All through the week gale-force winds had battered the west country, toppling trees, displacing roofing, restricting the movements of shipping. Today, for the first time the winds had eased, but occasional gusts still bowed the trees and whined around Longhills. Sitting in the windowseat in his bedchamber, Montclair watched the drizzling rain and wondered if Lyddford had been able to take The Dainty Dancer out; if Susan had donned her breeches and sailed with him; if little Priscilla was wandering about, missing him, needing him to help finish their long story …
His hand tightened on the grubby object he held. Eight days since he had seen the little girl or the wicked widow … Eight days. And it seemed more like eight years. He could walk quite comfortably now, so long as he did not walk too far, and his hand was improving rapidly. Sheswell was overjoyed, and declared it was what he had hoped for long since; indeed, he could not comprehend why his medicine, usually so efficacious, had not achieved such results long before this. The thought had caused him to frown and shake his head in mystification. His heart twisting, Valentine had said nothing.
He should be overjoyed also. It was what he had prayed for—that his hand should regain feeling. He’d even been able to play his beloved harpsichord—not well, but a little, and Sheswell assured him it was just the beginning. Just the beginning. Why then must he feel it was the end? Why must joy be a thing forgotten, and grief a constant ache within him?
The question was answered almost before it was asked. Until he found Susan he’d not realized how lonely his life had been. Finding her, he had thought to have found a dauntless lady whose heart was kind, whose nature was generous and loyal, whose bright spirit could always put the sunlight back in his sky. They had bickered sometimes, true, but even the bickering had been comfortable, and how joyous had been the moments when they’d laughed together. Life had begun to look bright again, and full of promise. He had begun to weave dreams of the future … glorious dreams. And all the time—
He flung the dirty mob-cap from him and stared unseeingly across the park. Were his suspicions merely another product of the concussion Sheswell said would bother him for months to come? No matter what his aunt and uncle said, nothing would convince him that the lovely Susan and her brother had plotted the initial murderous attack on him. But he could not deny the possibility that Priscilla’s discovery of him in the Folly had enabled them to “rescue” him, and then contrive that he would slowly die under their “care.” He groaned softly. Could someone so lovely, seemingly so kind and compassionate, be so evil … such a clever actress? His heart said no, but the demon called Common Sense whispered that if she was innocent, why had she and Mrs. Starr held that whispered conversation he’d not been meant to hear? Why had she uttered not one word of explanation? It would have been so simple and he’d been so desperately eager to believe whatever she told him. He’d even pleaded with her. And still she had said nothing.
Tormented by these terrible suspicions, his battle to banish her from his mind was unsuccessful. When he played his music he saw her beside him on the bench of the spinet that beautiful sunny morning, her face aglow as she played the treble and he the bass. The smile in her eyes shone at him from the flickering flames of the candles. Her voice echoed in his ears when he tried to sleep; the tilt of her intrepid chin, the vivid curve of her mouth, the sheen on the thick silken curtain of her hair haunted him day and night. There was no respite, no escape from the yearning for what might have been.
He scowled and his lips tightened. It was no use mooning like this. The idyll—if such it could be called—was done. He had exchanged the cheerful informality of Highperch for the awesome majesty of Longhills. Dammit—what was he thinking? He loved Longhills! He always had. It was his birthplace. Only … just now it was also a luxurious loneliness not alleviated by his aunt’s barbed remarks, his uncle’s smiling insincerity, the sneering hostility of Junius. Only with Barbara could he feel a mutual fondness, and their meetings were few and far between, her parents patently regarding him as a threat, an evil influence on their timid child.
He was to meet with her this afternoon, however. Gould had given him a smuggled note requesting that he await her in the cellar at four o’clock. He could well imagine why. The dreaded marriage must be weighing heavily on the poor girl, in spite of his promise that she would never become Lady Pollinger. Gad, if nothing else offered, he’d marry her himself. He thought wryly that it might offer a solution for both of them.
