Time's Fool

by Patricia Veryan

  Bewildered, Morris gasped, “But—I saw you wrap ’em up! You must have the wrong box, dear boy.”

  Not answering, Gideon continued to gaze blindly at the pebbles in his hand. Then, “That mercenary little hound!” he whispered between his teeth, and sprinted for the door, his expression so savage that Morris stared after him, aghast.

  Comprehension came then, and with it, dismay. “Lord help us,” muttered the lieutenant, and ran into the hall.

  Newby’s room was a shambles, with clothes strewn about, drawers left open, the presses half empty. Gideon tugged at the bell pull, then rummaged through the piled articles atop the chest of drawers while Morris watched in silence.

  A maid ran in. Her eyes reflecting astonishment at the condition of the room, she dropped a curtsy and asked shyly, “Your wish, sir?”

  Gideon turned, breathing hard, his eyes narrowed slits of rage. “Mr. Newby. Did he leave with my father?”

  “No, sir.” Retreating a step, she stammered, “Mr. er, Newby woke up feeling unwell, and—and Sir Mark drove out alone.”

  “I see. But my brother’s health improved later, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Delatouche said Mr. Newby thought the waters at Bath might help him. And so Mr. Newby went there. And he took Mr. Delatouche along of him.”

  Morris saw Gideon’s knuckles gleam white as he clung to the top of the chest of drawers, but his voice was calm when he asked, “And you have not heard from Sir Mark since early this morning?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. We have. Come to think of it, it was just afore Mr. Newby left. Sir Mark sent round for a change of clothes. The lackey what come says as Sir Mark and General Underhill found out they’s related in a distant way, and Sir Mark is invited to overnight with the general.”

  Gideon stared at her blankly.

  “Dash it all,” said Morris, “but you’re a good little gal. Tell me now, did Mr. Newby not leave any word for his father that he was going away?”

  The maid blushed. “I can’t say, sir. But I did see a letter on Sir Mark’s bed, like it might’ve—” She broke off with a startled squeal and ran aside as Gideon plunged for the door.

  “’Pon my word,” she exclaimed. “The captain seems a mite upset, sir, I do hope as nothing’s wrong?”

  Morris sighed. “’Fraid Captain Rossiter’s been storing milk in a sieve,” he said ruefully, and hastened after his friend.

  The maid stared after him, wishing she might see the day that Captain Rossiter spent one second messing about with milk—in anything!

  Morris entered Sir Mark’s bedchamber, and halted, his apprehension justified. Gideon knelt beside the bed, head bowed onto his arms and a crumpled sheet of paper in one clenched hand.

  “My poor fellow,” said Morris gently, bending over him.

  Gideon did not move. “He’s … taken them…” His voice was muffled and shaking. “He says … he’s off to the New World. My God!” His voice broke on what sounded suspiciously like a sob.

  Horrified by such an unnerving display of emotion, Morris sat on the bed and patted Rossiter’s bowed shoulder awkwardly. “Do you think he’s gone to that collector fellow? Kendall-thingummy, wasn’t it?”

  A silence. Then Rossiter said dully, “I have loved her—all my life … But I went off, like a perfect fool, and—and left her. I threw away six … precious years. I keep remembering her at Emerald Farm … just the day before yesterday. The way she looked at me, with her pretty mouth trying so hard not to—not to weep … and how her voice trembled when she—she said she would not love me again. ‘I will not let you hurt me,’ she said. And—” His voice rose to a cry of agony. “God help me, but I’ve hurt her! I’d better have died than—than hurt her again!” His clenched fists beat at the bed. Racked, he bowed lower.

  “What a disgusting display,” drawled a contemptuous voice from the door.

  Scowling, Morris jerked around. “Leave him be, Falcon. He’s suffered a great shock, is all.”

  “Shock, my Aunt Maria! He suffers from lack of spine, more like!”

  Rossiter raised his head and put shaking hands over his face. “Yes,” he whispered. “I never knew, you see … what ’twas like to be … so afraid. If—if they harm her…”

  “Well, much you are doing to prevent it! I came up to wash and find a clean shirt. An you can command some trace of gumption, I’d also like to see these famous icons.”

  Rossiter dragged himself to his feet, and turned around.

  Morris stared, shocked. This strong man with the splendid battle record, who had so bravely endured his long and painful hospital sojourn, had in just a few minutes been shattered not by a physical thing, but by the terrible hand of grief. He was shaking visibly, his face was haggard and deathly pale, a dazed look of pain in his eyes made it hard to meet them, and there were deep lines between his brows and beside his mouth.

