The House at Bell Orchard (15 page)

“Yes, you must return at once,” he agreed. “We shall follow you with all possible speed, but we cannot expect you to curb your pace to ours when every minute is precious. Pray God you arrive in time!”

“Amen to that, sir,” Piers replied gravely, and turned to take leave of Mrs. Brownhill. She gave him her hand, searching his face with kindly, anxious eyes.

“Take care, Sir Piers,” she besought him earnestly, “and may God bless you for all you are doing to help our poor girl. We have no children of our own, and she is very dear to us.”

He looked down at her, and for the first time a faint smile took some of the sternness from his face.

“To me, also, ma’am,” he said quietly, and kissed her hand, and then turned and went quickly from the room.

Within a very few minutes he was again in the saddle, spurring back the way he had come with an even greater sense of urgency than he had felt as he rode northwards. He was convinced now that everything Charmian had said the previous day was true, and the ugly word “murder” echoed constantly in his mind. If Miles Fenshawe had already killed in cold blood, he would not hesitate to do so again, once Charmian’s fortune was securely in his grasp, and Piers recalled Lavinia saying of Charmian’s supposed affliction “... death brings the only release. If God is merciful, it will not be too long delayed.” Oh, they were clever, cunning as the Devil himself, and Charmian was alone and unprotected in that accursed house by the sea, so many weary miles away.

He was determined to reach Bell Orchard that night, and so throughout the long summer evening he rode southwards at breakneck speed, halting only to change horses and once, briefly, for food and drink when lack of it brought an ominous weakness and dulling of perception. Darkness fell while he was still a good many miles from his goal, but it was darkness made luminous by the light of a waning moon, and though it slowed his pace it failed to halt him altogether.

It seemed, however, that nature was determined to thwart him, for as he approached the coast, a thick, white sea-mist came drifting and swirling about him, pearly with moonlight yet strangely deceptive, cloaking even the well-known road in unfamiliar guise and forcing him to slacken to walking pace while anxiety and frustration rose maddeningly within him.

The nearer he drew to the sea, the thicker the mist became, but he was in a district now which had been familiar to him since childhood, and he was able to leave the road and ride cross-country, guided as much by instinct as by physical sense. So he came at last to the crossroads near Wychwood End, where the great tree spread its branches, and would have ridden on without a pause had his horse not shied at a sudden movement in the tree’s black shadow. He curbed the animal with a firm hand, and then drew one of his pistols from its holster, saying imperiously:

“Who is it? Who is there?”

There was a moment of silence and stillness, and then a figure grew slowly out of the mist, resolving itself into that of a burly fellow in homespun, who said in a hoarse, placating voice:

“Bide easy, now, Sir Piers! It be only me, Clem Tappett!”

Piers relaxed, thrusting the pistol back into its place. Clem Tappett was one of his tenants, a farmer only a few years older than himself.

“What the devil are you doing, skulking there at this time of night?” He broke off as understanding came to him, and gave a short laugh. “Oh, no need to tell me! A thick mist and a calm sea—what could be better for running a cargo?”

“I’ll not deny that, your Honour,” Tappett agreed promptly, “but truth to tell, I be in two minds about having a hand in it tonight Free-trading be one thing, but when there’s murder abroad I’d as lief not be by.”

“Murder?” Piers voice sharpened suddenly. “What do you mean?”

“Why, sir, have ’ee not heard on it? Two lads found a corpse a-floating in the river below Jack Gods all’s cottage this morning. There were a rope about it, like, as though it had been weighted wi’ sum mat, but the rope were rotten and had broke clean through. A stranger to these parts, so they say. A shabby-dressed fellow wi’ red hair.”

“The man with red hair!” Piers repeated in a low voice, and then, with a change of tone so sudden that his hearer jumped: “How did he die?”

“Why, that be the queerest part on it, your Honour! They do say he were killed by a sword-thrust from behind, but—” he broke off, the sentence dying on his lips, for with a sudden exclamation Piers had set spur to his fretting horse. The beast plunged forward, kicking up a cloud of dust, and vanished into the swirling mist, but Clem Tappett could hear the furious rhythm of galloping hooves, receding from him along the road to Bell Orchard.

