The Mandarin of Mayfair (38 page)

It was half-past eleven o'clock and the lodge gates were closed when they reached Sundial Abbey. There being no sign of a keeper, Tummet climbed down from the box and opened the gates, and they proceeded boldly along a drive that wound uphill for a mile or more before the house came into view.

Sundial Abbey was undeniably very old, and it was long, massive, and surrounded by deep meadow grasses and wildly overgrown trees. On this dark day it looked mournful and neglected, but it commanded a superb view of the surrounding countryside and on a bright sunny morning and with a little more care expended on the grounds, Gwendolyn thought it could be mellow and beautiful.

A gardener, digging without much enthusiasm in a weedy flowerbed, regarded them incuriously, but they saw no other sign of servants or the occupants of the abbey.

Tummet drove around to the side, past a barn and paddock where some horses grazed. Continuing to the rear, he guided the team off the drive-path, across a weedy meadow and into one of several stands of trees. Here, he pulled up and climbed from the box to hand Gwendolyn from the coach.

"This is a queer set-to and no mistake," he said. "Not so much as a stable boy come out to see who we is. What now, Miss Gwen?"

Before she could reply, Apollo sprang from the carriage and went racing off. Her commands that he stop were ignored, but luckily she was able to catch up with him and snatch the lead while he was distracted by the charms of a gorse bush. Out of breath, she glanced back. Tummet had secured the team and was hurrying to join her.

"What in the name of all the furies is
that
?" A short, chubby-faced and over-dressed young man came through the trees and drew back in alarm as Apollo strained at the end of his lead and barked shatteringly. There was no doubt that the newcomer was well bred, but it seemed to Gwendolyn that there was a dissolute air about him.

She spoke sternly to the dog, who lay down in the wet grass and grunted in a disappointed fashion. During the drive she had rehearsed a speech for such an occasion as this and dropping a slight curtsy she said, "Good day to you, sir. My dog's name is Apollo. I am Mrs. Oakenberry. My husband and I are on our way to Aldershot, and had stopped a short distance from here to obtain directions when our little boy wandered off, and"—she pressed a handkerchief to her lips—"and—we have not been able to find him!"

"Well, he ain't here."

She opened her eyes at this rudeness, and the young man had the grace to flush, and add, "That is to say, I live here, more's the pity, and—"

"You are the Earl of Yerville?"

"Lord, no! That's my father. Only he's in the shires and the house pretty well closed up all after Christmas. Even if he wasn't, you'd not pry him from his easel, I can tell you! Fancies himself an artist, silly old—" He broke off that improper remark and said a belated, "I am Sidney Yerville. Where's your husband, ma'am? Is that his decanter?"

Tummet, who had listened with admiration to Gwendolyn's sad tale, touched his brow respectfully, and said, "Begging yer pardon, Mr. Yerville, but the master's searching 'round the hamlet. He bade me bring some wine, in case the young master's come a cropper."

"Yes, indeed," said Gwendolyn. "Some children have just told me they were playing in your woods, and that they shut my son in some cellar room or other, and he won't be able to get out!'Pon my soul, but I am faint with terror."

Yerville said derisively, "They've been hoaxing you, ma'am. Ain't no cellar rooms under the Abbey. M'grandfather had 'em all knocked into one great wine-cellar, and I promise you if children came near the place they'd be sent packing with a flea in their ear. That wine-cellar's Papa's pride and joy. Unless…" He paused, frowning. "I suppose they might've got into the ruins of the original abbey. But the locals believe they're haunted and most folks won't come within a mile of 'em even in broad daylight! The path is over there," he gestured vaguely to the densely wooded area on the eastern side of the hill, "if you can find it. 'Tis overgrown as any jungle."

"Have we your permission to search about?" asked Gwendolyn. "I am fairly distracted!"

"Search all you wish." He looked toward the distant roof of a cottage. "I'd help, but I've an er, appointment." He grinned, and winked at Tummet, man-to-man fashion. "If your boy's like most young 'uns, he's likely having a May game with you. I'd not wander about too long, though, ma'am. The path by the river is slippery and can be treacherous. If you've not found your son by dusk, you'd best go up to the house and rouse someone to organize a search party. The assistant chef and my man and a few of the staff are here. They're a damned lazy lot, but if you make enough fuss they'll likely bestir themselves." He waved airily, and without a backward glance hurried off.

"A fine earl he'll make," said Tummet with disgust.

"Yes, but never mind that. Lord Kadenworthy said Mr. August was locked in an underground room, and I don't doubt the ruins are just the kind of place that horrid Reggie Smythe would choose!" She started toward the trees that Sidney Yerville had indicated, only to utter a moan of frustration as Apollo tore free again and went off at his ungainly prance across the meadow. "Oh, you wretched beast!" she exclaimed. "Come back at once! Apollo! Come!"