Despite the rain one of the gardeners was trundling a wheelbarrow across the lawn, leaving a deep rut in the velvet turf. “Stupid clod!” muttered Montclair. At first he thought the offender was the new man, Diccon, but that lazy fellow was not likely to be moving so purposefully, almost as though he was late for something … Curious, he crossed to his chest of drawers and sought about until he found the spyglass he had been used to employ when sailing. Returning to the window, he focused it, then swung it ahead of the gardener’s fast-moving figure. At first, he could detect only the high shrubs that bordered the cutting gardens. Then the wind whipped the branches apart to reveal a man standing very still among the bushes.
The gardener cast a quick glance behind him, then joined the second man, and the two of them disappeared from view.
Montclair telescoped the glass, his lips tight and angry. The gardener had indeed been Diccon. And the man he’d met so furtively was one of Mrs. Henley’s vagrants.
Frowning, he put the glass away. Footsteps sounded in the hall, and his aunt’s strident tones shrilled out. The mob-cap was lying on the windowseat in plain sight. Her quick eyes would spot it at once, and a fine time he’d have explaining it away! He leapt to snatch up the betraying cap and thrust it into the drawer of his bedside table, then turned to the opening door. Perhaps he had moved too suddenly and too fast: his aunt’s magenta-clad figure rippled before his eyes like silk in a gale. The room dipped and swayed. Uncle Selby’s arm was about him. Over the roaring in his ears, he heard the familiar voice, harsh with anger.
“Poor fellow … Second attack this week—worse than he was before! God only knows what that unprincipled harpy and her cohorts have done to him … Hurry, my love, and send a groom for Sheswell at once…”
With a great effort, Montclair fought away the sickening giddiness. “No. Better … now. I—don’t want … Sheswell…”
* * *
The first cellar was chill and very dark, and stretched off like a vast and deserted warehouse until it was swallowed up by the gloom. Montclair paused to light two candles in a wall sconce. The resultant small circle of brightness pushed back the dark, and neat rows of folding tables that were used for garden parties leapt into view beside him. Most of the articles stored on this level were furnishings and supplies that were periodically put to use. He walked along the clear space between bedsteads, chairs, and chests under holland covers, his mind on the just concluded interview with his aunt and uncle. He had been dismayed by the attack of dizziness, following so soon after the one he’d suffered on Tuesday. For some reason the illness had not struck him since that very bad first week at Highperch, and he’d begun to hope it had run its course. An unwarranted optimism, evidently. However, this particular siege had served a purpose; Sir Selby and Lady Marcia had sought him out so as to discuss the eviction of Mrs. Henley and her family. His flat refusal to instigate such a procedure had infuriated them, but since he was clearly unwell they had been unable to indulge their wrath, and, obviously seething, had left him to Gould’s care.
The attack had been sharp, but short, and fortunately he’d recovered in time to meet Babs. Still, he was none too steady on his feet, and trod carefully down the worn stone steps leading to the lower cellar. The darkness was deeper, and mustier, and the silence became absolute. He held his candle higher and called, but there was no sign of Barbara. She must be having difficulty slipping away, poor chit. While waiting for her he amused himself by inspecting the accumulation of unwanted articles that had been relegated to this ignominious retirement. There were quite a number of old paintings, some with quite beautiful frames, all covered with a thick layer of dust. Poking through a pile of crockery and bric-a-brac, he came across a blackened statuette that he found to be a splendid reproduction of the Montclair Mermaid fashioned from what he suspected to be sterling silver. Vaguely irritated that it should have been discarded, he carried the mermaid along with him, and had in short order succumbed happily to the disease that seems to afflict all people who search through attics or cellars crammed with long forgotten, and unexpectedly fascinating articles.
Twenty minutes later he had also rescued a charming inlaid tray, an Etruscan bowl, and a Chinese pottery horse that he thought was very old, possibly of the T’ang Dynasty, in which case it would be quite valuable. Still there was no sign of Barbara, but he was in no hurry, thoroughly enjoying this voyage of exploration.
