The Black Moth (4 page)

"Oh–er–chestnut, Mr. Fudby–chestnut, with a half-moon of white on its forehead, and one white foreleg."

Jack perceived that it was time he took a hand in the game. He half turned in his chair and levelled his quizzing-glass at Mr. Chilter.

"I beg your pardon?" he drawled.

Mr. Fudby's eye brightened. The fine gentleman was roused to an expression of interest at last. He launched forth into his story once more for my lord's benefit. Carstares eyed him coldly, seeing which, Mr. Hedges came hurriedly to the rescue.

"Er–yes, Mr. Fudby–quite so! Your pardon, sir, I have not the honour of knowing your name?"

"Ferndale," supplied Jack, "Sir Anthony Ferndale."

"Er–yes—" Mr. Hedges bowed. "Pray pardon my importuning you with our—"

"Not at all," said my lord.

"No–quite so— The fact is, these–er–gentlemen have had the–er–misfortune to be waylaid on their journey here."

Sir Anthony's glass was again levelled at the group. His expression betokened mild surprise.

"
All
these gentlemen?" he inquired blandly.

"Oh, no, no, no, sir! Not all–Only Mr.–er—"

"Fudby," said that worthy, and discovered that Sir Anthony was bowing frigidly. At once he rose, and resting his knuckles on the table before him, bent his body slowly and painfully. Sir Anthony inclined his head, whereupon, to the delight of all the rest, Mr. Fudby bowed again with even greater stateliness than before. Mr. Hedges observed Sir Anthony's lips to twitch convulsively. He waited for Mr. Fudby to subside, and then continued:

"Yes–Mr. Fudby and Mr.—"

"My clerk!" snapped Fudby.

Sir Anthony favoured Mr. Chilter with his peculiarly sweet smile, and turned again to Mr. Hedges.

"I see. A
daylight
robbery, you say?"

"Broad daylight!" boomed Mr. Fudby.

"Er–yes, yes," interposed the mayor, fearing a fresh outbreak from that quarter. "I wonder if you have seen anything of such an animal as Mr.–er–Chilter–described?"

"'Tis a most extraordinary thing," said Carstares slowly, "but I have just bought such an one." He glanced round with an inquiring smile and one eyebrow lifted.

"Well!" ejaculated Mr. Fudby. "Well!"

"Dear me, sir, what a strange coincidence! May I ask where you bought it, and from whom?"

"She has not been in my possession over two hours. I bought her from an out-at-elbows ruffian, on my way hither. I thought at one time that 'twas strange that the man should possess such a mare–pure bred, I vow–and wondered why he was so eager to be rid of her."

"He was eager because he knew he would be recognised by her," explained Mr. Fudby kindly.

"Without doubt. Perhaps you would like to see her? I will send my man—"

"Oh no, no!" cried the mayor. "We would not dream of so inconveniencing you—"

"'Twere a pleasure," bowed Jack, devoutly hoping that Mr. Fudby would not require to see Jenny, who, he felt sure, would betray him by her very evident affection.

"No, no, Sir Anthony, 'tis quite unnecessary, I assure you, but I thank you for all that. Mr. Fudby, if you would describe the man himself, I will see to the proclamation."

"Describe him, Chilter!" ordered Mr. Fudby, who was becoming rather grumpy.

Mr. Chilter smiled suddenly.

"Certainly, sir!" he said with alacrity. "'Twas a great ruffianly fellow, monstrous tall—"

"How tall?" interrupted the town-clerk. "Six feet?"

"Oh, quite!" lied Mr. Chilter. "And fat."

Jack's shoulders shook.

"Fat, you say?" he asked gently.

"Very fat," affirmed Mr. Chilter. "And prodigious rough, swearing dreadfully in his speech."

"You could not see his face, I suppose?"

Mr. Chilter hesitated.

"I could see his mouth and chin," he said, "and I remarked a long scar running from his under-lip to the–er–bottom of his face."

Involuntarily Carstares' hand caressed his perfectly smooth chin. Either the little clerk was a born romancer, or for some reason or other he did not want the highwayman to be taken.

