Elizabeth Thornton (18 page)

Hugh Templar had a lot to answer for. Had it not been for him, he would have captured the woman, and even now could be questioning her.

The bore was speaking again. “You’re a military man, too, are you not?” He nodded sagely. “I can always spot a military man.”

Maitland let out a long sigh, placed both hands on the flat of the table, and leaned toward the older man. “Two can play at this game, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Compton,” said Maitland pleasantly, “does your wife know that you are traveling with a young woman half your age?”

Compton went white around the mouth. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I thought not.” At last he’d caught the eye of a waiter. He waved him over, then turned back to his companion. “The young woman near the door who keeps looking our way? Serving girl, is she? No, on second thoughts, I’d say from her dress that she’s a cut above
that. Maybe your wife’s maid? You know, you’re not fooling anyone by sitting at separate tables.”

All the color drained out of Compton’s face. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.

There was no humor in Maitland’s smile. He spoke in a theatrical whisper. “If I told you my name, Mr. Compton, I’d have to kill you.”

He paid his bill, smiled pleasantly at Compton, tipped his hat to Compton’s pretty young traveling companion, then sauntered outside.

Nothing much was happening in the courtyard. A few stableboys were having a snowball fight. It had stopped snowing. Now if only they could get underway, they might catch up with Templar and the woman when they were least expecting it.

He looked at his watch. It would soon be midnight. Middler and Leigh should have returned by now, unless they’d lost their way. He wouldn’t put it past them. They were still wet behind the ears and didn’t know their elbows from their arses. He didn’t know what the service was coming to.

He stood for some time lost in thought, then returned to the inn and made his way upstairs to his room. When he inserted the key in the lock and turned it, he realized the door was unlocked. He set down his candle, reached in his pocket for his pistol, then burst into the room.

Hugh Templar looked up from the table he was stooped over. One arm was in a sling, and in his free hand he held a bottle of brandy. “Ah, Maitland,” he said. “What kept you?” He raised the brandy bottle. “I was looking for whiskey, but this seems to be all you’ve got. I’ve just poured myself a drink. Shall I pour one for you?”

Maitland kept his pistol trained on Hugh and shut the door with his foot. His eyes flicked around the room, but there was no one else there and no place for anyone to hide. Reaching back with one hand, he locked the door and pocketed the key.

“Where’s Harper?” he asked.

“You forgot to look under the bed,” said Hugh.

Maitland ignored the taunt. “I’m not in the mood for games. Put that bottle down, Templar, then sit down, and don’t make any sudden move or it could be your last.”

Hugh put the bottle on the table, picked up his glass, and carefully sank into a chair. “Careful with that pistol. I’m not armed, so there’s no need to point it at me. As for Harper, he’s been delayed. I left him tying up two of your men in the coal cellar. When he gets here, he’s going to keep watch outside the door. But once you and I have our little tête-à-tête, he can join us if you like, and we can all reminisce about old times.”

Maitland took the few steps to bring him to a tall mahogany dresser. He propped his shoulder against it, then cradled his pistol in the crook of one arm. “Where is the woman?” he asked.

“In a safe place. She was sleeping when I left her.”

Maitland smiled. “You do know how to pick them, don’t you, Templar?”

Hugh was silent for a moment. When he spoke, he said simply, “I want to talk to Langley.”

“And tell him what? You’ll never talk your way out of this one.”

Hugh took a healthy swallow of brandy. “Where is Langley?”

“In London, hanging out with all his old cronies now that he’s practically retired.”

Hugh snorted. “So that’s why you’re in charge.”

Maitland leveled his pistol. “I could put a bullet in your brain right now, and claim it was self-defense.”

“Not you, Dickie boy,” replied Hugh. “You would never do anything to put a blot on your record. That’s the difference between us. I don’t give a damn, and you’ve got your eye fixed on … what exactly is your eye fixed on? Langley’s job?”

“So you admit that you killed Alex Ballard?”

Hugh frowned. “What in hell’s name are you talking about?”

“Ballard. He’s dead. Don’t pretend you didn’t know, because it won’t wash.”