Quite suddenly, there was a difference in the quality of the air. The rear door must have been opened. Why on earth would Barbara have come down that way when the approach was from the hillside and rather sheer? It dawned on him then that no one but Yates and himself had a key to that door. He swore softly, blew out his candle, and drew the pistol that nowadays he always carried in his pocket. Grim and ready, he waited. There came the scrape of a tinder box, followed by a glow that grew brighter. A tall press blocked his view, but the light was steadier now; the candle must have been put down. A shadow slanted across the room. Montclair caught a glimpse of riding boots and heard the faint jingle of spurs. Not Barbara, that was certain! He strode forward, pistol levelled. “Stand, or I fire!” he commanded ringingly.
The intruder swung around.
“Chew bad being to mices frens,” alleged a familiar and somewhat nasal voice. “But chew goodly kinds to mices lady. Mostly Angelo forgiving chews.”
Montclair had to fight a ridiculous surge of delight. “What the devil are you doing in my cellar?”
“Angelo overlookings theses lamps,” said the Spaniard, taking the question literally. “Very old, very finely. Mices elves buyings for loveliest—”
“Good God! What again? Be damned if you ain’t a merchant by inclination—always trying to buy something!” Montclair strolled nearer, and glanced at the lamp the señor was holding. Despite the dust it was an interesting piece fashioned of heavy crystal, the shade a series of finely etched panels that were each remarkably beautiful. “Besides, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I meant—why are you here?” Hope quickened his heartbeat. “Have you brought a—a message for me, perhaps?”
“He is here because I asked him to come, Val.” Candlestick in hand, Barbara hurried from the stairs. She gave Montclair a fond smile, but went straight to the Spaniard.
Angelo put down his lamp and bowed to press his lips to her fingers. “Mices loveliest,” he murmured with ardour.
“You came,” sighed Barbara redundantly.
‘Oh, my God,’ thought Montclair.
It took a very few minutes to verify his fears. Miss Barbara Trent and Señor Angelo Francisco Luis Lagunes de Ferdinand were deeply in love. The Spaniard followed Barbara’s revelation by making an extremely lengthy and incoherent offer for his lady’s hand in marriage.
“I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand all that, señor,” said Montclair as soon as he could break into this dramatic oration. “But I gather you wish to marry my cousin, in which case your application must be made to Sir Selby Trent, not to—”
“No, Val,” said Barbara.
It occurred to him belatedly that she had changed from the nervous child he knew. There was a new set to her chin, a brighter light in her eyes, and a becoming colour in her formerly pale cheeks. Being of the personal opinion that de Ferdinand was a little mad, Montclair found it incredible that his cousin could really have given her heart to so volatile an individual. The tender expression she turned upon the Spaniard left little doubt but that she loved him, however, and he in turn regarded her with such slavish adoration that Montclair dreaded what the end might be. “You must realize, Babs,” he said gently, “that even if I had a legal right to do so, I could not give you my permission.”
“I know exactly what Papa would say,” she argued. “And so do you. They all are determined I must marry Sir Dennis Pollinger, and sooner would I be dead.”
Señor de Ferdinand uttered a shriek and clapped a hand over her lips. “Madre de Dios!” he gasped, forgetting himself in his horror. “Chew deadling be, I yump in rivers! No, no! Angelo firstly deploying theses mens nasty!”
“Destroying, my dearest,” corrected Barbara, smiling at him lovingly. She turned to her troubled cousin. “I mean to wed him, Val. Yours is the only consent I care about. I shall elope, if I must.”
He frowned. “I know you’ve been very unhappy, Babs, and I do indeed understand your situation. But I must consider your welfare. We know nothing of Señor de Ferdinand”—he slanted a faint smile at Angelo’s anxious and intent face—“save that he’s always trying to buy everything in sight.”
“For mices loveliest. Chess!”
“I appreciate your motives, certainly. But—señor, this simply will not do. I have no right at all to order Barbara’s future, but she is my cousin and her happiness is most important to me. If her heart is set on this, I promise I’ll do all in my power to help you, but I’ll not see her disgraced by a runaway elopement to Gretna Green.”
