The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (12 page)

Reprieved, Cranford decided to discover what was delaying Florian. He rode south, across-country, his mind wrestling with the various problems that faced him and the need to resolve them before his twin sensed that all was not well at Muse Manor.

There was no sign of his young steward and he was approaching the stand of poplars that marked the southern boundary of his lands when he heard sounds of conflict: Major Finchley’s nasal bellow, and a younger voice, ringing with indignation, that told him he had found Florian.

Emerging from the trees, he saw the horse and cart nearby and his new steward struggling in the grip of Sidney Grover and a sturdy stable-hand, while their employer laughingly egged them on.

Cranford thought an irritated, ‘Not again!’ and sent Tassels cantering across the meadows to his neighbour’s drivepath.

Catching sight of him, Finchley howled, “Off with you, Cranford! I warned this little rat what I’d do if he dared set foot on my property!”

Florian’s face was bloodied and he looked white and spent. He panted, “There was a sign on—on the lane for a detour, sir. I followed, and—”

“Cor, what shockin’ lies!” Grover, the Major’s head groom, threw a saintly glance at the heavens. “You knows as there weren’t no sign, Major, sir. Fact is this worthless gyppo was creepin’ ’round to annoy Miss Laura again.”

“Not true,” gasped Florian. “The sign said—” He broke off, flinching as Grover twisted his arm savagely.

Cranford said curtly, “I’ve no slightest doubt as to the truth of the matter, and if I discover you’ve tampered with a public right-of-way, I’ll have you in Court, Finchley.” He turned to Grover. “As for you—let him go!”

“Ho, yus, I won’t” But despite the snarled defiance, the big groom hesitated, looking from Cranford’s stern face to his scowling employer.

Cranford sent Tassels dancing forward. “I’ve no wish to trample you,” he warned, “but my mare is fond of Mr. Consett, and if she thinks you’re harming him I may not be able to control her.”

A light tap of his spur and Tassels’ ears went back. She reared, then plunged forward, teeth bared.

Grover and the stable-hand swore, but released Florian and retreated hastily.

“I could have your gypsy shot for trespassing!” brayed Finchley. “And if you’ve trained that filly to be a man-killer, she’d best not threaten my people again, or I’ll not wait for the law to take action. I know how to deal with rogues—men or beasts.”

“You certainly surround yourself with them.” Cranford dismounted and threw an arm about Florian, who swayed unsteadily. “And I’ve seen how you ‘deal with’ horses, which is the reason I’ll never sell you my mare.”

All but gnashing his teeth, Finchley howled, “She was mine before she was yours! I wish to God I’d never given her to you!”

“I’ll remember that the next time you get yourself trapped in a landslide.” Guiding the youth to the cart, Cranford called, “Now I come to think of it, you were on
my
land that day, and you never did say what you were about.”

Aware that his men knew Cranford had saved his life on that occasion, Finchley waved them away and answered tauntingly, “If you want to know, I was looking over the Quail Hill property you’d just sold. Decided then that I meant to have it.”

So the belligerent Major was indeed after the river parcel. ‘Damn!’ thought Cranford, boosting Florian onto the seat of
the cart. “You seem to make a habit of coveting my property,” he drawled. “Another disappointment for you.”

As always, the younger man’s cool self-control was fuel to Finchley’s temper and the hue of his cheeks deepened. “It ain’t your property now, confound you! I’ve made the Westermans a generous offer, and they’ve as good as accepted.”

Cranford gave him a scornful glance but did not comment as he climbed to the seat, whistled to Tassels, and took up the reins.

Watching with burning resentment as the mare trotted daintily to the cart, Finchley shouted, “No point in pretending you don’t believe me. The river parcel’s as good as mine! What d’ye say to that?”

“Giddap, Sport.” Cranford slapped the reins on the broad back of the ageing but still reliable bay gelding.

Finchley heard a distant hoot of laughter. So his men were laughing at him behind his back! A pox on the lot of ’em! His temper soaring, he shouted, “Tour day is done, Mister High-and-Mighty Cranford! We all know you’re properly in the basket. You’ll be wise to sell Muse Manor and get out. We want no traitor-lovers in this neighbourhood!”

