Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart (2 page)

"Plain as the nose on your face. But—why?"

"Has he any enemies?"

"The man that don't has to be a clod. And old Val's temper
ain't always—er— But—murder… ? No, I doubt that."

Another pause. Then Devenish said reluctantly, "If Lord
Geoffrey should die—Val would come into the title and fortune, I fancy."

Vaughan nodded. "But the Trents ain't next in line, if that's
what you're thinking. Four or five before them, as I recall. To pop off
that many would be stretching credibility more than a little, eh my
tulip?"

"Hmm…" muttered Devenish. There was a long silence broken only
by the tick of the clock on the mantel.

"The devil with this! That rascally jervey likely never went
after the Runner at all!" Devenish stood, touching his lurid eye with
an investigative hand. "My poor orb is complaining, and I'm for my cozy
bed at the Clarendon. I shall leave you, my pippin, to the joys of my
former home!"

"Wait up a bit." Vaughan went into the kitchen and began to
rummage in the small pantry. "I'll see if I've a beefsteak for that
eye."

Devenish trailed after him. His eye felt twice its size and a
few minutes' delay would be worthwhile.

Vaughan turned, peering dubiously at the small package he was
unwrapping. "Don't have any steak, I'm afraid. D'you suppose this trout
would fit the bill? It ain't too ancient, and we could cut it open and
clap it on—" Blasphemously interrupted, he listened until Devenish ran
out of breath. "Trouble with you, Dev," he pointed out, "is that you
want for a proper sense of gratitude."

The Bow Street Runner arrived late next morning, just after
Devenish had joined his friends, and was bedevilling them with the
details of the excellent breakfast he had enjoyed at the Clarendon.

The Runner, a ponderous gentleman who introduced himself as
Mr. W. Wilkins, adopted a no-nonsense air, and demanded the details of
the previous evening's mayhem. His manner underwent an immediate thaw
when Devenish asked if he was acquainted with Major Paisley, and if he
knew how the major went on.

"He is quite recovered, sir," said Mr. W., sketching a bow.
"Very busy, in fact, sir. Account of this here Masterpiece Gang. Hot
after 'em, he is, by what I hear."

"Masterpiece Gang?" echoed Montclair.

The Runner stared at him.

Vaughan said excusingly, "Mr. Montclair lives in the country."

"Oh. The country." The Runner nodded his understanding of such
desolations, and explained ponderously, "Well, they're a gang of very
clever thieves, sir, what specializes in, as you might say,
masterpieces. National treasures, some of 'em. Items of rare and
partic'ler value took from the homes of peers and such like, or from
museums and galleries. Paintings, sir. Works o' art in gold, silver,
crystal; what, as you might say, have you. They won't take nothing but
the best. Pass over shelves of silver and gold, and take only the
cream, as you might say, of the crop. So the Powers that Be are, if
you'll forgive the expression, a'burning of their crumpets! And when
there's crumpets burning at the top, down comes the smoke to Bow
Street. And poor Major Paisley, he gets proper smoked out, as you might
say. What with all this here vicious smuggling getting worse day by
day, and the Masterpiece Gang, upsetting of His Royal Highness, and the
Quality. To say nothing of attacks on fine gentlemen like yourselves,
sir, on London's very own thoroughfares! Terrible the crime is
nowadays! Fair terrible!"

Fascinated by this flow of eloquence, Montclair asked, "Has
this Major Paisley been successful in recovering the stolen goods?"

"Not so much as a speck of oil paint, nor a chip of porcelain
china, sir. Once something of great value gets stole, we—Bow Street as
you might say—usually gets word of it popping up somewhere in this here
globe, sir. But—not with this lot! Two years they been at it. Musta
stole a king's ransom, they must. But if they been and gone and sold
it, no one knows where. It's like it had disappeared off the face of
the earth with not a trace, sir! Not a whiff. Not, as you might say, a
whisper!"

"Or a suspicion," put in Devenish solemnly.

Mr. W. drew himself up. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that,
sir. We—meaning Bow Street—have plenty of suspicions. Proof—well,
that's another mug of mice."

"Or tray of trout," said Vaughan agreeably.

Devenish snorted, and Montclair put a hand over his lips.

