Time's Fool

by Patricia Veryan

  By seven o’clock they were clattering down the steps and starting off on their several errands. The first task for Gideon and Morris was to find Sir Mark. The rest were to split up and enquire at toll gates on all the main port roads. If these yielded nothing, they would then resort to their sections of the list of most likely hotels, posting inns, taverns, and hostelries, which Gideon had divided among them all.

  General Underhill lived at a pleasant house in York Street. Despite the early hour he was not at home, having been called back to the Horse Guards on some urgent matter, and Sir Mark Rossiter had not yet risen. The general’s buxom housekeeper was highly indignant that anyone would pay a call at such a time of day, and was further incensed when Gideon demanded to be at once conducted to Sir Mark’s room. One glance at the lady’s flushed and outraged countenance caused Morris to quail and offer to wait with the horses.

  Sir Mark’s initial annoyance at being awoken before eight o’clock on a Sunday morning gave way to horror when he learned of the kidnapping. That emotion was banished by soaring fury when Newby’s part in the disaster was revealed. Newby might, roared Sir Mark, be concerned for their future, but he would never have taken “those repulsive little objects” and tried to sell them. “As for jeopardizing the Lutonville girl’s life—Poppycock! The boy’s an honourable gentleman and would never do so dreadful a thing!”

  It was in vain that Gideon declared he realized Newby hadn’t known about the kidnapping when he took the icons. Sir Mark would not listen, and embarked on a blistering denunciation of Gideon’s “lifelong jealousy” and total lack of filial affection for his twin.

  In spite of their differences, Gideon was deeply fond of his father, and had only once allowed temper to overmaster him, his breeding demanding that a son ever treat his parents with the utmost respect. Today, his patience was strained to the limit, but briefly he endured. Abruptly then, his voice cut like a steel sabre through the bitter tirade. “Be so good as to stop, sir!”

  His jaw dropping in astonishment, Sir Mark stopped.

  “My feelings for Newby,” said Gideon, “or his for me, are of no import at this moment. What matters is Naomi’s life. You had as well know that I love her with all my heart, and mean to make her my wife. Nothing—nothing—will stay me from doing everything in my power to save her. And I will allow no one to stand in my way! Newby has taken the jewelled men, and he did leave you a note to that effect. I should have brought it, but I did not expect you would question my word.” Sir Mark attempted to interrupt, but Gideon swept on ruthlessly. “If he still has them, he must give them back. If he has sold them, he must tell me to whom, and where I may find the purchaser. There is very little time left, and I do not ask, sir—I demand that you tell me if he has been here—or where I may find him!”

  Scarcely recognizing this awe-inspiring stranger for his own son, it occurred to Sir Mark for the first time that he would like to have seen the boy go into action. He said without heat, “I don’t know. I’ve not had speech with him since I came here.”

  “Have you any notion where he would go an he was troubled? Particularly, if he desired not to be found?”

  Again, Sir Mark bristled, but the pale grim face silenced his indignation. “No. None. Unless … to Smythe’s, mayhap.”

  Incredulous, Gideon echoed, “Smythe’s? Reggie Smythe?”

  “I said—perhaps! They are friends and sometimes have got into—er, scrapes together, I believe.”

  “Good God!” whispered Gideon, and turned on his heel.

  “Wait!” cried Sir Mark. “Underhill should return at any moment. I’ll ask him to help. He’s a good enough—”

  “No! Nobody must know! They threaten her instant death if word leaks out! For the love of God—promise you’ll tell no one, sir! And if Newby comes here, promise you will bring him at once to Snow Hill!”

  Touched by his intensity, Sir Mark could only acquiesce and watch, amazed, as his tall son stalked out.

  Mr. Reginald Smythe had rooms in Pall Mall, and was at early Church service. Gideon and Morris split up and used the time to make enquiries at nearby hotels. Their efforts proving vain, they then rode to Westminster Abbey, where Mr. Smythe was in the habit of attending services. The fact that Morris and Rossiter wore riding dress offended several churchgoers, and Morris blushed painfully when a formidable dowager pronounced to a friend in stentorian tones that today’s young people had been sadly taught if they felt it proper to undertake a journey on the Sabbath.

