Practice to Deceive (44 page)

Staring at him, her hands stilled, she whispered, “Or—he is … dead.”

His greying, curly head ducked lower. He groaned, “Don't ye say it, miss! Don't even think it! I've knowed the Major since he was a boy. Such a mischievous, high-couraged lad he were. And growed into such a fine man. I cannot bear to think as—as…” His voice trailed off.

Still staring at him, Penelope said, “But you do think it. Why? Did you find something you've not told me of?”

He shook his head, not looking up.

“Dutch Coachman,” she said in a voice of remote, unnatural calm, “I must know. You see—I am the Major's wife.”

He gave a shocked gasp and jerked his head up.

Penelope held out her hand. The coachman gazed down at the dragon ring. “Strike a blooming light,” he muttered.

Penelope finished her bandage. “I must know.”

He sighed heavily. “All right, ma'am. Just let me get a bit more respectable like.”

She waited quietly while he put on his shirt, and she helped him ease his way into his torn coat. He took her arm and guided her gently to the stream. “See here, ma'am.” He gave a quick, reluctant gesture. “On the big rock, there. I'm afraid as there—there bean't much doubt…”

Penelope stood unmoving.

Watching her, the little man thought he had never seen so tragic a face, and nerved himself for the sobs, for the faint. But neither came.

She said in a whisper, “It—couldn't have been from one of the horses, perhaps?”

He shook his head. “No, ma'am. One was killed up on the road—still there, poor brute. And I could see where the other three was led off. The pole musta snapped when the coach went over.”

Her wide eyes fixed on that ghastly stain, Penelope whispered, “Was there more…? L-leading off, perhaps?”

“No, ma'am. It's—it's the only thing what give me a bit a hope.”

Her gaze darted to his face. “Why?”

“Well, I reckoned that if the Major was killed, ma'am, or bad hurt, with him bleeding like that you'd be able ter see where they'd carried him orf. But—if he fell and hurt hisself not so bad but what he could still get up and run, why—he wouldn't leave a trail like that there. Lead 'em right to him; and he's been hunted, ma'am. He knows. Leastways … I thought as it might be that.”

“You mean he would bind up his hurt, so there would be no trail to follow. Yes. Yes, of course.” Her eyes bright with new hope, she asked eagerly, “Which way would he go, Dutch Coachman? Do you know?”

The desperate hope in her eyes wrung his heart. Not caring to dim it, however slight the chance that it was justified, he said that he did know. “I saw a signpost up the road a bit. Likely it'll point our way, though I fancy the Major will try to lose they sojers 'fore he goes there.”

He helped her up the bank again, and they went along together, an unlikely pair, the short, powerfully built man, slightly stooping, and treading with careful strides, and the tall girl, limping markedly, but with her head high, her eager gaze fixed on the distant signpost.

When they were close enough to distinguish the words, Penelope halted. To the coachman's astonishment, she broke into a quavering little peal of laughter. “Oh, yes,” she gasped. “That's where he was going, all right. He told me I'd know, the moment I saw the sign.” And suddenly, she broke down, bowing her face into her hands and weeping for a brief, racking moment.

Slipping an arm about her slender shoulders and comforting her as best he knew how, the coachman realized his doubts must be unwarranted. If this fine young woman knew that particular trait of Master Quentin's, she certainly must be his wife. A faint smile came into his strained eyes as again he glanced at the signpost.

One sturdy arm of that useful contrivance directed the traveller northwards to the green slopes of The Weald, and was inscribed ‘To Tunbridge Wells.' The other arm pointed to the southeast, and upon the weathered wood some skilled hand had painted with a flourish, ‘To Little Snoring.'

XVIII

The Church of St. Francis of Assisi lifted its four-hundred-year-old Gothic tower benignly above the even more ancient village of Little Snoring. Picturesque thatched cottages lined the single street, interspersed with tiny shops and the single tavern. A few ducks foraged on the pond in the middle of the village green, and some children were making a great business of throwing pieces of stale bread and shrieking with glee when the ducks hurried noisily to snatch up their offerings.

