The Fatal Engine

by Harriet Smart

  ~

  Darnell’s Cross was one of the many places about Northminster that was losing the traditional character of a village, having signs of small industry lapping at the shores of its rural seclusion. But the heart of the village was untouched, with a broad swathe of green, edged by neat houses and a churchyard heavy with yew. The Greyhound Inn completed the scene.

  It was a neat, orderly establishment where the landlord showed them into a handsome room with a spotless flagged floor and painted, panelled walls. Above the fire was an impressive coat of arms.

  “Am I right in thinking that those are the arms of the Twenty-Seventh?” said Major Vernon, examining them. “The Grey Ghosts?”

  “Indeed you are, sir,” said the landlord, straightening with pride.

  “A very fine regiment,” said Major Vernon. “Badajoz would have been lost without their gallantry. That was the opinion of my old colonel. What was your motto, now – The Few Shall Overcome?”

  “That’s right, sir,” said the landlord. “I had the honour to serve with them. Fifteen years at the colours. Made me what I am today, I should say. You’re a military gent yourself, I take it, sir?”

  “Formerly, yes,” said Major Vernon. “I am with the Northminster and County Constabulary now.”

  “Now, now,” said the landlord, with a certain eagerness, “you are not the Major Vernon, are you, sir, by any chance?” Major Vernon nodded. The landlord whistled. “Well! My missus and I have read all about you in The Bugle. It’s a great honour to have you under our humble roof. Are you here on an investigation?”

  “I’m afraid we are,” said Major Vernon. “Although I should like to do nothing more than sit down by the fire and talk of the old days with you, Mr...?” He put out his hand.

  “Abbot, sir, George Abbot.” For a moment it seemed he would salute, but instead he grabbed Major Vernon’s hand and shook it vigorously. “A great honour, sir.”

  “And this is Mr Carswell,” Major Vernon said.

  Now it was Felix’s turn to have his hand crushed. Mr Abbot then proceeded to offer them all the honours of his house, and Major Vernon was obliged to stem the tide with a request for just a pot of coffee and the favour of answering a few questions that might assist with the investigation. This delighted Mr Abbott, and he dashed out to command the coffee and then returned, saying, “So how may I help you, gentlemen?”

  “I’m in search of information about a Mr Samuel Roper. I know that he occasionally came here to meet with other gentlemen to discuss business. Sometimes with Mr Williamson of Northminster, a manufacturer and also with Mr Blake, from Market Craven.”

  “Would that be Mr Blake from up at the Hall, now?” said Mr Abbott.

  “I don’t know. Tell me about him, Mr Abbott.”

  “He has a manufactory in Market Craven. And another in Axworth, I understand. Whatever, he’s made his fortune several times over.”

  “And he lives near here?”

  “Oh, yes. Only since last year, though. Old Squire Greenall sold his house to him and got a fine price for it, they say, which is just as well as his boy wanted a commission in the Cavalry.” He shook his head.

  “A devoted father,” Major Vernon said, smiling. “My father would not have sold so much as an acre on my behalf. Especially not to go into the Cavalry.”

  “And I dare say, you’d not have expected him to do so, sir. There was a lot of talk about it around here, I can tell you. His only son, of course, and that muddies a man’s mind, but land is land, is it not?”

  “Indeed it is. So I think we may be speaking of the same Mr Blake. Does he come here sometimes, then?”

  “Yes, he has met people here, as you say. I remember him meeting a funny little fellow. I don’t remember his name. But he did give me an extra shilling to keep anyone else out of the room.”

  At this moment a woman, presumably Mrs Abbott judging by her age and the handsome lace on her cap, came in with the coffee and a plate of tiny pies, hot from the oven.

  “You are in luck, gentlemen,” Mr Abbott said. “Mrs Abbott does not make these every day. But they are the speciality of The Greyhound. Spiced currant pies.”

  “My late mother’s recipe,” said Mrs Abbot said. “And my grandmother before her. We have been making them here for, oh, I don’t know how many years! At any rate, I hope you enjoy them. Gentlemen usually do. We make them for hunt breakfasts, ball suppers and goodness knows what.”

  “There are confectioners in Northminster who have offered Mrs Abbott a great deal of money for that recipe,” said Mr Abbott with pride, “but we keep it our secret.”

  “I can see why,” said Major Vernon, having taken a bite. “They are excellent.” Felix nodded in agreement, his own mouth still full of hot pie.

  “I have been making them to send up to the Hall,” she said. “They are having quite the party up there tonight. In fact, Mr Hale – you know, the confectioner from Northminster – was just in. He wants to know if we have any waiters to spare. He’s doing the supper and is short-handed. Men who know how to wear a livery! Of course, I couldn’t help him.”

  “Perhaps it was a pretext, Mrs Abbott,” Major Vernon said. “He was after your recipe. Burglars often visit the scene of a robbery beforehand to get the lay of the land.”

  “Oh, really, sir!” said Mrs Abbott, “I don’t think so. If you knew Mr Hale...”

  “I do indeed,” said Major Vernon. “Though he is a little expensive for my wife and me.”

  “He certainly is,” said Abbott. “And the money they must be spending on this party!”

  “It is in honour of Count Someone-Or-Other. A foreign gentleman. A great friend of Mr Blake’s, it seems. That is what Mr Hale said. Do have another one, sir,” Mrs Abbott added, offering the plate to Felix. “Hungarian, I think he said.”

  “Quite exotic for this part of the world,” said Major Vernon.

  “I suppose so,” said Mrs Abbott. “But Mr Blake is all over the place all the time. Always going hither and thither. I don’t know how Mrs Blake can bear it. But then, she has nothing much to complain of, living the way she does. Given she wasn’t much of anybody beforehand. Not proper gentry, certainly.”

  “I liked it better when old Squire Greenall had the place,” said Mr Abbott. “And as for your Hungarian count, I think saw him the other day. A great tall fellow in a green overcoat, with froggings and whatnot on it. Oh, and he had a nose on him.”

  “What sort of nose do you mean?” asked the Major.

  Mr Abbott made a gesture outlining a large nose. “Like the Duke of Wellington. He certainly had something of an air about him. If he wasn’t your count, Jane, I’d be surprised.”

  “When did you see this man, Mr Abbott?” Major Vernon said.

  “Yesterday. He was walking about the village with one of the young ladies from the Hall. You may say she isn’t gentry, Jane, but those girls are. They’ve all been away to school.”

  “But not one of them married yet,” said Mrs Abbott. “Perhaps one of them is to marry this count fellow. Which one was it, George?”

  “Miss Lucy, I think,” he said.

  “She is the prettiest,” his wife said, “so that would make sense.”

  “A green overcoat with froggings?” said Major Vernon. “You are quite sure?”

  “Yes, sir!” said Mr Abbott.

  Major Vernon thought for a moment and said, “And this party they are having is definitely tonight, Mrs Abbott?” She nodded. “And Mr Hale was with you only a few minutes ago?”

  “Yes, he just left. He just walked down from the Hall. I was quite surprised to see him at my kitchen door.”

  “And he was going back to the Hall?” Mrs Abbott nodded. “I should like to catch up with him. Perhaps one of you might show me the way? Wait here, Mr Carswell, I will be back shortly.”

  “Yes, of course, sir,” Mr Abbott said, and ushered Major Vernon swiftly out of the room. Mrs Abbott followed him. Felix settled down by the fire with a cup of coffee and found he
could not resist eating two more of Mrs Abbott’s delicious currant pies.

  True to his word, Major Vernon reappeared a few minutes later, in the company of a man he at once introduced as Mr Hale.

  “May I say thank you for your custom, Mr Carswell?” Mr Hale said.

  “I had no idea that I was a customer,” Felix said. “But having eaten your cakes and enjoyed them, I’m glad to hear it. My mother-in-law keeps a good table for us.”

  “I think it is our parmesan ice that you particularly like, sir,” Hale said.

  “I do, very much,” Felix said, a little surprised.

  “Her Ladyship did mention it in her last letter, that I must be sure to supply some as it was your favourite.”

  To learn that Lady Blanchfort had taken such trouble over a trivial matter was both painful and touching, and Felix was rather glad that Major Vernon soon turned to the reason he had brought the confectioner back to the inn.

  “Now, Mr Hale, seeing us, do you think that we can pass as waiters, if we got the right rig-out, of course?”

  “As I said, I have the liveries, sir, and I think you might both manage it, if you were careful, and let me give you a few hints. I can assume, gentlemen, that you have never served at table before?”

  “You are proposing we dress as waiters?” Felix said.

  “That we act as waiters for Mr Hale, yes, at tonight’s party at Mr Blake’s. I think it might yield some useful intelligence. But first we must have a lesson or two. Do not spare us, Mr Hale. We need to learn all the tricks.”

  Mr and Mrs Abbott then joined them, and over the next fifteen minutes they were given a brief course in the correct deportment and manners for a liveried serving man at such a function as was being held that evening at Mr Blake’s house. It was slightly bewildering for Felix, who could not quite take to the task with the same quick wit as the Major displayed. But after a while, Mr Hale pronounced he would do, and went on his way. They would be sent for when they were required.

  “I think you would do better sending for Holt,” said Felix. “He is far better than I am at this sort of escapade.”

  “You cannot know until you have tried, and if Mr Hale is satisfied –”

  “He has to be satisfied. Think how much money he must have from me a quarter for custards and jellies!” Felix said. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Are we absolutely certain that this alleged Hungarian count in a green coat is the same man as Billy Armstrong?”

  “I think it must be him,” said Major Vernon. “Blake knew Roper and Armstrong knew Roper. What the connection between the three of them might be is what we will try and discover tonight.”

  “You have met Mr Blake, though –”

  “Not dressed as a footman,” said Major Vernon. “There is little risk he will recognise me.”

  “I don’t know,” said Felix. “In their way, your features are as memorable as Armstrong’s.”

  “The wig will go a long way in disguising me. It creates a mask. That is why counsel and judges wear them still, so they will not be known on the street and set upon. And as for servants, they are invisible to many people.”

  Felix was unconvinced but said, “If you think it will yield something, then we must, I suppose.”

  “It is the season for theatricals,” Major Vernon said.

  “I had been hoping to avoid them, or at least keep them at arm’s length.”

  “Just think how amused Mrs Carswell will be when you tell her what you have been up to!”

  This convinced Felix even less, but it was one of those occasions when there was no arguing with Major Vernon.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Attired in perfect evening dress, Billy Armstrong looked at the tray of proffered champagne with disdain and said to Giles, “Brandy – and make it a large one.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Giles, turning away. He put down his tray and went to the serving table where the other drinks were laid out, poured a generous measure of Blake’s expensive cognac, placed it on a silver tray and returned to offer the drink with the required deferential bow of the head. Armstrong took it and walked away.

  Giles then took up his tray of champagne again, and began, as Mr Hale had instructed him, to circulate through the crowd that filled the brilliantly lit central hall of the house.

  It struck him as a curious party.

  The house was large and fashionably fitted up, and his guests were equally fashionable. The lady of the house – Mrs Blake – and her three daughters were gorgeous, without being gaudy, but they only had a few other female guests with whom to compare their costumes. Most of the guests were men. Perhaps Mrs Blake meant to give her girls the best chances by not asking too many rivals, but as he took round his tray of drinks, Giles saw few signs of flirtation or pursuit.

  The women soon sought safety in the drawing room, where they sat playing cards around a large table, but whether it was for money, Giles could not tell. The men, however, were definitely there to play cards for high stakes. The dining room to the right of the hall had been transformed into a gaming room, and it was to this room that Billy Armstrong had taken his brandy.

  Giles now returned to the serving table to replenish his stock of glasses. At the same moment, Carswell came out from the pantry carrying a tray of little dishes. He looked flushed beneath his powdered wig.

  “Ices for the ladies,” he said by way of explanation, and carried on carefully towards the drawing room, his load shaking and clinking as he went.

