The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster

by Patricia Veryan

  In the temporary stables, ostlers and grooms were busy; Roland Mathieson’s splendid chestnut stallion was being fussed over by two grooms. A man cursed angrily and sprang from a stall, barely eluding the bared teeth of the tall bay gelding who lunged after him. Gresford Finchley’s mount was showing its ferocity once again. “Like man, like beast,” thought Cranford. A fine black was in the adjoining stall, its coat gleaming in the light of the lanterns as a groom combed the silken mane. The man nodded respectfully to Cranford, who said, “Mr. Valerian’s mount, no? Why is he called Walker?”

  “On account of the way he moves, sir. Picks up his hooves high, sorta like he goes on springs.”

  “I’ve seen him run. He’s very fast.”

  The groom nodded and said with a grin that Flyer might have been a better name for the animal.

  There was no sign of either Tio or his mare, but Cranford was pleasantly surprised to see a heavily veiled lady chatting with Sudbury while he brushed Tassels. Coming up beside her, he said, “You’re early abroad, ma’am.”

  “Good morning, lieutenant.” Miss Mary Westerman turned to him and put out her hand and he held it briefly. “Yes. I knew His Grace meant to arrive early, so I dragged my poor aunt from her bed and bullied her into accompanying us. Sudbury has been telling me what transpired last night. Who would want to do so wicked a thing?”

  The groom showed a very red face to his employer, then averted his eyes.

  Cranford said, “I wish I knew, ma’am. Certainly, they didn’t draw the line at murder. How do you go on today, Sudbury?”

  The groom looked crestfallen and muttered sheepishly that he was willing to swear the ale was “right as rain” when he’d carried it to the barn. “Some artful cove must’ve slipped something into the tankard whilst I was busy with Tassels. Sorry I am, sir. I should’a been more careful.”

  The mare butted her head against Cranford affectionately, and he stroked her and assured her that she looked very well this morning. “You had no way of knowing there were murderers about,” he told his groom. “Did you catch sight of anyone lurking near the barn? Or someone showing an unusual interest in Tassels?”

  Sudbury said he’d noticed no suspicious characters.

  Mary put in, “You would be hard put to it to find anyone who was not interested in Tassels, Mr. Cranford. She is so much admired. I came here to wish her well, and now can only be thankful you were unharmed.”

  Although her features were hidden, there was a warmth to her voice and he could picture her pretty smile. He said lightly, “We thank you. Though I fancy we’re not the only recipients of your good wishes.”

  “True.” Her tone was cooler now. “I had words with Roland Mathieson’s Rumpelstiltskin, and I have to say I think him your most formidable competition.”

  She knew perfectly well that he’d not teased her about Mathieson’s horse, but to persist would probably embarrass her, so he asked instead if she had already breakfasted.

  Aware that she had been spared, and grateful for that courtesy, Mary answered, “No. And I am absolutely famished.”

  “I never allow my well-wishers to be famished,” he declared, offering his arm.

  Taking it, she murmured, “Are you not afraid of public opinion? Despite this stupid veil I may very well have been recognized. Even if I am still incognito, you will be criticized for accompanying a fast woman who dared attend such a male gathering as this.”

  He said with a chuckle, “Yes. Only think how my reputation will be enhanced. You ladies love a rake, do you not?”

  She stiffened. “If you mean Valerian…”

  “I hadn’t, but it would certainly—Look out!”

  They were strolling past a railed partition which now served as a stall for Major Finchley’s tall bay. Mary’s veil had fluttered over the side and the bad-tempered animal made a grab for it. Cranford jerked Mary away but the big horse had torn the veil from her hat.

  A groom, leaning against a post and chewing on a straw, laughed.

  Cranford said sharply, “Return the lady’s veil, if you please.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardin, sir,” said the groom, his impertinent gaze fixed on Mary, “but it’s more’n I dare do ter go in with that ugly brute. A man-killer he be!”

  Stepping closer, Cranford snapped, “Remove your greasy stare from the lady, at once, or I’ll throw you in there!”

  The groom glanced at him, read the menace in the icy blue eyes and fled.

  Cranford took up a rake that had been left propped against the wall and climbed over the stall’s low gate.

  Watching the restless stamping of the big animal, Mary cried anxiously, “No, no! Pray do not! The damage is done, and I don’t need—”

  Cranford thought, ‘Oh, yes, you do!’ and stepped inside.

  The veil lay crumpled in the right front corner. The bay tossed his proud head about, pawed at the floor and snorted menacingly. “Easy, lad,” said Cranford. Continuing to talk soothingly, he edged towards the veil, while keeping one eye on the horse and a firm grip on the rake.

