“Obey my master. He is desirous of meeting with some strange old fellow who goes about buying carpets.”
“What, the Crazy Carpet Man?” Paul gave a hoot of laughter. “I wish you joy of him.” He tapped his temple. “I think much of the time he knows not where he is.”
Vespa’s heart gave a lurch. “You’ve seen him?”
“But—yes. Yesterday? The day before? I forget. Les enfants, they like him, you know. I hear them squeak and shout, and there they are, all around his big waggon. And what a grotesquerie!”
His hopes sinking, Vespa said, “The man?”
Paul chuckled. “The waggon—or cart, or whatever it is. People, they laugh and call names. But he is a good-natured old fool. It is sad, eh?”
That sounded more promising. “You have a kind heart, Paul. Can you tell me where I may find him?”
“But of a certainty I can! He is likely no more than a day’s journey to the south and you will have but to enquire in Rennes. Everyone knows him and les enfants in especial will point you the way he goes.”
So his clever little love had been right, after all. ‘God bless her!’ thought Vespa. ‘Tomorrow I may meet my father, at last!’
It rained in the night. He awoke to darkness and a clamorous wind that scattered a flurry of raindrops from the tree above him. Bruine stamped about restlessly. Vespa slid the pistol from under the saddlebags that served as his pillow. Moving as silently as a shadow he went to the mare, but his suspicions were unjustified; she greeted him with a soft whicker and there was nothing to indicate that Paul had attempted to appropriate her. The man’s bed, comprised of a thick wool blanket that smelled strongly of sheep, was still spread out beside the dead fire. Vespa turned back to his own bed but was momentarily dazzled as lightning’s blue glare lit the makeshift camp. The trees seemed to leap up. Bruine gave a snort of fright. Vespa moved quickly to hold her nostrils, for something else had leapt into view: two men stood by the stream. Even that brief glimpse revealed this to be a furtive meeting. Their conversation, evidently conducted in whispers, was quite inaudible, and although he caught a whiff of burning oil, their lamp was now extinguished.
He slipped back to his own blanket and arranged the saddlebags to resemble a man sleeping, then took up a position behind a nearby tree, the pistol gripped in his hand and his eyes fixed in the direction of the conspirators. He was faintly disappointed. He rarely misread his man, but he had evidently done so in this instance. Still, he’d been prepared and had slept lightly. De Coligny had said poverty dwelt here, and poverty had a way of breeding thievery and murder.
Lightning flashed once more, this time followed by a clatter of thunder.
Ignoring his own bed, Paul crept towards Vespa’s blankets and reached out.
Vespa’s grip on the pistol tightened. He watched and waited for the slash of a knife.
“Monsieur Jacques,” called Paul softly, nudging the blanket. “Wake up! Monsieur—”
“I’m over here.” Vespa walked forward.
“Sacré bleu! You take no chances, eh? I think I am insulted.”
“I saw you talking to someone. It is as well to be cautious. I think you and your friend are free-traders, but I ask no questions.”
“This it is the best way, mon ami.” Paul began to roll up his blanket. “You have allow that I share your fire and we talked together. So. Now I must go, for these woods they are become too crowded, which is bad for my poor stomach, you will understand.”
“Crowded? I saw scarcely a soul.”
“No more did I. But my friend, he says there are strangers about who stop people and ask odd questions. They ask many questions of my friend, which make him most nervous. Paul, he also does not care to be questioned. Perhaps he might not have the right answers, eh?”
Vespa watched him secure the blanket roll across the back of his little donkey. “Did your friend tell you what it was that these men wanted to know?”
“Two of them, they have pretend to search for an Englishman, but this it is not the case, of course. As if even an Englishman would be such a fool as to journey into France while we have this war! Unless he is as demented as the Crazy Carpet Man! So they really look for something else. And with all the uproar over the great robbery causing innocent men to be regarded with suspicion, this Paul he does not wait to find out!”
“What robbery? I’ve heard nothing of it.”