  “Let me help you,” said Giles, joining him.

  He went to the card table and stood by the lady on Mrs Blake’s right, assuming she was the most important female guest.

  “Ice, madam?” he asked in his best grave manner.

  The lady assented, and he took an ice from Carswell’s tray and laid it carefully down beside her, so it should not get in the way of her cards or her reticule.

  “Oh, how lovely!” the woman exclaimed. “Are these from Hale’s, Margaret?”

  “They are indeed, Mrs Jenkins,” said Mrs Blake.

  “What a lucky woman you are,” said Mrs Jenkins, “to have a husband who likes to spend his money! I can’t get Jenkins to spend a penny on anything nice, though he likes it well enough when he comes here. He will be talking of nothing else but the ices and the custards, and I shall say to him, well, we could have some, for we can well afford it, and he will say, ‘why buy them when we can have them here, whenever we like?’”

  “I’m glad Mr Jenkins likes them,” said Mrs Blake, shuffling the cards with great dexterity.

  As this conversation went on, Giles and Carswell were making their way about the table, decorously distributing the ices. Only one lady refused.

  “So, who is this mysterious Mr Armstrong?” said Mrs Jenkins, and Giles could have kissed her for her bluntness. He was also hard-pressed not to exchange a glance with Carswell at the boldness of the man using his name in this house. “Jane and I are agog. Is he...?”

  “You had better ask Lucy about it,” said Mrs Blake.

  Lucy, who was sitting opposite her mother, then flushed the same colour as her strawberry ice.

  “All settled, then?” said Mrs Jenkins.

  “Not entirely,” said Mrs Blake. “Lucy isn’t quite sure yet.”

  Giles was glad to hear that she had her doubts.

  “I can see why not, my dear,” said Mrs Jenkins. “That is quite a nose. Oh yes, most distinguished, but are you sure you want it passed down in the family?”

  Everyone laughed at that except poor Lucy.

  “It’s not that, ma’am,” she said, “It’s only that I don’t think I’m ready to be married and go away. He wants to go back to New York – and soon.”

  “I should love to go to New York,” said another of the ladies who Giles had not yet managed to identify. “My husband says that’s the future – America – and that we should all pack up our bags and go.”

  “And will you, Mrs Brown?” said Mrs Jenkins.

  “H
e talks and talks of it,” said Mrs Brown, “but I don’t suppose anything will come of it.”

  “That is men for you,” said Mrs Jenkins. “So much talk. And we get accused of never holding our tongues.”

  “True enough, ma’am,” Mrs Blake said, and began to deal the cards.

  Giles signalled to Felix and they left the drawing room. The central hall was now deserted. All the men had gone into the gaming room.

  “He’s bold,” Carswell remarked.

  “That may be a useful weakness,” Giles said. “He is clearly at his ease here.”

  “And planning to flee the country,” said Carswell.

  Mr Hale now appeared from the pantry and indicated that Carswell was wanted. Giles went into the gaming room and stood holding his tray, awaiting any orders.

  The room was thick with cigar smoke, and around the several tables various games of chance were earnestly in progress. Some men were only watching, enjoying the thrill without the risks, but most were seated and at play.

  Armstrong was now at the whist table with Blake and two other men, and it was here that the mood was markedly more serious. Giles moved his position so he could observe the play more clearly. All the players were skilled and swift in their play, their gestures economical and business-like. This was not pleasure but work. All the men betrayed little emotion. When one game was finished and one of them had evidently lost a great deal, he only rose, bowed to the others and made a gesture to indicate he could not go on, and turned away from the table. How much he had lost, Giles did not like to speculate, though he suspected there were plenty in that room who would have enjoyed laying odds on the matter. However, when he passed Giles and said, “Port, if you please, my man,” his voice betrayed great tension. He went and sat down in a corner and drank three glasses in rapid succession, before staggering from the room, almost as if he had been given a blow to the head.

  Another man slipped into his place, almost a willing victim. Armstrong demanded fresh cards.