Valerian, ice joining the shiver between his shoulder blades, demanded, “Taken him—where?”
His tone frightened the maid, who bobbed a curtsy and stammered, “To the p-parlour, milord, b-but I’m sure there was no—”
Not waiting to discover what she was sure of, Valerian sprinted to the parlour, Herbert following.
Flinging the door open, Valerian stood rigid for an instant, petrified by the scene before him.
Elspeth was huddled on her knees beside a sofa. Sir Harold Walters bent over her, and his son was punching Vance Clayton in the back.
15
With an inarticulate snarl of rage Valerian tore across the room, his sword whipping into his hand, his face livid.
“Damn your eyes!” he raged. “Stand away from her!”
The reactions were as immediate as they were unexpected.
Sir Harold Walters spun around, saw doom rushing upon him and, with remarkable agility for so large a man, shot behind a chair, yelping, “Hi! Hi, now!”
Elspeth straightened and exclaimed in a near scream, “Gervaise! Whatever are you about?”
The boy left “Mrs. Newell” and ran in front of his father crying, “Let be, you wicked man! Do not dare touch my papa!”
Clayton sat wheezing in the Bath chair, holding a handkerchief to his streaming eyes.
Barking shrilly, a small dog raced from behind the sofa and bit Valerian on the ankle.
“Ow!” said Valerian, confused but lowering his sword. “Get away, you brute!”
“Don’t kill him!” wailed the child, snatching up his pet and retreating with him to a far corner. “Oh, please don’t kill my Tueur!”
“It appears,” said Valerian, sheathing his sword and looking from one to the other of them in bafflement, “that I labour under a false impression. Perhaps someone will be so good as to tell me what is going on here.” He walked over to give a hand to Elspeth and restore her to her feet. “For instance, why were you on your knees, ma’am?”
Eyeing him anxiously, she said, “You’re limping! Did he really bite?”
“To the bone,” he replied. “That great hound is well named! I will likely perish!”
“Then you should take to your bed at once, sir,” said Sir Harold, emerging cautiously from behind the chair. “Certainly, you need to cool your temper! If ever I saw a more hot-at-hand individual!”
“If you had harmed the lady,” said Valerian grimly, “you’d really have seen a hot-at-hand individual! No, don’t pitch me your gammon, sir. I’ll hear it from Nurse—er,” unable to recall the name he’d bestowed on Elspeth, he extemporized, “Nurse Muslin.” Meeting her startled and amused glance, he realised he had failed to name the correct fabric.
Sir Harold folded his arms and looked affronted.
Crossing to her brother to hide her twitching lips, Elspeth sat near to him and said, “Luke’s dog frightened Pixie, sir, and I was trying to coax her from under the sofa. Are you better now, er, ma’am?”
In a strangled voice Clayton gasped that he would be the better for a glass of water, and Sir Harold sent his son in search of one.
“Do you encourage your boy to beat sick old ladies?” asked Valerian.
“No such thing!” declared Sir Harold, firing up. “Mrs. Newell laughed so much when the dog was chasing the cat around the room that she had a choking fit. Luke was patting her on the back—simply trying to help, you know.”
“Your son has a heavy hand,” said Valerian dryly. “And even if what you say is truth, it does not explain why you’ve been following us since we left Le Havre. We followed a circuitous route that makes it impossible for you to have taken the same roads by sheer chance. We’ve seen you on several occasions, so pray do not deny that you have followed us.”
“I was not following you, Van Newell,” argued Sir Harold, drawing himself up haughtily.
“Considering the fact that you were well over the oar when we were first introduced,” said Valerian, “your memory is good, but your facts are faulty. “My name is Newell. No Van—just plain Newell.”
“Well, whatever your name is don’t signify. As I said before, I wasn’t following you. I was following him!” Sir Harold indicated Herbert, who started and stepped back in obvious apprehension. “Although,” Sir Harold added, “had I known what a firebrand accompanied him, I doubt I’d have made him the lucrative offer I had in mind!”
Sitting on the end of the sofa and dangling one foot lazily, Valerian echoed, “Lucrative—offer?”