"Well, Sir Anthony?" the mayor was saying. "Does that description fit your man?"

My lord frowned thoughtfully.

"Tall," he said slowly, "and fat–you said fat, I think, Mr. Chilter?"

Rather anxiously Mr. Chilter reiterated this statement.

"Ah! And with a long scar–yes, that is undoubtedly he. Furthermore," he added audaciously, "he has a squint in his left eye. 'Tis a most ill-favoured rogue in all."

"It would appear so, Sir Anthony," remarked the mayor drily. He did not in the least believe the story of the squint, and imagined that the fine court gentleman was amusing himself at their expense. Nevertheless, he had no intention of remonstrating; the sooner he could withdraw from this very tiresome affair the better. So he gravely took down all the absurd particulars, remarked that the man should be easy to find, and made ready to depart.

The town-clerk rose, and tapped the beadle on the shoulder, whereupon that worthy, with a grunt, abandoned his pose of masterly inactivity and followed the mayor out of the room.

Mr. Fudby rose.

"I doubt I shall never see my money again," he said pettishly. "If you, Chilter had not been so—"

"Allow me to offer you some snuff, Mr. Chilter," interposed my lord gently, extending his jewelled box. "Doubtless, sir, you would wish to see my mare?"

"I know nought of horses," snorted Mr. Fudby. "'Tis my clerk who appears to have remarked all the details." He sneered terrifically.

"Then pray, do me the honour of walking as far as the stables, Mr. Chilter. 'Twere as well to be certain about the mare. Mr.–ah–Fudby, your servant."

* * * * *

"And now, Mr. Chilter, I have a grudge against you," said Carstares, as they walked across the little garden.

"Me, sir? Oh–er–have you, Sir Anthony?"

He looked up and perceived that the gentleman was laughing.

"Yes, Mr. Chilter, a very serious grudge: you have described me as fat!"

Chilter nearly fainted.

"
You
, sir," he gasped, and stared in amazement.

"Also that I swear dreadfully in my speech, and that I have a scar running from my mouth to my chin."

Mr. Chilter stood stock-still in the middle of the path.

"It was you, sir, all the time?
You
held us up? Were
you
the man who wrenched open the door?"

"I was that infamous scoundrel. I beg leave once more to apologise for my carelessness in opening that same door. Now tell me, why did you take such pains to throw dust in their sleepy eyes?"

They resumed their walk slowly. The little clerk flushed.

"I scarce know, sir, save that I–that I liked you, and–and—"

"I see. 'Twas prodigious good of you, Mr. Chilter. I wonder if there is anything that I can do to show my gratitude?"

Again the clerk flushed and lifted his head proudly.

"I thank you, sir, but there is nought."

By now they had reached the stable. Carstares opened the door and they entered.

"Then will you accept this in token of my regard, sir?"

Mr. Chilter gazed at the emerald ring that glowed and winked at him from the palm of my lord's hand. He looked up into the blue eyes and stammered a little.

"Indeed, sir–I–I—"

"'Tis honestly come by!" pleadingly. "Come, Mr. Chilter, you'll not hurt my feelings by refusing? You will keep it in remembrance of a man–a fat man, Mr. Chilter–who rudely jerked you on to the road?"

The clerk took it with unsteady fingers.

"I thank you most—"

"Nay, I beg of you. 'Tis I thank you for aiding me so kindly. . . . Come and see my Jenny! Well, lass?" For the mare at the first sound of his voice had turned in her loose-box, and was whinnying and pawing the ground eagerly.

"I do not understand, sir, anything: how it is that you are a highwayman, or why you have honoured me with your confidence–why you should trust me. But—thank you."

As he spoke, Mr. Chilter placed his hand in my lord's, and for the second time in his life, felt the pressure of those firm, kindly fingers.

* * * * *

"Why, your honour! Ye've lost your emerald!"

"No, Jim. I gave it away."

"Ye–ye
gave
it away, sir?"

"M'm. To the small spider."

"B-but—"

"And he called me fat, too."

