“Bit too much fer yer, mate?” said a hoarse voice in his right ear.
He had barely time to glimpse a hairy, dirty face under a battered old hat; then he was set down and the even more disreputable individual on his left was shoving the crutch under his arm. ‘Mrs. Sue’s fine new workmen,’ thought Montclair cynically, settling the crutches and scanning a man who might very well be taken for a third-rate pickpocket. He wore a patch over one eye, and the other managed always to avoid a direct glance. His hat was an abomination over an untidy mop of black, greasy hair, and his ragged clothing, several sizes too large, hung loosely from a pair of sagging shoulders. “Worse goin’ up than comin’ dahn, ain’t it, guv,” he said in a nasal whine. “We thought as we’d give yer a bit of a hoist, like.”
“Good deed fer the day,” called the first vagrant, shambling off.
“Yes. Er—well, I’m obliged,” said Montclair, eyeing the unlovely pair without delight.
“Cor! Look whatcha bin an’ gorn an’ done, Seth,” called the first man, climbing his ladder.
Montclair glanced down, and swore. There was a generous smear of cream paint on the sleeve of his blue coat.
“Luvva duck,” moaned Seth, and taking out a filthy kerchief added what appeared to be coal dust and a scattering of tobacco leaves to the disaster zone.
“Let be,” said Montclair indignantly, shoving his hand away.
“Clumsy block,” leered the first man, dipping his brush in the paint pot.
“Jest tryin’ ter be of ’elp, Dicky,” whined Seth.
“Your best help will be to get back to work,” said Montclair, fuming over the ruin of his coat, but unable to scold since the bumbling oafs may have been sincerely trying to help him.
Seth retreated to his ladder, and clambered upward, groaning about his “poor tired bones,” and then engaging in a whispered conversation with his cohort.
Montclair frowned from one to the other.
Dicky leered down at him. “Was yer waitin’ fer some more ’elp, guv?” he enquired with bland insolence.
‘Heaven forbid!’ thought Montclair. “I was waiting to see you get back to work,” he replied pithily.
“Right y’are, sir!” Seth dipped the brush deeply, and swung it out.
Montclair manoeuvred the crutches desperately, and avoided most of the flying paint. “Take care, damn you!” he cried angrily.
“Sorry, guv,” leered Seth.
Dicky pointed out sagely, “Bad luck ter stand under a ladder, mate.”
“Worse luck to be impertinent while standing on one,” snapped Montclair, balancing himself on his right foot and dealing Seth’s ladder a whack with his crutch.
Seth screamed loudly and clung to the ladder like a terrified monkey.
Somewhat appeased but with the unhappy conviction that paint was trickling down his forehead, Montclair turned to enter the house. He thought he heard a muffled laugh and jerked about angrily.
The suspects were industriously and soberly at work.
“Confounded hedgehogs,” he muttered, and swung himself inside.
* * *
For the balance of the day Susan contrived to elude Montclair. She felt wrapped in a grey despair, and fought it by immersing herself in the many tasks that had been postponed owing to the presence of an invalid in the house. The rugs in the lower hall and the entrance hall were rolled up and carried outside to be thoroughly beaten. She next decided that the furniture arrangement in the withdrawing room did not please her, and she required Martha and Deemer to help her improve it. Meanwhile, the dining room rugs joined those in the back garden, to be attacked with gusto (and some whispered imprecations) by the Bo’sun.
At three o’clock, drawn by the uproar, Valentine peered over the balcony rail into such a maelstrom of activity that he retreated in horror. He sat at the window of his bedchamber looking out at the golden afternoon and thinking of his brother. Uncle Selby had told him that when he’d first been attacked, a letter had been despatched to Geoff’s last known address advising that he was near death. That had been better than five weeks ago, which meant it was not yet even halfway to India. By the time Geoff came home he would probably be completely well again. He was almost well now—except for his hand. He removed the sling he was required to wear when not using his crutches, and held his arm out straight. He was almost sure his broken leg had mended. Surely then, his hand should have healed also, but his efforts to move the fingers were unavailing.
“Hello, Mr. Val,” called Priscilla. “Won’t they wriggle yet?”
