by K. M. Grant
Hew didn’t blink. “I did, sir.”
“Did you look inside it?”
Hew had rehearsed this to himself already. “I didn’t need to. It had already been half-emptied by you and what was left in it flew out with the two escapees. I simply put everything back in as best I could. It will still be with the laundryman. If you have any doubts, sir, I will take you to him and you can see for yourself.” Hew made as if to sidestep the major and give appropriate orders, but Slavering stopped him and his look was sly.
“Too lowly a task for you, Captain Ffrench.” He barked at the men. “I want two volunteers to go to the river right now, find this laundry person, and bring him here. I’ll talk to him personally. We’ll soon find that head. It must have left its mark somewhere.”
It was an hour before the laundryman appeared and by that time the troops were restless. The laundryman himself had only one idea, and that was to please the major, who kept running his hand up and down the blade of his sword in a way that made the skin creep. Yet the laundryman could only swear on his life that neither he nor his wife had found anything strange in the duke’s linen and certainly no traces of a head at all. When the major finally dismissed him, the laundryman was so grateful he could not stop bowing and sniveling. “A man like yourself will certainly be in need of a good laundry service,” he groveled. “Me and the wife, we’re as quick as quick. Why, we only got the duke’s laundry yesterday as the bells chimed four and he will get it back before sunset today.”
Major Slavering stopped in his tracks. “Four, you say? Four o’clock? Are you sure?” He seized the laundryman’s collar.
“Yes, sir, sure, sir, absolutely, sir,” the man gushed as best he could with his neck squeezed so hard.
Slavering dropped him and turned to Hew. His triumph was absolute. “Four, eh?” he said, and the lightness in his voice was more ominous than any bark. “And you said this man was easy to find? Not so easy, apparently, since you left the Fleet prison long before four. Did you, perhaps, make some stops with that heavy basket on the way, Captain Ffrench? Now, let me recall.” He crossed his arms. “Oh yes. Don’t you have a mother and a sister living somewhere in Chelsea? Maybe you paid them a visit?” He tapped Hew’s nose. “A visit ‘a-head’ of your usual one on a Sunday, if you’ll forgive the pun?”
Hew went green with dismay but knew at once that he must come clean. “I did pay them a visit,” he admitted. “Some of the duke’s laundry got damaged in the scuffles and my mother sews. The stuff is valuable, so it seemed prudent to get it mended. I mean, you never know when the duke will be back in favor at court again and these dukes can make a terrible fuss over anything—even a nightcap.”
The troopers sniggered. The nightcap would live long in their memories.
At once Hew knew that mentioning the nightcap had been a mistake. “BE QUIET!” the major yelled. Then he turned back to Hew. “I think we will pay your mother a visit, Captain Two-Effs, just to make sure all that prudent mending is safe.” His veins pulsed. “Bring horses for the captain and myself, and you two”—he kicked out at two dragoons standing, gawping—“get your own animals and accompany us.”
The major rode at full speed to Chelsea, scattering beggars as he went. Hew followed behind, a sickness in his stomach, cursing everything. It wasn’t Alice’s fault, of course, but if she had never attempted to rescue the colonel’s head, he would never have met her. All the way to Chelsea, he made a frantic list of people to whom he might appeal once Uncle Frank’s head was discovered. The best person would be the Duke of Cantankering. Although Cantankering’s relationship with King George could never be relied on and the ensuing scandal would certainly mean that Lord Trotting would no longer marry Mabel, the duke was still Hew’s best hope. Anything to prevent his mother from being thrown into jail at the mercy of men worse even than Major Slavering.
As they neared Mrs. Ffrench’s door, Hew tried to go ahead, but the major was having none of it. “I never had you down as a mommy’s boy,” he jeered, pushing Hew back. Their boots were splashed by a pig scuffling through a puddle and the major roared his disgust. “For all your fancy two-effed name, this is not a part of London frequented by gentlewomen. Those jokes the troopers tell about Mr. F-f-french being a g-gambler and a d-debtor are obviously true.”
Hew pressed his legs harder into his horse’s flanks. He could not afford to lose his temper. All he could do was mutter to himself that no gentleman would use his father’s reputation as a way of insulting his mother. But then Slavering was not a gentleman. That’s what made him dangerous.