14

The Place of the Witch

Charmian, when Piers had carried her back to her room and left her there with Mrs. Fenshawe and Martha, had fought frantically to prevent them inflicting another dose of the drug upon her, but she was no match for the two determined women. The evil draught was forced down her throat, and because during the past few days she had learned to know and to dread its effect, all spirit immediately drained out of her. She collapsed on her tumbled pillows, sobbing weakly with exhaustion and despair, and Lavinia leaned above her, breathless and a little dishevelled, and said viciously:

“No doubt you think you have been very clever, but let me tell you, my girl, that you have destroyed any hope of aid from Piers Wychwood more surely than I could ever have done. Seeing you thus will have convinced him that you are ripe for Bedlam, and all you tried to tell him the sick fancies of a madwoman.”

She straightened up. and stood for a moment looking down at the huddled, defeated figure on the bed. Beside her, Martha Godsall stood with folded arms, stolidly awaiting her orders.

“I will go now to speed him on his way,” Lavinia said at length. “Martha, stay with her for a while, and if she is troublesome, tie her up again.”

She went out, and Martha seated herself grimly on a chair close by the bed. She would have had no hesitation in carrying out her mistress’s callous instructions, but Charmian was too spent from her previous efforts, and too dispirited by the futility of them, to give any further trouble. She rolled over and buried her face in the pillows, overwhelmed by a despair so absolute that she could have screamed aloud had she not been too utterly exhausted.

Her hopelessness was made deeper and more bitter by her brief glimpse of freedom, by those few moments with the one person whom she had believed to be both able and willing to help her. Even now it seemed incredible that Piers had not believed her; that he had spoken with her, held her in his arms, and still remained unconvinced. Now she was lost indeed, robbed even of hope itself. Miles would take her, and force her to marry him, and after a little he would kill her. No one would be suspicious; they would think her death the natural result of her supposed affliction, and say that Miles was to be admired for his unfaltering devotion to a demented bride.

After a while she fell into an uneasy slumber, and Martha, satisfied that for the present she would give no trouble, left her alone, taking care this time to lock the door behind her. Charmian slept for several hours, a brief respite from terror and despair, which rushed upon her again as soon as she opened her eyes. For a little she remained unaware of physical needs, but presently she realized that she felt hungry. The discovery aroused in her a dull surprise, for Granny Godsall’s potion had caused the mere sight of food to fill her with nausea, and much of her weakness was due to lack of nourishment. Now, although she still felt wretchedly weak, her mind was clearer and her appetite returning.

She pondered vaguely on the change, and reached the conclusion that she was becoming so accustomed to the drug that it was beginning to lose its effect upon her. The discovery aroused a flash of hope, which died as soon as it was born as she remembered her friendless state. Without help she could not even escape from the house, for her gaolers would not be careless enough to leave the way open a second time.

When, later, Martha brought her food, she was able to eat almost all of it, and felt a little better, but no physical improvement could lighten her despair. Rather did it serve to increase it, for it would be easier, no doubt, to endure what lay before her if her senses remained dull and confused. So the day dragged past, and the night, and another day, the slow crawl of the hours marked only by periodic visits from Martha or Lavinia, and repeated doses of the vile potion which no longer seemed to have its earlier, overwhelming effect. Neither of the women realized this, for the failure of her bid for freedom had induced in Charmian a lethargy of hopelessness which deceived them into supposing her still heavily drugged.

So on that still, summer night, when the house of Bell Orchard was sunk in slumber and shrouded in swirling mist, and Piers Wychwood forced his tired horse relentlessly towards the coast, Charmian lay sleeping fitfully, plagued by dreams through which her father and Piers, the Fenshawes and the murdered Jacobite passed in tormenting confusion. From one such nightmare she presently awoke to a reality more frightening still, to a man’s shadowy figure bending above her, and a strong hand across her mouth preventing any cry. Convinced that it was Miles, she lay rigid in a paralysis of terror, but it was Harry’s voice that spoke in a whisper close to her ear.

“Not a sound, m’dear, or it will be the undoing of us both! You have nothing to fear from me. Do you understand what I say?”

