The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (27 page)

Making his way towards the roped-off enclosure at the crown of the hill where the judges and contestants would gather, Cranford remarked to Duncan Tiele that the crowd was twice the size he’d expected to turn out on this wintry morning.

“The size of the purse is what’s lured ’em from their warm beds.” Clad in a superbly cut mulberry-red habit and short cloak, his wide-brimmed hat graced by the down-curling plume of a golden feather, Gervaise Valerian, the epitome of The Sporting Gentleman, joined them. “I see some of our family have come to cheer us on, dear coz.” He nodded to where General Lord Nugent was making his way towards them.

The General gestured and shouted something, and Herbert Turner hove into view from behind him, waving eagerly.

Valerian said, “Oh, deuce take it! The national bore is come amongst us! Fare-thee-well, cousin mine!”

Cranford grabbed his arm. “Wait up! It won’t kill you to say hello to the poor lad!”

“You’ve my permission to say hello for me,” said Valerian, wrenching free. “I haven’t the time. Try if you can palm off that flea-bitten kitten you tried to foist onto me, he’s just the type of gudgeon to take it!”

He melted into the crowd. Frowning, Cranford started to follow, but checked as his great-uncle and the young gardener came up with them. Turner looked wistfully after his fast-disappearing idol. The General slapped Cranford on the back and asked the reason for “that angry glare. If you was to ask me, I’d say your cousin had done you a favour. The Stansbury chit will make you a good wife, m’boy!”

Cranford murmured something appropriate, but the frown did not leave his eyes although his gaze had moved past Valerian. Farther down the hill, Henry Shorewood had been hailed by an individual he appeared wishful to avoid; a sturdy man clad in a long and voluminous cloak with the hood pulled close about his face. Even as Cranford watched, the barrister again attempted to walk on, only to be halted as the shorter man stepped directly and determinedly in front of him. Shorewood was obviously annoyed, but the cloaked individual refused to move aside. His face was lost in the shadow of his hood so that he was unrecognizable, but there was something about the tilt of his head and the way he moved that put Cranford in mind of someone: the alleged pedlar named Josuah. The sort of fellow whom so fiery and opinionated a man as Henry Shorewood should have been able to dismiss at once. But the lawyer was not dismissing him; in fact, he stood listening to the other man talk, and he looked increasingly troubled.

Cranford started down the hill, but his arm was seized and his great-uncle cried, “Are you gone deaf, boy? They’ve called your name twice—you’re dashed well keeping everyone waiting!”

Herbert Turner said shyly, “The judges are getting cross, Mr. Piers.”

Cranford glanced back. Sure enough, the other contestants
were already settling into their saddles, the horses sidling about restlessly Glendenning, already mounted, waved, flourishing something, and two of the distinguished gentlemen who would judge the race were gesturing imperatively. Hesitating, Cranford again looked down the hill. Both Shorewood and his persistent companion were gone.

A
n excited shout went up as the riders began to fall into line. It was a crowded line and contained, besides many of Cranford’s friends and acquaintances, some men he knew only slightly and a few he knew not at all. Glancing to either side, Cranford found Mathieson at his left, a smile on his dark face as he caught sight of his grandfather among the onlookers. Beyond Rumpelstiltskin, Glendenning’s Flame stamped and cavorted. Duncan Tide’s white mare was a short distance to Cranford’s right and behaving politely, with Finchley in the adjacent space keeping a hard grip on the reins of his mercurial big bay. Valerian swayed gracefully to the spirited antics of his black stallion, and on the far end Bertie Crisp held his chestnut mare nicely in check.

The horses, already restless, seemed to catch the excitement in the air. Even the gentle Tassels was quivering and dancing with eagerness, and the line was broken when Duncan Tide’s previously docile white mare suddenly bucked and spun, colliding with Finchley’s bay. Finchley swore and roared at Tiele to control his “damned fat hammer-head who’s as clumsy
as she is ugly!” The white mare was not a hammer-head, but she was certainly on the plump side. Tiele looked affronted and manoeuvred her back into line, but Finchley’s bay then plunged at Walker, Valerian’s black stallion. Valerian promptly dealt the bay a hard rap on the nose. Finchley flailed his whip at Valerian, who deftly reined Walker aside, and the whip struck another contestant who at once howled
“Foul!”
The horses milled and plunged and snorted, the riders struggling to calm them. The judges were called upon, and in the ensuing uproar Cranford guided the buoyantly dancing Tassels closer to Glendenning.

