"And Lady Clara Buttershaw," said Falcon. "There are others; prominent men we know to be members, but who may not be on the ruling committee."
Stunned, Cranford sank back onto the sofa. He made an effort to recollect what they'd told him before; the tale that had so enraged him, and that he'd dismissed as a silly hoax. "But—you said they know who you are," he muttered haltingly. "And Zoe mentioned once that Lady Buttershaw is infatuated with August, and expects him to visit her. Why would she allow him to go there if she knows him for an enemy?"
"'A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,' " said Morris. "In this instance, the 'little knowledge' is hers."
Falcon nodded. "She knows who we are, but I need not tell you the lady is of an arrogance. She does not credit us with suspecting her involvement."
"A lady of Quality, involved in high treason…?" Trying to collect his scattered wits, Cranford said, "No. You must be mistaken! The woman, unpleasant as she may be, is almost fanatical in her patriotism! Her house is like a museum. She glories in the fact that her family has figured largely in England's history."
Furlong said, "She may have decided that gives her the right to change it."
"And not balk at murder? Or the prospect of another civil war? Surely no lady would willingly involve herself in such madness?"
"Consider Delilah," suggested Morris. "Or Lady Macbeth. Or Queen—"
"If someone doesn't stop him," warned Falcon, "he'll list every scheming female for the last two thousand years!"
Sir Owen smiled. "He's right, though. The ladies are not exempt from the lust for power. No need for us to debate that point. What we must do now is put our information together and see if it gives us a clearer picture. Perry, you can begin by telling us exactly how Miss Grainger comes to be in that house." And unknowingly paraphrasing the words his adored lady had spoken earlier that day, he said, "Begin at the beginning."
Cranford obliged.
Five minutes later, Florian brought in a pot of coffee and, through a brief silence, crept about distributing mugs.
"Phew!" said Morris.
Falcon raised his mug in salute. "I endorse your sentiments for once, my clod. 'Phew,' indeed!"
"Are we all of the same mind, then?" asked Sir Owen.
Cranford said, "I've a question or two, if you please. Among their other nasty habits, you mentioned that your murderous League has schemed to acquire great houses and properties. I take it the choices were not haphazard?"
"By no means," answered Falcon. "They all are strategically situated in the southern counties. Close to a military barracks, an armoury, a harbour, fortress, or some such thing."
"All of which will be attacked or perhaps sabotaged when the League is ready to strike," said Sir Owen. "If you weigh the element of surprise 'gainst inefficiency and complacency, the result is likely to be disastrous."
Cranford nodded thoughtfully. "Next—you spoke of tokens, I think. Jewelled figures that the six leaders use for identification. Why is that necessary? Surely they know their fellow conspirators?"
"Doubtful," said Morris. " 'Tis high treason, dear boy. Their lives depend on absolute secrecy. Were only one of them discovered and put to the question"—he drew a finger across his throat—"an ugly end for the lot!"
"So they wear masks at their meetings," Falcon put in, "and identify each other by the little jewelled figures. Though their leader, of course, knows who they all are."
"We believe each man also answers to a number," added Morris. "And the head of their nasty club, whom they call the Squire, sometimes signs notes with the letter S. Which could stand for 'Squire.'"
"Or for half a hundred other names," said Falcon blightingly.
Cranford said, "So for all their grandiose plans, they cannot even have trust in each other. If such a desperate group should feel threatened…"
"They'd stop at nothing to protect their dirty skins," said Sir Owen. "Understandably. But if Ramsey Talbot is right, they have entered into a treasonable agreement with certain gentlemen of France, one of whom just may be Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthélemy."
Appalled, Cranford gasped, "The devil you say! Acting for France? Are you sure of that?"
"We're sure of none of it," Sir Owen admitted worriedly. "But Ross thinks, and we agree, that Barthélemy is pursuing his own interests."
"All we're sure of," said Falcon, "is that several years ago while Johnny Armitage was in Suez, he chanced to see the mighty Marshal hob-nobbing with Lady Buttershaw and her sister. We believe that because Armitage stumbled upon that meeting, the League sentenced him to death. And damn near succeeded in destroying him."
