Ask Me No Questions (38 page)

The valet's answer was wiped away by a screaming gust, and the two men clung together. Breathless, Stoneygate repeated, "He cannot… sir. There's a troop of… dragoons across the drive. They won't let anyone leave the estate."

Chandler stared at him blindly. Troopers! And he hadn't gone up to the tower yet! Damn Farrier! "Very well. Get to the farm. I'll go and swear at the military."

Stoneygate grinned and reeled off, his lantern soon swallowed up by the darkness.

Clenching his fist angrily, Chandler found that he still held the small box. The butler had said it was urgent. He went back to the lantern that miraculously was still shedding its bobbing circle of light. When he unwound the outer wrapper it was whipped from his hand. He dashed rain from his eyes and peered at the box. It looked battered, as if it had come a long way. He opened it carefully, grabbed the enclosed folded paper before the wind got it, and held it to the light. The message was printed: USUAL PLACE. TONIGHT. Baffled, he took out another crumpled piece of paper and unwrapped it. Something gleamed in his hand. His heart seemed to stop. He held a ring: a uniquely crafted golden dragon with rubies for eyes. Quentin's dragon ring!

For a moment he felt frozen. "You… madman!" he whispered. "You stupid, damned… looby!" He tossed the box aside and slipped the ring into his pocket, then started down the hill. The "usual place" meant the old light, of course. It had often been their meeting place. How the devil his brother had made land in this fierce storm was beyond comprehension and, Lord knows, he couldn't have picked a worse moment to pay a call. At any time it would be risking his life, for anyone wanted for High Treason could be summarily executed by any loyal citizen, unless caught by the military, in which case a far worse death would be meted out. But here he was, home again, with dragoons patrolling the drive and that repulsive and relentless Farrier sniffing about, fairly slavering for the chance to add more lives to his ghastly toll.

Chandler began to run, slipping on sodden grasses and skidding through wet mud that clung to his boots. The rain drove into his face, the gusts battered him as if bent on preventing the progress of this puny human creature. He flung up one arm as a vague mass hurtled at him, but the flying branch sent him sprawling. He dragged himself up again, driven by the need for haste and the gnawing fear that Farrier would get there first. He
must
be in time to warn Quentin! He must beat the troopers to—

He came to a jolting halt and stood panting, his eyes fixed disbelievingly on the vague outline of the lighthouse, while fear closed like an icy shroud about him. He thought, 'Oh, my dear God!' For from the top of that ancient and long-abandoned tower rose blazing tongues of flame that sent their silent warning far out to sea. The wreckers were at their devilish work again! He strained his eyes toward France and there came another horror, for it seemed that he had caught a glimpse of another light. A feeble gleam far out on the storm-tossed seas. A gleam that rocked and heaved then disappeared, only to blink forth again. There was a ship out there! And her captain would fancy himself five miles northeast and steer southwesterly where should be deeper water; instead of which he was drifting ever closer to the treacherous banks, and the rocks off Chandler Cove!

The light would bring the dragoons. And Farrier. And Quentin was down there, somewhere. Lord, what a mess!

He began to run again, reckless now, in a mad dash to reach the cliffs and his brother, and put that damnable fire out before it lured another great ship to destruction and death.

The long struggle to dig out the victims at the stables had taxed Chandler's strength more than he realized, and when at last the race to the cove ended and the tall tower loomed up before him, he half-fell against the door and leaned there for a minute, fighting for the breaths that seared his lungs.

There had been no sign of Quentin as yet, but his brother must be here somewhere. He dared not call, for fear that others might also be nearby. The door was unlocked. So Quentin was here. Or—someone was!

He swung the door open and then could not hold it, the gale tearing it from his grasp and slamming it against the outer wall. He had to fight to close it behind him. The round lower chamber was lit by a faint glow from high in the tower. Whoever was up there might have heard the door crash open. He crouched, waiting for a shout, or an attack, and wishing he had a pistol or was wearing his swordbelt. He heard only the fierce voices of the storm. If someone was still here, he might be on the roof, feeding more logs onto the fire.

