by Mira Stables
“Can you manage to get down without assistance?” he asked quietly, instinctively guessing how she would loathe the touch of the man’s hand. She slipped to the ground and was disappearing round the corner of the inn before the colloquy by the stable door had broken up, the newcomer springing forward to hold the horses. Charles, descending in more leisurely fashion, noted with interest that the greys, usually a fidgetty pair when not working, were standing quite quietly under the stranger’s hands. Whoever he might be, he seemed to have a way with horses. But not, it would seem, with landlords. For Rudd was addressing him in reproving tones. “I tell you it’s no use, man. Times are too hard. There’s not work enough for the lad I’ve got, let alone another. Be off with you now.”
Then he seemed to be overtaken by kindly inspiration, no doubt an unfamiliar visitant, since it caused him to clap a hand to his head in dramatic fashion and announce, with sudden and surprising fluency, “Unless the Captain here can maybe find a place for a chap as is handy with horses. Him being a military man might be willing to do a good turn for an old soldier that’s fallen on hard times.”
Charles surveyed the applicant for employment thoughtfully. He was of medium height and build, with a dark, hawk-like, almost gypsyish cast of countenance, and looked to be about thirty years old.
“Old soldier are you? What regiment?”
“Eighteenth Dragoons, Sir. Ransome’s my name, Tom Ransome.”
“And your company commander?”
The man looked slightly disconcerted and hesitated perceptibly before he said with some reluctance, “Captain Little, Sir.”
“Captain Little.” Charles searched his memory. “No, I don’t recall a Captain Little among my acquaintance. And what are you doing here? Were you discharged from the army?”
“After Corunna, Sir.” The man was voluble now. “Lost the toes off me left foot with frost bite. Most of us ’ad no boots to our feet and the cold was something cruel. I was no use for soldiering after that. But I’m good with horses, Sir. Two beauties, these be,” and he looked at Charles hopefully.
Charles was intrigued. “I might give you a trial for a day or two,” he said thoughtfully. “That would give me time to check your references. You have references, I suppose?”
The man nodded, and thrusting a hand into the recesses of a leather waistcoat which, in spite of the July heat, he wore over his coarse shirt, pulled out a paper which he handed over for Charles’s perusal. It stated briefly that Sir John Blackadder of Hurstfield House in Norfolk was prepared to recommend Thomas Ransome for a place as groom or coachman, and to vouch for his sobriety and honesty.
It seemed to Charles that Ransome must value this testimonial very highly and care for it accordingly, for though it bore the date of October in the previous year, the paper was as fresh and uncreased as if it had been writ only yesterday; which Charles concluded that it probably had, and wondered if he might, by good luck or good management, be vouchsafed a glimpse of Sir Nicholas Easton’s caligraphy. It would be interesting, he felt, to compare it with Sir John Blackadder’s.
However he merely nodded, as one reasonably well satisfied, handed back the precious document, and said casually, “And I dare say Captain Little would speak for you?”
“Why yes, Sir, for sure he would,” said Ransome without hesitation.
So whatever was planned for him was due to happen soon—before there could be any chance of his discovering whether Captain Little even existed. He controlled his mounting excitement and spoke lazily. “Very well. I’ll give you a trial. You can stable the greys, and then Rudd will fix up quarters for you. I’ll get in touch with Sir John Blackadder as soon as maybe.”
“Yes, Sir,” said his new groom with enthusiasm. “I think he’ll speak well of me. And I’ll do my best for you, Sir, I swear it.”
Charles badly wanted to laugh. A paid assassin with a sense of humour! He could well imagine how the fellow would fulfil his promise. He nodded dismissal, and watched the impudent rogue lead the greys, now quite docile, stablewards. The man walked with a fluid catlike grace, treading in-toed, and with no hint of the expected limp. A gypsy horse coper, decided Charles, game for any kind of devil’s work if the price was right. “Though I shouldn’t have thought throat cutting was his line,” he concluded critically, turning away to the inn door and devoting some attention to the possible means that might be used for his taking off.
