by Laura London
“I doubt if this will appeal to Lynden’s appetite for attack,” said Melbrooke, touching his wife’s little nose. “But I think first we ought to put what evidence we have into the hands of a lawyer. I’m not sure how much is needed to support a claim against Crant’s title, but I think we should waste no time finding out the legalities. Perhaps what you have already might be enough to initiate an investigation. I have a lawyer in Penrith, a man of excellent reputation, integrity, and discretion. With your permission we could ride there tomorrow and interview him.”
Chapter Sixteen
The dawn was a wildly spreading red and orange firestorm as Lord Melbrooke and Kyler left Fern Court, riding over the hill northward to Penrith. Before leaving, they had issued a strongly worded injunction forbidding Lorraine and Lynden from leaving the house. In fact, so strongly worded was the injunction that it took nearly until noon for Lynden to persuade Lorraine to accompany her on another unauthorized trip to Crant Castle. At first Lorraine turned a deaf ear to Lynden’s arguments, listening unmoved to assurances that it was quite safe to visit Crant Castle today with Lord Crant headed south, and her proclamations that Lord Melbrooke and Kyler were unnecessarily cautious and stuffy in their notions where the twins were concerned. Lynden went on to point out that they had handled the affair quite well so far with a minimum of masculine assistance and there was no reason for them to step down just because Lord Melbrooke had decided to interest himself in the matter.
Even this ploy had no effect on Lorraine, but Lynden craftily changed her argument to a glorious word picture of the happiness that would greet Kyler and, consequently, Lorraine, on the proof of his aristocratic birth. Of course it was true that searching the locked tower in the castle wall had led to nothing; Lynden graciously acknowledged that fact. But had not every other avenue they had explored borne fruit? Lynden perceived signs of weakening in her sister, and quickly made good her advantage with a stirring speech that might have led one to believe that the only ladies who ever listen to male prohibitions were whiny, weak-spirited, mewling creatures beneath the contempt of a female of resolution and resource. She ended with a generous concession that they would not actually go inside Crant Castle, but only to the slope at its back.
“The slope in back? What’s the use of going there?” protested Lorraine.
“Every use in the world. We’re looking for something to do with spring flowers, right? On the hill behind the castle are a king’s ransom of them. We’ll go there and dig for another hidden box.”
“Dig?” said Lorraine. “Lynden, you’ve got spring fever. I remember distinctly that you told me Lord Crant said that Lady Irmingarde had planted acres of March-blooming flowers there. It would take an army to dig that up. And speaking of armies, what about Ottmar Wishke?”
“Wishke-swishke. If Crant didn’t take him along, then he’ll probably be in his bedroom oiling his pedometer and shining his dress sword. I refuse to be put off by anyone who can’t take two steps without clicking his heels together. And as for the acres of flowers, we’ll go to the spot on the wall that would be directly in line with the sundial and march out one step for every syllable in the sundial poem. You see, like clapping out the meter of a poem.”
“Of all the ridiculous, obscure ideas, Lynden—this has got to be your masterwork. How could you possibly put that interpretation on Lady Irmingarde’s clue? It makes no sense at all.”
“My dear, doubting sister, Lady Irmingarde was an eccentric, and when you’re dealing with an eccentric, you can’t be forever expecting everything to make sense. Intuition, Lorraine. That’s what’s needed here. And I was right about the tomb, wasn’t I?” said Lynden triumphantly.
“You were also wrong about the locked tower.”
“So I was wrong. I am capable of error—I’m not God, you know.”
Thus Lorraine found herself being whisked out the door and on her way to Crant Castle before she had even begun to guess what Lynden’s not being God had to do with her present predicament.
