The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  “Then he has given it most ill-advisedly.”

  “Why? Is Miss Finchley an antidote?”

  “I’ve only seen the lady in the village, or at church occasionally, but she’s certainly not an ‘antidote.’ Her father loathes me, and is the kind to judge all gypsies as thieves and vagrants who should be shot as soon as may be. He’s already warned Florian off.”

  “Even as the girl beckons him on, eh? How is it that I’ve not the pleasure of her acquaintance?”

  “She was at a seminary for several years after they moved here. You met him, though. Last autumn.”

  “So I did, and was glared at with pronounced disapproval. He fought at Culloden, as I recall, and made clear his suspicions about my loyalties. Didn’t he once offer you and Perry some advice about your ‘treasonable’ friendship with me? He likely judges me to be as expendable as young Florian.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it. He’s the type to nurse his prejudices. Do you care to come and have a look at our collapsing bell tower?”

  The viscount said he would be glad to see Muse Village, again. “’Fraid I’ll have to leave you afterwards, old lad. I’m to dine with my parents and Amy, and I’ve not left myself a deal of time.”

  “What you mean is that you can scarce wait to get back to your lady. You poor besotted lovers are all alike.”

  “Oho! Listen to the crusty old bachelor expound on something he knows nothing about! If you’re lucky, one of these days you will fall in love, Mr. Indifference, and discover the joys of being ‘besotted.’”

  “But not today,” said Cranford. And he thought, ‘And certainly not with Miss Cordelia Stansbury!’

  They enjoyed a gallop through the crisp cold morning, and reached Muse Village neck and neck, with Glendenning boasting that his splendid chestnut had held her own against the much-praised Tassels, and Cranford declaring that he had very kindly held the filly back so as not to embarrass Tio’s “redheaded lady.”

  The air now carried the tangy aroma of burning wood, and smoke drifted from the chimneys of the thatched cottages. A few villagers were to be seen on the winding lane; hats were raised and greetings called to “the Squire.” Two women busily hanging out washing responded to Cranford’s greeting by saying shyly that they had to catch “a dry day.” A shabby but sturdily built man, his laden donkey cart nearby, was attempting to interest Mrs. Franck, the blacksmith’s wife, in the charms of a flat iron implement he called a girdle. Glancing at it curiously, Glendenning muttered, “Is the poor lady supposed to wear that thing?”

  Cranford chuckled. “It’s a cooking pan, you lunkhead! They’re suspended over the fire and used for cooking cakes and suchlike. If you’ve never tasted a little cake still warm, with butter melting in the middle, you’ve missed—” He broke off, mildly irked when his friend rode on, obviously having paid no attention to his explanation.

  Children came running along the lane, whooping with excitement, eager to greet their hero, “Left’nant Cranford.” Always an object of delight, Tassels was made much of, and betrayed no signs of alarm when many small hands stroked and caressed her. Glendenning was popular also, Flame came in for her share of admiration, and the two young men were soon surrounded. The viscount liked children, but it seemed to Cranford that today he was rather brusque and a tense look had driven the customary smile from the green eyes.

  The horses were placed in the care of two of the older boys and led off to the stable while the younger children scattered to homes and breakfasts. Walking towards the church, Cranford said, “I hear something rattling around in your brain-box. Are you finding me solutions, Tio?”

  “’Fraid not.” Glendenning glanced back. “That pedlar. D’you know him?”

  “If you mean have I bought any of his goods—no. But he comes to the village now and then and makes a few sales. I’m told he’s an amiable-enough fellow. Why?”

  “Does ‘now and then’ cover several years?”

  “Be dashed if I know. But… a few months, anyway. You don’t look pleased. Is he a slippery customer?”

  “I wish I knew. I’ve seen him before…somewhere…Can’t remember where. Only that he gives me an uncomfortable feeling. No—don’t look round. He’s still watching us.”

  “Mercy! You never think he’s after you? I thought you had escaped that sticky wicket.”

  “So did I. And very likely I’m borrowing trouble. Still, I’d be wary of him, your Squire-ship. Speaking of wariness, I’m surprised that old Perry ain’t come charging up here, and—Oh, egad! Only look at your poor church!”