“I thought every living creature must know of it. At some great mint in Belgium it happened, and a young guard most savagely killed. They are saying there was no need to have murdered the boy, and that thousands upon thousands of gold louis were made off with. Not one piece did Paul have knowledge of then, or ever will. But—try to convince the police or the military blockheads of it! So I go away from where questions are asked.”
Vespa had enjoyed the man’s company and was sorry to see him go, and Paul embraced him as emotionally as if they had been old friends. Soon after he had said his farewells the storm drifted away. The little clearing seemed lonely now, and since it was almost dawn Vespa packed up his own belongings and rode out with the first light.
He journeyed more cautiously than ever. That those who trailed him were Imre Monteil’s hirelings he had no doubt. The Swiss was the only person who knew he might be in France—aside from the chevalier, of course, who would not have betrayed him. Still, it was odd: Monteil had left the fishing village before him and, with the advantage of a coach and four fresh horses, plus freedom from having to keep out of sight and guard against arrest, he should have reached Rennes last evening at the latest. If Rennes was his destination. Perhaps he was intent upon demanding satisfaction from the man who had knocked him down. Whatever the case, it would be interesting to know what was his business with the Crazy Carpet Man.
The sun came up, setting the clouds afire with pink and red and mauve, and turning the droplets left by last night’s rain into countless glittering gems. When the celestial display faded the skies were overcast but bright and although the air was chill it was a crisp cold. Vespa rode with eyes and ears alert for other travellers, but an hour later he had seen only a solitary boy herding some two-score sheep. He was hungry and risked enquiring about a tavern or inn where he might buy food. The boy stared at him with great solemn dark eyes and spoke in the odd Breton tongue that had so much in it of Gaelic. So far as Vespa could decipher, he was being asked the same question as to whether he was from France. When he answered that he was a citizen of Italy the boy evidently understood, because a smile brightened his face, and he pointed to the southeast and said something that Vespa translated as indicating the route to an inn ‘with a good wife.’
He thanked the young shepherd and rode on. The boy shouted, and turning back Vespa waved. And far beyond the boy he saw on the crest of a ridge a bright flash, such as might be made by a rifle barrel—or a telescope. Or perhaps merely some traveller’s frying pan.
The ‘inn’ turned out to be a small farmhouse sadly in need of paint. The ‘good wife’ was a thin, sour-looking woman who stood in the doorway wiping her hands on the apron to which a small girl clung timidly. The woman eyed Vespa with suspicion. He gave her a warm smile and begged that the ‘gentle madame’ would forgive his poor knowledge of the language since he was Italian-born and could but do his best.
Some of her hostility faded. She sniffed, pushed away the child with one hand and tidied her stringy hair with the other. Her name, she imparted, was Madame Forêt. “It is that m’sieu wants breakfast, eh? When my stove is yet barely warm!”
“And you are very busy, madame. One can see that so sparkling a kitchen must have a peerless lady to rule over it, a lady whose fame as a cook I have heard much of. Might I be permitted to wait? Perchance the little one would care to sit on my lap? I will tell her a story. Your first-born, madame?”
Since the lady was obviously nearing fifty, this was rank flattery, but having been named a peerless cook and housekeeper in one breath, as it were, her hostility was quite gone.
She beamed at Vespa. He was permitted to enter her kitchen, the ‘little one’ flew to clamber on his lap, and at once they were the best of friends.
Vespa told small Anne-Marie the story of Corporal and of his fear of cats and the troubles this had caused. Both the ladies were enchanted and squealed with laughter. As a reward, Vespa was given permission to wash and shave at the pump behind the house. He stripped to the waist and used soap and towel vigorously, the icy water setting his blood tingling. As was his habit, he sang while he washed, taking care to choose a French ballad. Anne-Marie giggled and jumped up and down and while he shaved did her innocent best to teach him how to carry a tune.
Afterwards, he enjoyed an excellent breakfast of a baguette, the long round loaf still hot and fragrant from the oven, an omelette served with fresh mushrooms and goat cheese, and a mug of superb coffee.
