman who was with Miss Rutherford — words of warning, or some such gammon. Seems by eye witness accounts that this Knowle gennelman was hangin’ about near the booth for some time afore the lady turned up.”
“Was he, now? Just as I suspected — it was an arrangement between them, the little vixen! Could the fortune-teller give a description of the person who bribed him, male or female?”
“Male, sir. But that’s about all he could tell me,” replied Watts disgustedly. “Seems members o’ the public never notice what other folk look like, unless they happen to be covered in scars or warts. Always the same — makes a Runner’s life mortal hard, sir.”
“True. Well, it may have no connection with the fire, as you say. In any case, this is scarcely a crime for a man of your standing, Joe — more for the parish constable. D’you happen to know what won the last race? I missed it, looking after my niece’s concerns.”
Knowle stifled a yawn as he bent over the billiard table to study the angle for his next shot. There were plenty of gaming houses in York, as he well knew, but a lamentable lack of funds prevented his patronising them at present. When he had been here a few days longer, it would be possible to touch his sister for some blunt; but best not to do it straight away, under his brother-in-law’s hostile eye. In the meantime, it was either a game of billiards or bezique with that same prosy fellow, as an after-dinner pastime.
Tomorrow, thank God, they would be dining out, by Mrs Cholmondeley’s invitation. He smiled as he thought of exchanging a dull, boring evening like this for the stimulation of a little light dalliance with that fascinating rogue, Anthea Rutherford, who would also be present. And, after all, tomorrow’s visit to the Races might prove more profitable than today’s, which had cleaned him out of what meagre funds he had possessed. He was nothing if not an optimist.
The evening dragged on, enlivened only by the ritual tea drinking with his sister Mary just after ten o’clock. Conversation was of the day’s winners and the prospects for tomorrow, until it switched to domestic matters. This brought on a severe attack of Eustace’s yawns again.
“I declare you’re monstrous tired!” said Mary sympathetically. “It must be all the fresh air at the Races. I dare say you’re not accustomed to being so much out of doors — you were never a keen sportsman.”
“No,” agreed her spouse cynically. “More of a club man, shall we say?”
“Say what you like,” retorted Eustace indifferently. “Think I’ll take a stroll on the terrace before retiring. I’ll say goodnight now.”
Mary de Ryde rose to her feet to plant a sisterly kiss on his cheek. He suffered it, recognising the need to turn the old girl up sweet, as he put it mentally. Philip contented himself with a nod and an answering cool goodnight. The fellow could go to the devil for all he cared.
The small family drawing room was on the ground floor, with French windows leading on to the terrace. Eustace opened one and stepped outside, closing it after him.
He took a few turns about the terrace, trying to throw off his mood of boredom. The quiet domestic life was not for him, he thought, which was why he had never fallen into Parson’s Mousetrap. Not that if an heiress had come in his way he would not have snapped her up quickly, be she never so plain. But hopeful mamas had a shrewd trick of smelling out a
fortune-hunter, so he had never got past their guard. He had almost given up the chase in recent years, though there had been other females in plenty. He shrugged. Perhaps he might have the luck soon to come in the way of a rich widow who would yield to his charm. Women invariably did. Come to think of it, Harrogate or Cheltenham would be ideal places for such an encounter, could he but raise the wind for a visit. Spas invariably attracted widows.
The moon was up, and the garden presented a pleasing aspect even to one who was no lover of Nature. Now, if only there had been some attractive female at his side — say Anthea Rutherford — he would have been tempted to wander along these moonlit walks. He ran lightly down the steps and turned along the path directly under the wall of the terrace. A large statue of some Roman warrior stood a short way along. He fancied he detected a movement behind it, and paused, his eyes focusing on the point. Seeing nothing more, he attributed the fancy to the effect of moonlight, and went on past the statue.
Suddenly a figure leapt out at him, and he knew no more.
CHAPTER 7
“Nasty,” said Runner Watts.
Dr Clent agreed, looking down dispassionately at the battered head of the corpse lying at his feet.
“Murder,” he said, “and the weapon to hand.”
He lifted a jagged lump of stone which had broken off the plinth of the statue at some time. Ominous dark stains covered its surface.
The body had been found early that morning by an under gardener, who had rushed quaking to his superior. This worthy had at once declared Sir Eustace Knowle ‘a goner’ before alerting the household. Philip de Ryde had summoned the doctor, who confirmed this diagnosis, adding that as it was undoubtedly murder, the body had best be left in situ until the authorities had taken a look. Soon the parish constable and Runner Watts were on the scene, joined by Justin Rutherford who had been asked by his brother-in-law to act as deputy for him in his role as magistrate.
Watts nodded. “Not premeditated, shouldn’t opine,” he offered, looking at Justin. “We’re told he took a stroll outdoors on impulse about eleven o’clock. Who was to know he’d do that? Couldn’t hardly lie in wait for him on the off-chance.”
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 6