The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake

by Patricia Veryan

  “Half-wit,” muttered Adair irritably.

  This lane certainly was well travelled if not well kept, and following it towards a wooded hill he was fully prepared to discover an abandoned stone shell at the summit.

  Toreador broke from the belt of trees, and Adair swore furiously. The pedlar had the last laugh, all right!

  Greyrock Castle was not a castle at all, but a large and apparently thriving inn. Two coaches stood in the yard, and ostlers were poling up the team of a third. A stable-boy ran to take Toreador’s reins.

  “No!” said Adair angrily. But the light was failing, the wind was ever more chill, and he was quite ready for dinner. Greyrock Castle looked to be a fine house; the exterior half-timbered, the latticed windows clean, some already bright with lamplight, and smoke curling from a cluster of chimneys. The stable-boy watched him uncertainly. He said, “Oh, very well,” and swung from the saddle.

  The boy grinned and with the air of an expert in such matters, said, “You got a very nice hack here, guv’nor.”

  “Yes, and he is accustomed to the best of care,” warned Adair, a smile robbing the words of their severity.

  “Then he come to the right house,” said the boy pertly. “Everything’s prime here, sir. Be you staying overnight?”

  “Possibly. If the host has a room for me.” And although he was in the wrong sort of castle, he said out of habit, “And if you’ve a fine laundress.”

  “That we do, sir.” The boy checked as he started to lead Toreador off, then called, “Only I dunno if the Widder Davis be taking any work this week.”

  9

  There were only three occupied tables when Adair went down to dinner early that evening. He was in high spirits and he nodded cordially to the elderly gentleman with his two elderly ladies, and to the young couple at the window table, and exchanged a cheerful “good even” with two merchants who haggled over business even as they ate.

  The serving maid brought him the wine he ordered and he was pleased to find it a good claret. He had to wait for his beefsteak, and occupied his time by recalling his incredulity when the stable-boy had tossed off that remark about the Widow Davis. The host had shown him to a small but clean room, while informing him that the inn was built over the ruins of the original Greyrock Castle. He verified that they had a washerwoman on the staff, and yes, there was also a local woman who occasionally did blanchisserie, or fancy laundering, if some person of Quality desired it. Adair said that he carried “a message” for the lady, and in response to the immediate look of curiosity lied that Mrs. Davis had once worked for his mother. The host accepted this falsehood and was so accommodating as to write down the widow’s direction and bring it to Adair’s table with the wine.

  The directions were involved, but Adair did not doubt he’d be able to follow them. Tonight, the world was a brighter place and nothing could dim his optimism. He knew at last where to find the widow, and hopefully he would soon confront her unpopular son. By heaven, but he’d have the truth from the fellow if he had to choke it out of him! The General and those dunderheads in Whitehall would have to pay heed when he produced a perjured witness—as he was sure Davis was.

  His dinner was plain but good, and after he had done justice to it and to the baked apple with cheese, followed by a glass of port, he went up to bed.

  He’d been in the saddle all day, and physically he was tired, but his mind was wide awake. Try as he would, his thoughts kept reverting to the question of whom he had so antagonized that the trap had been devised which had so nearly brought about his death. And as always he wound up with no answers but only the unchanging and infuriating—why? He was not without enemies—he’d yet to meet the man who could claim to be universally liked. But it was hard to imagine anyone—even so sour-natured an individual as Thorne Webber—going to the trouble of arranging such a devious and complicated revenge. Most fellows with a deep grudge would simply have called him out; though, of course, a duel would entail personal risk. But if some madman lacked the courage to face him, would not an ambush, or a hired assassin, have presented a swifter and less risky way to put a period to him?

  Perplexing thoughts; more than enough to disturb a man’s rest. Yet as Adair drifted off to sleep, his mind was occupied not with the machinations of his unknown enemy but with the memory of fair curls and eyes of a clear blue-grey that could light as quickly with laughter as with scorn. A truly rare beauty was Miss Cecily Hall …

  An indeterminate time later a rough hand awakened him. The candle was lit. The host and a manservant bent over his bed and were shaking him.

