by M C Beaton
He bent over and Emily moved behind him and began to scrabble up on to his back, one part of her mind registering that it was an indelicate and ridiculous state of affairs, particularly when she found she was sitting on the back of his neck and staring down at the little glow of the lantern on the barn floor. It seemed to be a million miles away.
‘Get on with it,’ said Lord Harley’s muffled voice crossly. ‘I cannot see a thing with your skirts over my face.’
She pulled her feet up on to his bent back and he steadied them with his hands. ‘Stand up in one swift movement,’ he commanded ‘and hold on to the latch of the skylight for support.’
Emily closed her eyes and sent up a prayer and then stood upright, her hands searching and scrabbling blindly for the catch. Her fingers found it and she hung on tightly.
‘Now,’ he said quietly, ‘open the skylight.’ Lord Harley prayed it would not prove to be rusted shut.
Emily lifted the latch and with one hand threw the skylight full open. It fell back on to the roof with a crash as she steadied herself with her other hand against the side of the opening.
‘Hold on tightly,’ he commanded, ‘and move your feet to my shoulders, and I will start to straighten up. Look out and see if you can see anyone about.’
Emily did as she was bid and soon her head was through the skylight opening. She carefully surveyed the empty fields stretching on either side in the moonlight. ‘No one,’ she said, twisting her head to look down at him. ‘But he may be hiding under the eaves where I cannot see him.’
‘That is a chance we will have to take,’ came Lord Harley’s voice.
‘You mean that is a chance I will have to take,’ said Emily.
‘Are you going to stand on my shoulders arguing all night, or are you going to get on with it?’
Restraining an impulse to kick him in the head, Emily grasped either side of the skylight opening and said, ‘Ready.’
He seized her ankles and hoisted her up and through she went. She rolled over on the sloping roof and began to slide, slowly at first and then faster, until she flew off the roof and landed headfirst in a snow-drift. Only fear that Captain Seaton might still be lurking about stopped her from screaming with outrage. She burrowed her way out and made her way around to the barn door and slowly pulled back the bolts and opened it. Lord Harley had already climbed down and was putting on his outer clothes. ‘Good girl,’ he said, looking at the small snowman that was Emily standing in the doorway. ‘Soon have you warm and dry.’
He picked up Mr Fletcher in his arms as easily as if the lawyer had been a child and carried him out of the barn. Emily went ahead, following the path they had made until they came to the cart. ‘Push the cart for me,’ said Lord Harley. ‘No point in putting him on it here, the snow is too soft.’
Emily remembered suddenly how, when she was younger, she had lit the nursery fire herself and the exclamations of horror that had produced from her mother. Her darling hands! She must never spoil them with such hard work when there were servants about. She pushed the cart resolutely to the road, where people walking during the day and a few light carts and wagons had already made something of a track. Lord Harley laid Mr Fletcher tenderly on the cart and then began to trundle it along the road.
‘I hope he does not die,’ said Emily.
‘I think our little lawyer is tougher than he looks. Besides, his love for Mrs Bisley will carry him through anything. Keep very close to me and do not leave me when we reach the inn. Our would-be murderer may still be about.’
‘Miss Pym would call this an adventure,’ said Emily, beginning to shiver with cold from her fall into the snow-drift.
‘No doubt,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I think she is destined to have many adventures. I think she will attract them. Now you, my kitten, will soon be back with your loving parents and this will all seem like a bad dream.’
Emily walked on in silence. She tried to think of her comfortable home and of Miss Cudlipp, but it all seemed so boring. She tried to think of the beautiful Mr Peregrine Williams but was all too conscious of the power and strength and masculinity of the man beside her.
When they reached the inn, he told her to open the doors for him and lifted Mr Fletcher into his arms. ‘I want you to come with me until I undress him and get him to bed. I do not want you to go wandering about the inn on your own.’