  The animal began to prance about and the ears were laid back.

  Cranford reached for the veil, hearing Mary whisper, “Oh—my heavens!”

  Teeth bared, the big bay plunged at him. He held the rake high and said sternly, “Down, you rogue!” The animal halted and edged back, as if confused, and Cranford added, ‘Yes, I know you’re a fine fellow, and I mean you no harm, so be at ease and behave as you ought.”

  The great eyes watching him were fierce still, but the ears twitched erect again.

  Still talking softly, Cranford took up the veil and backed towards the gate.

  A harsh voice roared, “What the devil are you doing to my horse, damn you?”

  It was all the high-strung animal needed. It gave a nervous jump and, squealing with rage, reared high. The ears lay flat against the head once more, the eyes glared hatred, and two lethal iron-shod hooves flailed at this puny man-creature who’d dared to challenge him.

  Cranford ducked, then made a leap for the gate. He felt a rush of air beside his ear and a tug at the shoulder of his coat. Mary screamed, then he was over and Finchley and a scared-looking groom were attempting to control the animal’s fury.

  Mary sobbed, “Oh, Piers! Oh, Piers!” and threw herself into his arms.

  The groom said in a very shaken voice, “Cor, sir! That were—it were close, that were!”

  Finchley bellowed, “Curse you, Cranford! If you’ve interfered with my poor brute, I’ll have you disqualified, be damned if I don’t!” He went stamping off, passing Horatio Glendenning who ran up, saying wrathfully, “Must you persist in taking such confounded risks, Piers? Of all the reckless chawbacons I ever knew!”

  Cranford scarcely heard any of them, most of his awareness centering on the surprisingly pleasurable sensation of holding Miss Mary Westerman close in his embrace.

  Muffled against his cravat, she said, “Are you hurt? He tore your coat…”

  “But not me, fortunately. Now I wish you will replace your veil, ma’am, else you’ll not dare come back to the inn for breakfast.”

  Mary took the veil and rearranged it with hands that shook. “And his—his hooves nigh caught your head! If they had—”

  “They didn’t,” he said firmly “And you know the saying—” Smiling down at her, he offered his arm and patted the small hand that rested on it. “‘A miss is as good as a mile.’”

  “Perhaps, but my heart missed several miles, I think! Pray do not take such risks. I am very frail, you know.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve noticed.”

  Glendenning complained, “Well, you don’t notice me! Am I allowed to accompany you?”

  His face suddenly very red, Cranford said, “But—of course, Tio. As if we’d exclude such a hungry fellow.”

  The viscount grunted, but brightened when Mary slipped her free hand through his arm and said cheerfully, “The more the merrier, eh, Mr. Piers?”

  Cranford smiled but di
d not comment.

  Breakfast was served in a parlour the duke had reserved, enabling both ladies to discard hats and veils. Glendenning joined them, his rich sense of humour endearing him to Mrs. Lucretia, who lost no time in advising him that he was “prodigious droll.”

  Cranford joined in the conversation cheerfully, but he was concerned for Tio’s safety and determined to make a last effort to persuade him not to ride. He decided that the best time to make the attempt would be when the meal was over and they were returning to the stables. His plan was foiled, however, when Roland Mathieson took Glendenning aside as they left the inn and a moment later he himself was approached by Henry Shorewood, who warned that Gresford Finchley meant mischief. “Keep your wits about you, friend,” the barrister cautioned. “The Major ain’t the type to play fair if he fancies someone stands in his way.”

  “D’you mean he fears I’ll win the race?”

  Shorewood strolled off, tugging at his lop-sided wig and thereby rendering it more lop-sided than ever. “That,” he said over his shoulder. “Among other things.”

  That the dismal weather of this grey morning had not kept people away was very evident. The low hill which had been designated the starting point of the race was crowded with every conceivable type of vehicle, from luxurious coaches to farm waggons. Men of every style and condition mingled and jostled good-naturedly. Makeshift awnings had been erected to shelter the more elegant of the spectators, while the common folk contented themselves with hooded cloaks or broad-brimmed hats. Vendors moved through the throng loudly proclaiming the purity and deliciousness of their sweetmeats, cakes and biscuits; the damp air was enriched by the spicy smell of roasting chestnuts, and some enterprising gypsy youths were doing a brisk trade offering for a groat squares of sacking to “pertect yer noble nobs and dicers.”

  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.

  12

  An 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 int
o 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.