Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (44 page)

"Yes, well, may we please omit the inventory, Jeremy?"

"By all m-m-means. Point is—you've often been in love—eh?"

Harry winked, but his thoughts turned wrenchingly to a
sun-dappled woodland clearing and a girl in a plain round gown, with
flour on her pert nose and her brow wrinkled with concentration as she
offered her definition of love. So apt a description of how he felt
these days… "an empty picture frame"—only complete when she was near…

From outside came a blast of sound, an ear-splitting cacophony
as welcome as it was familiar. With a whoop he was through the open
window and calling, "Diccon! Mr. Fox! Jove, but I'm glad to see you!"

Left alone, Lord Jeremy Bolster ran one square, powerful hand
through his straight yellow locks and, undeceived, swore long and
fluently.

"A very close shave, friend Harry. Lucky I was to get out've
it!" Having already exchanged handshakes with Redmond, Diccon now
watched the reunion of man and beast, as Mr. Fox leant his head against
his friend's waistcoat and, with closed eyes, chomped ecstatically upon
a note from Mitchell which Harry had generously offered.

"I'm most sorry to hear it." Harry pulled the little donkey's
ears, glanced up, and asked, "Your amateur smugglers?"

"Aye. Got me into a proper bumble broth, they done. But," the
lugubrious features reflected anxiety. "I hear as how you got into a
worse mess."

"Yes, but never mind about that." Harry turned from Mr. Fox
and, facing Diccon squarely, asked, "Why did you not tell me who she
was? Why all the business about her having been given a ride with a
cleric, and you coming upon her by chance?"

"We-ell… I ain't much at being a gentleman—or nob, as y'might
say. But I ain't much at breaking me word, neither. And I give it to
her, Sir Harry, when that there Sister Maria Evangeline put her in me
care. The Sister and me, we've had—er, dealings before… Speaking o'
which, I'm very grateful to you fer dealing so kind with my friend
here."

Harry patted the donkey. "That was largely my brother's doing.
I suppose you're aware of how Sanguinet served Mitchell?"

"Yes. A nasty customer, that one. I hopes as how yer brother's
full recovered?"

"He seems… very fit."

Diccon noted the troubled look in the green eyes and said
kindly, "Why, he's a sensitive gent, sir. And to be flogged like
that—in front of the lady as he cares fer—why it's enough t'make any
proud young buck feel a bit less'n a man, I 'spect."

It was the very thing Harry feared, and he stared at the
Trader's gaunt face wonderingly. "I've not surprised you with anything,
have I? Do you know everything that's happened to us since last we saw
you?"

"Why, it's the Fellowship o' the Road, Harry. Word travels
far'n fast. Le' see now… I knows as ye went to see Lord Cootesby. And
how they hunted you down over to Winchester—almost had the noose about
yer neck that time! But…" He took himself by the chin and, shaking his
head wonderingly, muttered, "What I
cannot
come
at is how a fine, upstanding young chap like yerself would happen to
shoot even so mad a dog as Parnell Sanguinet… in the
back
.
Now that there's really got me scratching out me cock loft, as y'might
say, for there's them as it fits—and them as it don't…" He waited, an
expression almost of pleading on his face.

"It was—an accident, really," Harry offered lamely.

"You mean… as ye
did
—do it?"

How incredulous those pale eyes—and God bless the man for his
incredulity!

"Yes. But—he wasn't much to grieve for… was he?"

Diccon sighed and took from his pocket the snuffbox Harry had
given him. He proffered it and, being courteously refused, took a pinch
himself, inhaled, sneezed, wiped at his eyes with his copious
handkerchief, and sighed again.

Harry sensed he had been judged and found wanting. Disturbed
by that fact, he said, "I see that you still have the box. Not traded
yet, eh?

Diccon polished the snuffbox on his sleeve. "I been offered
for it. But I don't trade what's give me by—special folk. This here,
f'r instance…" He rummaged about in the cart and turned with the baton
of the Bow Street Runners in his large hand. "Remember this, Harry?"

"I do indeed…" And with a pang he remembered also how well
Nanette had wielded it. "Was it given you, Diccon? You promised to tell
me of it someday."