It was a fine, warm day, the first great day of this year’s spring. The morning was graced with a crown of fine, cream-velvet clouds eddying gently through a bright blue sky; a warm breeze drew pungent, spicy scents from the thawing ground and made heavy winter coats unnecessary. The sun was brilliant white, its rays gifted with an unmistakable spring slant which angled in to turn to a light mist all the hidden, secretly diehard winter ice. The girls stopped at the gardener’s cottage where they found Mrs. Robins hanging out a fresh wash while her baby twins slept nearby, their pine cradles hung from an oak branch where a quiet nursery-maid wind rocked their slumbers. Lynden borrowed two shovels on the pretext of needing them to dig fishing worms, and as they walked along the path in the direction of Crant Castle, they heard Mrs. Robins sing a lullaby:
I’ve placed my cradle on yon oak top
And aye, as the wind blew, my babies did rock.
Discretion counseled the twins to approach Crant Castle from the side, following the rocky spine of the hill behind instead of attacking the broad open space in front of the fortress. From the brow of the hill to the rear, the castle looked like a fairy-tale dollhouse, slumbering in the spring sun, done in perfect detail. The girls could make out the tiny, precisely formed figure of the sundial in the garden. Instead of the portcullis and giant, impressive drawbridge, there were two posterns, small gateways set low in the walls toward each corner, fronted by the plank bridges spanning the moat. On the gentle slope at the foot of the hill lay the exquisitely colored garden of spring flowers: the thick, white and pink carpet of the wood anemone punctuated beautifully by the golden yellow, heart-shaped lesser celandine, sweet violets, and the lonely, brilliant white snowdrops—a deep, velvet floor reaching to the moat.
The wild garden covered more area than was immediately suggested from the hilltop, as the twins discovered when, hem-deep in vegetation, they stood in the middle of “spring’s floral harbingers.” Lynden had paced off an area consistent with her theory of where the documents might be buried, but she could not help confessing to herself now that this excavation might be another exercise in futility. Yet her determination to beat Lord Melbrooke and Kyler to the punch was strong, so she began to chop at the hard earth with the blade of her shovel. Lorraine joined her and soon they had dug the beginnings of a narrow trench.
At the beginning, Lorraine sent nervous, sporadic glances at the castle wall looming above them, but her efforts to keep up with her sister soon required all her concentration. After what seemed like hours of digging, but what she knew to be a quarter hour at the most, her hands were red and raw, a fair blister rose under her soft, leather gloves, and her shoulders ached as though she had been stretched upon the rack. She finally jammed her shovel upright in the ground and reached up to rearrange her hair where it had escaped its heavy brass hairpin during the course of her labors. She gazed wonderingly at Lynden, who was still working the ground with a will.
“It’s hopeless. We’ll never find it this way,” Lorraine said.
Her reply came from behind. A male voice spoke. “I’m inclined to agree. But I can’t be sure unless you tell me what you’re looking for.”
Lorraine whirled to face the tall, dark figure; her skirt caught on the shovel blade and she fell to her knees, crushing a small sprig of sweet violets.
“Lord Crant!” said Lynden with miserable dismay. “I thought you were taking your sister into Leeds.”
“I was. But as luck would have it, yesterday when we stopped at an inn for dinner, there was a fond acquaintance of Silvia’s there who agreed to escort her the remaining distance, thus relieving me of the duty. How fortunate I have returned to receive such fair visitors. But I must ask you again: What are you looking for?”
Lynden stared at him, her eyes wide. “W—worms. That is, we’re looking for worms.”
“Ah,” said Crant, lifting one dark eyebrow and clasping his hands behind his back. He was not smiling. “And no doubt you intend to use them for fishi
ng in the lake. A pleasant recreation for such a pretty day. But I see you don’t have a pail in which to carry them. Come inside with me. I’m sure we could find you something suitable.”
There was danger in every inch of Crant’s bearing. Lorraine struggled to her feet and backed away several paces. But Lynden stood her ground.
“No, thank you, My Lord,” she said in a voice remarkably steady for the circumstances. “We’ll put them on a lump of earth and carry it on a shovel blade.”
A smile lit the murky depths of his pitiless eyes. “I’m afraid I couldn’t allow that, because, you see, then they might… escape.”
Lynden felt her throat grow dry. “Then we’ll fish another day.”
“One ought to do these things when one is in the mood,” said Crant, moving a step closer to them.
Lynden took a step backward. “I think I’m getting out of the mood for fishing.”