With several vehement nods the Spaniard drew a folded paper from an inner pocket. “Mices elves buyings theses. Other the days.”
Montclair took the paper and scanned it briefly. “Good Lord! A Special Licence?”
“Angelo somethings wanting, Angelo gottings.”
Montclair stared at him. “These aren’t easy to come by. How the deuce did—” He abandoned that pointless line of enquiry and returned the licence. “Very good. But how am I to know that you don’t already have a wife and a well-filled nursery? Or that you—”
The Spaniard gave a snort of wrath, stamped his foot, and drew himself to his full height. “Señora de Ferdinand they’s not! Nurseries they’s not! Angelo de Ferdinand, mices elves, honour the bull yentleman!”
“I will accept your word that you are an honourable man,” said Montclair, contriving to maintain an air of gravity. “But I know nothing of your background, save that you appear to make your home with Mr. Lyddford and Mrs. Henley. Which is certainly not an indication that you are able to support my cousin in comfort.”
“Mices loveliest wishings palace, she havings! Herses elves wanting castles or Prinny’s vermilion at theses Brightons, she havings! Angelo Francisco—”
“Miss Barbara…?” Winnie’s plump and scared countenance peered at them from the steps. “They’re looking everywhere for you, Miss,” she quavered. “Oh, do come quick! Ever so quick, Miss!”
“Chess!” said Angelo, seizing his love’s hand. “Comings ourses elves, mices Barbara. Nowly!”
“No!” said Montclair. “If they catch one whiff of this, señor, your lovely lady will be whisked away and you likely clapped up before you know where you are. Babs is underage and her parents have full legal control over her. You’d best get back to your friends, before you’re caught.”
“He’s perfectly right,” said Barbara, frantic at the thought of danger to her beloved. “Go now. Val will handle everything, don’t worry.”
“But, Angelo’s wishes—”
“Oh, Miss! Do come!” begged the abigail tearfully.
Reluctantly, Angelo returned his key to Barbara and took his leave.
Montclair walked across the cellar with his cousin, easing her apprehensions by promising faithfully that was it at all possible, he would see her safely married to her unorthodox suitor.
“One thing, Babs,” he said, as they climbed the stairs. “Where did you get my key to the back door?”
“It’s not yours, Val. Winnie persuaded my brother’s man to let her borrow it.” She whispered desperately, “I beg you will not judge Señor Angelo because he—he sometimes brags a little. He is so kind, so gentle with me.”
He reassured her as best he could, but when she left him and hurried after her abigail his steps slowed, his thoughts turning to his own problems. He now had two more pieces to add to his puzzle: at least one of the vagrants from Highperch was conspiring with his lazy gardener, for there could be no doubt that their meeting had been a secretive one. Also, there was the business of Junius having a key to the cellar entrance. In the year 1645, a troop of Oliver Cromwell’s Roundheads had discovered the rear door, entered the Manor, slaughtered twenty-five of its Royalist defenders, and set fire to the building so that much of the East Wing had to be rebuilt. Since then, the two keys to that door had been jealously guarded. His own key (Geoff’s, actually) was locked in his desk. He’d seen Yates’s key this morning when the steward had opened the safe and grumbled good-naturedly that his key ring all but made him lean sideways when he walked. Somehow, Junius must have got his hands on one and had it copied. Perhaps he only wanted it so as to slink into the house after enjoying one of the wild nights his father would frown upon. On the other hand, Junius was very obviously both obedient to and afraid of Monsieur Imre Monteil. And the Swiss gentleman had a very havey-cavey business relationship with Andrew Lyddford.
He intended to tackle Junius about the key, but the Trents had a dinner engagement that evening, and took Junius and Barbara with them, so he dined alone, plagued by an irritating sense that he had seen something in the cellar that was important, something he should have at once recognized to be of special significance. Whatever it was, it eluded him. He retired to his study, worked hard at his music for several hours, and went up to bed vexed by the knowledge that he had accomplished very little of any worth. Gould interpreted his gloomy expression correctly, and was so quietly diplomatic that at length Montclair’s introspection was pierced. “Am I behaving like a bear?” he asked laughingly. “What a trial I am to cause you to creep about as if on sheer glass.”
