A cold fear beginning to gibber at the edges of his mind, Farrar said, “I have a right to be tried as—”
“But, of course you will be tried. Speaking of which, my dear fellow, since you do not dispute the charges, a confession has been drawn up for you to sign. It will shorten the whole beastly procedure.” He stepped closer, smiling genially, and holding out several sheets of paper.
Farrar tilted them to the light, and scanned them quickly. Looking up, he said contemptuously, “What poppycock! I’ll not confess the murder of my cousin.”
Lambert shook his handsome head. “Unwise, Farrar. Most unwise. You know how these country magistrates are. Any unnecessary delay irritates ’em beyond—”
“Magistrates? What have magistrates to do with it? I will be court-martialled, not—”
“Ah. You are confused, I see. No, friend, your trial will be civil.”
Farrar dragged himself to his feet—a far from graceful procedure during which he was unpleasantly reminded of his bruises. “I am a soldier! I—”
“You—were a soldier,” corrected Lambert softly.
“And I’ve a right to a military court-martial, which—”
“Which certain—ah, people feel has been delayed—much too long, I regret to say. Therefore, the Magistrate of this district felt the time had come to—er, expedite matters.”
“What in hell does it matter what he feels?” raged Farrar. “A civil magistrate has no jurisdiction in a mili—”
“You may well be right,” Lambert agreed musingly. “The point is, my dear fellow, that I am a servant of the people, and if a peer of this realm, who is also a magistrate, asks for my assistance in quelling a riot in a public place, I can scarce—”
“By God!” Farrar grated, his eyes narrowing. “This begins to have an odour! Name this magistrate who dares flout military authority!”
Lambert made a graceful gesture towards the open cell door.
Faintly, through his shocked incredulity, Farrar had been aware that the light was not quite as bright as before. Now he saw why. Much of the aperture was blocked by the great bulk of the man who stood there.
Lord Hibbard Green gave a soft, gloating chuckle. “All these months, dear Anthony, you have escaped the consequences of your craven cowardice; the families whose dear ones died, or were maimed because of you, stand unavenged. But you are in my jurisdiction now!” He touched his bandaged hand, smiling. “Tomorrow morning you will be tried, judged, and hanged for the shivering poltroon you are!”
It was ridiculous; impossible that this should be happening. Norris would soon intervene. But, knowing that his lordship could very easily see to it that his solicitor was kept from any intervention until it was too late, Farrar felt so cold that it was as if the finger of death had already touched him. He tossed his head higher, and said scornfully, “You would not dare! Decimus Green is outside your jurisdiction. You’d be called to account before—”
“Before we could hang you? Oh, but no, I assure you! I am a legally appointed magistrate. I was present when you caused a riot, and if I was so outraged by your infamy that I carried you off for immediate trial…” he shrugged. “Who would really care? It would, at most, be a case of shutting the barn door when the horse has fled. Why, how pale you are become! Frightened again? Perhaps—a glass of cognac…? Have you fed the poor lad, Lambert? I’d not have anyone accuse us of—unkindness.”
They grinned at each other.
With a snarled oath, Farrar leapt forward. Using his chain as a weapon, he swung it with all his might. Lambert uttered a muffled shout as the chain smashed across his arm, sending him reeling back and the papers flying. Lord Green was very eager to jump clear but, impeded by blubber, his movements were too slow and the heavy chain flailed into his stomach. He uttered a most ungenteel belch and sat down with solidity if not grace. The gaoler, knowing better than to laugh at the embarrassments of the Quality, threw one hand over his mouth and backed away, then gave a gasp as Farrar leapt Green’s bulk and came at him.
My lord uttered a wheezing howl.
Cursing, Brooks Lambert sprang after Farrar, gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Farrar, slowed by the manacles and by the beating he had taken at the bazaar, raised his chained hands to defend himself, but Lambert’s fist was already whizzing at him. It struck home, hard and true. Farrar was slammed back, and fell down and down into an echoing half-world.
Lambert went at once to assist the profane peer to his feet. Raging, Green staggered to Farrar and kicked him viciously. His oaths and the smell of him, caused the soldier’s lip to curl. “Not too much, my lord,” he murmured. “We must—ah, restrain our enthusiasm for, most assuredly, there will be an investigation.”
