Time's Fool

by Patricia Veryan

  “I shall ignore that wicked libel,” said Naomi, and added thoughtfully, “what you need, dearest, is a diversion.” She brightened. “And I do believe the pirate’s great-granddaughter knows the very thing!”

  “See here, lovely one,” he said uneasily. “I’ll not have—”

  Naomi’s eyes grew round with excitement. “La, but ’twill be famous! I must first change my dress, and then…”

  * * *

  “The thing is, dear ma’am,” cooed Naomi, handing the butler her umbrella as she walked into the entrance hall with Lady Derrydene, “I have for so long been fairly yearning to look at your husband’s collection of bells, and knowing you must be lonely whilst he is away, I thought I would pay a call, and perhaps persuade you to let me see some of them.”

  “Ye-es.” Lady Louis Derrydene had been a great beauty in her youth, and was still a very handsome woman. On the far side of forty, she had a voluptuous figure, a girlishly coy manner, and long graceful hands of which she was most proud. Her doelike brown eyes surveyed her beautiful caller uncertainly, and she said in a high-pitched fluttery voice, “I was just going out. You see, most of the servants are in Bedfordshire during Sir Louis’ absence.”

  “Ah, then I have called at an inopportune time?”

  “Oh, no. I am sure my husband would not wish— Pray do come in, Lady Lutonville. I am not definitely— That is to say … I will be glad to show you some of the bells.”

  “You are too kind. I must instruct my groom—”

  “Quinn will do that.” Allowing the footman to take their bonnets and cloaks, Lady Derrydene turned to the butler. “Quinn, bring tea to the green saloon, and pray tell Camber to drive the team around to the stables.”

  Naomi was divested of her cloak, and followed her reluctant hostess along a chilly hall where occasional tables and wall recesses held bells of all shapes and sizes. Gideon should be at the rear by now, surely … “Oh, ma’am,” she trilled excitedly, seizing a large hanging bell, “I cannot resist! May I try this one?”

  Even as she spoke she was swinging the bell vigorously.

  The resultant clamour was gratifying. Lady Derrydene gave a shriek and clapped her hands over her ears; two cats raced up the stairs in search of sanctuary, and Gideon had ample time to open a rear window and climb into the book room.

  During his loitering about the alley he had made sure that there was no one in the back garden, and that most of the curtains were drawn over the tall, narrow windows. There was still the possibility, however, that his unconventional entrance might have been witnessed from the upper windows, or that a neighbour’s servant might have chanced to see him stroll across the lawn. He waited, listening intently, ready to make a run for it in case of a hullabaloo. A second deafening peal of bells almost shocked him out of his boots. Instinctively swinging around, he sent a fine old carven globe tottering, grabbed for it, and swore softly as it crashed to the floor and split in half, the twin sides spinning off in different directions. Fortunately, Naomi’s vigorous effort drowned the sounds of his clumsiness, and he gave a sigh of relief when there was no sound of a following investigation.

  He ran a keen glance around the room. The crowded untidy bookcases spoke of usage; there were a few comfortable chairs, and a long reference table with three drawers. He went swiftly to the latter. The drawers held the accumulation of years: torn book covers awaiting repair; reference sheets; several magazine articles on great country houses; yellowing pages from The Spectator with encircled political articles having to do with the recent tragic Uprising; some childish sketches; broken quill pens; crayons; pencils; rulers. He rifled through the drawers hurriedly, finding nothing to lend any substance to his suspicions. Convinced he was in the wrong room, he moved softly to the door and eased it open.

  Distantly, he could hear Naomi talking at full pitch and with scarce a stop for air. He grinned. Lady Derrydene must think she’d taken leave of her senses. The long hall stretched off gloomy and deserted. Most of the doors were closed. To the left was the entrance hall. Probably, the dining rooms were at the same end of the house. Derrydene’s study was most likely to be in this area. He turned to his right, and moved quickly and quietly along, wishing he’d had the foresight to remove his spurs, and trying to keep them from jingling. The next door loomed up and he raised the latch carefully, opened the door a crack and peeped into a shuttered morning room. To his horror, it was occupied. A footman and a housemaid were wrapped in a passionate embrace. Stifling a gasp, Rossiter pulled the door to and gingerly lowered the latch. Another bell was chiming merrily, and he called down blessings on the head of his industrious co-spy as the faint click of the latch was drowned in the uproar. The door across the hall was the last, and if this did not turn out to be the study, that chamber must be on the first floor. If he was to attempt it, he must move fast. He crossed the hall, listened at the door, and went inside.