Sir Owen nodded and said gravely, "We could be wrong. It may be purest coincidence, but now, with the secret Agreement having come to light, it all seems to add up. Each side retained a signed copy of that infamous document, one of which was stolen. If we can only lay our hands on it, we'll have the proof we need to send the lot of 'em to the Tower!"
Morris looked sombre and muttered, "Which the League means to prevent at all costs."
Falcon drained his mug and set it aside. "And that is where you would appear to come into the business, Perry."
"I rather doubt that, you know." Cranford pursed his lips. "Too many 'ifs.' If the poor fellow trying to bring the stolen Agreement back to England is Travis Grainger, If his supposed Last Will and Testament is in fact the Agreement. If—I am the man he knew at school to whom the agreement is to be sent in case of his death. If his sister was brought to London only so that she could be watched in case Travis tried to contact her. If—I was introduced to Zoe Grainger in the hope we would become friends and I would exchange information with her. And there, do you see, your theory falls to pieces. 'Tis purest coincidence that I am in Town at this particular time, and although I did meet Miss Grainger, our first encounter was exceeding unfriendly, and I had no least intention to ever see her again."
"Perhaps not, but they intended you to do so," said Falcon. "The investigation of your supposed accident has been smothered, no?"
"My solicitor was told I would be required to testify," answered Cranford. "So far, I've heard nothing more of it."
"Nor will you," said Sir Owen. "I'll warrant Lady Buttershaw has seen to that. They want nothing to interfere with your hopeful courtship of Miss Grainger."
Cranford shook his head. "Which again makes no sense. If they hoped I would become enamoured of the lady, why did Lady Buttershaw try to arrange a match with Fowles, or Smythe, or any of that silly crew?"
"I doubt she did," said Falcon. "She rushed that business, knowing perfectly well that Miss Grainger would draw back from such a repulsive selection, and be more inclined to encourage you."
"As the best of a bad lot," put in Morris with a grin.
"Have a happy Christmas, Jamie," said Cranford indignantly.
The others laughed, and Falcon went on, "It worked, no? I fancy they banked on the fact that her brother having spoken highly of you would be sufficient for her to cry friends, but if you hadn't liked each other at all, they'd have found some other way to keep you hanging about that house."
"So they could keep an eye on your every move," said Morris. "And—hers."
Sir Owen said, "They knew, Perry, that you were the two people young Grainger would most likely turn to. I must own 'twas neatly done."
"But they couldn't have known I would be in Town," argued Cranford. "I only came because…" He broke off. Falcon was smiling cynically; Morris and Furlong looked grave. "Good God!" he gasped. "You think—Lord Nugent? No! You're very wrong! He's a good old boy. But for him, neither my twin nor I would have been able to go to school after our parents died!"
"And he is distantly related to Lady Clara," murmured Falcon.
"No, I tell you!" repeated Cranford hotly. "The man is a general officer, the soul of integrity, and loyal to a fault! I'll not believe he is also a traitor!"
"How typical it is," drawled Falcon, "that we are ready to believe others guilty of a conspiracy, but if our own famil
y honour is questioned, we sing a different song. Eh, Morris?"
Lord Kenneth Morris, a wealthy Cornish peer and the head of his large and widely dispersed family, had recently been found to have strong ties to the League. Although this was not generally known, James Morris, a man of impeccable personal integrity, felt that the honour of his house had been sullied. He smarted under that awareness and, flushing, said with rare anger, "Damme, but you want thrashing, Falcon! If it weren't that I mean to marry your sister—"
"Have done," said Sir Owen sharply. "Every family has dirty dishes, we all know that. The guilt or innocence of Lord Morris and others we suspect must be proven. But not now! You both have promised Gideon to postpone your personal quarrel till this is done."
Morris mumbled an apology.
Falcon shrugged, and said, "Dare I remark that I think we overlook a point? This stolen letter of yours, Cranford. You said the signature was hard to read, and not a name you knew. What did you guess it to be?"
"Rohdean, I think," Cranford answered. "Or something of the sort."
"Rohdean!" His voice harsh with excitement, Sir Owen asked, "Perry—might it instead have been Rathdown?
Cranford said frowningly, "Why—yes. I suppose it might very well—"
Morris jumped up and howled, "Excelsior!"
