The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (11 page)

“I don't care if she can only speak Chinese,” said Broderick, reining Quadrille around the obstruction. “Just so as she knows what to do with an egg!”

They had no trouble locating the Castle and Keg, and found it to be a charming old whitewashed structure that sparkled with cleanliness. An ostler hurried to take their horses, and they were welcomed into the inn by the proprietor, a plump little lady with keen black eyes and a Welsh accent. Mrs. Rhys showed them into a cozy coffee room and a table set before the hearth where a fire blazed fragrantly. They were soon enjoying a breakfast that Broderick declared gratefully was “fit for a King!” While they ate he gave Adair an account of his introduction to Mr. Prior, and expressed his regret that he'd been unable to find the emerald pin. “This whole journey has been a lost cause for you, Hasty. Better luck next time, eh?”

“I don't count it a complete loss,” said Adair. “The fire-boy at Singletree claimed that in the middle of the night that Miss Prior disappeared, he heard a coach pull up to the side door, and a gentleman speaking softly.”

“Did he, by Jove! Don't recall hearing of that before, but I don't see how it can help you—unless the boy recognized the fellow's voice.”

“It wasn't brought out at the trial, but it could certainly help if it could be proven that the coach carried Miss Prior off, and that it happened whilst I was in a cell in Whitehall.”

“By Jupiter, but that's truth! We must get word to the Horse Guards at once! Is that where we're bound?”

“It's where I'm hoping you'll go for me. I want to see if I can find out where Mr. Prior's coachman has got to. Evidently he used to work for a gentleman—now dead—named Rickett.”

“If the old boy's stuck his spoon in the wall, you're not likely to learn anything from him. Unless there's family living there.”

“According to your friend, Mrs. Heath, Rickett had no family. Still, there may be friends or long-time servants still in the area who could give me some information on the vanishing coachman. Worth a try, Toby.”

“Might be, at that. Where did this Rickett fellow live?”

“That's the first thing I have to find out. Shouldn't be too difficult, though.”

Broderick agreed blithely that it should be a simple task, and kept to himself the reflection that the late Mr. Rickett might have lived anywhere from Land's End to John o'Groats.

6

Before leaving the Castle and Keg, Adair asked Mrs. Rhys if she knew of a deceased gentleman named Rickett, or his erstwhile coachman, Walter Davis. The little widow eyed him curiously. “I do not know a Rickett. There was a fellow named Davis who worked at a nearby estate called Singletree, but I cannot think he would be a friend of yours, sir.”

“The thing is,” he evaded, “I was sent down from London to tell him he has come into a small inheritance, but he appears to have left Singletree without giving notice and told no one where he was bound. So far, I've been quite unable to trace him.”

“Ah. Well, I cannot say I am surprised.” She pursed her lips. “Cantankerous, I always thought he were. Used to come into my tap sometimes on his day off and often as not would end up quarrelling with my regulars. You'll be one of them solicitors, eh, sir? Which puts me in the wrong, for I'd have taken yourself for a military gentleman.”

“Actually, my brother is in the legal profession,” said Adair, not altogether untruthfully. “Since I was coming this way, he charged me to find Davis for him.”

“And ye don't want to disappoint him, naturally, being family. Surely, I wish as I could help ye, sir. But … Wait a bit! Here's my head ostler. He used to throw darts with Davis. Frank! Come and see if you can help this gentleman!”

The ostler was a slow-talking, amiable sort of man who had expressed a great admiration for Toreador. He allowed that he knew Walter Davis, adding a qualifying, “Not well, mind.” And in response to Adair's questions said that from something Davis had once told him, he'd supposed the man had previously worked near a big school. “I asked him, joking-like, if he put his money down to go to any of they lecturings, and he laughed fit to bust and said when he put his money down it were at the races.”

Adair's heart gave a leap. A “big school” and “the races” could mean Cambridge and Newmarket. “Jove, but that's a great help,” he said, and having rewarded Frank generously, was soon in the saddle again, and riding to the northeast with hope as his companion.