  “Aha!” he whispered.

  The study had the tidy look that spoke of an absent owner. It was a pleasant room, with rugs of warm colours, red velvet hangings, and deep chairs. Rossiter fairly sprang for the large desk. Disdaining the many papers and unopened letters on the top, he attacked the drawers. One after another yielded only untidiness and clutter. There were old, apparently unpaid bills; reports from Derrydene’s tenants in Bedfordshire; indecipherable letters from the Dowager Lady Derrydene; reports from a Tutor at Eton (seeming to indicate despair).

  Abandoning the drawers, Rossiter skimmed through the papers on the top of the desk. More reports; more letters; more bills. And then, a single sheet, the direction, in block letters: TO—SIR LOUIS DERRYDENE. And the letter itself consisting of just four printed words. “Six absent. No meeting.” Staring at that message blankly, Rossiter could all but hear Naomi telling him of the two gentlemen at the Dowling Soiree and that they had said “something about a meeting that could not be held until six were recovered.” One of those same gentlemen had held a green chessman that Naomi said was similar to the one she had lost. The chessman again! Each time he sought to discover what was behind his father’s trouble, he seemed to run headlong against those confounded little figures. “’Tis too much,” he muttered. “It cannot be pure coincidence!” He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket, then went on searching.

  There was nothing in the pile of newspapers and correspondence, but an engagement book lay open on the desk. He turned back to the beginning of the year, and turned the pages swiftly. Most of the scrawled notes referred to meetings and appointments. Impatient, he riffled the pages hurriedly, then checked. The date was Tuesday, thirteenth of February, 1748. The notation read: “Do not forget Five!” His pulses beginning to race, Gideon flipped more pages. On February twenty-seventh, his hand checked once more. 7:00 P.M. Davies.

  He gasped out, “Davies!” The same Davies who had embezzled over a hundred thousand pounds from Rossiter Bank? It was a fairly common name—it could be another man, but intuition told him it was not. A week before the crash, Sir Louis Derrydene had seen Davies privately. Why?

  Taut with excitement, he flipped the pages. Thursday, March seventh. “Withdraw.” His fist crashed onto the desk. He snarled, “Withdraw! Yes, you withdrew—you filthy, treacherous hound!”

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. The engagement book still in his hand, he made a dive for the door and pressed back against the wall beside it. He held his breath as the latch was raised. Thrusting the book into one pocket, he reached into the other for his pistol.

  A hand gripped the edge of the door and held it open. A man’s London voice said reassuringly, “There y’are, me little duck. Did I not tell yer? Empty as a bishop’s purse.”

  A girl sounded scared. “I tell you I heered summat, Alfred. A man what was very cross, and bein’s the master’s back, I thought—If he should catch us…!”

  “He’s got more important things ter think on than you and me, never you fear. Come on, now. We’d best not get Cook into a uproar, wondering where you is. Be a good
little gal, and we’ll go fer a row on the river Sunday.”

  The door closed on an ecstatic, “Oooo!”

  Rossiter slipped the pistol back into his pocket.

  “… the master’s back…” Was that simply Derrydene? Or was Derrydene also the mysterious Squire to whom the bullies had referred? Either way, thought Rossiter, there was some proof now. He had the engagement book, and the succinct letter. Surely the lord chancellor’s committee must pay some attention when he explained it all? But if Sir Louis had indeed returned from Russia (if he ever went!) every minute’s delay here increased the danger of discovery. He eased the door open. The amorous footman and his lass had vanished and the hall was hushed and empty.

