Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette

by Patricia Veryan

  He whirled to a touch on his elbow. Lord Cootesby blinked but did not retreat before that savage crouch, and held out a wineglass in silent sympathy. Harry accepted the brandy with a hoarse murmur of thanks, but set it aside and crossed to where Langridge huddled, regarding him with stricken eyes.

  "My apologies if I hurt you, sir," he offered curtly.

  "A small… and well-deserved punishment, dear boy…"

  Still very white, Harry frowned down at him, then turned to make his apologies to Cootesby. His lordship giving a slight, grave inclination of the head, Harry took up his glass and, returning, asked, "Would you be so kind as to tell me how it all came about? As much as you know, that is."

  Cootesby marked the narrowed, deadly eyes and the jut of the firm chin, and knew with deep regret that he could only hurt the intrepid young man before him. Still, perhaps when he knew all the facts, he would be better able to adjust to the tragedy… And so he began slowly, "I've known Sanguinet for some years. Must admit I never cared much for him, but his brother Guy and my son Roger fought together in Spain and were inseparable. When Roger was killed at Vittoria, Guy—brought him home. He was wounded himself, but was… very kind." His eyes became sad and remote, but recovering himself, he apologized and went on. "At all events, Sprague Cobb and I were at White's one evening when Parnell Sanguinet came in. He and Cobb were soon plunged into a discussion on art—a subject in which I have an intense interest. Schofield joined us, and before I knew it, we were all invited to spend the next weekend with Sanguinet. Would to God I had refused! I'd heard little good of the man, but—" He gave a small, shamefaced shrug. "I was curious to see his collection of ancient crowns. You have heard of it, I daresay? For that foolish reason, I allowed my better judgement to be swayed."

  "Was my father at White's that evening?" Harry asked tensely.

  "Not while I was there. In fact, I was somewhat surprised to discover him at The Towers when we arrived. I deduced that the three of them were the very best of friends, although Cobb told me later he'd only met Sir Colin a time or two, at Sanguinet's."

  Taken aback, Harry said, "You had the impression then, that my father had visited Sanguinet Towers on several occasions?"

  Cootesby answered reflectively, "Yes. At least, Cobb said—no, begad! I am quite sure of it, for Sir Colin knew his way about the place, and it is a regular rabbit warren!"

  "I'll be damned…" muttered Harry.

  "We were treated royally," Cootesby went on. "Sanguinet was, I now comprehend, in an expansive mood, for I've since seen him in a far different light. However, the house is spectacular, the crown collection truly fascinating, and the chef—superb! We enjoyed a good game after dinner—for a time. Then the wine began to flow rather too freely, I thought, and the stakes climbed higher and higher. Your father…" He shot a worried look at Harry's drawn, intense face, "—was drinking heavily. Schofield urged him to refrain and when he refused, became more and more troubled. At length, Barney himself withdrew but was unable to induce your father to do so."

  It was all wrong, thought Harry angrily. No matter what Cootesby, or anyone, said, it simply was not Colin Redmond! "I assume Sanguinet persuaded my father to continue?" he grated.

  "I'm sorry, Redmond, but it was quite the reverse. Sanguinet suggested we retire, but your papa would have none of it and—ah, accused Sanguinet of refusing him a chance to recoup." He avoided Harry's glittering stare and said unhappily, "I'll own I was much embarrassed."

  "And such behaviour totally at odds with my father's impeccable manners!"

  "Oh… quite…" murmured the Reverend sadly.

  "The wine, no doubt," soothed his lordship. "Cobb also was quite put about and declared the play too steep. When he withdrew, I followed suit. Twice Sanguinet attempted to halt the game, but your father… well, in all fairness, it would have been most difficult to refuse him." He paused and said heavily, "I hate to go on…

  "My father lost everything. This I know. All I ask is—was it fair and aboveboard ?"

  "It was, sir. I'd stake my life on it. If your father lost, it was his own doing."

  Through a taut pause, green eyes challenged brown and, finding those eyes steadfast, Harry's heart sank and he asked, "And— afterwards?"

