The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  Nondescript. A prime quality for an Intelligence officer. Cranford frowned uneasily. God send Tio had received his warning. The individual he’d glimpsed in the coach and the man with the hound might not have been Joshua Pedlar, of course, but—

  “If ’tis so important that you must scowl like a cannibal,” said Mary, watching him, “you should have asked Mr. Shorewood to describe the gentleman.”

  “I intended to. But I very stupidly fell asleep. Do cannibals scowl?”

  She laughed her musical little trill of mirth. “Good gracious, how should I know?”

  “I thought there might have been some on your island.”

  “Oh. Well, there were not. My natives were very gentle people, else I’d likely have been eaten long ago.”

  “You’d not have provided many meals,” he teased. “You’re too small and thin.”

  “I wasn’t then. Polite friends told me I was plump. Honest acquaintances said I was fat.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Like that.”

  He chuckled. “Tell me about the natives. Did you have any friends amongst them?”

  She slanted a sideways glance at him and he corrected, “Among the female population, I mean.”

  “Ah. As a matter of fact—Oh, no! Now see what you’ve made me do!” She held up the shirt-sleeve, the ruffles firmly sewn together.

  He laughed, and regretting it, instinctively raised a hand to his pounding temple.

  “Serves you right,” she said. “There is no cause to make mock of a simple mistake. I think you want for gratitude.”

  “No, but I truly am grateful, and it was a splendid effort, ma’am.” Sitting up, he said, “Never mind. Mrs. Turner will remedy matters.”

  “I can remedy my own matters. I’ll have this undone in no time. Lie down again.”

  “You are more than kind.” He stood and said with a smile, “But I really must be on my way.”

  She stared at him blankly. “On your way—where?”

  “Firstly, to see my brother and—”

  “And fib to him that you fell off your lovely Tassels, I suppose.”

  He bowed and restrained the impulse to hold his head on when he straightened up. “Besides which, I must call on Mathieson and discover the route they’ve laid out.”

  “What fustian!” Standing to face him, she exclaimed, “You are white as a sheet and cannot seriously mean to ride in that stupid race?”

  “But of course I shall ride,” he said gravely.

  She clasped his arm and protested, “No, Piers! You heard ’the doctor forbid it! You must not!”

  Touched by her anxiety, he smiled down at her and patted the small hand on his arm.

  From the open doorway, General Lord Nugent said, “But he must, Miss Stansbury. Your solicitude for my grandnephew is appreciated.” Briefly, his gaze rested on the hand that clasped Piers’ arm. With a broad smile he reiterated, “Greatly appreciated, but there have been wagers placed, and Piers is promised to ride.”

  Mary stepped back, and looking from one to the other, argued, “But what if this rain persists? They’ll postpone the race, surely?”

  “I expect they will,” lied Piers, striving to ease her kind concern.

  The General spoilt his effort, saying with a snort, “Nonsense! I hope the Steeplechase Committee is not so wits-to-let as to wait for a sunny day, else we’ll wait till the months lose their r’s!”

  Mary said dubiously, “I suppose that would mean May, at the soonest. But Tassels is such a dainty lady. I think she is not what my father would term a—a mudder?”

  “Nor is this a really gruelling cross-country race, m’dear,” argued the General. “’Tis a difficult course, I grant you, but at this time of year will be held to not more than five miles. Piers has accomplished much longer rides at the gallop, and under fire, to boot!”

  “Even so, I am sure that if the Committee knew he had been shot they would never expect it of him.”

  “I don’t want it known that I was so clumsy as to put my head in the way of a bullet,” said Piers quietly. “Besides, the race is to be run on Saturday. I cannot withdraw at this late date. Do you see?”

  “I see that you are eager to be rid of me,” she grumbled, gathering up the sewing-basket she’d borrowed from the housekeeper.

  “Never that. You are more than kind to have come and kept me company.”

  Mary tossed her curls and walked to the door, where she paused and turned back. “Don’t expect me to come and see you fall off Miss Tassels.”

  He chuckled. “Such a blunder would make your friend happy. Perhaps you should come.”

  She stared at him. “My—friend?”

  “Valerian,” he teased.

