When the Devil Drives (34 page)

‘Back from where?'

‘He didn't say.'

She was in a resentful mood and I felt like shaking her.

‘So what
did
he say?'

‘Only that I was to be sure not to go out at night. Wasn't likely I would, was it, on Halloween with the devils and ghosts about? They say there's a giant in the park with horns and blue lightning all round him. He comes out of a hollow tree and if you see him, you're dead.'

I remembered Windsor Park was supposed to have its own ghost in the shape of Herne the Hunter.

‘Then there was the devil's chariot, up and down the park all night, just like in London,' Tabby said.

‘How do you know that if you didn't go out?'

‘The girl that cleans the stairs told me. She knows someone who saw it, great flaming torches on the front of it, smelling of brimstone.'

‘It's an ordinary chariot, Tabby. You know that. We rode on the back of it.'

‘Yes, with a dead body inside it. The girl said it was probably carrying away the soul of the woman who got murdered yesterday.'

Sir Francis and his diplomat friends could spirit the contessa away into the barracks and silence the coroner, but gossip was stronger than all of them. And the chariot had been out and about in its diabolical role to make sure that gossip stayed at fever pitch. It looked as if the diplomatic illness of Prince Ernest would have to continue for some time.

The tea arrived. We drank it.

‘The landlord says there's been a man round looking for you,' Tabby said. ‘Dunn his name was.'

‘That's the man from the livery stables. What did he want?'

‘Dunno. Didn't see him myself.'

I was sure that Amos would have returned the grey mare to the stables at the first opportunity. This must be something else. I stood up and started putting on my damp cloak and bonnet.

‘I'll be back in about an hour.'

‘I'm coming with you,' Tabby said. ‘I've had enough being left on my own here.'

I helped her lace her boots because her injured wrist was still painful and we walked together to the stables. It was entirely dark now, still raining, and we slipped and slid in cart ruts. The stables seemed all in darkness, until we spotted a line of light under a door and the smell of frying bacon drifted out on the wet air. I knocked on the door and Jack Dunn's voice shouted to us to come in. He blinked and stood up when he saw us, mug of tea in one hand, hunk of bread in another.

‘Come in. I've been looking out for you all day.'

We walked into a snug cabin, not much larger than a horse's loose box. He had a fire going in the grate, a frying pan on the trivet over it. A chipped brown teapot stood on the hearth.

‘Sit yourself down.'

There was only one chair, chintz upholstered, that had seen better days but it looked so warm and comfortable that I collapsed into it. Tabby hunkered down by the fire.

‘Did Mr Legge bring your mare back yesterday?' I said.

‘Oh yes, he brought her back all right.'

‘Then?'

He took a gulp of tea, nodded towards the pot and gave me a questioning look. Tea and bad news went together.

‘No thank you. What happened after that?'

‘He bought a horse,' Dunn said.

‘Yesterday?'

Horse trading was second nature to Amos, but surely he'd had other things to think about.

‘The bay, the one you saw. Cash down and didn't even try to cheapen the asking price.'

Dunn sounded shocked by that and so was I. Haggling over a horse was only common politeness.

‘The race horse. Did he take it away with him?'

‘Rode it away just like that.'

‘Did he say where he was going?'

‘Not a word.'

‘And you haven't seen them since?'

I expected a ‘no' but he took another gulp of tea. ‘Saw the two of them this morning. Early, just after it got light. I was riding across the park to Windsor to pick up some bits and buckles. I was halfway down the Long Walk when I saw this file of cavalry soldiers, ten or twelve of them, going the same direction as me at a slow trot. Nothing peculiar about that of itself, you usually see cavalry out somewhere. Only there was something a bit out of the way about these. They were keeping on the far side of a row of trees and they had a chariot with them.'

I must have jumped at the word, because he looked at me and nodded.

‘Not usual for soldiers, is it? And they were going on the grass, not on the carriage drive, so the wheels were bumping and whoever was inside must have been getting a rough ride. Two dock-tailed cobs drawing it, an officer and four soldiers riding in front, the rest at the back. In between the chariot and the back lot of soldiers, there he was.'

‘Amos Legge?'

He nodded. ‘Mr Legge, on the bay he'd bought off me. The bay looked pretty well done-in, plastered with mud up the legs and on the belly, though still enough spirit left to be in a tearing bad temper. The cavalry horses were crowding him behind and he was rolling his eyes and showing his teeth, trying to whirl round and get at them. Still, Mr Legge was controlling him, even though he looked nearly tired enough to drop out of the saddle. And he didn't look any more pleased with the company of the cavalry men than they looked with him.'

‘Did you speak to him?'

‘Yes. I cantered up and fell in alongside him. He cheered up a bit when he saw who it was. “I was right,” he said to me. “He's no stayer, still he did the business in the end.” I was just asking him what they'd been doing when the officer rode back to us and said, “Don't talk to this man. He's under arrest.”'

I nearly fell out of the chair.

‘Amos under arrest. Why?'

‘That was what I asked him. The officer didn't like it. He was jigging up and down in the saddle, trying to interrupt. He was just out of the egg, pink face and whiskers like peach fluff, so we didn't pay much account to him. Mr Legge nodded towards the chariot and said, “I found it for them, and the three fellows I've got trussed up inside it, only they don't seem very grateful like.” So I said, what did he mean, found it? He said it was the devil's chariot they'd all been looking for and these gentlemen, meaning the cavalry, had got the wrong end of the stick and thought he was part of it all, but he supposed they'd get it fettled when they got to Windsor.'

‘Did he tell you anything else?'