He followed Emily up the stairs. She opened the door to the Red Room and lit the candles and stirred up the fire, carefully keeping her eyes averted from the bed where Lord Harley was stripping the lawyer and putting him into his night-shirt. At last he said, ‘You may look now. All is respectable.’
‘Now what?’ said Emily.
‘Sit by the fire. I will lock you in here for a moment. I will see if that dog Seaton is in his room. He may have returned and be pretending to be asleep.’
He went out and turned the key in the lock. Emily went over to the bed and felt the sleeping Mr Fletcher’s brow. It was reassuringly cool and he slept deeply. Then she noticed a letter on his bedside table with ‘Mrs Bisley’ written on it. She broke open the seal.
My dear Mrs Bisley [she read ]. I never was a man of courage and am not yet ready for marriage. I have decided to set out on my own now that the storm has broken rather than stay and face you. Be assured at all times of my admiration and respect. Yr. Humble and Obedient Servant, Fletcher.
Emily was standing with the letter in her hand when Lord Harley came back into the room.
‘I cannot understand it,’ he said. ‘Seaton is in his room and drugged dead to the world. I slapped him and shook him, thinking he was feigning, and I even stuck a pin in the fellow. I am afraid Seaton is not our man. What have you there?’
Emily held out the letter to him and he read it. ‘This is most odd. Mark you the correct grammar and neat hand? I doubt if Seaton even knows how to spell.’
‘He may have an accomplice.’
‘That we shall endeavour to find out. I shall come with you to your room to make sure all is well.’
‘I am so very hungry,’ said Emily.
‘Well, change your wet clothes first. I’ll keep this letter. But first, we had better lock Mr Fletcher in safely.’
He went into the Blue Room before Emily but found only Hannah Pym in a drugged sleep. Then he waited outside while Emily changed her clothes.
‘I shall have a whole new wardrobe made of wool and flannel when I return to London,’ said Emily. She was wearing a lilac muslin gown with a spencer and with a Norfolk shawl draped about her shoulders.
They went down to the kitchen together. Lord Harley took a lantern and went on down to the cellars to look for a bottle of wine. Emily took out a loaf of bread, a slab of butter and some Cheddar cheese.
When he opened the kitchen door, she was standing by the table clumsily slicing bread, her short auburn curls gleaming in the candle-light, her eyelashes lowered. He felt a sudden wrench at his heart. She looked so very young, so very endearing. He thought of all the women he had known and for the first time in his life felt old and slightly soiled. What Miss Emily Freemantle deserved was a fresh young man of her own age.
She looked up at him and then the smile died on her lips as she saw the bleak expression in his eyes. Something in him had retreated from her. She found that she had been hoping their adventure had brought them together, that it had proved she was not a pampered ninny. Her expression grew as bleak as his own.
‘So who do you think our would-be murderer is?’ asked Emily, accepting the glass of wine he was holding out.
‘I think I might hit on a way to find out.’
‘And will you call the authorities, the parish constable?’
‘Our villain is clever, whoever he is. Were they not all in their rooms? I am sure we finally looked in every room but the captain’s because we were so sure it was the captain. I think I have a plan, but you are looking tired, my child. Finish your bread and butter and go to bed.’
8
For
my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.
Robert Louis Stevenson
It was noon before the drugged inn became fully awake. And then there was uproar.
The landlord was accused of supplying bad drink. The punch was held to blame, for the servants had drunk what was left over, as they usually did.
‘And I,’ said Hannah Pym firmly to Lord Harley, ‘am convinced I was drugged.’
‘Which you were,’ he said, and drew her aside and told her of the adventures of the night, ending with the glad news that Mr Fletcher was awake and had no recollection whatsoever of what had happened. ‘But,’ went on Lord Harley, ‘if it is not Captain Seaton, then it is one of the others. But how shall we find out? Shall I gather them together and tell them all what happened and watch their faces to see if one of them betrays himself?’
‘No, let me think.’ Hannah screwed up her face dreadfully. ‘You say this villain left a letter which was supposed to be written by Mr Fletcher?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it was well written?’
