The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (37 page)

Cranford sent Tassels out from the trees. Whatever their justification, they were dogging his steps, probably reasoning that eventually he would lead them to his friend. Staying well back, he followed the two hunters and smiled grimly when they came to the gallop once more. Clearly, they had caught sight of Valerian, who was riding like the wind. This development, Cranford told Tassels, might very well work to his own advantage. The two Intelligence agents, or whatever they were, would certainly help him to free Mary. He would give something, he thought, to see their faces when they came up with the far from amiable dandy!

Riding at the rear of the small procession, he was following the hunters now, rather than his cousin, but minutes later Valerian was briefly in sight as he rode headlong into a patch of woods. Recognizing his tactics, Cranford slowed and waited. The two hunters did not. In hot pursuit they tore in amongst the trees. Cranford grinned as, sure enough, after a very few minutes Valerian left the woods and rode northwards, almost immediately being lost to view. The hunters rushed from the trees, milled about for a minute, then galloped to the west. Cranford shook his head and, following Valerian, was able to catch a glimpse of him about a mile ahead. He observed his earlier precautions, this time also keeping a weather eye behind him in case Joshua “Pedlar” and his sergeant realized their mistake and changed course.

Clouds were drifting in, and the moonlight was often dimmed. Straining his eyes, Cranford was begining to wonder if the dandy’s objective was the Scots border when, without warning, Valerian disappeared from sight.

“Where in Hades did the fellow go?” he muttered impotently.

Again, he waited, but this time it was as if the earth had
opened and swallowed up Walker and his devious rider, and the big black horse did not reappear.

Cranford rode forward cautiously. The ground was irregular now and he was obliged to slow. He came into an area of boulders and sudden deep hollows where grew holly and wild blackberry bushes and stunted trees. There were no woods to offer a place to hide. Valerian had probably skirted such a forbidding place… but if he had he would surely have reappeared from one direction or another. He had not reappeared; therefore…“‘Seek and ye shall find’” Cranford muttered, and dismounted.

Leading Tassels, he wandered about. It was very dark and when the moon’s light was extinguished he blundered into hidden obstacles. He trod carefully, which was fortunate, for without warning the rocky ground took a steep downward plunge, the slope becoming so precipitous that he had all he could do not to fall. He could hear Tassels struggling and sliding behind him; his legs were bombarded by the shower of rocks and shale she displaced, so that he was glad of the protection offered by his riding boots. He caught at a rocky outcropping to steady his balance, praying that this small but deep ravine did not end in a sheer drop, but within a few more steps he was relieved to find that he had reached more or less level ground.

The moon beamed forth once more, revealing stone clifflike walls that rose, steep and forbidding, all around him. Tassels nuzzled him and whickered nervously. He told her how bravely she had made the difficult descent, but knew he had blundered into one of the deep hollows he had judged impenetrable. Valerian had come this way, certainly, but he was not in this particular hollow. Unless… He tethered the mare to a shrub and began to explore, pulling aside bushes and vines that grew at the foot of the cliffs but finding only solid rock behind them.

Determined to search elsewhere, he started back to Tassels, halting in astonishment because the mare appeared to
have lost her head. He raced to her and discovered that she was still intact, having found such a delicious shrub that she had pushed her way into it. “You naughty glutton,” he scolded, reaching for the reins. His arm progressed farther than the cliff face. With a jolt of the heart he pushed the branches away and discovered a deep fissure in the rock, sufficiently broad and high to admit a horse. “Clever girl,” he murmured and, leaving her outside, crept forward.

Initially, the darkness was so intense that he could move only by feeling his way, but gradually the gloom eased to a sort of twilight and he was able to distinguish that he stood in a large natural cave. There must, he thought, have been water coursing through here in the distant past, for the rock had been moulded into strange shapes and forms. Once he encountered an arched doorway, standing unconnected and alone in the middle of the cave. A moment later he halted, his heart pounding as a tall man hove up before him, then drew a steadying breath when he saw that the “figure” did not move and was in fact a disconcertingly lifelike formation of twisted rock.

