This produced quite a sensation. Miss Letty said with spirit: – ‘I did not care whether I fell into a highwayman’s hands so long as I was rid of that odious Abductor.’
It was felt that there was some sound sense displayed in this, but still it was unusual for a lady to be so completely at ease with a couple of highwaymen.
Miss Letty thought it best to adhere as closely as possible to the third man’s tale. She avowed unblushingly that the highwayman who had fought the duel was of medium height, had brown hair, and was nothing out of the ordinary in appearance. When asked if he was not, as the coachman said, a man of polished address, she seemed uncertain. She would hardly say he had polish, but she admitted he had something of the air of a gentleman. Yes, he had kissed her hand, certainly, but to her mind that was little better than an insult considering he had previously nicked her pearls from her. ‘Whoever it was,’ she announced, ‘he rescued me from a monster, and I am very grateful to him.’
Faced with the question of abduction, the questioners shook dubious heads. That was a criminal offence, but murder on the King’s Highway –.
Miss Letty broke in hotly with a flat disclaimer. She turned to the coachman and demanded whether it was not a fair duel. Perceiving that his late master was in danger of being convicted – if you could convict a dead man, of which ticklish point he was not certain – of abduction, the coachman bestowed some of his support on the other side. Decidedly it had been a fair fight, so far as he was able to judge.
The affair was, in fact, a strange mystery, but the officers of the Law hoped to unravel it.
Sir Humphrey shook his head gravely when he found himself alone with his daughter, and said only that they were not likely to hear the end of this for many a long day.
Twenty-six
Arrest of Mr Merriot
My Lady Lowestoft was true to her word: she bore her guests off to the Richmond house, and gave there, lest any should think the retirement suspicious, a large ball. All London came, including my Lord Barham, who was over-poweringly resplendent in silver brocade, and wonderfully benign. Sir Anthony Fanshawe was also there. He danced several times with Miss Merriot, and Mr Molyneux was inclined to think that there was a match in that direction. Quite a number of people were of his opinion: Prudence told Robin she was growing jealous.
She had a little tussle of wills with the large gentleman that evening: he was pledged to visit his sister, and he wanted to take Prudence with him. She would have none of it; she, too, had some strength of purpose and her nay could be very steadfast.
She had, in fact, small desire to be presented to my Lady Enderby in her present guise. Sir Anthony guessed something of this, and drew a reassuring picture of his sister. She was, he said, a comfortable soul, with no respect for conventions. Still Prudence held to her refusal. To go down to Hampshire with Sir Anthony meant that she must marry him forthwith; she wanted to see first the issue of the old gentleman’s claim. Sir Anthony must be guarded against himself.
It cost her something to stand out so resolutely against him; for all her calm she was troubled, and looked wistfully when Sir Anthony ceased to press her. She had seen that expression in his face once or twice before; she remembered how at the very outset she had remarked to Robin that she would not choose to cross him. Well, it was true, and he was an ill man to withstand. But one had one’s pride after all. Egad, it was a poor love that could wish to see the gentleman pulled down to marry an adventuress. That sister of his had probably some views other than he knew of on the subject of his marriage. My Lord Barham’s daughter would be well enough; an impostor’s daughter very ill indeed.
She stood still before him, a slim figure in dove-gray velvet, one hand fingering the black riband that held her quizzing-glass, and her tranquil eyes resting on his face. Even though he was angry with her for her obstinacy he could find it in him to admire the firm set of her mouth, and the clean-cut determination of her chin. She had spirit, this girl, in the man’s clothes, and with the man’s brain. Ay, and she had courage too, and a calmness of demeanour that pleased. No hysterics there; no sentimentalism; no wavering that one could see. Bravery! He warmed to the thought of it. She made nothing of this masquerade; she had faith in herself, and for all the restfulness that characterized her, that slow speech, and the slow smile she had, the wits of her were quick, and marvellously resourceful. She would fleece the wolf at cards, flash a sword out on a party of Mohocks, and stand by with a cool head while her brother fought a grim duel. She could even contemplate a duel on her own account without outward flinching.