  Cootesby went to pick up the decanter and refill their glasses. Not until he had replaced the decanter upon its silver tray did he speak again, and then remained with one white hand on the stopper, and his eyes fixed blankly on the tawny liquid. "We went up to bed. I think we all were terribly shocked, although your papa, I must say, took it very bravely. It must have been about two hours later that I was awakened by the shot. I knew at once what had happened… I ran into the hall and met Cobb, and together we went to your father's bedchamber. When we… got there, he was slumped across the table. The… pistol was—still in his hand."

  Harry's right hand was gripped so hard that the nails bit into his palm. He had managed to control his emotions, but at these words his reserve broke. He swung around and stood with hunched shoulders and head downbent.

  "Sanguinet was most distressed," Cootesby sighed, wandering back to the fireside, "and feared he would be held accountable. He insisted that Cobb at once ride for the Reverend. Poor Schofield was … absolutely beside himself and had to be laid down upon his bed. All the servants were kept away, and we touched nothing until your uncle arrived some three hours later." He went to his chair, sat down, and stared glumly at his boots through a silence broken only by the tossing of the trees outside.

  "You know the rest," said Langridge. "When I saw poor Colin, all I could think of was to spare you—to spare the family the… shame…" Harry half turned and threw him a withering look. Mordecai spread his hands. "Dear boy, I know how you must feel. I am—more than sorry."

  He was more than sorry, thought Harry, blinking mistily at the carpet. Sorry for what? For the embarrassment that would be occasioned the family did it become common knowledge that Colin Redmond had shot himself? As if that mattered in the face of the tragic, pointless ending of that fine life! As if anything could fill the void left in the lives of his sons! Mitch! Dear God! How was he to tell Mitch? Rage seared through him. It simply did not fit his father's inflexible sense of right and wrong! There had to be a reason! Struggling to gather his wits, he asked, "My lord, were you aware that Schofield died recently, under most peculiar circumstances?"

  Cootesby murmured, "A foolish accident, I grant you. But poor Barnaby had been very low in spirits since his son was—"

  "No! Your pardon, sir, but Schofield knew what his son was— he'd known for years! His devotion was to his wife. That he grieved for Bertram's blindness, I do not doubt. That it destroyed him? Never! And as for my father—friends they were. Loyal, devoted friends. Barney would mourn him, of course. But not so deeply as to drive him into his own grave. There was something else! Some punishing sense of guilt—or remorse. I know it!"

  A crease appeared between Cootesby's brows. He set his glass down and leaning back in his chair, propped his chin in the palm of one hand, and said, "Who knows what troubles may have plagued the man? Perhaps he was in failing health, or financial difficulties. Or his wife ailing in some way."

  Harry bit his lip and paced up and down wrestling furiously with the facts as opposed to his unalterable faith in his father's character. "Why did Sanguinet wait so long?" he muttered "he has not the compassion of a crocodile. Why would he let us go in our fool's paradise for almost two years?"

  "Perhaps he felt responsible," Langridge reasoned. "He agreed willingly enough that I wait until your health was restored before divulging the truth to you and your brother."

  "And yet," flashed Harry, "our kindly Frenchman suddenly becomes so alarmed by the prospect of my coming here that he forces his men upon Lord Cootesby for his 'protection'. Why? Unless… Unless you do know something, sir. Perhaps without even being aware of it. Something that Sanguinet is determined to prevent me discovering."

  "But—what . . ? I know nothing that was
not known by all the men in that card game."

  Harry gave a bleak smile. "Precisely so. My papa—dead. Schofield—dead. Cobb—disappeared. And yourself, your pardon, but-known to be of rather reclusive habits and now all but held captive upon your own estate!"

  "By… George!" Cootesby stared his dismay but, reluctant to credit this grim implication, argued, "If I am so dangerous to him, why not have me killed? He certainly has men who'd not balk at such a deed. Shotten, I'll wager, would whistle while he choked the life from a man!"

  "Shotten . . ?" echoed Harry, lost in frowning thought.

  "A beastly rogue who is often with Sanguinet. But—surely you exaggerate, my dear fellow? Sanguinet is arrogant and ruthless, I grant you. But—three murders? I cannot believe that he is as—"

  "Merciless?" flared Harry. "But he is! And if my suspicions are correct, mark how clever he has been. Three men, either dead or missing, yet not one word—not a whisper, of murder. Our diabolical gentleman leaves no possible link to himself, or that damnable card game." He intercepted the uneasy glance that flickered between the two older men and said impatiently, "Well, perhaps he dared not kill every player save himself—or perhaps he felt you posed the least threat to him. Who knows?"

