Laying Blame
Paul led Anne and Charlie from the study, through the milling crowd in the hallway, and up the stairs. At the door to her antechamber, she turned to Paul. “I can’t go down to the party tonight. Charlie needs care, and his parents won’t give it to him. He and I will play with hand puppets and cards until he’s ready to sleep.” Pale and drawn, she glanced anxiously at Charlie and put an arm over his shoulder. “I feel guilty for taking him to Bristol.” She looked tenderly into Paul’s eyes. “Will you visit me after you leave the party?”
“If it’s not too late.” He caressed her hand. “I’ll report to you whatever I discover.” When she had gone inside with the boy, he listened to their fading steps, to doors closing. For a moment, he stood quietly holding her worried face in his mind’s eye. His heart went out to her.
If there was any guilt from the trip, it was his. He had taken advantage of Charlie, put him in harm’s way. Should he have been more cautious? More concerned that his pursuit of Fitzroy did not harm innocent bystanders? Fortunately, the boy wasn’t injured. Indeed, the adventure seemed to have done him good. And, the trip had been worthwhile. Roach would not get evidence against Lady Margaret from Betty. Her neighbors were alerted and would protect her. Fitzroy would remain within reach. The prospects for shipping him to France seemed better than ever.
Distant sounds of music jarred the colonel back into the present moment. He hurried to his room, changed to fresh linen and a brown dress suit, and went downstairs to the party.
Moving among the guests, he snatched bits of conversation, much of it about wagering on Jeffery’s boxing match at noon on Wednesday. Large sums, eager faces. He also eavesdropped on guests discussing the afternoon’s attack. How quickly the news had spread. He learned nothing useful, except how anxious the English were about violent crime on their highways. And yet they wouldn’t dream of allowing their king to establish a royal highway patrol as in France.
The sound of music drew him to the ballroom. As he entered, Miss Ware was singing an air to a rapt audience. Her voice, a strong well-trained soprano, filled the room with a lilting melody. A fetching young woman, dark-eyed and comely. Sensuous, yet touchingly innocent. Sir Harry was standing nearby, off to one side, his eyes locked on her. Whenever she looked in his direction, his face beamed with joy. At the end of her song, he led the applause.
The trumpets gave out a resounding flourish. The music director announced a country dance. As Miss Ware stepped down from the stage to the ballroom floor, several men approached her, faces bright and hopeful. Sir Harry brusquely elbowed them out of his way and seized her for himself. She seemed a little startled but pleased by the competition.
The band struck up the music, and the dancers began stepping about the room. For a large, rugged man, Sir Harry was remarkably light on his feet. And skillful. He executed the quick steps with ease and grace. His broad ruddy face exuded the delight he drew from his lovely young partner.
A tap on the shoulder interrupted Saint-Martin’s observations. “Shall we dance?” asked Lady Margaret, her emerald eyes inviting him with a warm inner glow. She extended her arms toward him. “The hostess’ privilege, Colonel.”
Momentarily at a loss for words, Saint-Martin bowed gallantly and murmured his pleasure. He quickly summoned his courage, uttered a silent prayer to the muse of the dance, and stepped out on the floor. Navigating the rapidly changing figures of the dance left him little opportunity for small talk. He did notice his partner casting swift barbed glances at her husband and Miss Ware and sensed each time a tensing of her hands. At the end of the dance, he felt fortunate to have maintained a semblance of dignity. He could easily have tripped them both.
While the musicians rested, Saint-Martin and Lady Margaret strolled from the floor. He looked at her sideways. A woman of uncommon beauty and aristocratic hauteur, but cunning and self-serving. A mercurial woman of Irish temperament, her moods shifting swiftly from frigid to torrid behind a mask of sangfroid. Law and convention had trapped her in an unhappy marriage. She could be a desperate, dangerous woman.
“Isn’t it odd, Colonel, that the bandits appear to have known precisely where and when they could find you?” She tilted her head, a knowing expression in her eyes. “Who do you suppose betrayed you?” Before he could respond, she added, “And my son?”
“I do suspect someone, Lady Margaret, but I really shouldn’t name him until I have more evidence.”
“Mr. Critchley is your man, Colonel. My husband’s personal spy.”
Saint-Martin inadvertently shuddered. Her implication was obvious and shocking.
***
Lady Margaret turned away to speak to other guests and left Saint-Martin with his dark thoughts. He didn’t believe Sir Harry had organized the attack or attempted to kill his son. But to his wife, at least, he seemed capable of such a crime.
Saint-Martin set out to find Georges, who should have returned from his business at the city’s jail. The search ended in the basement gun room. Georges was seated at a work table. The weapons they had discharged that afternoon lay before him.
He looked up and smiled. “Take care, Colonel. Don’t soil your ruffles.” He waved his hand with a flourish over a litter of cleaning rods and oily rags. “The pistols are ready to go back into their cases.”
