The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (20 page)

It had been difficult to question Mr. Davis without seeming to do so, especially since the old gentleman tended to ramble off at a tangent each time he was almost brought to the point. “Not until I made a remark about tramps,” Adair answered. “That properly sent him into the boughs. He was convinced some vagrant had been watching the farm and was after Walter's horse.”

“More likely, he was after Walter,” said Lady Abigail, looking grim.

Cecily said, “Especially if Walter's boasting was overheard.”

“In which case,” said Adair, “Davis sealed his own fate, for he would have been judged a potential danger to his ‘fine gentleman.' I only wish I knew what he was hired to find.”

“My little curate had the notion it was a legal document—perhaps a will,” said Lady Prior.

Her eyes wide, Cecily exclaimed, “Only think, there might be some great fortune at the root of all this scheming. Perhaps we should try to discover who may be in the way of coming into an inheritance.”

“An inheritance!” exclaimed Lady Prior. “
Now
I remember where I met Willoughby Chatteris! And you should too, Cecily. It was about two years ago, soon after the Warren-Wyants inherited the title and the fortune. They had been poor as church mice, if you recall, and to celebrate hosted that splendid Christmas party.”

“Yes, of course!” said Cecily, laughing. “They were trying and trying to persuade a gentleman to dress up as Father Christmas for the children, and Mr. Chatteris and his niece arrived all unsuspecting with an adorable puppy the Warren-Wyants had ordered for their little son.”

Lady Prior nodded. “Your uncle was pounced upon and bullied mercilessly, Adair. He had no least chance to escape!”

“Uncle Willoughby was their Father Christmas? Jove, but they must have had to use several pillows.”

Cecily said, “And a false beard. He looked so funny, but the children adored him, and I do believe he…”

The rest of her remark was lost upon Adair.

‘A beard…'

The Nunnery of the Blessed Spirit …

The Mother Superior with the French accent …

He knew now what had struck him as so odd about the nunnery.

And that he must return to Blackbird Terrace at once.

*   *   *

The prospect of journeying after dark did not appeal to Lady Prior and she decided to overnight at the nearby home of a friend. The coach pulled up when they reached the Basingstoke Road. It was agreed that if anything new was learned it would be shared immediately.

“If you should wish to reach me,” said Adair, “Miss Minerva Chatteris at Blackbird Terrace will know where I may be found.” His gaze slanted to Cecily. “I am very sure my cousin would welcome a visit from you both.”

“She might be more pleased to receive Rufus,” said Lady Prior tartly. “For some odd reason he is much admired by the ladies. Miss Chatteris is not engaged, as I recall?”

“My cousin is now betrothed, ma'am. To Mr. Julius Harrington.”

My lady was tired and having snapped that she had “never heard of him,” told Adair they must not delay since it was already dusk.

He climbed from the coach at once, conscious of a reluctance to say his farewells to these ladies who had joined the small band who believed in him. To Miss Cecily Hall, especially.

*   *   *

The lodge gates were wide and there was no sign of Gatekeeper Bailey when Adair reached Blackbird Terrace. Uncle Willoughby must be entertaining guests, or perhaps Aunt Hilda had returned. To judge from the uproar at the kennels, something had caused the dogs to be wild with excitement.

He rode towards the stables, but detoured abruptly when he saw that the front doors of the house stood open.

A shrill scream brought him from the saddle in a flash and he raced up the steps, tearing the pistol from his pocket.

The entrance hall was lit by a single candle. A lamp lay smashed on the floor and oil was spreading. He checked as he saw one of the footmen lying motionless, but there were sounds of desperate conflict from farther down the corridor and he dared not delay. Running, rage seared him as he heard Minna screaming and Uncle Willoughby shouting hysterically.

A rough male voice roared a demand to “hand 'em over! Quick-like!”

Adair burst into his uncle's study and a scene of chaos.

Minerva was struggling in the arms of a burly ruffian wearing a head mask. A second intruder, similarly masked, was wrenching out the drawers of the desk, while Willoughby tore at his back and alternately screeched curses and dire warnings of retribution.

Adair levelled his pistol and shouted, “In the King's name! Stop or I'll blow your head off!”