“That’s unfortunate, my dear. Because I am not.” He started to close the distance. Lynden dropped her shovel and turned to flee, Lorraine two steps ahead of her. But Lynden had an insufficient start on him, and almost immediately felt a strong hand clamp mercilessly upon her wrist. She struggled against him, but it was useless—she was caught. Lorraine had not looked back, and was halfway through the bank of flowers.
“Damn Ottmar!” Crant hissed. “Where is he when he is needed? Oh well, I’m sorry, Lady Melbrooke. You’re going to take a little nap.”
Lynden saw his fist poised in the air above her, and then it descended, causing the spring flowers at her feet to flash and grow, filling her vision with dizzying pinwheels of colors—pinwheels that faded into nothing like a watercolor under a rain.
Crant swung the little, unconscious body in his arms and strode rapidly toward the moat, calling over his shoulder to Lorraine. Lorraine stopped her flight and turned to see Lord Crant holding her sister over the water in his outstretched arms; Lynden’s thick dark curls fell lushly over his bent elbow.
“Come back, Miss Downpatrick. Now. Or shall we see if your sister can swim while she’s asleep?”
Lynden awoke to find herself in a dark, cold room, the air permeated with damp. An oil lantern hovered somewhere nearby; its pale light shone on the fuzzy outline of her sister’s face above her. She felt the hard cold of brick floor under her body and the softness of Lorraine’s lap supporting her head. Her sister’s voice penetrated the high-pitched keening in Lynden’s head.
“Lynnie! You’re all right! I was afraid…” Lorraine very gently rubbed Lynden’s tender temples.
“Were you?” replied Lynden vaguely. “Where are we?” The light shifted, drawing her attention to the doorway where Crant stood, holding a lantern which cast a long shadow into the indefinite space behind him. His cheekbones were etched and prominent in the light; his eyes, two dark unreadable hollows.
“You’re in the castle,” he said, his voice reverberating and sounding unnaturally close in the damp air. “I have a place to put bad little girls. Do you like it?”
Lynden struggled to her elbows, giving an involuntary moan as she lifted her head. “A dungeon! Trust you to have one, Lord Crant. But perhaps it’s a good thing you do, because it will be a wonderful place to hide when Melbrooke finds out what you’ve been about with us.”
“Indeed?” he inquired politely. “But you haven’t considered properly, Lady Melbrooke. Will Melbrooke find out?”
“Yes, because we’ll tell him,” snapped Lynden, her temper shortened by her headache. “Unless you intend to murder us. Do you think you have a better chance with us than you did with a newborn baby?”
“How knowledgeable you are, my dear. And such dangerous knowledge. I’m flattered that you take such a keen interest in my chances of success. They’re better than you think. But then, you haven’t seen my well. Ottmar!”
Ottmar Wishke materialized out of the gloom behind Lord Crant, carrying a brace of pistols—two dull-gray barrels bracketing his round belly.
“Watch them, Ottmar. Would you two fine young ladies mind stepping to the door, please? But no further, or Ottmar may get nervous. I would like to demonstrate something for you.”
Lorraine helped the aching Lynden to her feet; together they crossed the cell. Ottmar stayed behind them, standing close, and Crant walked into the space beyond, lifting the lantern to reveal a larger, high-vaulted chamber. He hung the light from a hook on the wall.
Lynden gave Ottmar a darkening look over her shoulder. “You ought to be ashamed to participate in this, Major Wishke. You, a military man.”
“I would not mind it if you did not talk so much,” growled Ottmar. The pistol barrels did not waver.
“Put your pistols away and let us go—I guarantee you’ll never hear my voice again,” she said.
Crant gave a short, sharp laugh. “I don’t want to be deprived of your company so soon.” A round wooden plate, about three feet in diameter, was lying on the floor beside where he stood in the middle of the outer room. He lifted it with the toe of his boot and kicked it aside; it clattered and spun into the corner, revealing a dark, mossy, brick-lined hole from which a pungent, dank aroma rose and wafted through the room.