Not for a month or two had he been in this room. There had been a clutter of old and no longer used furniture then, which he'd told Durwood to have cleared away. The steward appeared to have neglected his orders, as usual. But as Chandler began to creep through the gloom he realized that the dark shapes he discerned were not discards but neatly piled stores. He thought, 'What the devil… ?' and testing one of the boxes discovered it to be heavy. It dawned on him then, that these must be the missing boxes and crates Durwood had ordered but not paid for. There were bales, too. There was printing on the boxes, but by this light he was unable to distinguish the words. A direction, no doubt. Some little private matter of business between their rascally ex-steward and—whom? Whatever the answer, it must wait. For the moment his main task was to find Quentin and put that confounded fire out!

Every nerve alert, he made his way to the foot of the rough stair that wound around the walls. The march of years and the relentless hand of the elements had taken a heavy toll on this old tower. The steps had crumbled away in places, only occasional sections of the hand-rail remained, and there were long stretches with nothing between the edge of the stair and a long drop to the stone floor. He went up carefully, with his right hand on the outer wall, feeling the tower shudder to the gusts. The rain beat through cracks to leave the surface wet and slippery. When he was about forty feet up, his boot turned on an unseen chunk of masonry and he clutched the rail. It came away in his fingers. Off balance, he teetered at the edge desperately and gave a gasp of relief when he was able to lurch to the support of the wall. He breathed a swift but grateful prayer, but he kept the iron piece of hand-rail, just in case whoever awaited him was not his brother.

There were two rooms at the top of the tower; the lower for supplies and storage, the upper where the keeper had lived. The brazier on the roof was enclosed by heavy mullioned window-walls, large sections of which had been destroyed by gunfire and harsh weather. The dome above the brazier, which was a combination of rain-shield and large chimney, was mostly intact but this wind would drive rain through the broken panes, which would not make it easy to keep the fire ablaze.

It was a hundred feet to the first room; a hundred feet that seemed to contain a thousand steps. Up he climbed, and ever up, while the gale sent gust after gust pounding at the tower and howling through the cracks. From above came occasional piercing shrieks, which he knew to be made by the air rushing through the broken panes. Impatient, he pushed himself relentlessly, refusing to slow when his legs ached and his breath came hard and painfully.

He tightened his grip on his impromptu club, prepared for combat. Here came the floor, at last. Cautiously, he lifted his head above it The room was lit by a candle in a wall sconce fitted with a hurricane shade. There were no furnishings, nor any sight or sound of life. A brief pause to catch his breath, then he climbed on.

The glow from the upper room was brighter. A lull stilled the mighty voice of the wind, and through that brief oasis of quiet came evidence of a human presence. A man was whistling. And the tune he whistled was that old marching song called "Lillibulero."

Chandler's hand tightened on his club. Falcon had been right, then. This varmint was in league with Durwood, and had been lurking about the estate filling and storing those crates belowstairs. Readying them for collection! By God, but there would be an accounting tonight!

He had reached the top of the steps. His eyes raked the room. It was a stark chamber, but not so stark as he remembered. There was a large crate in the centre, used as a table evidently, whereon was set a basket apparently containing food, and a candelabrum with two lighted candles. There was also a half-empty bottle of what looked to be gin. On the far side of the room was a long pile of logs, and between logs and "table" was the ladder that led to the roof and the signal fire. A burly man was gathering an armful of logs. Chandler felt a surge of relief because it was not the lithe figure of his brother, but relief was supplanted by rage as the man straightened and glanced his way.

Durwood!

"You treacherous hound!" Weariness forgotten, Chandler raced across the room.

With a shout of alarm the ex-steward dropped the logs and made a grab for his pocket and the pistol that resided there, but Chandler was upon him. In his wrath he had forgotten his club, and it fell unheeded as he drove a sizzling right at Durwood's lantern jaw. The steward reeled back, snatched up a log, and hurled it. Chandler swayed aside. The log flew past and sent the candelabrum crashing to the floor. The candles went out and the room was illumined only by the flickering glow from the open trapdoor to the roof.

Chandler sprang in to ram home a left, but then was staggered by Durwood's muscular fist.

