The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy (32 page)

“We will indeed,” agreed Conrad Beech.

17

Valerian bespoke a light luncheon to be served in the only private parlour the inn offered. Skye insisted he was sufficiently recovered to join them, but when the meal was over and the other two men left the table he lingered with Elspeth. She refilled his coffee cup and murmured worriedly, “I still cannot think who they can have been. Surely those horrid ruffians from the chateau lost us long since?”

“And as surely will know our direction,” he pointed out wryly. “Though why they should attack your uncle is beyond me!”

“Exactly my own thought! They could not have known of our relationship. The beasts at the chateau did not even know who I am. Joel, do you not want your coffee? You ate hardly any of the soup and the cheeses and hot bread.”

He smiled at her fondly. “Never look so anxious for me, Ellie. 'Tis just the headache and will soon fade.” And in an effort to turn her thoughts, he asked, “Where is everyone gone? Valerian is seldom far from your side.”

Aware that she was blushing, she poured a mug of coffee for herself and answered with what she hoped was nonchalance, “Oh, I fancy he is chatting with my cousin in the tap—or what passes for the tap. This is a very small inn, you know.”

“True. At home it would be judged no more than a hedge tavern. I'm surprised to hear that Valerian and Mr. Beech are enjoying a convivial talk. I'd somehow gained the impression they were not exactly—er, kindred spirits.”

Elspeth sighed, “I wish they could be friends. Mr. Valerian has been splendid, and it is so good of my uncle and Conrad to have come all this way trying to help me.”

“Especially since your uncle was very much against your taking such chances to free Vance. But you've done it, Ellie! Just as you so bravely set out to do. It's all over now! We'll be back in England in a day or so and your life will go on as smoothly as it did before you embarked on this adventure.” Watching her intently, he saw her smile fade and his heart sank. He asked gently, “That
is
what you want, isn't it, dear girl?”

It had long since occurred to Elspeth that the future he painted was just what she did
not
want, and she suffered the same little pang that so often seemed to pierce her of late. Knowing how anxiously this devoted young man gazed at her, she summoned a smile. “Of course it is,” she lied. “But what of you, Joel? Whatever is to become of you when we get home? I couldn't bear it if your career were—”

He reached out to clasp her hand. “Let's worry about that when the time comes. Meanwhile, where has Herbert got to? You know, I like that boy. He idolizes his cousin, and if Valerian could just be a little more patient with him I believe he'd be less apt to—er—”

Elspeth chuckled and said, “To tumble into his little embarrassments? Perhaps. But Sir Simon told me that Valerian is more fond of him than he shows. Herbert has gone out to the stable. Marcel found something wrong with one of the coach wheels, and Herbert went to see if he could be of assistance.”

“So that's why we are tied by the heels here! I don't care for these delays. The sooner you are safe home the better I shall like it.”

“So shall we all. But at least it gives you and Vance a chance to rest for a while.”

“A rest won't hurt Valerian, either. Jupiter! What a sorry rescue party we are come to! The halt and the lame, no less!”

“Say rather the brave and undaunted.” Elspeth smiled and stood. “Even so, I think I'll go and see how my brother goes on. Try to sleep for a little while, Joel. I'll let you know in plenty of time when the coach is ready.”

Leaving him, she closed the parlour door quietly and made her way to the stairs. The innkeeper's wife hurried to meet her in the entrance hall and point out the door to her private parlour. “It is behind the curtain, beyond the tap,” she said, in the nervous flow of words that appeared to be her normal way of speech. “Madame Newell drank some soup and admires my brioche. Mademoiselle Nurse will pardon if I do not accompany her. It is that we have more guests arriving and must now make changes in the rooms, and the maids are in great excitement because of all the trouble. We are not accustomed to trouble in this quiet corner of France. But your patient, Madame Newell, she now sleeps quietly with her little cat. Please to go in, mademoiselle, and send a maid if anything is required.”

Elspeth thanked her and hurried along the passageway. She heard laughter as she passed the tap and lifted her eyebrows slightly. 'Twould seem her cousin and Valerian were enjoying a more comfortable cose than she'd envisioned.

Anyone observing the two gentlemen in the tap would have shared Elspeth's opinion. They both lounged on settles, a half-empty bottle of wine on the table between them and their mirth decidedly raucous.

