Hunch met them on the road. He was carrying a lantern and frowning heavily, and both ends of his mustache looked distinctly damp and ragged. "Master Richard!" he said in evident relief when Mairelon came close enough to be identifiable. "You ain't 'urt!"
"What? Of course not," Mairelon answered. "Why should I be?"
" 'Cause you 'adn't got no reason for a-goin' off and not tellin' me, if you ain't been 'urt," Hunch said, recovering rapidly. "Leastwise, I don't see as you did."
"That's because you don't know where we've been," Mairelon said in his most reasonable tone. "You really ought to have a little more faith in me, Hunch."
Hunch snorted expressively. "All right, where 'ave you been?"
"Finding things out," Mairelon said. "Among them, the reason why our friend Shoreham has such a low opinion of the Sons of the New Dawn. As well as a hint to the current owner of the Saltash Platter."
"And 'oo might that be?"
"According to the ersatz druids whose undeniably imaginative ceremony we observed this evening, Henry Bramingham. Not the best of news."
" 'Enry," Hunch said, frowning. "I ain't sure--"
"Later, Hunch, if you please. Later, and preferably warmer, drier, and much less hungry. I hope no one has stolen our dinner while you've been swanning about out here."
"You 'ad ought to be sent to bed without any," Hunch grumbled, "and that dratted girl, too."
"Really, Hunch!" Mairelon said in a shocked tone before Kim could do more than gasp in outrage. "And all this time I'd thought you were worried about the proprieties."
Hunch's tangled efforts to refute this deliberate misinterpretation lasted until they reached the wagon. Kim was sure that this was exactly what Mairelon had intended, and while she would normally have been annoyed at his high-handed method of taking over her battle, this time Kim was grateful. She was cold and tired, and her hands and face bore scratches that stung when she thought about them. She was in no condition for an argument with Hunch.
Dinner was waiting, and if the stew was thick enough to cut with a knife and the potatoes in it were so well cooked that they came apart at the touch of a spoon, Kim did not mind at all. Mairelon was either pickier or preoccupied; he settled himself on the bottom step of the wagon with a full dish and a spoon, but ate so slowly that Kim was halfway through her second bowl before he finished a quarter of his own.
When Kim paused long enough to notice this curious behavior, she glanced at Hunch. He was frowning and nibbling delicately on the left half of his mustache whenever he looked in Mairelon's direction. That was enough for Kim. She moved to a conveniently situated rock, rattled her spoon against the side of her dish, and when Mairelon glanced up, said, "What's got you so nattered, then?"
"Henry Bramingham," Mairelon said. He took a spoonful of stew and looked down at his bowl with a frown of annoyance. "It's gone cold."
"If you'd of eaten it right off, you wouldn't of noticed," Kim said without sympathy. "Who's this Bramingham cove?"
"Henry Bramingham is the son of Charles Bramingham and Harriet St. Clair Bramingham," Mairelon answered. Hunch made a strangled noise, and Mairelon looked up. "Yes, exactly."
"Exactly what?" Kim said, thoroughly exasperated.
"Exactly the problem," Mairelon said. "Harriet, you see, is the sister of Gregory St. Clair. And the Baron has, shall we say, very little liking for your obedient."
"E's the one as called in the Runners," Hunch said darkly. "And gave 'em Master Richard's name."
"So we think," Mairelon said. "He's also something of a wizard, and well known for his interest in unusual magical objects. If young Henry turns the platter over to his uncle, and I can think of no reason why he shouldn't, our chances of recovering it are small."
"So?" Kim said. The two men looked at her, and she shrugged. "I don't see what's the good in your havin' this platter you're so set on. If the Robin Redbreasts catch you with it, they'll be sure you cracked the crib and took it. I thought that was what you didn't want happenin'."
"You're right, but unfortunately there's no other way of finding out who really took the Saltash Set in the first place," Mairelon said. "If we can get all the pieces together, Shoreham and I can use one of the Ribensian Arcana to locate the person who stole them, but it won't work unless we have everything."
Kim shrugged again. "It's your neck. Which direction are you goin' to stick it out in next?"
