The landlord, for such he was, pushed his way into the room without troubling to knock, and deposited a bottle of dubious wine and a thick glass upon the table. Without another word on either side, he went out, closing the door vigorously.
Knowle extracted the cork from the bottle and poured himself a glass. He grimaced as he took the first few gulps.
“Pah!”
He banged the glass down on the table, crossed over to the cupboard and pulled open a drawer. A litter of papers spilled out onto the floor.
He groaned. “Bills — nothing but damned bills! Hell and the devil, I’ll have to clear out! But where?”
Not for the first time, he passed all his relatives and acquaintances in rapid mental review. Too many of them had indicated on the last occasion of a visit from him that they preferred his room to his company. Not that he was particularly sensitive to hints; but he did prefer a pleasant atmosphere, and there was no escaping the fact that some of his unwilling hosts had turned positively hostile.
There was, of course, his sister Mary. He hesitated. Mary was easy; she would give him anything he asked. On the other hand, her husband Philip…
His mouth twisted wryly. Philip had made no secret of the fact that his wife’s brother was not at all welcome in his house. Ever since that clumsy business years since, reflected Eustace, what little credit he had ever possessed with Philip de Ryde had disappeared never to return. His few visits there of late years had been brief and undertaken only in circumstances of the direst necessity, because de Ryde made himself so damned unpleasant.
He shrugged. The present crisis was one of those times. His sister’s house was the only refuge remaining to him until something or other turned up to his advantage. He was an incurable optimist, never doubting that his luck would change. It occurred to him suddenly, thinking of luck, that this was the month of the York Races. Perhaps fortune might favour a flutter on the nags — provided he could raise the wind, of course. He smiled as he reflected that Mary would find the ready. She quite doted on him, good old Mary.
He bent over to stuff the bills back into the drawer, slamming it shut with one foot. He considered his negotiable assets for a moment. It did not take long, for most of these were already reposing in the pawnbroker’s shop. He pulled from his pocket a gold snuff box set with precious stones, and tipped the contents on to a piece of paper that he had failed to thrust back into the drawer.
He nodded, satisfied. The proceeds from that article would pay his fare to York.
On the morning after the masquerade, Mr and Mrs de Ryde were late appearing at the breakfast table. Their daughter Anne and the governess, Miss Fawcett, had been staying overnight with the Martons and had not yet returned home, so there were only the two of them.
“I declare,” said Mrs de Ryde, stifling a yawn, “one almost feels that it’s not worth the pleasure of a ball, for the fatigue one suffers the next day! And it was not such a pleasurable affair, after all. I found most of the company insipid.”
“Good God!” exclaimed her husband suddenly.
She stared. “I’m sure I see no reason why you should be so surprised, my dear. They are, after all, most of them people we’ve known forever.”
“What?” He raised his eyes abstractedly from the letter in his hand, for he had been opening his post. “Oh, it’s not anything you’ve said — I’ve just opened the most extraordinary letter — a damnable letter, in fact!”
“Oh, dear,” she replied in tones of dismay. “What is it, Philip? Who has sent it?”
“That I can’t tell you, but this I do know: the fellow’s a madman!”
He jumped to his feet, screwing the letter into a ball and tossing it contemptuously into the fireplace.
“Can’t tell me? But surely there’s a signature?” she demanded, puzzled.
“No such thing. And if I’d written that rubbish, I wouldn’t have put my name to it, either, I can tell you!”
“Can you mean — can you possibly mean — that it’s an anonymous letter, Philip?”
He nodded. “Not only that, but threatening, too. Come to think of it —” he strode across to retrieve the paper from the fireplace, frowning heavily — “perhaps I ought to show it to George Marton.”
“Show it to Sir George? But why in the world — oh, I see!” she exclaimed all at once, in tones of enlightenment. “You mean, because he’s a Justice of the Peace? You want to lay an information against this — this unknown person? Well, if it’s a threatening letter, I should think you’re very wise. But who would threaten you — and why? Let me see it.”
He shook his head and stuffed the letter into his pocket.
