The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  “Great heavens, man! What if he has? Everyone knows we’re friends of long standing. True, I did see Valerian at Prestonpans, but I doubt very much that he saw me, since I was flat on my back at the time. He ain’t in need of the ready—rolling in it, I believe. And what could he tell the authorities regarding my more recent indiscretions?”

  Cranford was frowningly silent and the viscount said carefully, “Y’know, Piers, you’re one of the most honourable fellows I ever met, and I’ve never known you to judge unfairly. But—well, in this particular instance I think you allow your dislike of Valerian’s kinship to ascribe more villainy to him than he warrants.”

  “And you admire him, do you? Just what about him do you find admirable? His behaviour to his unfortunate sire? His treatment of poor Miss Stansbury? Scarcely sterling qualities, Tio.”

  “No. And I didn’t say I admire him. Certainly, he’s a rake and a dandy and wildly irresponsible. I just don’t think those traits indicate murderous treachery.”

  Cranford’s headache was becoming more and more intense. Trying to ease his discomfort, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I hope you may be right. And I shouldn’t have said what I did. The fellow just…” He drew a hand across his brow and said wearily, “But aside from that, I’ve thought to see the alleged pedlar—who goes by the name of Joshua, by the way—watching me since I came up to Town.”

  “In London? You never mean it!”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I thought—I thought I’d told you he may have been with the lawyer fellow who helped us after the attack in the park.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Er—no. I was knocked out of time. But the description could well fit him. And I’d swear he was in a coach that followed me back to my club on Tuesday evening.”

  Glendenning swore softly. “A simple pedlar don’t drive about London in a coach. I wish to heaven I could recall where I’ve seen him before. If he is a Runner, or with Military Intelligence, I take it you assume he’s following you to get at me.”

  “It’s a possibility I think we can’t afford to ignore. You’d be well advised to stay out of tomorrow’s race, Tio.”

  “Aye. And so would you, old fellow.” Watching this lifelong friend anxiously and deciding he was properly gut-foundered, Glendenning said, “You’re not exactly at the top of your form.”

  Cranford responded to that concerned scrutiny with his slow smile. “Tassels is, which is the important thing. And to echo your own remark, I can’t very well back out now, can I?”

  “You could let Florian ride in your stead. He’s a lighter weight and a better rider than—” Glendenning dodged the cushion that was hurled at his head and said with mock indignation “Just for that piece of savagery, I shall retaliate by asking how it came about that you were riding in the park with Cordelia Stansbury.”

  “You know the General’s orders.”

  “Yes, but I’d understood she don’t want you. Are you colouring up because you’ve taken a fancy to the notorious spinster? Have a care, Piers. If her heart still belongs to—Aha! So that’s what is adding to your dislike of the Dangerous Dandy! Our confirmed bachelor has succumbed at last to Cupid’s—”

  Fortunately another cushion was within Cranford’s reach.

  An hour later, sitting on his bed while pulling on his riding boots, after an all too brief sleep he pondered the viscount’s taunts. Mary Westerman’s bright image was clear in his mind’s eye. He had to own that he found her a pleasant companion—and a courageous one, at that. Faced with a future that would crush most gently born girls, she put up her little chin and refused to be crushed. She was not blessed with a kind-hearted mama, and her sire, who might have shielded her, appeared to have retreated from his obligations and the social world. Her aunts, eccentric as they may be, were evidently fond of her; at least she had that consolation. But she’d implied that she did not mean to accept their hospitality on an indefinite basis. She had a Plan, she’d said. He wondered what it might be, and found himself hoping it was not another outrageous escapade that would sink her even farther beneath reproach. Not that he had anything to say in the matter. Admire her he might, and certainly he was grateful for her kindnesses, but he had no intention to give his heart to a lady who was deep in love with another man. And of all men, his revolting cousin! Besides, what had he to offer a lady? Neither title nor fortune, and an estate so encumbered it would be a miracle could he hang on to it.

