“Au secours!” The faint cry came from the wounded man. He was not dead, but failing fast. Blood welled from a wound in his chest. His greatcoat and clothing beneath were blackened with powderburns, and his gloved hands were soaked with blood. A diamond clasp glinted among the laces at his throat, and the head of his riding crop nearby was of chased gold. Undoubtedly he had been worth robbing.
Mr. Denbigh caught up with the Earl, bringing his master his dress sword.
“My lord, return to the carriage, I beg. Who knows what will happen next?”
The coachman, too, came panting up to make his report. The off-leader had been cut free; but could not be ridden. The postboy swore this valley had never before been frequented by highwaymen, but he was probably lying; or maybe in league with the thieves … the one guard had a bad head-wound, which was being bound up by Mr. Chivers … the second guard—a useless fellow, begging your pardon, my lord, but why you ever took him on is a mystery to me!—he was blaming everyone but himself, because it appeared that his powder was damp and therefore they could not reload any of their guns.
“We will proceed as quickly as we can. I have a small flask of powder in the coach. Reload as many guns as you can from that. The postboy must lead the lamed horse, and one of the outriders walk along with him.” The Earl glanced up at the sky, and from that to the leafless trees around. A heavy silence had fallen on the valley around them, but they felt that they were being watched. The moon was rising, but there were too many clouds in the sky to hope for a clear night. “Light the lanterns, and send me one here. We cannot leave the highwayman’s body. We must take him with us, and this poor man, too.”
“Not in my coach, my lord!”
“If you please,” said the Earl.
The coachman sighed. “Oh, very well, my lord.” He began to retrace his steps.
“Send Chivers to me.” The Earl called after him. “And brandy.”
The Earl dropped to one knee beside the wounded man, and raised his hand from the ground. The man’s clothes were of good quality and he wore a fashionable wig. The horse he had been riding gave one last kick and expired. Mr. Denbigh leaned over his master.
“My lord,” he whispered. “I think the man is French!”
“You think we should refuse him aid, because we are at war with France?”
That was precisely what Mr. Denbigh had meant, but he did not like to say so. Chivers ran up with a flask of brandy and the Earl’s dressing-case. One of the outriders followed more slowly with a lantern, which he set down on the road beside the dying man.
“I beg, my lord,” said Chivers, “That you will permit me to hold the man for you. Your coat …”
“The stains will give you something on which to exercise your art,” said the Earl, continuing to support the Frenchman. Chivers set the brandy to the Frenchman’s lips, and his eyelids fluttered. He began to pant out phrases in French and English. The Earl jerked his head at the outrider, who retired to the coach.
“I beg you … last request. … Dieu vous remercie … très importante … a matter of life and death. …” The man’s hand dropped to his boot, and he tugged feebly at it.
“Take his boot off,” said the Earl to Chivers. “The man is carrying something of importance inside. The highwaymen may have taken whatever was in his pockets, but it seems he has outwitted them.”
Chivers eased off the dying man’s boot. Within lay a letter, heavily sealed, which he handed to the Earl. There was no superscription on the letter.
“Êtes-vous catholique?” asked the Frenchman, his eyes fixed on the Earl’s face.
“You want a priest?”
“Oui … mais ce n’est pas …” The dying man tried to lift himself, and failed.
“We are not Catholics,” said the Earl. “We would carry you to the nearest Catholic household if we knew where one might be found, but we are strangers in these parts. We are traveling to Hamberly. It is not above a couple of miles from here, I believe, but …”
“I will not live to see it,” gasped the Frenchman. He pointed with a trembling hand to the letter. “The letter. … jurez … promise me you will deliver it?”
“Only tell me where it is to go, and I will see that it is delivered.”
The Frenchman mouthed something, but no sound came out. The Earl bent his head. Mr. Denbigh began to whisper the Lord’s Prayer. Darkness shrouded the woods, but the lantern lit up every feature of the group in the road. The Frenchman’s face had become waxen with the approach of death. He put up a wavering hand. He tried to sit upright. The Earl aided him.