“And have you fretting yourself into a distemper over some lunatic’s maunderings? No, my love, I know well your capacity for making a mountain out of a molehill!”
Returning to the table, he bent over and lightly kissed his wife’s cheek. She patted her hair complacently; it was something to have one’s husband paying one small attentions after five and twenty years. No doubt he was right about that stupid letter. There were always enough things to vex her without going out of her way to find them.
Anne returned with her governess just as breakfast was over and Mrs de Ryde was wondering how she should spend the morning. Her husband had retired to the library.
Anne came bursting into the morning room, full of energy, making her mother feel even more fatigued.
She planted a dutiful morning peck on her mama’s cheek, and burst into exuberant voice.
“Oh, Mama, did you enjoy the masquerade yesterday evening? Fanny’s cousins, Miss Rutherford and Miss Harvey, say it was famous fun, and — and Mr Harvey —” she blushed on saying the name, for nineteen year old Henry Harvey was at present the subject of her schoolgirl fancy — “said it was not at all bad. Of course, he would not enthuse, you know, for gentlemen rarely do, do they? But he did tell me that something occurred to stir them all up a bit, as he put it. Fancy, Mama, a pickpocket loose in the Assembly Rooms! And at the Lord Mayor’s ball, too! But Mr Harvey says that the man was very soon arrested by a Bow Street Runner who was keeping watch there. Mama, I do so wish I’d been present! Not only for that, of course, but so that I might have seen all the costumes, and guessed who their wearers might be! Mama, do you think I’ll be able to attend the ball next year? I shall be seventeen, and then, and —”
“Oh, my dear child, pray stop!” implored Mrs de Ryde, putting her hands to her head. “I’ve the most frightful headache, and your rattling on makes it worse!”
Anne looked contrite, for she was a well-meaning girl.
“I’m sorry, Mama. Perhaps Papa will tell me all about it — is he in the library?”
“Yes, but I don’t think you’d better disturb him at present,” replied her mother hastily. “He’s somewhat put out this morning.”
“Put out? Why?” Anne was incurably curious.
“Oh, I don’t know. Some letter he received.”
“Letter? Who from, Mama?”
“From whom?” corrected Mrs de Ryde automatically.
“Oh, very well, from whom?” agreed Anne in an impatient tone.
There was silence for a moment.
“Well, don’t you mean to tell me?” insisted the girl.
Her mother sighed. “I can’t, for I don’t know. Now, pray, Anne, run up to the schoolroom, and don’t pester me. I am most odiously fatigued this morning, there was never anything like it! Oh, and on your way, look in at my boudoir and desire Healey to bring me my vinaigrette.”
Seeing there was nothing more to be gleaned from her mother, Anne obediently departed. She was familiar with mama’s strategic headaches, and wondered on her way upstairs just what this letter could be that had upset Papa, usually an imperturbable man. She decided that most likely Mama was exaggerating, as she obviously felt somewhat out of sorts this morning.
She pushed open the door of her mother’s boudoir without ceremony. Then she stopped short and stared.
Mrs de
Ryde’s elegant little writing bureau stood against the opposite wall of the small room. The top was open, and Healey was in the act of hunting desperately through the pigeon holes when Anne came into the room.
The maid started violently, dropping a piece of paper on the floor. She put a hand to her heart.
“Oh, miss, you frightened me!”
“I can see that,” replied Anne unsympathetically. “Just what are you about in my mother’s bureau, Healey?”
“Oh — oh — Madam asked me to look for — for a bill from the milliner’s,” gasped the maid desperately, “to see if it had been paid.”
“And when did she ask you to do this?” demanded Anne coldly.
“When I was dressing her, Miss Anne.” Healey did her best to control the tremor in her voice. “Only — only I didn’t think of it until now.”
“Indeed. Well, she wants you to take her vinaigrette to the morning room. She has the headache.”
Anne crossed to the bureau, picked up the dropped piece of paper from the floor and scrutinised it. She saw it was a letter from her grandmother.
She restored it to one of the pigeon holes and closed the lid of the bureau firmly.
“At once,” she ordered, as she left the room.