Maitland went on speaking, but Hugh didn’t hear him. His mind seemed to crack wide open, then slowly come together again. “What do you mean, he’s dead?” he suddenly burst out, cutting Maitland off in midsentence. “I spoke to Alex a few nights ago. His wife is about to have a baby. He’d taken her down to Wells to be with her mother. He can’t be dead.”

“You sound very convincing, I’ll give you that.”

“Listen to me! I don’t know what’s happening. Why do you think I’m here? Not for the pleasure of your company. Talk to me, Maitland. Tell me what this is about. Maybe I can help you. Maybe the two of us can work together.”

Maitland stood unmoving, like a man who had come to a fork in the road and didn’t know which way to go. Finally, he put his pistol in his pocket, moved to the table where he poured himself a glass of brandy, then sat down on the chair facing Hugh’s.

He said, “We found Ballard’s body yesterday morning in the Castle Inn, when we went looking for Miss Vayle. He was on the floor of her bedchamber. His skull was
crushed. There was a brass candlestick on the floor beside the body.”

Hugh stared at the other man without seeing him. He was seeing Alex Ballard’s face, hearing Ballard’s voice.
Remember you have a poor record with women. Remember to watch your back
.

“Where is Miss Vayle?” asked Maitland softly.

The fog in Hugh’s brain cleared. “You can’t believe that she had anything to do with this!”

“I do believe it. In fact, I’m sure of it. And until a moment ago, I thought you were protecting her. Maybe I’ve misjudged you.”

Hugh said angrily, “It’s Miss Vayle you’ve misjudged. Somebody, somewhere, has his facts mixed up. Who put you on to her?”

“She did.” Maitland took a long gulp of brandy, then another, and said, “We didn’t approach her. She approached us.”

“Abbie did?” Hugh sounded incredulous.

“Several weeks ago, she sent a letter to Mr. Michael Lovatt of the British embassy in Paris, care of Whitehall. The letter sat on some insignificant clerk’s desk until he finally got around to sending it on. The Paris people know of Michael Lovatt and sent Lovatt’s letter back to London, but addressed to me. So you see, there was a delay in getting the letter, a delay in getting started.”

“ ‘Michael Lovatt’ is one of your aliases?”

“It’s a code name my Paris agents used whenever they wanted to communicate with me—but that was before I was recalled to London.”

Hugh sat on the edge of his chair, carefully sifting every word as Maitland reviewed the sequence of events. His cell in Paris, Maitland said, had been wiped out, but no one knew why. They were on to something, but he
didn’t have a clue what it was. No one at the foreign office took his agents’ deaths seriously, assuming that old scores were being paid off now that the war was over. Only Alex Ballard had shown any sympathy. But there was nothing to go on … not until Abigail Vayle wrote that letter to Michael Lovatt, offering a trade.

“I can’t remember exactly what was in her letter,” Maitland said. “She was too clever to come right out and demand money.”

“Then what did she offer to trade?”

“She said she would return Michael Lovatt’s copy of the
Iliad
if he would help her out of her difficulties. She knew the book was priceless because it was a gift from his wife, Colette.”

“Colette was one of your agents?”

“Yes. And that’s how she passed on messages—with a book. The day she died, she had an appointment with an embassy official in a bookshop in the rue de Rivoli, but she never turned up. Whatever those agents died for … it’s in that book. You can bet on it.”

When Hugh shook his head, Maitland said roughly, “Good God, man, Colette was murdered the day before you and Miss Vayle left Paris!”

“That doesn’t prove anything!”

Maitland laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. “What will it take to convince you?”

“A hell of a lot more than that!” Hugh considered for a moment or two, then said, “Tell me about Ballard’s murder.”

“I don’t know what happened. I didn’t know he was down here until I went looking for Miss Vayle and found his body in her room. I thought I was in charge of this case. They were my agents who were eliminated, for God’s
sake! I should have known Langley would send someone to make sure that I didn’t step on anyone’s toes.” Another unpleasant smile. “Do you know what Langley’s parting words to me were?” He mimicked the words. “ ‘Tread carefully, Richard. Miss Vayle is a close friend of Hugh Templar. This may be a colossal misunderstanding.’ A misunderstanding!” he said violently, and as more emotion crept into his voice, his accent became less cultured, betraying his origins. “We’ve become soft! Well, Langley won’t be soft when he hears that one of his blue-eyed boys has been murdered.”

