The Constant Companion (17 page)

But of late, the lady had gone very quiet, paying him not much attention, head bent over a piece of sewing. Then, this morning, she had begun to speak to him in a deadly reasonable voice. She had stated that the gentleman who was paying him was a French spy, and that if he did not immediately release her then he would find himself dangling at the end of the nubbing cheat. She had actually said hangman’s rope, but Joe had translated that into his own cant.

She had seemed very sane, terrifyingly so. All Joe could do was to wait until the gentleman from London called on one of his rare visits, and see if he could get to the bottom of it.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a stranger who drew out a chair and pulled it up close to his own. In his slow way, Joe disliked the stranger on sight. He had a crafty look, although his sober clothes were of good cut.

But the stranger insisted on buying Joe a quartern of the landlord’s best ale, and under its influence Joe looked at the stranger with a more benevolent eye. He only looked a mean cove, decided Joe, because of the strange crab-ways movements of his long body. By the second tankard, Joe was prepared to slowly move his conversation from the poor harvest and give the generous fellow the story of his strange charge.

The stranger listened with flattering attention, until Joe at last ponderously voiced his doubts as to the lady’s insanity. “I’m a-telling you, Mr… er… that that there mort sounds as right in ’er ’ead as what you or me does. ’Appen she’m be telling truth.”

But at this fascinating piece of news, the stranger seemed to lose interest, putting his well filled purse away, shrugging himself into his caped carrick, and taking his leave. His lack of interest made Joe think that perhaps he should keep his thoughts about the young lady’s sanity to himself. Obviously people would rather hear about a madwoman. By the time he had staggered from the inn, he had convinced himself once more of his charge’s madness.

Bergen jumped on his horse and rode hard in the direction of London. He was very worried. He had found himself at a bit of a loss after quitting his employ at Lady Amelia’s. Thanks to the sale of the jewels, he had money enough and more. But his plotting nature was restless for lack of interest. He worried and wondered as to the reason for the murder of Lady Philip. And that was how he came to shadow Evans, following the secretary every time he left the house. The secretary’s calls and duties seemed boringly respectable, until one evening Bergen had seen him setting out in a hired carriage and had spurred his horse in pursuit.

His pursuit led him to the outskirts of a small village near Hounslow Heath. He watched Evans entering a barred and shuttered cottage. A light had then appeared in the downstairs window in one of the rooms where the old shutters were slightly broken. Bergen had crept up cautiously and put his eye to a crack.

He had nearly fallen back into the garden in amazement. Lady Philip Cautry was sitting in the candlelight talking vehemently to Mr. Evans.

Bergen could not make out the words, but the couple seemed to be very companionable together. He felt a cold knot of fear in his stomach. Constance had been unconscious when he had appeared on the scene with Bouchard, but what if Evans had told her about them? Rumors had reached Evans that Lord Philip did not believe his wife dead.

He had decided to wait around and see what news he could pick up. His investigations had led him to Joe. He decided now to go straight to Evans and strangle that gentleman until he told him what he was playing at. If Evans or Constance ever spoke, then he and Bouchard would find themselves on Tyburn tree dangling at the end of a rope.

On reaching town, he called at Bouchard’s lodgings in the rabbit warren of Soho. The ex-lady’s maid listened to him in growing fear and terror. “Let us go to Mr. Evans immediately,” she cried. “He owes us some explanation.”

But as they reached Lady Eleanor’s house, they were stopped short by the sight of the secretary being dragged down the steps by Lord Philip. In the flare of the flambeaux, the secretary’s face was puffy and bruised and tears were running down his cheeks. The couple drew into the shadows and listened.

“You could have saved yourself a great deal of pain had you told me the whereabouts of my wife in the first place,” Lord Philip was saying. “You shall conduct me thence, and then I shall turn you over to the authorities. You are a spy and a traitor and shall be treated accordingly.” Lord Philip turned to address Peter Potter who had appeared on the steps of the mansion. “Peter,” said Lord Philip, “help me guard this useless piece of carrion until I get my traveling carriage ready.”

Bouchard gripped Bergen’s arm. “That gives us time,” she hissed.

