Mr Martin blushed deeply. ‘May I assist you, ma’am?’
She gave him her hand and climbed into the first carriage. He slammed the door and turned to find himself face to face with Porlock, who, know that everything was safely in hand, allowed himself to show a little of the anxiety consuming him.
‘Please take care of our Mrs Bascombe, sir,’ he said, quietly.
‘I will,’ promised Mr Martin. He cast a glance behind him. ‘I’ll take care of all of them.’
A lesser man than Porlock might have had a twinkle in his eye. ‘Good luck, sir.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Martin, with feeling. ‘Thank you.’
He mounted his horse and moved to the head of the column. Roberts took up position at the rear.
Porlock and an elderly woman, the housekeeper presumably, waved. The females all waved back. Goodbyes were shouted. Handkerchiefs fluttered.
They must be going all of four miles, reflected Mr Martin, who remembered crossing a flooded Rhine in a snowstorm with less fuss. And definitely with fewer women.
Back at Ryde House, Lord Ryde had barely settled himself in the library when Munch appeared to summon him back upstairs. Mrs Munch, it seemed, whilst perfectly happy to hold bowls and tear bandages, had found herself unable to take a more active part in the proceedings. Mrs Bascombe, feverish and restless, required gentle restraint.
The afternoon was drawing in and Mrs Munch had found it necessary to light even more candles. Mrs Bascombe lay, bathed in light, her wound exposed. The doctor, a short, dark, melancholy Welshman with his sleeves rolled up ready, directed his lordship to hold her still.
Lord Ryde, remembering he had at least been born a gentleman, averted his eyes and made a small gesture of protest, but Dr Jacobs, a grizzled veteran of several such accidents in this sporting neighbourhood shrugged and said there was no help for it.
‘I cannot wait any longer, my lord, and Mrs Munch could probably not hold her in any case. If not you, then it must be Munch.’
His lordship gritted his teeth, but with every appearance of calm, seated himself on the other side of the bed and firmly grasped Mrs Bascombe’s arms.
The doctor approached. ‘Hold the light higher, Mrs Munch. That’s it. Do you have water and towels ready? Then we shall begin.’
The next ten minutes were not pleasant. Mrs Bascombe opened her eyes to find Lord Ryde smiling encouragingly at her. By dint of keeping her eyes firmly on his and her teeth clenched, she bore it as best she could, until, at the very end, a particularly sharp spasm caused her to utter a cry of pain and twist in his lordship’s grasp.
‘I have it,’ announced the doctor, dropping an object into Mrs Munch’s bowl with a metallic clatter. ‘All done, ma’am. I just need to dress the wound which looks perfectly clean to me and then we will leave you in peace. Thank you, my lord, that will do.’
He turned away, as he spoke.
Lord Ryde, gazing down upon Mrs Bascombe, white and exhausted, whispered, ‘Good girl,’ and let himself quietly out of the room.
He was descending the stairs in search of brandy – a great deal of brandy, actually – when he heard the clatter of hooves outside.
Munch, temporarily abandoning his water-carrying duties, trod less than majestically to the front door to admit Mr Martin and what seemed to an already-harassed Lord Ryde, an enormous number of women. Where the devil could they all have come from? His lordship tried to imagine Charles, the third son of a respectable clergyman in Gloucestershire, losing his head and driving madly around the countryside, scooping up every woman he could find.
Transfixed, he stood on the stairs and watched his friend – who would be accounting for this aberration very, very shortly – usher in a tall, dark lady, clad in a dove grey pelisse and bonnet with pink ribbons. Miss Fairburn, he assumed.
Miss Fairburn was followed by another tall woman, with a thin pointed face, dressed as a lady’s maid – what was her name? Sir William had mentioned it – Tiller, that was it. Who was in turn followed by three – three, no less, count them – younger girls with the appearance of servants. While Miss Fairburn stripped off her gloves and looked around her, the most senior of the servants was directing the disposal of a number of cases, boxes, bags, and other impedimenta of unknown, but certainly sinister purpose.
Following all this, hat in hand, came Roberts, adrift in a sea of feminine bullying. Directed to carry a number of boxes to the kitchen regions, he disappeared with relief.
