Never Doubt I Love (13 page)

“No. As I said, it had already passed by when … it happened.”

She was shaking visibly. The Runner said gently, “I will be as quick as I can, but I must beg that you are very clear on these points, Miss Grainger. The victim
walked
across the street?”

Zoe stared at him. “He may have run, I suppose.”

He gave a small tight smile, and persisted, “The black coach was in the
lead,
and appeared to have been racing with the brown coach?”

“That was all I could think, yes.”

An acid voice said from the open doorway, “Then your thoughts were scrambled, madam!”

She jerked her head around, and was surprised by the shrill note to her own voice as she cried, “How can you
dare
say such a thing? Were you at your collecting again, doctor?”

“I am
not
a doctor! If you want to know—” Peregrine Cranford started forward, but a constable put an arm across the doorway, restraining him. He snarled fiercely, “I don't mean to attack the silly chit, you fool! The fellow
jumped,
I tell you! He jumped from that damnable black coach right under my team's—”

“I'll thank you not to use strong language in front of this lady,” scolded the Runner.

“And it is besides so much stuff and nonsense,” said Zoe angrily. “Why would anyone do so mad a thing?”

The Runner nodded. “Your point is well taken, ma'am.”

“Her point is poppycock!” From under dark and frowning brows a blue glare scorched at Zoe. “There could be any number of reasons why the poor fellow jumped out. I doubt this lady was in any state—or in a proper position—to see clearly what transpired.”

“I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods,” declared Zoe.

“Indeed?” Cranford said hotly, “In my experience, that is precisely your habit!” He turned to the Runner, and added, “I'd not be surprised was this poor creature deranged!”

“Oh!” Incensed, Zoe gasped. “How
dare
you say such a wicked thing, only because I am not accustomed to seeing people ch-chopped up every day—as you are!” And fighting a sudden need to weep, she counter-attacked, “You are a bad man, sir. I do not scruple to say so!”

“No, you don't, madam! I can vouch for that sorry fact! If you
had
any scruples you might stop and think before you jumped to your erroneous conclusions!”

“Constable,” interposed the Runner, standing. “Please remove this gentleman. I will talk to you later, sir.”

“You will talk to me sooner, or 'twill have to be at my house, for I've to get my friend home. In case it has slipped your mind, he was injured and I must call in a physician.”

“What a pity,” said the Runner scornfully, “that you did not have more concern for your friend than to race another coach on a city—”

“Curse you for a blockhead! I was
not
racing! I have told you—”

“You have told me, sir, an extreme doubtful tale, which I cannot but question.
Beyond
question is the fact that Mr. Burton Farrier, a highly placed civil servant, lies dead. And that several witnesses, including this lady, are willing to swear that your grossly improper and reckless speed brought the tragedy about.”

Struggling against the constable's efforts to drag him away, Cranford raged, “That is a lie! I tell you, this woman is addle-brained at best and wouldn't know what she saw
if
she saw it! The fellow
jumped
—or was—”

The Runner raised his voice, “If I have your statement properly written down, and brought round to your home, will you sign it, Miss Grainger?”

Meeting the murderous glare of the amateur coachman with unyielding defiance, Zoe said, “I most certainly will!”

*   *   *

An hour had slipped away by the time the hackney stopped in front of the large and pleasant house on Henrietta Street where Peregrine Cranford lived when in London. His rooms were on the ground floor, and he called to his servant as he limped into the small entrance hall.

Florian came running. Of slender build, he moved with fluid grace and with anxiety clearly written on his delicate features. Olive skinned and dark-haired, his birth and background were unknown, but he was soft-spoken, with a precision to his words that Cranford believed was due to English not being his native tongue. He had been sold into a gypsy tribe as a small boy and escaped a life of cruelty and servitude by running away in his teen years. Cranford had rescued him from a hand-to-mouth existence and, against the advice of all his friends, had taken the youth into his service. He had never regretted it. Florian was faithful and utterly devoted.

Cranford asked in a distraught fashion, “Has he come round? Has a doctor seen him? Is it bad?”