He felt distinctly more cheerful at the prospect of action. This business of hanging about doing nothing was the very deuce. He whistled lightheartedly as he changed his attire for garments more suited to the dinner table. Dinner, with his enemies closing in for the kill, promised to be a stimulating meal.
Chapter Twelve
Charles’s hopes of early action seemed doomed to disappointment. Day succeeded lovely summer day. Life pursued the gentle pattern of a pastoral idyll, with no hint of violence to mar its even tenour. It was just the kind of furlough that a soldier dreamed of—comfortable quarters and a delightful companion. Nell’s total lack of the die-away airs of fashionable femininity, her frank candour, and the eager zest with which she greeted each day’s adventure caused Charles to forget at times that she was not a boy. Together they visited the favourite haunts of his childhood. She listened in complete absorption to his stories of exploits which had seemed vastly exciting to a ten year old lad, ventured with him into the rather smelly cave which had been his favourite den, and gazed wistfully, with a sigh for hampering petticoats, at the tall tree which had been his lookout post and signal station. There were driving lessons and riding excursions to various beauty spots, and even one visit to Trevannions itself, where the housekeeper produced tea and plum cake and discoursed eagerly on domestic arrangements until Nell had thankfully made her escape to the stables to inspect a young colt foal.
In fact life was wholly idle and pleasant, and Charles was much inclined to cry out, as had a far more famous warrior, “Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.”
Even Sir Nicholas seemed unusually tolerant and benign, raising no objection to the amount of time that his niece spent in Charles’s society. He had not, as yet, had any reply to his enquiries about his brother’s will. Indeed the Fleece was little disturbed by posts. Charles himself had not yet received a reply to the letter he had written to Sir John Blackadder. Since this had been entrusted to Sir Nicholas, who had kindly offered to carry it into Rye and hand it over to the mail coachman there in order to expedite its passage, he was not really surprised.
Whatever might be Charles’s suspicions as to his character and purpose, Tom Ransome was certainly a treasure as far as stable work was concerned. The greys bloomed under his attentions, their coats gleaming like wild silk, and their affection for him was so obvious that it actually gave Charles seriously to consider. Could a man be an out and out villain, a potential murderer, if he could so charm such sensitive and intelligent animals? Yet what other reason could there be for the very patent plot which had thrust Ransome into his orbit?
With Nell safely deposited with Emma, he had made cautious enquiries among certain old friends and acquaintances in the district. He had entirely failed to gather any information at all about Ransome. Bart Rudd was generally disliked, though no one could give adequate reasons. Charles was himself enough of a Sussex man to make due allowance for their innate distrust of ‘furriners’. Enquiry about Sir Nicholas elicited little of value. One or two people, when pressed, awoke to the knowledge that he had been a surprisingly regular visitor to the district over the past four or five years, and admitted that they could think of no reason that should bring him about the place, unless it be the desire to re-stock a cellar depleted by the years of blockade. Further pursuit of this suggestion produced a negative reply from those who might be presumed to know, and the landlord of the Grape and Pigeon, where Charles was playing off the dust of an afternoon’s futile enquiry, evoked an irreverent snort from his customer by suggesting that perhaps Sir Nicholas was “one of these ’ere poe
try writing coves” who needed country solitude for the composition of his works.
Nell was happy. In spite of the unresolved problems that clouded the future, she woke each day to the immediate sense of something delightful about to happen. She was perfectly well aware that this inner joy stemmed from the close comradeship that she shared with Charles, and disinclined to search her own heart any further. Better to take the present good and not worry too much about the future. After all, she once reminded herself, sipping resignedly at her bedtime milk, if Uncle Nicholas had his way, there might not be much future.
