Sword and Song (29 page)

“My coachman, Hopkins,” Alyson said to us. “Well, what is it?”

“The sword, sir,” said the coachman, obviously embarrassed to be the centre of attention. “Mr Crompton says a sword’s missing and wanted to know if any of us had seen
anything. I thought you should know. I went down to the village this morning and when I was on the way back, I saw a fellow running off through the woods.”

The coachman had a London accent to rival Fowler’s; I presumed he was the one who had driven his master and mistress north.

“Could you see what he looked like?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Too far off, sir. A slight fellow, that’s all I’d say.”

“What colour clothes was he wearing?” Heron asked with a trace of humour.

The coachman looked bewildered. “Dark, sir.”

“Was he carrying anything?” I asked.

“I thought it was a stick, sir.”

“My sword!” Fischer moaned.

“This is a matter for the local constable,” Alyson said. “And the justice. If the fellow is roaming the countryside, he may have been seen. Indeed, it may not yet be too late
to set the hounds at his heels. Fischer, we will ride into the village to see what can be done. Crompton, ask the grooms to make two horses ready.”

“Sir.” Crompton bowed his head. He looked strained, I thought.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, before Crompton could go, “while you’re doing that, could you ask for Mr Heron’s carriage too? He wishes to take the fresh
air.”

“Indeed,” Heron said, without a trace of surprise. He had that faintly amused air again.

“A picnic, perhaps?” I said. “Could you provide a hamper, Crompton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe you said you wanted to visit an old friend. Where did you say Mr Blackett lives?”

“A couple of miles from Newcastle,” Heron murmured. “A long time since I saw him. He is old and ailing now, I regret to say. And he loves to talk. We had better stay the night
and come back tomorrow.” I had to admire his quick wits; he’d plainly understood what I hoped to do.

Alyson looked unsettled, as if wondering whether this was an insult to his hospitality.

“Patterson has already agreed to accompany me,” Heron said.

“And Mrs Jerdoun too,” I murmured.

Heron looked at me impassively; Alyson raised his eyebrows. The coachman was smirking.

“I see,” Alyson said. Unlike the other guests, of course, who seemed to think Esther and Heron would make a match of it, Alyson knew she was betrothed to me. I wondered if he thought
this was a ploy to carry out the ceremony in secret; he’d no doubt be worrying that I’d go away an employee and come back the husband of a guest. But he merely nodded at the butler.

“Crompton, ask the grooms to prepare my carriage – the new one we bought for jaunts around the countryside. Hopkins, you will drive of course.”

“I have my own coach and coachman,” Heron said.

Alyson laughed. “You can’t take a travelling carriage on a pleasure jaunt! Much too uncomfortable, particularly with a lady on board. Too stuffy. I had this one made for my wife
– it’ll be ideal. And my coachman has been familiarising himself with the local roads, precisely so he can drive the ladies about. He’s a perfectly safe driver – no less an
exacting critic than Ridley will witness to that. My dear Heron, I do feel guilty all this has happened on my land – it offends my idea of how a host should look after his guests. At least
allow me this small gesture of compensation!”

Heron conceded gracefully; there was nothing else he could have done.

Alyson nodded to Crompton. “The horses for Mr Fischer and myself, and the carriage for Mr Heron. Do you plan to go straight away?”

“In an hour, perhaps,” Heron said.

“And tell my wife where I am going, Crompton.”

“I believe Mrs Alyson has just gone out riding, sir.”

“Very well. Then give her the message when she returns.”

“Yes, sir.”

The servants withdrew. Alyson took Fischer’s arm and guided him inside. Heron and I were left alone on the terrace.

“I take it,” Heron said, “that the purpose of the exercise is to allow you to ride on to Newcastle to examine the book without the fact being widely known.”

I nodded. “And Esther must come for her own safety. We cannot risk the killer attacking her.”

And I mused again on the look the murderer had given me as he stood over Heron. He wanted to make a game of it but I would not play by his rules. The important thing was to gain justice for Nell
– and justice she would have.

Alyson’s new carriage was painted a tasteful powder blue, the Alyson coat of arms on the doors. I saw Heron grimace at the ostentation of it all. It didn’t please
Fowler either, when he came out with a rug for Heron’s knees.