  Moving swiftly, Rossiter returned to the book room. He started for the window. His boot sent something scuttling across the floor and he glanced down to discover one half of the globe he’d knocked over earlier. The drizzle had stopped and a weak sun sent an enquiring beam slanting across the rug. It awoke a blue sparkle from inside the globe. Curious, Rossiter bent lower. His breath was snatched away. He took up the half globe and removed an object that had lain concealed inside. A small figure carven from what he thought to be lapis lazuli, the beautiful blue stone so much admired by Marco Polo. There could be no doubt but that this little fellow was related to the figure Naomi had sketched. It was of the same size and shape, but the “face” had an oddly humorous expression. It was surprisingly heavy for its size, and was set with no fewer than six fine sapphires.

  “By God…!” breathed Rossiter.

  “Put it down,” said a cold voice.

  He froze, then jerked around.

  He had never much cared for Sir Louis Derrydene. During the six years since last he had seen the baronet, the pasty cheeks seemed to have become even more inclined to sag, the small mouth looked paler and tighter, the tendency to corpulence was more pronounced. But the hand holding the horse pistol was steady as a rock, and there was no doubting that death shone from the hard dark eyes.

  “Well, well,” drawled Rossiter. “So my father’s trusted friend has crept from his hole.”

  A faint flush lit the flabby cheeks, but Derrydene repeated softly, “Put … it … down.”

  “Why? It will look so nice with”—he ventured a wild guess—“with six.”

  And he had struck home! He saw Derrydene’s white hand jerk, saw the small mouth fall open, the little eyes widen with shock, and knew it was now or never.

  The half globe was still in his left hand and it was quite heavy. He hurled it straight at Derrydene’s face and in the same instant flung himself to one side. His conviction that the baronet would not hesitate to shoot was verified. The pistol bloomed smoke and flame. The retort was deafening, but Rossiter had moved very fast, and the ball hummed past him. Teeth bared with rage, Derrydene sprang, flailing the pistol at his head. Rossiter ducked, evading the blow. Derrydene snatched for the jewelled figure. He was bigger and heavier than Rossiter, and surprisingly strong. Reluctant to hit an older man, Rossiter panted, “Let go! I don’t want to—hurt you.”

  Derrydene’s response was to again smash the pistol at his face. He jerked his head aside, and the weapon grazed his temple. Locked in a desperate struggle, they reeled about the room, sending chairs and small tables flying. Rossiter knew that time was running out; the shot had certainly been heard. At any instant Derrydene’s people would be in here. He tore free and retreated. The baronet charged him. He swayed aside and gave a helping hand. At speed, Derrydene encountered the wall, and went down heavily.

  Feet were pounding along the hall. Rossiter scooped up the little blue figure, and raced for the window.

  “You’re … dead,” choked Derrydene, gobbling with frustrated fury. “You damnable … interfering fool. You’re a … dead man!”

  Rossiter called, “Can’t stop to chat. Sorry,” and was over the sill and sprinting across the back lawn.

  Someone howled, “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  “Not today,” muttered Rossiter, and zigzagged. Two shots thundered out. He felt a tug at his right elbow, then the wall was before him. He cleared it with astonishing ease and not so much as a pang from his many bruises.

  * * *

  The clock on the dingy wall of this dingy room emitted a staccato rattling sound, then chimed once, a second chime being added after several intervening seconds, as if in afterthought. Glaring at it, Gideon stamped back to the bench where Naomi waited.

  “Two o’clock!” he growled. “We have been here nigh on two hours! Derrydene has likely already been in touch with his solicitor and fabricated some cock-and-bull story to conflummerate the authorities. Such as they are!”

  “If he is not on his way back to Moscow,” said Naomi.

  He swore under his breath. “I vow that clerk was very well to live. He reeked of ale! I wonder if he even sought the magistrate, or is fallen asleep t’other side of that door.”

  He began to pace up and down again. Naomi watched him lovingly. When she’d heard the first shot she had thought for one ghastly moment that he must have been slain. Lady Derrydene had run, screaming, down the hall, and she had followed, dreading what they might find. As they’d passed the dining room, two more shots had rung out, and she’d caught a glimpse of Gideon soaring over the wall with an easy grace that had set her fears at rest. She had stayed long enough to determine that although he was practically apoplectic with rage, Derrydene was relatively unharmed. Then, she had quietly slipped away, sending a lackey to call up her carriage. Gideon had joined them at the next corner, and rode beside the carriage to Bow Street.