“At the sign of the Ram and Rose.” All three men heard the whisper. The Frenchman tried to repeat the words, but though his lips moved, no further sound came from them. His eyes were wide, expressing the agony he felt in trying to make himself understood.
“I understand,” said the Earl. “The letter is to be delivered at the sign of the Ram and Rose.”
The Frenchman tried to say something more. His body arched, and an expression of pain contorted his features. Then he seemed to become boneless. He hung slackly in the Earl’s arms. Philip let the lifeless body sink to the ground and stood up.
“Lay the man in the carriage. The highwayman’s body can travel outside, but this man deserved something better. He was an inside passenger in life, and we will accord him equal respect in death. Wrap his body in one of my cloaks.”
A shrill whistle sounded from the hill above them. The three men stood in the road, awaiting attack, but none came. All was silence, except for the wind, which had begun to rustle the dead leaves of the trees.
“Hurry,” said the Earl, dropping his voice. “The sooner we are away from here, the better.”
The morning after the Earl’s arrival at Hamberley dawned dark and gloomy. The Earl and Mr. Denbigh made a quick tour of the manor house, and then sat down for breakfast in one of the small, wainscotted parlors. The silver and china on the gate-legged table set close to the fire bore the Earl’s crest, and glistened in the firelight, but everything else in the room looked shabby. The Earl’s butler, who had traveled down ahead of his master, together with the riding horses and a picked band of servants, signalled to a footman to serve the hot chocolate, and continued his report.
“The nearest magistrate is one Sir John Bladen. Your note advising him of the contretemps with the highwaymen was sent to him first thing this morning, and a servant has just now returned with the information that Sir John will wait on you at noon. I do not know where you will wish to receive him, my lord. There is not a single room capable of holding a decent company in this house, the situation is damp, and the chef unhappy with the kitchen range. The furnishings have moths, the staircases woodworm, and there is dry rot in the hall.”
“You’ve forgotten something,” said the Earl, “There is nothing but the yard of a farm to be seen from the windows of the reception rooms. You are quite right … this is no place to bring my son. We will move on to Bath as soon as the horses are rested.”
“Very good, my lord.” The butler managed to express approval in the depth of his bow. “There is one other thing I should mention, my lord. There are two casks of French brandy and a chest of tea in the apple loft. I would not normally draw your attention to such a trifling matter, but this is Sussex, and …”
“Smugglers, by Jove!” cried Mr. Denbigh. “You think they left the contraband for our consumption, as a bribe?”
“No, sir. We think they may have been using the outbuildings here to store their goods, seeing that the house has been empty for so long. Two men were seen lurking in the yard last night near the staircase which leads to the apple loft, but they ran off when they realized that their presence was observed.”
“Awkward.” The Earl extended his cup to be refilled. “We don’t want to become embroiled with local smugglers. I suggest we leave both the brandy and tea where they are, and pretend we haven’t noticed them.”
“We could report the matter to this local magistrate w
hen he calls.”
“Ten to one, he’s hand in glove with the Free Traders. But perhaps you are right. We will tell him about it. I daresay he will be very surprised and indignant and promise to have something done about it at once; and the contraband will duly disappear. One thing more,” he said to the butler, “A friend of mine said he might put up locally for a few days, at the sign of the Ram and Rose. Will you make enquiries where the inn may be?”
The servants withdrew, and Mr. Denbigh scowled at the fire. He was sure that the sheets on his bed last night had been damp, and there was an ache in his left shoulder which boded no good. The Earl yawned. He was dressed in a brocaded morning gown and wore a silk cap on his closely-cropped head. Without powder and paint, he looked barely older than on the day when Mr. Denbigh had first met him, so many years ago. His sandy hair and eyebrows might be a shade darker than then, his skin more sallow, and his smile readier; that was all. Only, his eyes were no longer those of a trusting boy. Mr. Denbigh thought the Earl looked tired.