This grisly threat caused the two bullies to jerk around and stare at him.

He waved the pistol and demanded, “Take your paws off the lady. Now!”

Minerva was released. Weeping and panicked, she ran to Adair.

The rogue at the desk saw, as did Adair, that she would pass between them, and he sprang to grab her.

Adair leapt forward and whipped her clear, then fired, and with a scream the thief staggered back to lean against the bookcase and clutch his arm.

The ruffian who had held Minerva ran at Adair, a dagger upraised.

Adair tore off his cloak and sent it swirling out to envelop and blind his attacker, then flailed the butt of his pistol at the head of the floundering man, who melted to the floor without a sound.

Minerva screamed, “Hasty!”

The sound of the shot had alerted others. Adair heard someone behind him and dodged aside, barely avoiding the knife that would have plunged into his back. He drove his fist hard at a masked face and as the man reeled back the hooded mask came away in Adair's hand, revealing familiar brutish features. From behind came a powerful chopping blow to the base of the throat that staggered him. An iron hand seized his arm and wrenched away his pistol. He tore free, and from the corner of his eye saw that Uncle Willoughby had vanished; in his place were three more of the thieves, these rogues not wearing masks.

Something smashed against his back and he was sent hurtling across the room. He collided with a chair and crashed down, but managed to retain sufficient of his wits to roll away from the poker that whipped at his face. He clambered to his feet again. Once more the poker whizzed at him, a savage grin behind it. He ducked, then kicked out. A choking wail, the grin vanished and the poker fell. He snatched it up and whirled around; ready.

“Finish the bastard, you clods!” screamed a pain-filled voice.

The fellow he'd shot, thought Adair, crouching. The remaining three bullies spread out. They were uniformly big and muscular, and his back throbbed and his side was hurting like hell from his collision with the chair. It would be very agreeable, he thought grimly, if Uncle Willoughby or some of the servants came to help. Now.

Whatever else, these hirelings knew their trade; as one man, they charged.

Hopelessly outnumbered, Adair gritted his teeth and vowed to leave his mark on the ruffians. He beat a club away, then swung the poker in a deadly arc that sent his assailants into a hurried and profane retreat, but they pressed in again at once. A knife glittered from his left and the poker became a sabre that he rammed under the knife wielder's ribs, drawing a howl from the man. A fireplace log was hurled, and brushed Adair's ear as he ducked. A long club flailed out and his sway to the side wasn't quite quick enough; he felt the impact excruciatingly. Blows seemed to rain at him from all sides. The poker was beaten from his failing grasp, his bones turned to sand and his eyes grew dim.

As from a long way off, he heard two vaguely familiar howls:

“Tally ho!”

“Into the breach!”

Feet stumbled over him and he was dully surprised to find that he was on his hands and knees. Each time he attempted to climb up, he was trampled down again. In a remote and dispassionate way he thought that it was difficult to judge which was the most painful; his head or his side …

He'd never had much time for hunting, but he was at the hunt now and the hounds were quite out of control. They'd knocked him down and were jumping all over him, barking madly, licking his face. He opened his eyes and struggled to his knees through a sea of tails.

An ear-splitting gunshot sliced through the bedlam.

A feminine voice screeched, “Jolly good, Miss! Now I'll fire off this here blunderbuss!”

Horrified yells mingled with a frenzy of barking. Boots stamped in a mad rush to escape. Shouts, barks and scrabbling claws faded …

“After them, you men!” Uncle Willoughby's voice, unfaltering and shrill with excitement. “Smash the filthy murderers! Scrag the whole perishing lot!”

“I say, old top,” panted Paige Manderville, hoisting Adair up by his right arm. “Your—your uncle's a—”

“A regular Tartar!” gasped Toby Broderick, gripping Adair's left arm.

Identifying the voices although he seemed unable to pull the features into focus, Adair said feebly, “Jolly nice…'f you to … drop in.”

*   *   *

“If you hadn't come when you did…” Her touch very gentle, Minerva bathed the gash behind Adair's ear and shook her head. “Heaven only knows what might have happened.”

