The Riddle of the Reluctant Rake (15 page)

He gave the beaming housekeeper a strong hug. “Once again, you come to my rescue. Thank you! And forgive me, but I must leave you.”

“Oh, no, sir! Why such urgency? Can you not stay for dinner? Where are you rushing off to this time?”

“Woking,” he answered gaily. “To see a maid about a groom!”

8

“You may have trotted in here without being stopped,
mon colonel,
” said Lieutenant Paige Manderville, strolling into the drawing room with a tankard of ale in one hand, “But you'll have the devil of a time trotting out again.”

Adair had returned to Vespa House to reclaim Toreador and to let his friends know of his progress. He was standing by the glowing hearth listening to Broderick discourse on blackbirds while waiting for his horse to be brought round, but he now turned to look at Manderville questioningly.

“Two of 'em,” drawled Manderville, sinking gracefully into a deep fireside chair.

“Bow Street?”

Manderville hesitated. “I'm not sure. They don't quite look constable-ish.”

“But you're sure they're watching for Hasty?” asked Broderick, nobly overlooking the grammatical lapse.

“I suppose they could be students of architecture, but … No, they don't look the student type, either. You won't be able to leave tonight, my pippin.”

“Devil I won't,” argued Adair. “The skies are clear, and there's a fine full moon—”

Broderick said, “Which will make it all the easier for 'em to spot you.”

“If I wait for the moon to set, it'll be too dark for me to find my way, and I want to reach my uncle's house tonight.”

“Why the hurry?” asked Manderville curiously. “You can as well leave at first light.”

It was not an easy thing to explain, this sensation that he occasionally experienced. A sort of tightening of the nerves; an increasing anxiety; an almost tangible warning of impending disaster. A gift, perhaps, but a gift he would gladly have rejected, although it had probably saved his life once in Spain when a group of Polish lancers had come up behind him while he'd been reconnoitering an enemy position. He answered rather lamely, “I just have the feeling I mustn't let any grass grow under my feet.”

“Is that so?” said Broderick, at once interested. “Premonition, I'll be bound! Now there's a most interesting field of—”

Manderville put a hand over his eyes. “Don't start,” he groaned. “If our intrepid colonel insists on this very unwise course, we must find a way to confuse the opposition.”

“Jolly good notion,” agreed Broderick. “Let us devise a plan of action, gentlemen!”

As a result of their “devising,” some half-hour later a man who leaned in a shadowed nearby doorway jerked himself upright and hissed, “There he goes, mate!”

His companion, who'd been gainfully employed in trimming his fingernails with his teeth, looked after the departing solitary horseman and pointed out, “That ain't Adair's hack. He rides a big dapple-grey.”

“Ar, and
he
knows as
we
knows it, so he ain't likely to ride it now, is he. Use yer wits fer once! He's headin' east. Means to make fer the docks and take ship, I shouldn't wonder. Come
on!
”

They sprinted to the corner, where a street urchin was walking their horses, but the doubter entered another caveat: “What if we both goes and it ain't him? What then, Charlie boy? We'll lose our pay, is what!”

“All right, all right! Gawd, what a blockhead! You stay and keep watch. I'll go arter the slippery cove!” So saying, “Charlie boy” was off at the gallop, leaving his partner to chew at his nails worriedly and return to his surveillance of the Vespa mansion.

Five minutes later, his caution was justified. A second horseman, muffled to the eyes, emerged from the side alley, rode rapidly to the corner, then turned northward.

“Aha!” exclaimed the remaining watcher. “He were too slippery fer you, Charlie know-it-all!” He ran to toss a coin to the urchin, mount up and race after the “slippery cove,” muttering a triumphant, “Din't I tell yer?”

Scarcely was he out of sight than a fine dapple-grey left the side alley, to be guided by his cloaked and well-muffled rider towards London Bridge, and thence to the southwest.

*   *   *

Unlike Singletree, Blackbird Terrace was true to its name. There was a terrace, and there were many blackbirds, though by the time Adair reached his Uncle Willoughby's estate, the former was barely visible through the thickening mists, and the latter were all presumably tucked into their nests for the night.

