The Riddle of the Lost Lover (27 page)

Since Vespa's knowledge of Italian was limited to the phrases used by Consuela and the duchess, he was much relieved to learn that the Roman glassblower was not expected until sunset. He declined the offer of the bed, but followed the host to the tap. When the door was thrown open he was aghast to find the room crowded with men who all seemed to talk at the top of their lungs until he entered, whereupon conversation ceased. In the sudden hush every head turned to him. Fortunately, he had not removed his hat, and he pulled it lower over his fair hair, and kept his head down. The host smirked knowingly and led the way to a corner table far from the window and the glowing hearth. Vespa sat on the high-backed settle and ordered a baguette, cheese and wine. The innkeeper nodded and patted his shoulder. “You may be
à l'aise, mon ami.
There is not an Excise Officer for at the least twenty kilometres!”

This remark was overheard. Grins were exchanged and conversation began again. Thereafter, Vespa might have been invisible. He ate quickly, anxious to be on his way as soon as Bruine was adequately rested, but it was shadowy in his corner, the room was warm and his head started to nod.

He awoke to hear someone grunt disparagingly, “… says he is French, but me, I have the French, and his—
voyons!
But it is execrable!”

Another voice muttered, “Well he is no Breton, that I'll wager! It would surprise me not at all if the fellow is a spy! He looks more English than French with that light hair, did you not remark it?”

Vespa tensed and gauged the distance to the door.

The first man said, “I remarked that I do not like him. I do not like his loud voice, or his strange talk, or his manner, which is of an arrogance, and his friends are cut-throats if ever I saw any!”

This bore investigating. Vespa stood and slouched across the room. A serving maid hurried to him, and said his horse was ready, and he paid his shot and went outside.

A large coach and four had arrived. The ostler and stable-boy were busy and nobody seemed to notice when Vespa led Bruine around to the back of the barn. An old rusted bed-frame, some splintered fence-posts, a bucket with a hole in the bottom, a sagging mangle and other debris littered the area which was evidently a home for discarded items. A warped door was propped against the barn. Vespa tied Bruine's reins to the latch and found a knot-hole in the wall through which he could glimpse part of the interior. Three men were in there, arguing loudly in French.

Their horses were led out and while the ostler and stable-boy were saddling the animals the trio moved closer together. They were facing the open doors and Vespa could only see their backs, but they were speaking English now, and he was able to make out the words.

“… and if that stupid block was right, my unwanted kinsman has wandered into the
Forêt de Paimpont!
”

The voice was unmistakable. Duncan Keith! Vespa swore under his breath.

“Or he followed the old man in there,” this suggestion offered in a soft Welsh drawl.

“You're right, by God!” exclaimed Keith. “What better place than a haunted forest to search for a flying carpet?”

They laughed, then a thin nasal voice said, “They'll likely fall foul of the thieves and free-traders who lurk about there.”

“Or get lost. They say some folk who've gone into that forest never have found their way out. The little we saw of it made my flesh crawl, I don't mind admitting.”

“Either way, we can forget the business and go home.”

Keith said silkily, “Can we, indeed? Idiots! D'you think I paid you such a price for anything less than a certainty?”

“You have paid us not a damned farthing yet,” the Welshman grumbled.

“The devil! What about the sixty guineas I gave you in London?”

“That was to cover our passage and expenses. We're risking our necks in this business, Keith! And—”

“Keep your voice down, damn your eyes! You'll get the rest of your blood money when I'm sure he's dead! That forest will be a fine place for you to play with your favourite toy, Rand. Perhaps you'll even manage to aim your next bolt accurately!”

There was a nasal curse and mocking laughter, then the ostler called that the horses were ready, and the three hopeful assassins hurried outside.

Vespa gave them a few minutes, then followed. He was in time to see them ride around the bend in the road that led back to Paimpont and the forest.

“
Bon voyage,
” he muttered sardonically, and turned Bruine towards St. Just.

