The Prince in the Tower (6 page)

All
was clear.  Swiftly he looked about the ground floor of the tiny house, but the small sitting room and dining room clearly held nothing.  The noise from the green grew louder and subsided.  Kate seemed to be having trouble with either countesses or carriages, he couldn’t make out which. 

The dark boards of the ancient staircase creaked as he crept upstairs.  The autumn sun streamed through the diamond-paned windows, catching the dust motes in the air.  Two doors led off from the landing.  Edmund peeked into the first.  Books lined the walls.  S
everal were open on the desk.  A quill and paper were tossed on the blotter.  The good father obviously was in the midst of composing his sermon for the coming Sunday.

Edmund pushed open the door
of the room opposite, Father Flannery’s bedchamber.  It was sparsely furnished, with a crucifix hanging over the bed, the only decoration in the plain, neat room.  A bible rested on the bedside table, small bureau in the corner, a wardrobe against the far wall.

Ah, now that
was more like it. 

He closed the door behind him and with one ear cocked for possible
intruders, began a methodical search of the room.

The bedside table contained nothing save a perspiration-stained collar and a
tin box of cough drops.  Nothing under the mattress, save for a few racy prints of scantily-clad women.  Purely for professional reasons, Edmund held them up for closer examination.
Ahem.
  Father Flannery had very good taste.

But, alas, business before pleasure.  He stuffed the prints back under the ma
ttress and turned to the chest by the window.  It also revealed nothing, but as he turned back, the window seat caught his eye.  It gaped open ever so slightly.  Edmund flung back the seat and pawed through the various vestments.  On the bottom, crammed into a corner, was a red robe.  Edmund pulled it out.  Sure enough, amongst the elaborate embroidery were a handful of turquoise beads, and a bare spot with hanging threads where several were missing.

A
creak on the stair made him freeze. Swiftly he rolled the robe up and stuffed it back down into the window seat.  With any luck, Flannery wouldn’t notice it had been disturbed until Edmund had a chance to follow him.  There was no sense in arresting Flannery if he was nothing but a cog in the machinery.  For all anyone knew, there were pockets of counterfeiters all over England.  They all had to be taken together, or the next gang or the next would still be able to wreak havoc on the country.

The footsteps got closer.  Edmund sli
d behind the door.  Through the crack between the wall and the door, he saw a bewigged figure trudging up the stairs.

Mumbling a curse, he tip-toed to the window, but the casement was too small for a man of his size to squeeze through.  The bed was too high and too narrow to be a good hiding place.

The creaks turned into footsteps.  The doorknob turned.  Edmund dodged into the wardrobe, pulling the doors closed behind him.  The second door he had to hold shut with his finger.  Through the crack he watched as Father Flannery ripped off the wig, tossing it carelessly on the night table.  He ran a brush through his hair, shook out his shirt-sleeves, and reached for the black hassock.  Pulling it over his head, he turned to leave.  Edmund had just sighed with relief, when the wardrobe door flew open and he came face-to-face with a very startled priest.

“What --?  What the devil --?
”  he sputtered. 

“My good man,” Edmund oozed out
of the wardrobe in full fop mode.  “These costumes will not do, not at all.”  With a flick of the wrist, he opened his quizzing glass.  He directed a pained look at the selection of black or white hassocks hanging neatly on the hooks.  Waving his handkerchief, he continued, “Color, my dear sir!  I picture vivid blues and reds, with yard -- simply yards--of gold braid.”

Flannery opened his mouth, but Edmund ran ruthlessly over him on a wave of loquaciousness. 

“Plumes!  Grey plumes in honor of our beloved Cavalier would be a charming touch, don’t you agree?”

“Y
ou are trespassing in my bedchamber, sir!”

“A
nd so glad I am!  What wonders you’ve done to the place.”  He waved his arms as if to embrace the room.  “Clean, spare lines, modeled on a monk’s cell, am I right?  Marvelous.  I shall devote all my time to bringing it to fashion when I return to London.  I predict it shall be all the crack!”  He closed his eyes, clasping his hands in apparent ecstasy.  Father Flannery, looked dazed with such ruthless eloquence.

