Harry leaned his pounding head back against the tree trunk and surveyed his benefactor for a moment, thinking only of his pretty mare and the affection they had shared these last two years. But the gloomy contenance that was now bent over the savoury pot intrigued him, and he asked at length, "Mr. Fox?"
A loud and hideous response shattered the silence of that sylvan glade. Startled birds twittered, owls hooted in fright, and two confused rabbits shot though the clearing and all but ran into the fire. Throwing his hands over his ears, Harry stared in astonishment to where the little donkey tossed his head about, that cacophonous blast issuing from between his open jaws.
Diccon waved one arm toward the braying ass. "Meet my friend—Mr. Fox."
The morning was brisk and cool. A slight breeze stirred the yellow green of new leaves, and birds sang blithely to welcome the sun which sprinkled an ever-changing dapple of light into the clearing and awoke diamonds from the hurrying stream.
Sir Harry Redmond, late of Moire Grange and Hill Street, known to most of the haut ton as a Top o' the Trees, a proud member of the Four Horse Club, and an undisputed Corinthian, knelt beside that chattering stream working carefully and with an occasional muttered expletive, at the bandage about his brow. He had already shaved, thanks to the loan of Diccon's razor and soap, and washed himself to the waist in the icy water—a sight that had so unnerved his host he'd withdrawn in horror. Now, with the smell of frying bacon driving him to distraction, Harry could not seem to succeed in freeing the bandage from the wound short of starting it to bleed again. He was in the midst of a lusty burst of profanity when something thudded into his back, sending him head first into the stream.
Howling his indignation as he emerged hurriedly from that chill immersion, he glared up at a raucously amused Diccon and a head-swinging Mr. Fox.
"Shoulda warned you," Diccon snorted. "He's got a rare sense of humour."
"Does he, by God!" snarled Harry, shivering. "B-B-Blasted damn ass!"
Mr. Fox laid his ears back, stretched forth his neck, and fluttered his upper lip in an idiotic grimace that could only be a laugh. Forced to a reluctant grin, Harry swore to even the score but was then pleased to discover that his plunge had soaked the bandage clear. Diccon, inspecting the gash, pronounced it closing nicely but allowed as how Mr. Allison likely had "a right headache, s'morning."
"Not too bad," lied Harry between chattering teeth. "And I've to thank you for being in no worse c-c-case. Gad, but that smells delight—" and he stopped. Diccon was obviously not a rich man and he himself now poverty stricken.
"Hungry, is ye?" asked Diccon sympathetically. "Come on, then."
Harry "came on" and, wrapping a blanket about himself, stood by the fire trying not to notice the tin plate piled high with crispy bacon, eggs cooked to perfection, and crusty bread, thick with fresh butter.
"Well, sit down," said Diccon impatiently. " 'Fore it gets cold.'"
Harry thanked him but said he was not in the least hungry and seldom, in fact, ate breakfast. Diccon gave him a measuring look, turned aside and, seating himself, took up another and even more heavily laden plate. "Awful waste," he said sadly. "Doubt I can eat it all. But—Mr. Fox won't consider hisself too flash to eat with the likes of I."
Mr. Fox was doomed to disappointment. A short while later, leaning blissfully against a tree, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand and his headache much lessened, Harry allowed that there wasn't a coffee house in Town to equal Diccon's cooking. "Never," he opined, "have I tasted such food."
"Or not since Spain, eh?" murmured Diccon, sprawled lazily nearby, the remains of his disreputable straw slanted over his eyes.
"Spain…" Harry gave a reminiscent grin. "We were lucky sometimes, I grant you. But there were many days we ate only acorns—if we could find any! I remember—" He stopped, a frown puckering his forehead. "How the deuce did you know I'd served in—"
"Talked a lot 'fore you woke up proper yestiddy," said Diccon.
A blast from the donkey shook the clearing. Harry winced and held his head. "Good God! What does he want?"
"Breakfast." Diccon made no attempt to gratify this need, however, and regarding his apparently exhausted benefactor, Harry demanded, "Do you not feed him first?"
"Had to feed you," said Diccon indignantly. " 'Sides—he bites."
Harry, who had started to his feet, was given pause by those words.
"Less'n you gives him something first," Diccon amended. "He's allus grumpy first thing of a morning. Like some people."