  He started up, at once wide awake. “What’s wrong?”

  “You is!” growled the host. “If I’d knowed who you was you’d not have set foot in my house, by grab but you wouldn’t! A filthy woman killer under my roof! Lor’! My good wife is like to have a spasm!”

  Angered, Adair snapped, “I have killed no woman! Whoever filled your ear with such stuff is a lying scandalmonger!”

  “So you say! By my lights he done me a favour! This is a Christian house and from what I hears even if it ain’t been proved as you done away with the lady, there’s no denying you ruined the poor little thing. Burn me ears if we won’t have to scrub this room from floor to ceiling! Out, Mr. Wicked Chatteris, or whatever you calls yourself! Not as I blame you for hiding yer own shameful name. Out o’ my house! Now! Or I’ll have you kicked out!”

  His clothes were hurled at him; he had to dodge his boots. The door was wide and several interested faces peered inside. Somebody laughed and the kindly-appearing old gentleman who had sat with the two elderly ladies in the dining room declared indignantly that if he’d guessed Greyrock Castle catered to criminals he’d never have come here.

  Adair swung the door shut. He was seething with rage and mortification as he pulled off his nightshirt. Someone had recognized him evidently, and had lost no time in spreading the word.

  A glance at his timepiece told him that it was just past one o’clock. Most likely he’d have to sleep under a hedge for the rest of the night. He dressed rapidly, but in very few minutes a pounding on his door and a demand that he get out so that the room could be aired brought a dark flush to his face.

  He stalked out grimly. The uproar had evidently roused several of the guests, and men in dressing-gowns or with cloaks thrown over their night-rail had gathered in the narrow passage. Ignoring their disgusted taunts, Adair was obliged to push his way through them. Someone stuck out a foot and he stumbled. A laugh went up. As he reached the top of the stairs a strong hand shoved at his back. He fell and it was all he could do to regain his feet half-way down the flight.

  Somehow, he kept his head up and with their jeers and insults ringing in his ears made his way to the lower hall, bitterly conscious of how ghastly it was to be despised by one’s own countrymen. The only good thing about this latest humiliation was that it had taken place so far from Town and his family would not hear of it.

  He picked up the saddle-bags he’d dropped when he fell. Straightening, he found an emaciated young man smirking at him while manipulating a notepad and pencil. “Lieutenant Colonel Adair, I believe?” he said in a high falsetto. “Or at least—you was a colonel at one time. I’m sure the readers of the Gazette would be interested to know of your reception in this peaceful countryside. Are you here to—”

  “Out of my way!” growled Adair, shoving him aside.

  “—to visit friends, perhaps?” called the newspaper writer mockingly. “Or might one better say—to hide yourself?”

  Adair, his mouth set in a thin line, acknowledged bitterly that his family would be shamed by yet another lurid newspaper account.

  Outside, the wind had risen and carried on its icy breath a stinging sleet. He saddled up Toreador himself while a yawning ostler offered no assistance and when he rode out shouted insults and sent a hail of stones after him.

  Adair fought down his fury and rode on. He must not become soured. These attacks weren’t really directed
at him, but at the cunning villain who had planned the whole ugly business. And that unknown enemy must be close by, still working his venom, for there was no doubt in Adair’s mind but that the same person was responsible for the attack at the Pilgrim Arms as for his ouster from the Greyrock Castle Inn. A persistent antagonist, who must be dogging his footsteps and seizing every opportunity to throw a little more hellish notoriety his way. But—why? Why? Why?

  He ducked his head to a booming gust and thought vengefully of the time when he would catch this scheming Unknown at his tricks, and what he’d do to the miserable bastard.

  “Hello?” Clang! Clang! “Hello, there!”

  Adair jerked his head up and realized he had heard the clamorous bell for a minute or two but had been too lost in anger to pay heed. He was passing a drive guarded by a pair of iron gates. A woman clad in a long cloak and hood was struggling to close the right-hand gate but it sagged crookedly, besides which it was clearly too heavy for her. Each time she had almost secured it, the wind tore it open again and it crashed against the centre post, this causing the bell-like tone. She had set a lantern in a sheltered spot and as Adair dismounted and made his way to her side she took it up and he saw that she was a nun.