“Let’s talk here,” said the colonel, sitting across from his adjutant. “No privacy upstairs.” He reached gingerly for Anne’s duelling pistols and held one in each hand, balancing them, taking aim with one and then the other. “If I ever had to duel Fitzroy, I’d borrow one of these. I couldn’t miss.” He shook his head. “Too bad, we must bring the man back alive.” He placed the pistols in their case. “I’ll take them to Miss Cartier when we’ve finished.”
At a word from his superior, Georges reported that the two most seriously wounded bandits were in the city’s hospital. The third man had died shortly after arriving there. Under interrogation, the lightly wounded man, whom Georges had already questioned, admitted Scarface had recruited him and four other men late Saturday night on Avon Street with the promise of a heavy purse of gold coins. Tomorrow, bailiffs would move the man to the prison in Taunton to await trial.
“At the jail, I mingled with constables and watchmen I’ve gotten to know.” Georges rammed a cleaning rod down the short barrel of his musket. “One of them said Roach left the city on horseback at mid-morning and didn’t return until after sunset.”
“He could have been at the cottage, even near the scene of the attack,” said Saint-Martin.
“Or the big man who galloped by us.” Georges cocked his head quizzically. “You don’t think Sir Harry hired Roach to kill Charlie, do you?”
“Seems unlikely to me, though I can’t say why.” Saint-Martin found himself reluctant to accept such an idea, perhaps because he had come to depend on Sir Harry for the capture of Fitzroy.
“You have to admit Sir Harry could have done it,” Georges insisted. “He looks like a bluff, hearty, smiling man. But that’s just on the surface. There’s dark evil in his heart. After all, he once captained a slave ship and continues to trade in slaves. A brutal business!”
“I grant you that. Still, I’ll give Sir Harry the benefit of the doubt. I’m inclined to think Roach alone directed the attack and did so mainly for revenge against Anne—and, for whatever reason, Fitzroy paid him. Most likely, to eliminate me. I can’t fathom Roach’s intentions toward the boy. Perhaps later on he’d ‘rescue’ him to win favor and a reward from his parents.”
Shrugging his doubts, Georges pulled the cleaning rod out of the musket and inspected the weapon carefully. “Finished finally. I’ll wash up, change clothes, and question the servants.” He put the musket in a rack, then glanced at the colonel. “In all the excitement, I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve demolished Critchley’s alibi in the Campbell case.” Georges went on to relate his conversation with Fanny. “Either he or Fitzroy could have pushed her down the stairs.”
“But how can we prove it?” asked Saint-Martin. For a moment he was lost in puzzled thought. “No one admits to seeing either of them at the scene of her fall.” He rose from his chair, waved to his adjutant, and left with Anne’s pistols. As he went lightly up the stairs, he pictured Anne waiting for him. As she heard his steps nearing the door, her blue eyes would brighten, her soft lips would part. The thought pleased him immensely.
***
Resplendent in Combe Park livery of crimson and silver, Georges adjusted his powdered wig and joined the party. At nine in the evening, he was standing in the hall near the main entrance when Jack Roach arrived in a cab and attempted to enter. On duty at the door, Jeffery blocked his way, saying only invited guests were allowed inside.
“I want to speak to Sir Harry,” Roach growled. “He left a message at my apartment.”
“Sir Harry is in his study with several gentlemen discussing business,” said the footman with perfect courtesy. “May I tell him you are here?”
Roach cursed Jeffery for an ignorant savage but handed him a personal card to announce his arrival.
Leaving Roach standing outside, the footman walked to the study with the card. Georges followed him discreetly, his curiosity aroused. After a minute in the study, the footman emerged holding Roach’s card in his hand.
As Jeffery approached the entrance hall, Georges beckoned him off to one side behind tall potted plants where they wouldn’t be noticed.
“I saw Roach send you to Sir Harry with his card. Could you tell me what Sir Harry replied?” Georges fully realized Jeffery needed a very good reason for doing anything that would put him in jeopardy with his master. Therefore, he added in a low voice, “I’m investigating the Red Devil’s part in this afternoon’s attack. It’s possible Sir Harry was involved with him. Maybe not. I’ve got to find out.”
For a moment, Jeffery stared at Georges, searching his face. Then, he smiled regretfully and held up the card so that it showed his master’s handwriting on the back. “Don’t know,” he murmured, “Can’t read. Sir Harry didn’t tell me.”
Georges took a step closer and quickly scanned the message:
I’m busy now. Meet me in the training room in ten minutes
“Thanks anyway, Jeffery. I understand.” Georges winked and took a step back. He suspected the footman could read but didn’t want his master to know.
“Sir, you are a friend of Miss Anne. I trust you.”
Georges pointed to the card. “Can you make Roach wait five minutes for it?”
“Gladly.” Jeffery pocketed the card and sauntered away, losing himself in the crowd.