"Called ye fat, sir?" asked the man, bewildered.

"Yes. Very fat. By the way, let me tell you that I bought Jenny at Fittering to-day from the naughty ruffian who waylaid Mr. Bumble Bee." He proceeded to give Jim a sketch of what had transpired below. When he had finished the man shook his head severely.

"I doubt ye'll never learn wisdom, sir," he scolded.

"I? What have I done?"

"What did ye want to tell it all to the spider man for, sir? 'Twas most incautious of ye. Like as not, he'll split to the fat gentleman, and we'll have the whole town at our heels."

"Which just shows all you know of the small spider," replied his master calmly. "Hand me the powder."

WYNCHAM! A stately old house with mullioned windows, standing high on its stone terraces, half-covered by creepers; a house surrounded by lawns, rolling down on the one side to a river that rippled and murmured its way along beneath overhanging trees and a blue sky, over boulders and rocks, so clear and sparkling that the myriad pebbles could be seen deep down on its bed.

In the other direction, the velvet lawns stretched away till they met the orchards and the quiet meadowland.

On two sides the house had its terraces, very white in the sunshine, with stone steps leading down to a miniature lake where water-lilies grew, and where the tiny fish darted to and fro unconcernedly.

Flagged walks there were, running between flower beds a riot of colour, and solemn old trees that had stood there through all the years. Cool woodland lay beyond the little river, carpeted with dark moss, where in spring the primroses grew. So thick was the foliage of the trees that the sun but penetrated in uneven patches.

Up the terrace walls crept roses, yellow and red, pink and white, and tossed their trailing sprays across the parapet. Over the walls of the house they climbed, mingling with purple clematis, jasmine, and sickly honeysuckle. The air was heavy with their united perfumes, while, wafted from a bed below, came the smoky scent of lavender.

The old house seemed half asleep, basking in the sunlight. Save for a peacock preening its feathers on the terrace steps, there was no sign of life. . . .

The old place had harboured generations of Carstares. Earl had succeeded Earl and reigned supreme, and it was only now that there was no Earl living there. No one knew where he was. Scarce a month ago one died, but the eldest son was not there to take his place. For six years he had been absent, and none dared breathe his name, for he disgraced that name, and the old Earl cast him off and forbade all mention of him. But the poor folk of the countryside remembered him. They would tell one another tales of his reckless courage; his sweet smile and his winning ways; his light-heartedness and his never-failing kindness and good-humour. What a rider he was! To see him sit his horse! What a swordsman! Do ye mind the time he fought young Mr. Welsh over yonder in the spinney with half the countryside watching? Ah, he was a one, was Master Jack! Do ye mind how he knocked the sword clean out o' Mr. Welsh's hand, and then stood waiting for him to pick it up? And do ye mind the way his eyes sparkled, and how he laughed, just for the sheer joy o' living?

Endless anecdotes would they tell, and the old gaffers would shake their heads and sigh, and long for the sight of him again. And they would jerk their thumbs towards the Manor and shrug their old shoulders significantly. Who wanted Mr. Richard for squire? Not they, at least. They knew he was a good squire and a kindly man, but give them Master John, who would laugh and crack a joke and never wear the glum looks that Mr. Richard affected.

In the house, Richard Carstares paced to and fro in his library, every now and again pausing to glance wretchedly up at the portrait of his brother hanging over his desk. The artist had managed to catch the expression of those blue eyes, and they smiled down at Richard in just the way that John was always wont to smile–so gaily, and withal so wistfully.

Richard was twenty-nine, but already he looked twice his age. He was very thin, and there were deep lines on his good-looking countenance. His grey eyes bore a haunted, care-worn look, and his mouth, though well-shaped, was curiously lacking in determination. He was dressed soberly, and without that touch of smartness that had characterised him six years ago. He wore black in memory of his father, and it may have been that severity, only relieved by the lace at his throat, that made his face appear so prematurely aged. There was none of his brother's boyishness about him; even his smile seemed forced and tired, and his laughter rarely held merriment. . . .