This pleasant scene of rural peace and beauty was, however, marred by an argument. Even more incongruously, the argument was being conducted on the front steps of the church, the protagonists being the black-robed young vicar and a grim army officer whose troopers waited with faces variously glum, or bored, or impatient, until Captain Holt should have his way. Inevitably, he did. With an angry toss of his fair head, the vicar stepped aside. The Captain beckoned, the Sergeant dismounted and led the troop inside the hallowed old building.

A few villagers drifted over to watch these proceedings and, when the troopers reappeared some five minutes later, responded with bovine stupidity to the questions directed at them, and grinned as the thwarted military men mounted up again.

Holt turned his tired horse and called a warning. “If the rebel
should
come here, Father, I'll remind you the penalty for sheltering a fugitive is a fearsome one. This man is wanted for high treason and anyone helping him or his lady friend will share his fate. You are duty-bound to detain him—or both of them—and send word to your nearest military post.”

A steady stare was his only response. He swung his horse around, then tossed over his shoulder, “There is a large reward for this pair, you people!”

“Is there, by gar!” exclaimed a gawking individual who appeared to be the village idiot.

“You want us to scrag the lady, 'fore we give her to 'un?” enquired another man with an innocent lift of the brows.

A laugh went up, and Holt flushed angrily.

“Be better'n what
he's
got in store for the poor lass,” contributed a fat and scornful woman, wiping soapy hands on her apron.

A trooper came in at the gallop, and Holt turned to him eagerly.

“We got on his trail, sir,” shouted the trooper, reining up. “The men be hard arter him, and he's running like a rabbit and bleeding like a stuck pig!”

A growl went up from the assembled villagers. Ignoring it, Holt led his men out at a canter, hoots and catcalls following.

“Bloody damned hounds,” grunted the village idiot in unexpectedly cultured accents. Then, glancing to the priest, added, “Sorry, Charles.”

Young Father Albritton, his blue eyes stormy, made a gesture of impatience. “They make me ashamed of my name,” he muttered. “Don't waste your time apologizing, Chandler.” And he walked back into the old church, opening both doors wide as though to air out the sanctuary.

A few moments later, mounted on a sturdy donkey, Gordon Chandler also left Little Snoring and turned to the south.

Two hours later, the brief flurry of excitement was still being discussed over cottage dinner tables. The street and green were deserted now, the children had gone home, and the ducks had abandoned the water and were grouped companionably under the weeping willow tree. The hush of the warm early evening was broken as a dog barked in a desultory way and then stopped, and all was quiet once more.

*   *   *

Quentin opened his eyes to find the pain in his lungs had eased away, although his thirst was a raging need. The soldiers were very quiet. He frowned at a nearby snail. He was very weak now, and his mind might be playing him tricks. On the other hand, it might have played him tricks earlier. Perhaps there had been no further pursuit after he'd reached the stream. He dragged himself into a sitting position and looked about. Not a red coat in sight and all was quiet except for the distant and civilized sound of dishes rattling. He could smell delicious cooking smells, and the cooler air of early evening restored him somewhat, but his thirst must be assuaged, even if death was the price to be paid. He hauled himself to his feet and leaned against the oak tree. The lighter space beyond the oak was red now—the sunset bathing a broad meadow, dotted here and there with clumps of gorse, and ending at the railings of an old churchyard.

“Now…'pon my soul!” he croaked. “Chandler—I think you've done it!”

Heartened, he wavered forward. The meadow seemed very wide indeed, but if he could just get to that first patch of gorse, it would be a start. Solemnly, he warned the meadow that ‘the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.' His own step was wobbly, his legs uncertain beneath him, but he knew his condition would not improve if he waited.

He crouched and set off in an erratic, weaving run. The patch of gorse obligingly lifted and floated towards him, and at last he was kneeling in its shadow, breathing in painful, rasping sobs, clutching his throbbing arm, and peering desperately about for any sign of having been seen. There was no outcry, no running men with clubs or pitchforks, no red uniforms and bayonets to cut him down. He recruited his energy and tried again.