Mairelon grinned. "The inn at Ranton Hill. I think I can pick up some gossip and get some idea of how things stand at the Braminghams', how recently Lord St. Clair has visited, that sort of thing."
"Not tonight," Hunch said firmly. "And this time you ain't a-going off alone, not if I 'ave to 'ide every pair of breeches you 'ave."
Mairelon looked startled, then thoughtful. "Yes, I think it will do very well," he said after a moment. "You can poke about in the stables and kitchens, Kim can sit in the public room, and I'll see what the news is in the private parlors. Someone's bound to know something, and this way we don't stand a ghost of a chance of missing it."
"Why're you so sure?" Kim asked.
"The country inn is the heart of every village, or at least its ears and tongue," Mairelon explained. "Think of it as a London public house, only more so."
"If you say so," Kim said dubiously. "Just what am I goin' to have to do?"
They spent the next hour or so discussing the exact methods each would use in their descent upon Ranton Hill's inn, what stories they would tell, and what clothes to wear to be convincing. Mairelon declared that he would pose as a fashionable Town buck, victim of a carriage accident while driving down to a friend's country house. Kim would be his Tiger, despite her protests that she knew nothing about horses and would be unable to convince anyone that she was what she pretended to be. Hunch was a groom who had been traveling with the baggage coach; he would lead the horses from the wagon, claiming that they belonged to the ostensibly demolished phaeton. Mairelon's confidence overrode his companions' misgivings, and by the time the fire began to die everything was settled.
10
Ranton Hill consisted of three shopfronts, two houses, an inn, and a stable. The buildings looked to Kim as if they had huddled together for protection from the empty farmland all around them. Not that the land was, technically, empty, but some low stone walls, a few trees, and a couple of sheep did not go nearly far enough, in Kim's opinion, toward filling up the space.
In addition, the village was so quiet that as they approached along the rutted dirt road Kim began to wonder if it was peopled by ghosts. The sound of the wind, the squeak of the harness leather, and the crunching of their feet and the horses' hooves against the road were the only noises. She was a little reassured when a dog began to bark as they reached the first house, summoning a stable hand in a well-worn smock from the rear of the inn.
Mairelon gave the man an offhand nod and disappeared into the inn. Kim looked after him, shifting her weight from foot to foot while the stable hand and Hunch eyed each other measuringly.
"What happened?" the man said at last, making a gesture that included the horse, Kim, Hunch, and the vanished Mairelon.
" 'E tipped 'is phaeton over trying to feather a corner," Hunch said with fine contempt. "Leastwise, that's 'ow I make it. 'E says a coach-and-four ran 'im off the road."
The stable hand spat. "Another one o' them wild uns. He stayin' the night?"
" 'Ow do I know?" Hunch said. "Even if 'e'd told me, 'e's just as likely to change 'is mind as not."
"That's the Quality for you," the stable hand said, and spat again. "Well, bring your horses around back, no reason they should suffer for their master's stupidity."
The man started walking as he spoke. Hunch tightened the makeshift leads attached to the horses' halters. The animals bobbed their heads, slightly out of sequence, and began to move. Kim shifted her weight again, wondering whether she should follow or wait and wishing Mairelon had told her a little more about the duties of a Tiger. She was just about to star
t after Hunch and the horses when Mairelon stuck his head out of the door of the inn.
"Kim! There you are. No need to stand about; the luggage won't be along for a couple of hours at least. Come inside and wait where it's warm."
Kim nodded, glad to have some direction at last. As she started into the inn, she noted that the village was showing a few signs of life at last: a large, round woman had emerged to sweep the step in front of the mercer's shop (and get a look at the new arrivals), an open carriage was descending a distant hill toward the town, and a second dog had joined the barking of the first, prompting a volley of curses from an unseen person on the second floor of the inn. The last thing Kim saw before the door of the inn closed behind her was a large jug hurtling out of the window in the general direction of the dogs. The crash was audible even after the door closed.