But thoughts of death and dissolution do not obsess the mind when one is seventeen years old and every day offers a delight previously unknown. The danger in which she dwelt came to mind occasionally. She was careful to lock her bedroom door, and once or twice she checked the priming of her pistol, assuring herself that all was in good order. The rest she left to Charles.
She had found a new hiding place for the pistol, in the pocket that Emma had put in her riding habit years before, when a couple of apples during a morning ride had been an essential barrier between herself and starvation. The pistol was rather a tight fit, but it was at least unlikely that anyone would go searching through her wardrobe for a concealed weapon, and as an added precaution she took care to hang the habit right at the back. It took a little time, extricating the pistol when she wanted to wear the habit, but it seemed safer than leaving it all the time in her workbag.
So matters rested for several days, halcyon days for Nell, while Charles concealed his anxieties and his mounting frustration as best he might. Once or twice he attempted to draw out Ransome in the hope of leading him into self betrayal, but Ransome, voluble enough over any matter concerning the horses, clammed up immediately when the talk turned to Peninsula reminiscences.
He approached Charles one sultry forenoon and asked if he might have some time off, as he wished to journey into Rye to make sundry small purchases and had found that he could get a ride in with the carrier’s cart. As he gave careless consent, Charles wondered for a moment if it would be worth while trying to follow him, but Giles had gone over to Trevannions and would scarcely be back before evening, and he finally decided against going himself since it would leave Nell unguarded. Ransome assured him that young Jim would be one hand if the horses were needed before he got back, and shortly after noon could have been seen climbing into the much encumbered vehicle of his choice.
The afternoon was oppressively hot, seeming to presage a thunderstorm, and Nell was well content to retire to the orchard with her sewing. Before long Charles joined her, carrying a rug and an armful of cushions. They stood now upon such comfortable terms that he no longer asked her permission to sprawl his length beside her chair, while as to lighting one of his cigars—a habit that he had picked up in Spain and one that was frowned upon by polite society—she actually approved it, declaring that the smoke drove off the various winged beasties that infested the orchard, and that the aroma, out of doors, was unobjectionable. So the pair of them passed a comfortably lazy afternoon. Perhaps the lady’s needlework did not make such rapid progress as it might have done, since much of her attention was diverted by the gentleman’s idle converse which flitted from the Peninsula to London to Trevannions, with tales of the past and one or two vague dreams of the future, until it was time to think of changing one’s dress for dinner, and where had the afternoon gone?
Nell gathered up her belongings and made her way back to the inn, leaving Charles to finish his cigar under the apple trees. She took out her fresh muslin and laid it on the bed with a fleeting thought of gratitude to Miss Smithson who had obviously spent some time in getting it up so beautifully. Of late the poor soul had seemed more than ever unhappy, hollow eyed and listless, her face frequently stained with signs of much weeping. But when Nell had gently tried to probe her grief she had evaded the questions and found some excuse to be off about her many duties.
Nell pondered the possibility that Emma had suggested of finding a place for her when she, Nell, should be established in a permanent home. For some unexplained reason this thought made her heart beat faster and brought a soft blush to her cheeks. She shook her head fiercely, determined to ignore these phenomena, bit back the little smile that had crept about her mouth, and crossed briskly to the wardrobe. Looking to the priming of her pistol would give her thoughts a more sensible direction. She took the tiny weapon from its snug concealment and carried it over to the broad window ledge where the light was better. The sky was darkening fast and already one or two long-drawn growls had heralded the approach of the storm that had threatened all day. Even as she laid the pistol down there was a brilliant flash of lightning, followed by a sharper crack. She was not nervous of storms, indeed rather enjoyed watching them. This one was still some distance away she judged, and opened her window, craning out to see if Charles was still in the orchard. She could just see his tall figure stooping to gather up the cushions. Doubtless the thunder had roused him to make good his retreat before the rain came.