He saw then that at the far end of this cold but wondrous chamber there was a distinct glow on the wall. He took the pistol from his pocket and cocked it. Valerian must be the world’s prize fool, he thought scornfully. Mary had loved the clod for years and when he’d had the chance to wed her he had drawn back. Now, having changed his mind and condescended to offer for her, she had rejected him. (Just as she should!) He must have realized too late what a gem he’d allowed to escape him. Mary, bless her independent spirit, had dared to humble him, and it was typical of his arrogance that he had determined to so compromise the lady that she would be forced to become his wife. Probably, it was the first time he had been handed such a set-down. One thing was certain: dandy or not, he would be unlikely to surrender her without a fight.

Following the light, Cranford trod with care over the uneven
floor. Soon, he could hear talking; more than one male voice. So, as he’d suspected, Valerian did have an accomplice! The cave began to narrow, then turned sharply to become a passage from which shone the light. He heard Valerian say something about “leaving,” and knowing he must not lose the element of surprise, he strode quickly around the corner and into a smaller and brightly lit inner cave.

Valerian was here, sure enough, bending over a rough bed. Enraged, Cranford forgot he had more than one man to deal with, and levelling the pistol shouted, “Take your hands from her, you miserable cur, or—”

With a snarl of rage, Valerian straightened. A sword seemed to leap into his hand. “Damn your eyes!” he cried furiously. “So it
was
you so hot on my trail! I might have guessed it!”

Cranford said nothing. His pistol sagged and he stared in stunned silence at the bed.

Cordelia Mary Westerman Stansbury was not the occupant. Instead, the last person he would have thought to see lay there. A man, emaciated, his drawn white face marked by suffering.

“Sir… Simon!” he gasped.

Sword levelled, Valerian sprang at him. “Do not count your blood money yet!”

Cranford leaped back, raising the pistol again.

“Gervaise! No!”

The dandy halted in reluctant obedience to that imperative command, then retreated to stand between his father and Cranford, crouching slightly, sword at the ready. “We’ve no choice, sir,” he said in a gritty voice Cranford had never before heard. “Even were this pest not a reserve Army officer, he is greedy for gain and would hesitate not an instant to betray you for the bounty. Hell not send you to your death whilst I live to prevent him!”

“I very much doubt that Lieutenant Cranford intends to betray me,” said Sir Simon feebly. “Do you, Piers?”

Staring at the small and sleek black kitten curled up in the
crook of the sick man’s arm, Cranford said, mystified, “Betray you for—I mean—how? Why?”

“Oh, a fine performance,” sneered Valerian. “If you do not mean to betray us, why did you follow me?”

“A home question,” said Sir Simon. “Gervaise told me he changed direction frequently. You must have been quite determined to discover me.”

“He is determined indeed, Father,” agreed Valerian. “Determined to keep from losing his precious estate. He’d sell his own mother to prevent that!”

“The devil I would,” said Cranford indignantly. “Much you know of it! And what is this talk of betrayal? You fought for the King in the Uprising. Glendenning saw you. And I know your father was not involved.”

“I was not on any battlefield,” Sir Simon declared wryly. “But then, neither was my friend, Geoff Boudreaux.”

Cranford stared at him speechlessly. Lord Geoffrey Boudreaux had for long been suspected of aiding fugitive Jacobites to flee the retribution of an angry government. His grandnephew, Trevelyan de Villars, had been up to his aristocratic ears in such perilous activities and had escaped England badly wounded and barely one step ahead of a troop of dragoons.

“You
—cry friends with—with
Trêve de Villars?…
” said Cranford, incredulous.

The sick man stroked the kitten and glanced to his son. “I suppose you would prefer I not answer that, dear lad,” he said apologetically.

“Dear lad?”
Baffled, Cranford looked from one to the other, and reading the affection in each face, waited.

Valerian drawled, “Oh, by all means, sir. Tell him everything! Hell not leave here alive, at all events!”

“You must forgive my son,” said Sir Simon. “He tends to become violent if I am threatened, you see.”

“He…does? But—I thought—Everyone believes—”

“Yes, I am aware. Gervaise hatched that scheme early in
the game, but—pray be seated, Piers, and I’ll let him tell you. I tire easily, I’m afraid.”