‘He didn't have much chance. The officer was fair rattled at being made to look a fool in front of his men, so he tried to barge his horse between Mr Legge and me. Mr Legge slackened the rein just enough to give the bay the chance to writhe its neck round and nip the officer's horse on the shoulder. It squealed and reared up and the officer's helmet slipped down over his eyes. Mr Legge looked at me and grinned and I think for a minute it was in his mind to make a run for it. Only he knew the bay was too tuckered up for that. So he said to me to get word to Miss Lane at the Red Lion, but tell her not to worry. By then, the officer had got them sorted out and off they went.'

My head was sunk in my hands, the fire glowing red between my fingers. Anger with Amos for going off on his own turned quickly to panic. In spite of what I'd told him, he still hadn't realized the depths and dangers of what was happening. When I raised my head, Tabby was looking at me, her expression asking what we should do.

‘Do you think they've taken him to the barracks, or even into the castle?' I said.

‘Even if they have, not much you could do about it till morning.'

He was right. Hammering on barrack or castle doors in the dark would only get me arrested too. I tried to think.

‘What time does the London mail coach go through Egham?' With luck, I might get to London in the early hours. I'd call on poor Calloway's good services again, talk to Sir Francis Downton and make him give the order to release Amos. Dunn found a tattered timetable and started consulting it.

‘Don't know if they run differently on Fridays.'

Of course. This was a Friday night, so even if I could catch a mail coach, I'd arrive in London on Saturday morning. The merest child in the gutter knew that nobody of importance stayed in London over the weekend. The Foreign Secretary would be close to the centre of the crisis at Windsor and it was more than likely that his right-hand man (or more sinister left-hand man) Downton was there with him. I asked Dunn if he'd be kind enough to bring the mare round to the Red Lion first thing in the morning.

‘Not London, then?'

‘No, Windsor.'

Dunn wanted to see us back to the Red Lion, but I felt guilty at interrupting his supper and knew Tabby would want to talk. We started trudging back together through the mud.

‘What's Mr Legge done, then?'

‘Gone galloping after the devil and found him.'

He'd been determined to hunt them down and guessed that they'd be out and active on Halloween of all nights. That was why he'd needed a fast horse. I guessed that he'd waited in Windsor Park for the appearance of the chariot, then followed it back to its home. Not the White Lion this time. He'd scared them away from there. Then he'd found the chariot and some of its crew and dealt with it in the only way he knew – the direct way. I tried to explain this to Tabby.

‘So what was he doing with it when the soldiers arrested him?' she said.

‘Driving it to Windsor to hand over to the police, I suppose. Or even coming to show it to us at the Red Lion.'

‘They'll have to let him go. Won't they?'

The last two words were heavy with Tabby's instinctive distrust of authority.

‘I hope so.' But I didn't feel much more optimistic myself.

We ate supper in our room, beef stew. Once the maid had taken the plates away, we took off our wet clothes and put them to dry in front of the fire. The night was long, choked with the smell of damp wool. By daylight we were waiting in the stable yard of the inn. Dunn arrived soon afterwards on a cob, leading the mare. He offered to escort us across the park, but I said there was no need. We went at a walk, Tabby riding pillion. Our combined weight was no great burden for the mare. The day was dull, mist rising slowly. When we went past the hill of the Copper Horse, the great statue was no more than a darker blur against the greyness. No rangers there this morning, but even at this early hour a little group of people was strolling up the path towards it. I imagined the ladylike shudders, the walking canes pointing at stains that might be blood. Mr Clyde and his employers were still winning. At this rate, Prince Ernest's diplomatic ill-health would confine him to castles forever and Little Vicky would have to transfer her affections from his brother to some other pair of bright royal eyes.

I cursed the endless honeymoon tour of Mr Disraeli, who knew everybody. If Amos had simply been arrested by the police, I'd have made straight for a barrister and demanded a writ of
habeas corpus.
My radical father had thought highly of
habeas corpus
as one of the cornerstones of an Englishman's freedom, so my brother and I had learned about it practically along with our nursery rhymes. Soldiers were different. Their loyalty was to the sovereign, not the law. When we reached the town, I resisted the temptation to ride straight to the barracks and hammer on the doors. Instead, I found an inn in a side street that was willing to stable the mare, then paid a shilling for the use of a corner of a table in the parlour, along with notepaper, a scratchy pen and an inkwell. I wrote two notes, one to Sir Francis Downton saying I needed to see him urgently. I would wait outside the main gate of the castle, every hour on the hour, from midday until four o'clock. Even less hopefully, I addressed another to the foreign secretary, Lord Palmerston.

And, since I had no better plan, I added the line about waiting at the castle gate. Of course, I never expected the most important politician in the country to come down and meet me, but perhaps he might send some minion. I walked to the castle gate with my two letters and joined a queue. Tabby had offered to come with me, but given her habit of glaring at any figure of authority, I thought I was better without her. I gave her a shilling and told her to see what gossip she could pick up in the town.

There were about a dozen of us, standing on the cobbles by the gate lodge in the drizzle. At the head of the line, a one-legged soldier on crutches, a line of medals pinned to his faded greatcoat. After him, a plump woman with a grizzling child clinging to her skirts. Then a thin man with an enormous wolfhound on a lead and a Union Jack kerchief round its shaggy neck. They were all clutching letters. When it came to my turn, I handed in my two notes and tried to impress on the porter that they were genuinely urgent and important.

‘Don't you worry, miss. They all get read.'

But he said it in just the same patient tone he'd used to the petitioners in front of me. My hopes, not high in the first place, dwindled to nothing. Still, I did what I'd promised in the notes and came back to the gate lodge at midday, one o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock. In between times I walked in the park or around the streets, listening to what people were saying. They dropped their voices when they were talking about the devil's chariot or the woman's body found at the Copper Horse, but I caught snatches.

‘. . . throat ripped right out, like a wild beast . . .'

‘. . . don't want us to know, but my cousin's lad works at the castle and he says . . .'