  Inevitably, his thoughts turned to the Manor. He’d sent Florian off with a brief letter to Aunt Jane. Despite her cheery note he knew that good soul would be worrying. So would old Ezra Sweet, and the curate, and Oliver Dixon, poor fellow, struggling to recover from the flooding. And there was his twin, to whom he’d made a solemn, if silent, vow that he would have his beloved Quail Hill and build his house…

  So many people relying on him, trusting him… He tossed his shoulders back, fighting the need for sleep. Almost he could hear again the voice of young Bobby Peale, his under-groom: “None of us wants to lose our family.”

  He thought fiercely, ‘Well, you won’t lose us, lad! I have Tassels, and no one can beat her! Well win tomorrow, and the purse will solve all—or almost all—our problems! Come hell or high water, we’ll win!’

  Yet it was not the image of his beautiful dapple-grey that brought the slow smile to his lips, but a very different beauty with a delightfully curvaceous figure, a bewitching mouth and hazel eyes full of mischief.

  11

  The urgency of Cranford’s need to talk with the viscount had caused him to allocate the first two-hour shift of the night watch to Sudbury, the second to himself, and the last to Glendenning, since Tio had insisted he also had a highly valued horse to be guarded. It was a quarter past midnight when Cranford hurried down the stairs, reproaching himself because he was late, having come near to falling asleep while pulling on his boots.

  Despite tomorrow’s race many of the inn’s guests were still celebrating, the sounds of their revelry following him as he closed the side door.

  The night was very dark, low-hanging clouds obscuring the stars. But a cold wind blustered about, setting the naked tree branches to rattling, and occasionally chasing a cloud away so that the half-moon’s silver radiance could brighten the sky.

  Walking swiftly to the stables, Cranford was wide awake now and alert for signs of trouble, but he heard only the wind, the distant and desultory barking of a dog, the muted noise from the inn, and a loose shutter somewhere that creaked and occasionally slammed when caught by a stronger gust.

  Everything looked calm and comparatively peaceful. His taut nerves and the sense that all was not well could likely be ascribed to his desperate need to win tomorrow, and to the knowledge that so many relied on him. “Don’t borrow trouble” he told himself sternly. But he stood well to the side as he swung the barn door open with one hand, and kept a grip on his pocket pistol with the other.

  A sleepy voice called, “That you, lieutenant, sir?”

  “It’s me,” confirmed Cranford. “Twelve o’clock, and all’s well!”

  The response to his light-hearted impersonation of the Watchman was silence and then a loud snore. Irked, he strode into the circle of light cast by the lantern that hung from an overhead beam. Sudbury was sprawled on a bench, leaning back against Tassels’ stall. The sturdy groom was indeed asleep. Beside him, a tankard of ale had fallen over and deposited a puddle on the straw-strewn planks. It was behaviour quite foreign to the faithful groom, who at times had a tendency to become too explicit in his descriptions of his “contrary innards” and had for years declared it not worth the price he had to pay if he dared take more than one tankard of ale.

  “Wake up, damn your eyes!” cried Cranford angrily.

  His only answer was an even more resonant snore.

  A grown man didn’t usually subside into a drunken stupor after one tankard of ale—less, since half the contents of the tankard appeared to be soaking into the floor-boards. Cranford bent over
the groom, gripped a sturdy shoulder and shook him hard.

  Sudbury opened a bleary eye, peered at him without recognition, muttered something unintelligible and went back to sleep.

  Impelled by a sudden and strong sense of danger, Cranford drew his pistol and spun around.

  There was no one behind him, but then a dark shape, all arms and legs, plummeted down from the hayloft. The pistol was smashed from his hand before he had a chance to fire. They were both down. He lashed out fiercely and felt his blows strike home. A knee rammed into his middle, driving the air from his lungs and doubling him up. Boots were running at him. Something struck his head with brutal force, bringing an exquisite anguish. The scene became blurred…

  From far away, a hoarse voice snarled, “Damn him, but he’s quick! Knocked me bloody tooth out, he done! Scrag the perishin’ nob!”

  A second man argued, “Nah. The guv’nor don’t want no killin’!”