  A watchman had guided them to this unfortunate chamber. He had listened, goggle eyed, to Gideon’s terse demands that constables be at once sent to apprehend Sir Louis Derrydene. Muttering that he must “fetch someone in authority” he had gone away, to reappear with a clerk. The clerk had explained that the magistrate was busied with another case, and that it would be necessary to first take down “the particulars.” Not all Gideon’s rageful insistence on the necessity for speedy action had moved this stolid minion of the law, and he had laboriously written out his report, then gone in search of the magistrate.

  Disregarding the constable who sat by the outer door, Gideon strode to the inner door and pounded on it angrily. “Hey!” he shouted. “Have you all expired in there?”

  “Now then, sir,” protested the constable, running over, much shocked. “You cannot be a’doing of that in here! I speck as his honour’s at his luncheon and you’ll just have to wait.”

  “I have been waiting! Two confounded hours! And the lady—” Gideon returned to sit on the bench beside Naomi and take her hand. “My poor love,” he exclaimed contritely. “You must be starving hungry! I’ll call up your carriage and have you taken home. This idiotic magistrate will probably—”

  “Do you refer to me, Captain Rossiter?”

  The dry voice came from a stringy little man with a grey face and a grey and greasy wig, who had taken a seat behind a battered desk against the rear wall, and was surveying them through a dirty quizzing glass.

  Gideon sprang to his feet and hurried to the desk. “Sir, I presume that you have read my statement and seen the evidence I handed your clerk. There has already been much time lost, and you must make haste, else this scheming rascal will—”

  “I have here,” interrupted the magistrate, turning his quizzing glass on the various items before him and peering at them near-sightedly, “one letter; exceeding brief and of little significance. One engagement book containing entries of no interest. And what appears to be a child’s toy. I find it little short of incredible that on the strength—or perhaps I should say the weakness—of these objects, you expect me to take seriously the allegations you have made ’gainst a respectable and titled gentleman.”

  “Good God, man!” burst out Rossiter. “Did you not read my statement? It took that block of a clerk the better part of half an hour to—”

  “Now then, sir,” intervened the con
stable, again coming forward and looking shocked. “You mustn’t talk to the magistrate like that there. You must call him ‘your honour’ and you must be respeckful when—”

  “Respectful! Why you dimwit, don’t you know that while we fripper about and do nothing, Derrydene is doubtless making haste out of the country?”

  “Sir Louis Derrydene,” said the magistrate in his sour voice, “is a gentleman whose only misstep in an otherwise exemplary life appears to have been to become associated with Rossiter Bank.”

  “Associated, do you say, sir,” roared Gideon. “That scoundrel damn near ruined my father with his trickery and—”

  “And I will not allow slanderous statements of no foundation to be made in this court,” interrupted the magistrate shrilly. Jabbing his quizzing glass at Gideon, he leaned forward. “I have heard some cock-and-bull fustian in my time, Captain Rossiter. But this—this mishmash you have brought me is downright ridiculous! You have wasted my time, sir; you have treated this court with contempt; you have used unseemly language before not only the appointed representative of law and order, but”—the quizzing glass slid to the side, the little eyes glittered, and the wizened face contorted into a grimace that might have been a smile—“before this lovely lady.” He returned his gaze to the fuming Rossiter, and his smile became a scowl. “Disgraceful,” he said, and rapped his quizzing glass on the desk. “Fifty guineas.”

  “Fifty guineas!” exclaimed Rossiter. “What the deuce for? You have done nothing!”

  “We will make it—sixty guineas,” snapped the magistrate. “And one more outburst will provoke me into indeed doing something, sir, for I shall have you clapped up, sir!”

  Naomi hurried to Gideon’s side and bent her most winning smile on the representative of law and order. “I do apologize for my affianced, your honour,” she murmured softly. “He is but now returned from the Low Countries, where he was seriously wounded and came near to dying. He is not quite himself as yet. In fact, I do suspect…” Ignoring Gideon’s impatient growl, she leaned nearer and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper.