The Tyrant (42 page)

“Are you feeling better?” she asked, searching his wan features anxiously.

“Better, but thwarted and most unheroical, alas,” he replied.

She said gravely, “You will never convince me of the latter, sir.”

A dark flush stained his beard-stubbled cheeks. He said with a rather forced laugh, “What? Though I failed you in the matter of the dragon?”

“It is small wonder you were so exhausted, Merry. At all events, it is as well we had to rest, else we might have blundered right into those wretched soldiers. I wish I might change the bandages on your arm, but—”

“Do not fret, ma'am. It is no trouble, I assure you.”

“Then why do you hold the wrist so?”

He released his hold hurriedly. “Is Sin coming back yet?”

“No. But I did see the troopers again. They are in the hollow over there”—she nodded to the northeast—“watching the road. One has dropped off to sleep, I think, for I could hear snoring, but the other two are smoking and grumbling.”

“They'll have something to grumble for if Fotheringay catches them lounging about when they're supposed to be watching for such evil conspirators as ourselves.”

She leaned closer to push back the hair that curled untidily on his brow, but he shrank away from her touch. She felt rebuffed and looked at him searchingly, but his eyes avoided hers. Stifling a sigh, she asked, “Merry, whatever are we to do? Even if we
could
get the cipher to Father Albritton, the Colonel suspects him now. It might well be that we would deliver his death-warrant.”

“I know. I've been thinking about it; not very successfully, I'm afraid. I don't think I'd shine at this rebel game.”

Phoebe lifted one hand cautioningly as she heard a soft rustling among the undergrowth. Sinclair came into the clearing looking tired and glum and declaring that it was impossible to get near the church without being seen. “Troopers everywhere, blast it all! What the devil are we to do?”

“Think,” said Carruthers.

They did.

“I've a grand notion,” exclaimed Phoebe. “Why don't I—”

“No!”

“But, Merry, I could say I'd come to see him to arrange our wedding, and—” She stopped in new anxiety.

Sinclair also had seen the white teeth clamp onto Carruthers's lower lip. “Bad, is it, Meredith?” he said sympathetically. “We must get him home, Phoebe.”

“For Lord's sake, stop maudling over me,” Carruthers snapped, glaring at him. “I shall—” and he paused, tilting his head to listen to the faint, musical sound that echoed distantly. “What the devil
is
that? I've been hearing it this half-hour and more.”

“What? Oh, it's the stonemason. He was working busily when I looked into his shop just now. See the little place just next to the graveyard? I hate to give up, but—”

“Stone … mason…” mused Carruthers. “How were you able to see into his shop?”

“The troopers all are on the other side, around the church. “Why?”

Excitement brought a glitter to the pale eyes. “At what is he working? Could you see?”

Mildly irritated by this irrelevancy, Sinclair shrugged, “Oh, an angel or some such thing. There were gravestones lying about as well. What matter?”

“Ah…” breathed Carruthers, throwing Phoebe a twinkling glance.

Sitting back on her heels, she stared at him, awed. “Merry—you would not dare!”

He grinned. “Sometimes, m'dear, 'tis the thing right under your nose that you do not see.”

*   *   *

“I doesn't see how I can be a-doin' of it, marm,” said Mr. Vardy.

The morning was scarcely begun, but it was already warm. The sun's heat was not responsible, however, for the plump little stonemason's distressful mopping of his round face. He eyed the young widow with increased alarm as her sobs became even more heart-rending. A pleasant little thing, he thought, for all that her face—what he could see of it—would have been the better for a wash. She wasn't common, though, for her country voice was soft when it wasn't weeping, and there had been no screeching at him when he'd told her he couldn't start work on her late husband's gravestone today. The skirt she wore looked good-enough quality, if a bit tore, but her shawl might have been cut from some old garment, and she held it so close that he couldn't see her hair at all.

“It ain't as I mean to be disobliging, marm,” he explained reasonably. “It's this here angel, d'ye see? I be late with it already, and—” He gave a yelp and recoiled as the widow emitted a heart-broken wail.

