The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake

by Patricia Veryan

  He was answered by a new voice.

  “There was not—so far as we could tell.” Impressive in a gown of stiff black bombazine, and with a black lace veil over her powdered hair, Lady Abigail Prior joined them and extended a hand regally. “You should be careful of nuns, Colonel. They can be as inflexible as they are pious.”

  “Good afternoon, my lady.” He bowed over her thin-gloved fingers. “Will you give me your opinion of your late coachman?”

  She considered for a moment, then said, “To utter pleasant platitudes because someone has gone to their reward is, to my mind, hypocritical nonsense. Walter Davis was an ill-natured man with a slippery eye. The other servants did not care for him. No more did I. My son valued him because he had a way with horses, and had driven, ridden, handled, and trained them for most of his life. Is that of any use to you, Adair?”

  “Insofar as it reinforces my suspicions, ma’am.”

  They both stared at him.

  He said with a shrug, “I cannot find it logical that such an expert would have allowed a half-trained animal to corner him and smash his skull.”

  Cecily Hall pointed out, “Davis was fond of the bottle, you know.”

  “And had likely been so for years. However foxed, he would have known better than to enter a stall with a nervous horse. Further, if the animal was so scared as to have trampled a man to death, wouldn’t you expect that there would have been considerable damage to the stall while it plunged about?”

  “There probably was,” said her ladyship.

  Adair shook his head. “I just inspected that stall, ma’am. There are one or two small gouges merely. Horses are big animals, shod with iron. One or two I’ve had to deal with have been nervous and have kicked holes in barn walls with little effort.”

  “Oh … good gracious,” said Cecily in a half-whisper.

  “Are you saying what I think you are saying?” asked Lady Abigail intently.

  “I am saying that I believe Walter Davis was murdered,” said Adair.

  10

  Briefly, Adair’s dramatic announcement rendered both his hearers mute. Cecily’s lower lip sagged in a way he found tantalizing, then she exclaimed in that same breathless fashion, “Heavens above! How dreadful!”

  “You think he was killed deliberately, and it was made to seem an accident?” asked Lady Abigail. “Why? Only to keep him from talking to you?”

  “To kidnap a lady is a hanging offence, ma’am, Quite apart from what he must guess I will do to the rogue who brought all this misery upon us—when I find him.”

  Cecily wrinkled her brow and murmured, “But why would anyone do such a wicked thing in the first place? Surely if the kidnapper is madly in love with Alice and knows himself ineligible, he could have lured her to a run-away marriage at Gretna Green. It would be shameful, I grant you, but without the need to implicate you, Colonel.”

  “Unless Adair has some extreme vindictive enemies, my love,” argued Lady Abigail.

  “Vindictive enough to want him dead, and to now do away with the only witness who might have cleared his name?” Cecily paled to an afterthought. “Such a villain would not hesitate to murder our dear Alice!”

  Driven by a need to banish the fear from her eyes, Adair said, “If he meant only to murder her, there would have been no cause to lure her away,”

  Lady Abigail nodded. “And, do you know, Cecily, I find it very hard to believe that any man would be so evil as to take the life of that sweet child.”

  ‘Except to protect himself,’ thought Adair, but not voicing that qualification, he said, “I dare to hope that you both are beginning to change your minds about my part in this sad business. I can’t tell you what that means to me.”

  “It means that you may add our names to the list of people who believe you,” said Cecily, smiling at him.

  “In addition to your family.” Lady Prior added keenly, “They do support you, I trust?” Before he could respond she gave a snort and threw up her hands. “I might have known! A fine set of knock-in-the-cradles!”

  Cecily looked appalled, but as usual, the old lady’s use of cant terms amused Adair. He said, “No, but they will come around, ma’am, I promise you. It was a very great shock to them all.” Lady Prior’s lips parted and he went on quickly, “I have some loyal friends who are trying to help; my Uncle Willoughby Chatteris is on my side, and most of my family hold me innocent of harming Miss Prior at least—even if they’re not convinced I didn’t make off with the poor lady.”

