Dangerous Dalliance (19 page)

I pulled off my slippers, and managed to wiggle out of the ankle ropes. I immediately darted to the door, only to find it was locked. Trust Snoad to think of that! Fairfield had taken my pistol, so if I remained, I would be at their mercy when they returned. The only hope for escape was the bartizan. With luck, I might see Bunny, and call to him for help. Yet I did not wish to call Fairfield’s attention to him. I ran to the edge and peered into the mist. The fog obscured clear vision, but I did not think Bunny was there.

The bartizan was an ornate one, with stone embellishments at intervals that would make good holds for the hands and feet. Snoad had descended by this means, with a rope. The curved bartizan wall went down to within three feet of a little iron balcony outside Papa’s bedroom. With luck, and a rope, I might heave myself onto the balcony. I made a quick search for the rope, but in the darkness, I had no luck. I considered the jute twine bindings Snoad had used, but they were not strong enough to carry my whole weight.

Did I have the courage to trust my life to half a dozen stone crockets, which might be perishing and fall off in my hands? The house was ancient. And if I fell, the hard ground was far below. Yet if I stayed, I faced certain death.

Only one solution came to me. I could make a rope long enough to reach the balcony from my gown and petticoat. I would need sure footing, and easy mobility in any case, and should remove those garments. This was not the time for modesty. I stripped down to the barest necessities, even removing my stockings, to give my toes a better grip. I placed the clothing on the railing and leaned out, trying to test the solidity of the first crocket.

It was carved from the same piece of stone as the wall, and not attached later as a mere ornament. I pulled at it, and was satisfied that it was firmly fixed. I made the error of looking down, and was struck anew at how far a fall it was if I lost my grip, and my manufactured “rope” failed. Did I really have the iron nerve for this venture?

While I stood, undecided, I heard the key move in the lock. Snoad was back. I had not even begun to tear my gown into strips. I looked around in panic. I must hide myself, hide the clothing.... Hardly knowing what I did, I tossed the clothing over the parapet and ran, looking for someplace to hide. With so little time, the best I could do was to draw back at the far side of the pigeon nests, huddled against the wall. I knew it would take him about two seconds to find me.

Snoad and Fairfield entered together. “He’ll be safe there till morning,” Fairfield was saying. As Bunny had been Fairfield’s job, I assumed he had disabled Bunny in some manner. “Safe till morning” was ambiguous. Did he mean the body would not be discovered till then, or that he was tied up, as I had been?”

The hurrying feet stopped, not two yards from me. If they listened, they would surely hear the booming of my heart. Not a sound was heard. Even the pigeons were still. “She’s gone!” Fairfield yelped.

“That’s impossible! Take a look around.”

My blood curdled. Why hadn’t I armed myself? There must be something I could use as a weapon. Snoad hastened to Caesar’s tree, and yanked open the cupboard doors behind it. The aroused pigeons associated the sound with food, and began stirring.

Snoad turned and began to rush back to where the jute twine bindings sat on the ground. If he glanced my way, he would see me. We were in a clear line of vision of each other. My white undergarments and pale flesh must stand out against the wooden rows of nests. It was Fairfield who saved me.

“My God!” he exclaimed in disbelief. “We’ve killed her. She jumped to the ground.” He must have seen my gown and petticoat, spread out below. In the fog, they might resemble a body.

Snoad stopped in his tracks. Just such an expression of horror and disbelief must have been frozen on the face of Lot’s wife when she was turned into a pillar of salt. He looked like a statue, standing frozen with his mouth open, but no sound issuing from it.

“Come and see!” Fairfield said excitedly. “She’s not moving. She’d never survive the jump.”

A sobbing “Oh God!” was dragged from the depths of Snoad’s being. He lurched forward, toward the parapet of the bartizan. “I’ve killed her!” he said. It was a howl of anguish, but a very muted howl. “I’ve killed her. Oh God! What shall I do?”

“We’d best run down. She may still be breathing, but her back is busted for sure.”

“Run for a doctor, John.”

“Caesar may be winging in any minute.”

“Damn Caesar! Go for a doctor, I say.”