“I do have been savin' and savin', and working s'hard, sir,” she gulped. “I got the money now, as the man at church had said 'twould cost. I swore to my Sam on his deathbed as he'd have a marker over him 'fore his next birthday. And that be tomorrer, sir! I doan't ax as ye finish it. If ye could just get the words drawed on the stone, and if the vicar could say 'twas fitting, that'd please me—me darlin' Sam.” Her sobs increased in volume, and the good stonemason shrank as she reached out to him pleadingly.

How fortunate it was, thought Phoebe, that she had put on her black riding habit. How even more fortunate that Meredith had worn his black cloak, so that they'd been able, with the aid of Sin's pocket knife, to cut the lining into this makeshift shawl. And above all, how fortunate that this innocent little man's wife did not work with him in his dusty shop, for a woman would have seen at once the excellence of the material of her skirt, and guessed the value of the heavy silk from Merry's butchered cloak. “Could-couldn't ye …
please
…?” she begged.

“Oh, Lor',” groaned poor Mr. Vardy, so unnerved that he snatched off his scratch-wig and wiped the top of his head. “Whatcha say yer husband's name was, me dear?”

“Ch-Charters.”

He frowned. “Be blowed if I reckernize the name…”

“We're from Father Albritton's home parish,” explained Phoebe, well coached by Meredith. “Over by Ashdown Forest. But Sam often passed this way and he thought it so pretty he was fair set on being buried here. And the other clergyman said as 'twould be all right, and that Father Albritton, knowing Sam, would see everything was done proper.”

“Ar. Well then, that's likely why I didn't know the name,” said Mr. Vardy, adding with a reluctant sigh, “Let's see your words, missus.”

Eagerly, Phoebe thrust out the paper they had drawn up, and Vardy peered at it, mouthed out the words silently, and pursed up his lips. “Oh, sir,” she babbled, “I'd be s'grateful! Sam's officer writ that out, and Sam allus liked it, he did. I—I let him down something drefful, not havin' his marker up 'fore this. But—I does all the washin' I can take in, and what with the preserves I bottles, and all the little ones—seven I got, sir … and…” she sobbed heart-rendingly.

And the end of it was, of course, that following a few more feeble and rejected suggestions, the beleaguered stonemason accepted the widow's carefully hoarded coins, promised to “get right at it,” and was overwhelmed when she snatched up his grimy hand, pressed a kiss on it, and went, weeping, from his life.

“Bless me soul!” he gasped, lifting the marker she had chosen. “Fancy that, now! Poor little dear!”

*   *   *

In the dimness of the ancient Church of St. John, in the equally ancient village called Wilmington West, an intrusive ray of sunlight awakening his fair head to a gleam of gold, Father Charles Albritton rested a calm blue gaze on his visitor. “I cannot think of what you suspect me, Colonel,” he murmured, “but may I tell my housekeeper to set a cover for you?”

The afternoon had grown warm and sultry. Fotheringay was hot in his uniform and harbouring a suspicion that doddlish old fool of a villager had hornswoggled him. “I think I have not accused you, Reverend,” he grunted. “But I know you priests are always ready to help the underdog, no matter how well justified his chastisement.”

Albritton said in his gentle voice, “Our first and greatest Teacher left us an example of mercy.”

“If all men were merciful to criminals, Father, this world would contain more thieves and murderers than honest citizens!”

“Then it is a thief or a murderer you suspect me of concealing?” A smile hovering about his mouth, the young priest said, “I do assure you, sir—”

Fotheringay left the frayed leather chair and stamped over to the window of the small office. Looking outside, he interpolated, “I have not said I suspect you of concealing anyone.”

“You have had me stripped and searched. You have kept me a virtual prisoner in my own church since yesterday afternoon. One must assume—”

“Who's this fellow?”

Albritton unwound his tall figure from the wooden settle and stood to face the man who waited, hat in hand, at the open door. “Good afternoon, Vardy. Never say the angel is completed?”

With an uneasy glance to the glowering officer, the villager replied, “I put it aside early 's mornin', sir. Account o' the widder were s'anxious to get the stone on Mr. S. Charters.”