  “Willoughby Chatteris…” said Lady Prior musingly. “Now why is that name so familiar to me, child?”

  “I cannot think, Grandmama. A friend of Rufus, perhaps?”

  “Hmm. I shall ask him, so I must go and wrench him away from the little village beauty who has enchanted the tiresome boy.”

  Cecily said, “Colonel Adair suggested that if we pool our knowledge, Grandmama, we will have a better chance for success.”

  “Just so. I had the very same thought, you will remember.”

  “In which case, ma’am,” said Adair, “may I ask if you learned anything from the apothecary? You drove with him so as to ask questions, I presume.”

  “Correct. But the man had little to tell me that I did not already know. He confirmed the fact that our unfortunate coachman was slain by a blow to the back of the head.”

  “The back of the head?” said Cecily. “I was told he was trampled to death.”

  Adair said, “He could have been trying to escape the stall, I suppose. Forgive an unpleasant question, but—were there numerous wounds, my lady?”

  “The one fatal blow,” she answered. “And some bruises.”

  “No bones broken, for instance?”

  “Apparently not. Is that something the constable should have noted, Adair?”

  “I’d think he would find it odd that a horse’s hooves flailed about in a frenzy inflicted only bruises—apart from the fatal blow.”

  “It certainly doesn’t sound as if Davis was trampled,” agreed Cecily. “What do you mean to do next?”

  “Seek out your late coachman’s grandpapa and try to discover if any strangers have been lurking about the farm of late.”

  “Very good. I shall do the same. I’ll start with Walter’s brother, poor man.”

  Adair said with a grin, “You are not likely to hear him complain, I think. He has scarce been able to take his eyes from you all afternoon.”

  “Which you would only know if you had been watching her also!” Lady Abigail frowned at Adair’s red-faced confusion and turned to her granddaughter. “Never waste that demure look on me, miss. And take care not to bewitch young Davis. Meanwhile, I will weave my webs around that nice curate who is so eager to know everybody.”

  They parted then, Adair striding off to the stables and the two ladies returning to the house.

  Cecily said, “Well, Grandmama, are you really convinced of his innocence?”

  Lady Abigail paused to glance after Adair’s tall figure. “So convinced that I could weep for my part in this. He is no Tragedy Jack, and keeps himself well in hand, but it is a tragedy for all that.”

  They walked on in silence for a moment, then Cecily said, “Did you see his eyes when you asked if his family supported him?”

  “I did, and knowing that prideful cat of a mother of his, I am not surprised, but I’d have credited old Gower Chatteris with more kindness! Still, we were as gullible. We were all so sure.”

  “In the face of the evidence and our own coachman’s sworn testimony—what were we to think?”

  “I hold us excused to that extent. And we did not know him, after all. But for his own family to have turned their backs on him while he almost was hanged! Unforgivable! Well, child, perhaps we can help set things to rights.” With an oblique glance at her granddaughter, she added: “You would like that—no?”

  Cecily blushed but said firmly, “I cannot like anyone to be falsely accused and persecuted, ma’am, so do not be thinking of names for p
rospective great-grandchildren!”

  * * *

  The light was fading when Lady Prior’s coach rumbled away from the Davis farm with Adair riding inside and Toreador tied on behind. Rufus Prior was on the box, having growled that the colonel may have hornswoggled his female relations but he was not so easily gulled and would prefer the company of Coachman Peters.

  “Rufus doesn’t really believe you guilty,” said Miss Hall, seated beside her grandmother.

  Lady Prior agreed. “What it is, he’s embarrassed because you will keep knocking him down.”

  Amused, Adair promised to mend his ways. “Now, may we compare notes? Did anyone uncover a significant clue?”

  “Since I am the eldest, I will speak first,” declared Lady Prior. “My curate—goodness, what a social climber!—said that Walter had boasted about ‘his fine gentleman.’ No name given, but the curate gathered this was a person of wealth and rank who had previously employed Walter in a matter of great delicacy.”

  “Did your coachman say what the ‘delicate matter’ was, ma’am?”