  His great-uncle gave an exasperated snort.

  “Oh—pooh!” exclaimed Mary, and left them with her small nose held high.

  “My goodness! These modern damsels want for manners,” murmured the General, looking askance at the swing of her skirts. Recovering, he amended hastily, “But at least her mama has failed to crush all the spirit from her.”

  “She has spirit and to spare,” agreed Piers.

  Brightening, his great-uncle asked, “You like her?”

  Piers said slowly, “She is a delight.”

  The General rubbed his hands together happily. “By Jove, but that’s much better, my boy! You’ll win her yet, or I’m a Dutchman!”

  “I tried to stop him.” Sitting beside Peregrine in the parlour of his comfortable flat, Zoe Grainger watched her brother hand Piers a glass of Madeira. “He was convinced something had happened to you,” she said. “If you’d not come just now, he would be on his way to Hampshire.”

  Fully dressed, but looking very worn, Peregrine eyed his twin without approval. “You look as if you’d been dragged through a blackberry bush,” he said bluntly. “And what the deuce have you done with your hair? If that’s the latest style, I’ll not bow to it!”

  Piers had been cautioned by the doctor not to wear powder, and had persuaded Lord Nugent’s valet to so arrange his thick hair that it would conceal the only partially healed gash on his head. Mrs. Turner had said the final effect was “charming.” Piers did not share the loyal housekeeper’s opinion, but it was the best they’d been able to achieve. “Unkind!” he said in an injured manner. “You should pay more heed to fashion, twin.”

  “Fashion, my eye! Don’t try to fob me off! You’ve been in a turn-up, or something of the sort. I sensed it yesterday, but when I sent Townes around to the Madrigal, they claimed not to have seen you since Tuesday.”

  The blue eyes were stern. Piers abandoned his carefully constructed tale of a fall down some area-way steps. Perry was far from well yet, but the bond between them was too strong for him to be hornswoggled by an outright fabrication. He said, “It’s to do with this upcoming race.”

  “Jupiter, but all the south country is wagering on it,” exclaimed Travis Grainger. “I’d give anything to be entered!”

  Peregrine said, “I hear Tassels is a favourite. Are you still besieged by offers? Or did some enterprising rogue try to steal her?”

  “I am most certainly still receiving offers. Even Gervaise Valerian tried to buy her. I refused, of course.”

  “Does he mean to ride, then?” asked Zoe.

  “So he says.”

  Travis refilled Peregrine’s glass, then sat on the end of the sofa, still holding the decanter. Clearly taken aback, he said, “You never think Valerian tried to steal her?”

  “That would be pointless,” said Peregrine. “Her colouring is too well known; he wouldn’t dare to ride her.”

  “Is it possible,” asked Zoe, “that he meant only to keep her from running?”

  Travis said, “I cannot believe that of Valerian. Whatever else, he is a gentleman. And you’ve no proof he was behind it, have you?”

  “I don’t accuse our graceless cousin.” Piers shrugged. “But somebody sent ruffians out to steal her. When I objected, my head paid the penalty.”

  “S
o that’s why you look out of curl,” exclaimed Peregrine, leaning forward intently. “Did you recognize the louts?”

  “No, but Miss Stansbury had a better look at them than did I.”

  Intrigued, Zoe said, “Cordelia Stansbury? You know the poor lady?”

  Piers nodded, and Peregrine murmured, “Wasn’t Valerian betrothed to her? Or am I thinking of someone else?”

  “No. You’re in the right of it. But they are no longer betrothed.”

  “To his shame,” said Zoe with disgust.

  “Aye. Well, I grant you he has small acquaintance with that word,” said Piers drily.

  Peregrine grinned. “And that properly throws him into the discard! But then you’ve never liked him, and I’ll own he’s harum-scarum. In the opinion of our venerable great-uncle he is a conceited, dandified popinjay.”

  “Bravo,” said Zoe. “The old gentleman is a good judge.”

  Travis laughed. “Well, I like him, even though I am outnumbered.”

  Piers put down his glass and stood. “Forgive this short visit, but I’ve to send word to Florian to bring me funds and more clothes. Cannot keep borrowing your wardrobe, twin. And then I must get to the stables.”