"I do believe we have our proof," murmured Falcon.
Exultant, Sir Owen said, "By all the saints, I think you've got it! Perry—we're really not Bedlamites. The thing is that 'tis all falling together at last! You see, Ramsey Talbot told me that the copy of the Agreement was given into the hands of a Major Rathdown. Evidently, the Major became ill, and his letter to you was by way of apology for having been obliged to pass the Agreement on to poor Travis Grainger."
Cranford said eagerly, "And Grainger promised to send the Agreement to me, or to his sister, in the event the League was too hot on his heels for him to deliver it to Whitehall! Then Grainger's alleged Last Will and Testament is the missing copy of the Agreement!"
"And all we've to do now, is find Grainger and bring him safely to Whitehall," said Morris. "We're half-way home! Keep your wits about you, Perry! And 'ware the Buttershaw!"
Cranford said, "But—Owen, surely they must guess I know."
"They may suspect you know of the existence of the League, yes. As August said before, they don't think we know about Lady Buttershaw, or about the Agreement. Still it will be safer if we're not often seen together. We shall not be able to meet here again. We arrived separately this evening, and with great caution. We'll leave the same way."
Falcon said, "We must contrive a means to get word back and forth. Assuming you're now willing to join us, Perry?"
"With all my heart," Cranford said vehemently. "I must first get Miss Grainger out of that house, but after—"
Sir Owen snapped, "You most certainly must not! 'Tis vital that the lady stay just where she is!"
"The devil with that!" Cranford's eyes sparked with anger. " 'Tis too dangerous! Besides, once she knows—"
"But she must not know," interposed Falcon softly.
Cranford stared at him. "You're mad! Do you think that I'd allow her to stay another minute in that damnable house? Much less keep her unaware of the web around her? You must not have considered the risk."
Falcon shrugged. "We are all at risk."
"And we are men. 'Tis the business of a gentleman to protect a lady from danger, not expose her to it!"
"From what I know of the ladies, they are quite capable of protecting themselves."
Cranford said grittily, "I've often remarked, Falcon, that you have an odd sense of honour!"
"If you mean I don't follow your much vaunted Code," said Falcon, bored, "you are very right. I hope I have more sense."
Troubled, Furlong said slowly, "I really doubt Miss Grainger will come to any harm, Perry. And she can be of inestimable assistance in keeping us apprised of what goes on in—"
Cranford put down his glass gently, and started to the door. "Good night, gentlemen."
"Hey!" said Morris. "What d'ye mean?"
Opening the door, Cranford bowed. "I mean our meeting is done. I'll have no part of your fight after all. And before you say what you're thinking, Sir Owen, consider a certain lovely lady of Rome. Would you throw her into such peril?"
"You become 'Sir Owen' again," pointed out Falcon, amused. " 'Ware, Furlong. I do believe Cranford has formed a tendre for the little country miss."
"Your beliefs do not interest me," snapped Cranford, his face red. "Be so good as to—"
Furlong interposed, low-voiced. "Our country is endangered, man! I appreciate your anxieties, but—I'll wager that if it were put to Miss Grainger—"
Cranford's suggestion as to what Sir Owen could do with his wager was, to say the least of it, not very polite.
The clocks in Lady Julia's workroom ticked busily. They hung on the walls, were gathered on display shelves or on chests, and two were tall enough to stand on the floor.
On this brisk October morning, Zoe knelt fending Cromwell off while holding securely to the back of Caesar's neck as she groomed him. Of all the animals, the big tabby was most resistant to being brushed, whereas his dog, the springer spaniel, loved such indulgences.
"I am indeed worried about my brother," Zoe admitted in answer to an enquiry from Lady Julia. "Travis was never of a frail constitution, but he does tend to take cold easily. 'All brains and no brawn' my papa used to say. Oh, do stop, Cromwell! I was so disappointed that Mr. Cranford had no news for me.
Bending over her workbench, magnifying glass to her eye, Lady Julia murmured, "Then I pray he will have better tidings today, my dear. 'Tis very good of the young man to make such an effort for you. When he did not call yesterday morning, I had thought perhaps you'd tired of him."
"He of me, more likely," said Zoe, rather ruefully. "He has been so good to take me about. He is a handsome gentleman, and I am very sure there must be other ladies would be pleased of his attentions."
