The Riddle of the Lost Lover (23 page)

“What of his lady?”

“A beautiful creature, don't you agree?”

“A beautiful creature who wishes me at Jericho.”

“No, no. Gaston says that she gets lonely here at times, and will be only too glad of your company.”

“She looked anything but glad just now.”

“I daresay she was surprised to have all of us descend on her with no warning. But did you notice how devoted she is to her husband? I thought it most affecting.”

‘Men!' thought Consuela. “I wonder if Pierre thought it affecting,” she said tartly.

“He's a changeable rascal. One minute trying to have us all arrested as spies, and the next telling his step-mama that he likes England better than La Belle France.”

“His step-mama? Madame Thérèse is the chevalier's second wife?”

“Yes. I thought Pierre had told you.”

“He told me he was an orphan, the little wretch!”

He laughed. “He's full of spirit. The sort of youngster who will grow into a son any man would be proud of.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the chin, and heard a smothered gasp as a chambermaid carrying a pile of clean linens edged past and hurried into the bedchamber.

Vespa whispered, “What was that for, you forward hussy?”

“It was for—for just being you. Oh, see. The footman is waiting.”

“So he is, the marplot!” To have found her, to be with her again was unutterable relief. He didn't want to leave her, even for a few minutes. And their minutes would be few, because very soon he must tear himself away. To love so deeply was a blessing, but it carried with it the pain of parting. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips, and with a twinge of guilt remembered the promise he had given to a trusting old lady. He sighed and knew he must be very careful, or his honour would be sullied beyond redemption.

In the room he was to share with Manderville a hip bath had been set in front of a hastily laid fire. De Coligny's valet, shaking his head over the crumpled wreckage of the once-magnificent coat, carried it away together with Vespa's garments. A footman came in with a ewer of hot water. He was the first of a continuing line of water carriers so that Manderville was very soon able to enjoy the promised bath, while Vespa washed and shaved.

The fire began to warm the cold air. Another footman brought heated wine and biscuits and advised that Chef was preparing a hearty luncheon. The valet returned with their clothing neatly brushed and pressed, and Manderville's new coat much restored. “Although,” its owner said between sneezes, “it will never be the same.”

Lost in thought, Vespa stood gazing out of the window and made no comment.

“You're very quiet,” said Manderville. “What's churning in that clever brain-box of yours?”

“I was wondering how that rider we saw came to own such a fine horse.”

“Because he's a horse thief, of course.”

“Perhaps.”

“What d'you mean—perhaps? There's no other explanation.”

“I expect you're in the right of it. But you know, I've the impression that de Coligny's the principal land-owner hereabouts.”

“What has that to say to anything?”

“Only that I looked in his paddocks and stables as we drove in. I saw not one hack to compare with the one our thief straddled. And if it wasn't stolen from here—it would be interesting to know where it did come from.”

“Why?” said Manderville. “More importantly, let us collect your lady and seek out this alleged hearty luncheon. After which, you'll be anxious that we continue on to Rennes, I suppose?”

Vespa looked at him from the corners of his eyes.

“No!” said Manderville.

Vespa smiled.

10

“Where is it that you are born?” The shabby and angular wanderer peered at Vespa suspiciously over the slice of dried beef he held in a hand that was lacking three fingers.

Vespa tossed another branch onto the small fire he'd built in the shelter of the woods and took his time about replying. He had left the Château Coligny shortly after two o'clock the previous afternoon, riding the sturdy little piebald mare that the chevalier's head groom had assured him would be more sure-footed in the wilderness country than a larger animal. Parting from Consuela had been wrenching; the sweet girl had tried not to weep, but her trembling lip and tear-wet lashes haunted him and he had made Paige promise to take her home if he did not return within two weeks. De Coligny had provided a razor, strop and soap, together with clothing less likely to attract attention than his own well-tailored garments, and the head groom had drawn a rough map and given him directions that had proven a godsend. He had spent the night in a little hollow, wrapped in his blanket with fallen leaves piled over him, the cold and the myriad night sounds of the open country carrying him back to the Peninsula Campaign. Up with the dawn, he had travelled all day towards the southeast, walking occasionally to rest the mare, and seeing only a farmer driving a cart westward, and a group of boys gathering firewood, all of whom he had avoided.

