The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (21 page)

Adair shaved and dressed hurriedly, then made his way to the back stairs. He heard voices as he approached his uncle's study. Briefly, he hesitated outside the door, then went into the adjoining book room. Uncle Willoughby could have no objection to his hearing what the constable had to report, but if his presence would prove an embarrassment, he'd stay out of sight. The connecting door to the study was partly open and he heard the constable ask for descriptions of the culprits. These details having been rather sketchily provided, the minion of the law was advised that the intruders had been a group of gypsies intent on robbery.

“They were after my ah, sister's jewels,” declared Mr. Chatteris. “And—and the silver, of course.”

“Oh, I 'spect you're right, sir,” said the constable's slow and solemn voice. “Only—I can't quite make out what they was doing in this here room, if they was after valuables. You'd think they'd of gone straight upstairs for the lady's jewels, or into the dining room for your silver.”

Adair smiled mirthlessly. It would appear that the constable's wits were faster than his words.

“Well,—er, they did start—ah, into the dining room,” said Mr. Chatteris. “But—but then I came—er, into the corridor and—ah, they realized I was the master of this house, so they forced me in here, and demanded I—er, open the safe.”

‘Safe?' thought Adair. ‘What safe?'

“Ah,” said the constable. “But I heard as they was tearing everything out of this here desk, sir, which makes me wonder what—”

“Who told you that?” interrupted Mr. Chatteris, his voice becoming strident. “You surely cannot rely on the—ah, the word of the servants! And if my neph——I mean my niece has spoken to you—well, you know how the—ah, the ladies react to any emergency. Fly off into—er, hysterics, or the—ah, the vapours.” His laugh was short and strained. “Not reliable as—ah, as witnesses.”

Recalling how bravely Minerva had risen to the occasion, Adair frowned.

The constable said mildly, “Then—you're saying as they
wasn't
in this room, sir? I thought p'raps your safe was—”

“I haven't got a safe,” exclaimed Mr. Chatteris testily. “But they—ah, obviously thought I had. Now, I've told you all I know of the evil creatures, and I've more—ah, to do than spend the—er, day going over it all again, so you must—must go away now.”

“Right you are,” said the constable. “Jest one more thing, sir, then I'll have to talk with the gents what come to help and—”

“What
gents?
Now what are you babbling at?”

“Why, I'd understood, sir, as two young gents come in and—as you might say, saved the day. Friends of your nephew, I think?”

“Oh. Er—well, yes, I'll—ah, send for them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chatteris. And if I could just have a list of what were took…”

“Took? Oh. Some silver, I believe, and—er, well, my housekeeper can give you the—ah, details. Good day, Constable.”

The study door opened. A maid said, “Yes, sir?”

“Please take the—er, constable to Mrs. Sylvan. Oh, and send Mr. Randall to me at once. We must see about—er, installing stronger bolts on the doors.”

Adair waited until the departing footsteps were a safe distance away, then pushed the door wider. His uncle was kneeling on the floor, dragging a cardboard box from under the desk. Climbing to his feet, he pulled a thick sheaf of papers from the box and began to leaf through them as though in a frenzy of anxiety.

‘His confounded Lists,' thought Adair. As he stepped into the study, the door to the corridor opened and the butler entered.

“You wished to speak to me, sir?”

The Lists were whipped back into the box.

“Yes,” said Mr. Chatteris. “Someone told that fool of a constable that—ah, that Mr. Broderick and Mr. Manderville came and—er, helped us last—last evening.”

“I don't know who did so, sir. But the constable has asked to see the two gentlemen, and—”

“I want you to hurry up the back stairs and—ah, warn them not to mention my nephew. If the constable knows that—er, the Colonel is here—” At this point Chatteris caught sight of Adair. Every trace of colour vanished from his cheeks, his jaw dropped, and stark horror came into his eyes. “How—long—” he croaked, then, recovering himself, said, “Go, Randall! Quickly!”

The butler hurried out.

Mr. Chatteris remained standing, staring at his nephew with that same expression that put Adair in mind of a trapped animal. He moistened his lips and repeated hoarsely, “How long were—were you there, Hastings?”