  St. Mark’s, although small and unpretentious, was much admired and usually presented a charming example of a rural place of worship. The graveyard lay behind the church. On either side of the building were velvety lawns and oak trees that imparted an aura of serenity to the old structure. Today, however, the lawns and front steps were littered with debris, several stained-glass windows hung in shreds, a thick dust covered leaves and grass, and the missing top of the bell tower gave the church an oddly “headless” appearance.

  Cranford paused to view the damage in dismayed silence.

  Beside him, Glendenning muttered, “Jove! Another mess for you, Piers! Beastly luck you’re having.”

  Joseph Barrick, the curate, hurried to join them. A pale and rather high-strung young man with a nervous twitch, he expressed his gratitude for Mr. Cranford’s prompt arrival and led them inside, warning of the hazards of fallen masonry, glass, and splintered beams. Carpenters were busily erecting a makeshift cover over the hole in the roof, but Cranford realized sadly that most of the ancient and beautifully carven choir stalls were past saving. Glendenning, a fine amateur architect, was asked to comment on the work of restoration and delighted Piers and the clergyman by declaring that he knew some skilled artisans who could copy the carvings “so that you will scarce know the difference.” He became so interested in the details that eventually Cranford had to remind him of the time.

  They left the much-cheered cleric and reclaiming their horses, rode side by side until the viscount asked idly which cottage had burnt. Cranford shot an oblique glance at him and did not answer. Suspicion dawned in Glendenning’s eyes. Halting his mount, he demanded sharply, “Piers? It’s never old Ezra Sweet’s house? Gemini, but it is! Farewell, you unprincipled rascal!”

  Piers leaned to snatch Flame’s bridle. “Wait! It won’t hurt you to delay another minute or two, and if you’re with me the poor old fellow is less likely to—”

  “‘Poor old fellow’ my Aunt Samantha! He’s a perpetual rain-cloud, and crusty at that! Why you tolerate the creaking curmudgeon is more than I can—Hi! This is your chance, Piers! Build him a cottage on that piece of land you own outside Basingstoke! The Muse villagers will thank you, I’ll go bail!”

  “As if I could do such a thing! It’s little more than a swamp, and besides, he’d die of loneliness away from everyone he ever knew! And I ‘tolerate’ him, as you put it, because after we lost our parents, Dimity nigh went into a decline. It was Sweet who took her with him about the gardens and—”

  “And told her stories by the hour. Yes. I remember her speaking of it, but that was long ago, and he hadn’t turned into an argumentative old gaffer.”

  “Who put the joy back into the girl you wanted to make your wife at one time, as I recall.”

  “Well, and why not? Your sister is a very special lady.” Glendenning smiled nostalgically. “Fate has her own schedule, eh, Piers? Who’d ever have dreamt back then that Mitten would wed Tony Farrar?”

  “Or that you’d have found your beautiful Amy.”

  “To whom I must make haste!” Jerking his reins free, Glendenning said laughingly, “Go on, then. Listen to his moanings. But don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

  “Fair-weather friend!” Cranford watched as the viscount rode off towards Windsor and Glendenning Abbey, but checked his speed after a minute to turn and wave a farewell. Returning the wave, Cranford guided Tassels to the north end of the village to
inspect the charred ruins of his elderly tenant’s home. It was all too clear that the cottage was past restoring, and would have to be razed and rebuilt.

  “I ‘spect as you be a-sittin’ there and blaming poor old Ezry. And thinkin’ as old Ezry went to lie down on his bed and left the fire burnin’ and no screen up,” wailed a scratchy voice beside him.

  Cranford smiled down at the lined and sunken features of the frail, bowed old man who had once delighted his mother with his expert care of her beloved roses. “Now why would I think such carelessness of you?” he asked. “I know how conscientious you are, Ezra.”

  “So you says, Mr. Piers,” argued Sweet, feebly brandishing a gnarled cane. “But I sees that there frown in yer eye, and I knows what ye was a-thinking. Old Ezry be too doddlish t’be trusted any more, ye was thinking to yerself. Don’t mean to build me another house, I shouldn’t wonder. Not as it wouldn’t be shame on ye to kick a poor old soul out in all weathers, wi’ nowhere to rest his poor weary bones, nor no one to give a button whether he lives nor dies! Arter all the years he served ye, and yer father afore ye!”