He turned eagerly to the child, glad of her company, and she danced in with Wolfgang beside her, and stared curiously at the inanimate fingers. “Has you tried bending ’em yourself?”
“No. The doctor said I must not.”
“Oh—him,” she said, unimpressed.
He chuckled. “You don’t care for Dr. Sheswell, Lady Priscilla?”
She shook her head decidedly. “Uncle Angelo calls him a wallet in the wind and says he hides his teeth. Miss Babs laughed and laughed, and Uncle Angelo said his soul she makes sing.”
Valentine, also laughing, lifted his brows at this. “Does she, indeed?”
“Well, that’s what he said. I wonder if his soul is singing on The Dainty Dancer. Do grown-ups always have singing souls when they’re in love, Mr. Val?”
He stared at her, then said slowly, “It’s a nice thought. Did you make it up yourself?”
“No. Uncle Angelo telled Miss Babs ’bout it. I like Miss Babs. She talks so soft, when she’s not crying. She does cry a lot.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Even more than Mama. I ’spect that’s why Angelo’s always hugging her better.”
“Is he, by Jove! Er—do you see her often?”
“He lets me walk over there with him, in the afternoons sometimes. He won’t let me ask Mama if I can go after my bedtime.”
Incredulous, he asked, “Do you say that Señor Angelo goes to the Manor to take dinner with Sir Selby Trent?”
“No. He jus’ meets Miss Babs in that little garden house on the hill.”
Montclair thought, ‘Why that slippery Spaniard! Junius will break him in half if he catches him!’ He frowned thoughtfully. He had promised his cousin he would not allow her to be forced into marriage with Pollinger, but an impoverished Spaniard was scarcely a satisfactory substitute. Unless Babs had given him her heart, of course. And what a bumble broth that would be! There was no doubt of Uncle Selby’s reaction. As for Aunt Marcia—
“’Scuse me, but—do you, Mr. Val?” asked Priscilla, out of patience.
“My apologies, milady. I didn’t hear what you said.”
“No, ’cause your ears were off somewhere else,” she said accusingly. “I asked you where you think Dr. Shes’ell hides his teeth.” She leaned closer and whispered with high drama, “I wouldn’t be s’prised if it was in the cellar.”
Amused, he tugged one of her ringlets. “You scamp. Is this a new story for us to make up?”
“No! I don’t want a story about him. Or his friend. I like him worse than Dr. Shes’ell.”
“Which friend? My uncle?”
“No. The tall man who calls on Mama. He’s got dead eyes, and his hands are like lard. Ugh!”
Valentine leaned forward. “What makes you think Monsieur Monteil is a friend of Dr. Sheswell?”
“I seed them together one night. It was all Wolfgang’s fault. He’d goed out for a little run, but he din’t come back, so I had to find him, only I found them ’stead, over by the bridge, talking whispery. I ’tended they was Roundheads, an’ I was a Royalist spy, an’ I creeped up on them an’ listened to their secret plans.”
She crouched, looking very melodramatically furtive, and he smothered a grin and asked, “Were they awfully wicked plans?”
“Well, I couldn’t hardly hear them, but I think they must’ve been, ’cause one of them was cross an’ said it should’ve been done by now.”
His amusement faded. Here was more t
han the child’s active imagination. He asked intently, “Do you know what the ‘it’ was?”
She thought a moment, then said, “I think it was about clothes.”
“Clothes? Are you sure, Lady Priscilla?”
“No-o … But the other man got cross too, an’ said it wasn’t his fault ’cause they hadn’t gived somebody something. An’ he was sorry ’cause it all fitted so goodly an’ would’ve looked right, an’ no one wouldn’t have been a miser.”
Montclair frowned. Might they instead have said—no one would be the wiser? Whatever the plot, clothes, he thought, had little to do with it.
