“Mr. Tyrrell walked in, and found Beau Gramont talking to Stephen Boles. If he had needed confirmation of his fears, he got it then.”
“Did they quarrel then, as Boles said in his evidence?”
“No, Gramont sent the footman off to the servants’ quarters. When your father accused him, he tried to laugh it off. But when he saw that was no use he made a very bad mistake. He tried bribery.”
“Tried to bribe Papa?” Amy cried, aghast. “He must have been mad!”
“He certainly was far less clever than people thought. It should have been clear to him that to offer money to a man like your father was an insult.”
“You are right,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “Thank you for saying so, Jeffrey.”
He took her hand and drew her back to her chair. “Sit down. There is not much more to tell, but it may distress you. When your father rejected any offer that Gramont could make, I suppose the man became frightened. A great deal of money is involved, after all— if Gramont had to take flight he would lose a fortune. And if he were caught, it meant hanging, or at the very least transportation for life.”
“Yes, I can see that. He had become accustomed to a very fine way of living.”
“So I saw when first I came to the neighbourhood. I confess I was inquisitive enough to have a friend on ’Change make some inquiries, and was told that Beau Gramont had no investments to provide the kind of income he enjoyed.”
“So you are not surprised to hear that he was connected with the Pegmen?”
“No, almost not at all. Proving it, of course, would be a different matter.”
“And Bernard? You said at the outset that Bernard was implicated?”
“I understand your anxiety,” Jeffrey replied at once, “and I’ll try to set it at rest. I think that what Gramont said next can be discounted. He had tried ridicule, he had tried bribery—neither had worked. Now he tried to silence your father by telling him he would break your heart if he spoke out, because Bernard was in the business up to his ears.”
“But ... but it may be true, Jeffrey.”
“But it may not. Your father said they were shouting at each other in fury by this time. Gramont had reached a point where he needed to make sure that, in his anger, your father did not at once issue a warrant for his arrest. He had to say something to shake him. And he succeeded, for Mr. Tyrrell confessed to me that he could bear no more after that. He turned and walked out. That was when you saw him, I believe, walking home in the moonlight.”
“And when he left, Mr. Gramont was alive?”
“Alive and well. It becomes more and more important to find Stephen Boles. If he is one of the Pegmen and heard Mr. Gramont shouting out things about who was in the gang, he may have decided it was better to silence him.”
Amy stared at Jeffrey as he bent over her. “Oh, sir...” she said through stiff lips, “if that is true of Stephen Boles, might it not equally be true of ... Bernard?”
For answer he knelt at her side and put an arm about her. “Nay, Amy, don’t allow yourself to think such things. I don’t believe it. It is quite true, Bernard could be suspected just as your father was—but he is not a murderer.”
“No,” she agreed in a whisper, resting her head against his shoulder, feeling her throat close up with grief. “I don’t want to have to save my father’s life by proving Bernard guilty of the crime. I should not like Bernard to have to suffer. He has been through enough.”
“Then we shall not let him suffer,” he told her soothingly, stroking her hair. “There, don’t be unhappy. I will do all I can to keep Bernard out of the case. David Bartholomew is trying to find Stephen Boles for me, and when he does, we will learn more—perhaps who are the other accomplices, for I can’t believe Beau Gramont had the brains to run a gang like the Pegmen. There are others in this, there must be—and when we learn who they are we shall probably learn who is the real criminal. Meanwhile, trust me to do all I can to help Bernard.”
“I do trust you, Jeffrey,” she said on a stifled sob. “I don’t know what I should do without you. How kind you are! If you can clear my father and save Bernard from disgrace, I shall be grateful to you for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t cry, Amy. I hate to see you cry. To me you have always seemed the epitome of all that is bright and brave and sparkling.”