Madame Forêt washed dishes and hinted gently at his reason for coming to Brittany, and he told her his tale of having been sent to find the ‘Crazy Carpet Man.’ Both mother and daughter were excited by this confidence. Anne-Marie lisped that the Carpet Man was her especial friend, and Madame said smilingly that the poor depraved one had given her daughter sugared almonds when they had journeyed to Rennes. “If you wish to come up with him, Monsieur Jacques,” she said, “you will be wise to swing south of the city, for he was travelling in that direction.”
Vespa thanked her and at once made preparations to depart. When he slipped several coins into her hand, Madame gave a little nod as though she had reached some decision, and to his surprise put in a plea that Anne-Marie be permitted to ride Bruine once around the yard. Vespa hesitated; the child was ecstatically eager, but she was very small. He lifted her to the saddle and prepared to walk beside Bruine. However, Madame Forêt insisted that her daughter was quite able to ride without assistance. Clearly, the lady wanted to speak to him alone.
As soon as her little girl was out of earshot, Madame Fôret leaned to Vespa’s ear. “You are the good man,” she said softly. “But you must beware. You ride a dark path, and you are sought.”
He stared at her, but when he attempted to respond she waved her hands impatiently. “This I will say, although I know you are not Italian, but an Englishman, like the crazy one, and the others, who are of a rudeness and speak the so-bad Bretagne.”
Taken aback, Vespa said, “Englishmen have been here seeking me? Did they perhaps leave a message?”
She shook her head. “I think they do not wish you well. It is perhaps that you are the spy, and I have too trusting the nature. But my ancestors came from your place called Cornwall. This Bonaparte who calls himself our Emperor, he send his great soldiers to tear all our young men away and force them to go and fight. They have not come back. Not one. And what is he? An upstart! Do I like him? No, I do not! Do I have need of him? Again, I have not! What has he done for Bretagne? Nothing! But you, Monsieur Jacques, you have the kind heart and have made my poppet laugh, who has been sad since her brothers are gone off to the war. And so now I warn you. Guard your back, and keep always among the shadows! And now, be off with you! And Dieu vous bénisse!”
Vespa thanked her for the warning and for her blessing and bade an affectionate farewell to little Anne-Marie. An hour later he was still pondering Madame Forêt’s remarks, and heeding her warning to be alert for ambush.
He was drawing closer to Rennes now. There were more houses and farms, more people to be avoided, more and better-maintained roads. As far as possible, he kept to by-ways and wooded areas, pausing often to scan the countryside behind him, but detecting no sign of pursuit.
It was as he dismounted and led Bruine to a stream that Madame’s warning proved justified. He heard a high-pitched metallic whirr. His reaction was very fast, but even as he crouched and whipped around something jerked sharply at the cape of his cloak. A solid thud, and silence. No following attack; no triumphant shouts; no glimpse of anyone. For a split second he stared at his cloak, the cape pinned to the trunk of a tree. It was a young tree. The bolt had transfixed it. He thought in astonishment, ‘Crossbow! Be damned!’ And tearing his cloak free, he sprang into the saddle and sent Bruine off at the gallop.
He had not anticipated that Monteil would order his death; in fact, he’d suspected the Swiss wanted information from him. If they’d intended to capture him, a fine marksman could have used a rifle to bring him down without inflicting a fatal wound. But a crossbow—while admittedly having the advantage of silence—offered little in the way of precision, even in the hands of an expert. Whoever had fired that bolt must have known that a hit might very well result in death. And if he died, Monteil would lose the opportunity to either force Kincraig’s whereabouts from him, or to make him lead them to the baron. It was puzzling in the extreme—unless the Swiss had already found Kincraig and was determined to keep him away. But in that case—why bother? He was riding alone and would pose small threat to the man, especially if Monteil had his giant servant at his side.