The child went on blithely. “An’ then Wolfgang barked at them and they rid away like cowards, which is when I saw who they was. An’ I wouldn’t be s’prised if Dr. Shes’ell hides his teeth in our cellar, ’cause he prob’ly keeps ’em in a little jar, like Grandpapa used to, and doesn’t like people to see him take ’em out. ’Sides, I’ve heard someone bumping about down there at dead of night.” Her voice lowered again, and she hissed awfully, “When the goblins an’ witches are out! An’ Wolfgang growls, an’ he doesn’t do that if it’s Mama or some of our people, you know. Can we make our story now, please? We were up to the part where the princess finds the unicorn in her coach…”
* * *
It was taking so blasted long, but if anyone saw him, thought Montclair, lowering himself carefully onto the next stair, he would say he’d been very thirsty and hadn’t wanted to disturb anyone at this hour of the night. He reached back for the crutch and pulled it to him, but this time he was a shade impatient, and the armrest clipped the rail with a crack that he was sure would waken the entire household. Mentally cursing his clumsiness he bit his lip and sat holding his breath, waiting. No sound disturbed the silence. Another breathless moment, then with a sigh of relief, he eased himself down one more step.
The Dainty Dancer had put neatly into the dock at four o’clock this afternoon. Lyddford had looked tired, and the Spaniard not much better, but Lyddford had insisted the cargo must be off-loaded at once. The Bo’sun and Deemer had joined in the effort, and from his window Valentine had seen Seth and Dicky come slouching to assist, looking more ruffianly than ever with paint liberally splattered on their ragged garments.
Valentine smiled rather grimly, recalling Starry’s barely concealed look of relief when he’d told her he was not feeling “quite up to the rig” this afternoon and if it would not be too much trouble he’d take dinner in his room. No doubt they were pleased to have him out of the way while the cargo was off-loaded. Martha had carried his tray upstairs and in her gentle warm-hearted way had settled him onto the chaise longue, lit the candles, made sure that books and The Morning Chronicle were within easy reach, and spread the napkin across his lap. She’d even given his shoulder a shy little pat. Susan’s remarks about servants had come to mind, and he was forced to admit that Martha might be simple-minded, but if she was in his employ he’d take great care not to lose her.
He’d passed the evening reading and listening to the men clumping about downstairs. Several times he’d gone to the big window in the first-floor hall and watched them toiling up from the river with wheelbarrows piled high with boxes and bales that ostensibly contained Imre Monteil’s “personal effects.” It was past eleven o’clock when the house had quieted. He’d heard the creak of the stairs soon afterwards, then silence had blanketed the old house for another hour. They all had worked so hard; it was to be hoped they’d sleep like logs.
Priscilla’s innocent words had decided him upon this course of action. “I’ve heard someone bumping about down there at dead of night … an’ Wolfgang growls…” He was not quite sure of the significance of Sheswell’s nocturnal meeting with Imre Monteil, but he’d long known that the doctor was a tippler. He was beginning to suspect that Monteil was a Free Trader on the side. Possibly, he supplied Sheswell with wines and cognac which had sidestepped the excise tariff. The doctor might have become angered by delays, and Priscilla had chanced upon the two men while Monteil was making his excuses. Who Monteil’s customers were did not much concern Valentine, however. The points of concern were firstly, that Susan and her brother might have been gulled into shipping and hiding contraband in the belief that Monteil’s cargoes were simple personal belongings; secondly, that the Swiss should have had the unmitigated gall to select Highperch Cottage (admittedly offering the unique advantages of sitting isolated, unoccupied, and on the bank of the river) for a storage and, presumably, distribution point.
When his initial doubts had solidified this afternoon, Valentine had at first thought to seek out Susan and share them with her, but she seemed much taken with Monsieur Monteil. Also, his own offer of financial assistance had sent her straight into the boughs. She was an excessively proud young lady, and resented any criticism of her judgment. Certainly, she’d want to know what he suspected, and if he revealed his belief that she and Lyddford had—however inadvertently—allowed themselves to be dragged into a smuggler’s toils, she’d probably be reaching for her broom again and he’d be banished from her presence forever. And despite her apparent preference for gentlemen of the Swiss persuasion, he found that he was reluctant to be banished from the widow’s presence.
If that slippery Monteil really had dared to use Highperch for illegal activities, if he had carelessly placed Susan and her brother in danger of being arrested as smugglers, then by George, the man was a scoundrel and must be dealt with! First, however, proof must be found. The ideal time to accomplish this was at night, and now that he had discovered he could manage to get about with only one crutch, he saw no reason to delay.