‘Too well written to come from, say, the hand of our coachman.’
They were standing in the coffee room at the fire. The coachman came in to say that there was a fine drying wind so that, although the snow was melting fast, he was sure the road would be clear enough to take them on the morrow and without worrying about floods.
‘I had better find a livery stable,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and hire a post-chaise to take Miss Freemantle back to London.’
‘And you will go with her?’
‘Yes, I shall hire a horse and ride alongside.’
He found Hannah was watching him closely and asked sharply, ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘No, no,’ said Hannah quickly. But she had been hoping for some sign that Lord Harley’s adventures with Emily had given him an interest in her. ‘Leave the matter of finding out the identity of the villain to me, my lord.’
Dinner found the party all restored to health. Lizzie was not present. She had elected to take a meal on a tray in the Red Room with Mr Fletcher. Neither Lizzie nor Mr Fletcher had been told of the adventures of the previous night. Lord Harley did not want to alarm Mr Fletcher and cause any deterioration in his health, and he did not want Lizzie to be frightened either.
The conversation round the table was cheerful. Everyone was looking forward to going on with his or her journey. ‘Tired of sleeping with you,’ said Mr Burridge with a grin to Mr Hendry. ‘What possessed you to put the bolster between us last night?’
‘Because,’ said Mr Hendry, ‘in your sleep you sometimes appear to think I am your wife and one morning I woke up to find your arms about me.’
This produced a roar of laughter. And then Mr Burridge said, ‘Anything planned for this last night, Miss Pym? Charades or plays or the like?’
‘I have it,’ cried Hannah. ‘We will have a letter-writing competition.’
‘And I will supply the prize,’ said Lord Harley quickly.
‘I ain’t a strong hand at letter-writing,’ grumbled the coachman. ‘What’s the prize?’
‘Five guineas,’ said Lord Harley.
There was a gasp of surprise.
‘Well, for five guineas I’ll try anythink,’ said the coachman. ‘What’s this here letter to be about, Miss Pym?’
‘You are leaving this inn without paying your shot,’ said Hannah, ‘but you must make an excuse which will stop the landlord having you arrested at the next stage.’
‘Reckon I could try me hand at that,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Five guineas. I need a new pig and I could get silk for a gown. When do we start?’
‘Right after dinner,’ said Hannah. ‘I am sure after your experiences last night, gentleman, you will be glad to join us ladies and forgo your port.’
Soon they were all gathered around the table in the taproom. Sheets of paper and quill-pens were handed out all round and a large inkwell was placed in the centre of the table.
Emily, who was suddenly aware of the reason for the letter-writing competition, looked at them all eagerly. Which one of them would produce the same handwriting as that on the letter supposed to have been left by Mr Fletcher?
She herself scribbled a short note complaining about dirty towels, barely caring what she wrote. She finished before the others and sat waiting. Then a thought struck her. All the guilty party had to do was to disguise his handwriting. Her heart beat fast. She muttered an excuse and left the taproom. She ran from bedroom to bedroom, looking for something with the handwriting of the occupants. Captain Seaton’s room was out, as was the Red Room. She searched the room occupied by the coachman and guard and then the room shared by Mr Burridge and Mr Hendry.
Downstairs, Hannah collected the letters and she and Lord Harley retired to a corner to study them.
‘Nothing like,’ said Hannah gloomily, surreptitiously comparing the letter from Mr Fletcher’s room with the others.
‘And I was so sure your plan would work that I sent the landlord to fetch the constable,’ said Lord Harley.
Then Emily quietly came into the room and handed Hannah a torn scrap of paper with writing on it and in a whisper told her where she had found it.
‘Come along there!’ called the coachman. ‘Who’s won?’
‘While Lord Harley makes up his mind,’ said Hannah, ‘I would like to tell you a story.’
‘Oh, I’d like that,’ said Mrs Bradley cheerfully. ‘Nothing like a good tale to while away a winter’s night.’