He'd reached the lonely little shrine to the Lady of the Sea just before the light failed. It had not been an easy climb, and that he'd found the spot at all was largely due to the fact that the shrine had at some recent date been painted white, and it had shone rather eerily against the surrounding darkness of the trees. A stream ran close by, as de Coligny's groom had said, the icy water clear and sweet. He'd tended to the mare whose name was Bruine. This, he felt was a misnomer, for, as he told the animal, she might be the colour of drizzle, but she was a willing little lady with an affectionate nature. Having built a fire he had settled down to enjoy the now rather stale but still good loaf, and the remains of the cheese and smoked meat Gaston's chef had packed for him. And then this tall unkempt fellow had arrived with his equally unkempt donkey and invited himself to share the fire.

“I was born in
España,
” lied Vespa. “Not that it is any of your affair.”

Despite his brusque growl the answer appeared to be satisfactory and his unwelcome guest started to slice mould from a hunk of cheese and said with a nod, “That will explain the way of your talk. I knew you were no Breton.”

“Nor are you,” said Vespa.

The knife stilled. “Why do you say this?”

“Because Bretons like their privacy.”

The pale eyes stared unblinkingly. Then, a grin twisted the wide mouth. “A man gets enough of their standoffish ways, I won't argue that point. Me, I like company. That's a nice little beast you have.”

“It is. And I mean she shall remain
my
little beast.”

“So. You likely have a
pistolet
in that pocket, eh, Monsieur
l'soldat?
”

“
Very
likely. Why do you suppose me to be a soldier?”

“I saw you walk. You have the limp, but you have the shoulders and the movement of the man of action. You fight for our ‘Little Corporal,' eh? Where did you earn your limp?”

“Vitoria. Where did you lose your fingers?”

“Badajoz. Aha—this is the bad word for you, I see. It was a most terrible battle. You have perhaps suffer another wound there?”

“I lost my brother there.” Vespa put down his bread and reached out. “I am Jacques.”

They exchanged a handshake and the shabby man's face lit up. “Me, I am Paul. It is a good thing for two old soldiers to meet and to talk, no?
Nom de Dieu,
but this Brittany is the lonely place. It cause much discomfort to my poor stomach, which I will tell you is a most delicate machine. How may one talk with these people when one cannot understand what they say even when they
will
speak? At least you have the proper French. What do you here,
mon ami?
”

“Obey my master. He is desirous of meeting with some strange old fellow who goes about buying carpets.”

“What, the Crazy Carpet Man?” Paul gave a hoot of laughter. “I wish you joy of him.” He tapped his temple. “I think much of the time he knows not where he is.”

Vespa's heart gave a lurch. “You've seen him?”

“But—yes. Yesterday? The day before? I forget.
Les enfants,
they like him, you know. I hear them squeak and shout, and there they are, all around his big waggon. And what a grotesquerie!”

His hopes sinking, Vespa said, “The man?”

Paul chuckled. “The waggon—or cart, or whatever it is. People, they laugh and call names. But he is a good-natured old fool. It is sad, eh?”

That sounded more promising. “You have a kind heart, Paul. Can you tell me where I may find him?”

“But of a certainty I can! He is likely no more than a day's journey to the south and you will have but to enquire in Rennes. Everyone knows him and
les enfants
in especial will point you the way he goes.”

So his clever little love had been right, after all. ‘God bless her!' thought Vespa. ‘Tomorrow I may meet my father, at last!'

It rained in the night. He awoke to darkness and a clamorous wind that scattered a flurry of raindrops from the tree above him.
Bruine
stamped about restlessly. Vespa slid the pistol from under the saddlebags that served as his pillow. Moving as silently as a shadow he went to the mare, but his suspicions were unjustified; she greeted him with a soft whicker and there was nothing to indicate that Paul had attempted to appropriate her. The man's bed, comprised of a thick wool blanket that smelled strongly of sheep, was still spread out beside the dead fire. Vespa turned back to his own bed but was momentarily dazzled as lightning's blue glare lit the makeshift camp. The trees seemed to leap up. Bruine gave a snort of fright. Vespa moved quickly to hold her nostrils, for something else had leapt into view: two men stood by the stream. Even that brief glimpse revealed this to be a furtive meeting. Their conversation, evidently conducted in whispers, was quite inaudible, and although he caught a whiff of burning oil, their lamp was now extinguished.