  “Good evening, Sister,” he said above the bluster of the wind. “Might I be of help?”

  “Well, I hoped you might,” she shouted. “But I apologize if I interrupted your prayer. You were—praying, weren’t you?”

  He smiled cynically. The lady would not feel so guilty if she knew how far from holy had been his thoughts at that moment. “Not exactly, ma’am.” He tethered Toreador to a shrub and reached for the gate. “Allow me to close this for you.”

  She scurried through to the inside. “You have to loop this chain over the centre post, else it won’t stay shut. “Yes, that’s right. I was afraid it would be too heavy for me, but I came down because the noise was disturbing everyone. Thank you so much, sir.”

  “I’m glad I was able to be of service.” Touching his hat respectfully, Adair prepared to mount up.

  The nun watched him, then called, “It is very late, sir, and such a dreadful night. Have you far to travel?”

  “I hope not, if I can find a room somewhere.”

  “Dear me.” She sounded dismayed. “I doubt you will, at this hour, you know. I hesitate to offer—it’s not a very cozy place, but—well, we have a room above the barn where our gardener sleeps sometimes. Mother Superior is away, but I am sure she would say you are welcome to take shelter there.”

  He hesitated. “You’re very kind. But—is it allowed? I mean, if this is a nunnery—”

  “It is the Nunnery of the Blessed Spirit, but you will not be in it. I mean, not in the main building. The barn roof does not leak anymore, and you would be out of the rain at least, and you could stable your beautiful horse, if that would suit.”

  Adair lost not a moment in assuring her that it would suit splendidly.

  The barn proved to be a sturdy structure, weather-tight and with an oil lamp which the nun lit from her lantern before she left him. A shabby coach, poles up, stood next to an old farm waggon. Four horses blinked at him from their stalls. He rubbed down Toreador, let him drink from the water trough, and settled him into an empty stall, then he climbed the ladder to the loft. To his right was a big pile of hay; to his left a trestle-bed and a large old seaman’s chest. A rickety wash-stand against the wall boasted a tin pitcher and bowl, and a dusty mirror hung on a nail above it. It was a far cry from his suite at Adair Hall, but he’d slept in worse places, and compared to the stormy night he’d just escaped, was sheer luxury. He opened the chest and found two thick blankets. He spread one on the hay, wrapped the other around him, and stretching out on his fragrant couch, fell into a deep sleep.

  He awoke with the dawn, but someone had already left a ewer of hot water at the foot of the ladder, with a note inviting him to breakfast in the kitchen.

  The sun came up while he shaved, and a very deaf groom arrived to tend the horses and roar that he would bait the dapple-grey.

  Adair thanked him and stepped into a brilliant morning. A few dark pink clouds drifted against a blue-green sky, the pale sunlight set every bush and tree sparkling with jewels and transformed the drops from the eaves into cascades of diamonds. The air was fresh and bracing. He banished the lingering hurt of last night’s humiliation. This was going to be a better day. Today, he would find Walter Davis and discover the truth at last.

  He was admitted to the side door of the nunnery by the plump little lady he had met in last night’s storm. She introduced herself as Sister Ruth and took him into a stark but spotless kitchen where two other nuns were already busily at work. Willing hands spread a snowy cloth on a corner of the large central table, knives and forks were set out, and amid many shy glances and some muffled giggles Adair was served two soft-boiled eggs and thick slices of buttered bread and blackberry jam, all of which, he was informed in whispers, were products of the nunnery farm. While he ate, Sister Ruth spoke to him in sporadic bursts. He gained the impression that their Order was quite poor, but when he had finished the steaming mug of coffee that completed his breakfast, his attempts to pay for their hospitality were refused politely, but with such firmness that he dared not persist.

  Nothing would do but that he must be shown their small flock of chickens. Speaking darkly of the wicked habits of foxes, Sister Ruth led the way, and the other kitchen workers drifted along in the rear. After he had admired the fowl, there were cows and goats to be proudly displayed. Adair glanced back and found the procession now numbered six ladies, coming along two by two. By the time they reached the vegetable gardens, ten nuns were in the train, and at the bakery where their breads and rolls and the famous Nuns’ Fruit Cakes were created, the number had swelled to a round dozen.