The hound did not come, but began to sniff around some boulders, then threw himself down and rolled about ecstatically with all his legs in the air. He was too elated to notice retribution approaching in the form of Tummet who managed to creep up and grab his lead. "Come on, you perishing monster," he growled, tugging. Apollo sat up and regarded him without warmth.

Gwendolyn had made some purchases at the tavern, and she flourished a piece of cheese. "Here, boy!"

All cooperation, Apollo sprang up and caught the tossed square of his favourite delicacy. "Found something choice to roll in, didn't you," grumbled Tummet, handing the lead to Gwendolyn. "You're's'posed to be finding yer master, you silly brute! Not wallering in something that smells horrid!"

"He evidently does not find it horrid." Gwendolyn patted the dog, then bent lower and sniffed. "Oh!" she gasped. "Oh, Tummet! 'Tis—'tis
incense
! I gave Mr. August a small box of incense sticks at the Overtake Lodge Fete and he slipped it into his pocket. You never think… ?"

He thought it most unlikely, but he didn't have the heart to discourage the poor little lady, and he said, "Ain't nothing impossible, Miss Gwen."

She dropped to her knees and peered about, then gave a squeal of excitement. "See! Only look here!"

A thin wisp of smoke wound from the base of the boulder. They stared at each other, then they both began to push and tug until the boulder rolled over. Apollo, who had watched this endeavour with great interest, started to burrow furiously at the wet earth, his powerful paws sending clods of dirt flying in all directions.

"Look! Look!" shrieked Gwendolyn.

His eyes bright with excitement, Tummet said," 'Pears like part of a stone wall under there, Miss Gwen!"

"Mr. Yerville said the ruins were over in those woods, but they may very well extend this far!" She clutched his arm. "Oh, Tummet! Mr. August might be right beneath us! Hurry! Do hurry!"

Despite her anxiety they were obliged to go slowly when they reached the woods, for the undergrowth was dense. Apollo had refused to come with them, preferring to roll about on the grass, but he suddenly shot past below them on a narrow path half hidden by a fallen tree.

"A spanking good guide he is! Be lucky if we can keep up wiv him!" Tummet took Gwendolyn's arm and they hurried after their canine pathfinder. When they reached the stream Sidney Yerville's warning proved justified; the ground became slippery, the path sloping ever downward until they were in a narrow defile, the walls shutting out the sky. Gwendolyn's hopes lifted slightly, but she was wracked by a growing sense of dread and limped along as fast as she could, clinging tightly to Tummet's hand. The stream veered off soon, and they came among ancient ruins, the dim light making it hard to see stone slabs that had fallen to litter the path. Tummet lifted Gwendolyn over several large chunks, but the obstructions presented no challenge to Apollo, who gamboled along, tail wagging, only to suddenly plunge off to the right and disappear.

Tummet panted, "Now what, Miss Gwen? Shall we follow the hound or—"

"What you'll do, my cove, is put up yer mauleys, 'fore I dishes yer!"

Gwendolyn gave a startled cry as a dark figure hove up ahead. The lower part of his face was covered by a black scarf, and one fist held a frighteningly large horse pistol aimed straight at them.

Tummet slipped a protective arm around Gwendolyn, and said indignantly, "You got yerself lost, Mr. Rank Rider. No stagecoaches dahn here, and no need to frighten the lady!"

The highwayman leaned closer. "Here, I know that voice," he said, his own voice a deep rumble. "Dang me ears and innards if it ain't old Tummy!" He stuck the pistol in his belt and put out a brawny fist.

"Dancer! Cor, love a duck!" Tummet shook hands and staggered as he was clapped heartily on the back. "Wot in the world is you doing here, mate? Never say this is yer ken? Whoops—forgot! Miss Rossiter, this is me old chum, Tom. Knowed in the trade as the Dancing Master."

His "old chum" discarded the makeshift mask disclosing a round, surprisingly agreeable countenance and a pair of bright hazel eyes. He bowed with a flourish. "Pleased ter meetcha, marm, I'm sure."

To be formally introduced to a famous highwayman was a new experience for Gwendolyn, but she managed to conceal her astonishment and say a polite, if rather foolish, "How do you do?"

"Fairish, marm, fairish. If you'll wait a bit, I'll light me lamp and you can both step inside me residence." He disappeared into the black aperture that yawned behind him, there was the scrap of flint and tinder and a moment later a lantern's glow revealed a stark, mouldering chamber with what appeared to be a passage beyond. The highwayman led them inside. "Daren't wait about here," he said. "I were just leaving."