Involuntarily Sir Anthony’s face softened. ‘My dear, I hate to leave you here,’ he said.
The smile crept back into the grey eyes. ‘I was afraid you were angry with me, Tony.’
‘I was,’ he answered. ‘But you disarm anger. Will you not come with me?’
He was not to know how that shook her resolve. She shook her head. ‘Don’t ask me. I must stand by my word. If my father’s claim succeeds –’
There was a momentary tightening of the mouth. ‘If that tiresome old gentleman were not your father, Prue –’
Came the deep twinkle. ‘Oh, I know, sir! You would say to the devil with him. We often do.’
He laughed. ‘You’re a disrespectful couple. I believe I’ll postpone my visit to Hampshire.’
‘If you would please me, Tony, you will go as you planned.’
‘So that you may disappear while I am away?’
‘Can you trust my word?’ He nodded. ‘I won’t disappear. But I would rather that you went.’
‘For a week I will, since you ask it of me. I wonder why you wish it?’
She had few feminine evasions at her command, few subtleties. ‘To say truth, sir, you shake my resolution.’
There was an eager look, dispelling sleepiness. ‘Give me back my promise!’
She shook her head, and smiled a little. ‘I hold you to it.’
There was no more to be said. He bowed. ‘I obey you – now. Take a lesson from me.’
She felt herself weakening. Lord, she desired nothing better than to do his bidding. It would not be wise to let him see that. She said lightly: ‘Oh, if you marry me in the end, sir, I promise you a dutiful wife.’ Her eyes fell before the look in his. ‘As for your fears for me, you need have none, Tony. I’m not like to come to any harm.’
She did not know how exactly Miss Letty, all unconsciously, had described her to the gentlemen of the Law.
Nor did she suspect the hand of an enemy to be turned against her. She had forgotten Mr Rensley, newly arisen from his bed of sickness.
Mr Rensley, permitted to sit up in his room, heard the news of Markham’s death rather late in the day from his chatty surgeon. He was quite shocked, even a little put out. There had been a sudden coolness between himself and Markham, but this news was upsetting. He evinced a lively interest; the surgeon liked to talk; Mr Rensley soon had all the circumstances from him. He was particularly anxious to know how the Merriots came to chance along the road at such a late and opportune hour. To one who knew of enmity existing between Mr Merriot and Markham, the thing had a significance. When the surgeon had departed Rensley spent some time in earnest thought. Young Merriot had hung about the heiress quite noticeably; it was possible, nay, probable, that the original quarrel had sprung up out of some rivalry.
At the end of an hour’s cogitation Mr Rensley told his aghast servant to order a chair, for he intended to go out.
The servant tried to dissuade him, but in vain. Mr Rensley rather pale, and uncertain yet on his legs, sallied forth and was gone all the afternoon. When he returned he was certainly very tired, but his man had to admit the exertion seemed rather to have improved his condition than to have set him back. Indeed, Mr Rensley came home with a pleasant feeling of having done his duty, and paid off a rankling debt.
What he had to say to the representatives of the Law was interesting to them, but created not much surprise. Suspicion had fallen on Mr Merriot before Rensley spoke: his disclosures only served to strengthen suspicion. The Law went carefully to work. Miss Letty was questioned again, and stood fast to her description of a brown-haired man of medium height, with the air of a gentleman. Mr Merriot now appeared in the light of a secret lover, and circumstances certainly rather damning were pieced together. The Authorities put wise heads together, and considered it time to act.
On Tuesday of next week two coaches set out on the road to Richmond. One was a smart chaise with arms on the doors, carrying Sir Anthony Fanshawe’s baggage down to Hampshire; the other was a sober vehicle, containing two sober gentlemen who held a warrant for the arrest of Mr Merriot. This equipage set off shortly before four in the afternoon; Sir Anthony’s chaise started rather later, for my lady, soft-hearted towards a lover, had begged Sir Anthony to make Richmond his first day’s halt, and to rest at her house that night. Sir Anthony had accepted this invitation, though Richmond was not precisely on the direct route. That seemed to be immaterial. His chaise set forward in good time; Sir Anthony, not a man of sedentary habits, followed later on horseback.
