Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (13 page)

"What fustian! I collect the poor woman must have been
deranged by grief. If they were racing they probably came too close to
the edge, is all. Had it looked like foul play, I do assure you my papa
would never have rested 'til he came to the root of it." He was silent
for a while, puzzling at this new and unexpected development, and
thinking he
must
talk with Barnaby Schofield as
soon as possible.

Diccon summoned all his forces and managed to saunter to the
cart. He rummaged among the miscellany, muttering that he'd best have a
look at his 'tradeables,' and Harry watched, curiously. The first item
to be removed was the battered violin case.

Shocked, Harry expostulated, "You're never going to trade
that
?"

"So you heard." A half-smile touched that gaunt face. "Thought
as how you was all wore out."

"You have a great gift," said Harry earnestly. "Why in the
name of heaven do you live like this when you could play before the
crowned heads of—"

"Thank you, sir," said Diccon, his face inscrutable.

"There's a story here," thought Harry. It was quite obvious,
however, that Diccon did not wish to speak of it, and being much too
well bred to pursue the matter, he said no more.

"Now, this here," Diccon announced, pulling out the oar, "I
am
going t'trade." He sighed and added despondently, "One o'these days."

"Where did you get it?"

"From a nun. On Salisbury Plain. Traded her a pistol for it."

Harry's jaw dropped. "A…
nun .
. ? What
in the— Why would a nun—on Salisbury Plain… have an oar?"

Diccon looked at him pityingly. "All them years you was at
Oxford…"

"Cambridge!"

"An' ye c'n ask such as foolish question. She had the oar for
a boat, a'course. What else?"

Harry closed his sagging jaw. To verify his utter stupidity by
venturing to enquire what a nun would want with a pistol was more than
he dared do!

"Dead
?" Sir Harry stared blankly at the
magnificent being who stood in the open doorway of Sir Barnaby
Schofield's big house. "B-But—when? How?"

"My late employer was killed when 'is curricle hoverturned two
weeks ago," said the footman to some invisible giant who apparently
towered behind the morning caller. "Hi should think has 'ow you'd know
that hif you was hindeed acquainted wiv him. Good day, sir."

"Is there some difficulty here?" A soberly dressed man of vast
dignity appeared in the doorway. His indifferent gaze abruptly resolved
into horrified dismay, and Harry was urged to come inside at once.
Closing the door and dismissing the pained footman with an impatient
wave of the hand, the butler cried, "Sir Harry! Good gracious! Whatever
has happened to you?"

"Bit awful, ain't it, Dyer?" said Harry ruefully. "D'you think
I dare offer my condolences to Lady Barnaby—in all my dirt?"

"I am very sure she would rather have it thus, sir—than not at
all. However, she's in Devonshire with Mrs. Manderville. I am
instructed to close the house for the balance of the year and to
dispose of as many of Sir Barnaby's effects as would cause his widow
pain." The faded brown eyes that had been scanning Harry throughout
this small speech had become more and more anguished, and now,
forgetting protocol, he burst out, "Oh, sir! I heard you had closed
your houses, but—I never dreamed . . ! And—your poor head!"

"A highwayman, I'm afraid. Blasted fellow got my mare, which
is what really puts me into the boughs. And all my effects are in
Dorsetshire, unfortunately. I'd not have stopped, but I chanced to be
near Maidstone and knew Sir Barnaby was often here at this time of the
year… Lord, but I cannot believe this! I must seek out Lady Barnaby."

"But, sir! You
cannot
step outside in
that condition!" The well-kept hands wrung in agitation. "I shall
instruct your groom to take your coach around to the stables and you
can borrow some of Major Bertram's garments—you're much of a size, I
think."

"Didn't come by coach. Dyer." Not having the heart to further
distress the man by informing him that a donkey had drawn his
conveyance as far as the end of the lane and that he'd walked the rest
of the distance he said. "Since my mare was stolen, a friend was so
kind as to drop me here."

It was odd, thought the worthy Dyer, that Sir Harry had not
been given the loan of a mount and that the friend had not waited. His
suspicions deepening, he said earnestly. "My late master and your papa
was bosom bows all their lives, sir. And I know what Sir Barnaby would
wish me to do. You come along with me. Sir Harry, and we'll have you
neat as a pin in no time!"