“Great sport, eh?” said the viscount, laughing. “At least your pretty lady is behaving herself.”

Cranford said urgently, “Never mind about that. I’ve been trying for a word with you. I’ve seen that pedlar fellow again, Tio. For heaven’s sake slip away when you can and—”

“When?” interrupted Glendenning, the smile fading from his eyes. “Where?”

“Here! A few moments since. Talking with the barrister I told you of.”

“Assuming it is he, why would our pseudo pedlar be talking with Shorewood?”

“Dashed if I know! Perchance because he saw
me
talking with the man and he knows you and I are friends. The thing is—”

“You saw his face? You’re sure ’twas him?”

“He wore a hood and was turned away from me. But—”

“Then you’re
not
sure, and I can’t back out because of your ‘perchances.’ You know that. Furthermore, if you keep sending me dagger glances, I’ll not give you this.”

Cranford took the small, soft packet his friend thrust at him. “What is it?”

“I wasn’t told. You’d best open it. I think we’re forming up again.”

Tearing open the paper wrapping, Cranford discovered a small square of cambric and lace with the initial
M
beautifully
embroidered in one corner. His heart warmed and he suspected his face did also.

Glendenning chuckled. “Egad! So the lady has sent you a talisman. Shall you wear it as you ride into battle, Sir Knight?”

Cranford tucked the handkerchief into the curling brim of his hat and said with a defiant grin, “You may be sure I shall. Now tell me quickly, is Perry here? Have you seen him?”

The viscount shook his head. “No, but his future brother-in-law came and is in high gig wagering on you. I’d wish you luck, old fellow, except that the best I can offer you is to come in second to my—”

His words were lost in a new roar of excitement.

The rope barrier had been pulled aside; a large yellow flag was swung high, then swept down, and they were off.

Crouched low over the saddle-horn, Cranford scarcely touched his short-necked spurs to Tassels’ sides. The mare was eager to run and sprang forward. They were down the hill in a flash, and he was exhilarated by the speed, the rush of cold air, the thunder of hooves, the drops of rain that struck his face like small hailstones. Tassels was moving very fast, her silken gait as smooth and unfaltering as ever. He held her to a steady pace. Mathieson and Finchley galloped past at great speed, neck and neck. Glancing back, he saw Tio and several others close behind, Valerian coming up fast and Bertie Crisp shortening the distance, while Duncan Tiele laboured along in the rear.

Across the meadow and over a low hedge. The first jump; not too difficult, but two horses balked and a rider was thrown. Now came a sharp swing to the right, across a rutted road with water gleaming ahead. Mathieson had the lead, with Finchley flailing his whip madly and his big bay charging along. Cranford stroked Tassels’ neck and prepared her for the wide stream and she soared over it like a silver bird. “Well done,” he exclaimed breathlessly, and felt the surge of her powerful muscles as if in response. Finchley was dropping back a little,
and Tio’s Flame moved up as they raced for the next hill. They were both ahead of Cranford and he saw Finchley’s whip lash out at Flame’s eyes. “Damned cheat!” he muttered furiously, and he let Tassels have her head, determined that even if he didn’t win, that poor sportsman would not.

The contestants had thinned noticeably as they thundered through a hamlet, the occupants lined up at the sides of the lane, holding pieces of sacking over their heads, but waving and shouting encouragement. Finchley’s bay took exception to the howls and the fluttering sacking and shied wildly, almost oversetting the viscount’s Flame. Cranford had to swerve to avoid colliding with them, and inevitably, he lost ground.