Perplexed, Albritton stared at him. He knew no one recently deceased by the name of S. Charters. In fact, the only S. Charters he could remember was that awful Professor Samuel Charters, who'd taught classical Greek at Eton, and— He fought to conceal an instinctive start. Charters was inextricably linked in his mind with Tio Glendenning and Merry Carruthers, both of whom had run so hopelessly afoul of the professor's horrid temper in the matter of the piglet. ‘Tio!' he thought, his breath catching in his throat. And, very conscious of Mariner Fotheringay's disgruntled presence at his elbow, he said, “Poor woman. Better late than never, I suppose.”

“Aye. Wants you t'be sure 'tis all right, she does. Could ye come, sir?” Plump and perspiring, he wiped his face with a hideous red-and-purple kerchief.

Fotheringay rasped tartly, “I am talking with Father Albritton.”

“Ar. I see that. Thing is—”

“I'd better go,” said Albritton. “Is the lady still here, Vardy?”

“No, sir. An' glad o' it I be. Weeping something drefful. And one thing I cannot abide is a drippy female. I'd like to know which grave it is, sir. One o' they unmarked ones by the hedge—eh?”

“Yes, I believe so. You will excuse me, Colonel?”

“Come with you,” said Fotheringay. “Matter of fact, I'd like to drop in at your shop, Vardy. I've been considering a monument for my late uncle's grave. Like to have a look at your angel.”

Vardy's heartbeat quickened. So did Albritton's, only for a very different reason. He managed somehow to preserve his demeanour, and they all went out into the warm afternoon sunshine.

*   *   *

From a certain quiet little clearing on the side of the hill above the village, three pairs of red-rimmed eyes watched the church.

“Why the deuce did it take him so blasted long to go over there?” Sinclair muttered fretfully.

“Could he have completed it?” asked Phoebe. “I told him to be sure to bring Father Albritton out to see it when he'd roughed it in.”

“I wonder it didn't occur to him to ask Albritton to look at the parchment before he started work on the stone,” said Carruthers. “We'd have been properly in the soup.”

Phoebe said, “Oh, he did suggest that. I told him it was what my dear Sam had wanted, and I really hoped that once Father Albritton saw it already on the stone, he'd not object.”

Carruthers chuckled. “Clever girl! He's certainly been chipping away for hours, and I fancy he has to work with—”

“Here they come!” cried Sinclair. “Oh! Egad! That damnable Mariner Fotheringay's with them!”

Phoebe gave a moan of apprehension, and Carruthers muttered, “I pray I've not ruined the entire business. It was all I could think of.”

“Damn sight more than I could've thought of,” said Sinclair loyally.

“You
did
tell him to include the number?” asked Carruthers. “Lance said that was vital.”

Phoebe nodded, nerves tight as the three small distant figures walked into the cluttered yard of the stonemason's shop.

“Charles,” sighed Carruthers, “I hope your friend God has His hand over you this afternoon—or your friend Carruthers may have laid that fine head of yours on a very bloody block!”

*   *   *

“It ain't easy to work with stone,” Mr. Vardy was saying as he led the way into his dusty little shed. “And the lady being so fussy … But, there. Saved up all her pennies, poor creature. I shouldn't grumble. She said as you'd remember her husband from your home parish, Father, and—”

“So this is your angel!” Fotheringay paused to admire the large and grieving figure by the entrance. “Impressive. How much d'you get for something like this?”

Brightening, Mr. Vardy left the silent clergyman and hurried to offer Colonel Fotheringay a bargain rate.

The wrangling voices faded, and Albritton stood motionless, staring at the small stone slab on which had been carefully etched:

SAMUEL CHARTERS
III

Odd, how gently they come home,

Wooing peace once more.

Riding off they were not so.

Is it ever thus with war?

Frequently, it seems mankind

Terrifies or trembles.

“Robber!” exclaimed Fotheringay wrathfully, stamping away from the protesting Vardy. Fifty sovereigns, indeed! Never heard of such a thing!”

The clergyman turned to him at once. “Oh, I don't know, Colonel. It requires a lot of skill, you know.”

“What about
that
?” demanded the Colonel, throwing a contemptuous gesture at the small stone plaque.

“Why, that do be a simple job, sir,” explained Vardy. “Only two pun' ten. Course, it ain't hardly started yet, as you can see. What d'ye think, Father?”