  “Only that it was quite recent, and because he was such a clever fellow and kept his eyes open, he was now entrusted to find something.”

  “He said the same to his brother,” put in Cecily eagerly. “And he said he would soon be a rich man whether his fine gentleman liked it or not.”

  “That sounds like prospective blackmail,” said Adair. “When and where did this interesting conversation take place, do you know?”

  “The afternoon of his death. Eddie Davis said that they were walking along the lane together but Walter suddenly stopped speaking and stared into the trees they were passing as if he’d seen someone there. Evidently he was very frightened and all but ran back to the house. Eddie put it down to strong spirits. He said Walter was out of sorts after that and decided to leave the farm next day. Had you any better luck, Colonel?”

  It had been difficult to question Mr. Davis without seeming to do so, especially since the old gentleman tended to ramble off at a tangent each time he was almost brought to the point. “Not until I made a remark about tramps,” Adair answered. “That properly sent him into the boughs. He was convinced some vagrant had been watching the farm and was after Walter’s horse.”

  “More likely, he was after Walter,” said Lady Abigail, looking grim.

  Cecily said, “Especially if Walter’s boasting was overheard.”

  “In which case,” said Adair, “Davis sealed his own fate, for he would have been judged a potential danger to his ‘fine gentleman.’ I only wish I knew what he was hired to find.”

  “My little curate had the notion it was a legal document—perhaps a will,” said Lady Prior.

  Her eyes wide, Cecily exclaimed, “Only think, there might be some great fortune at the root of all this scheming. Perhaps we should try to discover who may be in the way of coming into an inheritance.”

  “An inheritance!” exclaimed Lady Prior. “Now I remember where I met Willoughby Chatteris! And you should too, Cecily. It was about two years ago, soon after the Warren-Wyants inherited the title and the fortune. They had been poor as church mice, if you recall, and to celebrate hosted that splendid Christmas party.”

  “Yes, of course!” said Cecily, laughing. “They were trying and trying to persuade a gentleman to dress up as Father Christmas for the children, and Mr. Chatteris and his niece arrived all unsuspecting with an adorable puppy the Warren-Wyants had ordered for their little son.”

  Lady Prior nodded. “Your uncle was pounced upon and bullied mercilessly, Adair. He had no least chance to escape!”

  “Uncle Willoughby was their Father Christmas? Jove, but they must have had to use several pillows.”

  Cecily said, “And a false beard. He looked so funny, but the children adored him, and I do believe he…”

  The rest of her remark was lost upon Adair.

  ‘A beard…’

  The Nunnery of the Blessed Spirit …

  The Mother Superior with the French accent …

  He knew now what had struck him as so odd about the nunnery.

  And that he must return to Blackbird Terrace at once.

  * * *

  The prospect of journeying after dark did not appeal to Lady Prior and she decided to overnight at the nearby home of a friend. The coach pulled up when they reached the Basingstoke Road. It was agreed that if anything new was learned it would be shared immediately.

  “If you should wish to reach me,” said Adair, “Miss Minerva Chatteris at Blackbird Terrace will know where I may be found.” His gaze slanted to Cecily. “I am very sure my cousin would welcome a visit from you both.”

  “She might be more pleased to receive Rufus,” said Lady Prior tartly. “For some odd reason he is much admired by the ladies. Miss Chatteris is not engaged, as I recall?”

  “My cousin is now betrothed, ma’am. To Mr. Julius Harrington.”

  My lady was tired and having snapped that she had “never heard of him,” told Adair they must not delay since it was already dusk.

  He climbed from the coach at once, conscious of a reluctance to say his farewells to these ladies who had joined the small band who believed in him. To Miss Cecily Hall, especially.

  * * *

  The lodge gates were wide and there was no sign of Gatekeeper Bailey when Adair reached Blackbird Terrace. Uncle Willoughby must be entertaining guests, or perhaps Aunt Hilda had returned. To judge from the uproar at the kennels, something had caused the dogs to be wild with excitement.

  He rode towards the stables, but detoured abruptly when he saw that the front doors of the house stood open.

