The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (12 page)

“I'll hit you, all right! By God, but I will! Host! Get me a doctor! You'll meet me for this, Adair!”

“Gladly. But the challenge is mine. You struck first, and—”

“Did the gent say
Adair?
” A beefy individual wearing a lurid purple neckerchief shoved back his chair so that it fell with a crash. “Hi, mates! This here must be that wicked devil of a left'nant-colonel what's gorn and ruined poor Miss Prior! And very likely murdered the little lady!”

“And what oughta bin put a end to afore this!” cried a very dark youth with a narrow pallid face.

Three other rough-looking men who were seated at the same table sprang to their feet, shouting their approval of these sentiments.

“Now—now!” wailed the proprietor desperately. “Not in the house, mates! Outside, if—”

“Outside it is!” roared the owner of the neckerchief. “We don't want no dirty woman-killers comin' here. They might buy their way free in Lun'on Town—but not in these parts! Ho, no! Come on, lads! Let's show this here nob what good country folks do with kidnapping rapists!”

More men were on their feet now, glaring at the “wicked colonel” and voicing their enthusiasm for justice so heartily that the windows rattled. Adair looked around that ring of hostile faces. Clearly, they were about to rush him. He stepped back, drew his duelling pistol, and aimed it steadily at the purple neckerchief.

The lusting charge halted.

“See that?” snarled his target. “A murdering varmint, right enough!”

“Go and fetch a doctor, damn your eyes,” howled Webber.

Ignoring him, the dark youth snatched up a chair. “He can only get one on us, mates.”

Adair smiled grimly. “Do you volunteer?”

He saw the youth's eyes shift. From behind him came a whisper of sound. He flung himself aside. A long cudgel whistled past his ear. He seized the arm that had wielded the weapon and tugged, and a tall ruffian was wrenched into the path of those who had again plunged to the attack.

All then was noise and confusion. A woman's voice called urgently, “This way, sir! Be quick now, do! Your horse is ready and waiting.”

It was no time for heroics. Adair ran through the door that the host's lady held open and then slammed behind him. He tugged out his purse and tossed some coins onto the counter. “My thanks, ma'am,” he called, and sprinted to where a scared-looking stable-boy held Toreador. The boy's eyes widened as Adair snatched the reins, mounted up even as the big grey was running, and was away at the gallop.

From the inn came shouts and wrathful curses. A small bloodthirsty crowd erupted through the front door. Someone fired a shot, but by then Adair was out of range. He had little fear of any other horse coming up with his superb dapple-grey, but even so, he knew his wisest course would be to leave the area and go back to Town. He swore softly. He had come so close to learning something of the elusive Walter Davis. Be damned if he'd give up so easily! If he were trapped again, he'd have no choice but to head for London; meanwhile, it was unlikely that the bullies behind him had the remotest idea of his next destination.

Having made up his mind, he continued to ride to the southwest, while trying to make sense of this latest imbroglio. He heard again the beefy fellow's roared threat to show what “country folks” do with kidnapping rapists. The lout had certainly not been describing himself, for both he and the dark youth had accents straight from the slums of the City. If they were Londoners they were probably Thorne Webber's hirelings, for it was stretching the bounds of credibility to suppose that Webber should have come into the Pilgrim Arms by chance. Besides, the leader of those bullies must have had prior knowledge of him, for he'd referred to him as a Lieutenant-Colonel, whereas most people simply addressed him as Colonel. On the other hand, for an instant it had seemed as if Webber had been surprised by the sudden and enthusiastic support he'd received.

More puzzling was how Webber had known he would be at the Pilgrim Arms on this particular day. He'd not known it himself until this morning, when Bill Oxshott had—Oxshott! A slippery rogue if ever there was one. Could Oxshott have been paid to send him to the Pilgrim Arms? Such a scheme must have required advance planning. Much as Webber loathed him, would he really have had him followed all this way and gone to such pains to set a potentially murderous trap? It did not seem very likely. Unless the man had some deeper motive for wanting him dead. Was it possible that Thorne Webber admired poor little Alice Prior, and had spirited her away to some secret love nest?