Three days later, hope had almost died. He had not dared pursue his enquiries with the Watch or the local Constable, and the several vicars and curates he'd approached had been willing but unable to provide the information he sought. For a whole day he haunted the area around the Jockey Club; there were no meetings at this time of year, of course, but the various “coffee rooms” were almost always patronized by a few sportsmen, owners, professional jockeys, or stewards. Mingling with these devotees of the sport proved unproductive, although Toreador attracted much interest and Adair received and rejected three offers to buy the animal. He turned his attention to the patrons of taverns and alehouses, but although his generosity in replenishing tankards won him popularity and offers of assistance, he learned no more of the whereabouts of the Rickett estate, or Walter Davis.

Disheartened, he was preparing to return to London one chilly morning when a maid brought word that he was wanted downstairs. He had registered at this small inn as Mr. Chatteris and spread his enquiries under that name. Twice in these few days he'd had the sense that he was being watched. On neither occasion had he seen anyone following, but if he had been recognized there could be trouble. Therefore, he went down by the back stairs, alert and poised for action.

The proprietor was alone at the desk. A gaunt and taciturn man, he said, “Outside, sir. Waiting in the stables.”

Adair eyed him keenly. He was no more truculent than usual, nor was the contempt evident that might be expected if he knew his guest was “a notorious libertine.”

“Who is?” he asked. “And what does he want of me?”

“Old Bill Oxshott. And whatever he wants will lighten your purse if you don't take care, sir. He's likely heard about the questions you been asking and the tankards you've kept filled. Slippery as a snake is Old Bill and nowhere near as honest. I don't usually allow him on my property, but he were insistent as he knowed something you'd want to hear.”

Adair thanked him for this less than glowing recommendation and made his way to the stables.

A small, wizened individual, well past middle age, was talking to Toreador, who watched him warily over the rail of his stall. As Adair approached, the man gave a sudden shrill cackle of laughter, and the big grey tossed his head and drew back.

Adair drew back also. That this person seldom if ever bathed was very evident. He said coolly, “I believe you wished to see me.”

The little man spun around, disclosing a sunken and weathered face sadly in need of a shave. Narrowed dark eyes scanned Adair in a brief appraisal. Snatching off a greasy cap, he smoothed back long wisps of grey hair and said in a shrill whine, “By grab, but you give me a fright, guv'nor. And me, with a poor old heart as don't need no frights. Crep' up on me unawares, you done, sir. Not as I mean ter say you
meant
to fright poor Bill Oxshott into his grave.” He cackled again and bent his head a little, leering up at the younger man's enigmatic face ingratiatingly. “Ye'll be the gent as is asking everywhere fer me good friend—Wally Davis. That right, sir? Or has poor old Bill got it wrong agin?”

“I have business with a man who was coachman for Mr. Rickett a decade or so ago.”

Adair's tone was chill but the sly leer did not waver. “Ar, well that'll be me friend Wally, right enough.” He sniffed noisily and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “If ye'll tell me what it is you wants to know, sir, I'll search me memory. Though poor old Bill's brain-box finds it hard these days—downright painful at times, sir—to rec'lect things. Likely from not never having the rhino to buy proper nourishin' food, sir. Like—say, a chop now and then.”

“If you can recollect the directions to Mr. Rickett's estate, perhaps you'll be able to buy a beefsteak or two, but don't be looking for the whole cow, Oxshott. I'm not a rich man.”

“Old Bill” howled with mirth. “Not many soldiers is rich men, eh, sir?”

Adair looked into those cunning eyes steadily, and Oxshott gabbled, “S'prised ye, did I, guv'nor? Old Bill can allus tell a soldier-man by the set o' the shoulders and the way their heads is carried. High, sir. High and proud. Like yourn. Now take me, on the other hand. Just a humble and simple cove is Oxshott, as ain't too proud to ask if ye could just stretch to—say, a ‘leg o' lamb,' Mr.—er, Chatteris…?”

He was a crafty old rogue, right enough, but Adair found himself wondering what chances fate had offered. Few enough, probably. He said in a kinder tone, “I think you're a great rascal, Mr. Bill Oxshott.” And above the resultant cackle, he added, “But, depending upon what you have to tell me, a ‘leg of lamb' it shall be.”