He bent low over the pommel and urged the mare to greater speed. Now that he had been found he must detour, for whoever these enemies might be, he had no intention of leading them to Lord Kincraig. He turned eastward, therefore, and rode for an hour, leaving a clear trail until at length he guided Bruine into a stream and they splashed along for over a mile before leaving the water at a low spot in the bank where the soil was mostly rocks and pebbles and the mare’s hooves left no imprint to betray them. Turning in a wide sweep, Vespa headed south once more. Just before noon, he was riding through a copse of poplars at the crest of a rise. It was not a high hill, but it afforded a fine view of the surrounding area. He saw three men riding slowly along the stream he had left and obviously searching for tracks. They were too far away for him to identify them, but as he’d hoped, they were proceeding eastward. He smiled grimly and reined Bruine around. With luck, he’d find Kincraig before the would-be assassins realized their error. With more luck, he’d whisk his lordship safely back to Château Coligny and within a day or two they’d be back on British soil.
* * *
“It is the best notion I’ve heard of for the past two days,” declared Consuela, her eyes sparkling. “Of course we should leave! I will—”
Seated beside her in the chill château library, Manderville roared a sneeze into his handkerchief, groaned, and whispered, “Hush! They’ll hear you! And I did not say we—I said—”
“If you think for one instant, Lieutenant Paige Manderville, that you are going to leave me here with that revolting female—”
He put a hand over her lips. “For heaven’s sake! Madame Thérèse is very beautiful, and—”
Wrenching away, Consuela said scornfully, “She would agree with you, I am quite sure!”
“Anyone would. And she has been more than kind. Own that she has provided us with food and lodging—”
“Only because her husband insisted upon it!”
“And she gave you a toothbrush and tooth powder, and even loaned you some of her garments—”
“Her garments?” Consuela spread her arms and wailed, “Can you suppose Madame would ever have worn this? It is hideous and it does not even smell nice! I know I am no beauty, but this rag makes me look absolutely dreadful!”
Manderville eyed the faded brown round gown sceptically. It had seen better days, certainly, many better days; and along the way had been clumsily darned here and there. The colour made Consuela look washed out, and the style or lack of it concealed her ample curves and gave her a dumpy appearance. He was rather surprised that Thérèse de Coligny would offer even an uninvited guest such a shabby frock, but striving to pour oil on troubled waters, he said, “I don’t think the chevalier is exactly plump in the pockets, you know; times are hard for these people. I expect that—er, dress was intended to serve only while your own clothes are being laundered. It was—er, probably made for Madame in her youth.”
“Stuff! It is from some old cast-offs she had gathered to donate to the poor—I heard her giggling with her
maid over it! She said I was not tall enough to wear her gowns, and would look ridiculous if I were to try and do so. Oh, Paige, I am not an ungrateful girl! I do not expect to borrow her best gowns, but surely she must have something better than this. I offered to wash and iron my own things, but they were taken away and each time I ask for them I am told they are not drying properly. The truth is that she had a spark in her eye for Jack, and she thinks it will be a grand joke for him to see me in this monstrosity when he comes back.” Consuela gave a little sniff and said in a forlorn voice, “I tell you, Paige, she fairly loathes me.”
“Now why on earth should she do so? I have seen her smile at you most kindly, and she has never by the least hint suggested—”
“Oh, no. She is all polite sweetness to me in front of you and the chevalier, but when I am alone with her, she is perfectly horrid and treats me as though I were a—a fallen woman!”
Manderville groaned. “Do try to be reasonable. I know you’re worried about Jack, but you must not let your imagination run away with you.”
“I have done no such thing! You silly creature, have you not noticed how Madame Thérèse is absolutely obsessed with her handsome husband? I believe she resents anyone—including poor little Pierre—who dares intrude on their privacy.”
“You just said she liked Jack, which—”
“She liked him better than she likes me, certainly. And she cannot resist fluttering her eyelashes at any male. But I believe that if she could, she would kidnap her prize Gaston away to a cave somewhere and shut out the whole world!” She scowled and muttered stormily, “There are women like that, you know. It is a form of madness.”
Manderville threw up his hands in frustration. “How you can have taken the lady in such aversion is beyond me.”
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 18
