by Caro Peacock
‘Did you see any of them again?’
‘No. Next morning your father met me downstairs at the hotel and took me round the corner to where the horse was kept. It was just daylight. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the night before, so likely he hadn’t gone to bed.’
It was indeed quite likely.
‘And there seemed nothing strange about him?’
‘Nothing at all. Happy as a lad on a day’s holiday, and pleased with himself on account of the horse. So we went to the stables and I took her off to where the cart was waiting.’
‘And that was the last you saw of him?’
‘Waving us on our way, yes.’
He asked if I wanted a proper look at the mare. My tearful reaction had clearly disappointed him, and indeed it was poor recompense for having brought her so far. We crossed the yard to the corner loosebox and he put a headcollar on her and walked her into the sun.
‘Well, miss?’
No tears this time, but precious little breath to answer him. You know sometimes when you see a special picture or hear a few bars of music you feel a shock to the heart, as if you’d just breathed in frosty air, a delight so intense that it feels like fear? Well, that was the way I felt seeing the mare. She was a bright bay, not tall, no more than fifteen and a half hands at most, clean legs and a long build suggesting speed, broad chest for a good heart. Her eye was remarkably large and intelligent, ears well shaped and forward pricked, small white blaze shaped like a comma. Above all, from the way she was standing and looking at me, she was used to admiration and knew she deserved it. Ton, the French call it, the highest praise for a fashionable lady or a dandy. The mare had ton enough for ten. She moved a step towards me, took the fabric of my sleeve very gently between flexible lips as if testing it, seemed to approve. I took off my glove and ran a hand down her neck, over her firmly muscled shoulder.
‘Who is she?’
It seemed fitting to ask it that way, as if she were a person.
‘The papers are here, if you want to see.’
When Amos had gone for the headcollar he’d also fetched an old leather saddlebag. There were two papers inside. One, dated the day before my father’s last letter to me and written on a leaf torn from a pocket book, made over the mare, Esperance, to T. J. Lane Esq, in quittance of all debts incurred. The other was her pedigree. Now, as far as human lineage was concerned, my father was the least respectful person in the world and would sooner take off his hat to a crossing sweeper than a royal duke. Horses were a different matter. His friends joked that he could recite the breeding of any racehorse that ever ran, right back to the two that Noah took into the Ark. I unfolded the paper and …
‘Oh Lord.’
‘Something the matter, miss?’
‘She’s a great-great-granddaughter of Eclipse. And there’s the Regulus Mare in there, and she’s half sister to Touchstone that won the Ascot Gold Cup last year and … oh Lord.’
The more I read, the more my head reeled. I looked at the mare, half expecting a pair of silver wings to sprout from her withers. She looked back at me, gracious and affable.
‘He reckoned she was a good horse,’ Amos said.
The flies were gathering and he said he’d better take her back inside. I followed slowly, trying to get back some composure. We were standing in the shadowy box, watching her nosing at the hay in the manger, when a dark shape came hurtling out of nowhere so fast I felt the wind of it ruffling my hair, making straight as a lance for the mare. I shouted, moved to protect her, but the thing was too fast and landed on her back. Amos laughed.
‘Don’t worry, miss. It’s nowt but her cat.’
A cat like a miniature panther, sleek black fur, golden eyes staring at me as she stretched full-length along the horse’s back. Rancie hadn’t moved a muscle when she landed. Now she simply turned her head as if to make sure that the cat was comfortable and went back to her hay. The cat set up a purring, surprisingly loud for a small animal, that made the inside of the loosebox vibrate like a violin.
‘Won’t go anywhere without that cat,’ Amos said. ‘We tried chasing her out of the cart when we left Paris, but they made such a plunging and a caterwauling, the two of them, we had to bring her into the bargain.’
I ran a hand along the cat’s velvet back.
‘What’s she called?’
‘Lucy, I calls her.’
We watched horse and cat for a while, then went out into the sunshine. A man with white hair and a red face was standing outside the tack room, pretending to saddle-soap a pair of long reins on a hook, but looking our way.
‘The owner,’ Amos said, with a jerk of the head and a grimace.
I’d been thinking hard.
‘That money my father gave you to bring her over – I suppose it’s spent by now?’
He looked unhappy.
‘I can account for every farthing of it, if it hadn’t been most of it foreign, that is. But it was all spent on her.’
‘I’m sure it was. But it’s gone?’
He nodded.
‘And the owner’s watching us in case we flit with the mare?’
Another unhappy nod, along with a look of surprise. Amos didn’t know it, but it wasn’t the first time in my life I’d seen that look – halfway between obsequious and hostile – of a man doubting whether he’ll be paid. My father always did pay, though, as soon as the cards came right.
‘So we owe him for her keep. How much?’
‘Two pounds three shillings, he says. He reckons it would have been more, only I’ve been helping him out a bit.’
I slid the cameo ring from my finger and put it into Amos’s large palm.
‘Would you please sell that in the town for me and pay him what’s owed. If there’s any over, keep it for your trouble.’