Waving his glass with an abandon that sent the contents splashing, Valerian hiccuped, mumbled, “Y'r pardon, B-Beech, ol' fella!” and asked a slurred, “S'what ha-happened then? Was th' lady amen-amen—friendly? I've found these French lassies often … Hic! Le's have 'nother bottle up! This wine's dev'lish flat! Hey! Wench!” Rising, he weaved unsteadily and half-fell back into his chair again. “Deuce take't…,” he exclaimed, laughingly. “
You
get it, Conr'd ol' f'la. M'silly legs melted … be damned to 'em! Melted!”

With a faint grin, Beech strolled over to the bar and leaned to the pretty serving maid.

A swift pounce towards a nearby potted plant and Valerian's glass was quite empty and sagging in his hand when Beech returned, his own gait unsteady and a fresh bottle carried with care. “Here we gooo…,” he crowed. “Egad! Empty 'gain? You c'n really stow it away, Ger-Germain! Heard you had a hard head, b-but—”

“Vaise,” Valerian corrected with another howl of laughter. “Ger-
vaise,
dear boy! Not ‘Main.'”

“Thass right! Vaise, b'Jove! Sort've like Vance … same number've letters. Vaise 'n Vance. Which 'minds me—jolly good've you to have got him free. M'cousin dotes on him, y'know. Been—been meanin' t'ask you—where'd you hide him, dear boy? Somewhere safe, I tr-trust?”

Valerian waved his glass and put one unsteady finger against his nose. “Extry safe,” he said owlishly. “You'd never guess … Hic!” His heavy lids drooped and closed, his head sagged and he began to snore softly.

Conrad Beech shook his shoulder. “Wake up! You're drunk, sir! Wake up!”

Valerian started and peered up at him. “Whazzat?”

Beech prompted, “You was 'bout to tell me where you'd hid m'cousin Vance.”

“Oh, yes. Was. Lemme tell'ya, Conrad ol' f'la … Hic! You'd never guess … where…” A deep sigh, and his head sagged again.

Conrad swore and glanced up as the door opened and his father joined him.

Taking in the scene at a glance, Sir Brian wandered over to the bar and murmured something to the serving wench. She giggled, held out her hand, then tucked some coins into her bodice and ran out of the tap, closing the door behind her.

Sir Brian joined his son, put up his jewelled quizzing glass and surveyed the sleeping man without delight.

“You must be feeling better, sir,” said Conrad dryly.

His father glanced at him, smiled faintly at the ironic tone and shook his head sorrowfully. “Whatever have you done to the poor fellow?” he asked. “It took you long enough, with the result that, deuce take it, you're nigh as far gone as this drunken sot! Shame on you!”

“He has a dev'lish hard head,” mumbled Conrad sulkily. “But almost I had him! He was about to tell me when you walked in.”

“In that case,” Sir Brian poked Valerian with his quizzing glass, “you must wake him up. And as soon as may be!”

Conrad shook Valerian again, less gently this time. “Wake up, damn you!” Repeated attempts were no more successful than the first. Valerian muttered something inaudible and incoherent but did not open his eyes. Frustrated, Conrad growled, “Is useless, sir! You see how it is—he's in a drunken stupor, I can't wake the fool!”

Sir Brian smiled and smoothed a crease from the fine red satin coat he now wore. “I put it to you, my dear boy,” he said softly, “that you had
better
wake him! I've not followed my slut of a niece all this way only to be foiled because you allowed this arrogant pest to fall into the bottle! If we do not get our hands on Vance Clayton before the lawyers do, he will inherit and the fortune will be lost to us. I
need
that inheritance, dear son of mine! And be damned if I'm going to allow that wretched girl to outwit—”

With a lithe spring Valerian was out of the chair and confronting them, eyes flashing and a pistol held steadily in his left hand. “So that's it!” he cried, with not the suggestion of a slur to his words. “I
knew
you were up to your ears in this puzzle!”

Sir Brian grated an oath and started for him.