  Langridge pointed out very gently, "But—dear boy, your papa was not murdered. And Schofield overturned his carriage…"

  The tone was such as one might use to reassure an hysterical child. With a surge of anger, Harry realized that they probably supposed him irrational from grief and worry. He began to have some concept of what Nanette had endured and, throwing his head back, asserted with stern defiance, "Barnaby was driven to his death, Uncle; I am certain of it. And as to Papa—there is only one logical answer. He must have been drugged!"

  "Drugged?" gasped his lordship. "In front of a roomful of other men? I'll admit your father behaved as though he was a little up in the world, as the saying goes, but—nothing more. And in heaven's name, why would Sanguinet stoop to such a thing? Whatever else, the man's lineage is good; he is vastly well breeched, and I'd not think…" He hesitated, and said uncomfortably, "Forgive me, but—would your estates offer sufficient inducement to… ah…"

  "From what my brother tells me, I must admit they would not," scowled Harry. "But nor do I believe that greed lay behind my father's murder. The truth is that Papa chanced to witness a dastardly killing, which thereby rendered him a serious threat to Sanguinet." And he knew with helpless frustration how far-fetched and inconclusive they would judge that allegation.

  Sure enough, Cootesby was courteously silent yet darted a covert glance at Langridge, who squirmed about and muttered, "You refer to the Carlson affair, of course. But, Harry—my brother knew nothing of it. Under oath he swore repeatedly that he saw nothing to indicate foul play and that Sanguinet was not even in the other carriage! You surely do not doubt your papa's word of honour?"

  Harry flushed but argued stubbornly, "My father may have overlooked something—some detail that later came to mind."

  The Reverend stood and, wandering up and down, muttered, "It is all so chancy. I fear you merely grasp at straws; but suppose Parnell Sanguinet did drug poor Colin—though I must admit I can only think such an event wildly improbable—how could you possibly hope to prove so outlandish a thing?"

  "I don't know!" Harry ran a hand through his chair distractedly. "Dammitall! It is so clear to me—yet might as well be gibberish! If only— Wait! I have heard that drugs affect a man's eyes. My lord— I know it is a lot to ask, but—did you notice anything odd about my father's eyes that night? Were the pupils abnormal in any way?"

  "Alas!" Cootesby groaned. "I must crush your hopes again, poor fellow! I wish you had asked that question of any other man, but—I should explain that I've a hobby, a rather compelling one. I paint portraits." He gestured shyly to a fine painting above the fireplace. "That is of my late wife. I am quite… proud of it. But I'll admit I find the eyes most challenging and am therefore especially interested in them. In point of fact, Redmond, when you came today, my first thought was that I'd have guessed you were his son even though your own eyes are a so much deeper green than were Sir Colin's."

  Harry's breath hissed through his teeth and his heart missed a beat. "B-But… sir! My father's eyes were not green!"

  Paling, Cootesby came to his feet.

  "That is true!" Langridge clasped his hands and said in a voice that shook, "Natural enough you'd forget, Cootesby. After nigh onto two years…"

  "No." Cootesby denied in a half-whisper. "I distinctly recall that Cobb made some silly remark about green eyes bringing him bad luck. And—and somebody… Schofield, I think, said something about it—running in the family."

  "I inherited my mother's eyes, so I'm told," said Harry breathlessly. "My brother Mitchell has my father's eye colour. Grey!"

  They stared at one another, the ramifications stunning to all of them. Even Harry, his worst fears confirmed yet his hopes realized, was speechless.

  Cootesby groped blindly for his chair and sank into it again. "Have I been… duped, then? Was I party to so hideous a scheme? My God! But—I… I saw him!"

  His mind racing, Harry said, "You saw this—this green-eyed man, whom you were led to believe was my father. After the shot, did you see his face?"