“Long enough to hear you fob off the constable with a lot of fustian.”

Mr. Chatteris sat down abruptly.

Alarmed by his pallor, Adair said, “Uncle, I've no wish to distress you, but—”

“No wish to distress me?” Willoughby's pale eyes suddenly darted rage. “Am I not to—er, to be distressed when—when my own
nephew
skulks and pries, and listens like any shameful spy to what I say or do in this—this private room?”

Standing very straight, Adair said, “I'll not apologize, sir. I kept out of sight, as you asked, but you know as well as I that those bullies last night were not gypsies and that they made off with no jewels or silver.”

Leaping up once more, Mr. Chatteris shouted, “Do you dare call me a liar, sir?”

His own voice quiet but stern, Adair said, “They came here for one purpose only. To take your famous Lists. Why, Uncle?” He stepped closer. “What in the name of heaven is so vital as to—”

“Stay back!” Willoughby's voice rose to a near scream. He wrenched the drawer open and tore out a small pistol. “Another step, and—so help me, I'll fire!”

For a moment that seemed an eternity the two men faced each other in silence. The pistol trembled in Willoughby's hand, his features were flushed and distorted with wrath. Outwardly cool, Adair was astonished by a phenomenon he'd encountered in the past but never expected to find here: a weak man transformed into a veritable tiger when backed into a corner.

He said, “Come now, Uncle. I cannot believe you mean that.”

“Go!”
snarled Mr. Chatteris, gesturing to the door with his pistol. “Leave this house! At
once,
do you hear?”

“I do. Forgive me if I must disobey. Please try to understand. My life is in a shambles, my honour is in the dust, my career ended. Is it so much to ask that you—”

“What—for the love of God, have
I
to—er, to do with your disgrace?
Nothing!
You invade my home, bringing your troubles with you, endangering my—my niece and my—er, servants! Sticking your—your proud Adair nose into personal matters that have nothing whatsoever to do with you! How
dare
you, sir! How
dare
you!”

“I dare, Uncle, because in some way that I don't yet understand, those sacrosanct Lists of yours appear to be connected with my ‘troubles,' as you call them!” Adair stepped closer, and leaning forward, placed one hand on the desk. The pistol, which had begun to sag, whipped up again. His uncle's eyes narrowed to a fanatical gleam. Knowing that he had seldom stood in greater peril, Adair said, “If you're going to shoot me, sir, you had best do so, for I mean to find out why a man who attacked me in Bedfordshire was with these same bravos who forced their way in here last night.”

Mr. Chatteris looked taken aback, then he exclaimed, “Rubbish! You're likely mistaken. Grasping at—ah, at straws!”

“I grasped his hood certainly, and tore it off. I am not mistaken. It was the same fellow.”

“Then he's probably a soldier of—er, of fortune. Willing to attack anyone and—and go anywhere if the reward is—er, sufficient.”

“Is it not stretching the bounds of credibility a touch far, sir, that the ‘reward' should bring him here?”

“It would stretch credibility farther to—to suppose that my private—ah, hobby, could have any connection with
your
murky business!”

“And what of your connection, Uncle, with the Nunnery of the Blessed Spirit?”

It was really no more than a shot in the dark, but the effect on Mr. Chatteris was devastating. The pistol appeared suddenly too heavy for him to hold. White to the lips, he lowered it to the desk and gasped, “I—I never heard of—of such a place.”

“And yet, sir, you appear in a carving in that nunnery. An exceptionally fine depiction of the Crucifixion. You
are
Saint John—no?”

“You're mad…! Your poor mind has—er, has cracked. You don't know—ah, what you're saying!”

“I know that you are in some fashion involved with that nunnery, sir. And with the Mother Superior—who is also, I suspect, a French emigré!”

“A
spy?
” Clinging to the desk with both hands, Mr. Chatteris screeched, “Is
that
what you now imply? Oh—what
wickedness!
That my—my own flesh and blood would
dare
to—to stand here in
my
house and accuse me of
treason!
I cannot—I cannot…” He seemed to shrink suddenly; his voice broke, and he bowed forward, putting a hand across his eyes.