“All the more … reason…” gasped his lordship, holding his middle painfully, “that he must … sign that confession … Did he?”
“No. He balks at the admission of his cousin’s murder.”
“Damned carrion! Unbalk him, then.”
Lambert looked at him steadily. “It will be—expensive, sir. The risk is not inconsiderable…”
Green thrust his empurpled face under the captain’s slim nose. “Blast your eyes! Do not speak to me of risk! My son will lie abed a month and more by reason of this clod!” He glanced at the discreetly distant gaoler and lowered his voice. “I want that confession signed,” he hissed. “By morning! You’ll be well paid.”
“Double?”
My lord swore. “Oh—very well. Double. Damn you!”
Captain Brooks Lambert bowed.
* * *
Fate, reflected Roland Otton, standing before his mirror, could only be directed by the mind of a female, it was so capricious. For instance: his steadfast pursuit of wealth had led him not to the legendary pot of gold, but to a lady who would have suited him very well as a wife—had she not for some inexplicable reason rejected him (even when he’d offered marriage!), choosing instead to share the perils and eventual enforced exile of a wretched Jacobite. Twice since his Penelope had run away with Quentin Chandler, he had come close to laying his hands on the key to the location of the vast and elusive Jacobite treasure, having been thwarted once by Fate, and once, devil take it, by his weakness in coming to the aid of a friend. ‘Which should teach you, my good fool,’ he informed his reflection, ‘that friendship is a luxury not to be indulged in by a dedicated villain.’
He glanced up as his man-of-all-work came, soft-footed, into the room. “Sorri,” he said, “I look frightful. I think we must powder my hair before I venture down to dine. In the morning we shall leave this miserable place.”
Sorenson, regarding his handsome employer’s tall, elegant figure with amused affection, enquired, “Have we not prospered here, Mr. Roland?”
Otton grinned whimsically. “Do you know, I can scarce recall when last we prospered.”
“There was the matter of the Alderman’s lady…” murmured the valet, reaching for the powder box.
“Ah, yes … the delectable Mrs. Hancroft’s mislaid pomander…” Otton chuckled. “Thank you for reminding me.” He seated himself before the dressing table. “We do sometimes triumph—eh?”
Sorenson, who would have died for this careless young soldier of fortune, but had his own ideas of the “triumphs” they enjoyed, unfolded the powder wrapper, hesitated, and said blandly, “Perhaps I should first ask the lady to wait, sir?”
Otton’s dark head jerked up. “Lady? You scoundrel! Where? Who is she?”
“She says her name is Mrs. Catherine Deene, but she has no card, sir. She is downstairs.”
Catherine Deene. Now why was she come? Not the type of lady to have a card, certainly, nor the type he would have hoped to entertain on a sultry August night, but—The White Dragon was becoming a bore, and one should never overlook an opportunity. “Show her into the parlour,” said Otton, waving away the wrapper. “We’ll manage without powder after all.”
He brushed back his thick hair, retied the riband, placed a large ruby pin in his lace cravat, and
slid the heavy and ancient gold signet ring onto his finger. From the press, he selected a coat of dull maroon satin and, having donned it, returned to survey himself in the standing mirror. He would have had to be a blind fool not to realize he was an extremely well-favoured man, and he grinned at his reflection. “You dashing devil,” he murmured. “Where were Penny’s wits gone begging that she could have preferred Chandler over you?” And staying only to hang a gold-chased quizzing glass about his neck, he opened the door to his private parlour.
The lady who waited there stood at the window looking into the dusk. She wore a fine French shawl and a gown of pale pink silk over moderate hoops. Her hair was simply dressed and powdered, and she seemed taller than he remembered. “Good evening, ma’am,” he began, advancing towards her.
She turned quickly and as quickly he halted, his amused dark eyes narrowing. So it was this Mrs. Deene! He bowed gracefully. “But how different you look. Now, this is a great piece of luck, because I was hideously afflicted with ennui and—” A frown came into his eyes. The lady had been weeping and her hands wrung and wrung at the dainty handkerchief she clutched. Stepping forward, he bowed her to a chair. “You are troubled, Mrs.—but it is not ‘Mrs. Deene,’ I hear.”