I heard the clatter of their retreating steps, but I did not move immediately. I stood huddled against the wall, remembering how Snoad had looked when he thought I was dead. I would never forget his expression. He looked desolate, like a man who has killed the one he loves.

Chapter Sixteen

Now was my chance to run. I left the wall and was just hastening toward the door when I became aware of a pigeon fluttering beyond the mesh, waiting to have the trapdoor opened. I went closer, and recognized the hooded crest of Caesar (and, of course, Hector, but it was Caesar who was expected to arrive tonight).

I opened the loft and he came in, cooing in triumph. He settled on his tree, and I went to congratulate him. I spotted the small capsule attached to his leg. He was patient while I tried to remove it. Here another problem faced me. It was held on by a fine wire. I tried to unfasten it, but between darkness and the fumbling of my anxious fingers, I had no luck. Time was short. It would not take the men long to discover their error and come back up.

For lack of a better solution, I took the bird along with the message and ran for the stairs. Caesar disliked this new arrangement. Very likely he was accustomed to some treat after his long flight. I had to hold his beak shut to keep him quiet, and clamped him tightly under my arm to hold his wings steady. A few feathers were dislodged in the process, but I did not take time to cover my tracks.

I was still afraid for my very life. Anxiety will often turn to rage when the anxious one discovers his fear has been unnecessary. Mama boxed my ears when I turned up safe and sound in the attic, after she had convinced herself the gypsies had carried me off. I knew she loved me still, but the release from fear does have that inexplicable effect. What concerned me now was Snoad’s ire when he found my empty dress on the ground, and realized I had outwitted him.

I took Caesar to my room and put him in the top drawer of my chest of drawers, where I could retrieve the message later. I closed the drawer, leaving it open a crack lest he should suffocate.

My next goal was to reach some safe place where Snoad could not harm me, preferably out of the house altogether. I would run to the constable in Hythe, but first I must find Bunny. In haste I snatched up the first garment that came to hand, which was my blue pelisse. I ran downstairs and left by the road door, the farthest removed from where my gown and petticoat bore testament to my unwitting stunt.

When I stepped out onto the walk, I realized I had come out without shoes or stockings. I stood in the foggy darkness, wondering where my partner was hidden. He had been at the south facade, waiting to shoot Caesar. I gloated that I had got the message. Fate was on the side of the angels, bringing Caesar and his message at a moment when I was alone in the loft. My gloating turned to resignation. There was nothing else for it. I had to go around to the south side. With luck, Fairfield might mention where he had hidden Bunny.

A row of yews had been planted at some far distant time to enhance the south facade of Gracefield. They were old and straggly and unlovely, but they would give some concealment. I edged my way in behind them and crept forward. Sharp stones and fallen needles jabbed at my bare feet. Fairfield and Snoad were still there. Snoad held my gown and petticoat. If he had exploded in wrath upon their discovery, his wrath had simmered down to thoughts of revenge now.

“Where the hell can she be?” he said to Fairfield. “She must be in the house somewhere. I’ll turn the place upside down to find her. And when I do!”

“She don’t know Depew’s been turned in. She might go to the inn after him,” Fairfield said.

“Smythe has been there. Cassidy followed him. They know Depew’s not around.” He had used Cassidy in his vile scheme! He was turning my own servants against me!

“It looks like we must notify Whitehall,” Fairfield said.

Whitehall! That suggested they were working for a legitimate English superior. My ears strained to catch Snoad’s reply.

“I had a message from Castlereagh this morning. He’s spending a few days at home. Cray’s Foot is not that far away. You’d best take a jaunt over there, John. Do you know where it is?”

“I’ve been there a few times.”

Viscount Castlereagh was one of the most distinguished gentlemen in the government. He was secretary for foreign affairs, amongst other duties. This paragon was Snoad’s superior! It couldn’t—it was not possible that I had been duped by Depew. He wore the regalia of the Horse Guards. He knew everything that was going on. He would not have dared to show his nose in the territory of legitimate government agents if he was known to be a traitor. Was that why he had insisted we call him Mr. Martin, and why he was so determined not to be seen? Or was this a new snare devised by Snoad? Did he think I might be listening?

“What will you do?” Fairfield asked
.

“Someone has to stay in the loft. Caesar is overdue. We can’t let that message go astray.”