“It’s ridiculous to think that Miss Vayle murdered him! Even if she tried to, Ballard was a trained agent—he would have easily overpowered her.”

“Obviously she had an accomplice. A man with the strength to inflict the blow to Ballard’s skull.”

“Or it happened after she left.”

“In that case the body would have been warm, and it was stone cold.”

Hugh drained his glass and set it aside. His thoughts were running off in every direction. He knew Abbie was in some kind of trouble; he knew she was nervous about something. But he also knew she was innocent.

Maitland abruptly stood up. After topping up his own glass, he offered the bottle to Hugh, but Hugh shook his head.

“We were only a few hours behind you.” Maitland took his seat again. “I mean, after we left Bath. I thought I would catch up with Miss Vayle on the road. I didn’t expect you to be with her.” He leaned forward in his chair and his eyes locked on Hugh’s. “Where is she, Templar? Give me five minutes alone with her, and she’ll tell me everything.”

Hugh’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How is that going to help you find the book? If she’s guilty, and you threaten her, she’ll get rid of it.”

“It’s gone beyond that now. She murdered Ballard.”

“I know her!” Hugh bit out. “She couldn’t murder anyone.”

Maitland made a slashing motion with one hand. “You’re thinking with your balls! Try thinking with your brain. It’s in your interest to cooperate with me. You’re not in the clear yet.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Am I? Fact: You and Miss Vayle were both in Paris when two of my agents were murdered. Fact: You and Miss Vayle are traveling together and Ballard’s body is discovered in her room. Fact: In the courtyard of this very inn, when I asked you to give yourselves up, you defied me and tried to run down my men.”

“Fact—” retorted Hugh, almost snarling the word—“I’d just been attacked by footpads, Why do you think my arm is in a sling? When you ordered us to surrender and trained your guns on us, we didn’t know what to think. Fact: I’m here now, aren’t I? Would I have come back to confront you if I had something to hide?”

“Footpads? You expect me to believe that?”

“They were right under your shagging nose. Are you blind as well as irrational? Look,” said Hugh, “supposing Miss Vayle has this book, why would she murder Ballard? Wouldn’t she hand it over to him? Isn’t that what she wanted to do? Isn’t that why she wrote that letter?”

“We were too slow off the mark. I think she’s sold it to our enemies or is trying to sell it. She said in her letter that she would.” Maitland’s words were slurred.

There was a moment of silence, then Hugh said slowly,
“Listen to me, Maitland. This
has
been a colossal misunderstanding. Miss Vayle buys and sells books. It’s a sort of hobby with her. Maitland!” He raised his voice. “
Maitland!
Don’t go to sleep on me now! Not yet!”

Cursing violently, Hugh rose and crossed to the other man. Maitland’s eyes were closed, and his head lolled against the back of his chair. Hugh removed the empty glass from his inert fingers and set it on the table, then he poured what was left of the brandy into the slop pail beside the wash basin. Having done that, he felt in Maitland’s pocket and removed the key.

Harper was waiting for him on the other side of the door. “Well?” he said.

“How much of that narcotic did you put in the brandy bottle?” demanded Hugh irritably.

“I told you you’d have ten minutes at the most if he drank a glass.”

They heard a step in the corridor. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Hugh.

They left the inn by the front doors, with no attempt at concealment except to pull up the collars of their cloaks, and pull down their hat brims, but that was more to protect their faces from the night air. Their destination was a smaller inn, the Swan, at the other end of the High Street, where they’d left their horses. As they trudged along, Hugh filled Harper in on his conversation with Maitland.

When Hugh was finished, Harper said only, “So what are you going to do about Miss Vayle?”

“What I’m going to do,” said Hugh savagely, “is get her away from here. I don’t trust Maitland. He’s crazed because he lost four agents. He doesn’t care who pays for it, as long as someone pays. He’s already tried Abbie in his
mind and found her guilty. I’m going to get this sorted out, then I’m going to take Miss Vayle straight to the colonel in London. He’ll give her a fair hearing.”

“Mmm,” said Harper.

Hugh gave him a sharp look. “What?” he demanded.

“I always thought Maitland had a good head on his shoulders. I mean, I knows he’s not easy to get along with, but he’s a good agent.”

“Oh? Don’t stop there.”