  A shrill scream brought him from the saddle in a flash and he raced up the steps, tearing the pistol from his pocket.

  The entrance hall was lit by a single candle. A lamp lay smashed on the floor and oil was spreading. He checked as he saw one of the footmen lying motionless, but there were sounds of desperate conflict from farther down the corridor and he dared not delay. Running, rage seared him as he heard Minna screaming and Uncle Willoughby shouting hysterically.

  A rough male voice roared a demand to “hand ’em over! Quick-like!”

  Adair burst into his uncle’s study and a scene of chaos.

  Minerva was struggling in the arms of a burly ruffian wearing a head mask. A second intruder, similarly masked, was wrenching out the drawers of the desk, while Willoughby tore at his back and alternately screeched curses and dire warnings of retribution.

  Adair levelled his pistol and shouted, “In the King’s name! Stop or I’ll blow your head off!”

  This grisly threat caused the two bullies to jerk around and stare at him.

  He waved the pistol and demanded, “Take your paws off the lady. Now!”

  Minerva was released. Weeping and panicked, she ran to Adair.

  The rogue at the desk saw, as did Adair, that she would pass between them, and he sprang to grab her.

  Adair leapt forward and whipped her clear, then fired, and with a scream the thief staggered back to lean against the bookcase and clutch his arm.

  The ruffian who had held Minerva ran at Adair, a dagger upraised.

  Adair tore off his cloak and sent it swirling out to envelop and blind his attacker, then flailed the butt of his pistol at the head of the floundering man, who melted to the floor without a sound.

  Minerva screamed, “Hasty!”

  The sound of the shot had alerted others. Adair heard someone behind him and dodged aside, barely avoiding the knife that would have plunged into his back. He drove his fist hard at a masked face and as the man reeled back the hooded mask came away in Adair’s hand, revealing familiar brutish features. From behind came a powerful chopping blow to the base of the throat that staggered him. An iron hand seized his arm and wrenched away his pistol. He tore free, and from the corner of his eye saw that Uncle Willoughby had vanished; in his place were three more of the thieves, these rogues not wearing masks.

  Something smashed against
his back and he was sent hurtling across the room. He collided with a chair and crashed down, but managed to retain sufficient of his wits to roll away from the poker that whipped at his face. He clambered to his feet again. Once more the poker whizzed at him, a savage grin behind it. He ducked, then kicked out. A choking wail, the grin vanished and the poker fell. He snatched it up and whirled around; ready.

  “Finish the bastard, you clods!” screamed a pain-filled voice.

  The fellow he’d shot, thought Adair, crouching. The remaining three bullies spread out. They were uniformly big and muscular, and his back throbbed and his side was hurting like hell from his collision with the chair. It would be very agreeable, he thought grimly, if Uncle Willoughby or some of the servants came to help. Now.

  Whatever else, these hirelings knew their trade; as one man, they charged.

  Hopelessly outnumbered, Adair gritted his teeth and vowed to leave his mark on the ruffians. He beat a club away, then swung the poker in a deadly arc that sent his assailants into a hurried and profane retreat, but they pressed in again at once. A knife glittered from his left and the poker became a sabre that he rammed under the knife wielder’s ribs, drawing a howl from the man. A fireplace log was hurled, and brushed Adair’s ear as he ducked. A long club flailed out and his sway to the side wasn’t quite quick enough; he felt the impact excruciatingly. Blows seemed to rain at him from all sides. The poker was beaten from his failing grasp, his bones turned to sand and his eyes grew dim.

  As from a long way off, he heard two vaguely familiar howls:

  “Tally ho!”

  “Into the breach!”

  Feet stumbled over him and he was dully surprised to find that he was on his hands and knees. Each time he attempted to climb up, he was trampled down again. In a remote and dispassionate way he thought that it was difficult to judge which was the most painful; his head or his side …

  He’d never had much time for hunting, but he was at the hunt now and the hounds were quite out of control. They’d knocked him down and were jumping all over him, barking madly, licking his face. He opened his eyes and struggled to his knees through a sea of tails.