“You are not a trial at all, Mr. Montclair,” said the valet politely, then added with daring, “Only—I wish I might think you happy.”
His employer’s eyes became veiled. “I have much to be thankful for, Gould. I am alive when by rights I should be thoroughly dead. I live in a beautiful house. I am cared for by patient and faithful retainers. A great deal more than many men can claim, eh?”
Yet even as he spoke those hollow and empty words came another nudge at memory. What in the world was his brain trying to tell him?
After Gould left, he lay frowning at the book in his hands. It had been something in the cellar … And it was connected to something he’d said to Gould … What had he said? He’d spoken of the beauty of Longhills … and of his faithful servants … not much else. However he racked his brains the puzzle would not be solved, and at length, frustrated, he slammed the book closed and leaned over to blow out his candle. His outstretched hand checked, and he stared at the water pitcher, his own voice echoing in his ears. “… to creep about as if on sheer glass…” That was it! Glass! Into his mind’s eye came Angelo holding up that crystal lamp. For a long moment he remained stiff and silent. Then, “By God…!” he whispered, and flinging back the bedclothes began to get dressed again.
Everyone had gone to bed when he made his way down to the second cellar, and the dark stillness seemed to press in about him. He had carried a branch of candles this time, and lit those in the wall sconces as he went along. His searching gaze found the lamp at last, and he went eagerly to inspect it. The Chinese student he’d admired at school had been most interested in the manufacture of glass, and from Li he had learned something of the procedure. The diamond-point engraving on the panels of the shade was exquisitely done, the clarity and the hatching, which was without exception worked in a single direction, marking it beyond doubt as having been fashioned in the Netherlands, some time in the sixteenth century. It was a rare work of art. Montclair’s breath hissed through his teeth and he began to search carefully through the haphazardly piled articles.
When he climbed the steps half an hour later, his eyes were narrowed, his lips a tight line. The pieces of the puzzle were falling together in a way that could no longer be ignored, and always the evidence pointed in one direction. The hurt and disillusion that had racked him were intensified, but now to those emotions was added rage, deep and searing.
* * *
Charlie Purvis handed Allegro’s reins to Montclair and peered up into the stormy face anxiously.
“You sure you won’t let me ride with you, sir? He’s awful frisky, and you’re not—” He broke off, his sleepy eyes widening as Montclair slipped a long-barrelled Boutet pistol into the saddle holster. “Mr. Valentine,” he said in a changed voice, “I don’t know what you’re about, but it’s a wild night and I’m going with—”
Montclair said curtly, “You’re going back to bed, Charlie. What I’m about is my own affair, and I shall handle it without interference.”
The big bay cavorted, impatient to be gone, but Purvis’s hand clung to the bridle still. Montclair’s expression lightened. He reached down to grip the Welshman’s shoulder. “You’re a good fellow, and I thank you for your loyalty. Just in case anything should go wrong, I’ve left a letter for Mr. Devenish telling him what I suspect. It might be as well for you to take it down to Devencourt. At once. Gould will give it to you, but say nothing of it to anyone else, understand?”
“Aye. I’ll be mum as chance, sir.”
“Good man. Now—stand clear!”
Allegro reared, snorting, and Purvis jumped away. “Sir,” he called, “you forgot your hat!”
But Montclair had already been swallowed up by the blustery darkness.
* * *
It was utter folly, thought Susan, wandering across the meadow and lifting her face to the night wind, to brood so about the wretched creature. He was unworthy of one second of her consideration. It was all the fault of Fate, really. Fate was such a cruel trickster. She had married Burke Henley willingly, and she’d been fond of him, but she’d never given him her heart. She had saved it—for a man who in return had despised her!
