A Tall Dark Stranger (8 page)

It struck me that even while Stoddart was being buried, that letter must have been on its way. It did seem a little odd, then, that Maitland had rushed the burial forward.

“How do they know Stoddart is the missing man?” a gentleman asked.

“His brother came rushing down last night, didn’t he?” was Monger’s reply. “He reckanized a few items that wasn’t buried. There was a book found at the inn.... That was enough to set up the dig. It’s all confirmed now. The brother says it was him, right enough.”

“Was he some kin to the Fanshawes?” Mrs. Carter asked.

“Nay.” Monger allowed a dramatic pause before making his announcement “He was a lord!”

Gasps of astonishment caused Monger to stop a moment and smile benignly at the effect he had achieved. When the gasps had subsided, he continued, “But only a younger son. Lord Harry Heston he was, the youngest son of Lord Dolman.” None of us recognized the name, but we knew the importance of a title.

“Where is this Lord Dolman from?” someone asked.

“Sussex.”

“What was a lord’s lad doing here?” Aunt Talbot asked.

“On a walking tour for the good of his lungs. His walk may have cured his lungs, but it proved unhealthy for the rest of him. Let it be a lesson to us.”

On this vague warning Monger swaggered along to the next corner, where more people were gathering. Our group remained behind to discuss the finding, with more questions than answers. Why had he called himself Stoddart? was the main question. He wasn’t so famous as a Byron or a Brummell that his name would have caused turmoil.

“It was a mighty slow walking tour,” Mrs. Carter said. “He was at that inn for three days and walked no farther than to the water meadow. Most of his time was spent sitting in the tavern drinking ale and talking to the locals. Mind you, he had the blunt right enough. That explains the five hundred. A lord’s son, fancy! He paid for more than his share of the rounds, they say. Much good all that sluicing would do his lungs. Trying to loosen a few tongues, do you think?”

“He didn’t look that frail, either,” Mrs. Davis added. “Not fleshy, but not pale or coughing at all. My husband showed him through the church and the lad never said a word about being a lord. He didn’t inquire for any Fanshawe, either. It’s not like one of them to be shy about putting himself forward.”

“He never called on Lord Hadley,” Mrs. Carter averred. “You’d think he would as he’s a lord. They’re all related, you know, everyone man jack of them.”

“What did they do with the body?” someone inquired.

“Took it home to Sussex for a proper burial, I expect. It was well done of Mr. Maitland to bury the lad, but he was a bit previous about it,” Mrs. Davis said, looking about for support.

“He meant well, though,” Mrs. Carter said firmly.

A shout echoed from the sweet shop, and looking up, I saw Isaiah tearing toward us, with Mr. Strong, the proprietor, hot on his heels. Isaiah was holding his shirt, which is where he stores his purloined goods until he is safely away.

He barged into the middle of our group, ending up at my side. “G’day, Miss Talbot.” He grinned. “Where’s yer fellow today?”

“What are you up to, Isaiah?” my aunt demanded, getting hold of him by the elbow.

“Nuthin’! I ain’t done nuthin’
.
”

Mr. Strong was upon us. He hauled Isaiah out by the shirttails and searched him, but he found nothing.

“I saw you taking those peppermint sticks. Where did you drop them, eh?” Strong demanded.

“I didn’t take nuthin’. Who’d want yer old peppermint sticks?”

Strong left in frustration. I felt a gentle movement at my side, and when I glanced down, I saw Isaiah’s dirty little paw sliding from my pocket, holding three peppermint sticks. He had hidden them in my pocket before being searched. Really, that scamp was up to anything. I didn’t make a fuss of it. One accepts Isaiah as he is.

Some villages have an idiot; we have a thief. But Isaiah is helpful in many ways. He is always eager to run a message or help find a lost child. Besides, he has it hard at home. His mama is simple and his papa drinks. I’ve seen bruises on Isaiah on more than one occasion. He denies to the last gasp that his papa beats him, but I suspect it is so.

Lollie, who hasn’t the stamina for prolonged gossiping, suggested that we go home. Auntie wanted some white thread for a new petticoat she was making, and we went to the drapery shop to buy it and continue gossiping while Lollie went for the carriage.

Mrs. Murray was there, all but sobbing. She had lost Fifi, her small, white cobby dog with long, silky hair. A Maltese, she calls it. It is some rare species her doting husband got for her in London. She pulls the hair off its face and ties it with a ribbon. A blue ribbon, now that I think of it. Perhaps Fifi had been playing in the shepherd’s hut.

