The Fortune-Hunter

by Julia Herbert

  “Even if you find him,” Mrs. Tyrrell lamented, “he will only tell you what he said in court—that he saw Mr. Tyrrell in a rage.”

  “But perhaps I can make him admit that was a lie.”

  “No, sir, it was the truth, I’m sure,” she insisted. “Mr. Tyrrell did not come to bed until late that night, and when he did he was very angry and disturbed.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “Oh no, I was half asleep—but I could tell by his breathing and the way he tossed about.”

  “So although it seems clear that he went out that night, there’s only Stephen Boles’s word that he was at Parall.”

  “But ... but ... I’m sure he was there, taxing Beau with his feelings for me.”

  Maldon exchanged a brief glance with Amy. He read in her face what he himself sensed—that Mrs. Tyrrell was romancing about the relationship that had existed between herself and her handsome neighbour.

  “Had your husband any grounds for taking the matter seriously?” he said with complete bluntness. “Had you taken any steps to embark on an affair with Mr. Gramont? Had secret messages passed between you that he might have intercepted? Did you keep assignations with him?”

  “Mr. Maldon!” She was deeply shocked. “I am a respectable married woman!”

  “So there was nothing to force your husband to action.”

  “But George has always had a violent temper.”

  “That is a different matter from being a violent man.”

  “But he could act rashly. He dismissed Stephen Boles on the spot.”

  “He did not, however, take a stick to Stephen Boles. Would you expect Mr. Tyrrell to take a dagger to a man who teased you and made you laugh?”

  Mrs. Tyrrell clasped and unclasped her hands. “Who knows what a jealous man will do?” she murmured.

  Mr. Maldon took his leave, thanking his lucky stars that though Amy took her good looks from her mother, she inherited her good sense from her father.

  He had already thought out where he was likely to get word of the chief witness against Mr. Tyrrell. Boles the dismissed footman had gone to beg a bed at Parall, so Maldon rode up the drive and, though no groom came to take his horse, knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, more vehemently. After a long delay the bolts were drawn and the Gramonts’ butler, Canoway, appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I should like to come in, if you please,” Maldon said in surprise.

  “Mrs. Gramont is seeing no one.”

  “I have come to see Mr. Gramont.”

  “Mr. Gramont is dead.”

  “I mean, of course, the young Mr. Gramont,” Maldon said in the face of this assumed obtuseness.

  “Mr. Bernard is not seeing anyone.”

  “Please tell him it is extremely important, Canoway.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. My orders are to admit no one on any pretext.”

  “Then tell me where I can find Stephen Boles.”

  “Boles?” Canoway said, his long face going frozen with surprise.

  “The former footman at the Manor House.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  Maldon saw no reason not to tell him. “I am preparing the defence for Mr. Tyrrell and I need to talk to Boles about his evidence at the inquest.”

  “You’re defending Mr. Tyrrell?”

  “Come, man,” Maldon said in annoyance, “stop repeating what I say as if you were a trained starling! Where is Stephen Boles? Is he still here?”

  “He’s gone, sir,” Canoway said, backing into the hall. “I’ve no idea where he’s gone!”

  Before Maldon could get another query out, the door had slammed shut.

  Well, thought he, there’s for you! What a panic to be in over a footman from the neighbouring household. What can be behind it?

  The rebuff only made him the more determined to get into Parall. He rode back down the drive, aware that he was being watched from behind the curtains of the morning room, and out into the lane. Here he tethered Gylo to a bush and walked back to the boundary hedge of Parall.

  As he looked through the gaps in the hedge he saw a liveried footman walk down the drive and take up his stance at the gates. The man was shouldering a cudgel.

  So it was as important as that to keep people out? An armed guard on the gates...

  Greatly intrigued, he remounted and rode away so that the footman could hear his departure. Once out of hearing he stopped again and went on foot round the estate, which was now masked by a high and handsome wall of red brick. It proved no great obstacle to a man as tall and as active as Mr. Maldon.

