The Fortune-Hunter

by Julia Herbert

  “Supposed to have done?” she countered, annoyed that for a moment she had been on the verge of weakening. “Do you deny that you persuaded my father to give you his power-of-attorney?”

  “I do indeed deny it! It was he himself who suggested it. My feeling was that he should send the document to Mr. Pierce asking him to act, but he replied that I was the only legal counsel who had taken the trouble to come to his aid, and he therefore begged me to undertake full charge of his affairs. If you doubt it, go and ask him.”

  “Ah,” Amy cried, “but you would not let me see him when I had the chance! First you forbade me to go, and then you came with a supposed message from him saying he did not wish me to come to—”

  “A supposed message?” Maldon broke in. His voice was grim. “Are you saying that I lied to you?”

  “It certainly strikes me as remarkable that my father should have refused an opportunity to talk to me.”

  “Then you have little understanding of how a man can feel,” he said. “He wanted to spare you the misery of seeing him in such surroundings—he acted out of affection, out of generosity. But I begin to think, Miss Tyrrell, that you have no conception of either.”

  Amy gasped. “How dare you say such a thing, sir!”

  “Oh, I dare! I have seen you at close quarters in these last two days, and your chief concern seems to be for your own self-importance.”

  “That is not true! You have no right to say that! I am thinking only of my father.”

  “And how does it help him to antagonise the only man who comes to his aid?”

  “Ah, there you are, that’s your trump card, is it not? You think you can do what you like, say what you like, because no one else will undertake the investigation. Well, Mr. Maldon, you are wrong. I can manage very well without you. I will do as much as you are likely to do, and perhaps more.”

  “You?” he said, with scorn.

  “Oh, don’t sneer, sir! I can get advice from Uncle Pierce, and as to the finding of Stephen Boles I daresay I can manage that as well as you can.”

  “You are talking nonsense. The Pegmen are antagonists much more ruthless than any you have met at a whist party

  “Do you take me for a fool? I understand that they are wicked men. But at least they are openly wicked—they make no pretence of friendship

  “I see. You are saying that in offering my help I have only been pretending. What purpose would that serve for me?”

  “You are the best judge of that, sir.”

  “I begin to doubt that I am a judge of anything,” Maldon said with cold disdain. “I took you for a good-hearted, intelligent girl, but I begin to see that you are as easily led as a tame sheep! Some cunning arguments from Mr. Pierce, a few complaints from that selfish idiot Gramont, and you are parted from common sense!”

  “Bernard is not selfish!” cried Amy. “He is hurt and unhappy—”

  “He is silly and thoughtless, and always has been. He kept you dangling when any man in his right mind would have taken you in his arms—”

  “Dangling?” Amy echoed, seizing on the only part of this that struck home. “Your language is not very gentlemanly, Mr. Maldon!”

  “No, but it is honest—and my honesty has been called in question. On grounds that you ought to dismiss at once, if you were any judge of character. Bernard Gramont was playing on your sympathy when he complained of my visit to Parall—if he had any real concern for you he would do all he could to help find Stephen Boles. And as for Edward Pierce—”

  “Yes, what of Mr. Pierce? Belittle him if you can. He has been a friend of my father’s since I was a tiny child.”

  “Are you sure he is a friend? Might he not be fonder of your father’s money than of his character? To be lawyer to George Tyrrell, squire of Markledon, brings fine fat fees and high reputation—therefore to find that someone else has been given the power-of-attorney is bound to annoy him.”

  “There is another side to that story, Mr. Maldon. To come to Markledon as a struggling young lawyer and find that old Mr. Pierce has all the clients worth having might be very irritating. So to be given the power-of-attorney over the biggest estates in the district is a great triumph. But let me tell you, if you think to make your fortune through that, you will be disappointed. From now on I shall take charge of all my father’s affairs. You are released from that task.”

  Mr. Maldon drew himself up so that his tall figure positively loomed over her.