Mairelon was standing just inside the door, in a short hallway at the foot of a steep flight of stairs. Beside him, the innkeeper darted uncertain looks at the mud-splattered boots and breeches of his newest guest, clearly trying to decide whether this was truly one of the Quality or only some jumped-up Cit trying to pass himself off as gentry. Kim could almost sympathize. Mairelon's cape was well cut but, to her experienced eye, a little shabby and out of fashion, and the mud made it difficult to determine whether his boots were similarly well used. Had she been looking him over on the London streets, she would have given him a casual glance and gone on hunting for a better pigeon to pluck.
"Get yourself something to drink while you wait," Mairelon said, seemingly oblivious to the innkeeper's worried frown. He tossed Kim a coin that glittered silver in the air, and the innkeeper's expression lightened. Kim suppressed a smile and bobbed her head respectfully as Mairelon turned to the innkeeper. "Now, since we're agreed, I'll just go up and clean off a little of this dirt."
"Very good, Mr. de Mare," the innkeeper answered. "Your lad can go on in there, my wife will be glad to see to him. Now, if you'll just come this way . . ."
Mairelon followed him up the stairs without a backward glance, leaving a trail of damp and dirty footprints. Kim snorted softly. At least she would be able to find his room if she needed to. She looked down at the coin Mairelon had tossed her. It was a new shilling, more than enough for a pint of ale and perhaps a roll. She flipped it into the air, caught it, and went into the public room to listen to whatever local gossip there might be.
The room was nearly empty. Two weather-beaten men in farmers' smocks glanced up from their mugs as she entered, and a small, brown-haired man in the corner jumped nervously and then relaxed. Kim took a seat beside the door, where she could get a good look at everyone who might come in and still watch the rest of the big, square room. Once she was seated, she discovered that her view of the yard outside was limited to a slantwise glimpse of a corner, but she dismissed that limitation with a mental shrug. Nothing was perfect, and her job was to watch and listen to the coves inside, not the goings-on outdoors.
A large, grey-haired woman who was presumably the innkeeper's wife appeared a few moments later, carrying a tray of mugs. She replaced the farmers' drinks without comment, then looked over at the nervous man in the corner. He shook his head, then nodded and beckoned. "Make up your mind, Mr. Fenton," the woman said as she set a mug in front of him. "I haven't the time to be mucking about back and forth to the kitchen twelve times an hour, not for the likes of you."
"My money's as good as anyone's," the small man said. "And if you 'forget' to let me know when my . . . associate arrives, I'll see you regret it."
"Keep your hair on," the woman advised. "Nobody's come asking for you, not even Mr. Frederick. And what he's thinking of, letting you off your work like this--"
The small man flushed. "I have my half-day free, the same as anyone."
"Only more often," the woman shot back, and the two farmers chuckled audibly. "I'm surprised he doesn't turn you off, but there, he's always been the sort to put up with more than he ought."
"Mr. Meredith is kind enough to give me an extra holiday occasionally," the small man said, and Kim thought he sounded even more nervous than before.
"Yes, because you ask him straight out! You're abusing Mr. Frederick's trust, you are, and you ought to be ashamed."
"That's 'Mr. Meredith,' to you," the small man said with an attempt at a haughty sneer.
"Ho! 'Mr. Meredith,' to me that's known him since he was a lad? Next thing you'll be telling me what to call my husband! Drink up and hold your peace, Mister Fenton, or we'll see, that's all."
With this obscure threat, the woman picked up her tray and sailed back toward the door. She stopped long enough to give Kim a mug of warm, dark ale and collect the shilling, but Fenton did not take the opportunity to renew hostilities. He seemed content to glower over the top of his mug, alternating between dark looks at the grey-haired woman and equally dark but more apprehensive glances in the direction of the window overlooking the yard.
The innkeeper's wife left, and the farmers continued to sit in companionable silence. For lack of anything better to do, Kim studied Fenton while she sipped her ale and waited for someone else to come in and start another conversation for her to listen to. He was brown-haired and thin-faced, and he had an indefinable air about him that marked him as London-bred. From the conversation she had overheard, Kim guessed that he was in service with Mr. Meredith. A footman, perhaps; he was too well dressed to be a groom or stable hand, and not well enough turned out for a butler or valet.