She nodded vigorously, putting up both her hands to tug at that which was covering her mouth. It was removed, enabling her to say in a breathless, choking whisper:

“Oh, help me, please! Save me from your brother!”

“That’s my intention,” he replied in the same tone, “and there’s no time to lose, for he means to take you out of England tonight. Do you feel strong enough to get up and dress?”

“Yes! Oh, yes!” Tears were choking Charmian’s Voice, tears of surprise and thankfulness at this offer of help from so unexpected a source. “I do not feel nearly so ill as I did a few days ago.”

He gave the ghost of a chuckle. “You may thank Amy for that! She stole the second brewing of her grandmother’s hell-broth, and replaced it with a harmless concoction of her own. I brought it from the cottage, and Lavinia never knew the difference. Now get up, and be as quick about it as you can, for there’s no way of knowing how soon Miles may come for you.”

He straightened up and moved away into the darkness, and she heard the faint click of the closing door. In a turmoil of hope and dread she did as he had bidden her, forcing her trembling limbs to obey the dictates of her will, spurred on by the fear that Miles might discover what was afoot and prevent her escape. She could not guess what had prompted Harry to come to her rescue, unless his action was simply one more expression of the ill-will which had always existed between the two brothers. Nor did she greatly care. The motive was unimportant; all that mattered was that he was prepared to lead her to safety.

She seized the first garments which came to hand, dragging them on anyhow in frantic haste, not pausing to struggle with the complications of tight lacing or whalebone hoops. She flung a cloak about her, pulling the hood up over her tousled hair, and then gathered up her trailing skirts in one hand, for with no hooped petticoat beneath they swept awkwardly about her feet. Tiptoeing across the door, she slipped softly out into the corridor, and Harry’s tall figure materialized silently beside her. Without a word, he took her free hand in his and led her towards the backstairs. Descending these, they passed through the kitchen quarters and so at last into the open air, and the mysterious, mist-wreathed silence of the stableyard.

Charmian was shivering with mingled apprehension and fatigue, and her feet stumbled on the cobblestones, for the past week had taxed her strength more than had been evident while she still lay in bed. Harry took her arm to steady her, and guided her across the yard and into the stables, where he released her and moved away, and she heard the scrape of flint on steel. Then the faint gleam of a lantern dispelled the darkness, and he looked across at her and grinned.

“So far, so good!” he said softly, and pointed to an upturned cask. “Sit there while I saddle the horses. I am going to take you to Wychwood Chase. You will be out of Miles’s reach there, and Piers will look after you.”

She shook her head, weak, painful tears rising to her eyes. “He will not believe that I am in any danger. He would not believe it yesterday.”

“He will now,” Harry replied grimly. “They dragged Rob Dunton’s body out of the river this morning.”

“The man with red hair?” she asked in a whisper, and he nodded as he set about saddling the mare which was Charmian’s usual mount.

“Miles was too damned careless to make sure it remained undiscovered,” he said. “Too careless, or too cocksure! Believe me, m’dear, our race here is run! I can see that, if Miles and Lavinia cannot, and I’ve made my plans accordingly. Once you are safe at Wychwood, I am taking Amy and the boy and leaving while I am still free to do so, for I doubt whether even my father’s ingenuity can save the situation now.”

She studied him with puzzled eyes. “Surely any delay must increase your danger,” she said diffidently. “Why are you risking their safety, and your own, just to help me?”

He shrugged, apparently intent upon the saddle-girths. “We owe you something for bringing the boy safe home that day. That is Amy’s feeling, at all events, and I’ll not deny she has been plaguing me to help you. Besides—oh, confound it! Perhaps I am not quite such a scoundrel as I thought I was. Miles is a merciless young devil, and I would always have been plagued by the thought that I could have saved you from him, and did not.” He finished saddling the mare, and paused, fondling the animal as he looked across at Charmian with a strange expression in his eyes. “Oh, the devil! You had best know the truth. Miles murdered your father.”

She caught her breath and pressed a hand to her lips, for even though she had suspected this to be the truth, it was a shock to hear it so bluntly confirmed. After a second or two she asked in a shaken whisper: “How?”