  “They’re—gone.” Rossiter held out his brother’s note.

  “What?” Falcon snatched it, read, and swore furiously. “That slithering little bastard! Where has he run to?”

  Rossiter put an unsteady hand to his temple. “I—cannot seem to—to think.”

  Seizing him by the cravat, Falcon snarled, “Wake up, damn you!” Infuriated, he drew back his hand. It was caught in an iron grip, and Morris said angrily, “You’ll just make it worse. Did you never love anything, Falcon? Any lady?”

  “Yes, I did, damn you!” Wrenching free, Falcon said, “If my sister had been made off with by some stinking swine, I’d not be sitting here whimpering, I can tell you! And considering he loves her so blasted much, ’tis a pity he didn’t remember it whilst he was cavorting about with his lightskirts in Holland!”

  “Is no good to water last year’s cabbages.”

  Taken offstride, Falcon stared at him. “Why the devil are you babbling about cabbages?”

  Morris’ lip curled in disgust. “One cannot expect a man with all your nous to understand a simple simile!” He flung up one hand. “No,” he said with rare dignity, “I’ll not come to cuffs with you now. Only try not to be such a fool! Go and get your shirt. Gideon’s room is the end door on the right. I’ll take him downstairs. After he’s put some food and brandy inside him, he’ll likely come to himself.”

  For a moment Falcon looked more inclined to do bloody murder than to follow this sensible suggestion, but he ground his teeth, muttered darkly about a “day of reckoning,” and took himself off.

  Morris put his arm across Gideon’s shoulders. “Come along, my poor fellow. Lord, but you’re shaking like a leaf.”

  His teeth chattering, Gideon said, “I’m so—cold … Jamie.”

  “Yes, dear boy, and small wonder. You came home torn to rags, and in no case for what has been levelled at you here. I vow you’d have had a better chance at recovery had you gone back to the Regiment! Come—we’ll find something to warm your innards, and you’ll feel more the thing in no time. I only wish Tummet was here. He’d know—”

  “Tummet!” Gideon’s head jerked up. His eyes brightened, and a faint flush showed on his drawn cheeks. Gripping Morris by the shoulders, he said vehemently, “Of course! Tummet! That rascal’s hot after them, I’ll wager! If all else fails, he’ll be able to tell us where they’ve taken her!”

  It was then five minutes past twelve o’clock, Saturday afternoon.

  * * *

  “Lookit all this ’ere muck! A man might think as ’is ’igh and mightiness would’ve kept it clean!”

  “Aye. A daft mon might think that, Billy lad! Can ye no juist picture the grrreat mon hissel’, squatting on his noble haunches tae gather up old sacks and rubbish? And for why should he? He didnae invite the bonnie lassie tae drink a dish o’tea wi’ him!”

  A laugh went up, and the first voice grumbled, “Orl right, Mac. Orl right. Laugh. But you’d best ’ave a care wi’ the candles. One spark and this ruin’ll be a perishin’ bonfire afore we’re ready!”

  A constant creaking and thumping from somewhere outside made i
t difficult to hear what was said downstairs, but that ominous snatch of conversation penetrated the veil of sleep. Naomi opened her eyes very wide and began to remember.

  When these ruffians had ridden between her and Gwendolyn she’d thought for an instant that they were either very rude individuals, or some friends playing a trick on her. That momentary bewilderment ended when a strong arm had swept about her shoulders, a hand had clamped over her mouth, and a harsh voice had warned that if she made a fuss her friend would be killed. Unable to see whether Gwendolyn was also held captive, she’d had no choice but to submit, scarcely able to believe that this was happening in broad daylight.

  A carriage had waited at the edge of the park. As once before, she’d been tossed unceremoniously inside, but this time two hooded men had seized her in brutal hands, to quiet her struggles and gag and tie her. A foul-smelling hood had been dragged over her head, and, blinded, torn between rage and terror, she had been driven away. The ropes hurt her wrists; bounced about on the seats, listening to the coarse jests of her captors, she was scarcely able to breathe, and her mouth had felt dry as sand by the time they stopped somewhere. The hood was taken off and the gag removed. A big man sat opposite, and there were others on each side of her, all wearing those terrifying hoods. Curtains were drawn across the carriage windows, but she’d heard bird songs and thought they were somewhere in amongst trees.