"Aye—I did." The Trader hesitated. "It ain't a story as I dare
tell many folk—or I'd've been worm bait long since… Still—" He gave a
slow grin. "Seein's you and me got more in common now than what I
thought—I'll tell you. This here's only half the story." He began again
to hunt through the miscellany and at length exclaimed "Aha! You won't
never believe this! Close yer eyes and hold out yer hands…"

"Is it heavy?" Harry enquired, eyes obediently closed,

"Lord love ye—no. No heavier than… that!'"

A sharp click. A coldness about his wrists. And with a
spasmodic contraction of the muscles under his ribs, Harry knew—too
late. Opening his eyes, he stared down at the twin steel bracelets and
the chain that looped between his wrists.

In stern and cultured accents, Diccon proclaimed, "Captain Sir
Harry Allison Redmond, in the name of the King, I arrest you for the
wilful murder of M. Parnell Sanguinet!"

Harry's head came up slowly, and meeting that stunned look of
disbelief, Diccon said a regretful, "In the old days, Sir Harry, that
nasty piece of business would have been accomplished with less
embarrassment for such as yourself. I am truly sorry. But grace and
finesse
are, alas, going by the board."

How different he looked, thought Harry numbly; his shoulders
erect now, the lazy grin displaced by a look of power and purpose.
"And… I…" he stammered, "m-must be the… sorriest fool of all time.
For—I fancied you… my good friend."

"Had you seen fit to confide in me, sir, you would have been
told the truth. Had you sworn you did not murder him I should have
accepted your word. Indeed, I still will do so." He searched the thin
face narrowly, but receiving only the same shocked stare, shook his
head. "There is a time, you see, for friendship. And a time for duty."

"And—a time for smuggling?"

The bony shoulders shrugged. "I have many callings, sir.
Wandering minstrel, tinker, trader, smuggler. All part of the overall
policeman."

Recovering his wits gradually, Harry riposted, "Or is
'policeman' also a masquerade?" Diccon made no answer and his
expression changed not one iota, yet Harry experienced a sense of
extreme danger. Heedless, leaning forward he said, "Do you know what I
think, Mr. Bow Street Runner—or international spy—or whatever in the
devil you
really
are . . ?"

Diccon's voice had taken on a purring quality as he murmured,
"My, but you have a rare imagination."

"Together with a belated perception! It was all planned, was
it not? From the very beginning!"

"If you refer to the death of your father…"

"No—but you
knew
of it, didn't you? All
the time, you knew exactly why my papa was killed. And by whom!"

"There is a deal of difference, Sir Harry, between 'knowing'
and proving. Your father was killed because he witnessed the death of
Frederick Carlson. Another killing was undesirable and he was allowed
to live, but only for so long as he believed it accidental. He sent a
note to Bow Street, saying that he had recalled a detail that might be
of import and asking that an officer be sent 'round to talk with him.
Regrettably, his note was intercepted. He was interviewed by an
imposter, and later lured from Town—to his death."

"And was it to track down his murderer that you followed me?
Oh, pray do not trouble to deny it. Our first meeting I ascribed to
chance, but I thought it odd that I kept encountering you. It was not
coincidence. You had me watched!"

"Every instant," Diccon admitted coolly. "I was waiting to
intercept you on the night Dice shot you down. My men erred, else I'd
have put a stop to that business…" He frowned a little, then said
judicially, "though it worked out well enough… While you were at
Sanguinet Towers, Miss Carlson was brought to me—also prearranged,
although she did not know that."

Stunned, Harry fought to appear calm. "You left a lot to
chance. When I went to Maidstone I'd every intention of taking the
stagecoach—
then
what would you have done?"

"When you returned from your Good Samaritan efforts on behalf
of the young soldier, you would have found the seat already taken. Oh,
do not look so chagrined. I don't think you were entirely deceived—you
suspected the call of the cuckoo… did you not?"

He had suspected, but only at the back of his mind. His stupid
brain had wondered at the fact that Diccon wandered away from time to
time, and that the cuckoo's call had sounded so clearly; but he'd been
so preoccupied with his own problems he'd not put the two together.
Seething, he burst out, "You deceive very well, Diccon! Why? Because
Sanguinet wanted me dead? Did you thereby think I knew something?"