"But he's been chewing on that bush ever since I woke up."'
"Ain't the same. Likes something of a more personal nature." With a great and noble effort, Diccon reached over to pick up a folded letter. "This'll do."
Harry snatched it away. "It will not! That's mine!" Diccon slumped back but found the energy to sigh a few instructions as to oats and tubs. Following these, Harry eventually approached the donkey bearing a laden tub. Mr. Fox eyed him malevolently. Sure that Diccon was watching with amused anticipation, Harry retrieved a fragment of newspaper fluttering in a nearby bush. It seemed ridiculous, but he proffered it with a few low-voiced remarks of rank flattery. Mr. Fox appreciated both the approach and the news and, accepting the offices of this promising newcomer with becoming grace, settled down to his breakfast. Amused, Harry asked, "Why do you call him Mr. Fox?"
"Looks like him," said Diccon drowsily. " 'Specially when he's got his hat on. And any man what looked like Charles James Fox and had a pretty lady in keeping for years without wedding her was a worse donkey than that'n!"
Harry laughed. "A moralist! Yet Charles Fox did eventually wed the lady, you know. And he was a very great man."
"Well," yawned Diccon, "my donkey's a very great donkey."
Harry turned a curious gaze on the tent. "Are you a tinker, Mr. Diccon ?"
"Never mind the mister. And—tinker? Cor, bless you, sir—no! A tinker's a victim o'folks' whims. Spends all his days hauling a lot of stuff folks might want—but seldom does! I'm a trader. That is t'say, Mr. Fox and me is. When we comes to a place, folks comes and sees what we got, and shows us what they got, and we trades. Sometimes we trades for tools and the like. Sometimes it's just for lunch with say a tankard o'home brewed."
"Never mind the 'sir'…" Diccon raised his hat at this and, peering upward, grinned broadly, and smiling in return, Harry next regarded that solitary oar. "And—do you enjoy a good business, may I ask?"
"Most times. Sometimes it's hard to part with what we get. I traded a scythe once for some books o'them Greek philosyphers."
Harry returned to his tree, lowered himself cautiously, and noted with a twinkle that this seemed a practical exchange.
"Was for that there farmer. He couldn't read. Terrible shock for me, though."
"Were you not able to trade them ?"
"Started to read 'em! Awful!" the bartered straw stirred agitatedly. "I allus thought them Greeks was a pure and high-minded lot. Cor! Such carryings on as I never dreamed of! Fellas seem to've spent most o'their time seducing their mums, or their sisters, or whacking off their dads'—" He paused, and uttered, "Shocking!"
Harry, eyes alight with mirth, pointed out that the Greeks were nonetheless noted for great thoughts. "Euripides, for example—"
"Ah—he's the one Mr. Fox liked. Easy to see why. He was a 'ristocrat. And just look at our nobility, would you! The way they carry on is fair disgraceful! I heered as that there Lady Melbourne had nine children, not no two of 'em having the same father, and," here he lifted his straw the better to direct a righteously outraged glance at his companion, "—and not a one by her own husband!"
"Six," Harry corrected, his lips quivering betrayingly. Lady Melbourne, the product of an earlier and lustier generation, had been wont to address him as her 'darling boy". He had been devoted to her for as long as he could remember and, knowing her lively sense of the ridiculous, could appreciate her delight to learn of this conversation between an itinerant trader and an impoveri
shed ex-soldier in a lonely Kentish wood.
Diccon replaced the hat and after a moment said sleepily, "I 'spect as ye'll be wanting 't'get back to your own people."
Harry was silent, watching Mr. Fox with troubled eyes. To go back now must be to beg for help and generosity. And how willing they would be—how eager to help. Bolster, bless his old yellow head, was so very well breeched, as was Damon—or St. Clair, for that matter. They would, in fact, be furious with him for not asking their assistance. But the very thought made him cringe. He had no wife to consider, and Mitch, thank God, was provided for—at least for the immediate future…
A loud snore interrupted his musings. He looked at the long, sprawled shape of his somnolent host and wondered how Diccon ever mustered the energy to be about his 'trading'. To share this inactivity, at least for a little while, was most pleasant. Harry settled back and contemplated swaying trees, rippling stream, the contentedly grazing Mr. Fox, and the deepening blue of the sky. The sun was getting warmer and he was dry now and felt surprisingly well despite his head and sundry bruises and abrasions. He took up one of the letters he'd found in the desk drawer and unfolded it idly. It was addressed in a neat, copperplate hand to Sir Colin Redmond, Moire Grange, Near Haslemere, Hants., and read:
Sir Colin:
Your testimony at yesterday's Enquiry left me both baffled and distressed. It was very evident that you are concealing something. I can only implore you to not be intimidated. My beloved brother is dead, and with your help, it will be proven MURDER.