  Fortunately, Smythe was soon found, strolling with several cronies and laughing over the “boredom” of the sermon. Gideon accosted him with little ceremony. Smythe was unobliging as ever and chose to take exception to Gideon’s behaviour, which he termed “crude and offensive.” Fearing that a bout of fisticuffs was imminent and shuddering to think of such a scene on the very steps of the Abbey, Morris intervened with a disjointed plea for cooperation. Smythe imitated him scathingly. Seizing Smythe by his ornate cravat Gideon snarled a demand for immediate information. One of Mr. Smythe’s friends ventured to tap Gideon on the shoulder and suggest that he remember his manners. Gideon’s response, delivered with murderous succinctness, resulted in several of the little group suddenly recalling pressing engagements elsewhere, while the remainder, catching sight of long-lost friends, wandered off. Deserted, Mr. Smythe said sulkily that Rossiter was a damnably ill-bred fellow, and that he had not seen Newby for two days, at the very least.

  Another door was closed.

  Gideon tore out his pocket watch. It was five and twenty minutes past ten o’clock.

  * * *

  Gwendolyn ran to the door, searching her brother’s face as he walked inside. He was pale and there was a whiteness about his mouth that alarmed her, but his smile was calm and his eyes were resolute. Stifling a sob, she reached out to him. “Oh, my dear. I am so very sorry.”

  He pressed a kiss on her forehead. “Has anyone come back yet?”

  She nodded miserably. “Yes, at noon. I fear they learned nothing.”

  Walking in, Morris sighed, “I think we have been to every inn, tavern, and hotel in London! ’Tis as if the beastly—I mean, ’tis as if he’d been swallowed into thin air.”

  “London is not a small town,” Gideon pointed out wryly. “Who is here, Gwen?”

  “Papa came home, and is in the withdrawing room with Katrina. Your friends all left again. They are determined to go on searching, until—”

  She paused, and they all tried not to hear the case clock chime three times. Gwendolyn asked in a stifled voice, “Gideon—whatever shall you do?”

  He knew what he would do. And he dreaded that even his own life would not satisfy the man, or men, who wanted those icons so desperately.

  He said, “Whatever I must, to save her.” She looked terrified, and he added, “Gwen dear, we’ve not stopped all day. Poor Jamie must be ravenous. Would you…?”

  “Of course.” She limped off towards the kitchen.

  Morris said, “One would think you had no servants, Ross.”

  “I know. But she wants so to help.”

  They walked toward the stairs together. Watching his friend’s face, Morris muttered helplessly, “You mean to go and try to reason with those dirty bastards.”

  Gideon shrugged. “An you have a better suggestion…”

  “You’d as well put a pistol to your head! The kind of animal who would threaten a helpless girl would not think twice about killing you if you arrive empty-handed. You know that.”

  “I only pray they may not make good their threat against her!”

  The lackey hurried to answer a thunderous assault on the front door. With his hand on the post at the foot of the stairs, Gideon turned, still daring to hope that one of the searchers had returned with good news. It was, however, the Earl of Collington who rushed in, hatless, his hair windblown, his manner wildly distraught.

  “Villain!” raged the earl, running to seize Gideon by the shoulders and shake him violently. “Where is
my daughter? What have you done to bring this disaster down upon us? Why is she not restored to me by this time?”

  Pitying the man’s distress, Gideon said, “Sir, I sent a lackey around last night and again this morning, to explain what—”

  “To explain that you have done nothing! That you are letting all these hours pass while you make no attempt to save her!” His voice rose to an hysterical shrillness. “Why do you not take them their idiotic icons?”

  Detaching Collington’s grip from his shoulders, Gideon said, “My lord, you are overwrought. If you will but—”

  “You don’t mean to part with ’em,” shouted the earl. “They’re too valuable, eh? By God, but you’re just another thief like your worthless sire!” He tore a small pistol from his coat pocket. “Well, I’ll not stand by and let you—”

  Gideon grabbed Collington’s wrist, forcing it upward. The pistol exploded, the retort ear-splitting in the narrow hall. Trying not to hurt the half-crazed man, Gideon took a blow across the face and reeled back. Morris ran to his aid, and Naomi’s large groom pushed past the lackey to hold his employer back, but the earl fought them like a mad thing so that it was as much as they could do to restrain him.