Old Bill rubbed his grubby hands and became a regular mine of information. Adair was given precise directions to the hamlet near the Rickett estate, which was now the Haley estate. As for his dear friend, Wally Davis had never spoken of his family background. “But he had parents, sir! Oh, yus! He had parents. And still living, for I see Wally not more'n a year back and he tells me he'd like to go down and see his old mum. Surprise her like, he says.”

“Do you know where Mrs. Davis lives?”

“No, sir. Wish I did. Might've earned meself some sassengers, eh, sir?” This winning no offer of a “sausage bonus,” Oxshott sighed and continued, “Still, if ye goes up round what used to be Mr. Rickett's house, there might be others knows more'n old Bill. Blest if ever I met a more contrary cove. Argify a donkey's hind leg orf will Wally, but one thing no one can't deny—he knows his cattle, and he brung old Rickett's hacks into the smithy often enough. The blacksmith will likely remember him.”

A short while later, trotting alongside as Adair rode out, Oxshott called a friendly “Jest foller the Bedford Road to the blue barn like I said, sir, then turn onto the bridge. There's a tolerable good inn on the far side as sets a nice table if ye're so minded. The Pilgrim Arms, it's called, after some cove name of Bunyan, though what he done there I dunno.”

Adair waved, and letting Toreador have his head, soon disappeared from sight.

Oxshott's smile also disappeared. For a moment something almost like regret came into his eyes. Then he shrugged. “A cove got to live,” he advised a passing crow, and began to count out the sizeable tip he'd just earned.

A sharp wind came up while Adair was riding to the southwest, but he was too encouraged now to feel the chill on the air. He knew where to find the elusive Rickett estate at last. With luck, a little searching about would unearth someone who would remember Walter Davis. The blacksmith Oxshott had spoken of sounded a likely source. Things were looking decidedly brighter.

As they had a way of doing lately, his thoughts drifted to Miss Cecily Hall. No shrinking violet, that lady, but one couldn't deny she was a lovely creature. Recalling the fierce way she had levelled that pistol at him brought a grin. She'd courage enough, certainly, and deep loyalties. He wondered where she was at that moment, and whether her indomitable Grandmama was caring for her.

A gust of wind set the trees swaying as he passed the blue barn and turned onto the bridge. An inn nestled under a huge oak at the far side of the bridge, as Oxshott had said. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, to be whisked away by the wind, and a tantalizing smell of cooking wafted on the air. Adair glanced at his timepiece. It was nearing one o'clock, a good time for luncheon at the “tolerable good” Pilgrim Arms and a rest for Toreador.

When he rode into the yard an ostler ran to take charge of the dapple-grey, and the host, a small man with a large smile, greeted Adair at the door. He was conducted across a neat parlour to the adjoining coffee room and a table remarkable for its cleanliness. This being a week-day, he was mildly surprised to find the room well patronized and ringing with talk. The noise level diminished while he was seated and several heads turned his way. He ran his eyes over the gathering just in case, but saw no familiar faces. A serving maid gave him a dimpling smile and took his order and he was soon enjoying some excellent cold roast beef, thick bread still warm from the oven, and a tankard of ale.

He was finishing his meal when an all-too-familiar voice rang out loud and clear. “As I live and breathe! If it ain't the infamous Colonel!”

The buzz of talk in the room trailed into silence.

Adair took a deep breath, lowered his tankard deliberately, and stood.

Thorne Webber's swarthy countenance was slightly flushed, the hard brown eyes glinting triumph. As before, he held a heavy riding crop and was raising it threateningly. “Still carry the mark I put on you,” he blustered. “If I give you another, you'll likely run away as you did last time, but—”

Adair crouched, his hand flashed out and caught Webber's up-flung arm. With a quick shift of weight he continued the motion. Instinctively resisting that relentless upward pressure, Webber uttered a howl and the riding crop fell from his numbed hand. “Damn you!” he snarled, clutching his arm painfully.

“Now, now, gents!” The little proprietor rushed to dance about between the two men. “Now, now! Outside, if ye must, but—”

“You've broke my arm, you worthless carrion!” bellowed Webber.

“Dislocated, more like,” drawled Adair. “The penalty for missed opportunity. You should have hit me when I wasn't looking, as you did in Town.”