Sir Harold nodded, then glanced uneasily at the Bath chair. “It is by way of being a—a personal matter.” His colour considerably heightened, he requested gruffly, “Perhaps the ladies would be so good as to leave us.”
Uncertain, Elspeth looked at Valerian. He hesitated, then said, “Very well, pray take my aunt in search of that long-lost glass of water, Nurse. Lieutenant Skye’s about somewhere. Stay with him and don’t wander off. We’ll be leaving directly.”
Elspeth said a meek “Yes, sir,” and took the handles of the Bath chair.
Herbert closed the door behind them, and Valerian said curtly, “Your offer, Walters? Pray be brief, we’ve been sufficiently delayed by this nonsense.”
“It is not at all nonsense!” declared Sir Harold. “Faith, sir, but your manners—” Given pause by the expression on the younger man’s face, he amended hastily, “At all events, you may be assured that ’tis a matter of prime importance to me. It concerns my—um … ah—my … teeth, d’you see?”
Herbert’s jaw dropped.
Valerian stared incredulously. “Your … what? I’d have sworn you said—”
“I said, as you know very well, my teeth! Oh, ’tis all well and good for a young fellow like you, still in possession of a fine set, to smirk and think it a trivial matter! It ain’t, I promise you! I once had a splendid mouthful. My smile, in fact, was much admired by the fair sex! But—through a series of unhappy events, I lost several, and—”
“Ladies?” interposed Herbert, fascinated.
“Teeth, blast your dim wits! I lost several teeth!”
“Good God, sir!” exploded Valerian. “If you’ve followed us halfway across France and back to ask for a recommendation to a good dentist—”
Sir Harold interrupted huffily, “Of course I have not! I have a good dentist. At least, he’s proud of his skill at pouring hot lead into cavities and tearing one’s rotted fangs out with a pair of pincers! But when it comes to replacing ’em—Hah! Another story!”
Battling an urge to laugh, Valerian said, “You surely must have found a competent fellow to make you a—a plate, or whatever they’re called.”
“Competent, sir! Competent? London’s full of upstarts who dub themselves Skilled Craftsmen in the art. What they are is charlatans, sir! Charlatans! To the last man! I’ve had two sets made—at considerable expense! One set made me look like a goat! And t’other fits well enough but the teeth are yellow, sir! Furthermore, they are different shades of yellow!” He added sadly, “More’n I dare do to crack a smile! Would make me a laughing-stock!”
Beginning to indulge a suspicion, Valerian restrained himself and ventured cautiously, “So you’re in France to try again?”
“I spend a good deal of time in Paris. I’ve been keeping my eyes open, I admit, but most men don’t take good care of their teeth, and I’ve seen none to compare with…” He turned an admiring smile upon Herbert, who edged closer to his cousin.
Unable to stifle the bubble of mirth that had been welling up, Valerian shouted with laughter and rocked back and forth on the sofa.
Scarlet with vexation, Sir Harold protested, “I’m able to pay handsomely! Damme, it ain’t amusing, Valerian!
“What—what it is,” gasped Valerian disjointedly, “is—hilarious! Herbert, n-never look so conflummerated! This fellow—this silly fellow is—is after your teeth!”
His mirth turned to a howl as he discovered that it is unwise to dangle one’s foot over the edge of a sofa when a ca
t is hiding under it.
Ten minutes later, while Joel Skye and Marcel poled up the team, Valerian related the incident to Elspeth and a convulsed Clayton. Wiping tearful eyes and weak with laughter, he said, “At least we know that Herbert’s legendary blue coach presented no danger to us. Did you mark the speed Walters came to as he drove out? His face was nigh purple with mortification. Poor simpleton! He must be short of a sheet!”
“Why? Because he admired my teeth?” said Herbert, grinning.
“He admired ’em, all right! So much that he was eager to draw three! Of course, he did say he’d pay handsomely.”
Clayton said laughingly, “Perhaps you should have considered his offer, Mr. Turner.”
Herbert shook his head and shuddered.
“Whatever else,” said Elspeth, “it brought a smile to our journey. Though I understand you were the victim of another attack, Mr. Valerian?”