Adair's shouts were at first unavailing, but a window in the gatehouse at length glowed to candle-light, and the gatekeeper emerged, yawning and pulling a heavy coat closed over his nightshirt. He held up a lantern and observed sleepily, “Oh, it do be you, Colonel.”

“Yes. My apologies for knocking you up at this hour, Bailey. Is my uncle in residence?”

“Aye. Jest like 'e allus is, sir.” The gatekeeper opened one of the high wrought-iron gates and advised that they was “all likely fast asleep up at the great house.”

He was mistaken, however, for when Adair had left his horse in the care of a drowsy groom and been admitted to the mansion, the butler relieved him of his hat and cloak and said that the master had not yet retired.

There came a rush of flying feet on the stairs, and an anxious “Whoever has come calling at this hour?” Minerva Chatteris gave a squeak of joy, and heedless of papered curls and the fact that she wore her night-rail, flung herself into Adair's arms.

“How lovely that you have come to us! Did my grandfather throw you into the street, poor dear?”

Adair kissed her and slanted a glance at the butler's studiedly expressionless countenance, but before he could answer his cousin rushed on:

“How is it that your face is so bruised? You've never ridden straight from Town? My goodness—you must be starving! Randall, we must have a tray for the Colonel, and tell Mrs. Sylvan to see that a fire is lit in the best guest-room, and—Oh, never mind! I'll come. Mama is from home, Hasty dear, but go along to my uncle.”

Warmed by such a greeting, he asked, “Are you sure, Minna? It's past eleven o'clock, and I come without invitation.”

“Stuff! He's still in his study and will be eager to see you at once. You're probably tired, so don't let him keep you up much longer.” She hurried off beside the butler, calling over her shoulder, “I'll talk with you in the morning, Hasty.”

Adair nodded and walked down the corridor at the end of which was the large and cluttered chamber Willoughby Chatteris called his study. It was a long corridor, the floors of random-width oak covered by only a few nondescript rugs; the walls hung with rather faded prints and a scattering of oil paintings. Adair had not visited this house for over a year, during which time his entire way of life had been shattered. It was rather comforting to find that Blackbird Terrace had not changed. The furnishings still reflected the styles of the previous century, the walls and the low ceilings still bore mute evidences of smoking chimneys and the occasional intrusions of rain-water. On the air hung the faint mustiness of age and wood fires and pipe smoke.

Viscountess Andrea had little patience with her erratic brother, and declared that Willoughby should have moved into the fine old dower house while the mansion was redecorated and modernized, instead of which he was letting the unoccupied dower house crumble away from neglect, while making not the least push to bring the great house he had inherited up to style. When he'd opened his doors to his widowed sister-in-law and her brood, Lady Andrea had cherished some hopes that Hilda Chatteris might persuade him to refurbish the old place, but the widow had been too grateful to be provided with a comfortable home to request improvements. And Minerva, thought Adair with a faint smile, was not the type to crave an elegant residence, her interests being focused on her loved ones and her dogs.

He knocked on the door of the study and announced himself, but did not at once go inside. There came a muddled muttering, much rustling of papers and slamming of drawers, and then a somewhat breathless invitation to enter. ‘He's at his Lists again,' thought Adair, swinging the door wide.

Mr. Willoughby Chatteris rose from behind the battered desk that was set before the now closed window curtains. His usually pale face was pink and wore a somewhat guilty expression, both of which might have been inspired by the brilliant scarlets and purples of the velvet dressing-gown he wore. “Hello, my boy,” he said, putting out his hand in his uncertain fashion. “Nice to—er, to see you. Didn't know you would be—ah, down this way, but you mean to stay for a day or so at least, I—er, trust?”

“You are very good, sir. Thank you, and if it doesn't inconvenience Aunt Hilda, I'll stay overnight, but I'm afraid I must be off tomorrow.”

Relief dawned in the protuberant blue eyes. Returning to the big chair behind the desk, Mr. Chatteris said in a heartier tone, “That is our—er, loss. It won't inconvenience my sister-in-law. Hilda is down at Brighton. Her young niece is—ah, lying in, you know. Have a seat, my boy, and tell me how you go on.”

“I go on seeking to prove my innocence, sir.” Adair sat in the chair that faced the desk. “But I fear I've already inconvenienced you, and that you were peacefully at work on your—”

“No such thing,” interrupted his uncle hurriedly.