“I only let her out for a little exercise. She’s never run away before. She’s suspicious of strangers. She would never have followed anyone. I fear she’s been kidnapped.”

“No one would steal her,” my aunt said. “She’d be recognized a mile away. There’s not another dog like Fifi in the county.”

“I won’t tell you what she cost. You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve asked Mulliner to put a notice in the window. I’m offering a five-pound reward,” Mrs. Murray said.

Half the ladies in the shop darted out the door to look for Fifi; the other half remained behind to exclaim over such largesse and then to continue discussing Lord Harry.

As Auntie and I came out of the drapery shop some minutes later, we met Maitland. He looked exquisite as usual.

“Oh, Mr. Maitland,” my aunt said. “Have you heard the news about Lord Harry Heston?”

“Indeed I have,” he said, doffing his hat and bowing. “McAdam called on me late last night to inform me of it. I’m sorry I rushed the funeral ahead. I discussed it with Lord Hadley. He thought the sooner it was done, the sooner it would be forgotten. It is distressing to the ladies in particular. A strange tale, is it not? A walking tour that ended in murder. Our water meadow is hardly a holidayer’s paradise, eh, Miss Talbot?” he added to me with a warm smile.

“Amy wouldn’t agree with you there, Mr. Maitland,” my aunt said, simpering. “Anywhere there is a wild-flower sprouting is paradise to her.”

“I know it well.” He gave me another smile. “There are some very pretty bluebells in my spinney. You must feel free to sketch them.”

“I’m sticking close to home until they catch Lord Harry’s murderer,” I replied. I doubted his bluebells were any different from those growing at Oakbay. I would have been more pleased with the invitation if he had offered to accompany me.

“I shouldn’t think you have any reason to worry, ma’am. I suspect young Lord Harry got himself mixed up in something in London. A duel, perhaps. If he killed his man, he’d have to rusticate. No one would look for him in this quiet place.”

“That might account for his being here under an assumed name, but who could have killed him?” I asked.

“The friends or relatives of whoever he killed in the duel, perhaps. They might have followed him and waited their chance. A sad business for Lord Dolman. The more you stir it, the worse it stinks. My game warden mentioned seeing a tall, young gentleman talking to Lord Harry in the graveyard the day before he was killed. I am on my way to mention it to McAdam.”

“What did the gentleman look like?” my aunt asked at once.

The description was vague. The man was taller than average. He had been wearing a hat that concealed his hair. All that was certain was that he wasn’t a local man and that he was dressed like a gentleman. I mentioned the similar-sounding stranger Addie had reported being seen in town. Maitland had also heard of him but could add nothing to identify the man.

“An unfortunate business all around,” he said, shaking his head, “Very unfortunate. I don’t hold with dueling.”

Auntie commended him for his proper thinking. We soon saw our carriage approaching and took our leave of Maitland.

Aunt Talbot relayed Maitland’s idea to Lollie, who doesn’t much care for Morris Maitland. It is actually Maitland’s steward he has had a few run-ins with over grazing sheep on what Lollie believes is our land, but Lollie holds Maitland responsible. “Very convenient, this tall stranger who has disappeared,” he said.

“No doubt Mr. Maitland has figured it out,” Aunt Talbot said. “He is a knowing one, and so kind, burying the body even before he knew who it was. A real gentleman. I wonder if Lord Dolman will reimburse him for the funeral. Kind of Mr. Maitland to invite you to sketch in his spinney, Amy.”

“He ain’t such a saint as you make him,” Lollie said. “I’d steer clear of his spinney if I were you, Amy. You know his reputation with the ladies. They do say he even fools around with his own servants. When a man fouls his own home paddock ...”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Aunt Talbot scoffed. But she never encouraged me to go to his spinney after that afternoon.

“It’s true,” Lollie insisted. “I’ve seen him in the shepherd’s hut with that pretty little upstairs maid of his. Sally something.”

“Sally Semple is no better than she should be,” my aunt said at once.

“No, and neither is Maitland.”

After we got home, I mentioned to Lollie that Renshaw had found a blue ribbon in the shepherd’s hut.

“There you are, then,” he said. “You stay away from Maitland, Amy. He ain’t interested in marriage.”