Mrs. Ffrench opened the front door before the major could wallop it, thus slightly wrong-footing him. “Major Slavering, I presume?” she asked, glad that she was wearing a clean cap and her least darned gown. Her house might be small and the area discreditable, but Major Slavering should see that she had not forgotten her manners. “Hew.” She moved forward to kiss her son. “I’m not sure to what I owe this honor.”
The major could feel the back of his neck bristling. How was it possible to sound so superior with a greeting? “There is no honor, madam,” he said. “I have reason to believe that you have in your possession something that does not belong to you. That’s all.”
“I have many things here which do not belong to me,” said Mrs. Ffrench easily. “As you probably know from Hew, I take in sewing. I have some at present. That does not belong to me. But then neither,” she added, “does it belong to you.”
“We’ll see about that, shall we?” growled the major. He and the troopers thrust their way into the little house, leaving Hew and his mother to bring up the rear.
“Mabel’s in the parlour,” said Mrs. Ffrench. “She’s come to fetch her things and say good-bye because she’s going north with the Cantankerings for a month or so tomorrow.” Hew squeezed his mother’s hand. There was nothing else to do.
When the major encountered Mabel, his eyes gleamed and he bowed ostentatiously low. Mabel, who had passed him occasionally when she had watched Hew parading the dragoons, ignored him, and Mrs. Ffrench hastened over to stand by her daughter.
The major insolently examined the contents of the room before beginning, with solemn effrontery, to open the drawers and doors of the single cabinet and cupboard, dropping the contents onto the floor. As the china smashed, Hew started forward, but his mother restrained him. “Let the major find what he has come for and then leave us in peace,” she said, keeping her voice very relaxed, “but I must say that it would help, Major Slavering, if I knew exactly what it was that you sought.”
The major glared at her. “I’m looking for a head, ma’am.”
Mrs. Ffrench jumped, but Mabel began to laugh. “A head?” she asked. “Why, Major, you don’t look as if you have lost yours quite yet.”
Slavering glowered and ordered the two troopers to search the bedrooms. Bangs and crashes marked their progress through the three small upstairs chambers. Mabel’s face was livid but, to Hew’s relief, although her temper was obviously simmering, at least it was simmering quietly.
The troopers emerged empty-handed. At once Major Slavering began to look about the parlor more carefully, running his hands down the walls and even getting one trooper to stick an arm up the chimney. Nothing.
Hew moved forward, trying not to look at the work-basket. “I think you have disturbed my mother long enough,” he said coldly.
But the major was not finished. Slowly, quite deliberately and tortuously slowly it seemed to Hew, he finally turned his attention to Mrs. Ffrench’s mending. He walked round the basket a few times, even gave it a poke or two, then, quite suddenly, kicked it over. As the contents spilled out, the wig bag rolled into the middle of the floor with a dull thud. Hew did not dare look at his mother.
Slavering’s whole face changed. A wig bag. A wig bag! Of course! Oh, how excellently clever! What better place to hide a head? He gave it a poke with his foot and guffawed. Then he bent down to open it. The ribbon was knotted and not easily undone. In th
e end, using Mrs. Ffrench’s scissors, he snipped it and, plunging both hands inside, seized a clump of hair and pulled. Hew closed his eyes and swayed slightly. He opened them just in time to see the major clutching a black wig and staring at it in disbelief. Hew felt as though the world had stopped. Slavering dropped the wig, peered down, and plunged his hand in again. This time he brought out a carved wooden head, the sort wigmakers use as models. This he tossed on top of the wig before plunging in again and again, bringing out rope upon rope of horsehair, each rope grayer and greasier than the last. Finally, he picked up the bag itself and shook it so hard that his epaulets thumped up and down. It was only then that he accepted that the bag was absolutely and completely empty.
Hew was now deathly pale but Mrs. Ffrench’s composure never faltered. “Have you quite finished?” she asked in voice far too ordinary for the occasion. “I think you have caused enough damage. I am fixing the lining of that wig. It belongs to one of the king’s cousins. The king himself sent it.”