  “You are not competent to discharge me, madam. Your father engaged me. Only he can give me my conge.”

  She had a feeling that he was right. But she could drive home her point in a different way. “Cling on to the semblance of usefulness if you must, Mr. Maldon. But you will not get a penny from doing so. I shall act for Papa, and I shall tell him I have done so if you present him with a bill. You will not receive any payment, and so I warn you.”

  “Indeed?” said Mr. Maldon through his teeth. “Then I had better exact my payment now, had I not?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  For answer he stepped up to her and before she had the least suspicion of what he intended, he had taken her in his arms.

  He pulled her savagely against him and brought his mouth down on hers. There seemed to be no love in the kiss—and yet there was passion. Though she struggled, he held her fast. She could feel an unrelenting strength in the arms that bound her to him, and after a moment she let herself become passive. To fight against him was useless.

  In that instant, when her body yielded to the fierceness of his embrace, the savagery vanished. His mouth upon hers was like silk on silk, the steel bands that had seized her were replaced by gentle caresses. Amy felt her heart lurch within her breast, and for one traitorous moment her fingers were longing to feel his soft fair hair under their touch.

  But she stiffened and pulled herself away. He let her go.

  “Well, sir,” she said in stifled voice, “may we mark the account ‘Paid in Full’?”

  If there had been a softening of his expression it was gone at those words.

  “Oh no, Miss Tyrrell,” he replied. “That was only a first reckoning. The final bill will be presented when your father walks out of Winchester Gaol a free man—and on that day, beware, for I rate my services high!”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  A very angry man, Mr. Maldon strode out of the Manor House and threw himself on his horse. He went headlong down the drive, then turned at random across country at a gallop, seeking to vent his anger on some strenuous activity. If the big black was surprised at such treatment after the hardship of two days’ travel, first from London and then from Winchester, he made no demur, but stretched out his neck and answered the pressure of the heels on his flanks. But quite soon, after about a mile, his master drew rein. “Nay, Gylo, good boy,” he said, leaning forward to pat the horse on the neck, “I’m proving I’m a fool as well as a villain! What good does it do to tire you out, riding in the wrong direction? I should be heading back to Markledon, not careering about the country in a rage.”

  Gylo blew through his nostrils and jerked his head a little, to let Maldon know he was listening.

  “She will never like me now,” Maldon said. “And I don’t deserve that she should. But truly, her devotion to that self-indulgent fool Gramont is enough to put an angel out of patience—and I am no angel.”

  Gylo gave a little snort.

  “What? You think I am? But that’s only because I see you well fed and carefully groomed, old friend. If it was as easy to prove to Amy Tyrrell that I am an angel, heaven might soon open its doors to me.” He sighed. “Well, it’s no use regretting what is done.” And after a moment, in a lower tone, “I don’t even regret it! To hold her in my arms was worth almost anything! ”

  He turned Gylo and began to make his way home at a more reasonable pace. He had rooms in the house of an elderly couple just off the High Street of Markledon, where his landlady greeted him with, “There’s a man waiting for y
ou in your office, Mr. Maldon.”

  “A man? A client?”

  “As to that, sir, I don’t care to know,” Mrs. Mason said in a rather quavering voice. “And I’d take it a favour, sir, if you’d make arrangements to move elsewhere.”

  He paused in the act of tying Gylo’s reins to the waiting-bar. “Why so, Mrs. Mason?” he asked, taken aback.

  “Well, Mr. Maldon, sir, forgive me, it’s nothing personal. A well-spoken gentleman you are, and no trouble as a lodger, but ... well ... it’s been said that you could bring trouble here.”

  “Ah! You’ve had threats from the Pegmen?”

  “Sir, sir, I don’t want to discuss it!” She put the corner of her apron up to her eyes. “Mr. Mason and I aren’t young, you know, and are not fit to deal with the likes of ... of ... well, sir, the long and the short of it is, you must go, and go at once.”