Seated at the kitchen table, and all too aware of his various scrapes and bruises, Adair said faintly but doggedly, “What I want … to know—” He stopped with a gasp as she pressed a pad against the cut.

“Hold that,” she commanded. “And don't talk.”

“But—”

“Hush! Pray allow me to tend to poor Mr. Manderville. And as soon as we have the house secure and all our wounded cared for…” Her voice trembled. “Then—you must all lie down upon your beds. Oh, my!” She pushed back the hair from Manderville's forehead. “What a nasty graze!” Hands busy again, she said, “I am so sorry that you were hurt when you and Mr. Broderick came so bravely to our rescue.”

“Just a—a little bump, ma'am.” Paige smiled up at her dazzlingly. “Nothing to make a fuss over. And it was a tidy brawl while it lasted. I'm only glad we were in time to help.”

Adair managed, “What … brought you here, anyway?”

“Among other things”—Manderville slanted an oblique glance at him—“Toby has something to show you.”

At this point, it occurred to Adair that neither Broderick nor his uncle was present. He frowned and tried to collect his muddled thoughts. “Where is everybody, Minna?”

“My uncle and Mrs. Sylvan—our housekeeper, Mr. Manderville—are helping the servants who were hurt. Our butler was knocked down; he is not a young man and is badly shaken. And our footman was quite brutally beaten. We have sent a groom for the apothecary, but I doubt he will come before morning.”

“How fortunate we are to have your brave self to—to pamper us,” said Adair.

Manderville agreed admiringly. “Yes, indeed, and with never a word of complaint when most ladies would be in high hysterics. Thank you so much, Miss Chatteris. You're a very brave girl.”

Minerva blushed shyly, and in some confusion said that Mr. Broderick had gone with Burslem to check on Gatekeeper Bailey and to put the dogs away.

Manderville grinned. “I never saw so many tails wagging in one room. They accompanied us when we arrived. You've some jolly fine dogs, Miss Chatteris.”

“And you are being gallant and stoical, when I'm sure your poor head must hurt dreadfully,” she said. “Now I must put some basilicum powder on that nasty cut, Hasty, and then we'll get you to bed.”

“But I want to know—”

“In the morning, dear.” And with a courageous attempt at levity, she added, “Let us hope your quarrelsome friends don't come calling again. I'm only joking, Hasty. I know you don't really know such dreadful people.”

Adair smiled but said nothing. He might not know the louts, but the one whose mask he had torn off had been with the group who attacked him in the Pilgrim Arms. His head was aching too fiercely to attempt intelligent reasoning. One word only came to mind. Coincidence…?

*   *   *

Adair was dismayed to discover when his breakfast was carried in that it was almost ten o'clock. He had not rung for a tray, but the nervous maid who brought it whispered that the master was in his study, with the constable expected at any minute, and had asked that the young gentlemen keep to their rooms till the officer of the law had come and gone.

“What a drefful thing to happen, sir,” she quavered, setting the tray on the small table by the windows as he requested, and spilling coffee into the saucer. “If ever I heard of such a thing! All them wicked villins a-bursting in and frighting everyone! Will you like another egg, sir? I declare I never worked in a house where robbers broke in. What my mum will say I doesn't know! There's more toast, if you want.”

He assured her that the toast, ham and eggs were quite sufficient, and having ascertained that nobody appeared to have been seriously injured last night, sent her off.

He found it difficult to spread marmalade on his toast, the knuckles of his right hand being scraped and swollen, but the awareness that he'd landed a good one on the nose of one of the thieves was consoling. His head throbbed persistently, but the mirror on his dressing-table told him that, although the cut behind his ear was surrounded by a bruise, his face was not damaged to a degree that would further alarm Minna. A much larger bruise and an ugly graze across his ribs bore mute testimony to his collision with the chair, and when he peered at his back with the aid of a hand-mirror, he discovered a livid welt that would certainly alarm his cousin were she to see it. All in all, however, he'd come off comparatively lightly, which was more, he thought with satisfaction, than the intruders had done.

Before he finished his breakfast the maid returned with an ewer of hot water, his laundered shirt and neckcloth, and the information that the constable was now with the master and that Miss Minerva was down at the kennels.