  The hall was suddenly crowded as Sir Mark and Katrina rushed from the withdrawing room, and Gwendolyn, Wilson, and two maids ran from the kitchen.

  Sir Mark thundered, “How dare you, sir! Stop this nonsense at once!”

  Panting, Collington stopped struggling and glared at him. “An ’twas your daughter, you might have some pity!”

  Heavy wheels rumbled in the street. From the front door, Wilson called, “There’s a waggon stopped outside, sir. They’re … Good heavens! They’re carrying someone here!”

  Gideon reached the door as it swung wide. A laden waggon with blocks behind the wheels stood at the kennel, and two countrymen in gaiters and smocks were carrying someone up the steps on a hurdle.

  As he was borne inside, the injured man turned his head weakly.

  “Tummet!” exclaimed Gideon.

  “Go!” muttered Enoch Tummet. “’Fore they…” His eyes moved to the side and he stopped speaking.

  Gideon sent a lackey running for Dr. Lockhart. Gwendolyn, who had hurried to the side of the hurdle and bent low over Tummet, said in a rather scratchy voice, “He has been—been shot … I fear.” She went off with Katrina to assemble linen and medical supplies.

  Gideon turned a narrowed stare on the waggoners. “You are very good to have brought him. You must let us repay you for your trouble. Where did you find him?”

  One of the waggoners said shyly, “’E wuz crawling by the road, sir. We reckoned at first as ’e be over the oar, as they say. But then my mate seed as ’e wuz hurt. All as ’e could do wuz ask us to bring him here. Which we done, hoping as it bean’t wrong, sir.”

  Sir Mark said, “You did exactly right. Now, if you’d just—”

  Tummet tugged at Gideon’s sleeve and croaked urgently, “You must go, guv. Quick. Yer lady—”

  “Lady Naomi?” Gideon bent over him. “What about her? Do you know where she is? Is she all right?”

  There was a vivid bloodstain on Tummet’s shirt, and he was obviously weak and in pain. His eyes darted to the side. He mumbled, “It’s—it’s—”

  “Yes, my poor fellow,” said Gideon gently. “What can you tell me?”

  The earl, who had watched this dramatic scene in bewilderment, peered at the injured man and said, “You will be well rewarded if you bring word of Lady Lutonville, my good man. Try to tell us.”

  Tummet sank back. His gaze fixed on Gideon, he muttered, “Me daughter’s … pill, Guv. Daughter … pill…” And, sighing, he closed his eyes.

  “Mind’s wandering, poor fellow,” said Sir Mark, and instructed Wilson to show the waggoners to Tummet’s room.

  Watching them climb the stairs, Morris said a puzzled, “But, he—”

  Gideon gripped his arm, as if himself in need of support. “I had so hoped he might bring news for us. I know his daughter has an inflammation of the lungs, but I thought someone was caring for her.” He shook his head despondently. “Natural enough that she is all the poor fellow can think of.” His grip on Morris’ shoulder became crushing. “Jamie, I mean to have another try. Newby may have overnighted at my cousin’s house in St. Alban’s. Is a sorry hope, but our last one. Will you come with me?”

  Morris stared at him. “But, of course, dear boy.”

  Collington said anxiously, “and then you will give them their accursed icons? You’ll not leave it too late?”

  “We’ll be back in time. I promise you, sir.”

  They hurried out to where a boy was walking their horses. Gideon tossed the boy a shilling, and they mounted up and made their perilous way down the hill.

  Morris said, “’Tis my thought you should have told Collington the truth, Ross. He’s a right to know you do not have those jewelled thingummys. And what in the name of creation was all that about Tummet’s daughter?”

  “My intrepid valet.” Gideon’s eyes blazed with excitement. “God love the man, he was trying to tell me something!”

  “Trying to tell you something? Then why the deuce didn’t he spit it out? Your ear was not a yard from his lips, and—”

  “And there were other ears as close. No, do not ask me who put Tummet into a quake, but someone did. If ever a man tried to speak with his eyes! He was at his rhyming slang again!”

  “But he didn’t say anything! Only that you must go—quick. And something about—”

  “About his daughter, Jamie! Tummet has no wife, and no daughter!”