How he at last came across that meadow, he could not have said, but after a period that seemed as unending as it was appalling, he was amongst the gravestones. The back door of the church was open, and the cool dimness within beckoned, offering a blessed surcease from effort, if only he could get to it, for the Leper's Door must be close by. And—surely, there would be water…?

He picked his way amongst the headstones, but they were perverse objects, alternately vanishing and materializing directly in his path so that he blundered into them. Panting and exhausted, he hung down his head and found the earth only a few inches from his nose. This seemed a very odd circumstance. He realized at last that he had been crawling, but one did not go to church on one's hands and knees. With a mighty effort he clambered to his feet again and staggered determinedly for the elusive door. A great slab of black marble loomed up, and the white angel above it jabbed him with one of her wings.

It was, as he told her, the outside of enough. He sat down on the marble slab and gave the angel a piece of his mind.

*   *   *

Dutch Coachman was quite sure that if the Major had survived he would by this time be making his way through the forest towards Little Snoring, for he knew that somewhere in that village was the point at which the vital message was to be delivered.

“But surely,” Penelope argued wearily, “he will be too weak and hurt to worry about that now. He shall have to look to his own safety.”

The coachman smiled faintly. “Not Master Quentin. He give his word, ma'am. He'll die sooner'n break it. Now, do you see that little hill yonder, where the trees poke up?”

Penelope shielded her eyes against the sunset and made out the heavily wooded hillock. “Yes, I see it. Do you really think he might be there?”

“I'd not be surprised if he runs rings round they sojers, then comes to where he can give the village a look-see. I be going up there, ma'am.”

Twice on this interminable journey, he had fallen. The second time it had taken her a great time to revive him, and she had insisted he rest and try to regain his strength. Now, she tugged at his arm, protesting, “No! Dutch, you cannot! You'll never be able to climb up there. And I am so hot and tired—I know
I
could not.”

“Lordy, Lord, Miss Penny,” he said with faint chiding. “As if I'd 'spect it of ye. No, miss. There looks to be a nice little church in that there village. You wait fer me in there.”

She argued against this and said resignedly that she would go with him in case he should fall again, but when he pointed out that Master Quentin might just as likely have took refuge in the church, she thought it quite possible, and so at last watched his sturdy figure disappear in amongst the trees and turned her own steps towards the drowsy village and the quiet peace of the ancient church.

When she trod timidly through a wide-open side door, the interior was cool, dim, and deserted. She found it rather odd that there was no one about, but at this hour of the evening she reasoned that everyone was indoors for dinner.

The high vaulted sanctuary was bathed in crimson, the sunlight making a glory of the west windows. The oak pews, dark with age, invited her, and she went to the rear and sank down with a sigh of relief where the light was dim. She stretched out her aching legs and leaned back gratefully, but it came to her that she was in God's house and had spoken no word for her beloved. She pulled over a cassock, sank to her knees, bowed her head reverently, and prayed.

Her prayers were disturbed by an odd sound, a sort of muted shuffling punctuated by little thumps and heavy breathing. Penelope opened her eyes. The church was as empty as it had been when she entered. It was, in fact, so silent that she began to think it strange. Surely the vicar or the curate should be about, or someone cleaning, or arranging flowers?

“Oh … damn…!”

She gave a gasp, and sprang to her feet. Those so unexpected words had been groaned out, but the voice was wonderfully familiar. Holding up one hand against the glory of the west windows, she hastened to the aisle and walked along towards the altar, scanning each pew with desperate anxiety. She stopped abruptly.

Quentin had managed to crawl inside and had spotted the Leper's Door at last. The old church had been designed in the shape of a cross, and in the southeastern corner at which the shorter section of the building bisected the main sanctuary, a small door had been built long and long ago: a door little more than a foot in height and less than that in width, inserted into the wall at eye level, outside which the unfortunate lepers might stand to see the altar and hear the services. It was in that little recess in the thick wall that Quentin had been instructed to leave his cypher. He had tried so hard, but now, however he struggled, he lacked the strength to get to it. He could not even crawl any more, for his legs were like lead and he was so very tired and he hurt so badly, but worst of all was his thirst.