He looked at me doubtfully.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I should be most greatly obliged if you would.’
His reluctant fingers closed over it.
‘What do you want me to do with Rancie, then?’
I said I’d let him know as soon as I’d decided, as if there were a world of possibilities open to me. He insisted on seeing me back to the door of the Heart of Oak, touched his hat and walked away.
I went straight up to my room, took off shoes, dress and stays, and lay down on the bed. ‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘so what are you going to do with her?’
Instead of answering that very reasonable question I fell into a day-dream, thinking of the way she’d looked at me and soft-lipped my sleeve, murmuring the syllables of her lovely French name, Esperance. I thought of what Amos had said about my father wanting me to see her. He hadn’t mentioned her in his letter, so as not to spoil the surprise. Then she’d turned out to be the last of his many presents to me. Esperance, meaning Hope. And then a hard little bit of my mind, not daydreaming at all, said, ‘At least a thousand guineas at Tattersalls.’ There was no ignoring it. I was quite sure that my father – having nothing in the way of property – would have left no will. Therefore all his possessions would go to his only son, Thomas Fraternity Lane. Only Tom was many thousands of miles away, not yet twenty-one, so I was, in effect, his agent. (A lawyer would probably have told me otherwise, but I did not intend to consult one.) Therefore I could solve some of my problems at a stroke by instructing Amos to take the mare for sale at Tattersalls, along with her papers and the note transferring ownership. Once sold, I could give Amos something handsome for his trouble and he could return to his county of red cattle, hops and apples. Most of the money would go into the bank. (Would it be enough for Tom to come home? No, don’t even think about that, yet.) But some of it – fifty pounds, say – I’d keep to find out the truth about my father.
Having decided that, my mind felt clearer. The thing to do was talk to Daniel Suter, the last friend I knew of to see him alive. I’d return to Paris and, if necessary, inquire at every opera house or theatre until I found him. I took my father’s letter out of my bag to re-read
.
My dearest Daughter,
I am glad to report that I have just said farewell to my two noble but tedious charges … I had business here in Paris …
That was not surprising. One of the ways in which my father earned enough money to keep us was by acting as a go-between for objects of art. His excellent taste, wide travels and many friends meant that he was often in a position to know who needed to sell and who was aching to buy. Some classical statue or portrait of a Versailles beauty was probably his additional business in Paris
… also friends to meet. To be candid, I value the chance of some intelligent conversation with like-minded fellows after these months of asses braying.
He’d been long enough in Paris to pick up some gossip:
… I have heard one most capital story which I promise will set you roaring with laughter and even perhaps a little indignation. You know ‘the dregs of their dull race …’
It had puzzled me when I first read it, and still did. Why indignation as well as laughter? As for the quotation from Shelley, I knew it, of course. It came from the poet’s tirade of justified indignation against His Majesty George III and his unpopular brood of royal duke sons: Old, mad, blind despis’d and dying King, Princes, the dregs of their dull race … mud from a muddy spring. A fine insult, but King George was seventeen years dead. I might never hear the story, unless Daniel knew it. Still, I was making some progress. The mare to Tattersalls and I to Paris. I should have to set about it carefully though, sail from somewhere other than Dover and avoid Calais. I had no wish to see ever again the gentleman in black, or the toad-like monster, or the person who called himself Trumper. (Unless, I thought, side by side on the gallows for killing my father.)
Soon after that, I fell asleep. The decision had been made and I was mortally tired. For the first time since hearing that my father was dead I slept deeply and dreamlessly. When I opened my eyes, the jug and ewer were making a long shadow up a wall that had turned copper-coloured in the light from the setting sun. The buzz and clinking of people at dinner and drinking came up from the floor below. The strange thing was that – although I woke unhappy – there was a little island of warmth in my mind, where before there had only been cold greyness. I saw, as vividly as if they had been in the room with me, the generous eye of Esperance, Amos Legge’s kind but puzzled look, even the golden stare of Lucy the cat. I had family of a kind after all, three beings who in some fashion depended on me.
And I was going to sell them. I’d decided that quite clearly before going to sleep. Now, quite as clearly, the thing was impossible. Sell my father’s last gift to me, for a hatful of greasy guineas? Use as my agent in this betrayal the good giant who’d brought her to me so faithfully (and so far at no profit to himself)? Even the cat had shown more loyalty than that.
I jumped out of bed and opened my purse. My small store was now seven shillings and four pence, not even enough to pay the rest of my score at the Heart of Oak. And yet here was I, proposing to make a trip to Paris and pay board and lodging indefinitely for an equine aristocrat. I heard myself laughing out loud.
Somebody else heard too. I froze, aware of a board creaking just outside the door. But there had been no footsteps since I woke up, so whoever it was must have been there while I was sleeping, quite probably looking in at me through the keyhole. I seized my travelling mantle and wrapped it round me. There was a knock at the door, knuckle against wood; quite polite sounding, if I hadn’t guessed. The landlord, I thought, come to make sure of his money and, in addition, spying on me in my chemise and stockings.