“No
w, you mustn’t keep me here chatting, sir, for my dear Kate has need of me.”  He lowered his voice, confiding, “Such a charming girl, yet oh, so scatterbrained, I fear.”

Edmund turned and
gaily twinkled down the staircase, Flannery trailing behind.

“No
w see here --”

Edmund came to
a sudden stop on the landing.  Flannery bumped into him from behind.  Edmund appeared not to notice, as his whole attention was focused on a rather murky painting of Jesus on the Mount.

“Exquisite,”
he breathed.  Assuming a posture of reverence, he flicked open his quizzing glass.  “I believe, and do correct me if I am wrong, but I do believe I detect the school of von Lampi the Elder.  Or do I?”  He flicked his handkerchief and continued on down the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Immediately, I promise, dear sir, I shall write a dear friend, oh, an expert, I assure you, no one knows more about Lampi’s work, and report to you directly.”

“But --
”

Edmund threw up his hand. 
“Nonsense.  I am happy to do so.  Don’t give it another thought.  My reward, as always, will be the exquisite pleasure of discovering for the world a heretofore forgotten masterpiece.”  He struck a noble pose, the sunlight shining (he hoped) like a halo on his blond hair.  With a kiss of his fingertips to a very pedestrian carved cabinet, he threw open the door with a flourish and toddled out, leaving the priest sputtering in confusion in his front hall.

Exhausted by his own eloquence, Edmund tottered around the
Rectory, mopped his brow, and ambled toward the green as if he hadn't just been rifling the personal belongings of one of the most beloved members of the village.  As he ambled, he could hear Kate haranguing her players.

"Ladies and gentlemen,
everyone in places for the hanging scene.  Now, please.  No, Ethan, we will not be drawing and quartering the Cavalier.  Marchioness, over here, please.  Maid, behind her, just a bit to your left.  Cavalier?  Has anyone seen Mr. Dalrymple?”

Edmund
sighed and debated the wisdom of making a mad dash for freedom.  Unfortunately, the rules of gentlemanly conduct weighed heavily on his conscience.  Not to mention Kate, standing in front of the platform, tapping her toe in irritation.  But when she saw him and beamed, her face lit up with unaffected warmth. 

Edmund stopped in his tracks, stunned. 
Her smile hit him like a cudgel to the skull.  Like an oaf, he stood, smiling back at her as the sun streamed down, lighting an orange halo above her head and her eyes sparkled only for him.  For a fraction of a moment, the world spun about them, the only two people in the world.  Then Kate shook her head, cleared her throat, and scowled.

"Are we all ready to begin
at last
?  Cavalier, mount the stage just here--"

Edmund paused as he walked past her and winked.  Kate did a double-take.

"What in heaven's name are you doing?" she hissed.

"Enjoying a beautiful day, my Kate."

Kate glared blushed as hot as a summer sun.  Edmund whistled as he strolled to the platform.

***

Kate watched in a combination of embarrassment and suspicion as her protagonist minced his way across the grass.  He’d probably been out flirting instead of learning his lines, but he certainly did look the part.  Perhaps the Ladies Aid had been correct after all.  The whole scheme was against her better judgment, but he'd been just as manipulated as had she.  Not to mention that after he’d taken up arms against Adam Weilmunster, and treated Bertie so kindly, she couldn’t quite summon up as much spleen against him as before.

Unfortunately,
her warm feelings were soon to vanish.

Clapping her hands for attention, she called,
"Alright, places please, everyone.  Marchioness, remember to speak up.  Townsfolk, a little more liveliness, if you will.  Remember, this is your hero, your savior from Cromwell who is being put to death.  Cavalier, no hanging until Mr. Rigby is able to rig up a device which probably won't kill you.”

“Thank
you,” Mr. Dalrymple replied, visibly moved.

“A
lright, let’s begin.  Places, please.  Cavalier, remember to be at your most noble.  You are dying for that cause which is most dear to your heart.”