“I’ve no brightness left, alas,” she said, burying her face against his coat. “I think I’ll never be happy again. Life can never be the same, can it? Everything will be changed even if we bring Papa safely home again. Even Bernard...” She thought of all that had been lost and spoiled through what she now knew of Bernard, and the tears began to flow fast. After a second or two she managed with a great effort to gain control of herself and said with something like calmness: “I have faced the fact that Bernard and I can never be married now.”
“But it may still be possible—”
“No, I have learned things now that ... that...” She struggled for speech but some of the words were lost. All that Jeffrey heard was the name “Hilderoth.”
“Ah,” he said. “Who told you of that?”
“You knew?” She didn’t dare look up as she asked.
“Yes. But then, men gossip amongst themselves, in clubs and coffee-houses. It means nothing.”
“You are trying to comfort me for having been a fool. Well, I’ve been cured of that, but not of wanting to see Bernard protected from harm. Pray, if you can, help him.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“When I say that I shall be grateful, I truly mean it, Jeffrey. My father is a rich man—”
“Come, now, you know better than to speak in that way.”
“I only want to assure you that ... that you shall have any reward that you ask for.”
He put a muscular hand under her chin and tilted her face up so that he could look into her eyes. “Are you telling me that I can ask for Amy Tyrrell?”
“I think you were once on the verge of doing so, were you not? When you came to me that day in the herb garden.”
“But you had already given your heart to Bernard Gramont. And it is not easy to take back a heart that has been given away.”
“But Bernard doesn’t want it,” she said, with a wistful shake of the head. “And I thought that ... perhaps ... you did.”
“Come,” he said, “we must go. Poor Mrs. Mason is probably on her knees outside the door praying that we’ll soon remove ourselves.”
“Yes.” She rose, and stood for a moment staring up at him. “Jeffrey...?”
“Yes?”
“Will you do something for me?”
“You have only to ask.”
“Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss me.”
He studied her. “This is a strange request.”
“You did it once before without being invited.”
“And on that occasion I thought you did not much care for it.”
“Oh,” she burst out, “I want so much to feel that I’m not a shadow, a nothing, a pawn in someone else’s game! The life seems to have been draining out of me, drop by drop, these past few days. I thought that if ... you would kiss me ... I might feel alive again.”
For answer he slipped an arm about her and drew her close. Then, with the utmost gentleness, he kissed her tear-stained cheeks, her eyelids, her brow, the line of her jaw and—finally—her mouth.
It wasn’t at all like last time. That had been like a storm flash striking the granite of the mountain tops. This was like the blessing of sunlight on rain-dappled meadows, like the magic of a melody heard from far off, like the radiance of moonlight through a high window.
She gave herself up the bliss of his touch, feeling happiness and confidence running into her veins again. She was about to whisper some muffled endearment under his kisses when the door was flung open.
“Now, sir and madam!” said Mrs. Mason in high indignation. “This is not proper at all, and I’ll thank you to leave
my house even if there’s not a Pegman watching, for I’m a respectable married woman and I won’t have such goings-on! I’m ashamed of you, Miss Tyrrell, you that I thought a lady!”
Scarlet with embarrassment, Amy hurried past the irate landlady with her face averted. Behind her she heard Jeffrey Maldon taking his leave.
“Mrs. Mason,” he said in a voice that was full of laughter, “this was an occasion for which I’m willing to forfeit even your good opinion!”
CHAPTER
NINE
Next day was Michaelmas Day, on which the tenants were to bring their quarter’s rents. Sixteen tenant farmers should have come, as well as some score of cottagers; but few appeared.
Farmer Emhurst was one of those who came. Not only that, he brought his wife and his two eldest children, to demonstrate past all doubt his loyalty to his landlord. “How are you, Miss Tyrrell?”
“We are well, Farmer Emhurst, thank you. I see your family is flourishing.”
“Well enough, well enough.” He beamed on his son, a slender lad of sixteen who was beside himself with awe and embarrassment at being in the Manor House. “And your dear mother? I hoped to see her.”