His lordship, wishing he could do the same, descended to the hall to defend his home.
‘Ah, my lord,’ said Mr Martin, himself appearing somewhat harassed. ‘May I introduce Miss Laura Fairburn. Miss Fairburn, Lord Ryde.’
Miss Fairburn, far from uttering a shriek of maidenly terror at the sudden appearance of one whom she must have heard referred to in the same terms as the bogeyman, held out a hand and announced herself pleased to make his acquaintance.
‘I must thank you, my lord. Mr Martin has been telling us that if not for your prompt action, Mrs Bascombe could – would – have died. We are all so grateful to you.’
Her voice was clear and calm and she appeared both competent and efficient. Here, obviously, was someone to whom he could relinquish the care of Mrs Bascombe with a clear conscience. However …
He regarded the trio of younger females and all the apparatus with misgivings. ‘Who is “we all”?’ he enquired.
Before she could reply, however, clanking keys announced the arrival of Mrs Munch. Even his lordship, no expert in Domestic Strife, could see that she was not happy. Fortunately for him, Miss Fairburn could take Domestic Strife in her stride.
‘Mrs Munch, how do you do,’ she said, moving past his lordship. ‘I’m so sorry, this must have been a terrible upset for you. We are so grateful. Mr Porlock sends his compliments and has instructed us – most firmly – that we are not, under any circumstances, to make any extra work for you, and to that end, has despatched Margaret, our head housemaid, you know, to assist you with all the additional duties Mrs Bascombe’s stay will entail. And here is Janet, our laundry maid, and Eliza, the kitchen maid – all here to help you in every way. And Roberts is here too, to run errands and take messages should they be required. In fact,’ she smiled warmly upon the speechless Mrs Munch, ‘Mr Porlock says you are to do nothing at all. You are to regard yourself as being at the very heart of the operation – the General, so to speak – not concerning yourself with the day-to-day tasks in any way, but sending out your instructions and taking command.’
His lordship wondered whether Porlock or Miss Fairburn herself was responsible for these astonishing instructions and then realised it was unimportant. He was not surprised to find Mrs Bascombe surrounded herself with other intelligent people.
Mrs Munch, on whom these words had worked like a charm, nodded in what she obviously imagined was a General-like fashion and led the way to the nether regions. The three maids obediently followed her, but not before Margaret and Miss Fairburn had exchanged a long, cool look. His lordship strongly suspected that Mrs Munch could order and direct and command as much as she pleased, but that control of the household now lay in the hands of the capable Margaret and the slightly frightening Miss Fairburn.
He turned to address Mr Martin and found his secretary staring at Miss Fairburn with an expression he had never seen before. His lordship sighed. Life had been so much simpler before Mrs Bascombe had contrived to get herself shot.
His hall was rapidly emptying. Luggage was being distributed and Mr Martin was escorting Miss Fairburn and Tiller upstairs. There being work to do, Munch had, as usual, vanished. Even as he looked, the last door closed and he was alone.
Gratefully, he made his way to the drawing room and poured out a brandy. Stretching himself comfortably in a battered leather armchair, he raised a glass to the portrait of his late father, the fourth Lord Ryde, hanging above the fireplace. He forgot now who the artist was, but it was counted to be one of his best works. His lordship coul
d attest to that. So lifelike was his late lordship’s familiar look of haughty contempt that one of Lord Ryde’s first actions had been to have the picture moved from the library where he and Mr Martin often sat in the evenings, to the less-used drawing room. His lordship reflected that should he ever, for any reason, choose to make Ryde House his permanent home, the portrait’s next resting place would be a distant attic.
He was just pouring himself another brandy when Munch ushered in the doctor. His lordship poured another glass which the doctor accepted with thanks. Waving him to a seat, Lord Ryde enquired after Mrs Bascombe.
‘A clean wound, my lord. Mrs Bascombe has lost a great deal of blood, but I anticipate no permanent harm. She is strong and all should heal as it should.’
He peered at Lord Ryde from beneath heavy brows.