His undistinguished progress down the stairs having been accomplished, he gripped the end post and dragged himself erect. There was a half moon tonight, and the windows were brightened by a silvery glow, the illumination, faint as it was, making it easier to proceed cautiously down the west hall, past the library and what had once been a study, to the stairs that led to the cellars. It was quite a warm night, but luckily the wind was blustering about, effectively drowning the faint sounds of his crutch and an occasional creaking board under his foot.
He eased the cellar door open, and stood very still, listening. There was no flicker of light; no sound. And then suddenly there came a stir behind him. A rush of air. Something flying at him. His nerves tightened. He braced himself on the crutch, made a grab for the Manton he’d tucked into his sling, and jerked his head around to look behind him. With an amiable trill a small shape tore past and charged full-tilt down the cellar steps. Welcome! Of all the— But the cat was invariably put out before everyone went up to bed. And if Welcome had been put out, who had let him back inside? He thought grimly, ‘The Vagrants! I’ll warrant the dirty hounds are down there, robbing Lyddford blind!’
He uncocked the pistol, restored it to the sling, and sat down again, using his left hand to settle the splinted leg onto the steps. It was like descending into a black well. The silence pounded at his ears, and he paused frequently so as to listen. He’d have felt so much less vulnerable with the Manton in his hand, even though his left-handed aim would be poor, but he needed his one good hand to guide his leg and pull the crutch. He went on, sitting from step to step in the pitchy gloom, his nerves taut, but not for an instant considering that he had one arm in a sling, and a broken leg, and might at any instant be attacked by a murderous thief. It did occur to him that he must present a properly unheroic picture, and he grinned faintly, imagining Priscilla’s mirth if she could see him.
Quite suddenly a faint light appeared some distance ahead. His heart gave a jolt. He whispered a hopeful “Jupiter!” and tried to move more rapidly, his eyes fixed to that hovering glow. He had reached the foot of the cellar steps and was struggling to stand, when the light abruptly vanished. The darkness closed in, seemingly more dense than before. He positioned the crutch under his arm and dragged himself upward, narrowed eyes striving to pierce the blackness, heart pounding with excitement. There came the fain
test shuffling sound. And then he knew that someone else was very close to him. He balanced himself and groped for the pistol. His fingers had closed around it when he heard heavy breathing scant inches from his face. He could dimly make out a crouching shape and he shouted harshly, “Stay back! I’ve a pistol.”
The answer was a low, bestial growl. Stunned, he thought, ‘By God! It’s the bastard who struck me down in the woods!’ He jerked the pistol upward. His assailant must have the ability to see in the dark, for before he could fire, the weapon was smashed from his hand. His crutch fell as he staggered. Great arms clamped around him, and again that horrifying growl sounded. His ribs were being crushed; he could scarcely breathe. Struggling frantically to free himself, he was whirled around. He was not huskily built, but his long hours at the harpsichord had given his hands unusual strength, and although his injured right arm was trapped, by the grace of God his left arm was free of that deadly embrace. Sobbing for breath, he swung the heel of his hand at the grotesquely large and dimly seen outline and felt it connect hard with what felt like a man’s throat.
A howl of pain and his assailant faltered. With all his strength he clenched his fist and struck again, this time feeling an eye beneath his knuckles. A choked grunt. The vise that was choking the life from him eased slightly. Fighting to free himself, Montclair was suddenly all too successful. Off balance, he reached out blindly, and the iron stair railing kept him from falling. From the darkness came a snuffling. He sensed rather than saw something flailing at him, flung up his left arm and beat it aside, but his invisible assailant had the advantage of two arms, and Valentine felt the full impact of the second as it caught him across the shoulder, sending him flying. He hurtled across the stairs and crashed against the wall. Half stunned, his head spinning, he was briefly grateful that he had not fallen on his hurt leg again. Heavy footsteps were coming nearer. But the attacker was on a lower level now and Valentine had the advantage of lying half against the wall. Gathering his reeling senses he kicked out blindly, connected hard, and heard an agonized grunt.
Logic of the Heart Page 27