I beg you will reconsider, and shall await your reply with the greatest anxiety.
Yours, etc., Annabelle Carlson
Astounded, Harry sat up straighter, folded the letter, and reached quickly for the next.
Sir Colin: (he read)
Do you seriously think to fob me off with such nonsense? l am not a child, sir, and know bribery and corruption when I see it! If you have accepted his money, I will pay you more! If, however, you are afraid of him, I will hire guards to watch you day and night until he is brought to trial. Search your conscience and write as soon as you can to,
Annabelle Carlson
This letter had been inscribed with obvious agitation, since the writing was nowhere near as neat as that of the first and beneath the signature, as if in desperate afterthought, was scrawled, "Please, please—help me!"
"The Devil!" muttered Harry, and took up the third letter.
Villain! (this began abruptly)
So he has terrified you into silence! I had heard you were an honourable man. I know you now for the cringing, fawning, lying servility that you are!
("By God!" Harry growled, and his hand tightened furiously on the page.)
I write this reminder, well knowing it will merely afford you laughter. A gallant young man was murdered before your cowardly eyes—and you turned away! A helpless woman is victimized—and you care not!
. Day and night my prayer is that someday you may reap the bitter fruits of what you have sown!
Annabelle Carlson
"Well… I'll be damned!" gasped Harry.
From behind his hat Diccon murmured, "Reg'lar fire-spitting shrew, ain't she?"
"Devil take you!" Harry exploded. "You read my letters! How dare you, sir? You'd no right!"
"No more did you," shrugged Diccon. "You ain't the—as y'might say, addressee."
"Sir Colin Redmond was my father!" Harry flashed, coming to his feet and glaring down at his benefactor.
Diccon poked up the brim of his hat. "Is that a fact—Mister Allison … ?"
Harry's face flamed. Diccon grinned and allowed the brim to flop again. Not until then did it dawn on Harry that yesterday the big man had once addressed him as 'milord' and later as 'Sir Harry'. Between his injuries and the shock of losing Lace, it had slipped his mind. "How did you know?" he demanded.
"Tried t'find out who you was," Diccon murmured. "Said you wasn't a lord. Hands wasn't calloused. Handkerchief had three initials. Then I read them letters." One bright eye was visible through a large hole in the brim. "Curiosity. Y'might say I'm like them Greeks. They had their faults. I got mine."
"Yes," said Harry, tight-lipped. "You have, indeed!"
Chapter V
By reason of a bruised knee. Harry limped slightly as he followed the winding lane. Diccon had given him directions reluctantly, having warned him to "stay clear o'that lot!" but he'd already lost much time and had set out determinedly for Sanguinet Towers. The sun was hot now, and he began to wish he had his hat. He had taken a courteous but cool farewell of the Trader. Regarding him through the hole in his hatbrim, Diccon had bidden him take care but had not bestirred himself to shake hands. Fuming, partly because of that omission and partly because the man should have been so ungentlemanly as to have read private letters, Harry had politely expressed his thanks for Diccon's kindnesses. Trading in turn, he had then placed his hat on a fallen tree, observed that it might not fit, but the buckle was of silver, and departed.
Now, his pique having cooled, he reflected that it was quite ridiculous to have expected Diccon to have behaved any differently. The man was a simple wanderer—and a good-hearted fellow… Harry's steps slowed. There had been something oddly likeable about him and that humourously inclined donkey. And perhaps it had been logical enough for Diccon to attempt to discover his identity. Yet the name and direction should have sufficed, instead of which he'd admitted to having read all three letters. Unforgivable!