The major was hopping with rage. He had been beaten for now and he well knew it. “We live in treacherous times, ma’am.” He ground out the words through his teeth, his fury almost uncontrollable. “Two traitors escaped when your son was supposed to have them cornered. If we have been a trouble to you, you should blame him. Now I’ll bid you good day. Come, Captain Ffrench. We’ve wasted enough time here.” With that, he stamped out and Hew had no choice but to follow.
When the door slammed, Mabel began to get up but her mother shook her head. They waited five whole minutes and Mrs. Ffrench inspected the house front and back before she finally sank down in her chair. “I suppose that was one good thing to come out of your father’s hopeless life,” she said. “I learned that people who want something you don’t give them often leave a spy behind. Anyway, I think we are all clear now.”
Mabel humphed and shifted her skirts, under which, neatly wrapped in a white pillowcase, was the unmistakable shape of Uncle Frank’s head. “It was lucky you didn’t obey Hew’s instructions not to open that beastly wig bag, Mother,” she said. “Just fancy if you hadn’t.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Ffrench, settling her cap straight with hands that were not quite steady, “I saw those uniforms at the end of the street from the upstairs window and I just knew that wig bag must be responsible. I must say, though, Mabel dear, I hardly expected a head, but, frankly, the man’s expression when I pulled him out was so beseeching that it was not really too much to wrap him in a pillowcase.” She gave Mabel a watery smile. “I hope the pillowcase will survive. At least it’s used to heads, I suppose, even if they are usually snoring rather than dead.” It was a pathetic joke, but it was all Mrs. Ffrench could manage.
“Oh, I expect it will be none the worse for wear,” said Mabel crisply, staring at the lump in front of her. For all her bravado, she found she really did not want to pick Uncle Frank up. Mrs. Ffrench saw Mabel’s expression and, trying not to hesitate herself, grasped the pillowcase, unfolded it, and propped the head on the floor while she made the wig bag comfortable for it once again. She tidied the horsehair and was just cutting a piece of new ribbon when she glanced at Uncle Frank and screamed loudly. Mabel leaped at once onto a chair. “What is it?” she cried.
“Nothing, nothing.” Her mother calmed herself. “The poor man winked at me. That’s all. It is probably just the muscles in the eye sockets beginning to deteriorate. Nothing else. Really,” she added, trying to be perfectly matter-of-fact, “the head looks very cheerful, all things considered, and the pitch has preserved it very well.” Nevertheless, she quickly dropped Uncle Frank back onto his horsehair berth and tied up the ribbon in a double bow. Whatever happened, she did not wish to be winked at again. “Now we have to decide what to do with him.”
“Well, whoever he is—was—I don’t think he should remain here,” said Mabel. “Major Slavering could return.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe I should take him to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then slip him in with the Cantankerings’ baggage tomorrow. At least he will be out of London, which will be best for everybody. When we can, we’ll let Hew know what we’ve done and make some arrangement to get the wretched thing to where it is supposed to be going. I really think that’s what we should do, Mother, don’t you?”
Her mother looked worried but nodded. She didn’t like involving Mabel in all this skulduggery, but it did seem a sensible suggestion. Mabel, braver now, put the wig bag back in the workbasket. “Goodness, how heavy it is!” she exclaimed. “What a clever man he must have been! All those brains!” Her mother did not look amused. Mabel changed the subject. “Aren’t you curious, Mother, about the mystery girl Hew spoke of?”
“Very,” said Mrs. Ffrench, “but Hew only said that she lives in the north. I could tell she meant something to him, though. She must,” she added as an afterthought, “or he would never have risked our lives by bringing that head here.”
“Which he had absolutely no business to do, girl or not!” exclaimed Mabel, cross at her mother’s indulgence.
“Don’t be horrid, Mabel.”
“I’m not being horrid, Mother, but Hew should have thought.”
Mrs. Ffrench sighed. Her daughter was always so quick to judge.
Mabel went back to the workbasket. “Now what are you doing?” cried Mrs. French, whose nerves were too frayed for any further excitement.