Pride demanded he refuse. Necessity, and the burning need to
discover what had happened to Schofield. prevailed.

An hour later, bathed, dressed in clean linens and clothes
that were a close enough fit not to amuse, Harry leaned back in the
wing chair beside the salon fire, accepted the wineglass that was
handed him, and gave a sigh of gratification. "Dyer." he said as the
butler took the chair on the other side of the fireplace. "I always
knew you were a prince of a fellow. I feel human again! Thank you. And
now, if you will, pray tell me what happened to poor Sir Barnaby."

"He'd been very low in spirits for well over a year, sir,"
sighed Dyer. "I always thought it was your father's death that started
it all. He never seemed to quite get over it. Nothing Lady Barnaby
could do would seem to cheer him. He was… like a man haunted. Many's
the time I heard him say, "Poor Colin… dear old Colin…" over and over
again, even when there was no one nigh him. For a while I really feared
for… for his reason. But then Major Bertram came home from Waterloo,
and—well… we had our hands full."

"Yes. I heard. How does the poor fellow go on now?"

Dyer stared at his glass. "He's blind, sir. And he never was
the kind to—er… That is to say—I hope he may… improve."

"Took it hard, did he? Cannot say I blame him." And having
been well acquainted with the pompous display that masked Bertie
Schofield's weak nature. Harry asked shrewdly. "The bottle?"

The butler nodded. "And I'm inclined to think that was the
last straw for Sir Barnaby. He took to doing such—odd things. Things a
man of his constitution had no business doing, if you'll excuse me for
saying so. He was, for example, driving a four-in-hand, and
quite—er—bosky, when he turned over."

"A
coach and four? Schofield
? But your
footman said it was a curricle!"

"We felt… the family felt… it sounded less ludicrous, sir."

"Gad! Had he become one of these looby amateur coachmen, then?"

"That, and worse." Dyer leaned forward, hands clasped between
his knees, his eyes full of sadness. "Sir Harry, I mean no disrespect
to the dead, but you being such a close friend… There wasn't
anything
he wouldn't do! Nothing too wild or too reckless! I used to go to bed
at night with the candle set out on the hall table, and Sir Barnaby
having told me not to wait up for him. And I'd lie there waiting for
the Watch to come—or the Runners… to tell us he'd killed himself.
Because—I think that's what he wanted. I think poor Sir Barnaby
wanted
to be dead!"

Before leaving the Schofield house Harry imposed on the butler
for the loan of pen and paper, and these being made available, he
dashed off three quick letters. The first was to Bolster, thanking him
for his help at Moire and explaining that he'd been unavoidably
detained but would reach the Priory within a few days. The second was
to his Hill Street residence, desiring that Anderson come at once to
Chichester, bringing some of the meagre funds he'd left in Town,
together with a valise containing sufficient of his clothes for a week
or so and his new drab greatcoat. His third letter was directed to
Mordecai Langridge, asking what he knew of the Carlson affair and
requesting that his reply be addressed in care of the Marquis of Damon
at Cancrizans Priory.

Dyer having promised to send the letters to the Receiving
Office at once, Harry shook him by the hand, thanked him fervently, and
refused his anxious offer to call up a hackney. His remark that 'his
friend' had promised to swing by and pick him up brought a look of
relief to the butler's worried eyes, and Harry took his leave, pledging
to return Major Bertram's garments, duly cleaned, at the very earliest
opportunity. He strode off down the lane at a brisk pace. The two
golden guineas Dyer had shyly begged to loan him would assure him of a
meal and a ticket on the stagecoach. He had no idea where Sprague Cobb
lived, but he'd heard that Lord Cootesby owned a small seat outside
Chichester, and to that lovely old cathedral town he intended to repair
as swiftly as possible. Schofield's death had come as a sad shock, for
he'd been deeply fond of the genial man. It had also delayed his hopes
of learning more about that fatal card game. Still, with luck he would
be in Chichester by early evening, and Cootesby, having been a friend
of his father, would likely be willing to put him up for the night, or
perhaps— He frowned at the sight of a drunkard weaving along the lane
before him, quite obviously scarcely able to navigate. Even as he
watched the man blundered into a tree and slid loosely downward. There
were no ladies within sight, fortunately, and he went over to help the
individual to his feet. "A trifle early in the day to be in that
condition, ain't…" The scornful words died in his throat as a
pathetically emaciated young face was lifted. The boy was obviously ill
and on the brink of collapse. Harry's concerned enquiry elicited the
information that he'd been wounded at Waterloo and had only recently
managed to work his way home. When it was revealed that he'd served
under the command of Timothy Van Lindsay (with whom Harry was sure he
had once dined in Madrid), there was nothing for it but to help the
poor fellow.