Mr. W. directed a hard stare at the culprits and took out his
notebook. "Now as to this here assault, gentlemen…"

He left half an hour later, having told the three friends, at
great length, nothing they did not already know. The apothecary,
entering shortly afterwards, came upon such hilarity that he thought at
first he had come to the wrong house and was only reassured by the
assorted cuts and bruises offered for his inspection. He was as meek
and unassuming as the Runner had been self-important, and having told
Devenish that his eye was undamaged, and expressed the opinion that
Vaughan's wrist harboured no broken bones, proceeded to examine
Montclair's damaged head and pronounce it a "nasty cut but likely no
more than a mild concussion." He eyed the young man thoughtfully, and
added, "Are you feeling quite up to par otherwise, sir?"

"Perfectly, thank you." Montclair stood, turning to his
friends with a bright smile. "I'm afraid I must be on my way. I've some
business waiting at home that has already waited much too long."

They paid off the apothecary and said their farewells,
promising to meet soon at Devencourt near Stroud, or Greenwings in
Sussex, or at Longhills Manor near Tewkesbury, and Montclair took his
leave.

Glancing out of the front windows, Vaughan said idly, "That
apothecary fellow waited for Val."

Devenish wandered to join him, and they watched Montclair
converse briefly with the little man, then walk briskly towards
Piccadilly. The apothecary looked after him, shook his head, and went
off in the opposite direction.

It was a warm morning. It was, in fact, now midday. The
remaining occupants of the parlour discussed sustenance, decided on the
merits of ale, and having filled two tankards, carried them to the sofa
and sat down in a companionable but vaguely troubled silence.

"Devencourt ain't too far from Longhills," observed Vaughan at
last.

They looked at each other.

Devenish raised his glass in a mute acknowledgement.

"If I might have your card, sir," said Deemer, clinging to his
dignity even as he was pushed back across the sunny entrance hall of
Highperch Cottage.

The large man in the very tight green coat gave the frail
elderly man another shove and turned a broad, red, and amused face to
his companion. "Is it a butler, Junius? Don't dress like a butler.
Don't look like a butler. Looks more like a greengrocer!" His friend
emitting a howl of mirth, he went on aggrievedly, "Wants my card, old
boy. D'you have a card we can give the poor clod?"

"Damme if I ain't left m'cardcase at home!" The younger of the
two intruders, tall and well built, with a pair of powerful shoulders,
administered a third shove that sent the grey-haired man staggering.
"Getting absent-minded, Pollinger," he said laughingly. "You should
watch me more carefully. As for you, fellow, do not be annoying your
betters. We want to see your mistress. The naughty widow. She is here,
so don't give us no argumentation."

Looking at once shaken and outraged, Deemer, who was
butler/groom/major domo at Highperch Cottage, said, "Since you have no
cards, gentlemen—"

"Didn't say we don't
have
cards," said
the man called Pollinger.

"Said we wasn't giving
you
one," grinned
his friend. "You may tell the, er—lady, that Lord Montclair's
representatives have come to see her." His unusually large blue eyes
flickered around the shabby hall. "Think we'd best not sit down whilst
we wait, Poll. Looks damned dirty. Furthermore"—he aimed a glossy
topboot at a dusty but graceful Hepplewhite chair, sending it crashing
across the hall—"dashed rickety. Look at that! Damned leg fell off!"

Both the young men laughed uproariously. Halfway up the
winding staircase. Deemer paused and glanced back, the lines in his
thin face deepening. Mrs. Susan should not have to deal with those two
boorish Bucks. They meant trouble, if ever men did. "If only Mr. Andrew
was here," he whispered to himself, hurrying along the dusty upstairs
hall. But taking advantage of the lovely June weather, Mr. Andrew
Lyddford and the Bo'sun were off on the barge; Senor Angelo had left
just after luncheon to drive Mrs. Starr, the housekeeper, and little
Miss Priscilla into Tewkesbury, so Mrs. Susan Henley was just at the
moment protected only by himself and Martha, their solitary
abigail-cum-parlour-maid, who was simple, poor girl, and would likely
fall into hysterics did those two downstairs raise their voices again.

He proceeded worriedly along a musty-smelling corridor,
treading on faded threadbare carpet, the daylight coming dimly through
the dirty windows at each end. The door he approached swung open even
as he reached it. Mrs. Susan Henley stepped out and the dingy hall
seemed brightened.