Cranford uncocked the trigger carefully and returned the pistol to his pocket. His hands were muddied. Ignoring the sword that Valerian levelled at him, he sat on a makeshift chair that had been constructed of rocks and tree branches, drew out his handkerchief and began to wipe off his hands. Mary’s lost bead had also come from his pocket, and he ran his thumb over it absently, intent on the drama unfolding before him.

The dandy scowled at him, but lowered his sword and growled, “Since you’re said to have the brains in the family, Lieutenant, sir, I fancy you’ve already come at the root of it.”

“Sir Simon is a Jacobite sympathizer and—”

“Not so! My father holds no brief for the Stuarts!”

“But I was horrified by Cumberland’s tactics at, and after, Culloden,” explained the invalid.

“That’s when it started,” resumed his son. “We were fairly sure that Lord Boudreaux was assisting fugitives, even then, and what must my reckless sire do but rush to join the effort. For some time I suspected where his sympathies lay. But when I realized how deeply he was involved, the chances he was taking—the very real possibility that he could be caught at any time! Well, in short, I manufactured our famous “quarrel” so that, if it became necessary, I—”

“Could come to my rescue,” put in Sir Simon, with a fond smile at his heir. “And, alas, he has done so indeed—to his peril.”

Vastly intrigued, Cranford asked, “You were caught, sir?”

“In the very act of driving a caravan full of refugees—yes. I was ambushed by dragoons, but fortunately being disguised, I was not identified. I took a pistol ball in my back, but managed to hide, and was for many months nursed and given shelter by my—friends. Gervaise searched for me, but…” He shrugged.

Gervaise said grimly, “The people who were shielding him
hid him too well. By the time I was able to find him, my father was a very sick man.”

“And still being sought, no doubt.” Cranford nodded. “The Army does not give up easily when traitors—” He bit his lip and broke off. “Your pardon, sir. But I am amazed that you have been able to survive for so long.”

“Had it not been for Gervaise, I would have been dead long ago. But he bribed doctors, paid huge sums for medicines, places of refuge, and numerous conveyances, brought me down here by one desperate escape after another, and in so doing I fear has sadly depleted his inheritance.”

“So there you have it,” said Gervaise, watching Cranford narrowly. “And you will eagerly carry the word back to your noble great-uncle, no? Perchance it may restore the lustre to Lord Nugent’s somewhat tarnished reputation. But you should not have put up your pistol, soldier. You cannot draw it now before I have you impaled on my sword!”

“Unless,” said Sir Simon wearily, “Piers will give us his word not to betray us.”

“For the love of God!” exclaimed Gervaise irritably. “How could we trust his word? Why do you think he followed me so persistently and even managed to negotiate the back entrance?”

Awed, Sir Simon exclaimed, “You never did! Not with your beautiful grey filly, I trust?”

“Yes. Though it was too dark when we started down for me to see how steep it would become. In fact, Tassels is still tied! I must go and—” He glanced down at the bead he held. “I must get on! I’ve already delayed too long! I came to rescue Miss Stansbury from your lecherous clutches, you great villain!”

“Rescue…Mary? What the deuce—” Gervaise sprang up, his sword glittering as he prepared to attack, and said thunderously, “I am neither lecherous, nor a—”

“Hush!” Sir Simon lifted his hand. “What is this you say, Piers? If the lady has been harmed, I promise you my son has no knowledge of it.”

“I realize that now, sir. And I must admit I have sadly misjudged my—cousin, and owe him my apologies, but—”

“The devil with that!” said Gervaise, restoring his sword to the scabbard. “What of Miss Cordelia—or Mary, as you call her? Has she been harmed?”

“She went walking. When she failed to return at dusk, a search was launched. Her cloak was found on Quail Hill, where she often searches for the beads from a necklace that broke there.”

“Has there been a ransom demanded? Any note or letter? Deuce take the filthy swine! If they dare harm her!… And why, devil take you, would you think I had stolen the lady?”

The kitten stretched and rolled over luxuriously.

Cranford pointed out with a slow smile, “You stole my cat.”

“Your
cat!” Gervaise, who had reached out to stroke the kitten, jerked his hand back and reddened. “I found Pixie and had a perfect right to adopt her!” He added with a trace of defiance, “I’ve no use for the foolish beasts, but my father chances to like cats.”

“Which is neither here nor there,” said Sir Simon. “Piers, do you really think someone has kidnapped the lady?”