“An open carriage!” he demanded in outrage. “He can’t go out in that! What if it rains?”

I looked up at the cloudless sky. “I don’t think that’s likely. And he’s dressed sensibly.” In dark brown, I noted.

“There’ll be a draught. The wind’ll whistle by when you’re driving at speed!”

“That’s undeniable.”

“And that coachman looks the sort to go at a ridiculous rate round every corner – he’ll probably turn the carriage over before you get out of the grounds!”

“He drove the Alysons up from London – I think he’s competent enough.”

Fowler glowered. “Our own coachman’s perfectly capable – why go for this fellow we don’t know?”

But Heron was calling for the rug and Fowler handed it up to him, clearly wanting to fuss, but not being allowed to. Behind us, Hugh came out of the house and exchanged a few words with Alyson.
Hugh was in a smart, dark-coloured coat, with a snow-white cravat, black breeches and strong riding boots; Alyson, in yellow, was looking critically at the carriage horses.

Fowler was muttering irritably. “I’ve just to get my greatcoat and I’ll be ready.”

“You’re not coming,” I said.

I’d never been afraid of him, but seeing the look on his face at that moment, I knew he was a dangerous man.

“You have to talk to Crompton, remember,” I said. “I want to know who’s threatening him.”

For a moment, I thought he’d defy me. Then he said, “You let him get hurt again and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

And he strode back into the house.

A footman stowed a huge hamper under one of the carriage’s seats. Then Esther arrived with her maid, Catherine, who was armed with another rug. There was a great deal of
fussing to get her settled in the carriage – plenty of time for me to admire her. She was dressed in a gown of palest amber, with a sprigging of tiny green leaves, and falls of lace about her
elbows; her shoes were dark green, high-heeled and beribboned. She was wearing a fortune; the yards of material that went to make up the skirt draped over the hoops had probably kept the mercer in
food for a week. And all that was supposed to be mine if I married her. All that wealth, given to a man who was accustomed to living on sixty pounds a year.

How the devil do you keep the accounts straight when you’re dealing with so much money?

We were ready at last. The grooms had brought Mercy round for me while Hugh was seated on a grey that looked half-asleep. We rode out of the park safely enough, despite Fowler’s gloomy
prediction, turned for Newcastle, went through half a dozen hamlets. In the carriage, Esther and Heron conversed; Catherine looked at the countryside but seemed troubled. Hugh and I clattered along
behind. Hugh was in a good mood, whistling a Scots dancing tune; I noticed, however, that among the folds of his coat thrown across the saddle in front of him, something glinted. He’d brought
his pistol.

Dogs barked at us, sheep scattered in panic, hay carts refused to budge. I was on edge, waiting for an attack, scanning every hedge, every wood we passed through. The plan was for us to have our
picnic then drive on to Blackett’s house. Hugh would stay with Esther and Heron to counter any threat to them. I would push on to Newcastle. If we didn’t linger too long over the
picnic, I should arrive in Newcastle before dark.

The coachman said he knew of a pleasant place for a picnic not far off the road, about three miles north of Newcastle and one or two miles from Blackett’s house. He didn’t tell us it
was approached through trees down a potholed track of half a mile or so; the carriage bounced unpleasantly – I saw Heron’s hand tighten on the carriage door. Esther leant forward to
speak to Catherine, who was beginning to look ill.

We came out of the trees at last. A wide meadow stretched ahead of us, with a slight rise to our right and a faint track leading through the grass. I heard the hum of a river close by. Hugh and
I tied our horses to the back of the carriage and pulled open the door.

Esther looked at me doubtfully. “Catherine is not at all well.” The maid tried to protest, but it was obvious that she was sickly pale.

“Just a little travelsick,” the coachman – Hopkins – said cheerfully. “A bit of a sleep’ll do her a world of good. Tell you what, I’ll take her on to
the inn. Got to take the horses on anyway – can’t have them standing around. When d’you want me to come back for you?”

“Which inn?” Heron said.

“Black Pig, sir. Just a couple of bends further down the road. Half a mile maybe. Tumbledown cottage next to it. Respectable place – landlord’s wife’s the
schoolmaster’s sister.”

