“I need some silk of this colour, Healey —” handing the maid a strand of deep blue — “but don’t on any account bring it if it’s not the exact shade, for that will ruin all. I don’t trust that female in Wilson’s — don’t let her persuade you, mind! If she hasn’t got it, then you must go into York for it, only that means so much delay.”
Healey promised to be careful in her choice, and set out on her errand. She, too, was feeling somewhat restored after all her tribulations. There had been no more sinister messages since the one leading to her master’s accident; better still, she had not set eyes on that dreaded monster. And although her interview with Sir George Marton on Sunday had been terrifying enough to scare the living daylights out of a body, in the end he had been tolerant, and not meted out to her the punishment she had feared.
The village was only half a mile distant from Denby House. It boasted three or four small shops. There was Ned Appleton’s general store, which was also the mail receiving office, a butcher’s, a baker’s, and Mr Wilson’s emporium, as it was grandiloquently named, where one could buy haberdashery and certain small items of female dress.
Healey permitted herself a lingering gaze in the window before entering the shop. She had all the feminine love of pretty things, and though Wilson’s offered only a meagre display, it was better than nothing.
She was gazing in rapt attention at an embroidered reticule which she rather fancied, when suddenly male voices intruded on her reverie. She looked round quickly.
Three men were striding past her in the direction of the Black Horse, talking together in low tones. One voice rose suddenly above the rest.
“And I say it’s as plain as the nose on your face! Fellowes lifted the loot — who else? And why else d’ye suppose he and that valet of his vanished overnight? Besides, I saw ’em go.”
Her heart seemed to stop beating altogether as sheer terror flooded her. That voice! She knew it, could not possibly mistake it! Had it not taunted her on that dreadful night in the temple at Denby House?
Her wild eyes remained fixed for a moment on the speaker, like those of a mesmerised rabbit. He noticed her, and a flicker of recognition passed over his face. It was gone in a moment as the cold, hard eyes turned away from her. But she realised that the die was cast.
She knew him — and he knew that she knew.
What should she do?
She stood still for several minutes, frozen by panic. Gradually her mind began to work again, although slowly. She recalled another voice, that of the Justice, Sir George Marton, saying to her, “You must give us all the assistance you can to uncover this murderer.”
Yes, yes, she would — not only to save herself from the punishment of the law, but from the far worse retribution which awaited her at the hands of this madman! If only she could reach someone in time, before Pringle could stop her mouth, as he would surely do now that he had seen she recognised him! Who? Sir George Marton? But he might be from home, and she must not take too long over her errand, for fear the mistress would be angry and turn her off for good. This had been hinted at several times of late, when Healey had been in a fit of nervous depression. She wrung her hands. Dear God, there were so many hazards, she did not for the life of her know which to concentrate upon.
Then it came to her. The Bow Street Runner — was he not lodging at the Black Horse at present? If only those three men might not be going there, too…
She looked after them down the street, and saw that they had gone past the inn. Screwing her courage to the sticking point, she forced her shaky legs to walk on to her objective. She reached it and pushed open the taproom door.
To her relief, there were no customers within at that early hour, only the landlord polishing some glasses. He paused at sight of her, surprised.
“Mrs Healey, good morning, ma’am. Can I get tha owt?”
“No, no thank ye,” she stammered. “I came to see —” she swallowed — “Mr Watts. Is he in?”
He eyed her curiously before shaking his head.
“Nay, that he’s not.”
He refrained from adding that his guest had not been in all night, thinking that it was wiser to keep silent on that point, Watts being a Bow Street officer.
She looked dismayed, clutching the counter as if in need of support.
“When — when will he be back, d’you know?” she asked tremulously.
He shook his head. “No notion, ma’am. Can I tak’ a message, sithee?”
She hesitated. She dared not say much, yet feared to waste any time in making contact with Watts.
“Tell him I must see him at once — it’s urgent!” she said at last, in shaking tones. “Tell him to come to the servants’ entrance at Denby House, and I’ll be looking out for him — but don’t delay, will you? Let him know at once, as soon as you see him!”
“Ay, never fret, Mrs Healey, I’ll tell him,” the landlord said soothingly. “Summat’s upset ’ee, I can see.”
Perhaps he hoped that she would confide in him, but such a course never entered her head. She nodded her thanks and turned to run out of the inn ‘like one possessed’, as he told Watts not very much later.
She barely retained control of her wits sufficiently to conclude the errand on which she had been sent and return to the house. After delivering the embroidery silk to her mistress, she begged leave to stroll out of doors for a while as she had the headache.
Madam had much to say on the subject of maids who gave themselves airs and fancied they had the megrims; but as Nanny was sitting with her, she was content to allow Healey to go.
At once the maid hurried downstairs to the servants’ entrance avoiding the rest of the staff; and, closing the door behind her, began to pace up and down the paths through the kitchen gardens. Anxiety drove her so that she could not be still for a moment.
She had been there for almost an hour when a little lad approached her. Vaguely she recognised him as the youngest of the gardeners’ boys.
“Please ’m, there’s a man axin’ for ’ee,” he piped nervously.