  Looking at their guileless, beaming faces, Adair said with a smile that he had never been so fortunate as to have so many charming ladies all to himself. There was laughter, shy questions were asked, and when he admitted he was from London Town, tongues were loosened and he was soon doing his best to respond to a battery of requests for the latest news of the City, fashions, and the progress of the war.

  Conversation ceased abruptly when a tall middle-aged lady appeared. She said nothing, but shook her head reproachfully, and the nuns, looking guilt-stricken, fled. Adair bowed. This must be the Mother Superior, and she was obviously displeased to find her flock fluttering around a stranger—a male stranger, especially. Like most of Lord Wellington’s officers, he was adept at soothing ruffled feelings. He thanked her profusely for the hospitality that had been extended to him, and expressed his sincere admiration of the neatness of the nunnery and the excellence of their farming endeavours. The Mother Superior watched him with her deep-set and beautiful grey eyes, and he was struck by the notion that they had met before, though he could not recall when or where.

  As if coming to a decision, she said in a heavily accented voice, “You are charming, which you know, of course. My little ladies were naughty—but how shall I blame them? And it is au fait accompli. So you may as well come, monsieur le colonel, and let us make the show for you of our primary source of funds. Ah, but it is that I have startled you, no?”

  She had, indeed. Word of his notoriety had reached even this peaceful oasis.

  “You know who I am, Reverend Mother?”

  “I know.”

  “Then—are you sure you—”

  “Have the trust in you? But, yes. Your predicament it makes me desolate. We will hold you in our prayers. Now, please, you will come.”

  She led the way along a chilly corridor, her robes shushing over the flagged floors. Adair heard a soft tapping and murmurous voices and he was ushered into a long room that smelled of paint. The floor was littered with wood shavings. Several of the nuns bent over a table, scrubbing away with sandpaper at a large flat carving. To one side, three more were busied with paints and brushes. They all looked up when the door opened, and the youngest
of them exclaimed, “Oh! He is allowed to see! I am so glad!”

  “You have always too much of the talk, Sister Elizabeth,” scolded the Mother Superior, but with a smile.

  Waved forward, Adair looked down at a replica of the Crucifixion, wondrously depicted in wood. Awed, he said, “Jove! You are artists! Is this for your chapel, ma’am?”

  “I wish it were. We have to sell it, alas. But the church that buys, they are most happy.”

  “I should rather think they might be! May I ask what these other ladies are about?”

  The nuns at the side table were applying paint to a finished carving of a man and several women clad in biblical dress. The Mother Superior said, “The cross is to hang above the altar, and this group will be placed nearby. As you see, it depicts the faithful who waited on Golgotha that terrible day.”

  The detail of features, hands, even the sandals, astonished Adair. “Do you carve from life, ma’am? I’d swear—I mean, I think I’ve met that gentleman somewhere.”

  She said with a chuckle, “Then you have travelled in exalted company, Colonel. That is St. John. No, do not suffer the embarrassment. It is truth that we often take people we know for our models if they interest us. The next time you visit here, you may find that you too are destined to hang in some great church.”

  Which would be an improvement, he thought cynically, over his last brush with hanging.

  Time was slipping away and he was eager to get to the Davis farm, but he could not leave without doing something to repay their hospitality. Recalling the noisy iron gate, he made that his contribution. The gate had come loose from the top hinges which were now sadly bent and rusted, and all three posts were sagging. As is the way of such undertakings, the repairs that he had thought would take an hour, took four. He was testing the closure of the mended gate when another procession approached. In the lead came the plump Sister Ruth, carrying a plate with a ham sandwich and pickles. Following her was the bearer of a dish containing an apple and a large pear. The next lady had a tray with a pot of tea, cup, saucer, and milk jug, then came the groom with a folding table, and bringing up the rear, the young Sister Elizabeth with a bowl in which was a slice of fruit cake.