“For what?” queried Bergen, his face like a death mask in the flickering shadows.

“Don’t you see?” said Bouchard desperately. “It’s either them or us. We must kill them all.”

“You’re mad,” shivered Bergen. “How can we?”

“Get to the cottage first,” whispered Bouchard, “and when they’re all inside, bar the doors and set fire to it.”

“What of Cautry’s servants?” exclaimed Bergen. “D’ye think they’re going to stand back and watch us burn their master to death?”

“Fool! I shall get rid of them. Come, monsieur, I repeat—them or us. Do you think they will forget about us? Cautry will have every Runner scouring the countryside for us!”

“Quickly, then,” said Bergen, pointing with his weighted walking stick to two fine mounts tethered outside Lady Eleanor’s mansion. “Those will do. Can you ride?”

“Of course,” said Bouchard. “To save my neck I can do anything,
mon bonhomme. Vite!
”

Somewhere in Constance’s long imprisonment, the half frightened, rather immature girl had disappeared leaving an angry desperate woman. On each of his brief visits, usually during the dark hours of the night, Mr. Evans had been adamant. She would never escape, and must think herself lucky that he was a humane man and could not bring himself to kill her.

She had listened in growing dismay to his revelations. He believed in Napoleon Bonaparte as the savior of England. When the Emperor took his rightful place at St. James’s, the old effete aristocracy would be put to the guillotine and be replaced by the new—which would of course be comprised of men like himself. Mr. Evans had a vivid imagination, and his favorite dream seemed to be the one where Lady Eleanor was borne through the jeering crowds on a tumbril to have her haughty head lopped off.

The comte’s suicide had moved him greatly, and he also dreamed of erecting a monument to the “martyr.” All this nonsense seemed at odds with the secretary’s usual timid bearing and correct manner. Constance had at first wept and pleaded with him, but under the secretary’s timid exterior burned the fires of the zealot.

So Constance passed her weary days dreaming of her handsome husband, and often wondering how she had ever had the temerity to be rude to such a god. Only let her be safely back in his arms again, and he could choose her whole wardrobe if he liked and never, never would she raise her voice to him again.

Mr. Evans had bragged about his cunning in finding Bergen and Bouchard. Constance had not been at all surprised at the part taken in the plot by the sinister Bergen, but had been amazed at the evil of her own lady’s maid.

“I had that one marked out a long time ago,” Evans had said proudly. “Bouchard was once a lady’s maid before your employ, and lost her job then. She was suspected of taking her employer’s jewels, although nothing could be proved against her. No, she does not believe in our cause. She is simply a low type of woman who will do anything for money.”

“And what of Joe Puddleton?” Constance had asked.

Oh, Joe was nothing more than a village bumpkin, Evans had replied, with an aristocratic dismissal quite foreign, surely, to his democratic principles. Constance’s hopes had risen, and she had commenced her appeals to her jailer for help. But until this very morning, the stolid Joe had appeared to treat all her cries for help with great good humor and two large, deaf cauliflower ears.

The cottage in which she was imprisoned was built of wattle and half timbered. It had a heavy thatched roof. A small garden at the back was enclosed on both sides by high impregnable thorn hedges, and bordered on a swift river.

She looked out of the window at the front of the house at the cold wind sweeping across the stubble of the fields, and awaited the return of Joe.

The cottage consisted of two rooms, one for sleeping and one for eating. A small kitchen had been added to the back. Constance kept her prison well scrubbed and dusted. It was very cold that day, and Constance sat with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and debated which of the sparse pieces of furniture she should break up for firewood should Joe fail to bring any of the promised logs.

On days like this, she began to fear that Mr. Evans would succeed in keeping her locked away from the world forever. Would Philip be searching for her? Or would he console himself as he had done in the past with some available lightskirt? The thought of Philip in another woman’s arms made her feel slightly sick, and she closed her eyes in pain.

The wind howled and moaned in the chimney, and Constance turned her gaze back to the window. In the bare fields opposite, she remembered, she had watched the men gathering in the harvest and had beat against the barred windows, yelling and screaming until her voice was hoarse and her hands had bled. They had turned their heads away in a sort of embarrassed manner, and Constance realized hopelessly that, like Joe, they all considered her mad.