“I was indeed,” he said aggrievedly. “Which confirms my belief that cats are treacherous creatures. I rescued that vicious little beast! ’Tis purely thanks to my kindness that she was housed and indulged and well fed by my trusting sire, and what do I get in return? Great gouges down my ankle! Had I not been wearing shoes my foot would be in shreds!”
“Faith, but animals would seem to take you in aversion,” murmured Elspeth, demure but with dimples peeping. “Even one of your admired dogs bit you!”
Fascinated by the dimples, he said absently, “Tueur is well named, I grant you, but he was under no obligation to me as is Pixie. Nor did he hide and spring from ambush as—Jupiter! What nonsense am I talking when we should be on our way? What has become of Skye?”
Elspeth said, “I’ll go out and see what is delaying them.”
“Oh, no you won’t!” Valerian caught her wrist as she turned to the door. “Wait here!”
He snatched up his cloak and went out to the yard. It was quite dark now, the air was chill and all was quiet save for the muted sounds of crockery rattling in the kitchen and the occasional stamp of a horse in the stables. Fastening his cloak, he peered around the yard but could see nothing untoward. Neither could he hear the sounds from the stables that he should hear: Marcel and Skye talking together, or the ostler at work. His nerves tightened and his earlier suspicions, which had been lulled by the arrival of Sir Harold’s blue coach, flared again.
Treading lightly, sword in hand, he sprinted across the yard. The door to the barn was half-closed and the lantern inside revealed only a narrow view of a coach. There was no sign of groom, ostler, Skye, or Marcel. Pausing in the deep shadows beyond the doors, he watched the coach intently. It stood perfectly still with none of the motion that would be caused by the fresh and impatient horses that should be poled up by this time.
The sensible thing would be to return to the inn for reinforcements, but he had little faith in the fighting spirit of the host. There was no doubt but that Vance Clayton, who was a fine swordsman, would come willingly, but he was struggling to recover from his ordeal and too weakened to be of much aid. Be damned if he’d call Herbert away from Elspeth! If his suspicions were justified at least two of the rogues were in the barn, waiting for them all to come out. Had they been on level ground in daylight he’d have tackled them gladly, but they were inside and probably well armed, whereas he was out here without his pistol, and the instant he went through that door he would present an easy target.
He crept around to the side of the barn and peered at a solitary window, but it appeared not to have been washed in several years and only a blurred glow showed through the grime. A quick scan of the yard revealed nothing that would serve as a weapon, but his eyes brightened when he saw a broken wheelbarrow propped against the wall. He whispered, “Aha!” sheathed his sword and lifted the wheelbarrow. It was heavier than he’d supposed, but he managed to hoist it above his head and, gritting his teeth with the effort, hurled it at the dirty window. Whipping out his sword then, he raced to the barn door as the sound of shattering glass was followed by the roar of twin pistol shots.
He was inside before the would-be murderers had turned from the broken window. His flashing glance around the stables revealed no sign of Marcel or Skye. He had no time for more than that brief scan as he sprang to the attack. He’d guessed rightly; two “priests” flung down their useless pistols and snatched for swords.
The element of surprise and the extra few seconds it took for them to whip back their black robes served Valerian well; he was on them before their weapons were free of the scabbards. One he despatched with a sizzling thrust that sent the man to his knees. But these were seasoned cutthroats and before Valerian could disengage, the second rogue was attacking and he had to jump aside to avoid the steel that whistled past his ear. It was a battle then, the pseudo priest attacked ferociously, probably, thought Valerian, because he realised the shots would have been heard and help would come from the inn. The light in the barn was poor, but after the first flurry of swordplay Valerian knew that he was the more skilled and would overpower this villain without much difficulty. At the back of his mind, however, was the nagging worry that the third “priest” was still inside, and he set a brutal pace, driven by the need to make sure that Elspeth was not threatened.
The air rang with the keening scrape of steel on steel and the stamping of boots in advance and retreat. Outside now were shouts and running footsteps. The impostor’s clerical robes flapped wildly as Valerian drove him back.
From the doorway, Herbert shouted, “Skye? Marcel?”