He slipped back to his own blanket and arranged the saddlebags to resemble a man sleeping, then took up a position behind a nearby tree, the pistol gripped in his hand and his eyes fixed in the direction of the conspirators. He was faintly disappointed. He rarely misread his man, but he had evidently done so in this instance. Still, he'd been prepared and had slept lightly. De Coligny had said poverty dwelt here, and poverty had a way of breeding thievery and murder.

Lightning flashed once more, this time followed by a clatter of thunder.

Ignoring his own bed, Paul crept towards Vespa's blankets and reached out.

Vespa's grip on the pistol tightened. He watched and waited for the slash of a knife.

“Monsieur Jacques,” called Paul softly, nudging the blanket. “Wake up! Monsieur—”

“I'm over here.” Vespa walked forward.

“
Sacré bleu!
You take no chances, eh? I think I am insulted.”

“I saw you talking to someone. It is as well to be cautious.
I
think you and your friend are free-traders, but I ask no questions.”

“This it is the best way,
mon ami.
” Paul began to roll up his blanket. “You have allow that I share your fire and we talked together. So. Now I must go, for these woods they are become too crowded, which is bad for my poor stomach, you will understand.”

“Crowded? I saw scarcely a soul.”

“No more did I. But my friend, he says there are strangers about who stop people and ask odd questions. They ask many questions of my friend, which make him most nervous. Paul, he also does not care to be questioned. Perhaps he might not have the right answers, eh?”

Vespa watched him secure the blanket roll across the back of his little donkey. “Did your friend tell you what it was that these men wanted to know?”

“Two of them, they have pretend to search for an Englishman, but this it is not the case, of course. As if even an Englishman would be such a fool as to journey into France while we have this war! Unless he is as demented as the Crazy Carpet Man! So they really look for something else. And with all the uproar over the great robbery causing innocent men to be regarded with suspicion, this Paul he does not wait to find out!”

“What robbery? I've heard nothing of it.”

“I thought every living creature must know of it. At some great mint in Belgium it happened, and a young guard most savagely killed. They are saying there was no need to have murdered the boy, and that thousands upon thousands of gold
louis
were made off with. Not one piece did Paul have knowledge of then, or ever will. But—try to convince the police or the military blockheads of it! So I go away from where questions are asked.”

Vespa had enjoyed the man's company and was sorry to see him go, and Paul embraced him as emotionally as if they had been old friends. Soon after he had said his farewells the storm drifted away. The little clearing seemed lonely now, and since it was almost dawn Vespa packed up his own belongings and rode out with the first light.

He journeyed more cautiously than ever. That those who trailed him were Imre Monteil's hirelings he had no doubt. The Swiss was the only person who knew he might be in France—aside from the chevalier, of course, who would not have betrayed him. Still, it was odd: Monteil had left the fishing village before him and, with the advantage of a coach and four fresh horses, plus freedom from having to keep out of sight and guard against arrest, he should have reached Rennes last evening at the latest. If Rennes was his destination. Perhaps he was intent upon demanding satisfaction from the man who had knocked him down. Whatever the case, it would be interesting to know what was his business with the Crazy Carpet Man.

The sun came up, setting the clouds afire with pink and red and mauve, and turning the droplets left by last night's rain into countless glittering gems. When the celestial display faded the skies were overcast but bright and although the air was chill it was a crisp cold. Vespa rode with eyes and ears alert for other travellers, but an hour later he had seen only a solitary boy herding some two-score sheep. He was hungry and risked enquiring about a tavern or inn where he might buy food. The boy stared at him with great solemn dark eyes and spoke in the odd Breton tongue that had so much in it of Gaelic. So far as Vespa could decipher, he was being asked the same question as to whether he was from France. When he answered that he was a citizen of Italy the boy evidently understood, because a smile brightened his face, and he pointed to the southeast and said something that Vespa translated as indicating the route to an inn ‘with a good wife.'