“Cassidy could do that.”

“He’s too young and inexperienced. So much depends on it. My own brother Willie is there, in Spain,” he said on a weary note. “It is selfish of me, but that bothers me more than the rest.” The name struck a familiar note. Someone else had a relative named Willie in Spain. “Are you sure Smythe’s bound up right and tight?”

“He won’t get loose,” Fairfield replied.

“That’s what we thought about Heather,” Snoad said grimly. “How the hell did she get out?”

“Forget her, Kerwood. She’s safe somewhere. I blame it on Depew. He has an insinuating way with the ladies. She doesn’t know what is going on. Has no idea she was aiding Boney. Depew duped her. You should have told her the truth from the beginning.”
I
was helping Boney? This was heinous!

“You’d better go on, John,” Snoad said. “Just check that Smythe’s still breathing, will you? We don’t want to kill the idiot.”

I was still trying to think through the intricacies of my position, and wondering if I should come out of the yews
.
If I came forward now, they might immediately gag me again.

They parted. I followed Fairfield, to learn where he had sequestered Bunny. He took a quick jaunt down to a shed near the water that was last used in the days when the Humes were boatsmen. It held sails and masts and rigging equipment. He opened the door with a squawk, went in, and immediately came out again. As soon as he was gone, I rushed in, calling Bunny’s name.

A shaft of light from an unglazed window showed me a hump on the floor which turned out to be Bunny, trussed up and gagged as I had been. They had removed his own cravat to gag him, and used ropes left over from days of yore. First I removed the gag, and he made some strangled sounds as he gasped for a good lungful of air.

“They got me!” he gasped. “Are you all right?”

“I’m all right now.” I began working at the bindings around his wrists.

“I wondered when that water came cascading over the balcony. What was you doing?”

“Fairfield did it. I had put the rat poison in the water troughs. They caught me.”

Eventually I freed his wrists. He rubbed them back into circulation and freed his own ankles. He tried to stand up, but immediately fell down again. “Feet feel pierced by a thousand needles,” he said, and wiggled them around a moment.

While he worked himself back into shape, I outlined my adventures.

“They gave me a stunning blow from behind,” he explained. “Didn’t hear a sound as he crept up on me. A tree branch, I believe he used. Knocked me out cold. When I woke up, I was here. Wherever here is. Where the deuce are we?”

“In the suds,” I said. “The horridest thing, Bunny. It is Depew who is the French spy, and we have been helping him.”

“He had the buttons, and the yaller lining.”

“He probably stole them from someone he murdered. We must go somewhere safe where we can talk. Snoad might check here.”

“If they’ve got us pegged for traitors, England ain’t safe. We’ll have to go abroad.”

“We have to get out of this shed for a start,” I said, and we went out into the night air. The shingle was uncomfortable underfoot, cold and hard. I had to pick my way along.

As we rounded the corner of the boat shed, we noticed that the windows of Gracefield were all ablaze with lights. The various comings and goings had woken everyone up. By now Snoad might be telling Auntie that I had run away with Depew. My heart sank to consider what her worries must be. This was worse than being carried off by gypsies.

Worst of all was that Snoad despised me. I didn’t know who or what he was, but I knew, I had always sensed really, that he was a gentleman. Fairfield deferred to him. He called him Kerwood, and Snoad called him John, like friends. The Duchess of Prescott had befriended him. The duchess! That was who had a son called Willie in the Peninsula! And Snoad had a brother of the same name. All those letters from Branksome Hall—he was the duchess’s son.

And we had stuck him up under the eaves in a couple of rooms filled with cast-off furnishings. We had called him Snoad, and condescended to him. What a wretched stunt to pull on a lady! Auntie did not know it. Of that I was dead certain, but Papa had known. The government had set the whole thing up, with Snoad helping Papa under an alias. I did not know why an alias was necessary, except that a nobleman staying at Gracefield for the duration of the war would, of course, cause a great stir, and they wished for secrecy. It was well known, too, that the duchess was an expert pigeon breeder. That could account for it. Snoad (soon I would know his real name) must be a great expert in this carrier pigeon business. Papa had raced them, but Snoad was the expert.