Enraged, Valerian thought, ‘Herbert? Then who the devil is with Elspeth?’ His attention diverted, he tripped over the wheelbarrow and went down heavily. Sprawling, he saw the blade that arced down at him. With lightning reaction he whipped up his own sword to deflect the thrust but had to swing his blade aside to avoid impaling his cousin, who leapt valiantly to the rescue.
Valerian swore as white-hot pain lanced through his sword-arm and the weapon fell from his grasp.
Herbert howled triumphantly, “Courage, Gervaise! I have the bastard!”
The attacker, evidently deciding that he was outnumbered, fled.
“I’ll ‘courage’ you!” panted Valerian, clambering to his feet in time to see Skye and Marcel subduing the first assailant, who’d recovered sufficiently to attempt to follow his friend.
Herbert snatched up Valerian’s sword, then threw a supporting arm about him. “Jupiter! That fellow winged you, I see! Lean on me, old fellow!”
The host ran up to aim a horse pistol at the assassin, then back away crying a dismayed “The priest! Mon Dieu! This it is a sacrilege!”
Valerian thrust his cousin away and, clutching his arm, reeled towards the yard, shouting wrathfully, “Who’s with Elspeth?”
“Her brother,” said Herbert, eyeing him with resentment. “And I’d think you might have a word of thanks, rather than—”
But Valerian was already running to the inn.
Two maids peering nervously from the open door jumped aside as he leapt up the steps. One of them caught sight of his bloodied hand and called out an offer of help. He scarcely heard her. Elspeth wasn’t there. If all were well, that indomitable lady would have been halfway across the yard by now. With a groan of apprehension he tore open the door to the parlour and his worst fears were realised: white-faced, Elspeth stood by the sofa. Behind her, the elder “priest” had an arm clamped around her throat. The pistol in his free hand was aimed steadily at her head. Clayton was still seated in the Bath chair, watching his sister in horror.
The impostor purred softly, “Close the door, hero.”
Valerian stepped back and kicked the door shut. “Your accomplices have been overpowered and can’t help you. You’re trapped. Give yourself up. You’ve no way out.”
“But of course I’ve a way out.”
The arm about Elspeth’s throat was tightened, and she gave a little choked cry.
Valerian stamped forward, only to halt abruptly as the impostor snarled, “Do you want her kille
d? Then keep back and keep your stupid friends away! She goes with me, if she’s sensible and tells me what I want to know. Otherwise,” he shrugged and said with a mirthless grin, “she won’t be the first woman I’ve put an end to!”
Looking into his savage eyes, Valerian didn’t doubt it. He heard Herbert’s voice and then Skye pushed at the door. “Gervaise? Let us in, man!”
Valerian held the door closed. “Keep away! The other pseudo-priest has a pistol pointing at Nurse Muslin!”
The outside voices were abruptly silenced.
The impostor said, “I’ve nothing against the old woman. But you’re wasting my time! Now, mademoiselle who is not a nurse, tell me, and tell me quickly before I break your pretty neck! Where are you to meet your brother?”
Elspeth gasped out something unintelligible.
Edging forward, seething, Valerian snarled, “How can she speak, you great imbecile, when you’re strangling the poor girl?”
“Keep back!” cried the pseudo-cleric, but he slightly relaxed his hold around Elspeth’s throat.
She sagged, coughing, then crumpled in a swoon.
Unexpectedly supporting her full weight, her captor was taken off-balance, and the pistol jerked in his hand as he instinctively attempted to keep her from falling.
It was all Valerian needed. He sprang forward, so enraged that he forgot his sword and struck hard and true with his fist. The impostor was smashed backwards and Elspeth twisted from his grasp, but in so doing she loosened the pin Freda had used to fasten her bodice. Clutching the sagging bodice, she saw that her captor had contrived to raise the pistol again.
“Horrid beast!” she exclaimed furiously, and retrieving the pin, without an instant’s hesitation she drove it hard into the impostor’s gun hand. With a howl, he lost his grip on the pistol and simultaneously Valerian seized him by the throat.
Clayton meanwhile had left the Bath chair and he now picked up the pistol, then threw one arm about his sister, asking anxiously, “Are you all right, love?”
The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy Page 22