  “But you must give me a month’s notice, Mrs. Mason,” he replied, watching her as he spoke. “That was our agreement—a month’s notice on either side.”

  “Nay, sir, I’ll refund the rent you’ve paid, so long as you’ll agree to go. I beg you sir, please don’t stay out your notice.”

  He took one of her plump little hands in his. “What have they threatened, ma’am? Have they said they’ll harm you?”

  “They’ve told us,” she lowered her voice to a frightened whisper, “they’ve told us they’ll set fire to the house if we don’t drive you out!”

  So, he thought, he was that much of a danger to the Pegmen? His quick mind put two and two together. Here was reinforcement to his belief that Mr. Tyrrell was innocent, that the charge of murder was merely a stratagem to get him out of the smugglers’ way, that Stephen Boles was in the pay of the smugglers.

  “I’ll try to find somewhere to go,” he promised Mrs. Mason. Alas that he had quarrelled with Amy—if he had kept his temper he might have been able to stay at the Manor House now that he was about to become homeless.

  He went into the ground floor room he used as an office. A man rose and confronted him, so suddenly that Maldon seized him by the lapels of his jacket to ward him off.

  “Good for you, sir,” said an amused voice. “I see you’re on your guard!”

  “And who the devil are you?—Why, it’s David Bartholomew, is it not?” And in fact, now that his eyes were accustomed to the dim light indoors, Jeffrey Maldon could make out a slight, trim figure in a dark coat and riding breeches, a thin and pointed face under dark hair beginning to recede. David Bartholomew looked shrewd and intelligent, too.

  “Yes, Mr. Maldon, the riding officer for the Department of Customs and Excise, at your service. I hear you’ve been looking for me?”

  “Aye, and damned elusive you’ve proved to be,” Maldon said, throwing his hat on his desk and gesturing the other to a chair. “All this morning I’ve been riding about Markledon trying to discover your whereabouts.”

  “Mr. Maldon, this is a good time for friends of Mr. Tyrrell to lie low,” said the other man, sitting down rather wearily.

  “So,” Maldon said, “you’re a friend of Mr. Tyrrell’s?”

  “Say rather he’s a friend to me. He’s supported me in my work when others hereabouts would be happy to see me drown or disappear. I tell you, sir, the amount of control that the Pegmen have in this district is frightening—only Mr. Tyrrell was prepared to try to bring them to justice, and gave suitable sentences to those I was able to catch with smuggled goods in their possession.”

  “And that’s why the Pegmen are so particularly anxious to see George Tyrrell hang?”

  “Oh, there’s more, Mr. Maldon. Y’see, the Excise and the Navy between them have no luck catching the smugglers. The government can’t spare the men or the money. Although,” Bartholomew went on in a musing tone, with a sharp glance at his host, “I do hear rumours that a special investigator is to be sent to the area, to see if he can learn something of what’s going on, for instance among the gentry. Us commoners can’t mingle with the landowners and such, of course.”

  Maldon gave a shrug. “One would have thought that that would be confidential information, if it’s true?”

  “Aye, surely, but as I was hinting, there’s people in high places who benefit from the smugglers’ activities. No doubt someone in the London office has been paid to pass on hints of that kind. And it may not be true, of course.”

  “Quite so,” Maldon agreed. “But Mr. Tyrrell is not one of the landowners you suspect of being involved?”

  “On the contrary, sir,” the exciseman said with approval. “Mr. Tyrrell himself paid for the hire of a ship and crew, a privateer called the Swift—”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Maldon.

  “Aye, so you’ve heard? They took a big contraband cargo just the other day, from a yawl, the Three Brothers. And the Pegmen are furiously angry about it.”

  “But how could it be known that Mr. Tyrrell had put up the money for the privateer? Surely that was a secret?”

  “He told no one but me, sir,” Bartholomew said in a sad tone, “yet somehow they got wind of it. I reckon it was through that footman, Stephen Boles—listening at keyholes or going through his master’s papers on the sly!”