Adair ran to throw an arm about him and lower him into the chair. “Oh, Lord! Sir—I am so sorry, but I hoped you would have some simple expla——”

“Uncle!” Minerva came into the room and flew to Willoughby, who at once clung to her, mumbling pleas that she send Hastings away.

“What have you done to him?” she demanded, frowning at Adair. “Surely you can see that he is in no condition to be further upset.”

“It's his Lists, Minna. For some reason they're at the heart of all this. I
must
know what—”

“Go
away!
” wailed Chatteris, his voice thready. “Minna—dearest child—make—make him go away!”

Adair threw up a hand as Minerva turned to him. “I'm going—I'm going. But—please try to make him tell you why—”

His uncle moaned pathetically.

With her arms tight clasped about him, Minerva said coldly, “Your friends are waiting for you in the morning room, Cousin. It would be best, I think, were you to leave us now.”

Adair bowed, and left them.

11

“I cannot force the old fellow to show me his confounded Lists,” muttered Adair, trying unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position in a morning-room armchair. “And be damned if I can think of him as doing anything really havey-cavey. He may have got himself into some sort of devil's brew, but he's not a bad man.”

Manderville sprawled on the sofa, settled his boots on the fender of the hearth, and pursed his lips but said nothing.

Half-sitting against the end of the sofa, Toby Broderick remarked that Hasty's reaction could be ascribed to familial instincts. “Agrippina likely thought the same,” he said. “And paid with her life. Not that I mean to imply your uncle has any murderous tendencies, but—”

“Who?” interrupted Manderville rudely.

“Agrippina. Nero's mother. Of course, he wasn't directly involved with her murder. That was the result of Poppaea Sabina's conniving, and it is said that—”

“How in the name of all that's wonderful did ancient Rome slither into this discussion?” demanded Manderville, irked. “That silly apothecary who mauled us about this morning must not have looked closely at your brain-box or he'd have taken you away under restraint! Do, for once, try to stick to the subject.”

“The improvement of your mind is my most taxing subject,” said Broderick grandly, and grinning at Manderville's lewd response, added, “It rather sounds as though you are
persona non grata,
Hasty.”

“I expect we all are,” agreed Manderville, still scowling at him. “But at least we won our little war and—”

“We won a battle,” said Broderick. “But I rather fancy the war is not yet won.”

“Don't listen to this gloom-monger,” urged Manderville. “Whatever he says, last night we were the victors!”

“Thanks to you two intrepid warriors charging to the rescue in the nick of time,” said Adair.

“And to Miss Minerva's hounds,” said Broderick laughingly.

Manderville said, “Right-oh! We'll be known henceforth as the Canine Corps. Yours to command, Hasty!”

It was all very light-hearted, but scanning them Adair saw that Paige had a puffy and discoloured lip and had arranged his thick locks to conceal the ugly graze on his forehead. Toby had dislocated his wrist, and although the injury had been put to rights, it was swollen, and he also limped slightly, the result of a kick administered by one of the ruffians. “My ‘command' looks sadly mangled,” he commented.

“Look to yourself,” protested Manderville. “You can scarce walk straight. That fool of an apothecary didn't get the chance to practice his alleged skills on you, I collect?”

“I wasn't supposed to be here. No more were you, actually. Which reminds me: Why
did
you come?”

Manderville sat upright. “Dashed if I didn't forget all about it. You'll have to go back to Town, Hasty.”

“It's that silly fellow, Webber,” said Broderick. “Spreading it about the clubs that you're hiding from him.”

“Oh, egad! I'm supposed to meet him. Of all times!” Adair flexed his swollen right hand experimentally. “I'll be able to hold a pistol in a day or two, I don't doubt.”

His friends exchanged a quick glance.

“Well?” he enquired.

Manderville pointed out, “You don't have choice of weapons, dear boy. Webber claims you challenged.”

“He's right, by George! I did.”

“Besides,” said Broderick, looking grave. “He knows you're a crack shot.”