She frowned as she turned towards the schoolroom. She did not believe a word of Healey’s excuse. What had the maid really been doing? And why were letters so prominent a feature in this morning’s events?
An inclination to lethargy likewise afflicted the Marton household that morning. Only Justin and his friend Sidney Rogers appeared to have survived the previous evening’s dissipation without the necessity for a lie-in. Justin, his dark curly hair brushed into some semblance of order at this early hour of the day, strode into the breakfast parlour with a firm, decisive step. Rogers, who had just lifted the cover from a dish of kidneys on the sideboard, looked up momentarily to give him good morning.
“Don’t interrupt a chap when he’s engaged on matters of importance,” he added, returning to his task of selection.
Justin seized a plate and likewise passed the dishes in review.
“And what have you in mind to do this morning?” asked Rogers, when he had returned with a heaped-up plate to the table.
“Visit Sheriff Hutton,” replied Justin, joining him.
Rogers raised his brows. “Who? I was thinking I might accompany you, but if you’re seeing some old curmudgeon —”
Justin laughed. “Not who — what,” he corrected.
“Mm? ’Fraid I don’t follow you.”
“Sheriff Hutton’s a place. A ruined castle, to be precise, not far from here. I’ve a fancy to see it.”
His brown eyes glinted with enthusiasm, an expression his friend knew well.
“It goes back to the twelfth century and played an important part in the Wars of the Roses, but it became neglected in the early seventeenth century, and parts of it were dismantled to provide the stone for other local buildings.”
“So its ruined state wasn’t due to that old despoiler of castles, Cromwell?” asked Rogers, who had an interest himself in historical subjects.
“Not this time. Well, d’you think you’ll come?”
Rogers assented, and, disposing of the meal quickly, they made their way to the stables.
They were surprised to find their host there before them. He was about to mount his bay, Rowley — an animal that had drawn forth the other men’s favourable comments when first Sir George had shown them round the stables on their arrival at Firsdale Hall. They exchanged greetings.
“We’re off to take a look at the ruined castle at Sheriff Hutton, George,” explained Justin, while two of the grooms led out their horses.
Sir George swung himself into the saddle.
“Capital,” he approved. “That should keep you busy until dinner time, if I know you, Justin. Don’t let him bore you to death, Rogers.”
“No fear of that,” laughed Rogers. “I’m quite partial to antiquities, myself.”
“Well, amuse yourselves. I’m off on business, worse luck — over to Thwaite’s farm, to see one of my tenants. Opposite way from you.”
He nodded, then paused as he was about to move off, frowning at one of the grooms.
“You’re new, ain’t you? Don’t recollect your face.”
The man touched his cap.
“Yes, sir.”
“We took on an extra couple of hands for the wedding, Sir George,” explained the other man, who had been head groom at Firsdale Hall for many years. “This is Leckby, and t’other’s Ross. He’s in t’tackroom. Was you wishful to see him, sir?”
“No, no. Very good, Carr.”
With a dismissive nod and a wave of his hand to his guests, he rode away. The farm where he was bound was only three or four miles distant, so he rode easily, letting his horse set the pace at first. His way led through narrow, twisting lanes skirting the edges of fields high with golden corn soon to be harvested. Presently, he reached a meadow where sheep grazed. He turned off the lane here, along a little used bridleway running between the hedge and a stretch of dense woodland on his right. It was a bumpy ride over rough, uneven ground; but he cared little for that, as it offered a short cut to his objective.
Suddenly, a shot sounded from the trees close beside him, and he felt a sharp sting as a bullet grazed his cheek. Startled, he loosed his hold on the rein for a moment. The horse, too, was startled; it reared in protest, and threw him heavily to the ground.
“What the devil?” he shouted. “Here, stand still, Rowley, damn you!” The horse obeyed instantly.
Sir George attempted to rise to his feet, but found to his chagrin that this was far from easy. His right ankle had been twisted under him in the fall, and now it was extremely painful to put it to the ground. His first thought had been to chase into the wood after the person who had fired the shot, but now this proved impossible. With difficulty, he raised himself up, standing upon one leg, and shouted to the hidden, and no doubt mistaken, marksman to come forth and explain himself.