"Perishing… fool," gasped the steward. "We've been waiting—"

Chandler closed again and drove home a solid uppercut that shut off the vindictive words and sent Durwood slumping to the floor.

Panting, Chandler wiped blood from a split lip. Durwood had said "
we've
been waiting!" And Durwood wasn't the whistling man. He'd heard that rogue talking in the woods, and it had been a cultured voice. He leapt for the steward and wrenched the pistol from his pocket.

"Do—not!"

The shout cut through a great gust that made the tower sway.

Chandler's gaze shot to the ladder.

The man backing down sideways held the rungs with one hand. With the other he aimed a pistol. He was slight, with a thin intelligent face framed by windblown powdered hair. It was a face from his school days and, astonished, he exclaimed, "Poinier!"

The man on the ladder smiled mirthlessly. "You've a good memory, old boy. Step back."

Chandler said, "You're no traitor! At school you were—"

"At school I was an idealistic young fool." Henry Poinier held the pistol aimed steadily at Chandler's heart, and there was a grim set to his mouth that spoke of unwavering purpose.

Accepting that this acquaintance of his youth was indeed a smuggler, or worse, Chandler moved back. "You've maggots in your head," he said scornfully. "If your friends follow this light they'll never reach land safely, and your cargo—"

"Not mine, Gordon." Poinier stepped down and faced Chandler squarely. "Yours. And a second wreck that will be credited to your account. Another nail in the coffin, I'm afraid."

Chandler's hands clenched into tight fists. "So you're part of this unholy League of Jewelled Men, are you? Lord, what has happened to you? Does it not weigh with you that there may be women on that ship?"

"It does. Children too, unfortunately, for she's an East Indiaman out of Ceylon."

"An East Indiaman would be more like to drop anchor at Southampton."

"Ah, but destinations can be changed, and this vessel was—ah, diverted, you see. Ostensibly"—again the faint, cynical smile—"by the weather."

"Then your League is responsible for all the wrecks! You've agents who sabotage the charts or buy the officers, is that it? And you give not a tinker's damn for the lives of passengers and crew! My God! How can you be so pitiless? How many ships have you destroyed? How many innocent lives sacrificed to your greed and—"

"You would have a difficult time proving that, Chandler."

The voice came from behind him, and he whipped around to face Burton Farrier, wet and windblown, but with his eternal grin wider than usual, and his pale eyes glowing with triumph. "As hard a time," he went on, "as you will have trying to prove that the goods downstairs are not those you stole when you wrecked the
Empress of Calcutta
! But you look shocked. Did you not see her name stencilled on the crates? Every one was part of the cargo of that unhappy vessel—or so it will appear. My troopers are going to discover that undeniable proof of your crimes when they come. And I shall have caught you in the act of building the fire to draw another ship to her doom."

Shaken, Chandler said defiantly, "No one will believe it As if I'd be so stupid as to set the fire. It can be seen for miles and would bring the law down upon us before—"

"Do not take me for a fool, sir. The light can be seen for many miles, true. But many miles out to
sea
. Your estate is vast and there are hills inland and to the west also that block the light. It was for that very reason it was not rebuilt when—" Farrier stopped speaking as another gust hurled against the tower, causing it to sway and creak alarmingly. "Good God! Poinier, call Durwood down. He must go and signal my troop."

"He's already down." Poinier gave a disdainful gesture, and Farrier stepped around the table and scowled at the steward's sprawled form. Poinier added grudgingly, "Chandler always was handy with his fives."

"Much good it will do him. Is the fellow dead?"

"He's been heavy with the bottle and Chandler hit hard."

"Drunken imbecile! Well, since you allowed it, you will have to take his place. I left a burning brand in the bracket at the foot of the steps. Take it with you and wave it when you reach the first pathway. The troop will come at once."

"If the wind doesn't blow it out."

"Then
you
shall have to run and fetch them! And don't be too long about it. Your last assignment was not a great success and you've used up your quota of failure."

Poinier said sullenly, "My cousin Trethaway died in that curst fiasco. And despite all the Squire's cunning, Glendenning escaped the axe. Your own success rate slipped badly there, eh, dear friend?"