Adair glanced at a sheet of paper that had evidently fallen under the desk and lay beside his boot. Bending to retrieve it, he said, “I think you've dropped one of your Lists, sir.”

He had a brief impression of neatly written columns, then a rush of displaced air and the sheet was snatched from his grasp. Uncle Willoughby must have moved like lightning. He looked up and for an instant saw rage in the usually meek eyes. Startled by such an unprecedented display of emotion, he said, “I beg pardon, sir. I've no intent to pry—though I'll admit I've often wondered what your Lists—”

Willoughby's laugh, a shrill and forced cackle, cut off his nephew's remark. “Just my little—ah, hobby. You would think it foolish, I'm very sure.” He went back to his chair and thrust the paper hurriedly into a drawer. His face was redder than Adair had ever seen it. He all but gabbled, “Now—now what have I missed? The General don't—ah, keep me informed, you know. And unless your Uncle Roger rides this way, I'm left—left in the dark. As it—er, were.”

‘Good Lord, I properly sent him into the boughs,' thought Adair. He was fond of Willoughby, and if he judged him a rather weak-kneed man, he also thought him very kind and good-hearted, and not for the world would he upset him. He launched into an account of his activities, therefore, and by the time the butler came to say that his room was ready and a tray had been carried up for him, Mr. Chatteris seemed quite at his ease.

Adair said his good-nights and climbed the stairs. He was afire with impatience to talk to the housemaid, Burslem, and learn what her young man knew about Coachman Davis that he thought “funny.” But he could scarcely have rousted the woman from her bed at this hour. At least, he was here now, and could interview her first thing in the morning.

In the quiet study, Willoughby Chatteris put his Lists in order. He kept out the sheet his nephew had picked up, and scanned it with almost frenzied anxiety. “How much did he see?” he whispered to himself. “He's so damnably quick! How much did he see?” He restored the Lists to his drawer, and bowed his head into hands that shook.

*   *   *

Adair was standing at the library bow window, watching two puppies frisk about on the lawns when a gruff voice announced, “'Mornin' Colonel, sir. Mrs. Sylvan says as I could come now.”

He turned eagerly. “Good morning, Burslem. Sit down, please. How do you go on in my uncle's establishment?”

Square and plain and as uncompromisingly grim as ever, the maid perched on the edge of the chair he drew up for her. She said that she liked her new situation very well. And with an unexpected blush, added, “'Sides, it's very agreeable fer my young man and me to be able to see each other more'n once a month.”

“I'm glad it has worked out well for you.” Adair leaned back against the arm of the sofa. “And I thank you for the letter you left me.”

“Why, you was kind t'me, sir. Else I wouldn't never have been kept on at Adair Hall, an' then, no matter what my young man done for Miss Minerva, they'd not have let me come here. That's why I writ to you and hopes as I wasn't steppin' past me station.”

“Certainly not. In point of fact, I've been most anxious to talk with you. You wrote that your young man knows Walter Davis, the Priors' coachman.”

“Yessir. That is ter say as he knowed him—at one time. My Henery—” Her blush deepened and she said shyly, “That's his name, sir. Henery. He'll tell you hisself all as he knows when he comes back. You jest missed him by a day. He's drove Mrs. Chatteris down ter Brighton. I don't know how long the mistress means ter stay. Not long, likely. Could ye come back?”

‘More time lost!' thought Adair impatiently. “I can, of course. Or I can ride down to Brighton and see him. But this is rather urgent, and you may be able to help me if you will. Henry saw Davis recently, did he?”

“Last week, sir, as ever was! All dressed up flash, he were, and with a nag as Henery says must've cost him a pretty penny, and trying to act the gent—which he ain't and never will be! And talking about how he'd got his ‘just reward,' and about—well, he carried on about you, sir.”

“Did he, by Jove! Nothing to my credit, I'll wager.”

“Right you are, sir. Talking loud like he does when he's put down a few tankards, Henery said. And saying as how he'd knowed no good would come of Miss Alice slipping out on the sly to meet her beau—meaning you, Colonel. And how he was honour-bound to speak out at your trial the way any honest man oughter do. ‘Honest' being just what Wally Davis ain't, says Henery.”