Driving off, Cranford stiffened. Finchley was referring to Glendenning, of course, but as yet no one had been able to prove that the viscount had actually taken up arms under the banner of Charles Stuart. Tio’s remark about the pedlar reechoed in his ears: “I’ve seen him before somewhere… he gives me an uncomfortable feeling…” If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with his own concerns he would have stayed in the village and spoken to the pedlar. It would be just like Gresford Finchley to resent Tio’s rank and his assured manner and inform Bow Street or even the Horse Guards of his suspicions.

Watching his grim face anxiously, Florian said, “I’m sorry, sir. I know you told me to avoid Finchley Park, and I swear I wasn’t trying to see Miss Laura! What it is…”

“What it is, a trap was set for you, and you drove right into
it. The Major’s a man who enjoys violence, and Grover’s cut from the same cloth, He marked your face, I see. Are you much hurt otherwise?”

“They caught me a few good ones across my back when they dragged me from the cart. No worse than I used to get in the tribe.”

“Well have Miss Jane look at you when we get home. Tell me, were you able to hire another waggon?”

“Yes, sir. And two brawny ex-soldiers who are eager for work. They’ll bring the waggon out first thing in the—” He broke off, looking intently to the east. “Isn’t that Mr. Valerian?”

Cranford followed his gaze. Some half-mile distant, a tall black horse was galloping up the rise. The rider was unmistakable: Gervaise Valerian, and going like the wind for once. What in Hades was the fellow doing here?

Florian muttered, “Jove, but he can ride!”

Cranford made a mental note that the next time he met his alleged “cousin,” he’d demand an explanation for the man’s presence on his land. His land… Muse Manor belonged to all of them. He was merely the guardian of the estate. He looked north-east across the meadowland to the distant swell of hills beyond the bridge. A pale winter sun threw cloud shadows onto the slopes and set the river sparkling. It was so green and quiet and lovely, even though the trees did not yet wear their leaves and the meadow flowers still slept. By heaven, but they would
not
lose the dear old place! Miss Cordelia Stansbury would be duly pursued, and Perry would have his house and his acres! There would be snowdrops and crocus appearing to greet the bride, and spring would carpet the woods with bluebells and—

His dreaming introspection was cut off by a tug at his arm, followed immediately by the sharp crack of a musket. Florian uttered a startled shout. The retort reverberated deafeningly, as thunder tended to do among these hills. Sport snorted and shied, and Tassels neighed in fright.

“What—the devil…?” gasped Florian.

Cranford was already turning the cart into the shelter of a copse of trees and calling Tassels to them.

Florian exclaimed, “You never think—”

“Some fool, hunting, belike.”

“But—the ball passed right between us! See—it tore your sleeve!”

“Stay here!” Cranford sprang down from the cart, and, as far as possible keeping to cover, sprinted up the slope. He scanned the countryside narrowly, but there was no sign of anyone, riding or afoot.

Florian came to join him, breathless and pale, but clutching a sturdy branch with resolution. “Do you see him, sir?”

“No. He’ll be far off by now.”

“Mr. Valerian must have heard the shot. He’ll come back.”

“Very likely. Let’s get you home.”

Climbing painfully into the cart, Florian muttered, “Poachers don’t usually carry muskets—too loud.”

Guiding Sport back towards the Manor, Cranford glanced down at the tear in his sleeve. The ball had come damnably close. If somebody had actually been aiming at him, he must be a fine marksman. But why should anyone want him dead? He glanced instinctively to the south, although it was unlikely that Finchley could have saddled up and ridden ahead in time to stage an ambush. It was also unlikely that, despite his ferocious disposition, the man would stoop to murder by stealth. He was crude and a bully, but although he had drawn back from a prospective duel, he was not a coward. If he meant to take revenge he’d call his opponent out, like a gentleman. And at all events there was no sign of a rider in that direction. Perhaps it really had been unintentional. A poacher who’d missed his shot, then hidden away for fear of being caught. But—a poacher with a
musket?
As unlikely as a poacher riding a horse!

Valerian had been riding. At speed; but he must have seen them and heard the reverberations of that shot. And Valerian had not turned back…

Echoing his thoughts, Florian said, “We have no real quarrel with Gervaise Valerian, have we, sir?”

Cranford told him sternly to disabuse his mind of any suspicions in that quarter, adding that he was not to mention the incident to anyone at the Manor.

“I only wondered,” said Florian meekly.