As she stood watching, the stable door banged shut and Jim Cooke ran across the yard and into the kitchen. Charles had just made his way to the orchard gate when Jim came running out again and hurried down the path to meet him. She was too far away to hear what was said, but Jim appeared to be in a state of great excitement, and by the direction of his gestures something was amiss with the horses. Charles thrust his burden into the lad’s arms and pushed him towards the house, then strode off rapidly in the direction of the stable.
Nell stood hesitating by the window for a moment, wondering whether she should go downstairs and find out what was wrong before she changed her dress. Her beloved Tina was stabled at Springbourne, but the big black Marquis and the greys were here at the Fleece. Giles, she knew, had ridden over to Trevannions on Galoon, taking Marshall, who had unaccountably loosened a shoe, to the farrier. Charles had disappeared inside the stable. It would be difficult to see in there, in the darkening brought by the storm. She could at least hold a lanthorn for him. And on this thought she was just turning away from the window when a movement in the yard caught her attention. Someone had just come into sight round the corner of the stable block and was approaching the door which Charles in his haste had left open. She recognised the supple loose-limbed gait so characteristic of Charles’s new groom, and uttered a tiny gasp of relief that it was not Bart Rudd. But this relief was abruptly ended by Ransome’s oddly furtive behaviour. He was edging his way towards the open door without a sound, and from time to time he paused, obviously listening and glancing about him. There was something menacing about this stealthy approach. No honest groom, hurrying to his master’s assistance, would behave so. Nell’s heart began to beat in big uneven thumps and she suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Ransome had reached the stable door and now slid round it, out of her sight. Without further hesitation she climbed on to the window ledge, caught up her pistol, and let herself drop to the mounting block below. There was a sharp ripping noise as her skirt caught on the window latch. She wrenched it free, sprang down the rough stone steps, and ran on light slippered feet across the yard. Instinct bade her make her entry with due caution. Hardly knowing what to expect she slipped round the open door, trying to control her hurried breathing.
But there was quite enough noise within to mask any sound she might have made. Nor was the stable in the semi-darkness she had expected. Someone had lit a lanthorn which was hanging on a hook on the far wall and it cast on floor and walls the weird distorted shadows of a frantic horse. In the first two stalls the greys were standing fairly quietly except for a little nervous tossing and stamping. Then came several empty stalls and one which housed the landlord’s phlegmatic cob, all of them in shadow made deeper by the circle of light from the lantern which fell on the loose box at the far end where Marquis was trampling, rearing, shaking his head wildly and uttering high piercing squeals, though whether of rage or terror it was impossible to decide. Whatever the cause it w
ould certainly be courting death to enter the box with that raging power loose inside it. Charles, she could see, was not attempting it. With his back to her he was leaning on the half-door talking to the horse in a low soothing voice, but as yet the effect was negligible. Of Ransome there was no sign.
Nell stood perfectly still. She had seen him enter the stable, and since there was no other exit save to the hayloft above, he must be hidden in one of the empty stalls. Deliberately she set herself to breathe slowly and evenly, eyes and ears alert for the first sign of movement, pistol steady in her hand. From this point of vantage she could keep Charles covered, and that was far more sensible than running to him as she longed to do, to pour out some incoherent warning of a danger only half comprehended. But the waiting seemed endless, as Charles went on talking to the horse and she stood with every sense keyed and straining.
Presently Charles shifted his position slightly, and almost immediately the shadowy form of Ransome appeared in the mouth of one of the stalls at the far end. Only a moment he paused, and she saw that he was grasping a short thick cudgel. Then swift, silent, he was leaping towards Charles, cudgel arm whirling up to strike as he sprang. For Nell everything seemed to happen at once. Afterwards she could never remember firing but only that she had thought, I mustn’t kill him, just disable him, for what could we do with a dead body? It never occurred to her that in that murky shadow-blotched light she might miss altogether and perhaps hit Charles instead, and this, she declared, was fortunate since the thought would certainly have spoiled her aim. As it was, her whole being was concentrated on the upraised arm that held the cudgel.