  Dismounting hurriedly, Cranford promised, “Of course we’ll build you another cottage. And as for putting you out in the weather, I had understood you were staying with that pretty granddaughter of yours.”

  “Bessie don’t want her old granfer taking up space in her fine new house what were give to her by her new father ‘law. A real house that be, with a fine deep hearth and no draughts comin’ in the winders or round the door like my poor old place. Fair froze I were in the winter-time the way they draughts come whistlin’ in, nigh deafenin’ me ears! But did I complain? Never! And who cared? Not one single soul! Lone and lorn I be. Lone and lorn and outlived me usefulness.”

  He turned away, only to stagger a little, so that Cranford threw an arm about his shoulders. A tear gleamed on the weathered cheek and Cranford said bracingly, “Come now, Ezra. Cheer up. Mr. Consett is already having plans drawn for your new cottage. FU send him down to talk to you and find out how we can make things more to your liking.”

  “Aye, well, that young gypsy sprig had best come quick-like, fer poor old Ezry’s days be numbered, an’ chances are he’ll be called to his reward long ‘afore that there new cottage is built. Though even if it’s got better winders an’ more cupboards an’ a fine deep hearth it’ll be a lonely place fer a solitary soul, now that Bessie’s gone orf an’ turned hersel’ into a wife, an’ deserted her old granfer.”

  “Now, Granfer,” said a gentle voice. “What be ye a-saying to Mr. Piers?” Bessie Sweet, now Mrs. Tom Kayne, was a comely, soft-voiced young woman, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed. Flaxen curls were inclined to escape from beneath an immaculate frilled cap, the apron that encompassed her plump self fairly glowed with cleanliness, and there was about her an air of vibrant youth and health. Her fondness for her grandfather was well known, and she said with faint scolding, “Ye knows surely I hasn’t deserted ye, but has begged ye to move in with me and Tom; only you said you’d be more comfortable with Auntie Peg.”

  “And so I would. Who wants to move in with a pair o’ lovebirds, billin’ and cooin’ night an day? Bad enough yer Auntie Peg’s comin’ to chit and chat and plague me mornin’ to night! Enough to turn the stomach of a sensible man. And likely she’ll do nought but grouse about the new cottage Mr. Piers says he means to build me. Not as a humble workin’ man can trust anything as ’ristocrats promises. So—”

  “So that’ll be enough o’ that sort of talk,” chided Bessie, winking at Cranford, but sounding very stern. “’Tis past time for the cordial the Widder Macaveety wants ye to be taking, so stop yer grousing and come home now, do.”

  She took the old fellow’s frail arm and with a ruefully apologetic smile at Cranford led him off, nodding patiently through a snorted tirade about midwives “what don’t know peas from beans,” and gypsies who “only knows houses what a horse pulls!”

  Reprieved, Cranford decided to discover what was delaying Florian. He rode south, across-country, his mind wrestling with the various problems that faced him and the need to resolve them before his twin sensed that all was not well at Muse Manor.

  There was no sign of his young steward and he was approaching the stand of poplars that marked the southern boundary of his lands when he heard sounds of conflict: Major Finchley’s nasal bellow, and a younger voice, ringing with indignation, that told him he had found Florian.

  Emerging from the trees, he saw the horse and cart nearby and his new steward struggling in the grip of Sidney Grover and a sturdy stable-hand, while their employer laughingly egged them on.

  Cranford thought an irritated, ‘Not again!’ and sent Tassels cantering across the meadows to his neighbour’s drivepath.

  Catching sight of him, Finchley howled, “Off with you, Cranford! I warned this little rat what I’d do if he dared set foot on my property!”

  Florian’s face was bloodied and he looked white and spent. He panted, “There was a sign on—on the lane for a detour, sir. I followed, and—”

  “Cor, what shockin’ lies!” Grover, the Major’s head groom, threw a saintly glance at the heavens. “You knows as there weren’t no sign, Major, sir. Fact is this worthless gyppo was creepin’ ’round to annoy Miss Laura again.”

  “Not true,” gasped Florian. “The sign said—” He broke off, flinching as Grover twisted his arm savagely.