Crant looked back at the twins. “Have you ever wondered how the inhabitants of castles supplied themselves with water during a siege? They have their own wells. And what better place for it than down here, where it could be easily protected from treasonous rogues attempting to poison it? Naturally, this one hasn’t been used in years, but I never had it stopped because I felt it could be used to dispose of… unwanted clutter. How deep do you think it could be? I don’t really know, but listen.” Crant turned toward the wall and pried loose a broken half brick with his fingertips. Holding the brick gingerly between thumb and forefinger, he walked to the well, stretched his hand over the dark maw, and released it.
“One… two… three… four… five.” From far, far below there came a faint hard slap as the surface of a mucky pool was broken—the sound resembling less a splash than a pair of loose, watery jaws clapping shut, devouring the broken brick. “Ah, there it is,” said Crant. “They say the well is connected with an underground river that eventually washes into the Irish Sea. Once something is thrown into it, it’s gone forever.” Crant’s eyes glittered in the lantern light. “At first I couldn’t guess why the pair of you were so fond of spending your leisure hours at Crant Castle, especially since you seemed to foster no very fond feeling toward me; and certainly had none toward Silvia. For a time I even considered the possibility that you might be trying to hatch some girlish plot against Silvia to improve your odds with Justin. But that wouldn’t be quite in your style, would it, my dear?” He addressed this to Lynden. “Naturally, all became clear yesterday morning when I received a visit from that charming young man—my nephew, I believe.” He kicked the cover back over the well. “A chapter in my life I had thought was long finished. The affair was botched. But I was young then, and now…” He shrugged. “It appears that I must finish this old business.” He looked straight at the twins. “There are certain papers—documents that I must have. It has been a generation since they were stolen from me…”
“You were the one who stole them,” interrupted Lynden. “They belong to Kyler!”
“Kyler? Is that what they decided to name the brat? A suitable name for a peasant boy. To continue: I suppose it will remain a mystery to me how he met you and what kind of hold he has over you to make you come here and do the job of discovering his secrets for him. A brave, young fellow.”
“He is!” cried Lorraine. “You’ll see that when he comes to rescue us.”
“Is he coming then? Good. We have a special reception planned for him. A pity that I will enjoy it much more than he. In the meantime, you have some secrets to confide in me. Somehow you’ve managed to learn something about the whereabouts of those marriage documents. If it was my crazy Aunt Irmingarde who took them, as I suspect, did she somehow manage to give Tom Miller a clue to their hiding place? How like her that
would have been, the crazy old woman. She couldn’t have given Miller the real documents, of course, or our eye-patched young friend would have come with his lawyers. But to give a clue to Tom Miller?” Crant made a dismissive gesture and laughed. “It would cause me no worry; the man was a dullard. But perhaps in your fertile little minds, who knows? You haven’t found the documents yet. That’s obvious, or you wouldn’t still be looking. So tell me, why you were digging in the garden? Did Irmingarde bury the papers there?”
Lynden put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. “We won’t tell you. Not in a thousand years.”
Undisturbed, Crant took a step toward her. “I don’t have a thousand years. I doubt if my patience will last out the afternoon. I’ll leave you two to think about it. When I return, you must tell me or…” He indicated the well.
Ottmar waved his pistols, and the twins edged backward into the cell. “You ought to separate them. They will break faster that way,” said Ottmar, pushing the door closed with one foot. Crant dropped the short oak plank into the iron brackets on either side of the door. The light from the lamp shining through the small lattice window made a stark grillwork on the opposite wall of the cell, a chessboard pattern which grew rapidly less distinct with the retreating footsteps of Crant and Ottmar Wishke as they began to climb the stone steps on the other side of the well room.
Lynden stood on tiptoe and peered through the grill. “Melbrooke will make you sorry for this!” she shouted.
The steps paused. “Melbrooke again,” Crant replied wearily, his voice echoing back to them. “Your faith in him is rather touching, but, I’m afraid, a little misplaced. That he knows nothing of this affair, I’m sure. If his wits were behind this, I’m afraid Kyler would be in the castle and I in the dungeon instead of you. I make no doubt he’d suspect your disappearance was somehow linked with me, but then suspicion and proof are two different matters, aren’t they?”