“So you shall—I hope you will take tea with us. But she is not accustomed to transacting business, Mr. Emhurst, and so she keeps to her room at present. Mr. Maldon here has been given charge of my father’s affairs for the moment.”
“Ah, you’re the young gen’leman that’s trying to save the master, then? Sir, let me shake your hand. Anything I or my family can do—eh, Mother?”
“Quite so, Mr. Emhurst.” his wife approved. “We have had so much kindness from the Squire that it would sit ill with us to fail in any way, if we can be useful.”
The farmer handed over a small linen purse in which coins jingled. Jeffrey counted the rent, found it correct, and penned a receipt. “I’m afraid I have not had time yet to put in hand the work on your field drainage, Mr. Emhurst. Mr. Tyrrell instructed me to do so.”
“Did he though?” The farmer prodded his son with stubby fingers. “There, Robin, I told ’ee he hadn’t forgotten, though it would be small blame to him if he had, in the circumstances.”
“I’ll see about hiring the men tomorrow or the next day.”
“Nay, Mr. Maldon, don’t waste your time. There’s none going to hire on to work for Mr. Tyrrell while the Pegmen are breathing threats against him.”
“What worries me more,” said Mrs. Emhurst in her forthright way, “is how the Squire is ever to have a fair trial at the Assize Court? The Pegmen will ‘pack’ the jury, just as they did at the inquest—a puppet-show, that was, as I said to Mr. Emhurst at the time.”
“It was one of the Pegmen as killed Mr. Gramont,” young Robin Emhurst burst out. “Ten to one it was! They wanted him to take in some of their smuggled goods and he refused—I expect that was the way of it.”
“Have you seen any of the Pegmen near your farm?” Jeffrey inquired. The Emhursts had a stretch of land to the west, somewhat in the direction of Poole.
“Lord, yes, and bold as brass they are,” Mrs. Emhurst replied. “Take my chickens without a by-your-leave, and no intention of paying a sixpence for them! I dursen’t tax them with it, they’re in such a touchy mood at the moment.”
“Indeed? And why is that?” Amy asked, feeling that from the safety of the Manor House she was somewhat cut off from what was going on in the countryside.
“It’s because of the gunboat,” Jeffrey explained. “Gunboat?”
“Yes, the Navy has sent a sloop of war, the Nymph, to patrol Poole Harbour and keep an eye on the Custom House. You know of course that a huge cargo of smuggled goods was seized by the Preventive men the day we came , across each other in Winchester? It’s now locked up in Poole Custom House and the Pegmen perhaps had some notion of taking it out. But not, I think, with a sloop of war on guard.”
“So there they are, milling about the countryside in a terrible bad temper,” Farmer Emhurst added. “It’s a powder-keg, you know. The least thing will set it off So folks are nervous.”
“All the more credit to you for coming to us on Michaelmas Day, then,” Amy said. “And now I’ll go and fetch my mother to thank you for your visit.”
Although politeness demanded this, it was perhaps not a very good idea, because Farmer Emhurst’s wife could not pretend she was hopeful about Mr. Tyrrell’s predicament. Amy’s mother grew more and more depressed. Amy felt she couldn’t do less than come out into the cool afternoon breeze to wave them off in their brightly painted cart, and Jeffrey gave her his arm.
As the fat old farmhorse plodded up the drive, a movement to the side caught Amy’s eye. She turned her head. Bernard was standing on the inner side of the Manor House hedge, watching the scene as Amy waved goodbye from the doorstep. He must have come in through the old route of their childhood. Even as she saw him he turned and disappeared among the shrubs.
She had given a start of surprise, but when Jeffrey inquired the cause she shrugged it off. She didn’t want to discuss Bernard with Jeffrey.
At an accounting that evening he came to the conclusion that he must go out to collect the rents from those who had failed to appear—ten farmers and seven cottagers.
“Pray be careful, Jeffrey,” Amy begged. “Perhaps it would be better not to pursue them just at present.”