  The man opposite had said, “Don’t you scream now, milady. No one wouldn’t hear you. ’Sides, we don’t mean you no harm, long as you behave.” Her immediate attempt to speak had been foiled by her dry throat. The man on her right thrust a flask at her, saying in a growl of a voice that it was “only lemonade, but we thought you’d like it better’n gin.” She had drunk thirstily and found it sweet and wonderfully cool. But it had been more than lemonade evidently, for she remembered nothing from that moment until she had awoken to find herself being carried up a narrow stair and laid on a cot, her head aching so miserably that she’d been glad to fall asleep again.

  Her head was easier now, and she began to look about. She was in a room about nine feet square that smelled of dust and something else she could not quite identify. The walls were of crumbling stone and looked as if they’d never seen paint. Far above was a half-loft, evidently blessed with a window, for the only light came from that area. There was no ladder, however, and without one it might as well have been on the moon for all the hope she had of reaching it. The cot she lay on was positioned against one wall, and the blankets and pillows were clean and sweet smelling. Driven by curiosity, she sat up, and received another surprise. Opposite was a small table on which were a standing mirror, a hairbrush and comb, some copies of The Spectator, a Bible, and a book of poetry. Adjacent to the table was a washstand with soap, towels, a bowl and pitcher, and on a nearby chair, a warm dressing gown.

  She heard footsteps, and sprang up hurriedly as the door opened. A man entered, wearing a loose face mask that reached down to his mouth, and carrying a laden tray. One plate was piled with thick slices of buttered bread, cold ham, and a large portion of cheese; a smaller plate held a piece of rhubarb pie, and there was also a glass of ale.

  “I’m waeful sorry we had tae scare ye, ma’am,” he said, putting the tray on the table. “’It goes agin the grrrain wi’ me tae mishandle a wench. But ye’ll nae come tae grrrief lest ye gie us trrrouble. Ye can see we’ve made provision fer ye yonder, and there’s a, er—” He broke off, and ended with a shy gesture, “Under the wee bed.”

  The small part of his face that was visible below the mask had reddened. He retained a vestige of decency, evidently. Encouraged, Naomi said, “You’re the one they call Mac. A Scot, I think.”

  “I am that. And dinna be readying tae make me a brrribe, milady. Me life’s nae worrrth much, but such as ’tis I’m partial tae it, y’ken.”

  She had been preparing for just such an offer, and hoping she sounded unafraid, she said scornfully, “You will surely hang when my father finds me. If you’re a rebel trying to gather funds to buy you safe passage to France, I could arrange for you to get twice that much.”

  He grinned. “Ye’re a cool one, and ye’ve come tae the right of’t, sure enough, but dinna fash yesel, lassie. Your pa’s not aboot tae find ye in this Godforsaken spot. And was I tae go against the Squire, I’d ne’er see the bonnie heather this side o’ judgment.” He turned to the door. “I’ll be—”

  Naomi ran to touch his sleeve, then shrank back as he whirled on her, crouching, his lips drawing back from his teeth in a soundless snarl, a long knife appearing as if by magic in his hand.

  “Go on, then,” she cried fiercely. “Kill me! Much good will I be to you then!”

  Taking a long whistling breath, he straightened. “Dinna e’er do that agin, woman! I nigh slit yer pretty gizzard!” He stared at her proud but pale face. “Och, but ’tis a lovely wee thing ye are! And I like a lassie wi’ spirit.”

  Her hopes rising, she stretched out an imploring hand. “Then—help me! I’ll see you are not charged. I swear it!”

  As if moved to pity, he said very softly, “I’ll tell ye this only—we mean ye nae harrrm, if yer pa does as he’s told. Likely he will, and ye’ll be safe home wi’ him this time t’morrer.” He went out, and pulled the door shut.

  The sound of a bar slamming down on the other side was echoed by a sharper crack. Naomi heard alarmed shouts and flew to press her ear against the heavy oak door.

  She heard the Scot call, “What’s aboot?”

  Another voice answered, “Bill saw a cove skulking around.”

  “Losh, mon! ’Twas likely juist a poacher. He didnae shoot him, I hope? We’ll hae the Runners doon here like flies if—”

  Bill’s dour tones then, holding a note of triumph. “There’ll be no Runners, Mac. I caught the perisher square and ’e went into the river.” He chuckled. “Very accommodating, I must say.”

  “And very needless,” said a high-pitched voice angrily. “You got us inter a Capital Act is what you done!”