  Maldon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So then he passed on the information to his masters—but who? Who gives orders to such as Stephen Boles?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out, Mr. Maldon. Seems to me it might be someone in the Gramont household, because when Mr. Tyrrell threw him out Boles went straight to the Gramonts.”

  “Well, I tried making inquiries there, and had the door closed in my face. When I got in by rather underhanded methods, Mr. Gramont evaded giving me any answers to my questions.” He pondered. “It seems beyond doubt that Mr. Tyrrell and Beau Gramont had an angry scene the night Beau Gramont died. What do you think it was about, Bartholomew?”

  The exciseman frowned. “Difficult to say, sir. Mr. Tyrrell’s temper takes fire easy, as you might say. But two things in particular would set him off. One is his daughter—and truly, sir, ’tis shameful how the young Mr. Gramont behaved, considering he was expected to marry Miss Tyrrell.”

  “Aye,” Maldon said in a grim tone.

  “And the t’other is the smuggling. Mr. Tyrrell believes that defiance of the law is turning this whole district into a wilderness where honest men needs must obey scoundrels. If Mr. Tyrrell had an argument with Mr. Gramont, it could well have been about either of those two things.”

  “I wish he would tell me,” Maldon muttered. “I did my utmost to persuade him, but he refused to speak of it.”

  “Don’t that make you think, sir, that it was something to do with Miss Amy? He loves her dearly. He wouldn’t want to say anything to harm her.”

  “I must go back to Winchester,” Maldon decided. “I must make him confide in me. While I am away, David, will you try to find this man Boles? You would probably have more success than I could, because you know more about the haunts of the smugglers.”

  “That’s true enough, Mr. Maldon. And I think it’s likely I’ll run him down in Poole.”

  “Poole?”

  “Aye, sir, ’tis odd indeed, but there seems to be a general drift in the direction of Poole these last few days. I don’t understand it myself.”

  Maldon thought about it. “Can it be anything to do with the captured contraband? I remember Bryce told us that it had been locked up in the Custom House at Poole.”

  “So it has, but then what? They can’t get it out. I suppose they’re moving in that direction just to see what happens to their goods.”

  “I wonder if that’s the reason?” Maldon remarked. “It might not be a bad notion, David, to let the London headquarters know that the Pegmen are showing an interest in Poole.”

  “You think so, sir?”

  “It can do no harm.”

  “But what could they do, even if they knew? There’s me and a couple of other officers—and I’m not even sure that both of them are honest men. And there’s a plato
on of dragoon soldiers, but they’re spread thin all over Canford Heath from their barracks in Christchurch.”

  “If you make it sound urgent enough, David, you might get a naval frigate to act as watch-dog.”

  “Indeed, sir? You wouldn’t like to suggest who I should inform so as to get a result like that?”

  Maldon shrugged. “The Paymaster-General, Mr. Pitt, is a man of influence.”

  Bartholomew gasped. “But I could scarcely write to Mr. Pitt, sir!”

  Maldon looked down at him from his perch on the edge of his desk, studied him, and appeared to come to a decision. “I will write a note,” he said, “which you must include with the report you send. But you must promise not to mention this to anyone.”

  “Trust me, sir.”

  “Faith, I am trusting you,” said Jeffrey Maldon, “and if word leaks out that I am sent here by William Pitt to clean up this mess of spying and dishonesty on the Channel coast, it will be disastrous. Prime Minister Pelham hates and is jealous of Mr. Pitt—one word that his rival is having an investigation carried out into the administration, and charges of intrigue and bad faith will be thrown about! It could cause a government to fall.”

  “I appreciate the confidence you show in me,” Bartholomew said with great earnestness. “If there’s aught I can do in return...?”

  “Well, to be sure, there is something! I’m off to Winchester as soon as may be, but when I return I shall have nowhere to rest my head, like Elijah. Can you give me a bed?”