She was faintly surprised to find that her aimless steps had carried her into the fringes of the woods. She’d come a long way, and she should not really be out here alone, but it was hard to sleep of late, and sometimes she felt a desperate need to escape from her family and the cottage where there were so many reminders of—She frowned.
The moonlight came dimly through the trees, and she had no difficulty making her way back along the rough path. Her steps slowed, and she gazed at a swaying fern. How proud he had looked when he left them. How cold and haughty and unforgiving. She’d begun to dream that he loved her, instead of which he’d made it clear that he judged them a pack of scheming murderers. What a hideous moment of awareness that had been, and what a lesson. Never again would she—
She had been vaguely conscious of odd sounds, and now a great rustling and snapping of branches sounded behind her. Frightened, she wondered if it could be Junius Trent’s savage dog. She’d heard several accounts of the animal’s viciousness, and the thought of facing such a brute in the woods at night made her very sorry she’d not thought of such a possibility before foolishly wandering out alone. She saw a light approaching and thought nonsensically that dogs did not carry lanterns. Perhaps Trent was taking his hound for a walk. No, that was silly also. The dog had the run of the estate, and anyway, why would Trent take him out at this hour of the night? It must be at least eleven o’clock.
A deep voice with a foreign accent said, “When master say do, we do.”
Whatever they were doing for their master was very likely of a shady nature if it must be done under cover of darkness, and they probably would not be pleased to find they’d been seen. Susan shrank behind a tree, but with horrid perversity the light seemed to be coming this way. If they came too close, they would surely see her! Already it was too late to run away. She could see the lantern bobbing up and down, hear the grumbling voices of several men. And they were headed directly for her! There was probably not another soul in the Longhills woods tonight, but they had to choose the exact path she had followed! She was wearing her dark green cloak, and she gathered it around her and with a muffled sob knelt down, crouching very low among the roots, and pulling the hood over her face. Seconds later kneeboots were stamping so close that she could have reached out and touched them, and she huddled there, shaking, scarcely daring to breathe. A Scots voice complained that they’d “hae done better tae ha’ fetched the wee carrt closer.” Another man swore in French and said belligerently, “C’est une absurdité! But thees you will tell us ’ow to do it, hors de doute!”
An oath greeted this sarcasm. They all sounded breathless, and the man who had first spoken said a pithy “Many box. Jacques work—not talk.”
“Hold on a bit,” gasped an English voice. “This accursed … thing weighs a ton!”
The last pair of boots halted about six inches from Susan’s bowed head. If their owner glanced down he must see her! She prayed with silent intensity.
A noisy collision. A burst of profanity made her shrink, and was cut short by a roared “Get on, damn you! Almost made me drop the lot!”
Grumbling, they moved on, their breathless voices gradually fading away.
When Susan was sure there were no more coming, she peeped up. She could see the last man outlined against the dim light from the lantern, a large box balanced on one shoulder. She thought there must have been five in all, and she gazed after them, trembling, scarcely able to believe she had not been discovered.
The first man had said “Many box.” And the Scot had mumbled something about a wee cart. Very likely there were more boxes to be unloaded. When they returned, she must be far from this horrid spot! She clambered to her feet, taking care to make as little noise as possible, and started back the way she had come, but curiosity began to niggle at her. Where in the world could they be going? There were no houses for miles. No buildings at all in the woods—save for that hideous Folly. She peered around, but in the dark it was impossible to tell how close she was to the ruins. Was it possible that was where they were going? Could there be a hidden room perhaps, where smugglers met? Intrigued, she began to creep after them. The wind was rising; the agitated branches would smother any sound she might make so long as she stayed far enough distant—just close enough to see without being seen …
As it turned out, they went only a short way. She was about ten yards behind them, well screened by the undergrowth, when she heard a crash that made her jump almost out of her skin. She shrank against the nearest tree, clinging to it, her heart in her mouth. What on earth…?
She forced her trembling knees to bear her closer and peeped through the branches.