The footman’s delay gave Georges enough time to dash to the tennis hall ahead of Roach and slip into the training room. It was pitch dark, but he found his way to the closet in the back wall and hid inside. The louvers in the door gave only a partial view of the room, but he should at least be able to hear what was said. He felt around the closet for brooms, mops and pails and put them out of his way. He could not afford to make a noise and be discovered.
After a few minutes, he heard footsteps in the antechamber. The door opened and a large figure entered carrying a lantern. As he set it down on a small table, his face was illumined. Jack Roach! He glanced nervously around the room. With an audible sigh he drew a pair of stools up to the table and sat down, wringing his hands.
Suddenly, he looked up. At the same moment, Georges heard footsteps. A frisson of excitement raced through his body.
“Roach, is it you in there?”
“Yes, Sir Harry.”
Rogers walked in, wearing a cape and carrying a lantern. His eyes darted about, searching the room. Satisfied they were alone, he sat at the table facing Roach. “Have you seen Critchley? Has he reported to you on Lady Margaret’s billiard party Saturday night?”
“No,” Roach replied, “I’ve been out of the city most of the day and haven’t spoken to him yet. Should I?” His voice had an impertinent edge.
“Well, I have, so save yourself the trouble.” Sir Harry unclasped his cape and laid it on a nearby bench. “Critchley spent the evening hiding on the portico, peeking into the parlor. He claimed my wife played an excellent game of billiards. The French colonel had better stick to tennis. But that’s not why I’ve called you here. Have you heard that bandits attacked my coach on the Bristol Road this afternoon?”
Roach nodded tentatively.
“Would you happen to know the man they called Scarface? Or any of his men?” Rogers’ voice had taken on an undertone of contempt.
“In my business,” Roach replied defensively, “I meet many criminals. Scarface was one of them. A bold villain. I might recognize some of his band.”
“I value your familiarity with Bath’s criminal element. That’s why I ask you, how could so many seasoned villains expect to profit from robbing travelers on an outing to Bristol? A few watches, a handful of guineas, divided among so many is next to nothing for each of them. Did they think the coach was transporting bars of gold to the Bank of England? They were well-armed and equipped with horses. Surely, they should have sought out a better investment for their efforts.”
Roach shrugged his shoulders. “Their leader may have deceived them.”
“And have risked the wrath of several armed villains by paying them a pittance or anything less than he had promised?” Sir Harry rose from the table and began to pace the floor, stabbing the air with his finger. “No, someone had contracted with Scarface for the attack, not merely to steal a few watches and gold coins, but to assassinate one or all of the passengers. I think the principal target was Colonel Saint-Martin. The man who hired the band, I suspect, was Captain Fitzroy. He has good reason to fear the colonel and want him out of the way.”
“I see,” murmured Roach thoughtfully. He stirred as if about to add his opinion.
Sir Harry cut him off. “From his hiding place last night, Critchley saw the captain threaten the colonel with a pistol.”
Roach gasped loudly.
Rogers leaned over the table and shook a menacing finger in Roach’s face. “I want you to find out if indeed Fitzroy was behind the attack on the coach. Report to me any future conspiracy he might aim at the colonel.”
***
Hidden in the closet, Georges mulled over what he was hearing. He had thought Rogers had called Roach to the training room to account for a failed attempt to kill little Charlie. Now it appeared that Rogers didn’t suspect that the attack might have been aimed at his son and was unaware of Scarface’s note, which Colonel Saint-Martin had kept secret. Nor did Rogers indicate in any other way that he was behind the attack. He blamed it on Fitzroy, who had been out riding in the country at the time and had not yet returned.
Sir Harry’s version seemed plausible to Georges. By abducting Anne and Charlie, the bandits intended to spare them from the slaughter—Anne, in order that Roach might have revenge on her; Charlie, in order to allow him later to escape or to set him free for a ransom. Fitzroy wanted the boy to live. He would eventually inherit Sir Harry’s wealth for Lady Margaret to hold in trust and the captain to exploit.
Georges listened carefully. The men were leaving. He waited a few minutes, then cautiously stepped out of the closet. His mind was spinning, but slowly a sequence of events fell into place. Saturday afternoon, Fitzroy had been in the parlor and heard about Sunday’s trip to Bristol. He must have then contracted with Roach. Overnight, Roach and Scarface assembled a band of six. On Sunday afternoon, Tarleton and Corbett in disguise led the band to the site of the ambush, hid behind the hedge, and directed the attack. It was most likely Fitzroy himself who rode in the Bath coach, identified the target, and sent a messenger, a big man, perhaps Roach, galloping off to the band.
The more Georges considered this view of Fitzroy’s role, the more convinced he felt it might be true. He’d think about it again after a good night’s sleep and tell the colonel.
Sir Harry and Roach had long gone when Georges shook the cold out of his bones, felt his way through the dark building, and hastened back to the house.