She started. “Where? Who?”
He looked even more nervous. “At t’back door into t’lane, ’m —” he gestured in the direction of a path leading beyond the stables to a lane beside the boundary wall of the house. “Says to tell ’ee it’s Maister Watts, ’m, please ’m.”
She made an inarticulate sound and bounded away like a startled deer. The boy stared after her for a moment, then ran off towards the house.
She continued on her way, now running, now walking breathlessly. She skirted the stables, not wishing to encounter the grooms, and soon reached her objective, panting and dishevelled but with a strong surge of relief.
This vanished for a moment as she saw to her disappointment that no one was there. Then confidence flooded back; of course, he would be outside, waiting for her in the lane. Why, she was not clear, but she accepted that a Bow Street man would have his own way of going about things.
She lifted the latch and stepped out into the lane, which was deserted save for one man and a horse tethered nearby.
Yes, he was there.
But not the man she had rushed hopefully to meet. This was the threatening monster of her nightmares.
She threw back her head and screamed at the top of her lungs before his steel grip tightened about her throat.
When the three visitors returned to Warton Manor after their morning stroll, they were greeted enthusiastically by their host, not long returned from his call on Sir George. Both Mr and Mrs Cholmondeley lost no time in acquainting them with the happy state of affairs which was to restore the family valuables almost as soon as they were lost. In their joy at this outcome, both husband and wife seemed to lose sight of the unpleasant fact that they had, so to speak, nourished a viper in their bosom.
Their three guests, however, showed signs of uneasiness.
“Damnable business for you and your lady wife, sir,” commiserated Fulford. “Under the circumstances, we’re sure
you’ll want to be quit of us as soon as possible.”
Both husband and wife protested that nothing was further from their thoughts, and they would be only too happy for their visitors to remain indefinitely.
“Very good of you, Cholmondeley,” said Barnet, “but we’ve all been talking of moving on for some days now, since Race week’s over. We can never be sufficiently grateful for your splendid hospitality, but as Fulford says, you can do better without guests just at present.”
“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” put in Reade, bowing towards Mrs Cholmondeley. “The least we can do is to remove ourselves promptly.”
“But you’ll scarce go today!” exclaimed Cholmondeley. “Why not leave it until the morning, and make an early start?”
All three appeared determined upon quitting the Manor at once, however.
“I’m going only as far as Hull for the present,” announced Fulford. “I’m promised to friends there.” He turned to the other two. “Either of you like a lift into York in my curricle? Might be a trifle short of luggage space, of course.”
“No, no!” protested their host. “As Reade and Barnet didn’t bring vehicles of their own here, my coachman shall drive them into town, if such is their wish, and they may take a post chaise from whichever of the inns they choose. Only say when you wish the coach to be ready, gentlemen — not but what I think it a great shame that you must be off! However, perhaps you will honour us with your company on another occasion.”
It was not far short of eleven o’clock when Watts rode into Firsdale village. He had been in conference with the York magistrates for some time after Justin left, and had learnt a good deal more about the robbers and their methods. He had made his deposition, and would be called upon to give evidence later at the trial of the miscreants.
Satisfactory, very, he reflected, as he stabled the horse at the back of the village inn, especially as the reward looked like being handsome. Yet, in spite of all, some feeling of dissatisfaction hung about him; he and the captain (Watts often called Justin by his erstwhile rank when communing with himself) had not yet caught the villain who had murdered Knowle and tried to kill two others.
He strode out of the inn yard, prepared to go up to the Hall and give Sir George and Justin an account of his dealings with the magistrates, when the landlord spied him and called his name. Watts turned back.
“Ye wanted me, landlord?”
“Yes, I’m glad I caught ’ee. That lady’s maid at Denby House, Healey she’s called —”
The Runner’s glance sharpened.
“I know the wench — what about her?”
“Came into t’tap more’n half an hour agone,” said Perkin. “Wanted to see ’ee, seemed in a rare talkin’ when I said tha wasn’t ’ere, seemed like one possessed, I reckon. Said to tell ’ee as she must see ’ee urgent like. She’ll be lookin’ out for ’ee at servants’ entrance, but tha must go there at once, no delay, she said.”
“Female fidgets, most like,” replied Watts. “Ye know how it is with ’em! All the same, I’ll go up there — thankee, Perkin.”
As he strode away from the village, he reflected that it might be as well to take the captain along with him. If by any lucky chance the wench had news of the murderer, it would save time if they learned it together. It would take only ten minutes or so extra to go by way of Firsdale Hall, and they could use the back way into Denby House.
Arriving at the Hall, he sent a message in to Justin which brought the latter hastening out to him.
“What news on the Rialto?” quipped Justin, as they met. “Sir George was expecting you to come in and unburden yourself. Something amiss?”
Watts explained quickly.
“Yes, by Jove, we’d better get there with all speed,” agreed Justin. “If she’s in possession of the kind of knowledge we suspect, her life could be in danger if our man gets wind of it.”
Until then, Watts had been only partly convinced of the urgency of his errand. Now Justin’s words gave a startling reality to the situation.