So Duncan Keith was the leader of the group of three. He'd almost had a face-to-face encounter with them. It was pure luck that he'd arrived when he did. Now at least he had identified one enemy; a man who was not above putting a cross-bow bolt through his half-brother. It was curious that the local inhabitants either ignored him or accepted his story, while the real dangers appeared to have followed him from England. The man on the black horse was perhaps another agent of Imre Monteil, who would eventually have to be reckoned with. Who the two riders on the dapple greys worked for and why they sought him was baffling.

He had other things to think about, and with an impatient shrug dismissed the matter from his mind. Alain had spoken with his ‘friend,' the Crazy Carpet Collector, only a day earlier. From what the boy had said, the waggon was heavy laden, in which case Kincraig could not be far ahead.

A carriage rumbled past heading north at a spanking pace. The coachman looked vexed and was complaining loudly to the guard about ‘mountebanks.' Vespa glimpsed the feathers of a lady's bonnet inside the coach and at once Consuela's lovely and loved face was before his mind's eye. What would she be doing on this grey afternoon? Taking tea with Madame Thérèse and friends, perhaps, or playing some children's game with Pierre. The dear little soul was so kind and warm-hearted, it would be like her to try to amuse a lonely child. He sighed wistfully.

The flow of northward-bound traffic thinned and then ceased altogether. It was not a good sign. There may have been an accident, or a hold-up, or—worse—there might be a military search party ahead, perhaps made up of the ‘mountebanks' who had annoyed the coachman. The road skirted a lake fringed with weeping willows and as they rounded the bend his forebodings were confirmed. Several carts, a waggon and a carriage were drawn up blocking the way and travellers were halted in both directions. Voices were raised in anger, and arms were being waved about. Some of those arms were clad in military uniforms. Vespa whistled softly between his teeth and looked about him. A lane led off at right angles to the road and he could see a cross and a small shrine some hundred yards distant. He could stop there, then go back the way he had come without making too obvious a change of direction.

He was turning Bruine onto the lane when a lady's voice rang out over the deeper voices of the men. She was berating them in a mixture of French and Italian. Stunned, he thought,
‘Consuela?'
But that was impossible. It
could not
be!

“… are truly a
bruttura!
An imbecile! A great
stupidita!
Have I not say it these three times and more? Unfasten your ears, my good fool!”

Vespa moaned, “But it is, by God!” and, ignoring the indignant shouts of the people waiting to get through, he sent Bruine cantering forward.

Gaston de Coligny's smaller coach was at the centre of the dispute. The coachman sat huddled over on the box, a figure of dejection. The door had been flung wide and a small but officious sergeant was arguing with Consuela, who stood on the step, facing him haughtily.

“Never mind about my ears, mademoiselle. You admit you are foreign. How do I know you are who you claim to be? No, it will not do! I
must
have proof of your identity! Since you have none, I've no choice but to detain you.”

Vespa's mind raced. This sergeant was far from being a model of a French fighting man. He was sorely in need of a shave, his uniform was ill-fitting and much creased. Probably, a poor man and a conscript. And as such—corruptible. Vespa reached into his saddlebags and took out the bottle Jules had given him.

Consuela was in full cry. “
Non dire cretinate!
Have I not said I am the Lady Consuela of Ottavio? Have I not told you that my
grand-mere
is the Duchess of Ottavio, to whom I now return? Have I not get it through your so dense brain-box that my papers they are carried by my courier, Pietro, who has lost himself? Is it that you are quite
pazzo?
My
grand-mere
is well acquainted with your General Napoleon Bonaparte, and I promise she will be in touch with him about this disgraceful—”

The sergeant was unintimidated. “I will tell you this, Lady Consuela,” he bellowed, “that there is a large reward for the apprehension of foreign spies. Your deaf coachman he cannot vouch for your identity. You have no papers to show me, and nobody here has heard of you—or your alleged
grand-mere!
I know my duty, and I demand—”

Vespa's blood ran cold and he spurred Bruine into a gallop, the crowd scattering before him. Two troopers in rather sorry-looking uniforms presented crossed bayonets to halt him.

He shouted, “Signorina! My Lady Consuela! Pietro have come! See, I have find the wine!”