Mabel pulled the wig bag out and looked at it as if she might open it up and give Uncle Frank himself a telling-off. But she didn’t. Instead, she headed for the stairs. “I’ll have to move the head from the wig bag into a hatbox,” she said, “because, while I do own a few hats, I don’t own any wigs at all and it would be too dreadful if the Cantankering servants mistakenly delivered this to Lady Cantankering’s room.” Her lips twitched. “Although I’d love to see that woman come face-to-face with a head that is more attractive dead than hers is alive.”
Mrs. Ffrench sighed. She hoped Mabel did not say such things to Lord Trotting. Then she fell to wondering again about Hew’s friend. “A girl I met,” he had said. But what kind of girl did you meet through mutual acquaintance with a head? The question was not one Mrs. Ffrench had ever expected to ask and so she was not surprised when she found herself quite unable to supply the answer.
9
If only Alice and Dan had been able to witness those scenes in Chelsea, much of what happened next would have been avoided. Still, Alice’s determination to retrieve her uncle’s head could not but lead to trouble, and trouble came quickly.
Since they had left the head outside the Duke of Mimsdale’s house, it was there that Dan and Alice, having slipped away from the main body of the dragoons, first went. Their troopers’ disguise was perfect and Alice held the horses while Dan knocked boldly on the front door to ask where the laundry basket had gone. The striking red-and-yellow uniform enhanced Dan’s charms and the Mimsdale maidservant needed little persuasion to tell him everything he wanted to know.
“I’ll keep the uniform once this escapade is over,” Dan said to Alice. “That girl would never have looked at me in my real clothes.”
Alice, as usual, tossed her head. “You can do better than a maidservant, Dan Skinslicer,” she said.
Dan tossed his own head right back. “Maybe I don’t want to.” He remounted with a determined and not unbecoming bounce, enjoying Alice’s discomfiture. “Now,” he said, serious again, “the girl told me where to find the laundry basket, so we must hope the wig bag’s still inside it and that the laundryman hasn’t opened it.” More confident of his horse, and conscious of the servant girl peeking at him from the kitchen window, he led the way out of Grosvenor Square. Alice followed but Dan did not like the look in her eye. “You and this horse are both laughing at me now,” he accused her.
“Not at all,” said Alice just a touch too demurely as she deliberately blocked the servant girl’s view. “You sit very well and look very dashing. If I didn’t know you were a hangman, I’d think you were an officer at least.” Dan made a disbe
lieving face but swung along in finer style than ever before.
It was a bitter disappointment to both of them when the visit to the laundry drew a complete blank, but a relief to learn, through the laundryman’s curses as he hopped up and down, bleating about persecution, that at least Major Slavering did not have Uncle Frank either.
“Somebody must have taken the wig bag out before it ever got here,” Alice said as they rode away. “But who could it be and what would they have done with it?”
“Maybe Captain Ffrench took it,” Dan suggested, and instantly regretted it, for Alice’s face lit up. “Of course!” she exclaimed so loudly that people looked around.
“Now then, missy,” Dan warned. “Keep quiet or you’ll get us both arrested.”
Alice brushed his worries aside. “We’ll go to the barracks,” she declared, “and follow Hew—I mean, Captain Ffrench. If he did save Uncle Frank’s head from Major Slavering, he’s bound to lead us to it sooner or later, and what’s more, Dan Skinslicer, I’m sure he’ll be only too delighted to hand it back.”
“But,” Dan pointed out, trying to dampen the sparkle in Alice’s voice because he didn’t like it, “I doubt he did save Uncle Frank, because if he got caught, he’d be dead meat. And why would he do it? Uncle Frank’s nothing to him.”
“He won’t be caught,” Alice stated after a small pause. “We’ve been lucky so far. Honestly, we only need to be lucky once more before we can get safely on the road to Towneley and be forgotten by everybody down here.” She kicked Marron into a trot and Dan’s horse, without bothering to wait for Dan’s instructions, immediately followed suit.
They arrived at the barracks just in time to see Hew and Major Slavering returning from their trip to Chelsea in thunderous silence. Hew could think of nothing but the terrible fright his mother must have gotten when she had found Uncle Frank in the wig bag, and Slavering was so angry he could scarcely think at all.