The burly figure of Joe appeared in view, carrying a basket and struggling with the large key to the cottage door which he kept tucked into his belt.

A wave of excitement suddenly crept over Constance. What if she were to stand behind the door with, say, the poker, and stun the man as he entered?

Desperate for freedom, she seized the brass poker and pressed herself against the wall behind the door.

Joe Puddleton stood on the threshold of the little parlor and stared about. “Now where mun ’er be…” he began when Constance brought the poker down on his head with all the force she could muster.

Joe swung round scratching his head. “There was no call for ee to do that,” he said, blinking stupidly at Constance who flung herself into a chair and began to weep miserably. The poker had made not the slightest dent in his thick skull.

Joe put the basket of food on the table. “I thought ee was a reasonable mort for all ee’s mad,” accused Joe. “But to hit a man with a poker ain’t fair.”

Almost sulkily, he turned and walked from the cottage, carefully bolting the door behind him, indifferent to Constance’s sobs.

After a long time Constance dried her eyes and settled back again into her usual mood of quiet resignation and despair. There was no clock in the cottage, so all she could do to measure the hours on a sunless day such as this was to wait and wait until the gray light faded to black, heralding the end of another weary day.

Usually she retired to bed as soon as darkness fell but this evening, for some odd reason, she felt as restless as the wind outside. The night seemed alive with strange noises. There were often noises of various wild animals, foxes, weasels, rabbits pursuing each other in their endless hunt, and the sudden hoot of an owl. But the scurryings outside seemed to hold a breathless menace. Almost as if
people
were scurrying around the cottage, thought Constance. There was also an increasingly strong smell of lamp oil, and she carefully trimmed the lamp and then sniffed at it but it seemed to be burning brightly enough. Joe had returned that evening to bar the shutters of the window of the living room as he did every evening, not trusting to the iron bars across the windows alone.

If I ever see him again, thought Constance for the hundredth time, conjuring up a picture of her handsome husband, not one word of criticism will I utter. Not one harsh word. Only please let him find me.

The scurryings outside ceased, the wind died down, and the night was very still.

Then she heard the sounds of horses’ hooves.

There was a creak of carriage wheels and the confused sound of voices.

“
Help!
” screamed Constance, louder than she had ever done before.

There came an answering shout, and the rapid sound of footsteps hurrying over the hard, frozen earth outside the cottage.

“Well, where’s the key, man?” demanded a well beloved voice.

“All in good time, me lord,” said Joe Puddleton’s voice. “I got un right here.”

My lord!

Hardly daring to hope or breath, Constance ran to the cottage door. There was a maddening fumbling at the lock, and then the cottage door swung open.

Lord Philip Cautry flanked by Peter Potter and Joe Puddleton stood on the threshold.

“Is there anyone else with you?” asked Philip.

Constance shook her head and took a faltering step forward. Philip moved to meet her and caught his wife in his arms.

“So she was a lady after all,” said Joe wonderingly. “Better than a raree show, this is.”

“Turn your back, man!” cried Peter. “Turn your back!” as Lord Philip bent his head to kiss his wife.

Lord Philip’s servants waited outside in his carriage, ready to dash to his rescue if need be. But all at the cottage seemed quiet. The coachman and the two grooms were feeling sleepy and tired, and wished his lordship would get on with it and let them all go home.

They did not see the dark figure of Bouchard, creeping up along the hedgerow.

In the next minute, a huge firecracker sparked and exploded right under the horses’ hooves. The terrified animals reared and plunged and then bolted in headlong flight. At the same time, Bergen slammed the cottage door shut and rolled a large rock, which he had ready for the purpose, against the low door so that it wedged under the latch, holding it shut. He lit a torch and stood ready and then turned a white face to Bouchard who had come running up. “I c-can’t do it,” he stammered. “Not all of ’em.
I can’t!
”

“Let me,” snapped Bouchard with a grim impatience worthy of Lady Macbeth telling her husband to screw his courage to the sticking place. “I had banked on that fool Evans being with him. We must finish this work and speed back to London and see if we can stop his mouth.”