Adair smiled ruefully. “Toreador,” he said, “I think your master is grasping at straws and conjuring up some very melodramatic nonsense!”

But before he had gone another mile there came again his ominous warning voice and the strong sense that he was being watched.

He detoured, riding in a wide loop, but when he returned to the road he encountered only an exasperated riding master attempting to instruct a dozen or so young boys on the fine points of equestrianship. The master, a rather prim and dandy-ish type, rolled his eyes heavenward in long-suffering fashion as they passed. Adair grinned, then enchanted the bored youngsters by allowing Toreador to show off his imitation of a whirligig and render an equine bow before cantering on, followed by a chorus of whoops.

A quarter of an hour passed, and he still could not dismiss the sensation of eyes boring into his back. This time he rode in amongst some trees and stayed hidden for several minutes. Two farm waggons, a lumbering coach drawn by four fat horses, a donkey cart top-heavy with hay and sacks of grain, and a clergyman riding a sway-backed cart-horse passed by, none seemingly interested in those who had preceded them.

Adair rode on, prepared for trouble.

He came to the hamlet at last, just as Oxshott had described it, lying on the west side of a fast-flowing river. Toreador trod daintily through the thick mud and debris that had accumulated on the approach to a narrow and obviously ancient walled bridge. Beyond was a quaint collection of thatched cottages grouped about a green with snow still visible under clumps of gorse. The ring of hammer-blows guided Adair to the smithy. The blacksmith was massively built, smoke-blackened and good-natured. He apologized for not stopping work, and Adair's questions had to be sandwiched between the strokes of the hammer meeting red-hot iron. The smith remembered Walter Davis well. “A quarrelsome sort of cove,” he shouted. “But he knows hosses, does Wally. What's he bin and gone and done?”

Adair assured him that he knew of nothing to Davis's discredit save that he seemed to have disappeared. He repeated his untruth about the ‘small inheritance' and the smith was so impressed that, briefly, he abandoned his task. Saying he would “rack his brain-box,” he proceeded to seize his thick hair and jerk his head so violently from side to side that his eyes began to water. This startling performance ended in an admission of failure. He had been unable to shake loose any knowledge of where Wally Davis had lived prior to working for the late Mr. Rickett, and Davis had seldom spoken of his family. “I do know as he had a mum what took in washing from some castle,” he offered. “Wally said she were a fine hand with a iron and starch.”

“Can you recall the name or location of this castle?” Adair took out his purse. “I'd be most grateful.”

“Lor' bless yer, sir, ye don't need to pay me. I'd tell yer soon enough, if I knowed. Don't. You can go up to the great house yonder.” He gestured towards a nearby hill. “It belongs to a gent name of Haley now. But I reckon they won't know any more'n what I do. Most of 'em be Londoners. The only one as useter work fer Mr. Rickett, Gawd rest his clutch-fisted soul, would be Sammy Henshaw, and Sammy were just the bootblack in them days. Doubt if he ever spoke to Wally.”

Adair thanked him and turned Toreador back onto the lane.

There was some difficulty ahead. A very large Berliner coach had come to grief and leaned sideways, blocking the bridge. The red-faced coachman was striving—with the assistance of a scared footman and several amused onlookers—to back his team.

“Lord, what a silly block,” muttered Adair as he rode up.

A villager grinned at him. “It do be stuck fast, sir. A wheel went into a rut and the whole lot tilted over. Hi! Coachman! Do 'ee want a bootjack?”

Another wag yelled, “Some bacon grease, more like!”

There were hoots and laughter, and from inside the coach a feminine voice was raised in anger:

“Let me out at once, Peters! Did you not hear what I said, man?”

It was a familiar voice, and Adair realized suddenly that this was the same coach that had passed by while he'd waited in the trees to see who was following him.

The coachman moaned unhappily, “I heard you, milady. But open the door I cannot.”

“The coach is wedged 'gainst the wall, ma'am,” wailed the footman.

“Of all the ridiculous…” A younger female voice this, and a face appeared at the coach window. “Peters! Whatever were you thinking? We'll never come up with him at this—” Miss Cecily Hall cut off that annoyed and pointless remark and said, “You'd best send someone to fetch the blacksmith. He'll likely know what…”

Here, her glance falling upon Adair, she left a second sentence unfinished.