‘You’ll have to wait,’ I said.
I moved to be out of sight of the keyhole and dressed, taking my time, then put back the money in my purse. No need to let the fellow spy out the nakedness of the land in every sense. Then I went to the door and opened it, expecting to be looking into boot-button eyes and a pudgy face above a stained apron. Instead there was the gentleman in black, as straight and severe as when I’d last seen him at the Calais burial ground, although this time he was vertical, not horizontal. You might have taken him for his own spectre, except that he spoke like a living man, though not a happy one.
‘Good evening, Miss Lane. I have a proposition to put to you …’
CHAPTER EIGHT
His high white cravat was the brightest thing in the shadowy passageway, the face above it grey as moonlight on slate. He held his hat in hand, as if making a social call.
‘I thought you might be dead,’ I said.
Admittedly it was hardly a cordial greeting, but when I’d last seen him he was barely breathing. In the half light, I could see no sign on his temple of the blow that had felled him, so perhaps there was not enough flesh and blood in him to bruise.
‘It might be best if you would permit me to come in,’ he said.
I came close to slamming the door in his face. My reputation was low enough with the landlord, without entertaining gentlemen in my room. But something told me that my virtue was in no danger, though everything else might be. The man had as much carnality as a frozen dish-clout. Even though he had been spying on me through the keyhole, it was for something colder than my charms en chemise. I opened the door wider. He walked in, looking round. I might have invited him to sit down, but with only one chair in the room, that meant I should have to perch on the bed. We stayed on our feet. He put his hat on the wash-stand.
‘Our last conversation was interrupted,’ I said. ‘I was asking you what you knew about my father’s death.’
‘And I believe I counselled you to have patience.’
As before, his voice was low and level.
‘An over-rated virtue. Were you present when he died?’
‘No.’
‘But you know what happened?’
He raised a narrow black-gloved hand in protest.
‘Miss Lane, that is not what I have come to speak to you about.’
‘Do you know what happened?’
He looked straight at me, as if he wanted to stare me down. Anybody with a brother has practice in that trick. I held his look. He sighed and walked towards the window, sliding a hand into his coat pocket.
‘Miss Lane, do you recognise this?’
He was holding something small in the palm of his hand. I walked over to him and picked it up. When I saw it close, I felt as if somebody had caught me a blow.
‘It’s his ring.’
A signet with a curious design of an eye and a pyramid. The one that should have been on his hand in the morgue.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You robbed it from his body.’
‘It was taken from his body. Not by me.’
‘Who, then?’
‘By persons at the morgue in Calais.’
‘The fat drunken woman and her husband?’
The slightest of nods from him.
‘I thought so,’ I said. ‘But what concern was it of yours?’
He must have been at the morgue before me, touched my father’s hands as I’d done, and he had no right.
‘I bought it from them,’ he said. ‘It should have stayed on his hand and been buried with him, but they’d only have stolen it again.’
‘So you’ve come to return it to me?’
I was trying to bring myself to thank him, but could have saved myself the effort.
‘No. I show it to you only to convince you that I knew your father. That in some measure I speak with your father’s authority.’
He pulled off his right glove and stretched out his hand to me. On his middle finger was a ring identical to my father’s, only the design was worn flat by time. Then he turned the hand over, palm up.
‘If you please.’
He expected me to give him my father’s ring back. Instead I dropped it down the front of my stays. It was cold against my hot and angry skin. The shock in his eyes was the first human reaction I’d had from him. We stared at each other and he drew another long sigh.
‘I had heard that you possess
an excellent understanding, Miss Lane. I fear you are not using it rationally.’
‘The only understanding I care about is how my father died. Who is this woman he was trying to bring back to England?’
For a second, he couldn’t hide the surprise in his eyes.
‘Who told you about a woman?’
‘The man who kidnapped me in the graveyard and a fat man in the carriage. You know who they are, don’t you?’
‘You did well to escape from them.’
‘The fat man said my father had abducted a woman from Paris. They thought I’d know where she was. I don’t. I know nothing about her.’
‘That’s good. You must continue to know nothing.’
‘No! She’s the reason my father was killed, isn’t she? Don’t I at least have the right to know who she is?’
‘I’m not sure myself who she is.’
‘But there is a woman, you admit that?’
‘I have reason to believe that your father left Paris in company with a woman, yes.’
‘He wouldn’t have taken her away against her will.’
‘Very well. I accept that.’
‘So, whoever she is, she went with him of her own accord. But Trumper and the fat man found out about that and wanted her back.’
A reluctant nod from him.
‘So they chased him from Paris to Calais?’
‘Not chased, exactly. I understand that it took them some days to connect your father with the woman’s disappearance.’
‘Were you in Paris at the time?’
‘No.’
‘So how do you know about this?’
‘I have no obligation to tell you how I know about anything. You must accept that I have been doing my best to observe these people for several months.’