  On the other side he found a rather tangled shrubbery, where a gravel path wound among the bushes. He kept off the gravel because of the sound it would make under his riding boots. The light was failing now; cloud had come up during the earlier part of the evening and now the added depth of twilight cast shadows over everything. By walking along the grassy edge of the path he reached a sheet of ornamental water, embellished with fountains, statues and a Chinese bridge.

  Now he had to leave the shelter of the bushes to cross an expanse of lawn. Beyond the lake, the house stood silent in the gathering darkness, its windows shuttered, almost as if it were abandoned. Good, he thought, no one about. He emerged from the shrubbery and began to make his way forward.

  Then he heard the sound of a little door creaking open. Footsteps could be heard on the flagstoned court surrounding the house. A cloaked figure was coming towards the lake. From the light tap of the footsteps, it was a woman.

  She drifted in an undecided, aimless way along the far edge. Something about her began to alarm Jeffrey Maldon. She was not moving like a lady out to enjoy the evening air—to him she seemed more like some sad little ghost.

  She spoke, and he recognised the voice. It was Mrs. Gramont.

  “You won’t have long to wait, my dearest. I am coming—a wife’s place is with her husband, is it not? But they’re foolish ... foolish! He is like you, my love—when he tells me to do a thing I must obey, so I stay indoors and I think of you. But just this once I must go against his wishes, because I know you want me with you.”

  It was a low babble of sound, almost incoherent. Why, thought Maldon, she is out of her poor senses! She was wandering along the verge of the lake now, staring into the darkening waters as if she could see her husband’s face reflected there alongside her own.

  “He will be angry that I have come out. You were never angry, my own one. You smiled all the time. Ah, you smiled too much! And at too many people. You should have smiled only at me, and then nothing would ever have gone wrong between us.” She leaned forward, perilously close to the waters, her hands thrown out. “Wait for me, my handsome John! I am coming!”

  Maldon waited for no more. He shouted in warning and ran to reach her, round the edge of the long pool of water, his riding boots pounding on the gravel walk. Mrs. Gramont, startled, wheeled at his approach. As he saw that she was distracted from whatever act had been in her mind a moment ago, he slowed.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Gramont,” he said rather breathlessly, but trying for a conversational tone.

  She peered at him. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Jeffrey Maldon, at your service, ma’am. I’ve come to offer my condolences.”

  That phrase was a mistake. “Condolences?” she repeated. “No need for that. Everything will soon be well. John and I will soon be together.”

  “Nay, now,” he replied, taking her arm in a gentle grasp, “this is not the time for thoughts like that. Your son and your daughters need you. Come, let’s go indoors to find them.”

  “I don’t want to see them,” she countered, almost querulous.

  “You love your children, don’t you?”

  “Only Bernard,” she said simply. “He is like his father.”

  “Then let us go in and find him,” Maldon said, and walked with her towards the house.

/>   It was too much to hope that all this would have escaped notice. A little light-shod woman might walk about in the grounds without attracting attention, but a tall man shouting and running was bound to bring someone out to find out what was going on.

  A man had come from the same little side door through which Mrs. Gramont had emerged, and was now hurrying across the lawn to them. As he drew near, Mr. Maldon could see that it was Bernard Gramont.

  “Maldon!” he exclaimed, in utter astonishment. “What-a-devil are you doing here?”

  “Bringing your mother indoors from a delirious venture,” he said. “You ought to take better care of her, Gramont.”

  “Mind your own confounded business,” Bernard said, putting an arm round the frail shoulders of his mother. “I told Cano way not to let you in!”

  “Nor he did,” Maldon agreed. “I climbed the wall.”

  “That is trespass, sir.”

  “I admit it. If you wish to, you may sue me. But I need to speak to Stephen Boles.”

  “He is not here, sir. And I wish you were not!”