"Sanguinet feared you might stir things up if you sought
retribution for your father's death; but, for many reasons, he could
afford no more scandal. You did not constitute an immediate threat. At
first, there was still the possibility you would die of your wounds.
When you did not, your passion for racing and sports, your involvement
last year in that nasty business with Lord St. Clair, your entire,
somewhat hazardous way of life promised to take you out of the picture
for him. And meanwhile, he was very busied with other matters. Your
uncle played into his hands by concealing the truth from you."

"If you were aware of all this, why was none of it brought
out?"

"Unhappily, I was not aware of it all. I was in France then,
on— another matter. Still, Parnell was watched, and he knew it. When I
returned to England having quite failed my assignment, I was—er—
indisposed, but I began to tie some loose threads together, and it
seemed to me that if I could not catch this tiger for his major crimes,
I might snare him for the minor ones."

"Minor . . ?" Harry half whispered, his eyes glittering behind
their narrowed lids. "My father's death was…
minor
?"

"Comparatively. But Sanguinet could not afford to let you meet
his ward; to allow you to—compare notes, as it were. You owe me your
life, really, for the only reason you were not killed at his estate was
that he knew I was close by."

"And hoping he
would
have me killed, of
course!"

Diccon shrugged. "I knew he desired his daughter. It was my
hope, and a very chancy one, that being hit in so vulnerable an area,
he would become emotionally involved and make a mistake."

"And—
-we
were to be his mistake!" said
Harry through his teeth. "We were the bait for your tiger. You set us
out—and gave not a tinker's damn whether he destroyed us!"

With cold hauteur, the Runner corrected, "Say rather that I
would sacrifice the Household Cavalry—to the last man—-would it destroy
Claude and Parnell Sanguinet."

"Why—you cold-blooded devil!" breathed Harry. "You could have
warned me! You could have given me a fighting chance! Instead, you
abandoned us. Knowing his men were all about, you stood by and watched
him force Nanette to—my God! Did you watch him whip Mitchell, hoping
he
would die? Now
damn
your merciless soul!"

Wild with fury, he sprang, his arms swinging up, the chain
between the handcuffs flashing for Diccon's throat. The Runner moved
also, lightning fast. One sinewy hand shot out to catch the chain. The
heel of the other struck once in a vicious chop across Harry's throat,
staggering him.

A lithe figure ran from the steps. Strong arms swept around
Diccon, pinning him from behind. His head smashed backward, but Bolster
was not without experience in encounters with the Watch and, ready for
just such tactics, he evaded the manoeuvre. One of Diccon's heavy boots
kicked savagely, but again, was avoided.

"Step back, my lord!" The Reverend Langridge stood beside the
drive, the hunting gun in his hands tremblingly pointed at the Runner.
"Do not be lulled to a false sense of security by reason of my cloth,
sir!" he warned shrilly. "Sir Harry Redmond is the head of my house.
Further, you trespass on Lord Moulton's property, and I have a perfect
right to shoot a trespasser!"

Bolster stepped away, eyeing the clergyman with astounded
admiration. "J-Jove! You're a prime gun. sir! You all right. Harry?"

Holding his throat, Harry whezzed. "Diccon claims… to be… from
Bow Street!"

"Does he. by God! Can he p-prove it?"

Looking to Lady Salia who had also come out and watched them
with fearful anxiety. Harry nodded. "I—rather suspect… he can."

"Sounds d-d-deuced smoky to me." Bolster eyed Diccon
truculently. "Thought you said the silly a-a-a fella was a smuggler?
Here Diccon—you just take those ha-ha-ha manacles off Sir Harry!"

"Gladly, my lord," Diccon agreed with a faint inclination of
the head. "If your friend will tell me he did not shoot M. Parnell
Sanguinet—in the back."

Bolster slanted an uneasy glance at Harry but said loyally,
"Had he been shot in the no-no-nostril, he'd be just as dead."

"
Mordecai Langridge.'"
Wilhelmina sailed
around the corner of the house, a formidable figure, feathers swaying
with the speed of her approach, her stentorian voice at full volume.
"Put that hideous thing down at once!"

"N-No! Pray—do not!"' Bolster pleaded.

The gun wavered and Diccon, well aware of the peril of a
loaded firearm in nervous hands, paled a little.

"This—person," quavered the Reverend, paling even more, "says
he intends to haul our Harry off to gaol, m'dear."