Kim had just reached this conclusion when the serving room door flew open to reveal a dark-haired young man in fashionable riding clothes. He surveyed the room with an air of brooding intensity, then strode to the corner table and flung his gloves down in front of Fenton. "You sent me a message," the young man said.
Kim choked and slopped ale over the side of her mug. She recognized the young man's voice instantly; it was Jon, the most zealous of the druids she and Mairelon had observed the previous evening.
"I don't know that I would put it that way, Mr. Aberford," Fenton said, giving a significant glance in the direction of the farmers. "Merely, there are some things I think you ought to know."
"If your intention is to sell me the information that your master doesn't have the object he was commissioned to bring me, your luck is out," Jon said with gloomy relish. "I already know."
Fenton's shoulders hunched together as if he were bracing himself for a blow. "How did you find out--"
"He told me himself, last night. Blithering idiot! What possessed him to play whist with Henry Bramingham, of all people?"
"Ah, I believe there was a wager involved," Fenton said. His shoulders relaxed, but he did not look at all happy.
"Well, he certainly didn't give Henry the Dish!" Jon snapped.
"Of course not, Mr. Aberford. I, ah, thought you ought to know, that's all. So if--" Fenton broke off in mid-sentence, looking out the window. He jumped to his feet, his face a pasty white color, and bolted for the door. Jon sat staring after him in simple astonishment, taken too much by surprise to remember any of his brooding airs.
Fenton reached the door just as it opened to admit an enormous man in ill-fitting new clothes. " 'Ere, now! Watch what you're about!" the man said in a deep, slow voice as Fenton skidded to a stop in front of him.
"Sorry!" Fenton gasped, then dodged under the big man's arm and vanished.
" 'E's in a bit of a rush, ain't 'e?" the big man commented to the room at large.
Kim rose quietly as the newcomer lumbered into the room and slipped out the still-open door of the serving room. There was no sign of Fenton in the hall, so she took a quick look out the front door to see if she could tell what had driven him to make such a dramatic exit.
The yard was full of activity. A landau had pulled up in front of the inn, its top open despite the cool weather. A handsome and vaguely familiar young man sat with his back to the coachman; facing him were an extremely elegant woman in her early forties and a stunningly beautiful blonde girl of
perhaps seventeen. A second young man, whom Kim recognized at once as the bland and somewhat foolish Freddy Meredith from the druids' meeting, had pulled a large, placid bay horse to a halt at the edge of the innyard. He was sitting in the saddle as if stunned, gazing in admiration at the blonde. Standing next to him (or rather, next to his horse) was a shabby, sour-looking man, and Kim found herself first blinking, then squinting in surprise, and then sternly suppressing a strong impulse to take to her heels as rapidly and unceremoniously as Fenton had done.
Jack Stower! What was Jack Stower doing in Ranton Hill? Fortunately, his attention was fixed on the rider, and Kim had time to pull her head back into the inn. She shut the door far enough to hide her face and forced her frozen wits into motion. Dan Laverham couldn't have sent Jack after her; she hadn't known herself where she was going when she left London. Jack was on some other errand, then, and all she had to do was keep out of his way so that word of her presence in Ranton Hill wouldn't get back to Laverham. To do that, though, she needed to know what Jack was up to, so that she could avoid him. Hoping that no one would come into the hall to find her in so odd-looking a position, Kim opened the door a crack and peered out, listening with all her might.
"He's your man," Stower was insisting to Freddy Meredith.
Freddy did not appear to hear. "Bramingham!" he called with every appearance of delight. "Didn't expect to find you here."
The young man in the carriage twisted to look over his shoulder. "Freddy? Good Lord! I mean, what are you doing out at this hour?"
"Things," the rider said with a vague wave. He clucked to his horse, which ignored him. A faint frown creased his forehead, and he made a tentative movement with his heels. The bay bent its neck to eye its rider, then ambled over to the carriage, leaving Jack Stower standing with his fists clenched and a black expression on his face.
Wrede, Patricia C - Mairelon 01 Page 9