The scene began well, but as it wore on, Kate frequently pausing the action in order to move people about the stage, she became aware of a slight tension in Mr. Dalrymple.  His mind seemed to be on other things. 

She wondered furiously what he was up to.  Finally, Father Flannery wandered across the Rectory grounds.  Mr. Dalrymple followed his progress with just the flick of his eyes.  If Kate hadn’t been alert, she would have missed it.  She swiveled her head in the priest’s direction.  Sure enough, he too sent a glance Mr. Dalrymple's way before he opened the door to the church.

Instantly her blood quickened as she picked up the scent.  The sooner rehearsal was over the sooner she could begin grilling Mr. Dalrymple.

“Thank you, very nice.  Now, if I could have just the jurors, please.  Let’s run over your scene as you decide the verdict.  Places.  Begin.”

By the time Mr. Dal
rymple edged his way toward the church, Kate was standing there ahead of him. 

“A
re you going somewhere, my lord?”

He grabbed her
arm and hustled her behind a tree.  “How did you--I mean, my name is Dalrymple.”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence more than you already have, Lord Granville.”

“Shush!”

Kate shushed.  She stood looking at him, eyes wide, inviting explanation.

“How did you find out?”

“I have my sources,”  she smirked.

Mr. Dalrymple gritted his teeth.  “The same ones, no doubt, which have assisted you in stealing and pawning all your ill-gotten gains.”

She smiled. 
“No doubt.”

They stared, each trying to read the mind of the other, when a commotion from the opposite side of the green made them look around.  A small pig
dressed in a Cavalier hat with grey plumes raced across the grass, squealing at the top of his lungs and scattering picnickers in his wake.  Kate staggered back against Mr. Dalrymple as the Amazing Oscar dashed for the platform, chased by a man wearing a matching hat and plumes.

“Come back here, ye daft porker, else I’ll make ye into bacon, I swear it!”

The pig galloped about the stage, his little hooves clicking against the unvarnished wood.  Several children, delighted with this development, joined in the chase.  The jurors laughed and cheered. Oscar, obviously believing this all to be a wonderful new game, kicked his heels, belched, a The piglet danced about, squealing gleefully.  The children in the crowd disgraced himself all over the stage.

The rehearsal ended in the
resulting melee of smells, gleefully shouting boys, and giggling girls.  When the dust had settled, Kate looked about for Mr. Dalrymple, but he was nowhere to be found.  While she picked up forgotten scripts, she saw him pretending to study his lines, but actually peeping into a window of St. Agatha's.

S
uspicion turned to anger.  Kate marched across the green into the churchyard.

“You--you--I knew it!” she hissed, eyes wide
in shock.  “You know who it is!  Who is it?  Mrs. Gordon?”  Kate named the housekeeper. 

Edmund smiled condescendingly.  “Certainly not.  I mean, no,
I haven't found out.  I mean, I was simply looking for the good Father.  I may want to become a Catholic.”  He tried to look virtuous and pious.

Kate restrained herself from rolling her eyes, but only with great difficulty. 

“Perhaps you might choose the door next time?” she suggested drily.

“It was the result of a head injury I suffered in the war,” this time he tried to look innocent and
pathetic and once again failed.

“I see.”  Kate thought furiously, but it was no use.  For the life of her she couldn’t im
agine why or how dear Mrs. Gordon could be involved in such a sordid affair.  She decided Edmund must be wrong, as usual, which was indeed not only a source of great delight, but handy for her plans.  One more robbery tonight, then time to lay low, what with dragoons flitting here, there, and everywhere.

Really, they were very much in her way.

***

Edmund yawned, fighting the urge to sleep. 
The more he'd thought about it, the more he was that Father Flannery wasn't the ring leader of the counterfeiting gang.  To accuse a man of the cloth, and one backed by all the might of the Catholic church at that, he would have to make sure every accusation and piece of evidence was above reproach.  It would be argued that he was simply an innocent dupe, used, like others, to pass the coin into circulation.  A priest wouldn’t be suspect, and who knew what sort of thing was put into the poor box or passed into the collection plate.  He had to get evidence more solid than a small turquoise bead.