“Yes, and yes, and—no, sir. 'Tis a concussion that the physician says is not serious. Save that—er, it has brought on an attack of that fever he suffered in India.”

“Oh, Gad!” groaned Cranford, allowing Florian to take his cloak, and thrusting tricorne and cane into his hands. “Is he abed?”

“In the spare room, sir. Are you—”

Cranford was already limping rapidly along the passage. “I'm well,” he called over his shoulder. “Lunch, if you please. I'm also starved!” And he thought bitterly, ‘Even if I have just murdered someone and put a good friend into a sickbed!'

Florian ran ahead to open the guest room door. His attempt to say more was cut off as Cranford brushed past, and with a resigned sigh, he closed his lips and retreated to the kitchen.

The draperies were drawn over the bedchamber windows and the sparsely furnished room was dim. Tiptoeing to the four-poster, Cranford peered anxiously at the long still shape of the man who lay there.

Sir Owen's eyes were closed, his powdered hair was dishevelled and he was frowningly pale except for two ominous spots of colour high on his cheekbones. Cranford, who had dreaded to see bandages, was relieved by the lack of them and hoped prayerfully that the physician was correct and the concussion not dangerous. Poor Furlong was shivering though. Cautiously, he pulled up the eiderdown.

“If you think to turn me up sweet, you waste your efforts,” growled Sir Owen, not opening his eyes.

Cranford groaned and pulled a chair closer to the bed. Sitting down, he said, “I am so
very
sorry! It's all my fault!”

Furlong scowled at him. “Well, it certainly ain't mine! I was in-in-ssside my once-beautiful new carriage!”

“I know you were. Dear old boy, your teeth are chattering. Is there anything— What can I do?”

“You can bl-blasted well tell me what the d-devil you were about! Much against my better judgment I let you tool my new coach, and what must you do but st-start to run a race with some d-down-the-road cloth-head! I w-wonder you didn't slaughter half-a-dozen ladies, to s-say nothing—”

“Lord knows I didn't mean to kill the silly— I mean, the poor fellow. Owen, I swear he—”

At this, Furlong lurched up and demanded in an aghast voice, “What are you saying? Perry…? You didn't
r-really…?
”

“Deuce take it, I thought you knew! No,
please
do not go into the boughs! I'd not have mentioned a word about it if I'd even suspected you weren't told!”

“I wasn't!” Furlong was paler than ever, and there was an alarming glitter in his eyes. “Am I to t-take it that you
struck
someone?”

Pulling himself together, Cranford ordered, “Lie down and calm yourself or I'm leaving.”

Furlong glared at him, then lay back and pointed out, “Can't leave. This is-is your house, not mine.”

“Oh, so 'tis. If you stay quiet, I'll tell you, though I probably should not. It was that same maniac in the black coach who nigh ran us off the road earlier. You'll recall you shouted at him not to pass?”

Furlong answered uncertainly, “Vaguely. But I did not mean you to kill the poor devil.”

“No more did I! He came on at the gallop. At the
gallop,
Owen! There was not the time or the room to overtake. I was sure he would slow his team. But he didn't. Passed like the wind and right under the noses of the hacks of that antiquated chariot on t'other side of the road. I had all I could do to keep your cattle from bolting. And then … Oh God, 'twas awful! A poor fellow jumped out in front of us!”

“
Jumped?
The devil you say!”

Cranford searched his friend's horrified face and pleaded hoarsely, “He must have, for he appeared as from thin air! There was the most fearful bobbery, with people shouting that I was a murderer, and that repulsive young woman screeching that I was driving too fast!” Cranford dabbed his handkerchief at his pallid and perspiring brow. “But that was not the way of it Owen! I
swear!
I
had
slowed, but there was no least chance to avoid him. He was in front of the team and under the wheels in a trice!”

“But—but why should the poor m-man have jumped in front of you? Was he a suicide d'you think?”

“That—or mayhap he was running to help the screecher and misjudged his distance from our team.”

“Why should he help the scr—er, the lady?”