  “Yes, he has! You said yourself the poor girl has a inflammation of—”

  “You great gudgeon! I said that only to stop you from remarking that you didn’t know he had a daughter. Tummet recognized someone in that hall, I tell you, and I’ve a damned good notion—” He checked, frowning. “Well, it must wait. For now, what we’ve to do is discover what rhymes with ‘daughter.’”

  Shaking his head in perplexity, Morris tried to be of help. “Slaughter. Bought her. Shorter—”

  “‘Shorter!’ Jove! Then if ‘pill’ were to become ‘hill’…”

  “Shorter Hill! I say! That’s jolly clever! Out near Wimbledon Village, as I recall. And ain’t there an old abbey on that same hill?”

  “There is indeed! And ’tis nigh half past three! Ride, Jamie! Ride!”

  Ride they did, racing down the rest of the hill in the teeth of the wind; eastward into the city, past St. Paul’s with a thunder of hooves and cloaks flying out behind them, on at the gallop until they reached the mighty River Thames and were threading their way through the traffic on London Bridge. They had of necessity to slow then, and Morris asked breathlessly, “What d’you mean to do, Ross? ’Tis pretty open country, save for the abbey.”

  “Aye, and that’s where they must have her, Jamie! Hopefully, they won’t be expecting us. We can keep in the trees until we come to the base of the hill, and perhaps we will catch some sight of the bastards. Once we’re sure, you can ride for the Watch, whilst I—”

  “Devil I will! Think you’re to have all the fun? Come on!”

  They were off the bridge then, and again the wild gallop, the angry shouts of affronted fellow travellers, the endless pound of hooves, the blustering wind that was so irksome, but Gideon was as a man reborn now, his eyes alight with eagerness and hope burgeoning in his heart.

  South and west they rode now, the traffic easing when they left the crowded city streets and came into open country. They were near the village of Wimbledon when they came within sight of Shorter Hill and by mutual accord reined to a halt. The ancient abbey no longer rose in bleak dignity against the sky. It had ceased to be, and all that remained was a scattered pile of rubble. Staring at that forlorn relic of a once great building, Morris whispered, “Oh—deuce take it!”

  Rossiter said nothing and scarcely daring to glance at him, Morris saw that the white line was about his mouth again, and
the little pulse had reappeared beside his jaw. ‘Poor old fellow,’ he thought. And he called to three boys who were playing among the stone blocks.

  They ran over, their hair wind tossed, their cheeks rosy, bright eyes full of awed expectation as they took in the two dashing young men with swords at their sides and pistols in the saddle holsters.

  Rossiter asked, “What happened here, lads? Did it burn?”

  “Nay, sir,” said the taller of the boys. “’Twere the big gale a year ago last fortnight. Wuss’n this one, it were.”

  The second boy contributed eagerly, “Me dad says as the abbey were too old to stand up under the gusts any longer. Hunders o’ years it been pounded at.”

  Not to be outdone, the smallest boy piped, “It all come down in a rush, it did, sir. Bang! Thump! Crash! Just like that!”

  Morris thanked them, and tossed some coins and they scrambled joyously for the prize.

  In silence the two men dismounted to rest the horses. Rossiter’s shoulders slumped for a moment, and he drew a hand across his eyes. What a fool, to have been so sure, to have counted the victory almost won. And how shattering the disappointment. He took out his watch. They had ridden hard, but it was already twelve minutes past the four o’clock limit he had set.

  “Well,” he said slowly. “We made a mistake, Jamie. It must not have meant Shorter Hill, after all.”

  “Perhaps,” said Morris, deeply troubled, “poor old Tummet really has got a daughter. We must get back, Ross.”

  “Yes. But, while we wait for the horses, we can rack our brains. Does ‘slaughter’ join with anything to make a vestige of sense? Slaughter—Bill…? Still? Drill? I can think of no Slaughter Hill, can you?”

  Despite the bright tone, he looked so drawn, and longing to spare him, Morris said, “A drink might help my brain. Don’t know about you, but I’m as starved as I am thirsty. Begad, I’d even welcome a glass of—”

  “Water!” cried Rossiter. “Water, Jamie! Not Shorter!”