By easy stages and the benefit of Harry's supporting arm, the
youthful veteran was enabled to reach a small coffee shop near the
stagecoach office. He was, he imparted when the first pangs of hunger
were eased, Billy Ernest, and with the flicker of a smile he said it
had always been a joke with his mates that he had two first names. His
health was gone, the long battle to recover from a shattered hip not
likely to be won. But he said with quiet courage that he was nearly
home now, and if he could just reach Winchester and see his family,
he'd not so much mind dying. He looked as though he would probably do
just that and, his heart wrung, Harry said sternly that he couldn't
picture one of Van Lindsay's chaps selling out so cheap. A sudden spark
in the hollowed eyes encouraged him. He left Ernest rapturously
tackling a large slice of custard pie and hurried to the stagecoach
office. The coach from Chatham to Southampton departed in ten minutes;
it would stop at Chichester, and there was one seat left—outside. The
coach from Canterbury to Guildford would arrive in half an hour, and
connections could be made at Guildford with a stage that would pass
through Winchester. There was no way that Harry's gold pieces would
stretch to cover both journeys; nor was there any doubt in his mind. He
returned to Ernest and chatted with him until the last of the pie was
tucked away and a trace of colour had returned to the drawn young face.
Then he escorted him to the coaching station and, having exchanged a
few words with a sympathetic guard, left Rifleman

Ernest, the ticket clutched in one thin hand and tears of
gratitude shimmering in his eyes.

What had him fairly into the hips, thought Sergeant Anderson
glumly, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair in the solicitor's
waiting room, was where was the Captain? When the hackney had rattled
to a stop in front of the house an hour ago, he'd thought Sir Harry was
come back and his heart had fairly jumped through his ribs. Never had
he been so put about as to find that little twiddle-poop, Mr. Mitchell,
had slipped his leash and slunk back to Town. And what a roll of
flimsies he'd flashed in that purse of his! The jarvey had all but fell
off'n the box waiting for some of it to be put in his greedy paws! Good
thing
he'd
been there or nodcock Mitchell
would've give him a pound note 'stead o' the two shillings he warranted
for the journey from the coaching station.

Anderson rested his brooding gaze upon the frail, balding
little man who laboured at the tall desk just outside Mr. Crosby Frye's
inner office. Poor scrawny little chap. A nice life he must lead with
that cantankerous solicitor to bow and scrape to all day. A slippery
customer, Crosby Frye, with his smiles and subservient bows for the
Quality and snarls for common folks. The Sergeant could not help but
grin a little to recall how breezily Mr. Mitchell had strolled straight
into the inner office, without so much as a by-your-leave. The clerk
had seemed mesmerized by the young man's easy manner and pleasant
smile, not realizing until it was too late that Redmond had no
intention of stopping at his desk.

One thing, Anderson thought grudgingly; Mr. Mitchell had taken
the news of their changed circumstances calmly enough. When he'd walked
into the house and discovered the rooms bare of furniture, he'd paused
for the barest instant and drawled lazily, "Has my brother removed,
Sergeant?" And when he'd been told straight out that the Captain had no
more lettuce in the bowl, he'd looked only mildly surprised. Not until
he'd learned that his brother had been gone for five days and no word
had the smile left those grey eyes. They'd come here 'tooty sweet'
then, as the Frogs would say. Though what for, he—

A small bell over the door commenced to jangle violently.
Sergeant Anderson stared in astonishment as the clerk literally leapt
into the air and, with his tall stool toppling behind him, scurried not
for the office of his employer but for the outer hall. Lord, how the
chap ran! Like a scared rabbit!