  “Kidnappin’ of a person o’ Quality is a Capital Act, Paddy, so if they catches us we’re fer Tyburn Tree anyway. As I sees it, ’tis best ter take no chances. If that there creepin’ cove was a poacher, nobody’s goin’ ter miss ’im. And if ’e was ’ired ter keep a eye on the tasty piece we got upstairs, ’e ain’t goin’ ter run back ter fill up Captain Perishin’ Rossiter’s ear’oles, is ’e? A stitch in time, me dears. A stitch in time.”

  These sentiments provoked a heated argument, but Naomi closed her ears to their angry voices and sank down against the door, her heart heavy. She said a little prayer for poor Camber, or whoever had fallen victim to this gang of ruffians. After a while, her inherent optimism began to assert itself, and she got to her feet again. If there was only some way to get up to the loft. Even if the window was too small to climb through, she might be able to throw out a note or do something to attract attention to her plight. She looked around the room again, searching for inspiration. Her gaze lingered on the bed, and she said a thoughtful, “Hmm…”

  Then, she went to the table. It was prosaic and unromantic behaviour, but she was hungry.

  * * *

  Because of their hope that Tummet would arrive here, or that Newby would come back, the little band made the Snow Hill house their headquarters. The need for secrecy forbade enlisting the aid of the household staff, but Dr. Lockhart, who had insisted upon being part of the search, agreed to remain at the house to receive progress reports, and explain the situation to any returning family member. At half-past twelve o’clock, the determined seekers set out.

  Peregrine Cranford and Falcon went straight to the Derrydene house, and were dismayed to find it closed up and apparently unoccupied, the knocker off the door, and all the window curtains drawn. Repairing at once to Bow Street, they were advised by the irritated magistrate that the two Watchmen had been withdrawn when Sir Louis and Lady Derrydene had left the premises shortly before noon, escorted by several gentlemen. Responding to t
heir indignant protests, he said that had any charges been brought they would have been against Captain Rossiter’s man, who had very obviously followed the Derrydene party. Restraining Falcon, who was clearly ready to commit bloody murder on this obstructive minion of the law, Cranford exercised considerable tact and eventually was begrudgingly advised of the route taken by the Derrydene party.

  At once, the two men set off at speed for the southwest, and were elated when they received confirmation of the Derrydene group’s having passed the third toll gate only half an hour before them. They lost the trail at Woking, and wasted an hour searching. But coming into Guildford at six o’clock, they found such a group had taken rooms at a posting house, using the name Atkinson. Further investigation took them to the dining room, where they located their quarry, only to find a middle-aged lady of questionable respectability, escorted by five rowdy men. Whether by accident or design they had followed a false trail. Disheartened and weary, they commenced the long journey back to Snow Hill.

  Glendenning and Kadenworthy, meanwhile, acted on Gideon’s belief that his twin would not go to the interested collector, Mr. Kendall-Parker, until he had tried to ascertain the real worth of the miniatures. They spent several fruitless hours visiting London’s finest jewellers; more hours visiting lesser known jewellers; and finally resorted to antique dealers, many of whom closed their shops early on Saturdays. About to give up, however, they had been rewarded by the information that an elderly authority on jade art had been lecturing at a Tottenham Court Road gallery that day. They rushed to the gallery and were told that several gentlemen, including one who roughly fitted Newby’s description, had brought objects for appraisal. Unfortunately, the antiquarian had left an hour earlier, bound for his Windsor home.

  A cold wind had come up, but to Windsor they rode, arriving at quarter past seven, just as the antiquarian was going out again, to have his dinner. He was of modest means, and was delighted to accept an invitation to be the dinner guest of “Mr. Laindon” and “Mr. King.” He guided them to a far more expensive tavern than he usually frequented, and during the course of a most excellent dinner, admitted that he knew of the collection of Jewelled Men. He’d not been aware of its existence, however, until this morning, when a young gentleman had brought him two of the pieces and asked for an estimate of their worth. Very interesting articles, to be sure, and the entire set might be of considerable value, depending upon the number of pieces and the quality of the inset gems. He knew of a collector who might be prepared to offer as much as two hundred pounds for each piece, but—one thousand? Good gracious me—no! So disappointed the gentleman had been, and had flown into a rage, and stamped off in a huff. No, he did not know in which direction the gentleman had gone, but he had been accompanied by a rather obsequious individual who could very well have been his manservant.