  “Come, Gramont, be reasonable. Miss Tyrrell has entrusted her father’s case to me, and so I—”

  “Aye, well done, sir!” Bernard Gramont burst out. “You may hoodwink Amy but you don’t hoodwink me! I see you for what you are—an adventurer, and an unscrupulous one at that. She wouldn’t look at you before, but now you think you’ll get her all to yourself. Well, we’ll see, we’ll see, my clever friend!”

  “Well-a-day,” Maldon said in surprise. “How you hate me! But why? What have I ever done to you?”

  “I never trusted you,” the other man replied, his voice rising almost hysterically. “What brought you to this part of the world? To make a beginning as a lawyer? Nonsense! There are far more lucrative places to practise law. I saw through you from the outset. I knew you wanted Amy!”

  “And why does that anger you so? You didn’t want her.”

  That brought Bernard Gramont up short. His fine-skinned, pale face went blank with surprise. “What makes you say that?”

  “By all that’s holy—! Because you didn’t take her, man! There she was, the prettiest and liveliest girl in the southern counties, and what did you do? You played cards, you chased the ladies of pleasure in Southampton and Poole—oh, aye, it was common talk. If you had cared sixpence for Miss Tyrrell you would have spared her that humiliation.”

  “You have no right to discuss Miss Tyrrell’s affairs.”

  “More right than you have, Gramont. I am trying to help her father, whereas you, so far as I can see, are trying to impede the course of justice. Why won’t you tell me where I can find Stephen Boles?”

  “If you’re so clever,” sneered Bernard, “find him for yourself!”

  “I will, believe me,” said Maldon, tight-lipped. “But it would be a kindness to Amy and her father if you would put me on the track of the man who accused him.”

  “Bernard,” Mrs. Gramont said suddenly, “is Mr. Tyrrell in some trouble?”

  “No, no, Mama,” said her son, “nothing of any importance. Come now, come indoors. You shall have some mulled wine and Janet will read you to sleep.”

  “Nay, dearest, don’t make me go to bed,” she said in a piteous tone. “I have such terrible dreams! I dream that your Papa is dead, Bernard.”

  Without another word to Maldon her son led her away.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Next morning Amy Tyrrell was on the watch for the arrival of Mr. Maldon. When she heard the sound of hooves on the drive she darted to the window of the morning room, leaving her mother in the midst of a sentence. But, alas, it was Mr. Pierce she saw being helped down from his fat little mare.

  “Well, my dear,” he said as she was shown in, “how are you? You went to Winchester, I hear. I hope you did not find the journey too exhausting. And my dear Mrs. Tyrrell—pray, ma’am, don’t disturb yourself.”

  But Mrs. Tyrrell, in a flood of welcoming tears, was rushing towards him. “Mr. Pierce, dear old friend!” she cried. “So you have come to call! Ah, it’s so good of you! Do you know, not a soul has been near us, save Mr. Maldon?”

  “It’s of Mr. Maldon that I wish to talk,” the old man said, subsiding gratefully into a chair. “He came to see me last night.”

  “Did he? Oh, you wish to talk of business, do you? Then I’ll go and tell Molly to make some refreshment,” Mrs. Tyrrell said. “We have no servants, you know, Mr. Pierce—’tis so tiresome! One has to go on foot and ask for things in the kitchen.”

  She hurried out, and Mr. Pierce made no attempt to stop her. His faded old eyes were on Amy, and she had a feeling that there was something weighty on his mind.

  “Child,” he said, “why did you not ask your father to turn to me?”

  “Sir?”

  “On a matter of business—good heavens, he and I have been friends this twenty years or more. Why trust a man we none of us know?”

  “Uncle Pierce,” Amy said with the beginnings of anger, “Mr. Maldon volunteered to take charge of the defence of my father-”

  “I’m not speaking of the defence, Amy. True, I give you that—no one else would undertake it and Maldon put himself forward. But the other matter is different.”

  “What other matter? What are we speaking of?” she demanded, anger giving way to mystification.

  “You mean your father didn’t discuss it with you first?”