Without more ado, they set off at a brisk pace across the grounds in the direction of the stables. At length they came to the door in the boundary wall which led to the lane between the two properties.
Justin flung it open. They emerged into the lane and headed for the back door to the grounds of Denby House.
As they came round the bend which concealed it from view, they saw a tethered horse and a man standing outside the door. It opened and a woman emerged.
The next moment a piercing scream rent the air.
They started to run. The man leapt forward to seize the woman’s throat, cutting off her cry of terror.
So intent was he on his task that he failed to pay any attention to the others until they were upon him. Then he dropped the now senseless Healey on the ground, turning to face his attackers with an inhuman snarl of rage.
He fought like a madman, which indeed at that moment he was; but after a fierce struggle, he was felled to the ground and Watts clamped the handcuffs on his wrists.
Much later in the day, when yet another prisoner was safely lodged in the town gaol, Watts returned to give an official account of the proceedings to Sir George.
“The man at the flash house in York peached on the robbers a treat, y’r honour,” he said. “He may think turning King’s evidence will help save his skin, but I reckon the magistrates have other notions. He told of four robberies in this district and a couple in York itself, and there was a fair haul of loot still lying in the house. Course he wasn’t receiving, y’r honour, oh, no! Stored the bundles for the gang without any notion of what they contained. A likely tale — thinks the Justices were born yesterday, seemingly.”
“An illusion of which I’m sure they’ll rapidly disabuse him,” returned Sir George drily. “Well, Runner Watts, there’s no need to detain you further, as Mr Rutherford here can give me any information concerning the murderer. I collect you had a very rough passage in the coach conveying him to the York magistrates, even with the assistance of one of my burliest gardeners as well as that of Mr Rutherford. I congratulate you on a most successful mission, and I shall be writing forthwith to Sir Nathaniel Conant at Bow Street to acquaint him of your valuable work here.”
Watts drew himself up in military style, his expression alight with satisfaction.
“Thankee, y’r honour. It’s but my duty.”
He turned to quit the room, giving a short bow to Justin and Anthea, who had been sitting there listening in silence.
The former followed him out of the room.
“I’ll see you later at the Black Horse for a tankard, Joe,” he said. “You’ll be posting back to London tomorrow, I take it?”
“Ay, guv’nor. I’ve made my depositions, so there’s nothing more to do here until the trials come up. I’ll be off on the morning mail to make my report to Sir Nathaniel.”
Justin nodded and the two parted, Justin re-entering the library.
“Thank God you’ve laid that murdering villain by the heels!” exclaimed Sir George. “Especially as there’s small doubt but that he’d have had another touch at me before long. Healey, by the way, is recovering. I sent over to Denby House while you were absent with Watts in town. The medico says she’ll do well enough, apart from bruises and a sore throat for a while, poor creature.”
Both Justin and Anthea expressed their relief at this news.
“We owe her a debt of gratitude,” continued Justin. “As soon as she was able to identify the murderer, she wasted no time in trying to inform us. I’m bound to admit that it might have taken long enough to find him out otherwise. I had a strong suspicion, but no proof. Indeed, until the evening of our visit to the theatre, suspicion was pretty evenly divided among all four of Cholmondeley’s guests. Watts had cleared all other newcomers to this area by then.”
“When a man’s such a fool as Cholmondeley, asking complete strangers into his home, it’s almost inevitable that some time or other he’ll catch cold at it,” sta
ted Sir George. “But what fixed your suspicion upon the culprit during the visit to the theatre?”
“By then, I’d more or less ruled Fellowes out. He was up to something with Ross, that was evident, but I didn’t think it was revenge. At the theatre, I deliberately steered the conversation on to topics concerning drama, particularly anything taking place in recent years — the rebuilding of Covent Garden and Drury Lane, the success of Edmund Kean, and so on. I don’t need to tell you that I chose that subject because our man had been an actor in his youth. I was hoping that in some way he might betray himself — possibly because he would be the only one who had no knowledge of these events, owing to his absence overseas.”
“But it wasn’t so simple,” put in Anthea, “because all three seemed equally ignorant on that head.”
“Not quite,” demurred Justin. “I gained an impression — vague, I must admit — that Fulford was not totally ignorant of the fires at the two theatres, although he’d never heard Kean’s name. Not interested, I suppose. However, I did pick up a much stronger hint to the guilty party. It was when I mentioned that the new auditorium in both theatres was so much enlarged that one no longer had a sense of closeness and intimacy to the actors.”
“And he said at once that it was essential for the audience to be able to see the expressions on the actors’ faces,” said Anthea triumphantly.
“Precisely. That gave me my first clue, tenuous though it was. My second, amounting to a far stronger suspicion, came at Rievaulx when we were taking refreshment in the Ionic Temple there.”
“I know — you made a remark about loose tiles! I may tell you that Fanny, Anne and I were so busy trying hard not to appear to realise what you were at, that I quite failed to notice if any of the others showed a reaction.”
“But he did, though for a matter of seconds only. And that’s when I knew our murderer was the man who called himself Barnet.”
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 20