“It’s a pity this place is unsuitable,” Philip said. “My late wife inherited it from an uncle. I believe she only stayed here two or three times herself. Judging by the proximity of the farmyard, her uncle must have been more interested in the production of pigs than I am. But my bailiff should have seen to the repairs.” He strolled around the room, tapping the woodwork. “I see little enough of the boy as it is. I thought that if we could have had a couple of months here, in good hunting country, before I had to go to Hanover with the King. … I wonder if I could hire a suitable place hereabouts. But that would all take time. You had better make arrangements to take Thomas to Bath yourself.”
“But what are you going to do? Do you not come with us?” The Earl had recently concluded a spell of duty as Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and was on leave from the Court until May.
“I wish I could, but I must stay here until our little mystery has been cleared up.” The Earl sighed. “I wish I had not killed the man.”
“He was only a highwayman. His fate would have been worse, if you had captured him. Hanging or transportation would have been his lot.”
The Earl peered out of the window. “What on earth possessed them to build a house in this valley? There is no outlook at all. They ought to have built on the south side of that hill there.” He turned his back on the outside world. “Did you hear what Chivers said to me last night when he helped me out of the coach? He said, ‘How shall we dispose of the Jacobite gentleman, my lord?’ A most acute rogue, Chivers.”
“Jacobite?” Mr. Denbigh breathed the word. He went to the door and opened it sharply, as if expecting to find someone listening at the keyhole. He looked out, closed the door, and stood with his back to it. “No one there. Philip, are you serious? You think that the man we tried to help last night was a Jacobite? On what grounds?”
“Circumstantial evidence. He was French, and traveling to a part of the country which has always had strong Jacobite sympathies, at a time when France is at war with England. He was carrying a letter which was a matter of life and death, and yet the letter bore no superscription. He was attacked by a number of masked men who were unusually well accoutered for highwaymen. One of the highwaymen had sufficient nerve to grab the contents of his pockets, but ignored a valuable diamond clasp at the man’s throat, and his gold-headed riding crop. Also, there have been rumors in government circles of a Jacobite conspiracy originating in this part of the world.”
“Gracious heavens!”
“That is partly why I came here. Only partly, of course, for I did hope that the place would be suitable for Thomas; but I was actually asked to come here, if I could do so without causing comment.”
“By whom?”
“My uncle Carteret, of course. If anyone has his finger on the international pulse, it is he. He thought I might pick up some local gossip about local Catholic families. He had no idea that I would fall over a Jacobite courier before I’d even got here.”
Mr. Denbigh had his hands to his head. “You think the highwaymen were after the Frenchman’s papers, and not his valuables?” The Earl nodded. “How could they know that he carried important papers?”
“I don’t think they were highwaymen, at all. I think they were Government agents, who had been set to watch for a courier. They would probably have had orders to let the man get to his destination before they arrested him and whoever he delivered the letters to, but … who can tell what went wrong? The courier may have become suspicious, turned to face them, to fight it out with them, rather than risk taking them on to his destination. He did not lack for courage, did he?”
“But if they were not highwaymen, why did they hold us up?”
“How could they avoid doing so, once we had stumbled on their ambush?”
“If that is true, you killed a Government agent last night.”
“I think I probably did.” The Earl made a moue of distaste. “Of course, only you and I and Chivers suspect that the man was anything other than he appeared to be. Certainly he deserved to be shot for his bungling of the affair.”
Mr. Denbigh tried to laugh. “Oh, this is all nonsense. The letter will be found to be a love missive, and the man you shot really was a highwayman.”
“We shall see. I agree with you that it all hangs on the letter.” The Earl touched a handbell, and when a footman appeared, asked him to request his valet’s attendance. “Chivers is a man of parts,” said his master, when the footman had departed. “I suspect he has not always kept good company. He volunteered the information, this morning, that he knew how to remove the seals from letters and replace them without anyone being the wiser. The seal on the letter which the Frenchman was carrying is impressed with someone’s personal crest. I dare not break it, and therefore shall be glad to avail myself of Chivers’ offer.”
“How could an honest man have acquired such a skill?” demanded Mr. Denbigh.
“I haven’t the slightest intention of asking him,” said the Earl.