“Nonsense. If we let it go, they will think the estate is out of control.”
“Mr. Maldon, that is rather an unfeeling attitude,” Amy’s mother objected. “To be thinking about money while my husband’s life is in danger
“Mrs. Tyrrell, ma’am, your husband will need money—ready money—to defray the expenses of his trial and so forth. It is no service to him to allow his business affairs to get in a tangle.”
Silenced, Mrs. Tyrrell withdrew into a huff. When Jeffrey had taken his leave she said to her daughter, “That is rather a sharp young man!”
“Sharp, Mama? In what way?”
“In every way. Sharp of tongue and sharp of intellect. I am not accustomed to being put in my place quite so plainly.”
“He meant no incivility. I’m sure, ma’am. It’s just that there is so much to think of—he doesn’t have time to pay elegant courtesies in the way that Beau Gramont did, or Bernard.”
“Ah, Bernard...” Her mother sighed. “How one misses him and the company that used to come here. It is true Mr. Maldon is taller than Bernard, but he doesn’t dress so well nor smile so much.”
That gentleman returned next day with some of the money owing to the Tyrrell estate and little to report otherwise. He was certainly not going to tell the two women that he had met with obstruction, fear, or downright rudeness in one or two of the farms he had visited, and had had the feeling as he rode that he was under constant observation.
“I must go to Winchester tomorrow,” he told them. “I must report to Mr. Tyrrell about the business of the estate and ask for further, instructions. Moreover, I have to see the clerk of the court and ask if a date has yet been set for the trial. I ought to find an advocate to take the case into court, if it ever gets so far “Sir, I took it for granted that you would plead for my father,” Amy intervened.
“I think not. I am not a very eloquent speaker, as some recent experience has proved.”
Amy wasn’t quite sure whether he was referring to some passage between themselves or to something in his own particular past. While she was thinking about it he went on: “Shall you come with me to Winchester, Miss Tyrrell?”
“No, indeed, she will not!” her mother cried. “We must think of propriety!”
“Yet I think Mr. Tyrrell would like a visit from his family, now that he is recovering his spirits and is in somewhat better lodgings there.”
“Very well, I will go,” said Mrs. Tyrrell.
“What?” It was a chorus of incredulity from her daughter and Jeffrey.
“Well, and why not, pray? If Mrs. Emhurst can come out from her farm to show the world she supports my husband, surely
I can do as much or more?”
“But you will not like it, Mama,” Amy said. “Prisons are unpleasant places—”
“Pooh, I know that! But after all, I shall not be in it above an hour, shall I? I can bear that. And Winchester is an interesting town, and truly ’tis dull here with nothing happening and no one visiting. I am very well able to face the event, I believe. And your father would be glad to see me, Amy.”
“Oh, ma’am—indeed he would!”
“Very well then, it’s settled. You will accept me as a travelling companion, Mr. Maldon?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” Jeffrey said, his face giving away none of the consternation he was feeling at the prospect.
He had been looking forward to the chance of spending several uninterrupted hours with Amy on the journey. To have them snatched away was very hard to bear. Amy, too, was disappointed. She had not even been aware that the opportunity existed until Jeffrey mentioned it, but all at once it seemed unfair, unkind, that she couldn’t go to Winchester with him. Then she was ashamed. Of course, her mother must go. Although her father would be happy to see any member of his family, it was his wife he would be longing for.
Yet she had a hard time looking cheerful as the carriage was brought to the door next day.
“When shall you be back?” she asked, feeling already forlorn and bereft as Jeffrey took his leave.
“I think not until the day after tomorrow,” he said. “We shall reach Winchester this afternoon and the rest of today will be taken up in visiting your father. Tomorrow I must go about among the Assize staff, trying to learn who is to prosecute and when the judge is due to take the case. I daresay your Mama will want to be shown some of the silks and ribbons of the Winchester market too. So I think we must delay our return until the day after that.”
The Fortune-Hunter Page 12