At White’s in St James’s my Lord Barham played at faro, and informed my Lord March genially that he hoped to give the pettifogging lawyers all the proofs they needed of his identity at the end of the week.
In the big house in Grosvenor Square Mr Rensley nursed his wound and speculated on the results of the meeting to be held in this very room, a few days hence.
At Richmond Robin drove out with my lady to drink a dish of Bohea, which he detested, that Prudence might be alone to receive Sir Anthony Fanshawe when he arrived.
She sat in the library, overlooking the river, and tried to interest herself with a book. But the book could not hold her attention; she must ever be harkening for the sound of coach wheels.
It came at last. She was woman enough to cast a glance at the big mirror hanging over the fireplace. The mirror showed a handsome young gentleman in a powdered wig. A slightly disordered neckcloth had to be adjusted; Prudence bent her eyes once more on the book.
A lackey opened the door; she looked up and saw a scared expression on his face, not unmixed with curiosity. She kept her finger in the book; she was at once on the alert, completely mistress of herself.
‘Sir – two men!…’ The lackey did not seem to know what next to say.
Prudence’s eyes went past him, and rested inquiringly on the two soberly clad individuals who had entered the room. Leisurely she crossed one booted leg over the other; inwardly she was thinking fast, but no signs of it appeared in her face.
She knew what these visitors had come for; it did not need for them to show her the warrant they held. She looked at it with raised brows, and then at the two men. She seemed to be faintly amused, and slightly at a loss. ‘What a’God’s name is all this?’ she asked.
‘Warrant for arrest,’ said one of the men succinctly. ‘Alleged murder of Gregory Markham, Esquire, of Poynter Street, Number Five.’
The grey eyes widened in surprise, and travelled on to the second man, who seemed apologetic. ‘Dooty!’ he said, and stared at the ceiling, and coughed.
Prudence wondered where John was. Obviously she was to be taken to town under arrest, and something must be done to liberate her, and that speedily. Egad, who would have thought it? This bade fair to mean her unmasking, and then what? Lord, but the old gentleman had bungled this! Or had he? To be honest, her presence at the duel had not been a part of his plan. Nor, if one thought of it had he planned the bringing of Miss Letty back to town. Well, this was what came of deviating from his orders by so much as a hair’s breadth. And what to do now? If John had seen these harbingers of disaster, he would be off to my lord at once, and – faith, one had trust in the old gentleman!
‘Am I to understand I’m supposed to have killed Mr Markham?’ she inquired.
The leader of the two pointed silently to the warrant. It was not for him to elucidate these mysteries.
‘Good God!’ said Prudence. ‘Well, what do we do now, gentlemen?’
‘If you’ll send for your hat and coat, sir, we’ll be off to London,’ said the spokesman.
‘Must do our dooty!’ said his fellow hoarsely. ‘However unpleasant!’
‘Certainly, gentlemen,’ agreed Prudence. She turned to the waiting lackey. ‘Fetch my hat and coat, Stephen. And apprise my lady and Miss Merriot upon their return of this ridiculous mistake. You will tell Miss Merriot to be in no anxiety on my account. I shall be back again almost at once, of course.’
The lackey went out; the apologetic gentleman whispered diffidently the word ‘Sword!’ The spokesman nodded. ‘Not wishing to offend, your honour, but it won’t do to wear a sword.’
‘I am not wearing it, gentlemen.’
They perceived that this was so. ‘Thank you, sir. And of course, pistols…’
Prudence got up. ‘Pray search me. It’s not my habit to carry pistols on my person.’
She was assured again that no offence was intended; a perfunctory hand felt her pockets; the gentlemen professed themselves satisfied, and the hoarse member begged pardon, and resumed his study of the ceiling.