  And a third voice put in with a breathless laugh, “No killin’ of two-legged nobs, anyways!”

  “Who’d ’spect this here cove to come out in the cold when he’d set his groom here?”

  “Not us, mate. We thought as he’d be in the tap, guzzlin’ ale or whatever nobs guzzle, an leavin’ us to do our work in peace. That’s the trouble with them there Army officers. You can’t never tell what they’re gonna do next! You got the oil ready yet, Willum?”

  “Yus. And if you was to ask me, I’d say he oughta be scragged. He might’ve see me. Or you.”

  A brief and thoughtful pause. Then the second man agreed, “You got a good point, ain’t he, Dick? An’ why should we be blamed if the silly bastard fell into the fire?”

  Tassels was stamping in her stall. She neighed ringingly.

  The first voice said, “Look sharp, mates! We don’t wanta be caught here!”

  A sentence was echoing in Cranford’s dazed mind: “No killin’ of two-legged nobs…” They meant the horses! The filthy swine meant to burn down the barn and destroy the horses!

  Rage possessed him. He managed to drag himself to his knees, but he felt sick and for an indeterminate space couldn’t see anything clearly.

  Struggling to stand, he smelt smoke and then was dazzled by a brilliant glare. Curse the murderous louts, they’d fired the barn! At once frantic with fear, the horses began to neigh shrilly and mill about, but those raucous merry-makers in the tap probably wouldn’t hear anything until it was too late!

  He got to his feet somehow. Dense clouds of smoke were spiralling up. A corner of his mind registered the awareness that several fires must have been set for the blaze to have spread so quickly.

  He reeled to the stall and fumbled at the latch, then flung the half-door wide.

  Tassels neighed and galloped for the barn door.

  Cranford glimpsed a dim outline on the floor, and closing his eyes against the searing smoke, dropped to one knee and felt about. His groping fingers closed over cold steel but when he tried to stand again the pain in his head defeated him and he lacked the strength to get to his feet. His favourite psalm came to mind and he whispered it as he’d done often during battle…“The Lord is my shepherd…”

  His head cleared a little and he got to his feet and stumbled through heat and flame to the door. Aiming his pistol towards the inn, he fired. It was all he could do. Now he must get Sudbury out. The rogues must have drugged the poor devil.

  Staggering back into the smoke, he heard a shout, then someone pushed past him. He caught a glimpse of a red and contorted face. Finchley. “Help me get my groom out,” he called. The Major gave him a contemptuous glance and rushed on. Less than astonished by this callous reaction, Cranford groped his way forward. The smoke was billowing, the air becoming hotter. It was difficult to see farther than a few feet. Coughing, he persisted and at length found Sudbury again. He was dragging him out when Roland Mathieson ran by, leading his beloved chestnut horse and shouting something about “flames in there!”

  Cranford hauled his groom out into the paradise of the damp cold night and stood over him, gulping sobbing breaths of the pure air, and thinking with dull resentment that he didn’t need Roly to remind him about the fire. Men carrying buckets were running from the inn now, shouting to each other. Abruptly, he thought, “Flame! My God! Tio’s Flame!’

  He ran back inside again. The smoke was even more acrid, searing his lungs and his eyes. Peering through smarting tears, he recollected that Glendenning had stabled his mare in the end stall, gloating that she was “out of the draughts.” It was just like Tio, he thought, to have chosen the spot most difficult of access.

  The roar of the fire was deafening now: He groped his way between the rows of stalls, surrounded by heat and flame. A frantic animal kicked down the gate of its stall and plunged at him, sending him sprawling. As he clambered to his feet, a scrawny feline shape flew through the air at his face, apparently having been propelled by a boot. He heard a terrified yowl and sharp claws drove into his shoulder.

  Finchley ran past, a cravat tied over his horse’s eyes. “Out of my way, curse you, cat!” he shouted.

  Cranford staggered on, vaguely aware that there were others here now. He thought to recognize Valerian, leading a blindfolded stallion, then he had reached Flame’s stall, and between racking coughs was calling soothingly to the plunging mare as he struggled to open the gate.