“I’m hardly a servant. He wouldn’t do that sort of thing with a lady.”

“Would he not? He does it with Mrs. Murray.”

I gasped in amazement. “Not in the shepherd’s hut, surely!”

But once I had considered the matter, I found it was mainly the location that stuck in my craw. The rest was not too difficult to believe. It was common gossip that Maitland was a bit of a rake and it was not completely a secret that Mrs. Murray was no better than she should be, though she usually confined her carrying on to London. But to think of that highly polished pair carrying on in an old sod hut really stretched the imagination. The announcement certainly dimmed the glow of Morris Maitland.

“Why not? It’s a nice private place. I’ve seen her riding in Maitland’s meadow before now. When the water is down, I mean. Perhaps he invited her to look at his bluebells,” Lollie said with a sardonic grin. “But it’s usually his own servant girls I see him go there with.”

“Well, I’ve never seen him, and I spend a good deal of time in the meadow. Oh, speaking of the meadow, Lollie, could you spare me an hour this afternoon? I’d like to continue my sketch of the monkeyflowers.”

“We can go now, if you like. I’ll have a look at that shepherd’s hut and see if I can’t find some trace that Mrs. Murray was there. Then you’ll know I speak the truth.”

“I shall just slip into an older gown. It won’t take me a moment.”

Within five minutes we were headed to the water meadow. I have always loved the meadow, but somehow I felt almost frightened when Lollie left to examine the shepherd’s hut and I was alone. The flowers weren’t in prime shape for sketching; their heads drooped with the weight of water from yesterday’s rain. A steady light
plop
sounded forlornly as water dripped from leaves into the pond below. My table rock was too damp to sit on comfortably, so I leaned against a tree and was promptly dowsed when a breeze stirred its branches. It made a shambles of my sketching pad as well.

Since work was impossible, I decided to join Lollie at the shepherd’s hut. As I circled the water, I saw him coming out of the doorway. His face was paper white, his dark eyes staring. My heart shook with fear.

“Not another body!” I gasped.

He shook his head. “Money,” he said in a high, unnatural voice. “Whole bloody bags of it. There must be thousands of pounds in bank notes.”

My heart slowed to a dull thud as I ran forward. “Where was it? Mr. Renshaw was in that hut recently. He didn’t mention seeing any money.”

“It was buried beneath the straw.”

Of course I had to see this marvel for myself. Lollie went with me. He had pulled the straw bed aside. Beneath it a hole had been dug and in it sat two canvas bags. They had leather straps and locks that had been sealed. The seals had been pried open. By the dim light from the doorway I saw stacks of new pound notes. Fives and tens. I couldn’t even begin to estimate how much money was there in all.

“Those seals look official,” Lollie said. “I wager this was stolen from a bank or some such thing.”

He took one bag to the doorway. The printing was hard to read, for the canvas was dark, but with careful examination we could make out the words “Property of the British Government.”

“Egads! Someone has robbed the government!” Lollie said in a strangled squeak. “We’d best report it at once. You go, Amy. I’ll stay here and guard it.”

“No, you come with me. You don’t even have a gun, Lollie. If the thief comes back after it, he’ll kill you.”

“I’ll wager that is why poor Lord Harry was murdered!” Lollie exclaimed. “Odd that the money’s hidden on Maitland’s land.”

“Come with me,” I urged again.

“And let him get clean away with it? I should say not! I’ll hide if I hear anyone coming. In fact, if Maitland comes for his stolen blunt, I’ll follow him.”

“No! Let him go! Just your having seen him will be evidence enough. We’ve both seen the money. Don’t take any foolish chances, Lollie. Not that I think Maitland is the thief!”

“It’s on his land.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Mind you, I would have thought Maitland was too cagey to hide stolen goods on his own property. Pretty poorly hidden, too.”

He glanced southward to where Beau Sommers’s land meets ours and Maitland’s. Sommers’s lot is wide and shallow, it faces a road parallel to the road Oakbay is on and touches both our land and Maitland’s at the back end.

“Go on and be quick about it,” Lollie said. “Call McAdam, mind, not that idiot, Monger.”

I ran like a hare through the meadow, looking over my shoulder a dozen times to make sure I wasn’t pursued. My bonnet flew off my head, tethered to my neck by its ribbons. In my haste and confusion I had left my paint box behind again. You will realize my state of perturbation when I tell you I didn’t think of it for another hour.