Prudence remained standing by her chair, awaiting her hat and cloak. The officers of the Law stayed by the door, sentinel fashion. Prudence looked meditatively out of the window that gave on to the garden and the river.
Her eyes were indifferent, and returned to the contemplation of her captors. But there was hope in her breast, for she had seen John.
The lackey came back with her hat and cloak, and beribboned cane. Out of the corner of her eye Prudence saw that John had disappeared. Unhurriedly she repeated her message to Robin, and laid the coat over her arm. She shook out her ruffles, put on her point-edged tricorne, and professed herself in readiness to start. She was conducted into the hall, past peeping servants, and out to the waiting coach. She entered it, and seated herself in the far corner, perfectly at ease. The two officers got in after her, and sat down, one beside her, and one opposite. The two steps were drawn up, the door shut. The coach moved ponderously forward. God send Robin did nothing foolhardy.
In my lady’s stables, in desperate haste, John was buckling the saddle-girths of a fine chestnut mare. She was saddled and bridled in a space of time that would have made my lady’s coachmen gasp, and led out into the yard. A groom coming out of the harness-room, with a straw between his teeth, stared, and wondered where John might be off to. John said curtly he had a message to deliver, and was off before the groom could utter another word. That stolid person was left gaping. One moment John was there, in the yard, with a mettlesome mare under him; the next, he simply was not. He had vanished out of the gate before one was aware of him moving at all. The groom thought that he must be in a hurry, and continued to chew, ruminatively, his straw.
Twenty-seven
Violence on the King’s High Road
Having caught a glimpse of the sober coach’s equally sober pace, John had little doubt of reaching London far ahead of it. The mare was fresh; she desired nothing better than a good gallop. John left the road for the fields, and gave her her head.
It was a short cut. He would pass the coach without the men on it seeing him, and could join the road again further on. Then for my Lord Barham, with all possible speed, and back again to hold Master Robin in check.
John could see no way out of the present dilemma, but he never saw the way in any crisis: he could only obey instructions. He had not the smallest doubt that my lord would at once perceive a way. The greatest anxiety, once my lord was informed, must be Master Robin’s behaviour,
John knew quite enough of this young gentleman to picture all manner of foolhardy deeds. Certain, he must hasten back to Richmond with all speed.
&nb
sp; The mare was covering the ground in a long, easy gallop. John came on to a cart-track he had been making for, and turned down it. In a little while the cart-track joined the road; John reined the mare into a canter, easing her for a space. A strip of close turf bordered the road; he pressed on to it, and the mare, nothing loth, quickened to the gallop again.
John began to consider the time. Judging by the long shadows it was nearly dusk, and Mistress Prue must not be left to spend the night in captivity. And where should he find my lord at this hour? There came a worried look into the square face: John foresaw much waste of time spent in search of his master. Unconsciously he pressed his knees closer to the mare’s flanks. He was well ahead of the coach, but there was not a moment to be lost.
The road turned a corner; there was a horseman in sight, trotting along the strip of turf towards John. John pulled the mare in a little, anxious to attract no attention, and she slackened to a canter.
He would have passed this other rider without a glance, but of a sudden the big roan horse was pulled across his path, barring the way, and he heard the voice of Sir Anthony Fanshawe.
‘Well, my man? Well? Whither away so fast?’
The mare had been brought perforce to a standstill. John looked into that handsome, lazy face, and spoke urgently. ‘Let me pass, sir. I must get to his lordship.’
The eyes were keen and searching. ‘Yes?’ said Sir Anthony. ‘And wherefor?’
‘It’s Miss Prue!’ John said in an agony of impatience. ‘She’s taken by the Law for the killing of Mr Markham! Now will you let me pass, sir?’
The large hand on the bridle had tightened; the indolent air was gone. ‘Less than ever, my man. When was she taken? Come, let me have the whole story, and quickly!’
‘She’s on the road now, sir, behind me! I must get to my lord.’
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