‘Once upon a time,’ said Hannah, ‘there was a pretty widow who had run off on the stage-coach with a military gentleman who was anxious to marry her and get her money before anyone else did.’ The guard glanced at the captain and nudged the coachman.
‘But on the journey, she met a lawyer, a nice, kind man, and fell in love. The stage-coach party found themselves stranded at an inn. To while away the time, they put on a play. In that play, the military man was supposed to pretend to fire a gun at the ladies, while another passenger fired his gun out of the window to make it all seem lifelike. But when the military man fired his gun, it went off, and as he had been pointing it at the lawyer, his rival, he was suspected of attempted murder, for the lawyer would have been most surely killed had not one passenger quickly put a metal tray in front of him to deflect the bullet.’
‘I never loaded that gun,’ shouted the captain, turning quite purple with outrage. Hannah ignored him and went on.
‘After the day of the play, the party decided to take a walk, for the storm had ceased. A young lady in the party started a snowball fight. Someone tried to injure the lawyer by throwing a snowball with a stone in it and everyone blamed the military gentleman.’
‘And they were wrong,’ growled the captain.
‘And they were wrong,’ echoed Hannah.
An air of tension crept into the group.
‘So our villain hit on another plan. He drugged a bowl of punch, being careful not to take any himself. While everyone was asleep, he went to his own room and pretended to be asleep, and when he was sure his companion was unconscious, he rose and dressed and went to the lawyer’s room. He dressed him and then left a note beside the bed supposed to be from the lawyer saying he did not want to marry the widow after all and was leaving. Then he lugged the body of the lawyer downstairs and put it in a handcart and wheeled him far out of town to a barn, where he left him with his hands and feet bound, meaning to release him the next day, when the cold had finished the poor fellow off. He left the lawyer’s portmanteau in the barn beside him.
‘But someone saw the villain leave the inn – a pretty young maiden who roused a handsome lord, one of the guests, and together they went out and followed the wheel tracks in the snow. As they found the lawyer, the villain locked them in the barn until he could think of a way of dealing with them. But they escaped and brought the lawyer back and set about discovering who this villain might be. And they did and they found
out that we have a would-be murderer in our midst.’
There were sharp exclamations of alarm.
‘But surely you looked in the rooms,’ said Mr Hendry. ‘Anyone missing would have proved the identity of the villain.’
‘Apparently no one was missing,’ said Hannah, ‘and that, Mr Hendry, was because you put the bolster on your side of the bed and made it look as if there was someone lying in it.’
‘You’re mad! You’re lying,’ cried Mr Hendry.
‘Miss Freemantle found a scrap of paper in your luggage, part of a letter you had written, and with your signature, Mr Hendry,’ said Hannah sternly. ‘We compared it with the letter by Mr Fletcher’s bed, and the handwriting matches exactly. You wanted the widow for yourself. No doubt, given time, had your plan succeeded, you would have left evidence to point to Captain Seaton. I think that before the play, it was you that loaded that gun, but why he should so fortuitously point it at Mr Fletcher, I do not know.’
‘I know!’ shouted the captain, leaping up. ‘It was Hendry who told me it would be fun to give him a scare. That’s why I pointed the gun at that pip-squeak of a lawyer.’
‘Look out!’ screamed Mrs Bradley suddenly. ‘He’s got a gun.’
Mr Hendry backed towards the door, a small gun levelled at the assembly.
Behind him, the door slowly opened. A constable and two watchmen suddenly dashed in and pinioned Mr Hendry’s arms to his sides. He was led off struggling and screaming.
He left behind a shocked silence. ‘Well done!’ said Lord Harley suddenly, smiling at Emily. ‘If you had not found that scrap of paper, we would have been hard put to find evidence against him.’
‘Shall we all need to stay here until the trial?’ asked Emily.
‘No,’ said Lord Harley. ‘I shall take along that piece of paper and the letter as evidence and I will send my lawyer to be present at the trial.’
‘Reckon that letter-writing thing was all a hoax,’ said Mrs Bradley.