She seemed lovelier each time he saw her and was charmingly clad in a dove-grey cloak and hood that accentuated the clear blue-grey of her eyes. He was relieved to note that she looked well and showed no sign of having suffered an injury a few days ago.

Raising his hat, he said, “Come up with—whom, Miss Hall?”

Her colour was heightened. She stared at him speechlessly.

“Who is it? Who is it?” Lady Abigail Prior's angular countenance, framed by an enormous bonnet with three lofty black feathers, thrust its way to the window.

“Good day to you, ma'am,” said Adair, taking off his high-crowned hat once more.

“Oh, dear,” said her ladyship and vanished as the feathers caught against the top of the window, tilting the bonnet over her face. Fighting her way out of this embarrassment, she said rather breathlessly, “I think we're dished, Cecily.”

Amused, Adair said wickedly, “In more ways than one. Do you think it proper, Lady Prior, to allow your granddaughter to pursue me in this, er—rather brazen fashion?”

There were some stifled guffaws from the onlookers.

Miss Hall, her cheeks now scarlet, gasped, “
Braz-en?
Ooh! I would not pursue
you
to—to the river bank yonder!”

“Then how remarkable it is, ma'am, that I could have sworn your coach followed me from Newmarket to—”

“And we will keep on following you,” she said, recovering her breath but contradicting herself, “until you lead us to—” She glanced at the gawking and titillated spectators, and hesitated.

“Nor are we the only ones following you,” put in her ladyship.

“He knows that, Grandmama,” said Miss Hall. “Why else does he keep dodging about so?”

“Which being the case,” said Adair, replacing his hat at its customarily jaunty angle, “I must abandon you, dear ladies, and get on with my—er, dodging.”

Miss Hall nodded and said with a curl of her vivid lips, “Quite in character.”

The smile died from his eyes. He said in a lower voice, “You have, between you, contrived to destroy my character, ma'am.”

Not waiting for a response, he reined Toreador round and walked him away.

A farm-hand in smock and gaiters directed him to a spot where the river was shallow enough to be forded safely. Starting off, Adair was quite unable to resist a backward glance.

The pale winter sun had broken through the clouds. An artist, he thought, would have been delighted to paint the fiasco at the bridge. The coachman was attempting to respond to Lady Abigail, who was offering him a stream of shrill and conflicting instructions, which he relayed to the scared footman. The footman ran about looking ready to burst into tears, and the enormous coach was still hopelessly stuck, the four fat horses stamping about uneasily. Miss Hall's hood had fallen back and the sunlight awoke a bright sheen on her fair curls. It occurred to Adair that she was much more than pretty; she was, in fact, quite enchantingly beautiful. Watching her, he was startled to realize that he was staring like a besotted idiot.

He leaned forward and scanned the bridge, then called to the distraught footman.

In response to that authoritative hail, the footman ran to his side and gazed up at him as though he were in a tempestuous sea and had been thrown a lifeline.

“I gather that your ladies have been travelling for several days,” said Adair. “If they are like most females, you probably carry a considerable amount of luggage in the boot.”

“Nigh a ton, sir,” quavered the footman with a nervous glance to the Berliner. “And what to do now, I don't know for the life of me. Mr. Prior will be fit to be tied, sir! And Peters and me will be lucky if we're not turned off! But with the carriage leaning like it is and the wheel-hubs tight 'gainst the wall, it's just too heavy for the team to pull free.”

“I believe you. But this is a very old bridge. If you'll notice, the lower sides of the walls tend to slope inward. A very small lift of your wheels would bring them above the narrower space so that the hubs would clear the wall.”

The footman blinked. “Aye. But—but
we
cannot lift the coach, sir.”

“If you lighten it, the body will lift itself.”

“
Lighten
it? How, sir? We cannot get the ladies out, nor us get inside to—”

“Then climb over the roof, you silly block, and haul some of those portmanteaux from the boot!”

The footman's jaw dropped. “
Me,
sir?” He looked down in horror at his fine coat and satin knee-breeches. Cl-climb over…?”