His challenge was greeted by a profound silence. Then, in the distance, he heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs retreating through the wood.
He cursed long and volubly, as a trickle of blood from his wound made its way into his mouth and down his neck. He wiped it angrily away with a handkerchief, then looked about him for a means of mounting his horse again. He soon espied a log not many yards away at the side of the track, and, gritting his teeth, set himself to the task of making his way to it. His horse, a well-trained animal in rapport with its master, seemed to understand what was wanted of it, and placed itself strategically beside the log in readiness.
The business of mounting on its back was both painful and time-consuming. Meanwhile, blood flowed freely from the grazed cheek unhindered, for all Sir George’s energies were concentrated on the main task. At last he was up in the saddle, however, and able to continue on his way, with one foot dangling.
His arrival at Thwaite’s farm caused quite a stir. The sight of Squire with blood all over his cravat and mud on his riding coat and breeches was not something to which they were accustomed. He would have no fuss, however, and it was with difficulty that Mrs Thwaite managed to persuade him to have the grazed cheek bathed and dressed.
“Though reckon doctor ought to take a look at it, Squire,” she cautioned him, as she bore away the bowl of bloodied water. “Happen might turn nasty.”
“Fustian — only a scratch,” he persisted. “But I’ll borrow your gig, Jack, if I may, and I’ll send a groom over for the bay.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Know of anyone who’d have a sporting gun out in the wood?”
“No, Sir George. Fair puzzles me, that do. Barrin’ poachers, an’ mostly they comes after dark, can’t think of anyone who’d go after rabbits or birds, not in t’wood. And there’s nowt else.”
“And I don’t look much like either, wouldn’t you say?” demanded Sir George, with a grim chuckle.
The
farmer grinned. “Reckon not, Squire. But it fair flummoxes me, an’ no mistake. I’ll just be keepin’ an eye on that wood in future.”
Sir George grunted, but said no more.
The three girls, Anthea, Louisa and Fanny, were about to set out on a stroll to the village when Farmer Thwaite’s gig came up the drive with Sir George seated inside.
“Why, Papa!” exclaimed Fanny, running up to the modest equipage and staring. “What in the world are you doing in Mr Thwaite’s gig?”
“Mind your manners, chit,” replied her father curtly.
Thus reproved, Fanny greeted the farmer civilly, and he responded by touching his cap.
“But — but — Papa — there’s blood on your neckcloth!” she gasped, alarmed.
“Never mind that, but just get one of the footmen to help me into the house,” he said shortly. “I’ve ricked my ankle.”
But Anthea, who had realised at once that some accident had occurred to her uncle, had already summoned help. Two footmen, attended by the butler, came quickly down the steps of the house and advanced upon the gig.
“No need to kick up a devilish fuss,” Sir George directed Oldroyd, as he was helped into the house. “Don’t want Lady Marton disturbed. Help me into the library and give me a glass of the madeira. I’ll do very well — no need for you girls to come with me.”
“But, Papa, what has happened?” demanded Fanny, shocked to the core.
“Not now — later,” replied Sir George tersely, hopping along with one hand on a sturdy footman’s shoulder. “Don’t bother me now, there’s a good girl.”
Feeling Anthea tugging at her skirt, Fanny subsided. Anthea turned to the farmer for information, and he quickly told them all he knew.
She listened with knitted brows.
“You say you don’t know of anyone likely to have been out shooting in that wood?” she asked, at the end of his recital. “Is there another farm nearby?”
“Plenty in t’neighbourhood, ma’am, but not close to t’wood. I’m right sorry about Squire, an’ it fair puzzles me ’ow he could come to be hit. Stands to reason they must’ve been after rooks or pigeons, I reckon, t’ave aimed so high, but wonder is, they didn’t spot him an’ hold their fire.” He shook his head. “Can’t get to t’bottom o’ it, at all. Well, Squire said to take up one o’ t’grooms from t’stables to bring back his bay, so reckon I’d best be movin’, ma’am.”
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 4