The valet appeared, bearing a candle in a tarnished silver holder. The Earl produced the letter given him by the Frenchman, Chivers lit the candle, heated a thin-bladed knife in the flame and then edged it between seal and paper. He repeated this operation over and over until the wax finally parted from the paper, and the letter fell open.
“You need not go,” said the Earl to his valet. “Sir John Bladen will want to take your deposition as to the events of last night. It would be as well if we decide together on what we are to say to him.” He smoothed out the letter, read it, and then handed it on to Mr. Denbigh. Chivers peered over the tutor’s shoulder at a discreet distance.
“So, it is all true,” mused the Earl. “A letter from Charles Stuart, the Young Pretender, addressed to the Chief of his Company of Friends, inciting him to rebel. Therefore, the Frenchman was a Jacobite courier, and the man I shot was a Government agent and no highwayman.”
“Treason!” exclaimed Mr. Denbigh. “It is treason to correspond with the Pretender, or either of his sons. Anyone who does so risks death, and the forfeiture of his estates.”
“Which is probably why the letter was not addressed to any one specific,” said the Earl. “The courier knew to whom it was to be delivered, and he has given us a clue to the man’s name. Leave the letter on the table, Chivers. Mr. Denbigh must make a copy of it before you reseal it. Now, who should I send to London with my report? A pity that guard was wounded. Now that reminds me, I haven’t seen him this morning. Is he all right?”
“Well enough, my lord, and pleased with the sovereign you gave him. But he won’t be fit to ride inside a week.”
“The other guard—the one who allowed his powder to become damp—what is his name? Greenwood or Greenwich, or something like that. Was he drunk? He acted like it, and it’s not the first time I’ve seen him the worse for wear on duty. He might have got us all killed,” said the Earl. “See that he is dismissed, will you? Give him enough money to get back to London, on top of whatever wages are due
to him, and get him off the premises before he does any more damage. We will send one of the grooms to London—the one whose mother lives at the lodge at Rame. He’s quick and willing and knows where my lord Carteret lives.”
He sat down and began to mend a quill. Chivers consulted his watch.
“My lord, it is nearly half past eleven, and Sir John Bladen waits on you at noon.”
“I had not forgotten,” said the Earl, beginning to write. “We will tell him nothing about the traveler being French, or about the letter, or what we may have surmised concerning the ‘highwaymen.’ We will simply make a report, a factual report, of what happened. We will say that we interrupted some armed and masked men in the act of robbing a solitary horseman, that we shot at two or them, wounding one and killing another. We are informing him of this so that he may take the usual steps, as Magistrate of the Peace, etcetera … Then we hand over both bodies to him. There was no identification on either body, was there?—and give him a glass of wine, and that will be that.”
Mr. Denbigh interposed. “Ought we not to ask Sir John if there are any Jacobites in the vicinity?”
“Sir John may be the very man to whom the letter is addressed. It is possible. We know nothing of him. Country magistrates have been known to commit treason, and to smuggle contraband before now. Even if he is not a Jacobite, he may be a fool, or worse still, have a loose tongue in his head. If I confide in him, he may give his friends a nod here and a wink there, saying ‘I could a tale unfold. …’ The news would be all over the country within the hour, and our Jacobite warned that we are on his track. Let us tell Sir John what he needs to know in order to give the dead men a decent burial, let us report on the matter to Lord Carteret, and then let us forget the whole thing.”
“Yes, my lord, I quite agree. But what I meant was that you have very little time to dress before Sir John arrives, and knowing these country gentry, he will arrive early.”
“I do not intend to dress.”
Chivers drew himself up. “My lord, with all respect—I beg of you to remember what is due to your rank. This may be the country, but it is not Rame, where everyone knows you. Sir John may only be a gentleman in a small way, but he is the local magistrate, and is waiting on you in his official capacity. It is only fitting that you receive him in a manner becoming your station.” The Earl threw down his quill, and Chivers smiled. “I have already laid out your clothes, my lord.”
The Tarrant Rose Page 2