‘I see your lordship has thought to bring over some of the Westfield people. An excellent notion, for I’ll be bound it would be too much for your lordship’s current – resources.’
Since he was reluctant to come straight out and ask when Mrs Bascombe would be able to travel and he could have his house back, Lord Ryde sought for a more acceptable form to this important question.
The doctor answered it before he could frame a suitable enquiry. ‘The next few days might be tricky, but if there is no fever, she should be up and around in four or five days. She should be fit to return to Westfield in a se’nnight.’
His lordship rightly guessed that although there had been no choice in the matter, the removal of Mrs Bascombe to his bachelor establishment, even with the chaperonage of Miss Fairburn was causing the good doctor some concern. He said suddenly, ‘Would it aid Mrs Bascombe’s … recovery … if Mr Martin and I were to remove to – say, Rushford? Although I have to say, since I’ve come for the express purpose of looking into estate business, it would be devilish inconvenient.’
Dr Joseph frowned. ‘Well, that was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about, my lord. Mrs Bascombe’s groom gave me the story of what happened and I don’t scruple to say I’m shocked and appalled. If you choose to make up a story of careless poachers then that’s your concern, sir, but I think we must, however unbelievable it may seem, put our minds towards considering the attack may have been deliberate. In other words, someone deliberately set out to do Mrs Bascombe harm. If that is indeed the case, my lord, I for one would feel a great deal easier in my mind knowing that you and Mr Martin are to continue here for the time being. Just in case, you understand.’
‘You are presumably better acquainted with Mrs Bascombe than I, doctor. Just how likely is such an occurrence?’
‘As I said, my lord, unbelievable. I do not consider the lady to have an enemy in the world. I do not know when I have been more shocked. However, I have given full instructions to Miss Fairburn, whom I believe more than equal to the task. You need not fear to find yourself surrounded by excitable females, my lord. In fact, I would not be surprised if they –’ And there the doctor broke off, suddenly realising the discourtesy of criticising his lordship’s apparently very casual living conditions and continued, ‘I have given Mrs Bascombe something that will make her sleep for the rest of the day and probably most of the night. Fever and infection are the main dangers. If you have any concerns, send word and I’ll come at once. I’ll call tomorrow anyway. Afternoon probably, when the patient will almost certainly be awake. Good day to you, my lord.’
So saying, he drained his glass, bowed in a perfunctory manner and stumped away, leaving Lord Ryde to pour himself a second brandy and spend some time staring reflectively into the fire, where he was found some time later by Mr Martin, who reported all the domestics were safely billeted, Miss Fairburn allocated a room adjacent to Mrs Bascombe’s, ruffled feathers smoothed and peace (or inertia) had once more descended upon Ryde House.
‘And I’ve sent a groom to Sir William Elliott, the local JP – you met him the other day – to apprise him of events here. He’s away from home at the moment. I daresay we’ll hear from him before too long, but I’ll wager we hear from his wife first.’
Lord Ryde stared accusingly at his secretary. ‘I wish you would consider my reputation before inviting every female in the neighbourhood to consider herself at home here.’
‘I’ll try to take more care in future,’ apologised Mr Martin, meekly. Pouring himself a brandy, he sank into the chair lately vacated by the doctor and said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘So have I,’ admitted Lord Ryde. ‘You go first, Charles.’
‘Well, sir, I have to say, if I hadn’t been there and seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have credited a word of it. It’s incredible. A respectable woman shot and wounded practically on her own doorstep while going about her own business. Whatever next?’
His indignation caused Lord Ryde to smile.
Mr Martin continued. ‘I mean, this is England. If we were back in the Pyrenees, or that place just outside Rome – do you remember? Or even that time in Prague – yes, I know we agreed never to mention it again – but sir, this is England. Rushfordshire. Nothing ever happens here.’
He fell silent, remembering that something had indeed happened here, in Rushford, in England on That Night, but his lordship, still staring into the fire, paid no heed.
‘That’s just it, Charles. Even setting aside the fact that there can hardly be anyone in the county at whom she has not aimed that horse at one time or another, who would want to shoot a respectable widow?’