Catherine was feebly refusing to leave her mistress; Esther might be unconventional but Catherine knew her duty was to chaperone her. Esther hushed her. “You’ll be a great deal
better if you can lie down.”

There was some consultation and an exchange of money so Catherine could pay for a room for an hour or so and whatever refreshment she wanted; Hopkins was given money by Heron for beer and
stabling the horses. Hugh and I manoeuvred the hamper out of the carriage and took one of the rugs, leaving the other for Catherine. Hopkins turned the horses expertly and started the carriage down
the potholed track through the trees again. I wondered if Catherine would make it to the inn before being sick. Esther was unhappy. “I should not leave her. There is nothing worse than being
ill on your own.”

Hugh and I carried the hamper along the faint track through the grass; Heron and Esther came behind, Esther leaning on Heron’s arm. Her high heels were not suitable for walking on grass;
several times she turned over her ankle. Once she muttered, then caught my eye and straightened with her best aristocratic air.

At the top of the rise, we looked down on a kind of dell, or little valley, bisected by a stream that fell over small rocks with a pleasantly musical murmur. One side of the dell was bordered by
a wide and slow river; on the far side of the water, cows came down to drink in a meadow filled with wild flowers.

“Very pretty,” Heron said with such a lack of expression I couldn’t tell if he was being ironic or not.

Esther was hobbling. The wide skirts of her gown were already grass-stained. She had difficulty negotiating the slope of the dell down to the flatter land near the stream where Hugh was laying
out the rug, but when I went to help she gave me an irritable look. Conventional clothes were evidently taxing her temper. She had some difficulty positioning herself on the rug but once she was
settled she looked very elegant with her skirts billowing around her. One of the few trees in the dell sheltered her from the worst of the sun.

Hugh threw open the hamper. Crompton had thought of everything. Beneath a tablecloth were wine glasses, two bottles of wine, cloth-wrapped ham, cheese and bread, and a parcel of chicken legs.
Small individual dishes held rich, sugary desserts. There were plates to eat off, napkins to wipe our hands.

And, nestling in the bottom of the hamper, a pair of duelling pistols.

“Do you think he knows more than we do?” Hugh asked as Heron capably loaded the pistols with the ammunition Crompton had also thoughtfully provided.

I handed round glasses of wine. Crompton must have raided Alyson’s own private cellar; the wine was a cut above the fare we’d enjoyed up to now. “Crompton? He knows who the
servant is.”

“Which servant?”

I was reclining in the sun and it was making me sleepy. Sleepy and content. To sit in comfort with friends, drinking excellent wine and enjoying desultory conversation seemed to me at that
moment to be the height of pleasure. With difficulty, I dragged myself back to the present. “The murderer’s accomplice. Or one of them.”

“Patterson thinks there are three villains,” Heron said.

“God help us!” Hugh muttered.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“A servant could have left the notes for you,” Esther said. “And intercepted the letter you sent to Mr Demsey.”

I nodded. “I mentioned Fischer’s book in that note – I suspect our murderer was still hoping at that stage that we wouldn’t connect it with the book Nell was killed for.
The note told him we hadn’t yet made the connection – but it must have worried him that we might.”

“There is an anomaly here,” Heron said. “If a servant made the muddy footprints in the dining room, he must have been one of the attackers in the wood. But the attackers were
slight, and I believe you said the servant is probably burly – judging by the man Mrs Jerdoun saw in the wood.”

“Two servants?” Esther suggested, frowning.

“And he has to be a
house
servant too,” Hugh said. “One of the outdoor servants – a groom, for instance – wouldn’t have been able to walk about the
house unchallenged.”

“Then we are back to Crompton,” Esther said. “He is surely the most likely candidate. Why are we not questioning him?”

“I have,” I said. “But he won’t say anything. I’ve asked Fowler to talk to him.”

Heron raised an eyebrow. “Do feel free to order my servants around as you choose, Patterson.”

“And the servant involved in the plot will of course know who the apprentice is!” Hugh said, triumphantly.

“There is no apprentice,” I said. “According to the spirit in the lodging house, he is little more than a vagabond, coming and going as he chooses. We were misled. If you think
back to what Maggie said and what the chapman said, I think you’ll find they assumed he was an apprentice because of his youth and his bad taste in clothes.”