He came at length to a rise, atop which stood a gate and gatehouse, with a long brick wall stretching off to either hand. A meadow-lark soared upward carolling blithely, the pure notes recalling a never-to-be-forgotten voice of sweet purity, an angelic face, framed by hair of palest gold…
"Wot you think you be a'grinning at?" A leathery-looking man, arms akimbo, stood before the gate. He wore the green of a gamekeeper and had a narrow face, ferrety eyes, and an expression of sneering vindictiveness.
"I have business with M. Sanguinet," Harry advised coolly.
The eyes of the leathery man drifted with slow impertinence from hatless and bandaged head to scratched, dusty boots. The cut of those boots and the set of the jacket across the broad shoulders spoke of the Quality, as did the tilt to the chin and the cultured accents of the deep voice. But the condition of both man and clothes told their own story, wherefore the thin lips of the gamekeeper twisted into a mocking grin. "Well, "oity-toity! Does yer now? Down on yer luck, is yer, me royal 'ighness?" Harry frowned and stepped a pace closer. The gamekeeper jerked his thumb toward the woods and said a contemptuous, "Go on! Out've it!"
"In view of the fact that I am not yet in it—I cannot very well get out of it. And since neither your manners nor your face commend themselves to me, you will be so good as to stand aside."
The gamekeeper proving unwilling, it became necessary for Harry to be more explicit. Massaging his skinned knuckles, he then stepped over his antagonist, climbed the gate, and went upon his way.
The drive wound upward through scattered trees, and as he strode along, the letters haunted him. "… My beloved brother is dead… bribery and corruption… the cringing, fawning, lying servility that you are… " And most ominous of all, "Day and night, my prayer is that someday you may reap the bitter fruits of what you have sown…" Was this the answer to his father's untimely death? Had this demented woman, whoever she may be, so hated Colin Redmond that she had contrived his destruction? To what Enquiry had she referred? And who was the man she obviously feared and believed responsible for her brother's death?
Pondering thus, he came at last to where the drive wound around a high bank, after which the trees fell away to reveal a great house below, rising squarely from a moat-like pond in the centre of an expanse of green lawns. Starting down the slope, Harry's appraisal was not approving. Constructed of grey stone, the mansion was even larger than he had imagined. It was four storeys in height, but appeared taller since the corners were rounded off and lifted into towers with conical roofs. De
spite its size, however, it presented the appearance of being huddled together, as though it hugged itself jealously and regarded the outside world with eyes of cold suspicion.
The sudden thud of running feet alerted Harry and he swung around, prepared for conflict. His late antagonist, reinforced by three comrades and armed with a business-like looking club, bore down on him. Harry dodged the first man, grassed the second, ducked as the club swung at his head, drove home an uppercut that sent a chubby fellow staggering backward, and was himself knocked sprawling by a solid right to the jaw.
The whirling kaleidoscope of green and grey slowed and settled into two sturdy legs, one foot drawing back. Indignant, Harry raised his aching head. "Do not dare to… kick me. Damn… your eyes!"'
The movement of the boot was arrested. Four angry faces, two of them quite damaged, glared down at him.
'E don't talk like no poacher, Fritch," observed the owner of the foot. "Sounds more like me old Colonel."
"Well, 'e don't look like no old Colonel," pointed out the ferrety-eyed gamekeeper angrily. "Planted me a facer, 'e done, an 'aint got no business 'ere, of that you may be—"
"What are you men about?"
Harry dragged himself to one elbow. The man who had ridden up on a magnificent black mare hooked one booted leg casually over the pommel and leaned forward, scanning him with disdain. It would have been difficult to say whether he was nearer to thirty-five or fifty. Dressed in jet, relieved only by the snow of cravat and cuffs, his clothes were superb and he wore them with assured grace. His hair was a glossy blue-black, curling about a dark-complected face. The nose was slim and straight; the bones of cheek and jaw finely chiselled, and the skin over them having an almost stretched look. The mouth, full and sensual, was smiling, but the smile went no further than the lips; and it was the eyes that caught and held Harry's attention. For in that darkly beautiful face were set eyes so light as to be almost colourless; large, brilliant eyes, holding an expression of hungry ferocity barely held in check, and of themselves so alien that for the first time in his life the mere appearance of another human being caused Harry, at least inwardly, to recoil.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 7