  Disappointed, Peregrine grumbled, “Must you rush off? I’d hoped you might stay for luncheon. I want to hear all that is going on at home.”

  “Your brother is concerned for his horse, dear,” said Zoe, and added demurely, “At least, I think ’tis his horse he’s hurrying to…”

  Followed by hoots and laughter, Piers fled.

  Despite the unremitting pounding in his head, Cranford instructed the chairmen to set him down at a good distance from the stables. This morning’s rain had stopped, but the afternoon was cold and a mist was beginning to swirl over the wet cobblestones. London looked grey and wintry, and already flambeaus were being lit here and there, creating small islands of brightness in the gloomy afternoon. Cranford walked slowly, apparently deep in thought, but with his keen gaze alert for any suspicious loiterer or vagrant.

  He reached the stables without incident. Tassels had been well cared for. She greeted him fondly, and the head-groom assured him that there had been no sign of anyone watching the stables.

  “No strangers lurking about?” asked Cranford.

  The groom’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Not that ’zackly, sir. One new customer, is all. An’ the gent only left his hack here fer a coupla hours.”

  Cranford tensed. “Did you know the man?”

  “Never see him afore, sir.”

  “What did he look like?”

  The groom, who had for a time been a prize-fighter, watched him curiously. “Nothin’ outta the way, sir. About yer height, but not a ‘top o’ the trees’ like yerself. A well-built cove, though. I says to meself as he’d likely peel to advantage. Nice spoken and perlite. A gent, certain.”

  “Hmm. What kind of hack?”

  “A fine beast. Sixteen hands; full of spirit; black as pitch.”

  “When was this? What was the gentleman’s name?”

  “Why, ’twere day afore yest’dy, Mr. Cranford. As to the gent’s name—le’see now…’Twere Gordon—or… Grant… Began with G, that I do recall.”

  ‘Valerian,’ thought Cranford, ’surely would not leave his first name?’

  “Judge!” exclaimed the groom, triumphant. “That’s it, sir. Mr. Judge!”

  Unable to wring any more details from the man, Cranford thanked him, and gave strict orders that two grooms were to stay in the stables all night, as there had already been an attempt to steal his horse. The groom, much shocked, promised faithfully that Tassels would be guarded “like she was royal!”

  Tipping him generously, Cranford left. The “gent” with the pitch-black horse may very well have been Valerian. On the other hand, there were many black horses in Town. If Mr. Joshua pedlar was in fact a very different article, he might also own such an animal.

  Cranford walked slowly up the steps to the Madrigal Club, wondering if it was purely coincidental that in the Bible, “Judges” was the book that followed “Joshua.”

  10

  The Golden Goose was a modest inn prettily situated on the banks of the river Wey not far from Woking. During the winter months it was a sleepy hostelry, most of its desultory trade derived from travellers suffering the poor road to or from London. On this cloudy Friday, however, the cobble-stones of the yard rang to the stamping of impatient and high-bred hooves; the chill air was rent by the snorts and whinnies of horses, the rumble of carriage wheels, and shouts of greeting as friend met friend. The solitary ostler had been augmented by three farm lads who shouted also as they rushed from one arriving coach to another; and all was noise and bustling good-humoured confusion.

  Florian Consett turned from the window of an upper room that overlooked the courtyard, and exclaimed as the door opened, “Good morning, sir! Blake packed some clothes, as you asked. What a crush! It’s almost as crowded as was the Fair on Mitcham Common last summer! I’d never have—” He broke off, regarding his employer in alarm, “Are you well, Mr. Piers? You’re extreme pale and look—”

  “Never mind how I look,” said Cranford, smiling as he threw his saddle-bags on the bed and crossed to slap his steward on the back. “You’ve worked miracles, as usual! However did you manage to secure a room for us? From what I could tell, half London is down here, and I was warned there’s not a bed to be had from Redhill to Windsor! I had visions of us sleeping in the stables!”

  The praise brought a pleased flush to Florian’s lean features. “You gave me advance warning, sir, else there’d have been no hope. I fancy you were the cause of that howl I just heard.” He started to unstrap the saddle-bags. “You’re one of the favourites.”