"Fer good?" asked Tummet, still holding Gwendolyn's arm.

"Aye. Some slippery spy's gorn and found me ken—that's to say, me home, marm." Tom sighed. "I bin comfortable here, this last year and more. Not that I don't have to be careful, mindyer. But it's bin safe, give or take, and sorry I am to give it up."

He led them past other passages and yawning holes that long ago had been rooms. The lantern glow glistened on muddy paw prints on the stone floor, and the Dancing Master asked chattily, "That your dog, Tummy? A big fella, ain't he? Thought he was going to come for me, but orf he went. Here we is, mates." He stopped in a large untidy chamber in which had been assembled the rudiments of life: charred logs on what had once been a great hearth; a cot and tumbled blankets; a table and chairs, shelves holding cooking implements and provisions, and a variety of covered pots and bottles, plates and mugs and a few pieces of cutlery. "Home sweet home," he announced, with pride.

"Very nice," said Tummet. "What makes you think you bin spied on, Tom?"

"I'll show you." The highwayman led them across the room and into another passageway. Suddenly they were in daylight again as they entered a lean-to with two troughs, both empty, and a fine saddle propped on a bale of hay. The planks of the rear wall hung in shreds. "Kicked it dahn, drat him," said Tom disconsolately. "A beauty though, ain't he?"

Gwendolyn heard the hiss of Tummet's indrawn breath. She was incapable of speech. Through the shattered door she saw a fine chestnut horse grazing contentedly in a small clearing. Nearby, another animal grazed. A splendid black stallion, the pale light gleaming on his glossy coat.

Her numb lips formed the word soundlessly, "Andante!"

The last incense stick had burned itself out long hours ago, and he'd had to sing to stay awake and to keep up his courage. Long-forgotten songs from childhood; hymns he'd not thought of since he'd left school, croaked out in a strange unknown voice that shook—only because he was so terribly cold. It was stupid to sing, because it hurt his ribs, but it pushed back the crushing silence a little. Lord knows how long ago he had taken the last sip of the water he'd hoarded in the cup they'd left him. He was parched with thirst and so hungry that he began to think of the rats in a different light—a sure sign, he thought, shuddering, that he was losing his mind.

One thing he'd accomplished as a result of his endless scraping—it was less painful to breathe. The air was as foul, but he had made a tiny hole when a long sliver of mortar had crumbled and he'd been able to use his pencil to poke it through to the other room. It was a mixed blessing: it meant that the wall was not so thick here, but also that he had not found the locking mechanism. He could see no alleviation of the dense blackness when he tried to peep through the hole, but he knew it went all the way through because air came in, enabling him to draw a breath. Which was pointless, probably, and would only prolong his suffering.

He had constantly to fight against giving way to terror and despair. The certain knowledge that death was near could no longer be denied, but he wanted to face it proudly, not slobbering and mindless. He was haunted by tales he'd heard of people who'd been locked in some lost room, or had perhaps been buried alive, their bones coming to light long after all search for them had been abandoned. At school he'd read of a hapless lady whose husband had offended some king or other, and who had been shut up and left with her little son to starve in darkness. When found, there was every evidence that the poor creature had gone raving mad before she'd died. A fate that probably awaited him if— He caught himself up and forced his thoughts to Gwendolyn, and her dear gravity as she'd tried to instruct him about "li"…

Claws scratched his cheek. He'd slipped down the wall again! He dragged himself upright, jerking a hand across his eyes and uttering the rasping sound that was the closest he could come to a shout, and the rat scampered away.

How long had he fought them off in this freezing blackness? It seemed an eternity, but he'd be dead if it was an eternity. And oh, how he yearned to live! To be able to warn Papa of the League's trap. To tell Joel Skye about the whole ugly business. To see his love and his family and his friends again. And to find Reggie Smythe! Dwelling on what he'd like to do to that miserable wart sustained him for a while, but he found that he was sagging down again. If he allowed himself to sleep, he would escape this horror for a while. Perchance he'd wake to see Grandmama Natasha smiling at him. Or would Jamie stand between them and deny him the right to see her? Probably while throwing his wretched maxims about… "Be done by as you did, August Falcon!" or some such rot. And there he went again, conveniently forgetting his own guilt, and that poor Jamie would be more than justified to lecture him! How could he forget what he'd done? Squirming, he pleaded, "I'm so sorry I sent you up there. I didn't mean it, Jamie. I was tricked. Smythe really killed you—not me. You'll let me see Grandmama, won't you, Jamie? Please, dear old fellow…"