Cranford pressed a hand to his head distractedly. “What? Oh, well she was almost run down by the blue coach, for it was forced up onto the flagway. She started screeching, and then swooned, and the Bow Street Runner came, and— 'Fore God, Owen, I never saw the poor fellow in time! It is so ghastly to think I … killed an innocent—”

He looked devastated, and Sir Owen intervened comfortingly, “No, no. I am very sure it wasn't your fault, Perry. Do not bl-blame yourself, old lad. We must talk with your screeching lady and convince her to see reason.”

“Reason! I doubt she's had a rational thought in her entire life! She took me in violent aversion in High Wycombe last week, only because Tio Glendenning's madcap brother hove my new foot over the hedge.”

Sir Owen lay back against his pillows. “What, Michael Templeby? Never say he threw your foot at the lady?”

“Well, he didn't. But you know what a scatter-wit he is. He had made off with the foot just after I'd collected it from that fellow in Oxford who carves 'em for me. Templeby stole it away and painted it so that it looked just like a real foot.” Momentarily diverted, Cranford sighed reminiscently. “It really did, Owen. Deuced clever the way he did it. Toes, and even toenails, each one a different colour. And at the top—Jove! It was pretty ghastly. Jamie Morris thought it hilarious, but I was ready to strangle Templeby. He ran off with the foot, and Jamie almost had him, so he tossed it over the hedge.”

“And—and hit the poor lady?” asked Furlong, awed.

“I don't think so. But she's a very silly female. Swoons at the slightest thing … She set up her screeching and started accusing me of being a
doctor,
of all things! And now she's at it again!” Cranford groaned and said distractedly, “Heaven above, how quickly one's life can be ruined! Yesterday, my greatest annoyance was that I'm obliged to call on some distant relative I've never even met. And today, I'm a—a murderer, with Bow Street preparing the chains for my feet, and the screecher fairly slavering with eagerness to bear witness 'gainst me, and Whitehall levelling their guns, and—”

Furlong's head had not been helped by this erratic tale and was pounding miserably. Confused, but trying to make sense of it all, he now stiffened, and intervened sharply, “Whitehall? How are they concerned?”

“It seems my unfortunate victim was some highly placed and much admired public official. Of all—”

Struggling to one elbow, Furlong demanded, “What is—was his name?”

“Dash it all, I don't know.” Cranford drove a hand through his hair. “I can scarce recall my own at this moment. Bernard—somebody. Or—no, 'twas a family name I think … Bentley, or Barton— Burton! That was it! As for the surname, though— Oh, egad! What's the matter? Are you—”

His voice quivering with tension, Furlong said, “Not—
Burton Farrier,
surely?”

“Yes. That's it. What are you about? You can't get up!”

“I
must
 … get up,” argued Furlong, pushing back the bedclothes doggedly.

Restraining him as best he might, Cranford gave a cry of relief when the door opened and Florian came in with a laden tray. “Thank heaven! Put that down and come and help. Sir Owen has suffered a spasm, I think! There, that's better. Lie back, poor fellow. Only see how you've exhausted yourself.” And as Furlong sank down, weak and panting from his efforts, Cranford added in a very gentle voice, “Whatever is it, Owen? Never say that to add to all else, I've contrived to murder a friend of yours?”

“You've contrived to … to despatch a … a very great … snake,” gasped Furlong. “‘Terrier' Farrier's dead, Florian!”

“Aieee!” exclaimed the gypsy youth, his dark eyes very bright. “Justice, sometimes it really does prevail!”

“‘Terrier'?” echoed Cranford, frowning. “I've heard something of a man called that. A sort of bounty hunter, wasn't he?”

Furlong closed his eyes wearily. “He was. A murdering villain who snuffed out … many fine lives.”

Cranford bent over him, then beckoned to Florian, and tiptoed to the door. In the passageway he whispered, “I've to go and see my solicitor about this wretched business. Keep a close eye on him, lad. He must rest.”

The gypsy youth nodded, but after the front door had closed on Cranford, he returned at once to the quiet bedchamber.

Sir Owen said, “I'm awake. I didn't want you to say too much.”

Florian sat in the chair Cranford had vacated. “Burton Farrier!” he exclaimed. “Why should such an unfeeling creature commit suicide?”