Bringing Sport to a faster trot, Cranford grinned as he recalled how his boot had “assisted” the dandy into the sedan chair. It was possible that his disliked and distant cousin might consider that they did indeed have a quarrel.

Florian had more than his share of courage, but by the time they reached the Manor he was near exhaustion. Cranford half-carried him into the house. Jane Guild came running and, horrified, took charge, and Mrs. Burrows, their cook, war summoned to assist. She was a tall woman, built on generous lines, her disposition unfailingly cheerful. The handsome youth had won a special place in her heart, however, and she bristled with righteous indignation over the brutal treatment he had received.

Cranford went up to his room. Blake came to him at once. A spare, rather taciturn individual who had never been known to betray emotion, he was the younger brother of General Nugent’s housekeeper, Eliza Turner. He had contracted a fever while serving with the Army in India, and had been sent home. In the spring the General had written to Piers noting that Johns, who had valeted the twins for several years, had now left them. If Piers had not as yet hired a new man, he was urged to consider Blake, “a most superior servant.” Piers had hired Blake on a trial basis, but had not since regretted it. The man was enigmatic and exhibited none of the possessive airs of a devoted retainer, as did Cook, and Peddars, the footman, and Sudbury, the head groom, and even Florian, who was, of course, more friend than servant. Blake might have no affection for his employer, but he was as efficient as he was silent, and Piers,
who tended to be impatient with tardiness and small talk, was well satisfied.

Blake’s eyes lingered on the tear in Cranford’s coat, but when he was informed that it was the result of “a clumsy accident,” he murmured woodenly, “As you say, sir.”

Having washed, been provided with an undamaged coat and clean neckcloth, and brushed his wind-blown hair, Cranford hurried downstairs. His aunt was waiting for him in the breakfast parlour, where luncheon had been set out. She looked pensive and he said bracingly, “Cheer up, m’dear. The lad’s not badly injured, surely?”

She returned his smile and confirmed this, but while accepting the bowl of cream-of-leek soup that Peddars placed before her, she remarked that Major Finchley was a most disagreeable man. Cranford glanced at her sharply, but she kept her eyes lowered. Freshly baked rolls, a platter of cold meats and cheeses, and a bowl of fruits and nuts were carried in, after which he told Peddars to serve two tankards of Kentish ale.

Miss Guild looked at him in surprise.

He said gravely, “You need it. You have to tell me of something distasteful, I think, ma’am.”

She shook her head in wonderment. “It never fails to amaze me, Piers, how you can sense things—and ’tis not as if you were
my
twin.”

“No. Gad! Must I expect Perry to arrive at the gallop? I particularly asked that he not be told of all these trifling—vexations.”

“He has not been told, dear. But I’m afraid… well, you boys have always been able to know somehow if the other is in trouble.”

It was a truth that had been nagging at the edges of his mind for some days. The last thing he wanted was for Perry to come charging home and become caught up in all these
worrisome problems when he should be happily preparing for his nuptials. On the other hand, it would be a touch odd if his twin did not at least make an enquiry.

He asked quietly, “What now, ma’am?”

Miss Guild sighed. “This was not Florian’s first encounter with that horrid Sid Grover.”

“I’m aware. Had you a specific incident in mind?”

“Several, unfortunately. And—”

She broke off as Peddars returned with two tankards of foaming ale.

Cranford told the man he would ring if he needed him, and when the door closed he raised his tankard, saying smilingly, “A toast, Aunt Jane. To our Perry and his new house!” She lifted her eyebrows but made no comment and drank the toast willingly enough.

He said, “Now, you were saying that you’re afraid. Not of Sidney Grover, surely?”

Miss Guild put down her tankard and stared at it worriedly before replying. “I’m afraid there is real trouble brewing. That nasty creature took Florian in deep dislike last year, if you recall, when poor Herbert Turner drove Blake here from Town. I own the Turner boy is slow-witted, but he’s gentle and devoted to his mama.”

“And to Valerian.”

“Yes. So pathetic, poor creature. But that is no cause to make mock of him, and Mrs. Franck told me that Grover was horrid to him when they met in the village. Florian stood up for him, but poor Herbert was practically in tears because Grover had everybody laughing, and when Herbert tried to defend himself he was clumsy, you know. Grover had fine sport mocking him and making him look ridiculous.”