“No.” Dimity fought for control, but her voice was unsteady as she said, “I am Miss Cranford.” He smiled and bowed again, and she wondered how much he knew. It was ironic that this wicked and notorious gentleman should be her only hope. Piers and Peregrine, and Tio, bless him, were doing the best they knew. Any one of the three would have been horrified to see her—alone, at this hour of the evening, in the private apartments of a rascal and a libertine. It was outrageous conduct, but she had not dared wait. The life of her beloved was measured by hours; no stone must be left unturned in the battle to help him. “I would not presume to—to trouble you,” she went on, “but—there is so little time. And I—I do not know where—to turn.”
The last thing Otton had needed, he thought glumly, was to be visited by a watering pot, especially one related to so volatile a pair as the Cranford twins. Still, she was very lovely, and she was waging such a desperate fight to keep her pretty lips from trembling. He drew her to the rather drooping sofa, sat beside her, and took up one cold and shaking hand. “Now, surely,” he said, stroking that hand soothingly, “it must be very bad if you are come to me. You’d best explain, ma’am.”
And so, trying to ignore the fact that he sat much too close, that his knee touched hers, that his hand showed no inclination to release her own, she told him. She began to take heart when she saw the twinkle fade from his dark eyes to be replaced by a frown, and she was further heartened when she described Anthony’s brutal arrest and felt the sudden tightening of his long fingers.
His classic features for once lacking all traces of the amused cynicism with which he viewed the world, Otton stood and gazed silently at the quizzing glass he swung gently to and fro. His eyes drifted to the pale face of the distraught girl. “I must be honest, Miss Cranford,” he said gravely, “and tell you that you’ve made a poor choice in coming to me. Surely your brothers have other resources. I’d think—”
“They are doing their best. One of my brothers is racing to beg the help of Sir Brian Chandler at Lac Brillant; the other is gone to the army post in Salisbury. Lord Glendenning is driving Farrar’s swiftest team in search of his father, the Earl of Bowers-Malden.”
“Well then, ma’am, I fancy you’ve done all that can be done. When such formidable allies arrive, they will—”
“Find Sir Anthony has been hanged,” she whispered brokenly.
“No, no, ma’am. Scarcely that. He will be held at the barracks until—”
“He has not been taken to the barracks,” she interrupted once more. “It was what we had surmised also, but—but he is imprisoned in Buckler Castle.” The lazy swing of his hand arrested, Otton stared at her in mute astonishment. Desperate, she stood and faced him. “The priest in Decimus Green accompanied us there. Sir Anthony is denied all visitors. They would tell us nothing, but my brother has taken a gypsy boy to be his page, and Florian knows a scullery maid in the castle. He was able to learn that Anthony is held without food or … water.” Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away and went on threadily, “He has been—cruelly beaten, sir, and—and is to be tried early in the morning, on charges of desertion and … of murdering his cousin, which is a wicked lie! Everyone in the castle knows he will be found guilty. They are—already preparing the—the gibbet!” Her voice broke. She wiped frantically at her eyes.
“Be damned!” gasped Otton, shocked out of his customary imperturbability. “They must be demented! What bucolic fool would perpetrate such a gross miscarriage of justice?”
“Lord H-Hibbard Green!”
He tensed and stood very still and silent for a moment, then quoted half to himself, “‘A beast that wants discourse of reason…’ So that’s it!”
“Are you acquaint with the gentleman?” asked Dimity anxiously.
“Lord forbid, ma’am. I’ve met him, and leave his vicinity so soon as may be. But I’ll tell you this, you’ll find no man hereabouts will dare oppose him. I guarantee that when your brother reaches the army post and reveals his errand, he will find the Commandant mysteriously unavailable. Sir Brian Chandler would challenge Green, but lacks the rank to prevail against him. As for Glendenning’s formidable sire—” he pursed his lips judicially. “The earl’s a crusty old devil, who would delight in such a contest, but if what you tell me is indeed so, Bowers-Malden can never hope to reach here in time.” He shook his head as tears slid silently down Dimity’s white cheeks, and drew her into his arms. “No, no, my pretty. Never weep over spilt milk. I’ll kiss away those—”
Enraged, she pushed him back. “Horrid creature! I come to beg your help, and you try to make love to me! What manner of gentleman are you?”