The flag-marked route before them now was lightly wooded, the lane narrow and treacherous as it wound between trees, bounded on the right side by a steeply descending slope. One of the race stewards was mounted and watchful as the first seven riders raced up, vying for position. In the lead, the viscount and Mathieson shot past him neck and neck. Finchley came up in a burst of speed, and seconds later forced his way between them with ruthless determination and a complete lack of sportsmanship, so that Glendenning was crowded off the lane and down the slope. Fighting to stay upright and unable to avoid a tree, Flame slammed against it. Horse and rider went down, the chestnut rolling, pinning Glendenning beneath her.

Cranford knew that to stop would end his chance to win, but no race ever run was worth the life of a good man. Cursing savagely, his heart hammering with mingled rage and apprehension, he reined Tassels off the lane and down the slope. He dismounted while the mare yet ran, and rushed to kneel beside the fallen man and call his name. Flame was threshing about as though half stunned. Glendenning lay twisted under her, face down. For a terrifying instant Cranford thought his neck was broken, then he heard the faint gasped-out words, “Can’t… breathe!” It would be futile, he realized, to try and pull his friend clear, and even as he reached out to calm her the chestnut
rolled over, her shoulders falling heavily across Glendenning’s head.

Springing up, Cranford talked to the mare as calmly as he could, praying that Tio wasn’t suffocating. The frenzied threshing movements eased a little as he stroked her sweating neck, then tugged on the bit. “Up, Flame! Get up, girl!” The great eyes rolled at him in terror. He tugged again, saying firmly, “Don’t dawdle about, pretty lady! Up! Now!”

Tassels wandered over and bent to snuffle at the fallen mare. As if embarrassed, Flame struggled to her knees, then with a lurch was standing, trembling violently.

Cranford bent to carefully straighten his friend’s head and turn him. Glendenning’s eyes were closed, his face covered with mud and blood from a cut on his brow. Reaching to feel for a heartbeat, Cranford saw the green eyes blink open. Intensely relieved, he whispered, “Thank God!”

“And… you,” panted the viscount.

“Are you hurt? Anything broken?”

“Just my…pride. Flame…?”

“She’s up and looks to be all right.”

“You saw?”

“I saw.”

“Then—get after that—that bastard! Can—make up time if you take… left fork… through the woods. Looks impassable. Ain’t. Mayn’t be… purely legal, but—”

“Legal—hell! I’ll come up with him, I promise. Will you be all right if—”

“I’ll be mad as… fire if you let him win! Go!”

The steward was riding along the higher ground, peering down at them. ‘Better late than never,’ thought Cranford, and mounting up, he shouted, “Take care of him!”

The man looked shocked, nodded, and urged his horse down the slope.

Following Tio’s directions, Cranford judged the left fork to
be indeed impassable, but just as the viscount had said, a path opened unexpectedly. Risking everything on Tassels’ unerring ability, Cranford urged her to a gallop. He held his breath as they shot through the trees, and emerging, discovered that the skies had darkened ominously, and that he was almost up with the other riders. Mathieson and Finchley now shared the lead. Valerian was close behind, surprisingly neck and neck with Duncan Tide’s white mare. They were close to the crossroads that marked the mid-point of the race. The lane was very muddy, but as he made the loop and started on the home stretch, Cranford spurred and Tassels streaked to catch up. Finchley yowled something profane, Mathieson looked surprised, Valerian, riding like a centaur and with not a hair out of place, was smiling his infuriatingly supercilious smile.

Cranford’s one thought was that whoever should win, it must not be Gresford Finchley, who had almost brought about Tio’s death. He passed Bertie Crisp and was gaining on Valerian and Tiele, whose white mare he guessed must be a mudder and had thus gained ground. Mathieson was alone in the lead now, with Finchley pressing hard, his whip flailing. A low stone wall loomed up, and beyond it a fast-flowing stream. Valerian and Tiele took the wall side by side. Walker almost cleared the stream but lost his stride at the bank and stumbled to regain his footing. Tiele’s mare sailed high but short and came down in midstream. She was, as Cranford had noted, quite plump, and landing close beside Valerian, displaced a great sheet of muddy water, inundating the dandy. Flashing past as Tassels cleared the stream neatly, Cranford caught a glimpse of an unrecognizable man of mud and with a grin heard the dandy’s spluttering howls of rage.