  Cootesby drew a hand across his suddenly sweating brow. "The clothes… were the same… I remember so well that… when we got there, the door stood wide. Schofield was bending over him. With Sanguinet. Schofield came to the door and urged us not to go inside. It was… too horrible, he said. He looked like death himself and was in tears… poor fellow. So—" he shrugged helplessly. "I'd no wish to see such a sight, I must admit."

  Harry drew a deep, trembling breath and turned to Langridge, his eyes holding a question.

  "It was Colin," confirmed the Reverend, plucking at his lower lip in his perturbation. He shuddered and added, "And he was shot at that very table. God help me, I wish I might say otherwise."

  Harry muttered savagely, "How monstrously clever! Only Sanguinet and Schofield knew my father, and you and Cobb had no reason to suspect they were foisting an imposter on you. After the game was over, the imposter fled. My father was brought in and callously murdered. Uncle Mordecai's identification was positive, for he never saw the man with whom you played, only my father's body!"

  Langridge all but fell into a chair. "Not Barnaby . . ?" he groaned. "Harry, surely there must be another explanation. Good old Barnaby… would never…"

  "He did!" rasped Harry. "I am as sure of it as I stand here! And God help him, I believe that is what drove him to his own death! In some way, Sanguinet forced Barnaby Schofield to acknowledge an imposter as my father. And having established his identity and provided grounds for what was to be kindly disguised as his best friend's suicide, Barnaby could not live with his guilt!"

  Langridge leaned back, his face white and twitching. "And I… helped them! By covering up what I deemed a—cowardly suicide, I helped… my brother's murderers!"

  Harry said nothing, but his hand dropped to where his sabre had been used to hang and his slow smile was a terrible thing to behold.

  Chapter XV

  The sun was low in the sky as Harry galloped Diccon's hack down the drive, Langridge beside him on a borrowed grey mare, and Howard Cootesby's farewells and promises of all possible assistance still ringing in his ears. His mind whirled with speculation. He had convinced Cootesby. at least. The man would testify for them though the chances of such testimony being credited after so long a time were not good. He thought with a stab of guilt that he should have stressed the need for Cootesby to protect himself. Sanguinet would not hesitate to murder him now, and he himself had mentioned a possible killer who . . What was it he'd said? "… who would likely whistle while he choked the life from a man." For some reason the remark haunted him. "Who would likely whistle… " Why should that be so tantalizing? He knew no Shotten, nor anyone who— But he did. by God! Dice. Devil Dice had whistled constantly! He had thou
ght at the time it sounded like an ostler… His heart began to pound with an excitement that was increased as he remembered what Nanette had said of the naval officer who had persisted in courting her despite Parnell's dislike of him. "He was shot to death one night… by a highwayman…"

  "By thunder!" Harry exclaimed aloud, and urged the sorrel to greater speed.

  The wind was coming up and clouds were building, but the sunset was exquisite, the rumbling clouds blush fully pink and edged with gold against deep turquoise skies. Blind to such aesthetic beauties, Harry rode ever faster, only dimly aware that Langridge was falling behind.

  He was spurred now by a strange unease, a nagging sense of something amiss that grew until it gradually displaced rage and the grim lust for vengeance. Plagued by this deepening fear, he leaned forward coaxing the sorrel on, and the animal responded with a bunching of powerful muscles, as though its reserves had been held for just such an emergency. They thundered along the country lanes, under wind-whipped trees. The miles flew and the sun dipped lower. Langridge was far behind now, and Harry encountered no other travellers save for a large black carriage that crowded him off the road, its reckless speed the more remarkable in view of the fact that as it flashed by he saw it was unoccupied.

  The tired sorrel laboured up the last rise, and it seemed to Harry that he traversed a scarlet world, the lurid glare like an omen of disaster. He shouldn't have left her! Yet Anderson was there, and Mitch would die to protect her, for he was more than half in love with her himself…

  He topped the rise. Below, all was peaceful. The small stand of poplars tossed whisperingly in the wind. There were no tethered horses in view, no ruffians loitering about, no signs of activity on the wooded slope beyond the copse. Heaving a sigh of relief, he rode downhill at a reduced pace and was starting into the trees when a sound came to him: a soft but repetitive whimpering that turned his blood to ice. He vaulted from the saddle and began to run.