  “You mean Tassels is. No, leave that, if you please. I want you to go down and be sure she is well-quartered. And we must guard her tonight.”

  With his hand on the latch of the door, Florian paused and glanced back.

  “Trouble, sir?”

  “Yes. Some Mohocks—perhaps. Tried to make off with her near Hyde Park several days ago. Miss Stansbury and the General think ’twas an attempt to keep her from running.”

  Florian’s dark eyes had widened at the mention of Mary’s name, but he said only, “And you were able to spoil that attempt. But you didn’t come off scot-free, I think?”

  “The important thing is that Tassels wasn’t harmed. I’ve left her with Sudbury; I’m glad you brought him, but you’d best go and look to her, then I want to hear all the news from home.”

  Florian nodded and left. Cranford crossed the small chamber and peered out of the window. In the yard below, a group of young Corinthians moved towards the back door, conversing merrily at the tops of their lungs. Cranford recognized Bertie Crisp, a well-liked and wealthy marquis, whose round and cherubic features gave no indication of his passion for sports of all kinds.

  A splendid coach was being tooled deftly through the press of vehicles and the liveried footman ran to let down the steps and hand out a most elegant older gentleman, who glanced around idly, then raised a belaced hat to Cranford’s window. Opening the casement, Cranford called, “Welcome, Your Grace. Does your grandson ride, then?”

  “He does,” answered the Duke of Marbury. “Come down, Piers. I wish to see your famous filly.”

  Hurrying down the stairs, Cranford was swept into the boisterous crowd. Many of these sportsmen were old friends who thumped him on the back and shouted greetings, assured him their bets were on him, or warned that the odds were against him, since Roly Mathieson’s grand Rumpelstiltskin was entered.

  Cranford responded as best he might while attempting to win through to the door without offending anyone. He caught a glimpse of carelessly powdered red hair and a pair of blue eyes set in a freckled and familiar face that grinned at him, and he managed to dodge around an argumentative trio seeking to detain him. Shouting that he’d return directly, he gripped Duncan Tiele’s arm and pulled him into the passage lead
ing to the kitchens.

  “Whew!” he gasped breathlessly. “Well met, Duncan. What a crush!”

  “The price you have to pay for being a favourite,” said Tiele as they shook hands. “You still mean to ride, then? Heard you’d been hurt by Mohocks and was likely to cry off.”

  Cranford’s gaze narrowed. “Who told you that?”

  “Hi! Don’t slay me with that steely glare! Be dashed if I can recall who…Yes, I can, by Jove! It was Valerian. Leastways, I think it was… Kin to you, ain’t he? Claims he is, at all events.” Watching Cranford, the redhead chuckled. “Don’t like the dashing dandy, eh?”

  “The relationship is a distant one.” Cranford bit back the following “Fortunately!” and asked instead, “Are you entered to ride?”

  “Yes, but I know my chances are slim. Don’t have a hack who’d hold a candle to your Tassels. Or Mathieson’s animal, come to that. But strange things can happen during a cross-country race. I was surprised to hear you’d been accepted, not—No, do come down from the boughs, man! Egad, but you’re crusty today! I only meant that you don’t leave your place in Surrey very often; I’d not have thought a steeplechase could drag you away.”

  “Hampshire,” corrected Cranford. “And a fellow has to put in a social appearance occasionally, lest he fade from the memory of the mighty ton. We don’t all have flaming locks like yours to render us unforgettable. Speaking of which—who else is here? I saw Bertie Crisp, and Marbury just arrived.”

  “So he did. With his ladies, the old rascal.”

  “Ladies? I saw no—”

  Interrupted by a roar of laughter and recognizing a raucous howl, Cranford’s dark brows drew down briefly.

  “I see you’ve identified those strident tones,” said Tiele with a sly grin. “Finchley. Your neighbour, ain’t he? A former military man, like yourself.”

  Cranford grunted. “I resent the comparison. Is he riding, d’you know?”

  “Yes. And winning no admirers with his boasts that his bay cannot lose. It’s a grand brute, I have to admit. What, are you off? Stay and hoist a tankard with me.”