Mr Martin started. ‘Perhaps, my lord, that was the plan. To kill Mrs Bascombe and take possession of Westfield.’
‘Westfield belongs to George Bascombe. Wherever he is. If he’s still alive.’
‘Maybe George Bascombe’s dead and this is his heir trying to get rid of her.’
‘I wish you would stop reading romantic novels,’ complained his lordship. ‘They really are affecting your ability to think properly. No wonder sensible mamas forbid them to their sensitive and impressionable daughters. If Bascombe’s dead then his heir has only to drive up to the front door and present himself. Mrs Bascombe has no legal claim to Westfield whatsoever.’
Silence fell as both men stared into the fire. At length, Mr Martin stirred. ‘In that case, my lord …’
‘Yes?’
‘No, it’s ridiculous.’
‘Well, say it anyway.’
‘Well, I have to say, my lord. If not Mrs Bascombe, then the bullet must have been meant …’
‘For me,’ finished Lord Ryde.
‘But that’s …’
‘That’s what? Incredible? Impossible? Unbelievable? Haven’t we just used all those words to describe the shooting of Mrs Bascombe? Is it more or less amazing that the target should have been me?’
‘Frankly, sir, if we were still abroad, I might agree with you. Some of the scrapes you got us into – remember that Comtessa in Seville?’
‘Vividly. I think we might add that to the list of things to forget as well, Charles, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course, sir, but what I wanted to say was, why travel to England to put a bullet in you when it could have been done very much more easily and simply on the Continent? I know Boney’s gone now, but it’s still chaos over there.’
‘I have enemies in England, too, you know,’ said his lordship, indignantly.
‘No doubt, sir,’ replied Mr Martin soothingly. ‘But can you think of any who would have been prepared to wait twenty years for your return? Even supposing they know of it. We told no one of your plans.’
His lordship paused and reviewed.
‘Not really. Reeth, I suppose would be the main contender, but he died three, no, four years ago. There may be other husbands, of course, but devil take it, Charles, they’ll be as old as I am, if not older. And don’t start harping on about my creditors because it wouldn’t suit them at all to see me dead.’
‘Well, what about your heir, my lord?’
‘Captain Francis Ryde is happily ensconced with his regiment abroad, a career
soldier who prays daily for my continued well-being because he loathes this place nearly as much as I do.’
‘Oh. That’s disappointing.’
A brief flash of amusement crossed his lordship’s harsh features.
‘As you say, Charles, most disappointing. A murderous heir would have solved all our problems, I agree. Let’s not despair, however. We may find, on closer investigation that Captain Ryde has recently become enamoured of a young lady and feels the acquisition of a gloomy old barrack of a house and any number of badly farmed acres are just what’s needed for his beloved to look more favourably on his suit.’
Mr Martin grinned reluctantly. ‘You may laugh, sir …’
‘I may. And I am. Laughing, that is. But that’s only because I have the honour of knowing Captain Ryde and you, sadly, don’t. And the clincher, Charles – he’s a crack shot. At that range he could not have missed. No, I think we must return to considering Mrs Bascombe as the intended victim. Which makes me wonder – her homicidal riding habits aside – why would anyone want to kill Mrs Bascombe?’
Chapter Four
Being a bachelor establishment, neither gentlemen ever bothered to change for dinner and so they remained quietly in the library, whiling away the time by reading the newspapers sent up from London, speculating idly on the date of Mrs Bascombe’s departure and in Lord Ryde’s case, gloomily studying some sheets of figures his agent, Reynolds, had left for his perusal.
The library doors being both substantial and well made, they were unaware of even the smallest indication of the domestic upheaval occurring on the other side, and it was not until Munch, summoning them to his lordship’s dismal dining room to partake of one of Mrs Munch’s substantial but uninspired repasts, that the full horrors of a houseful of underemployed but determined females were brought home to his lordship.
Making his way across the hall towards the dining room, Lord Ryde halted abruptly on the threshold – so abruptly that Mr Martin all but walked into him. His lordship raised his quizzing glass and surveyed the appalling scene laid out before him.
A Bachelor Establishment Page 5