“No manner, m’dear.” He grinned unrepentantly. “I deny such an appellation most vehemently. I am a wanderer—a fighting man whose sword, wit, or loyalty are to be had for a price. No, never curl your lip—I do but tell you the pure truth of this marvel that is me.”
She frowned into his laughing eyes. “You were Anthony’s friend once! Do you care nothing that, even as we speak, they are trying to force him to sign a confession to a murder he never committed?”
A muscle rippled in his jaw, but he said easily, “Farrar denied me. Ran me out of his house, by Jupiter! You heard him. Besides, even did I want to help him—which, mark you, is at odds with my principles—there’s nought I could do against Hibbard Green. He’s a very bad man, even I will admit that, but in his own district he is all-powerful. And old Tony, poor fellow, has been living on borrowed time since Prestonpans.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “My regrets, but—”
Dimity sprang forward and seized the edges of his coat. “You are the grandson of the Duke of Marbury! He could help! And he likes Tony!” She caught a rare glimpse of anger, and before he could speak, she put her hand over his lips. “No, no! Do not refuse. For the love of God, help me!”
He removed her hands from his coat and anxiously smoothed away the wrinkles she had made. “You are—something fond of our—er, deserter, I think?”
She wept openly now, racked by the terrible pain of hopelessness. “I love him with—with all my heart … all my soul. And I know … he must—must die, but Florian said … Anthony had pleaded for a firing s—squad. That monster taunts him with—with public … h-hanging! No matter what they say of him, sir, he is a—a brave man, and not afraid of d-death. But—the shame of—of being hanged will break his dear heart! Oh, God—have pity on him!” She bowed her face into her hands and sobbed.
Otton scowled, then a thoughtful expression came into his eyes. Not one to miss an opportunity, he said slowly, “There is, perhaps … one way in which you could—er, buy my services…”
Dimity lifted a pathetic, tear-streaked face. If this man could prevail upon his grandfather to come, the duke might b
e able to influence the court to grant Anthony’s plea for a less shameful death. For that, she would do anything. No sacrifice was too great. “N-name it…” she gulped resolutely, having a very fair idea of what he meant to ask.
She had reckoned without the driving ambition of Roland Otton. “I am most interested,” he murmured, “in a certain … cypher…”
XVIII
In some respects Buckler Castle resembled its owner. Certainly, it had seen better days and, crouched like some vast and malignant menace some distance from the market town of Greenlow, it lacked both grace and dignity, inspiring travellers not with a desire to investigate the ancient structure, but rather to depart its vicinity without delay.
On this cloudy morning, however, many people had braved the rather chill wind and toiled up the hill to where Lord Hibbard Green presided in the vast chamber that had once been the hall of audience and was now converted (at no little expense to the ratepayers) to a court of justice for the district. The crowd was in a holiday mood; many had known and admired handsome young Sir Harding Farrar and were eager to see his heartless murderer brought to justice. Others, including several groups carried in by special coaches, were the grieving relatives of men who had died in the Battle of Prestonpans and who were equally eager to see justice done.
In the study adjacent to the courtroom, the local representative of the King’s Justice preened before the mirror, adjusted the flowing wig that was so at odds with his bloated features, straightened his robes, and barked, “Well?”
Brooks Lambert closed the door behind him and strolled closer to my lord’s bulk. “He would not sign, sir.”
“What?” His face mottled with rage, Green jerked around. “You had all night, damn you! Do you mean that the three of you were unable to break one man? By God, but I should have done the thing myself!”
“In which case, my lord,” said Lambert dryly, “you’d likely have killed him. It seemed to me desirable that Farrar be able to walk to the dock. As to whether he signed the confession, I fail to see it as vital. You can very easily prevent his denying the charges. You have appointed his Counsel, and your men are already in place to stir up the yokels. With luck he’ll be dragged out and lynched before the trial is concluded, and I and my fellows quite unable to hold back such a mob.”
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