Eerily illumined by the moonlight, and with the wind moaning through the branches, the Montclair Folly looked bizarre indeed. The men were gathered at the pit, the lantern throwing their shadows across the small clearing. Even as Susan watched, a sturdy fellow dragged his box to the very edge. “’Ere we goes, you stupid blocks,” he wheezed. To her utter astonishment, he uptilted the box over the pit and another crash split the night. The other men followed his example. It might almost have been a ritual, but if it was, it was weird indeed. The man had spoken truly when he told his companions they were “stupid blocks” for— The light dawned then. He hadn’t been referring to his cronies at all! “Bricks!” she whispered, her eyes very wide. Then the boxes being emptied into the Folly were the ones from the cellar at Highperch Cottage, and these men had broken in and stolen them! But why would any thief in his right mind steal boxes of bricks, drive them several miles, then toss them into a pit? Unless these were Monteil’s employees—in which case the question still applied.
In another minute they were carrying the empty boxes back again. Baffled, Susan crept after them. A large waggon stood at the edge of the meadow, and several horses were tethered nearby. Her heart sank when she saw a sixth man slouching on the driver’s seat, smoking a long clay pipe. If he stayed she would have no chance to cross the meadow without being seen. To her relief, the square-set and powerfully built individual who appeared to be the leader grunted that there was no need for a guard, and that this “lazy peasant” could help with the boxes. The “lazy peasant” protested half-heartedly, but the rest of them shouted him down, the Frenchman, Jacques, saying with a flood of gutter language that there were no troops of riding officers in “thees God-forsaken desolation” and that the sooner they got this done, the better.
Susan watched while they heaved and strained and at last went staggering off once more, each man carrying another box. When their quarrelsome voices were out of earshot she crept from the trees. What it was all about she could not imagine, but she didn’t like the look of it, and she daren’t take the time to walk home. She must get back to the house before them, and make sure that all was well. Her heart was pounding with nervousness as she crept to the tethered horses and appropriated a mild-looking black mare. The men would come back soon, for there were still more boxes to be unloaded, but if they should notice that one of the horses was gone, she hoped they’d assume it had got loose and wandered off.
She used one of the boxes for a mounting block, and rode across the meadow at a trot, then at a canter, then at a gallop, the wind blowing her hair and sending her cloak billowing out behind her. She reached Highperch with no sign of pursuit, and slowed the mare on the drivepath. Lights were burning in the house. When she’d left, only the lamp in the lower hall had been lit.
The front door was flung open, and her heart gave a leap as Andrew came onto the steps in his shirtsleeves.
“Oh, thank heaven!” she exclaimed, sliding from the saddle into his arms.
“I should jolly well think you might,” he cried angrily. “Here I come home a day early and go up to have a word with you, and you’re jauntering off somewhere, in the middle of the night, Lord knows where!”
“Yes, yes, but come inside quickly, there’s no time to—”
“Here,” he interrupted, looking narrowly at the mare. “This ain’t one of our hacks, is it? Susan, if you’ve been creeping about after that damnable Montclair—”
She threw the reins over the pommel, slapped the mare on the rump and sent her trotting off, then seized her astonished brother by the hand and tugged it imperatively. “Will you come in!”
* * *
Montclair let Allegro have his head and the big bay thundered through the darkness undeterred by the blustering wind. All doubts were gone now. Montclair knew exactly what he would find at Highperch. He was astounded, in fact, that he’d not seen what was all about him. Lord, but one might suppose he’d worn blinkers! The big painting in the withdrawing room, for example; he should have realized at once that—
Allegro snorted and broke his stride. A horse was grazing up ahead. A saddled horse, but riderless. Montclair slowed the stallion and looked about searchingly. The turf stretched out quiet and empty. No sign of anyone for as far as he could see. He dismounted. The black mare fretted a little, but he patted her and spoke soothingly, and she stood docilely enough as he gathered up the reins. She wasn’t from the Highperch stables, unless she was a recent acquisition. But she must have come from somewhere nearby, and as a general rule saddled horses were not left to wander about with reins trailing. Montclair swung into the saddle, and leading the mare, sent Allegro on at the canter, his eyes alert for a fallen rider.