"Ah, but you are so bright and merry." Lady Julia lifted her head to smile at her youthful companion. "I fancy you have picked up his spirits. I do not care for gossip, but—well, one hears things, you know, and I believe he was very downcast when his lady love abandoned him."
Zoe's hand on Caesar's neck tightened, and the tabby uttered an indignant growl. "Oh," she said, brushing more busily than before. "I'd not known he was betrothed."
"I cannot say if it had gone to that length. But he had been courting her for several months, and, if my informant is correct, with every indication that his suit was favoured. The lady is lovely, and an older and very wealthy gentleman appeared on the scene, whereupon she apparently decided that poor Mr. Cranford's amputation revolted her, and she could no longer bear with him."
"How monstrous unkind!" exclaimed Zoe indignantly. "I hope she did not allow her feelings to be widely known!"
"She did, alas. Both publicly, and to the young man directly, so I understand. Which was unwise, because he is very well liked." Meeting Zoe's outraged eyes, her ladyship nodded. "I share your reaction, my dear. Unhappily, I know—too well—how it feels to be so humiliated."
"She is the one should feel humiliated! And she must be the greatest fool to throw over such a kind and gallant young gentleman only for—Oh—Caesar!"
Her hold had relaxed, and with a lithe twist and an annoyed swipe at her hand, the tabby escaped. Cromwell, eager for his turn, leapt in and seized the brush, then lunged off, shaking it ferociously.
Lady Julia was amused, but Zoe stood, and ordering her skirts, scolded, "Foolish creature! How can I brush you if you eat the brush?"
One of the wall clocks began to toll the hour, and Zoe went over to listen. It was a handsome specimen, having a small marine painting above the dial, and a handsome oak case embellished with flowers and leaves of inlaid woods. "How pretty it is," she said.
Lady Julia turned at once, her eyes brightening. " 'Tis one of the newer pieces. I ordered it from Holland a
few years ago." She left the bench, and asked, "Are you interested in clocks, my dear? As you know, 'tis quite a passion of mine. It runs in the family, I suspect. My great-grandfather was obsessed with mechanical devices of every kind, and during his travels about the world assembled a remarkable collection, which is housed at our country seat."
"Sundial Abbey." Zoe laughed. "How apropos. Did your great-grandpapa name the estate, my lady?"
"No, ''Tis much more ancient. But he passed on his interests. My grandfather liked to build clocks, and taught me a great deal of the art—for it is an art, I promise you. I must show you the clock that was presented to my father by King Louis of France." She led the way to the large and ornate clock upon the parlour mantelpiece. The broad base was gilded and inset with exquisite miniatures; above, two gold cherubs supported the central column whereon was a large painting of two lovers walking in a misty garden, arms entwined. "There is no dial, but do you see the movement?" asked Lady Julia. " 'Tis here, above the pediment."
"The two horizontal bands. How clever! And I have always admired the case clock in your withdrawing room. Is it very old, ma'am?"
"Not as one measures time. Another play on words! How bad of me. 'Twas made by Mr. Tompion, who is known as the father of English watchmaking. They are calling them grandfather clocks now, you know."
"Yes, I've heard that. Did the gentleman invent clocks, ma'am?"
Her ladyship laughed merrily. "No, indeed, child. The earliest mechanical clocks were used in European churches in the thirteenth century, but they did not know of the pendulum then, and their clocks were very poor timekeepers, 'tis said. Often an hour or more behind the time. Only think how late everyone must have been! Speaking of which, I must not keep on or you will be here forever, and I fancy you have plans for this day, yes?"
Zoe blushed. "Well, I did hope Mr. Cranford might call. But he is not here yet. Will you show me what you are working on.'
"With pleasure!"
They went back into the work room, and her ladyship sat down at the bench once more. A beautifully enameled pocket watch case lay open and empty. On a black cloth were spread many little toothed wheels and springs, and tiny deeply grooved columns which Lady Julia said were called pinions. Watching, awed, as her ladyship took up one of the wheels with a delicate pair of pincers and fitted it carefully into place, Zoe murmured, "Oh, but you are so skilled! What incredibly precise work. And what a lovely case."
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