  A familiar voice howled, “Stand away, Piers!”

  He thought, Tio! Thank the good Lord!’

  Afterwards, he could never quite remember leaving the inferno, but he was outside at last, sitting gratefully in the rain, breathing the sweet fresh air while the hastily organized bucket brigade fought to save what was left of the barn.

  Bertie Crisp came up, wiping soot from his face. “They’re fighting a lost cause,” he spluttered breathlessly. “The barn’s nigh gutted. Did you fire that shot, Piers? I say, jolly well done!”

  “If it hadn’t been for you, Cranford, I’d likely have lost Rump.” A lean hand was thrust at him, and Roland Mathieson, still strikingly handsome despite the loss of his left eye, said earnestly, “I am forever in your debt.”

  Reaching up for the handshake, Cranford realized that the cat still clung to him. He detached the emaciated little creature, but it voiced a strident wish to remain and transferred its claws to his arm.

  Glendenning took the cat and held it up. “A black moggy,” he said. “You need a home, poor fellow.” He shoved the animal at Valerian, who was scanning his tall horse anxiously. “Here, Gervaise. Another lost soul to join you, and it matches your black brute.”

  Valerian gave him a narrow-eyed stare, then observed that the viscount was “too kind! But my Walker don’t like cats any more than I do—black cats especially. Besides, cats don’t have souls.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” argued Duncan Tiele, picking up the refugee and stroking it, awakening gritty purring sounds. “He brought us luck tonight, you have to admit.”

  “Nonsense,” jeered Valerian, walking away. “If you are so foolish as to believe such stuff, you’re the one should adopt the wretched little brute. You’ll need plenty of luck tomorrow!”

  Tiele grinned, and as Valerian passed, slipped the adoptee onto the back of his black stallion.

  Cranford watched the cat cling desperately to Walker’s saddle blanket “Poor little mog,” he muttered. “Finchley gave it a hard kick that likely will put an end to it. If it survives, I’ll take it back to the Manor. My aunt will take it in, I’m sure.”

  Glendenning said, “I think you’ve just found another mouth to feed, dear boy! Now, what the deuce are we going to do with the nags? Can’t leave ’em out in the rain the night before the race!”

  This problem was solved by the host, who fortunately had an old barn in his back field that was now used for storage and was still fairly weather-proof. Grooms and ostlers were summoned, the various horses were led to their temporary quarters, and a generous sum was collected to pay the men who were to guard the animals throug
h the remaining hours of darkness.

  Very few occupants of the Golden Goose slept late the following morning. Cranford was up and dressed by seven o’clock, and already the old inn was full of movement and bustle. The few hours of sleep had refreshed him, and aside from a burn on his right forearm, bruised ribs and a dull headache, he was little the worse for the night’s violence.

  He opened the side door and stepped into an early morning heavy with clouds, and chill air that was stirred by occasional icy gusts. A few men were gathered about the charred remains of the barn. He joined them to look at the ruins, grimly aware that he had been meant to perish there and wondering which of the contestants was so desperate to win as to be willing to incinerate Sudbury, himself, and some very fine horses. So far as he was aware, Finchley had been first and very fast on the scene. Nor had Roland Mathieson lost any time in rescuing Rumpelstiltskin. Valerian also had arrived promptly to lead out his black stallion. Any one of them, having foreknowledge of the fire, could have come quickly to the rescue of his own mount. Yet it was difficult to believe that any gentleman, even so unpleasant an individual as Gresford Finchley, would have put the other horses at such terrible risk.

  He made his way across the field to the makeshift stables. The skies were lighter now and the ground was comparatively dry, but there was a misting on the air and banking clouds on the horizon held a promise of rain to come.

  Inevitably, his thoughts dwelt on last night’s fire. It was possible, of course, that the guilty party was an unscrupulous individual with large wagers riding on the outcome of the race. He dismissed that possibility at once, however, reasoning that had he or any of the horses been killed, the Steeplechase would almost certainly have been postponed or cancelled, which would not please a gambling enthusiast.