* * *
“I saw the strangest thing, Andy,” said Susan, leading him into the bright kitchen.
“That don’t surprise me,” he said with a short laugh. “Longhills fairly swarms with strange things!”
“Is Monsieur Monteil here?”
“What, at this hour? Of course not. Why should he be?”
She put off her cloak and laid it over a chair. “Well,” she began, “I went out for a walk—”
“And rode home on a strange hack? Mrs. H., have you—”
She put her hand over his lips. “Listen!” she hissed.
Two minutes later, Andrew frowned at his sister’s worried face, and agreed that it sounded a dashed havey-cavey business. “Tell you what, Sue. Go up and wake Angelo. I’ll roust out the Bo’sun and those two louts you took on, and—”
“Good evening, my dearest friends.”
Susan whirled around with a shocked gasp.
Imre Monteil smiled at them from the doorway. “Pardonnez-moi,” he said apologetically. “The front door it was open, and I took the liberty to enter, since I have rather troublesome news, I fear. A Revenue cutter is at this very moment en route here.”
Susan turned deathly pale and gave a frightened little cry.
Lyddford put his arm around her and said hoarsely, “Gad! Have they rumbled us, then?”
“Not so much—er, rumbled, as been informed, mon cher. I fear you have a powerful and relentless enemy.”
“Montclair!” said Lyddford through his teeth. “Why, that worthless—”
“No!” cried Susan. “Whatever else, I cannot believe that of him! He wouldn’t—if only for Priscilla’s sake!”
The Swiss gave her a tolerant smile.
Lyddford asked, “How much time have we?”
“With luck, enough. I have contrived, you see, to—divert these zealous gentlemen of the law.”
“Jolly good,” said Lyddford. “Then your men were here tonight?”
Monteil blinked at him. “You heard them? I told them they were not to disturb you! There was no answer when we knocked on the door, so— Ah, but we waste time, and time it is of the essence. Come!” He turned away.
Susan caught her brother’s hand nervously, and whispered, “Andy—should we not wake the others?”
Monteil heard, and paused. “I would advise against it, madame. The fewer who know of this, the better.” A sadness came into his black eyes. “And you entertain doubts, I think. Have I given you cause to mistrust me, lovely lady? It is but natural, I suppose.”
Scarlet, she faltered, “No—you have been nothing but good. Only—”
“Only I am not, alas, of a handsome countenance, and probably seem a thorough villain. Here—” He drew a pistol from his pocket and put it into her hand, ignoring her embarrassed protestations. “Just in case,” he said with a twinkle. “Only I beg you will be cautious, dear Mrs. Henley. It is loaded.”
Lyddford chuckled. Susan felt very foolish, and held the heavy pistol gingerly as they walked quietly along the hall.
Lanterns glowed in the second cellar when Lyddford swung open the door, and two men who had been nailing up a large crate jerked around and stared up at them.
Again, Susan experienced a twinge of unease. They were big, and roughly dressed, and she had the distinct impression that they were prepared for violent action.
“Vous pouvez être tranquille,” Monteil told them, closing the door. “These are my good partners.” He offered Susan his arm. “I thought it necessary you see, my dear lady, to move some cargo, and I have instructed my men to prepare for shipment anything that might be—ah, shall we say—of an incriminating nature.”
Susan allowed him to usher her down the steps. The cellar seemed bigger somehow, and less cluttered.
Lyddford asked curiously, “But why were your men unloading bricks into the Longhills Folly?”
For an instant the Swiss was as one carven from stone. Then he said gently, “Bricks … mon cher?”
“My sister—” began Lyddford, but broke off as the upper door burst open again.
Valentine Montclair stood at the top of the steps, looking wild and wind-blown, his eyes glittering unpleasantly, and a long-barrelled duelling pistol aimed steadily at Imre Monteil.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “A regular thieves’ picnic. How lucky that I found you at home.”