Consuela's head jerked towards him and her pretty mouth fell for an instant into an ‘O' of surprise. She wore a long cloak and a hood protected her dark curls, and he thought her the loveliest sight he had ever beheld. His mind whirled with conjecture as to how she came to be here, and his heart was torn between the delight of seeing her again, and with fear for her. He did not have to try very hard to appear frantic, and improvised, “
Mi perdoni?
I am—er,
chicchi-richi
!”
‘Mi perdoni'
he knew meant ‘I beg your pardon.' He was less sure of
‘chicchi-richi,'
but he'd heard Consuela say it, so thought himself safe, and there were no surprised comments or challenges of his proficiency in Italian.

Consuela's eyes, which had sparkled with delight, now became very round, reflecting an emotion that startled him. He dismounted and bowed before her and, recovering her wits, she burst into a torrent of Italian, while belabouring him furiously with an umbrella.

This behaviour appeared to reassure the onlookers, and one of the soldiers said audibly, “She's Italian, right enough! I've heard about their hot-tempered women!”

Ducking the flying umbrella, Vespa caught a glimpse of the coachman's grinning face. Manderville! If they got out of this bog, he thought ragefully, he'd have a word or two with that harebrained varmint for putting Consuela at such terrible risk.

A few onlookers were grumbling about his chastisement, and the sergeant seized the umbrella, and bellowed, “
Assez,
signoriny or lady or whatever you are! Have done, I say!”

Turning in an exasperated fashion to the cringing Vespa, he demanded, “Who is—” His gaze shifted. “What is that you have there?”

“A purchase my lady desired me to make,” said Vespa. “It is for—”

“A likely story! There has been no tax paid on this, I think.” The sergeant seized the bottle and slid it into the pocket of his cloak. “It is my duty to impound it. You will tell me what the signoriny said.”

“My lady is most displeased with me I fear, sir,” moaned Vespa, massaging his battered arm. “I have not the very good Bretagne, but—”

“She says you have her papers,” snapped the sergeant. “You will now produce them!”

“Do so, you lazy, good-for-nothing blockhead,” screeched Consuela. “Do not dare to waste another minute of my time. Show this foolish man what he demands.
Vite, vite!
I shall then see that the duchess will write to his superior
and
to his General!”

The sergeant began to look uneasy. The crowd was losing patience; there were angry demands to be permitted to pass, and that he get done with this terrible-tempered foreign aristo lady. Vespa watched Consuela as if petrified with fear of her and stammered that he had been attacked and beaten on the road and all his papers stolen.

“What?”
shrilled Consuela, swinging up the umbrella once more. “
Imbecille!
Dolt! You allowed them to take my papers?”

Dodging the flailing umbrella, Vespa mumbled that there had been five armed men, and he all alone. Sympathetic protests arose from the onlookers, and the sergeant threw up a restraining hand. “This fellow he is bruised, as any fool can see. One might think you would have more compassion for him, Signoriny.
Voilà, qui est louche!
And me I do not like things that look suspicious. Corporal! These people you will escort to that barn over there and guard them until I can spare the time to properly question them.”

Obedient to the corporal's gestures, Manderville guided the chevalier's coach and pair into the barn. Vespa, and the still protesting Consuela, escorted by stern troopers with fixed bayonets, were made to follow and the doors were swung shut.

*   *   *

“It wasn't my fault, you bloodthirsty hedgebird!”

Outside, the corporal could be heard arguing with the angry farmer whose barn had been appropriated. Inside, Manderville threw up his coachman's whip to hold Vespa at bay, and dodged around a hay bale.

Consuela hung onto Vespa's coat-tails and cried, “Do not, Jack! Paige is right. It was that horrid female, and poor Paige—”

“‘Poor Paige' is going to eat some hay!” Infuriated, Vespa sprang forward, wrenched the whip away and unleashed his lethal uppercut.

Consuela squeaked and beat at his back furiously. “Oh! How savage you are, Captain John Wansdyke Vespa! That you would attack the good friend who rescued me from—”