“Dunton will have told you how we followed him to your home that night,” Harry replied. “We had been there before, and, though your father did not know it, had a key to the garden-door. When we found that he knew the truth, I tried to persuade him not to betray us, but Miles wasted no time upon words. He stepped close beside him, and shot him through the head before your father realized that he was armed. Then he clasped his dead fingers about the pistol and we made our escape, locking the door behind us.” He came out from the mare’s stall and turned to pick up the other saddle which, like the first, he had earlier placed ready to hand. Then he paused and looked at Charmian with a more serious expression than she had ever seen in his face. “There are few kinds of villainy I have not had a hand in at one time or another,” he said quietly, “but I’ve no stomach for cold-blooded murder. Twice now I have seen Miles kill a man who was unarmed and defenceless, and he would have killed you with as little compunction as soon as he tired of you, and your fortune was safely his.”

Behind him the door swung slowly open, its hinges creaking, and against a background of pearly mist stood the slim figure of Miles himself. Harry dropped the saddle and swung round with a curse, and Charmian shrank back, uttering a little, gasping cry of horror.

“Not ‘would’, dear brother, ‘will’,” Miles drawled, stepping into the stable. “Upon my soul, I have yet to hear a more nauseating mixture of sentimentality and hypocrisy upon the lips of any man! So Harry Fenshawe has a conscience, has he? That is a jest indeed!”

Harry, recovering quickly from the shock of his brother’s arrival, uttered a short laugh and whipped his sword from its sheath.

“Is it, b’Gad?” he retorted. “Then here’s another, damn you! I am no helpless sheep ripe for slaughter! Guard yourself!”

He sprang forward as he spoke, so that Miles was obliged to fall back out of reach to gain time to draw his own weapon, and the doorway was left unguarded. Harry, following him, flung an urgent command over his shoulder to Charmian.

“Take the mare and go, before we have the whole household about our ears! I will settle matters here!”

Charmian, stirred from the numb horror which held her prisoner, obeyed with trembling haste. Backing the mare from her stall, she led her out into the yard, and with the aid of the mounting-block there, scrambled into the saddle. The vicious scrape of steel against steel rang still from the stable as she urged the nervous animal forward, out through the open gate at a reckless pace and along the path which led to the woods and the ford below Wychwood Chase. She felt no compunction for her flight. Harry, vigorous and active, was surely more than a match for his dandified young brother, and in any event she could have done no good by remaining. The noise was certain to rouse the servants, and they would not hesitate to drag her back to the house.

In the treacherously dim light of the stable, the two brothers were fighting with grim concentration. They were evenly matched, though Harry’s greater height and length of reach inclined the odds very slightly in his favour, and they had fenced together often enough to have the measure of each other’s skill. Even after the sound of Charmian’s headlong flight had faded into silence, neither had succeeded in gaining any permanent advantage. Miles, goaded by the possibility of his prisoner escaping, and, in doing so, bringing him to answer for his crimes, fell back a pace, and then another, and his left hand reached out furtively towards a bridle which was hanging against the wall.

Securing a firm grip upon it, he dragged it free and with the same movement slashed its steel and leather across his brother’s face. Harry uttered a cry of pain and flung up his hands, the sword falling from his grasp, and Miles’s blade drove viciously into hi undefended body.

He slid to the ground, and his brother sprang over his writhing figure and, slamming the stained sword back into its scabbard, strode to the stall which housed his favourite grey. He led the horse out without troubling to saddle it, and vaulted on to its back. He needed no one to tell him whither Charmian had fled; there was only one place where she was likely to seek refuge.

Charmian herself, unaware of the fate which had befallen her rescuer, was fleeing in blind panic, and something of her terror communicated itself to the mare. At a headlong gallop she thundered across the park and plunged with scarcely any slackening of pace into the woods, along the grassy ride which had grown so familiar to Charmian by daylight, but where mist and moonlight between them had now wrought a strange transformation. Here, caution compelled Charmian to check her speed, in spite of an overwhelming desire to find herself safely within the stout walls of Wychwood Chase. Then only might this nightmare horror end, and safety and sanity once more take possession of the world.