  Cranford said curtly, “I’ve no slightest doubt as to the truth of the matter, and if I discover you’ve tampered with a public right-of-way, I’ll have you in Court, Finchley.” He turned to Grover. “As for you—let him go!”

  “Ho, yus, I won’t” But despite the snarled defiance, the big groom hesitated, looking from Cranford’s stern face to his scowling employer.

  Cranford sent Tassels dancing forward. “I’ve no wish to trample you,” he warned, “but my mare is fond of Mr. Consett, and if she thinks you’re harming him I may not be able to control her.”

  A light tap of his spur and Tassels’ ears went back. She reared, then plunged forward, teeth bared.

  Grover and the stable-hand swore, but released Florian and retreated hastily.

  “I could have your gypsy shot for trespassing!” brayed Finchley. “And if you’ve trained that filly to be a man-killer, she’d best not threaten my people again, or I’ll not wait for the law to take action. I know how to deal with rogues—men or beasts.”

  “You certainly surround yourself with them.” Cranford dismounted and threw an arm about Florian, who swayed unsteadily. “And I’ve seen how you ‘deal with’ horses, which is the reason I’ll never sell you my mare.”

  All but gnashing his teeth, Finchley howled, “She was mine before she was yours! I wish to God I’d never given her to you!”

  “I’ll remember that the next time you get yourself trapped in a landslide.” Guiding the youth to the cart, Cranford called, “Now I come to think of it, you were on my land that day, and you never did say what you were about.”

  Aware that his men knew Cranford had saved his life on that occasion, Finchley waved them away and answered tauntingly, “If you want to know, I was looking over the Quail Hill property you’d just sold. Decided then that I meant to have it.”

  So the belligerent Major was indeed after the river parcel. ‘Damn!’ thought Cranford, boosting Florian onto the seat of the cart. “You seem to make a habit of coveting my property,” he drawled. “Another disappointment for you.”

  As always, the younger man’s cool self-control was fuel to Finchley’s temper and the hue of his cheeks deepened. “It ain’t your property now, confound you! I’ve made the Westermans a generous offer, and they’ve as good as accepted.”

  Cranford gave him a scornful glance but did not comment as he climbed to the seat, whistled to Tassels, and took up the reins.

  Watching with burning resentment as the mare trotted daintily to the cart, Finchley shouted, “No point in pretending you don’t believe me. The river parcel’s as good as mine!
What d’ye say to that?”

  “Giddap, Sport.” Cranford slapped the reins on the broad back of the ageing but still reliable bay gelding.

  Finchley heard a distant hoot of laughter. So his men were laughing at him behind his back! A pox on the lot of ’em! His temper soaring, he shouted, “Tour day is done, Mister High-and-Mighty Cranford! We all know you’re properly in the basket. You’ll be wise to sell Muse Manor and get out. We want no traitor-lovers in this neighbourhood!”

  Driving off, Cranford stiffened. Finchley was referring to Glendenning, of course, but as yet no one had been able to prove that the viscount had actually taken up arms under the banner of Charles Stuart. Tio’s remark about the pedlar reechoed in his ears: “I’ve seen him before somewhere… he gives me an uncomfortable feeling…” If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with his own concerns he would have stayed in the village and spoken to the pedlar. It would be just like Gresford Finchley to resent Tio’s rank and his assured manner and inform Bow Street or even the Horse Guards of his suspicions.

  Watching his grim face anxiously, Florian said, “I’m sorry, sir. I know you told me to avoid Finchley Park, and I swear I wasn’t trying to see Miss Laura! What it is…”

  “What it is, a trap was set for you, and you drove right into it. The Major’s a man who enjoys violence, and Grover’s cut from the same cloth, He marked your face, I see. Are you much hurt otherwise?”

  “They caught me a few good ones across my back when they dragged me from the cart. No worse than I used to get in the tribe.”

  “Well have Miss Jane look at you when we get home. Tell me, were you able to hire another waggon?”

  “Yes, sir. And two brawny ex-soldiers who are eager for work. They’ll bring the waggon out first thing in the—” He broke off, looking intently to the east. “Isn’t that Mr. Valerian?”

  Cranford followed his gaze. Some half-mile distant, a tall black horse was galloping up the rise. The rider was unmistakable: Gervaise Valerian, and going like the wind for once. What in Hades was the fellow doing here?