“Stay back!” said Valerian. “And be assured I can shoot as well with either hand! If all I suspect of you two rogues is truth, Elspeth's father had good reason for refusing to acknowledge you! Hand in glove with that murderous schemer who tried to break Vance Clayton at his chateau, no doubt. Only your ignoble motivation was not politics but pure greed! You dogged our trail to make sure we didn't help Clayton escape and go on living! A fortune, you said, I believe, dear sir? One that will go by rights to Vance Clayton, unless you remove him from the line of succession! That's it, no?” Reading confirmation in their enraged faces, he laughed. “Aye, that's the root of it, I'll wager! So to clear your path to riches you plotted the murder of your own kinsman! What a pair of conscienceless scoundrels!” He waved his pistol. “Over there, beside your sire, Mr. Beech! Now keep your hands where I can see—”

Perhaps because his injury had dulled his senses he underestimated the depths to which greed can drive a man. As Conrad moved reluctantly between Valerian's pistol and his father, Sir Brian seized his opportunity and shoved his son with all his strength. Conrad staggered and fell heavily against Valerian.

Slammed backwards, Valerian crashed into a settle. A blinding wave of pain ripped through his injured arm. His bones seemed to melt away and he sagged helplessly. Echoing with distance he heard Conrad's shrill protest: “Damme, sir! You could've got me shot!” and Sir Brian's bland response, “But I didn't, did I, dear boy! Quickly now—we must help Elspeth's knight errant remember where he has hidden my accursed nephew…!”

Dimly aware that the pistol was being wrenched from his hand, Valerian heard Sir Brian demand, “Where is he? I know you got him away!”

He said nothing.

A back-handed blow across his mouth.

He managed something uncomplimentary. The price of that defiance made him feel sick.

Sir Brian snarled, “Answer me, damn your eyes!”

He was being shaken agonizingly.

Conrad said, “Do not hope that help will come. We've paid the serving wench handsomely to say the tap is closed. Speak up, you fool! Why put yourself through this misery? My cousin is nothing to you, and we're not unreasonable. A single word and we'll be gone. Where—is—Clayton?”

He gave them a single and very vulgar single word.

One of them struck him brutally.

All too briefly he lost touch with the proceedings.

*   *   *

The instant Elspeth opened the door to the host's parlour, she wrinkled her nose. It was very apparent that, as the innkeeper's lady had remarked, something “was required.”

The room was cluttered and overfurnished, but it was warm and quiet. The second Mrs. Newell was fast asleep in a deep chair, a rug thrown over his knees. The wig was slightly askew on his head, but it warmed her heart to see him resting so peacefully. She smiled at him fondly and sent up a small prayer of thanks that he was here and safe. Curled up on his lap, Pixie stretched out her front legs, uttered a welcoming trill and gave a huge yawn, but showed no inclination to leave her comfortable haven.

Elspeth whispered, “Be
a l'aise,
you lazy creature! Much you care if we poor humans are obliged to tidy up after you!”

It crossed her mind to summon Freda to attend to matters, but reminding herself that a nurse did not have her own maid, she took up the kitten's commode and carried it to the door, hoping she would not encounter anyone en route to the yard.

There were sounds of activity from a bedchamber; the host's wife and her maids, no doubt, preparing the room for the expected guests. Elspeth hurried past, but luck was with her and she was downstairs before she saw anyone. A serving maid was dusting a cabinet half-heartedly. Elspeth walked towards the side door to the stables, then checked. For a moment she'd thought to hear her uncle's voice, though at a far from weakened volume. Pausing, she turned to the tap. The maid shot in front of her, bobbing a curtsy, as she announced, “The tap it be closed this afternoon, mam'zelle.”

“No it is not,” argued Elspeth. “I heard my uncle's voice! Stand aside!”

The authoritative tone caused the maid to hesitate. She looked at the box Elspeth held and backed away.

Pushing the door open, Elspeth took two steps and halted, stunned with shock.

Ashen-faced, his mouth bloodied, his injured arm twisted up behind him, Valerian sagged in the grip of her cousin. Even as she watched numbly, Sir Brian said a harsh “Speak, you stubborn damned idiot! Where is Vance Clayton? You'd best be quick in answering me! We've sent word to the Comte d'Ebroin of your whereabouts and dragoons are at this very moment on their way to arrest you!”

Obviously near collapse, Valerian croaked something incoherent. With a snarl of rage, Sir Brian struck him in the face.

Finding her voice, Elspeth ran forward. “What are you doing? Are you gone mad? Let him go at once!”