  “I did not see my father, sir.”

  “What? But you went to Winchester...”

  “Aye, but met Mr. Maldon there, most fortunately. He undertook to visit my father in the prison first, for he felt it would overset him if I arrived unannounced.”

  “But you just said that you didn’t go?”

  “In the event, no. My father sent word that he would prefer it if I did not visit him.”

  “Did he so?” the old man said, pulling at his lower lip. “Why, yes, sir. He told Mr. Maldon to give me that message.”

  “You only have Mr. Maldon’s word for that.”

  Amy stared, and felt herself colour up in indignation. “Mr. Pierce, pray take care what you say! I don’t believe Mr. Maldon would tell me something that was not true.”

  Edward Pierce shrugged himself a little more comfortably into the chair. “Tut, tut, don’t be tetchy with me, little one. I’m your old Uncle Pierce, remember? I only wish you well. If I speak doubtingly of Mr. Maldon it’s because I see more to doubt than you do. For instance, I now learn that you did not see your father at all, so you had no opportunity to express an opinion on his course of action until too late. But surely you must have been surprised when you saw the document?”

  “What document, sir?” She hesitated. “Do you mean the letter he brought me from the prison? I cannot say I was surprised by that—I was grateful, rather.”

  “Nay,” said Mr. Pierce. “Do you mean you have not seen it?”

  “Seen what, sir?”

  “The power-of-attorney.”

  She blinked. “P-power-of-attorney?” she stammered.

  “He did not show it to you? Well, no matter—’tis much like any other. But what did you feel when you heard of it?”

  “I ... I...”

  The old man suddenly sat up straight. “You have not heard of it!” he exclaimed.

  “No, sir. I can’t say I have. But then ... Mr. Maldon had little opportunity...”

  “Fiddle-de-dee! He could have made an opportunity! Do you mean to tell me he didn’t inform you that your father had given him power-of-attorney over his affairs?”

  Her thoughts racing, Amy tried to grasp at her self-control. “He has not told me thus far, Mr. Pierce, but I am expecting him soon and have no doubt he will make me au fait with all business matters She heard her own voice babble and cut herself off. She mustn’t allow herself to sound as if she were in a panic.

  Mr. Pierce sighed. “I wonder at you, Amy! You are an intelligent girl—how can you deceive yourself so? You know as well as I do that
you and your mother are now in a very strange situation—in the guardianship of a man you scarcely know, and without prior consultation on that point, either! Your father must have been out of his mind to be talked into such a thing.”

  Amy drew a deep breath. “It is not so strange, neither,” she protested. “My father felt he must make some provision for the running of his estates, and Mr. Maldon had come like an angel of mercy—”

  “Angel of mercy!” Mr. Pierce echoed derisively. “Soldier of fortune, more like! Come, child, look at it coolly. Your father is in great distress, under threat of hanging. Jeffrey Maldon reads of the events in the London papers and comes post-haste down to Hampshire to see what he can make of his chances—”

  “No, sir, that is unjust! He came to offer his services.”

  “Out of sheer goodness of heart?”

  “Well ... perhaps not entirely. I believe he once did intend to ... to offer for my hand.”

  “Ah.”

  “But he didn’t do so, sir, because he had heard that I was pledged to Bernard. He left for London on business—”

  “Aye, and what happened to that business? He simply abandoned it, did he, to rush to your father’s aid? Now, Amy, use your wits. He read that your father was arrested and on a charge of killing Beau Gramont, reasoned that that would have broken up any marriage planned between you and Bernard, and came to see what he could scavenge from among the pieces.”

  “Uncle Pierce, I assure you, you are being most unjust!” she cried. “He interposed between myself and a mob of ruffians in Winchester, at some danger to himself.”

  “Truly? He rode up like a knight errant, did he?”

  “Well, you may mock, but indeed he did.” She recalled that moment, and how his arms had gone about her as he helped her from the carriage. How grateful she had been!