A tall willowy young woman, she wore a dark mulberry riding
habit, the train caught up over one arm. A jaunty little matching hat
with a pink feather was perched on very thick near-black hair that was
worn long and perfectly straight, being tied back from her face with a
mulberry ribbon. Gloves and riding crop in hand she smiled at Deemer,
but the smile faded at once from the generous, ruddy-lipped mouth, the
dark low-arched brows drew together, and a frown came into the clear
grey eyes. "What is it?" she asked, in a quiet, musical voice.

"Two—men, Mrs. Sue," said the butler, trying to keep his voice
from trembling.

"And they have upset you, I see." The firm chin set, and the
dark head swung up a little. "No cards, Deemer?"

"No, ma'am. I—I think it were best if you did not come down.
They're ugly customers, if ever I—"

"No names, either?" she interpolated coolly.

"They said they were from his lordship, ma'am. One is named
Pollinger, I think."

"Is he indeed?" Mrs. Henley drew on one black kid glove, her
lip curling. "If it is Sir Dennis Pollinger, his reputation precedes
him. And—the other?"

"Mr. Pollinger—or Sir Dennis perhaps—called him 'Junius.' Mrs.
Sue, please do not go down there. I'll run down to the river and see if
The Dainty Dancer's
in sight yet. Perhaps I can
signal Mr. Andrew and—"

"And we'll have a small war on our hands, I fancy. If his
lordship has sent these men to intimidate us it will be as well they
learn at the outset where we stand." She flashed a sudden smile that
banished the worry from her oval face, and walked past him.

"A moment, ma'am, I beg." The butler hurried into another room
and emerged carrying a long-barrelled duelling pistol. "I'm coming with
you," he declared bravely.

Mrs. Henley chuckled. "Not carrying my brother's horrid great
cannon! Give it me."

He protested, but she appropriated the pistol and slipped it
into the deep pocket of her skirt. "Never worry so," she murmured.
"Gentlemen are always alarmed to see firearms in the hands of a woman,
and besides, Lieutenant Henley taught me how to repel boarders!" She
thought, 'If nothing else!' and went to the stairs.

Deemer looked after her worriedly, wishing he was younger, and
stronger than his last illness had left him. Then he ran quickly to the
rear staircase.

Mrs. Henley heard the loud voices from the landing and as she
followed the curve of the stairs, her eyes took in the two young men
who strolled about inspecting the hall with arrogant criticism. 'A fine
pair of blackguards,' she thought. 'Likely typical of Montclair's
cronies!'

The younger of the two was somewhere in the neighbourhood of
thirty, and quite handsome, but she was not drawn to the big, beefy
type, and she thought his eyes too large, his lips too thick and
voluptuous, and his fair hair was arranged in a dandified style that
she could not like. She had seen him somewhere… In Town, unless she was
mistaken. She wrinkled her brow. Deemer had said his name was 'Junius.'
Junius… Trent! Mr. Junius Trent! In that case, her opinion of the
gentleman was not shared by the majority, for he was widely admired by
London's ladies, his sarcasm put down as cleverness, and his impudence
as wit. He was a reckless gambler whose luck at the tables was
legendary. He commanded a large circle of friends and hangers-on, by
whom he was described as a bruising rider to hounds, a fine man with
the fives, an excellent shot, a general all-round sportsman. His
friends chose to overlook the fact that he had been denied admission to
White's Club, and that his popularity in certain quarters appeared to
have dimmed of late. This might perhaps have been ascribed to odd
little rumours that were beginning to be whispered, and also to the
fact that his way with a team and carriage left a great deal to be
desired, his quicktempered impatience having cost a groom his life when
he was thrown from a curricle Trent had contrived to overturn.

Mrs. Henley slowed her steps and appraised the second man
narrowly. Despite his fine build and the fact that he looked to be no
older than five and thirty, he already showed marked signs of
dissipation. The flush on his broad face proclaimed the heavy drinker
and the beginnings of a paunch curved his green and white striped
waistcoat. His lank hair was straight and of an indeterminate brown.
His features were regular but undistinguished and the loose mouth and
rather neighing voice caused her to marvel that any woman could be
swept off her feet by such a one.

Her eyes fell on the overturned chair then, and she frowned.

"… no business here," Trent was saying loudly. "Besides, who
cares what
he
says? The fact remains it ain't
legal, and by God, I mean to—"